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laurasimonsdaughter · 3 years

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The Counterfeit Marquise

A literary fairy tale published in 1697, presumably by Charles Perrault and François-Timoléon De Choisy (who spent a considerable amount of his life in drag, just like the protagonists of this story).

Translated by Ranjit Bolt, featured in Warner’s Wonder tales: six stories of enchantment (1996).

Cw: gender disphoria.

The Marquis de Banneville had been married barely six months to a beautiful and highly intelligent young heiress when he was killed in battle at Saint-Denis. His widow was profoundly affected. They had still been very much in love and no domestic quarrels had disturbed their happiness. She did not allow herself an excess of grief. With none of the usual lamentations, she withdrew to one of her country houses to weep at her leisure, without constraint or ostentation. But no sooner had she arrived than it was pointed out to her, on the basis of irrefutable evidence, that she was carrying a child. At first she rejoiced at the prospect of seeing a little replica of the man she had loved so much. She was careful to preserve her husband’s precious remains, and took every possible step to keep his memory alive. Her pregnancy was very easy, but as her time drew near she was tormented by a host of anxieties. She pictured a soldier’s gruesome death in its full horror. She imagined the same fate for the child she was expecting and, unable to reconcile herself to such a distressing idea, prayed a thousand times to heaven to send her a daughter who, by virtue of her sex, would be spared so cruel a fate. She did more: she made up her mind that, if nature did not answer her wishes, she would correct her. She took all the necessary precautions and made the midwife promise to announce to the world the birth of a girl, even if it was a boy.

Thanks to these measures the business was effected smoothly. Money settles everything. The marquise was absolute mistress in her château and word soon spread that she had given birth to a girl, though the child was actually a boy. It was taken to the curé who, in good faith, christened it Marianne. The wet nurse was also won over. She brought little Marianne up and subsequently became her governess. She was taught everything a girl of noble birth should know: dancing; music; the harpsichord. She grasped everything with such precocity her mother had no choice but to have her taught languages, history, even modern philosophy. There was no danger of so many subjects becoming confused in a mind where everything was arranged with such remarkable orderliness. And what was extraordinary, not to say delightful, was that so fine a mind should be found in the body of an angel. At twelve her figure was already formed. True, she had been a little constricted from infancy with an iron corset, to widen her hips and lift her bosom. But this had been a complete success and (though I shall not describe her until her first journey to Paris) she was already a very beautiful girl. She lived in blissful ignorance, quite unaware that she was not a girl. She was known in the province as la belle Marianne. All the minor gentry roundabout came to pay court to her, believing she was a rich heiress. She listened to them all and answered their gallantries with great wit and frankness. My heart, she said to her mother one day, isn’t made for provincials. If I receive them kindly it’s because I want to please people.

Be careful, my child, said the marquise: you’re talking like a coquette.

Ah, maman, she answered, let them come. Let them love me as much as they like. Why should you worry as long as I don’t love them?

The marquise was delighted to hear this, and gave her complete licence with these young men who, in any case, never strayed beyond the bounds of decorum. She knew the truth and so feared no consequences. La belle Marianne would study till noon and spend the rest of the day at her toilette.

After devoting the whole morning to my mind, she would say gaily, It’s only right to give the afternoon to my eyes, my mouth, all this little body of mine.

Indeed, she did not begin dressing till four. Her suitors would usually have gathered by then, and would take pleasure in watching her toilette. Her chambermaids would do her hair, but she would always add some new embellishment herself. Her blonde hair tumbled over her shoulders in great curls. The fire in her eyes and the freshness of her complexion were quite dazzling, and all this beauty was animated and enhanced by the thousand charming remarks that poured continually from the prettiest mouth in the world. All the young men around her adored her, nor did she miss any opportunity to increase that adoration. She would herself, with exquisite grace, put pendants in her ears – either of pearls, rubies or diamonds – all of which suited her to perfection. She wore beauty spots, preferably so tiny that one could barely see them with the naked eye and, if her complexion had not been so delicate and fine, could not have seen them at all. When putting them on she made a great show of consulting now one suitor, now another, as to which would suit her best. Her mother was overjoyed and kept congratulating herself on her ingenuity. He is twelve years old, she would say to herself under her breath. Soon I should have had to think about sending him to the Military Academy, and in two years he would have followed his poor father. Whereupon, transported with affection, she would go and kiss her darling daughter, and would let her indulge in all the coquetries that she would have condemned in anyone else’s child.

This is how matters stood when the Marquise de Banneville was obliged to go to Paris to deal with a lawsuit that one of her neighbours had taken out against her. Naturally she took her daughter with her, and soon realised that a pretty young girl can be useful when it comes to making petitions. The first person she went to see was her old friend the Comtesse d’Alettef,11 to ask for her advice and her protection for her daughter. The comtesse was struck by Marianne’s beauty and so enjoyed kissing her that she did so several times. She took on herself the task of chaperoning her, and looked after her when her mother was busy with her suit, promising to keep her amused. Marianne could not have fallen into better hands. The comtesse was born to enjoy life. She had managed to separate herself from an inconvenient husband. Not that he lacked qualities (he loved pleasure as much as she did) but since they could not agree in their choice of pleasures, they had the good sense not to get in one another’s way and each followed their own inclinations. The comtesse, though not young any more, was beautiful. But the desire for lovers had given way to the desire for money, and gambling was now her chief passion. She took Marianne everywhere, and everywhere she was received with delight.

Meanwhile, the Marquise de Banneville slept easily. She was well aware of the comtesse’s somewhat dubious reputation, and would never have trusted her with a real daughter. But quite apart from the fact that Marianne had been brought up with a strong sense of virtue, the marquise wanted a little amusement and so left her to her own devices, merely telling her that she was entering a scene very different from that of the provinces; that she would encounter passionate, devoted lovers at every turn; that she must not believe them too readily; that if she felt herself giving way she was to come and tell her everything; and that in future she would look on her as a friend rather than a daughter, and give her such advice as she herself might take.

Marianne, whom people were starting to call the little marquise, promised her mother that she would disclose all her feelings to her and, relying on past experience, believed herself a match for the gallantry of the French court. This was a bold undertaking thirty years ago. Magnificent dresses were made for her; all the newest fashions tried on her. The comtesse, who presided over all this, saw to it that her hair was dressed by Mlle de Canillac. She had only some child’s earrings and a few jewels; her mother gave her all hers, which were of poor workmanship, and managed at relatively little expense to have two pairs of diamond pendants made for her ears, and five or six crisping pins for her hair. These were all the ornaments she needed. The comtesse would send her carriage for her immediately after dinner and take her to the theatre, the opera, or the gaming houses. She was universally admired. Wives and daughters never tired of caressing her, and the loveliest of them heard her beauty praised without a hint of jealousy. A certain hidden charm, which they felt but did not understand, attracted them to her and forced them to pay homage where homage was due. Everyone succumbed to her spell and her wit, which was even more irresistible than her beauty, won her more certain and lasting conquests. The first thing that captivated them was the dazzling whiteness of her complexion. The bloom in her cheeks, forever appearing and reappearing, never ceased to amaze them. Her eyes were blue and as lively as one could wish; they flashed from beneath two heavy lids that made their glances more tender and languishing. Her face was oval-shaped and her scarlet lips, which protruded slightly, would break – even when she spoke with the utmost seriousness – into a dozen delightful creases, and into a dozen even more delightful when she laughed. This exterior – so charming in itself – was enhanced by all that a good education can add to an excellent nature. There was a radiance, a modesty in the little marquise’s countenance that inspired respect. She had a sense of occasion: she always wore a cap when she went to church, never a beauty spot – avoiding the ostentation cultivated by most women. At Mass, she would say, One prays to God; at balls one dances; and one must do both with total commitment.

She had been leading a most agreeable life for three months when Carnival came round. All the princes and officers had returned from camp, and everywhere entertainments were being held again. Everyone was giving parties and there was a great ball at the Palais Royal. The comtesse, who was too old to show her face on such occasions, decided to go masked and took the little marquise with her. She was dressed as a shepherdess in an extremely simple but becoming costume. Her hair, which hung down to her waist, was tied up in great curls with pink ribbons – no pearls, no diamonds, only a beautiful cap. She had dressed herself, but even so all eyes were fixed on her. That night her beauty was triumphant.

The handsome Prince Sionad was there, dressed as a woman – a rival to the fair sex who, in the opinion of connoisseurs, took first prize for beauty. On arriving at the ball the comtesse decided to go and sit behind the lovely Sionad. Chère princesse, she said as she drew near and introduced the little marquise, here is a young shepherdess you should find worth looking at. Marianne approached respectfully and wanted to kiss the hem of the prince’s dress (or should I say the princess’s) but he lifted her up, embraced her tenderly and cried delightedly: What a lovely girl! What fine features! What a smile! What delicacy! And if I’m not mistaken, she is as clever as she is beautiful.

The little marquise had responded only with a bashful smile when a young prince came up and claimed her for a dance. At first all eyes were fixed on him, owing to his rank. But when people saw her answering his questions without awkwardness or embarrassment; saw what a feel she had for the music; how gracefully she moved; her little jumps in time; her smiles, subtle without being malicious and the fresh glow that vigorous exercise brought to her face, total silence, as at a concert, descended on the hall. The violinists found to their delight that they could hear themselves play, and everyone seemed intent on watching and wondering at her. The dance ended with applause, little of it for the prince, popular though he was.

The acclaim that the little marquise had received at the Palais Royal ball greatly increased the comtesse’s affection and concern for her. She could no longer do without her and she offered her rooms in her house, so that she could enjoy her company at her leisure. But on no account would her mother agree to this. The little marquise was almost fourteen and, if the secret of her birth was to be kept, it was vital that no one should be on intimate terms with her except her governess, who got her up and saw her into bed. She was still quite ignorant of her situation and, though she had many admirers, felt nothing for them. She cared for nothing and no one but herself and her appearance. People spoke to her of nothing else. She drank down this delicious praise in long draughts and thought herself the most beautiful person in the world; the more so since her mirror swore to her every day that the praise was justified.

One day she was at the theatre, in the first tier, when she noticed a beautiful young man in the next box. He wore a scarlet doublet embroidered with gold and silver, but what fascinated her were his dazzling diamond earrings and three or four beauty spots. She watched him intently and found his countenance so sweet and amiable that she could not contain herself, and said to the comtesse: Madame, look at that young man! Isn’t he handsome! Indeed, said the comtesse, but he is too conscious of his looks, and that is not becoming in a man. He might as well dress as a girl.

The performance went on and they said nothing more, but the little marquise often turned her head, no longer able to concentrate on the play, which was The Feign’d Alcibiades. Some days later she was at the theatre again in the third tier. The same young man, who drew such attention to himself with his extraordinary adornments, was in the second tier. He watched the little marquise at his leisure, as fascinated by her as she had been by him on the previous occasion, but less restrained. He kept turning his back on the actors, unable to take his eyes off her and she, for her part, responded in a manner less than consistent with the dictates of modesty. She felt in this exchange of looks something she had never experienced before: a certain joy at once subtle and profound, which passes from the eyes to the heart and constitutes the only real happiness in life. At last the play ended and, while they waited for the afterpiece, the beautiful young man left his box and went to ask the little marquise’s name. The porters, who saw her often, were happy to oblige him; they even told him where she lived. He now saw that she was of noble birth and decided, if possible, to make her acquaintance, even if he went no further. He resolved (love being ingenious) to enter her box by accident.

Ah, madame, he cried, I beg your pardon: I thought this was my box. The Marquise de Banneville loved intrigue and made the most of this one. Monsieur, she said to him with great frankness, we are indeed fortunate in your mistake: a man as handsome as you is welcome anywhere.

She hoped in this way to detain him so that she could look at him at her leisure; examine him and his adornments; please her daughter (whose feelings she had already detected) and, in a word, have some harmless amusement. He hesitated before deciding to remain in the box without taking a seat at the front. They asked him a hundred questions, to which he replied very wittily. His manner and tone of voice had an undeniable charm. The little marquise asked him why he wore pendants in his ears. He replied that he always had: his ears had been pierced when he was a child. As for the rest, they must excuse these little embellishments, normally only suitable for the fair sex, on the grounds of youth.

Everything suits you, monsieur, said the little marquise with a blush. You can wear beauty spots and bracelets as far as we’re concerned. You wouldn’t be the first. These days young men are always doing themselves up like girls. The conversation never flagged. When the afterpiece was over he conducted the ladies to their coach and had his follow it as far as the marquise’s house where, not daring to enter, he sent a page to present his compliments.

During the days that followed they saw him everywhere: in church; in the park; at the opera and the theatre. He was always unassuming, always respectful. He would bow low to the little marquise, not daring to approach or speak to her. He seemed to have but one object, and wasted no time in attaining it. Finally, after three weeks, the Marquise de Banneville’s brother (who was a state councillor) called and suggested that she receive a visitor – his good friend and neighbour, the Marquis de Bercour. He assured her that he was an excellent man and brought him round immediately after lunch. The marquis was the handsomest man in the world; his hair was black and arranged in thick, natural-looking curls. It was cut in line with the ears so that his diamond earrings could be seen. On this particular day he had attached to each of these a pearl. He also wore two or three beauty spots (no more) to emphasise his fine complexion.

Ah, brother, said the marquise, is this the Marquis de Bercour? Yes, madame, replied the marquis, and he cannot live any longer without seeing the loveliest girl in the world.

As he said this he turned towards the little marquise, who was beside herself with joy. They sat and talked, exchanging news, discussing amusements and new books. The little marquise was a versatile conversationalist, and they were soon at ease with one another. The old councillor was the first to leave, the marquis the last, having remained as long as he felt he could.

After this he never missed an opportunity of paying court to the girl he loved, and always made sure that everything was perfect. When the good weather came and they went out walking to Vincennes or in the Bois, they would find a magnificent collation, which seemed to have been brought there by magic, at a place specially chosen in the shade of some trees. One day there would be violins; the next oboes. The marquis had apparently given no instructions, yet it was obvious that he had arranged everything. Nevertheless, it took several days to guess who had given the little marquise a magnificent present. One morning a carrier brought a chest to her house which he said was from the Comtesse Alettef. She opened it eagerly and was delighted to find in it gloves, scents, pomades, perfumed oils, gold boxes, little toilet cases, more than a dozen snuff boxes in different styles, and countless other treasures. The little marquise wanted to thank the comtesse, who had no idea what she was talking about. She found out in the end, but reproached herself more than once for not having guessed at once.

These little attentions advanced the marquis’s cause considerably. The little marquise greatly appreciated them. Madame, she said to her mother with admirable honesty, I no longer know where I am. Once I wanted to be beautiful in everyone’s eyes; now the only person I want to find me beautiful is the marquis. I used to love balls, plays, receptions, places where there was a lot of noise. Now I’m tired of all that. My only pleasure in life is to be alone and think about the man I love. He’s coming soon, I whisper to myself. Perhaps he’ll tell me he loves me. Yes, madame, he hasn’t said that yet; hasn’t spoken those wonderful words: I love you, though his eyes and his actions have told me so a hundred times. Then, my child, replied the marquise, I’m very sorry for you. You were happy before you saw the marquis. You enjoyed everyone’s company; everyone loved you and you loved only yourself, your own person, your beauty. You were wholly consumed with the desire to please, and please you did. Why change such a delightful life? Take my advice, my dear child: let your sole concern be to profit from the advantages nature has given you. Be beautiful: you have experienced that joy; is there any other to touch it? To draw everyone’s gaze; to win all hearts; to delight people wherever one goes; to hear oneself praised continually, and not by flatterers; to be loved by all and love only oneself: that, my child, is the height of happiness, and you can enjoy it for a long time. You are a queen, don’t make yourself a slave: you must resist at the outset a passion that is carrying you away in spite of yourself. Now you command, but soon you will obey. Men are fickle: the marquis loves you today – tomorrow he will love someone else.

Stop loving me! said the little marquise. Love someone else! And she burst into tears.

Her mother, who loved her dearly, tried to console her and succeeded by telling her that the marquis was coming. There was a lot at stake and this incipient passion caused her considerable alarm. Where will it lead? she asked herself. To what bizarre conclusion. If the marquis declares himself – if he plucks up courage and asks for certain favours – she will refuse him nothing. But then, she reflected, the little marquise has been well trained; she is sensible; at most she will grant such trifling favours as will leave them in ignorance – an ignorance essential to their happiness.

They were talking like this when someone came to tell them that the marquis had sent them a dozen partridges, and that he was at the door, not daring to enter as he had just returned from hunting.

Send him in! cried the little marquise. We want to see him in his hunting clothes. He entered a moment later, all apologies for powder marks, sun burn and a dishevelled wig. No, no, said the little marquise. I assure you, we like you better dressed informally like this than in all your finery. If that is so, madame, he replied, next time you will see me dressed as a stoker.

He remained standing, as though about to leave. They made him sit and the marquise, kind soul, told them to sit together while she went to her study to write. The chambermaids knew what was what and withdrew to the dressing-room, leaving the lovers alone together. They were silent for a while. The little marquise, still flustered after her talk with her mother, scarcely dared raise her eyes, and the marquis, even more embarrassed, looked at her and sighed. There was something tender in this silence. The looks they exchanged, the sighs they could not contain, were for them a form of language – a language lovers often use – and their mutual embarrassment seemed to them a sign of love. The little marquise was the first to awake from this reverie.

You’re dreaming, marquis, she said. What of? Hunting? Ah, beautiful marquise, said the marquis, how lucky hunters are! They are not in love. What do you mean? she rejoined. Is being in love really so terrible? Madame, he replied, it is the greatest happiness in life. But unrequited love is the greatest misfortune. I am in love and it is not requited. I am in love with the most beautiful girl in the world. Venus herself would not dare put herself before her. I love her and she does not love me. She has no feelings. She sees me, she listens to me, and she remains cruelly silent. She even turns her eyes away from mine. How heartless! How can I doubt my fate? As he spoke these last words, the marquis knelt down before the little marquise and kissed her hands – nor did she object. Her eyes were lowered and let fall great tears.

Beautiful marquise, he said, you’re crying. You’re crying and I know the reason for your tears. My love is irksome to you. Ah, marquis, she answered with a heavy sigh, one can cry for joy as well as pain. I’ve never been so happy. She said no more and, stretching out her arms to her beloved marquis, granted him the favours she would have denied all the kings of the earth. Caresses were all the protestations of love they needed. The marquis found in the little marquise’s lips a compliance that her eyes had hidden from him, and this conversation would have lasted longer if the marquise had not emerged from her study. She found them laughing and crying at the same time, and wondered whether such tears had ever needed drying.

The marquis immediately rose to leave, but the marquise said to him pleasantly: Monsieur, won’t you stay and dine on the partridges you brought? He needed little persuading. What he desired more than anything else in the world was to be on familiar terms in this house. He stayed, even though he was dressed in hunting clothes, and had the exquisite pleasure of seeing the girl he loved eat. It is one of life’s chief delights. To watch at close quarters a pink mouth that, as it opens, reveals gums of coral and teeth of alabaster; that opens and closes with the rapidity that accompanies all the actions of youth; to see a beautiful face animated by an often repeated pleasure, and to be experiencing the same pleasure at the same time – this is a privilege love grants to few.

After that happy day the marquis made sure he dined there every night. It was a regular affair and the little marquise’s suitors, who had had no cause to be jealous of one another, took it as settled. She had made her choice and they all admitted that beauty and vanity, however powerful, are no defence against love. The Comte d’****, one of her most ardent admirers, had a keen sense that his passion was being made light of. He was handsome, well built, brave, a soldier: he could not allow the little marquise to give herself to the Marquis de Bercour, whom he considered vastly inferior in every respect to himself. He decided to pick a quarrel with him and so disgrace him, thinking him too effeminate to dare cross swords with him. However, to his great surprise, at the first word he uttered when they met at the Porte des Tuileries, the marquis drew his sword and thrust at him with gusto. After a hard-fought duel they were parted by mutual friends.

This adventure pleased the little marquise. It gave her lover a war-like air, though she trembled for him nevertheless. She saw clearly that her beauty and her preference for him would constantly be exposing him to such encounters, and she said to him one day: Marquis, we must put an end to jealousy once and for all; we must silence gossip. We love one another and always will. We must bind ourselves to one another with ties that only death can break.

Ah, beautiful marquise, he said, what are you thinking of? Does our happiness bore you? Marriage, as a rule, puts an end to pleasure. Let us remain as we are. For my part, I am content with your favours and will never ask you for anything more. But I am not content, said the little marquise. I can see clearly that there is something missing in our happiness, and perhaps we will find it when you belong to me entirely, and I to you. It would not be right, replied the marquis, for you to throw in your lot with a younger son who has spent the bulk of his fortune and whom you still know only by appearances, which are often deceptive.

But that’s just what I love about it, she interrupted. I’m so happy that I have enough money for us both, and to have the chance of showing you that I love you and you alone.

They had reached this point when the Marquise de Banneville interrupted them. She had been closeted with her agents, and thought she would refresh herself with some lively young company, but she found them in a deeply serious mood. The marquis had been greatly put out by the little marquise’s proposal. Ostensibly it was very much to his advantage, but he had secret objections to it, which he considered insurmountable. The little marquise, for her part, was a little annoyed at having taken such a bold step in vain, but she soon recovered, deciding that the marquis had refused out of respect for her – or that he wished to prove the depth of his feelings for her. This thought made her decide to speak to her mother about it, and she did so the following day.

No one was ever more astonished than the Marquise de Banneville when her daughter spoke to her of marriage. She was sixteen and no longer a child. Her eyes had not been opened to her situation, and her mother hoped they never would be. She was careful not to agree to the match, but to reveal the truth would have been a painful solution both for her daughter and the marquis. She resolved to do so only as a last resort. Meanwhile she would prevent, or at least postpone, the marriage. The marquis was in agreement with her on this, but the little marquise – passionate creature that she was – begged, entreated, wept, used every means to persuade her mother. She never doubted her lover, since he did not dare oppose her with the same firmness. Finally she pushed her mother to the point where she said these words to her: My dear child, you leave me no choice: against my better judgement I must reveal to you something that I would have given my life to conceal from you. I loved your poor father and when I lost him so tragically, in dread of your meeting the same fate, I prayed with all my heart for a daughter. I was not so fortunate: I gave birth to a son and I have brought him up as a daughter. His sweetness, his inclinations, his beauty, all assisted my plan. I have a son and the whole world believes I have a daughter. Ah, madame! cried the little marquise, is it possible that I …? Yes, my child, said her mother embracing her, you are a boy. I can see how painful this news must be for you. Habit has given you a different nature. You are used to a life very different from the one you might have led. I wanted you to be happy and would never have revealed the sad truth to you if your obstinacy over the marquis had not forced me to. You see now what you were about to do? How, but for me, you would have exposed yourself to public ridicule?

The little marquise did not answer. Instead she merely wept and in vain her mother said to her: But my child, go on living as you were. Be the beautiful little marquise still – loved, adored by all who see her. Love your beautiful marquis if you like, but do not think of marrying him. Alas! cried the little marquise through her tears, he has asked for nothing more. He flies into a rage when I mention marriage. Ah! Could it be that he knows my secret? If I thought that, dear mother, I would go and hide myself in the furthest corner of the earth. Could he know it? In floods of tears now, she added: Alas, poor little marquise, what will you do? Will you dare show your face again and act the beauty? But what have you said? What have you done? What name can one give the favours you have granted the marquis? Blush! Blush, unhappy girl! Ah, nature you are blind: why did you not warn me of my duty? Alas! I acted in good faith, but now I see the truth and I must behave quite differently in future. I must not think about the man I love – I must do what is right.

She was uttering these words with determination when it was announced that the marquis was at the door of the antechamber. He entered with a happy air and was amazed to see both mother and daughter with lowered eyes and in tears. The mother did not wait for him to speak but rose and went to her room. He took courage and said: What’s the matter, beautiful marquise? If something is distressing you, won’t you share it with your friends? What? You won’t even look at me! Am I the cause of this weeping? Am I to blame without knowing it?

The little marquise dissolved in tears. No! No! she cried. No! That could never be, and if it were so I would not feel as I do. Nature is wise and there is a reason for everything she does.

The marquis had no idea what all this meant. He was asking for an explanation when the marquise, who had recovered a little, left her room and came to her daughter’s aid. Look at her, she said to the marquis. As you see, she is quite beside herself. I am to blame. I tried to stop her but she would have her fortune told, and they said she would never marry the man she loved. That has upset her, Monsieur le Marquis, and you know why.

For my part, madame, he replied, I am not at all upset. Let her remain always as she is. I ask only to see her. I shall be more than happy if she will consider me her best friend.

With this the conversation ended. Emotions had been stirred, and would take time to settle. But they settled so completely that after eight days there was no sign of any upheaval. The marquis’s presence, his charm, his caresses, obliterated from the little marquise’s mind everything her mother had told her. She no longer believed any of it, or rather did not wish to believe. Pleasure triumphed over reflection. She lived as she had done before with her lover and felt her passion increase with such violence that thoughts of a lasting union returned to torment her. Yes, she said to herself, he cannot go back on his word now. He will never desert me. She had resolved to speak of it again, when her mother fell ill. Her illness was so grave that after three days all hope of a cure was abandoned. She made her will and sent for her brother, the councillor, whom she appointed the little marquise’s guardian. He was her uncle and her heir, since all the property came from the mother. She confided to him the truth about her daughter’s birth, begging him to take it seriously and to let her lead a life of innocent pleasure that would harm no one and which, since it precluded her marrying, would guarantee his children a rich inheritance.

The good councillor was delighted at this news and saw his sister die without shedding a tear. The income of thirty thousand francs that she left the little marquise seemed certain to pass to his children, and he had only to encourage his niece’s infatuation for the marquis. He did so with great success, telling her that he would be like a father to her and had no wish to be her guardian except in name.

This sympathetic behaviour consoled the little marquise somewhat – and she was certainly distraught – but the sight of her beloved marquis consoled her even more. She saw that she was absolute mistress of her fate, and her sole aim was to share it with the man she loved. Six months of official mourning passed, after which pleasures of all kinds once again filled her life. She went often to balls, the theatre, the opera, and always in the same company. The marquis never left her side and all her other suitors, seeing that it was a settled affair, had withdrawn. They lived happily and would perhaps have thought of nothing else, if malicious tongues could have left them in peace. Everywhere, people were saying that, while the little marquise was beautiful, since her mother’s death she had lost all sense of decorum: she was seen everywhere with the marquis; he was practically living in her house; he dined there every day and never left before midnight. Her best friends found grounds for censure in this: they sent her anonymous letters and warned her uncle, who spoke to her about it. Finally, things went so far that the little marquise went back to her first idea and decided to marry the marquis. She put this to him forcefully; he resisted likewise, only agreeing on condition that the marriage would be a purely public affair, and that they would live together like brother and sister. This, he said, was how they must always love one another. The little marquise readily agreed. She often remembered what her mother had told her. She spoke of it to her uncle, who began by outlining all the pitfalls of marriage and ended by giving his consent. He saw that, by this means, the income of thirty thousand francs was sure to pass to his family. There was no danger of his niece having children by the Marquis de Bercour whereas, if she did not marry him, her notion that she was a girl might change with time and with her beauty, which was sure to fade. So a wedding day was fixed on, bridal clothes made and the ceremony held at the good uncle’s house. (As guardian he undertook to give the wedding feast.)

The little marquise had never looked as beautiful as she did that day. She wore a dress of black velours completely covered in gems, pink ribbons in her hair and diamond pendants in her ears. The Comtesse d’Alettef, who would always love her, went with her to the church, where the marquis was waiting. He wore a black velours cloak decked with gold braid, his hair was in curls, his face powdered, there were diamond pendants in his ears and beauty spots on his face. In short, he was adorned in such a way that his best friends could not excuse such vanity. The couple were united for ever and everyone showered them with blessings. The banquet was magnificent, the king’s music and the violons were there. At last the hour came and relatives and friends put the couple together in a nuptial bed and embraced them, the men laughing, a few good old aunts weeping.

It was then that the little marquise was astonished to find how cold and insensitive her lover was. He stayed at one end of the bed, sighing and weeping. She approached him tentatively. He did not seem to notice her. Finally, no longer able to endure so painful a state of affairs, she said: What have I done to you, marquis? Don’t you love me any more? Answer me or I shall die, and it will be your fault.

Alas, madame, said the marquis, didn’t I tell you? We were living together happily – you loved me – and now you will hate me. I have deceived you. Come here and see.

So saying he took her hand and placed it on the most beautiful bosom in the world. You see, he said, dissolving in tears, you see I am useless to you: I am a woman like you.

Who could describe here the little marquise’s surprise and delight? At this moment she had no doubt that she was a boy and, throwing herself into the arms of her beloved marquis, she gave him the same surprise, the same delight. They soon made their peace, wondered at their fate – a fate that had brought matters on to such a happy conclusion – and exchanged a thousand vows of undying love.

As for me, said the little marquise, I am too used to being a girl, and I want to remain one all my life. How could I bring myself to wear a man’s hat?

And I, said the marquis, have used a sword more than once without disgracing myself. I’ll tell you about my adventures some day. Let’s continue as we are, then. Beautiful marquise, enjoy all the pleasures of your sex, and I shall enjoy all the freedom of mine.

The day after the wedding they received the usual compliments and, eight days later, left for the provinces, where they still live in one of their châteaux. The uncle should visit them there: he would find, to his surprise, that a beautiful child has resulted from their marriage – one to put paid to his hopes of a rich inheritance.

#Charles Perrault #François-Timoléon De Choisy #genderqueer folktales #trans representation #laura retells #except not really it's more like laura copy pastes this time

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night-filled-mountain · 3 years

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Captivity and Escape in Critical Role

So this post has been sitting in my drafts for about half a year. It’s about a persistent theme I noticed throughout campaign 2, which I’m sure others have noticed and written about before, but parallels and recurring themes have always been my Thing, and I couldn’t let it go. And with last week’s episode, and the campaign finale airing tonight, and the dominance of this theme being more glaringly obvious than ever, I thought I’d just give myself a treat and finish up a giant meta post. For old times’ sake.

So, just for the heck of it, here’s an exhaustive exploration of a single through-line of campaign 2 since the very beginning: captivity, and escaping or being freed from it.

Let’s start by taking a quick look at everyone’s backstories, the things that happened to them before the campaign even started, and how they were ultimately resolved.

FJORD: Entered unknowingly and unwillingly into a pact with Uk’otoa, which bound him to perform services he never agreed to in exchange for powers he never asked for. Fjord did not know how he got into this pact or how to get out of it. He makes his escape when he pitches his sword into a lava river and pledges himself to the Wildmother.

JESTER: Spent the majority of her life “locked in her room” (or at least hidden from sight) until the consequences of one of her pranks forcibly liberated her into the wider world. While Jester loves her mother dearly and thinks of her long “captivity” as being for her own protection, its negative effects on her--loneliness, insecurity, a lack of worldly experience and social awareness--were still apparent, and she spends much of the campaign working through them.

BEAU: Her parents had her kidnapped by monks. It could be argued that even before the kidnapping, she was a prisoner to her father’s “over-protective” tendencies and her parents’ expectations when it came to her career, behavior, gender role, etc. But most significantly, she was very much kidnapped by monks, and made her escape from the Cobalt Soul shortly before we met her.

CALEB: Where to start? First he suffered coercion and abuse at the hands of Trent (a form of captivity); then he was made to torture and execute prisoners; then he spent eleven years literally imprisoned in an asylum, and had to kill and steal in order to escape; and four and a half years later, he met Nott when they were both thrown in jail (and had to engineer their own escape once again). Caleb’s ordeals ultimately made him a prisoner of his own guilt and fear, and escaping that prison has been the heart of his storyline.

VETH/NOTT: Besides the aforementioned stint in jail, the catalyst for her entire adventuring career was being captured by goblins along with her family--and then, after engineering the escape of her husband and son, being imprisoned in the wrong body (and subsequently enslaved!). The desire to escape from this second imprisonment was her driving motivation through much of the campaign. With Caleb’s help (and Essek’s, and Jester’s), she ultimately succeeds.

MOLLY: His first memory was of clawing his way out of a grave, which is just about as extreme a form of captivity and escape as you can get. More subtly, he was also a prisoner to the expectations placed on his body--to the life that body once lived, which he could not remember and refused to claim. Arguably (and tragically), his escape from this particular prison is his own death...until Cree resurrects Lucien, Mollymauk fragment and all. Then he presumably becomes a prisoner much like Yasha was, subsumed body and soul by a mind and a will that are not his own. Until last week.

... (incoherent sobbing)

Until last week.

YASHA: She was a prisoner to her clan’s laws and expectations. Her brief attempt to escape this prison through a forbidden marriage ended tragically, and then she was forced to make a second, literal escape (fleeing into the desert)--only to be (presumably) possessed by Obann, imprisoned inside her own mind, and forced to do his bidding until the Storm Lord liberated her once again.

CADUCEUS: When the gang first meet him, he’s literally a prisoner of his own fear (and/or inertia)--though his whole family has left the Blooming Grove, he’s been too afraid or hesitant to brave the corruption of the Savalirwood without companionship, and spent years isolated in the family temple as a result. The Mighty Nein (or rather, Caleb, Nott, Beau, Keg, and Nila) initiate his escape.

***

And that’s just the backstories! Now let’s take a look at each of the places the Mighty Nein have visited since they came together, and the story arcs therein.

***

TROSTENWALD - CARNIVAL ARC: This arc’s entire goal is to free the (future) Mighty Nein and the other carnies from jail or house arrest. (Much later, the M9 come back to pay Gustav’s debt and liberate him as well.) And remember that Beau is especially sympathetic to Toya’s predicament because she, too, was once a young girl held somewhere against her will.

ALFIELD - GNOLL ARC: This arc’s entire goal is to free the citizens of Alfield who have been kidnapped by gnolls to feed to their manticore leader (and to kill off the gnolls and manticore to keep it from happening again).

ZADASH: The Mighty Nein’s first undertaking in Zadash is to kill off the giant spiders in the sewer. In the process, they free a halfling imprisoned in a spiderweb, which leads them to the Gentleman and all his future quests.

Aside from that, their biggest job in Zadash this time around is the High Richter heist--which, yes, is a mercenary/political job that goes terribly wrong, but why does it go terribly wrong? Because Ulog, the M9′s NPC ally at the time, is so furious over his wife being wrongfully imprisoned by the High Richter that he impulsively blows up both her and himself. And arguably the most poignant moment in the heist’s aftermath is Caleb speaking to the next High Richter, Dolan, and ensuring that Ulog’s wife will be freed.

Also, let’s not forget the drow the M9 meet in the sewer. The one they capture, interrogate, and ultimately...let go. Yes, he’s killed shortly afterward and his beacon falls into their hands, but I think it’s very important to remember that the decision they make, when holding a captive terrorist from an “enemy” nation, is to return his stolen artifact to him and let him walk away free.

LABENDA SWAMP/BERLEBEN: The most memorable events during this interlude are: (1.) The M9 literally freeing Kiri from the swamp, where she is stuck in the mud and at the mercy of crocodiles, and (2.) Bowlgate, a.k.a. Caleb and Beau’s tense confrontation over what to do with Calianna, which is once again fueled on Beau’s side by her sympathy for a young woman held against her will. (Caleb proposes that Cali spend the night with the M9, which she did not intend, so they can use spells to determine her truthfulness the next day.)

HUPPERDOOK: This one’s obvious: The M9 fight a deadly automaton to free two gnomes from prison and reunite them with their children (largely to prevent said children from being taken to an orphanage against their will).

GLORY RUN ROAD/SHADYCREEK RUN - IRON SHEPHERDS ARC: ...Even more obvious. The sole goal of the remaining M9 members (and Nila) throughout this arc is to free their friends from slavery. They end up slaughtering all the slavers and freeing several other captives as well.

LUSIDIAN OCEAN - PIRATE ARC: Here’s where things get really interesting. Because this whole arc is also about captivity and freedom, isn’t it?

It’s about whether or not to free a little old captive named Uk’otoa!

I haven’t given nearly enough thought to how this arc fits in with all the others thematically, considering its central lesson is that freeing this particular captive would be a very bad thing. I do think it’s significant that:

(1.) The beginning of this arc, which leaves the whole party feeling so bad and icky, involves them quite inadvertently taking a captive of their own--and one whom they don’t treat very well. (And still don’t, for that matter...poor Marius.)

(2.) Soon after that incident, the M9 are themselves effectively taken captive by Avantika and her crew. This situation doesn’t last nearly as long as many audience members (and quite possibly Matt, and quite possibly the players themselves!) thought it would, because they panic on Darktow, go all Wall of Fire, and free themselves in a huge, climactic, desperate battle. The Mighty Nein do not take well to captivity.

Anyhow, they follow all this up with...

FELDERWIN/XHORHAS - YEZA ARC: ...another very straightforward quest to free a captive. Not only is this arc all about rescuing Yeza from a Xhorhasian dungeon, but after Caleb returns the beacon, after the Bright Queen of Xhorhas offers the Mighty Nein anything they want...all they ask her for is to let them go.

BAZZOXAN & BEYOND - OBANN ARC: ...By now, you know where I’m going with this, right? The entire arc is about freeing Yasha from Obann, who has her imprisoned inside her own body, inside her own mind. There’s a reason That Moment in the cathedral hit so hard, right? “And as you close your eyes, you see yourself breaking the shackles. You see the influence no longer holding any sway over your soul. There's nothing but the storm, vengeance, and hope.”

(Bonus: In the middle of the above arc, we get the HAPPY FUN BALL - RESCUING YUSSA ARC, which, once again, is devoted to freeing a captive.)

KAMORDAH/CYRIOS MOUNTAINS - ISHARNAI ARC: Aimed entirely at freeing Nott from the body in which she was imprisoned. Beau also has a bit of a freedom arc here: confronting the parents who imprisoned her figuratively and literally, turning her back on them (possibly for good), and then confronting a major source of the expectations and superstitions they shackled her with: Isharnai, who is neutralized by Jester’s cupcake.

THE MENAGERIE - CLAY ARC: Aimed entirely at freeing Caduceus’s family, who are imprisoned in perhaps the most literal way possible, being turned to stone. (The M9 also manage to liberate the Stone family while they’re at it.)

RUMBLECUSP - TRAVELER CON: Two great liberations take place here. First, all the residents of the Village of Vo are freed from Vokodo’s influence, their memories restored, their blind devotion dispelled, able once again to choose the course of their own lives. Second, the followers of the Traveler are freed from the deception he’s imposed on them, the cult he’s roped them into. Thanks to the Moonweaver’s interference, they, too, are free to make informed decisions. And I think we can also safely say that Artagan is freed from them, from the false “god” role he managed to box himself into, and he’s happier for it.

EISELCROSS - SOMNOVEM ARC: ...And this is it, folks. This is why I decided to finish this post today. Because I was openly not feeling the Eiselcross arc as an endgame. The hard slog through the elements just wasn’t doing it for me, or the frequent combat, or the increasingly complex lore, or the traditionally heroic quest to save the world from being swallowed by a monstrous city.

...Until last week. Until Lucien’s defeat. And Molly’s oh-so-improbable resurrection.

When I heard all the voices of the Somnovem whispering “Thank you” as their individual souls were freed from the Lovecraftian hivemind...when I heard Jester sobbing that at least Molly’s soul wasn’t “trapped” inside a monstrous Lucien anymore...when Cad’s Divine Intervention succeeded, and Mollymauk Tealeaf opened his eyes--his two plain old natural eyes--unburdened by Lucien and his Somnovem eyes and all of his dark baggage for the first time--I was finally able to embrace this as the ending.

Because it’s not about saving the world. That’s just a bonus. It’s about saving a friend. Freeing a friend. Freeing captives, wherever they find them. Whether from Crown’s Guard, gnolls, and giant spiders, or from royal dungeons; whether from ruthless enemies or from their own families; whether from eldritch abominations or from the forces that chain their own minds.

In the end, the Mighty Nein--and the people whose lives they touch--belong to no one and nothing that they do not choose to belong to. They belong to themselves, to the people they most sincerely love, to the gods and causes they have chosen freely. And that has always, always been my favorite kind of story.

And I can’t wait for tonight.

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wevegottogetaway · 3 years

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Crashing into you

Sooo, I have no idea where this concept came from but here is you and Harry surviving a plane crash only to find yourselves stranded on an island (featuring best friends to lovers and who knows what else). There is more to come after this part, I’m just really busy with uni at the moment, so smaller pieces at the time it is. Please leave some feedback if you have any, or tell me what you would like to see happen in future parts! Happy reading xx

It wasn’t supposed to happened.

None of it was. Not the birds. Not the fire. Not the nose-dive.

And you weren’t supposed to be there either. Weren’t supposed to find yourselves floating 35,000 feet over endless stretches of sea when it happened. Not you and certainly not Harry whose presence was only the result of his boundless generosity.

It was a last minute trip on your part, an emergency response to the calling of a friend back in London; they’d gotten hospitalized and you were their emergency contact, pretty simple maths. Your assistance was irremissible and since it was cutting your time short with Harry, he didn’t hesitate before offering both his support and an express flight aboard some kind of private jet. None of you knew it at the time, but that decision turned out to be a twisted expression of serendipity, a very sick jock that the universe wasn’t supposed to make.

Except it did happened and there was no escaping the cataclysm that ensued.

***

The cabin of the small plane is plunged in peaceful silence, the deep whir of its engines and the soft snores wafting through Harry’s nose the only white noises filling the space. There is no fussing toddler, no businessman talking loudly on the phone, no arguing couple; just you and Harry, one flight attendant and two pilots. Everything around you looks pristine and expensive, from the champagne you were offered but declined at the beginning of the flight, to the refined suede upholstery covering all the seats.

You’re not used to the luxury, and frankly, neither is Harry.

He doesn’t use private planes very often, doesn’t think it makes much sense to waste all that toxic kerosene when commercial flights do the job perfectly, and doesn't like how they make him feel like the diva some people mistakenly make him out to be. But for you he’d bend the rules. For you he’d bend over and backwards to assuage any of your pains and worries. You had been so on edge when you told him about your friend, so desperate to be there for them, he had just wanted to be there for you in turn.

That’s why the two of you hopped in this small aircraft nearly four hours ago, with his hand drawing comforting shapes on your back. Now, you find yourself absentmindedly nipping at your nails, overthinking ever possible scenario that could unfold once you land and find your friend. In deep conversation with your conscience, you’ve been looking out the small window to your right, as if any of the two blue immensities painting the horizon knew all the secrets that you needed. They don’t; if anything, they bring their own mysteries to an already confusing world.

The atmosphere inside the plane is so inert, it feels like someone pressed the pause button. The flight attendant has remained quietly by her station, waiting for any signal that would indicate her presence required, and the pilots haven’t piped a word since their polite ‘have a lovely flight,’ when you first boarded the plane. The little company wouldn’t bother you so much, if Harry hadn’t fallen asleep thirty minutes in, leaving you to your own devices. You figure you can’t be too grumpy about it though, he did just rent a plane for your sake after all. Plus, his unconscious state has allowed you to ogle his sleepy figure for hours without being noticed, a treat you’re rarely privy to on top of being a nice distraction from your current troublesome thoughts.

Three years. Three years you’ve been a very dedicated friend to him and he to you. Three years of holding each other’s hand through any hardships and laughing till you’re blue in the face; three years of always supporting each other in your craziest undertakings and inspiring each other to be the best version of yourselves. You two are an indestructible pair and your friendship is the purest, most sacred thing you were given in this world.

Except, it’s also been three years of mind-boggling and consuming feelings that can’t be quelled and have no limits. Three years of secret glances when he’s too focused on something else to notice. Three years of talking yourself down from those feeling, but to no avail; they keep coming back full force and with a vengeance. It quickly became a full time job really, an art you mastered over time. At first because he was happily in a relationship, so there was no speculating whether your affections could be returned. Then once that ended, you were already so wired to ignore the skip of your heartbeats when he looks at you tenderly, or the soft and sometimes borderline ambiguous cuddles he gives you when he’s had one too many Margaritas; that the fantasy of him loving you the way you do was just unfathomable, you never even considered speaking up about it.

But these were your three years, not his.

You let out a deep sigh, as your musings once again circle back to your unrequited love. You wish you had more control over them, could limit them to sleepy fabulation sweetening your mind right before you surrender to unconsciousness. But alas, them come and go as they please, slip into your mind at any inopportune time, often betraying you by pigmenting your cheeks in cerise-colored bashfulness. Even now, in the stillness of the pressurized cabin, as your eyes settle back on his slouched form in the seat opposite yours, your skin can’t help but heat up in fondness.

Before you can get too lost in the soft eyelashes caressing his cheekbones, or the cupid bow shaping his pink supple lips, or the way a few of his mischievous curls are dandling in front of his face, slightly fluttering at each soft puff coming out of his mouth…yeah, before you get too lost in all that, you reach for the small bottle of water sitting on a small table.

You barely have the cap unscrewed before a massive tremor shakes the whole aircraft, spilling half of the bottle’s content on your lap. Your hand immediately white knuckles the armrest of your seat, your eyes widening in fear and frantically scoping the cabin for the flight attendant or anyone that could tell you what the hell is going on. Then the panic pumping through your veins prompts you to check on Harry and wake him back to alertness, but to your relief, he’s already groggily shaking the slumber from his limbs with a deep frown on his face. "Wha’s goin’ on?"

If dread wasn’t firing each of your nerve-endings, you’d find his grumpy look and slurred speech quite adorable, but the sight of the frazzled-looking stewardess coming towards you is sending a different kind of chills down your spine. These people are trained to maintain composure in all circumstances, so her trepidation can only mean one of two things: she’s either very new at her job or there is clearly a cause for concern.

"You two need to fasten your seat belts immediately," she speaks hurriedly.

"Sophia, what’s going on?" Harry reiterates his question with more alarm.

"We’ve collided with a flock of birds. We don’t know the extent of the damage yet, so I need you two to buckle in."

You and Harry share a worried look then, still confused about the situation. The plane has regain some semblance of stability, it seems, but Sophia’s anxious behavior doesn’t sooth your nerves one bit. She makes a quick exit back toward the cockpit, probably to discuss the ordeal further with the pilots. You gulp your uneasiness away, fidgeting on your seat as your hands blindly feel around for the safety belt, but the image greeting your eyes as they veer back to the window has your heart dropping to your knees.

Lambent orange and red flaring from the engines and lapping at the wing. Black smoke leaving an angry trail behind the plane and fogging up the windows.

"Harry," you barely manage to breath his name out and the urgency of your tone has him straighten up in his seat. "Harry the wing is on fire." You twist your head back towards him only to find him jumping from his seat to plop down next to you. The absolute gleam of terror swimming in your eyes makes his blood turn cold, so he quickly takes your hand in both of his before glancing at the carnage taking place outside. He gulps in apprehension before buckling his seatbelt and checking that yours is clasped in as well.

"Fuck, okay, it’s okay, love. Everything’s gonna be okay." It’s more prayers than reassurances tumbling out of his mouth, squeezing at your hand in plea, and a couple seconds after his utterance the tremors resume with greater intensity. You both can feel the aircraft slanting downward as everything around you start shaking as though you were caught in an earthquake. Except, you couldn’t be further from earth at the moment, and the shaking is not going to just pass after a while.

Objects start falling and rolling down all over, the tray of complimentary drinks tumbling down from the back of the plane to crash at the front. You and Harry are wrapped up in a protective embrace, tucking your faces in each others neck to avoid impact and because you’re both too afraid to look at the unfurling chaos. You can feel your seatbelt straining against your lower belly in a dire attempt to keep you in one place, but as the plane starts plummeting for good, top becomes bottom, right becomes left, and your bodies become masses thrown around at the hands of gravity just like everything else.

The last thing you hear before everything goes south is a defeated ‘brace for impact’ coming from the small intercom of the cabin. You feel the brutal shock of the plane hitting smooth surface if it weren’t for the speed of the collision, and then it’s just water.

Water everywhere. Water enveloping your body in a frigid clutch, water weighing you down as it imbibes every fiber of your clothes, water invading your retinas and blurring your vision. Water seeping through your mouth, pouring into your lungs when you feel the skin at your shin torn by sharp metal.

You vaguely hear your name being shouted, but the shortage of oxygen in your system makes you feel delirious. At this point you barely have enough energy to fight unconsciousness, much less the threat of your crumbling surroundings. That’s how you don’t feel the hand grasping at your shoulder and hosting you up on a floating piece of broken wing. Harry is holding onto it for dear life as well, muttering more prayers and encouraging words for you to please stay with him but soon you are both overthrown by your unconscious, slowly drifting away on the makeshift buoy.

***

When Harry regains consciousness, the first things he feels is hard grounds underneath him. His ears are ringing, his throat is sore and his mouth feels dry, not to mention the splitting headache jackhammering at his skull. Groaning and frowning at the pain, that’s when he realizes that the ground against the skin of his cheek isn’t completely hard, but rather granular at the touch. Slowly, he brings his hands higher near his face and flattens them to hoist himself up. Once on his knees, he finally blinks his eyes opened, squinting at the blinding luminosity of the sun. And then it’s just sand.

Sand everywhere. Sand stretching miles into the distance. Sand itching at the joints of his fingers, sand creeping inside his shoes and clothes, sand weaving through his hair. Sand obnoxiously lingering on his lips, and as he tries to brush it off with the back of his hand, he has to spit some out of his mouth after realizing that said hand is also covered in it.

How did he find himself stranded on a freaking island? How did this happen? How could he be one minute safely by your sides, helping you through a tough situation, and then the next, thrown into the deep end - quite literally - scrambling for his life because some dumb birds decided to crash in the engine of the plane? Why him, why-

It’s a jolt to his brain then, an electric shock firing his body up to a standing position when the thought of you clashes in his mind. His breathing picks up considerably as he recalls the last time he saw you, passed out on the broken part of the wrecked airplane. He’d passed out soon after you as well, but what had happened since then? Had you find your way on this desolate beach as well? Or had your unconscious body slipped back into the water and sank all the way to the ocean floor until you reached that hidden museum of all the things and beings that fell victim to the sea?

Harry shudders at the thought. No. He’s not loosing you, now or ever, he convinces himself as he frantically jogs along the beach. Not when he never got his chance. His heart is lodged in his throat and threatening to escape at every passing second. Not when he still has unfinished, or rather, un-commenced business with you. Sweat drips down his face in searing droplet, a faint sting above his left eye barely registering in his frantic mind. Not before you know his last secret. His breathing is starting to get scarce until finally, finally his blurry eyes fall upon a figure stretched out on the sand, waves still licking at their feet. His job turns into a sprint as he begs for them to be you and for you to still be alive, desperate cries of your name echoing in the wilderness. "Please be okay, please be okay, fuck I need y-"

His relief is short lived once he takes in your passed out form, the blueish hue of your lips and the very lack of movement of your chest, twisting his guts in a painful knot. Harry abruptly falls to his knees next to you and brings his ear to your body hoping for any indication that you are still breathing. He fights the onslaught of hyperventilation that threatens to take over his body when he finds none and quickly checks your pulse at your carotid. His eyes pinch in brief respite: it’s faint but it’s there.

His brain almost goes into overdrive as he tries to recall everything he knows about CPR before his hands instinctively start pressing at your chest as though they already know what to do. It gives him time to absorb all the composure he can muster and think more clearly. He’s got to keep your heart going, that much he knows, and if you’re not breathing, it’s probably because you’ve got water in your lungs. Upon the realization he briefly stops the cardiac massage to pinch your nose and blow as much air as he can into your mouth.

For the next couple of minutes he does just that, alternating between insufflating oxygen through your mouth and pressing at your heart. His own breaks every time he pulls away from your lips and they still don’t pink back up to their usual lovely cherry color. Tears roll down his face in a constant flow, forcing him to wipe his face against the material of his shirt at his shoulder; there is no way in hell he is stopping his action for even a fraction of a second. He’ll die trying to save you before you die on him, and then he’d kick you ass from heaven down to hell for even thinking of leaving him behind.

All of a sudden you start coughing wet sounds from your throat, your body jolting from its spot on the sand. Harry’s never been so happy to hear someone choke (on water, that is) and as you turn your body sideways to let out all the excess of water clogging your chest, he closes his eyes and tilts his head back towards the sky in gratitude. "Thank you, thank you, thank you," he whispers out in relief, before regaining his breathing and focusing back on you. He draws soothing circle against your back as you cough the last bit of water out of your mouth, pushing your hair out of your face to give you space to breath. Lord knows you need it.

"It’s okay, pet. You’re okay, you’re alive. Fuck you’re alive, I can’t- please don’t ever do that to me ever again, you hear me?" He rambles at you as he cups your face with two trembling hands. He is in shamble in front of you, the high he was caught up in, in his order to save you finally dissolving and leaving only but shock and despair in its aftermath. You’d come this close to die in his arms, you both realize. This close from your life being highjacked from his in the middle of nowhere and the thought turns your blood even colder than it already is.

"‘kay, m’okay, Harry. We’re both okay," you reassure him too, and just hearing the sound of your hoarse voice is enough to calm him some. He brings you in a bear hug, tucking your face underneath his chin and draping is other arm over your back. You don’t hesitate before you return his embrace by wrapping your arms around his waist.

For a hot minute you remain intertwined in silence as you breath each other in and revel in the fact that you both survived the crash. Once your heartbeats have lowered down to healthier levels, you slightly part from each other and your eyes glisten as you lock them with his. "You saved my life, Harry," you whisper out to him with a tender caress at his cheeks, trying to ignore the small cut at his brow bone. "I just- thank you, thank you so much."

He answers with a small shake of his head, "don’t thank me, pet. I can’t imagine what I woulda done if y- if I couldn’t-" he struggles to let the words out and his face turns into a grimace at their implication. "M’just so relieved you’re alive, I’m the one thankful for that if anythin’," he ends up saying against the palm of your hand before leaving a small peck there.

As you move to stand up, you feel a sharp sting at your shin as soon as you apply pressure on your right leg. Looking down, you spot a gash at the skin, it’s not too profound that you won’t be able to walk, but it definitely needs tending to if you don’t want it to get infected. You let out a quiet ‘fuck’ in frustration before catching the look of concern of Harry’s face. "It’s fine," you brush it off, "just gonna need to clean it out. That cut on your face as well," you motion at his injury and he brings his hand up to feel out the cut in confusion. He hadn’t noticed the small wound, you realize. "Right, yeah," he answers after inspecting the patch of blood coating his fingers now.

Now that the shock of the situation is slowly dissipating and that reality is setting in, you both start thinking about the next course of action. You’re both alive and relatively unscathed, but now what? How do you get out form this place? Where even is this place? And how do you go home? It becomes increasingly obvious that you don’t have much resources and that you need some sort of plan if you want to survive.

"What about Sophia and the pilots? Do you know what happened to them?" you suddenly remember the rest of the crew. Perhaps they know more about how to proceed in such a situation. They might even know where you’re located, how far you are from home and what’s the procedure to ensure everyone’s survival and rescue.

"I dunno, love. Didn’t see them when we were in the water, I think they might have been on the other side of the plane," the somber look on his face betrays his pessimism as to their fate. They would be on the beach as well if they had survived. As the same reasoning courses through your mind, you look down in sadness at the vicious image of them struggling in the water before succumbing to the fatigue. Harry notices your pained expression and brings you back against his frame to leave a small comforting kiss at your hairline.

"Alright, it’s gonna be fine," you declare in pretend confidence. "People will start looking for us, right?" you try to make light of the conversation. "Hell, there’s probably going to be a whole unit created to find you as soon as we don’t show up in London and I’m sure they’ll find us fast." Hope is emulating in your belly where water had previously drown your vigor. You’re probably right; surely, if the one and only Harry Styles disappears in the middle of a plane crash, the response will be worthy of the man.

He doesn’t seem to quite share the sentiment however, if the small frown and nervous nipping at his lips suggest anything. "Love, I- Jeff’s the only one who knows we were going back to England. He might not notice right away." It’s his own fear talking, the idea that it might take more than a day for people to notice their unsettling absence.

On a normal schedule, him and Jeff would be in constant contact, sharing details for the next day’s agenda, planning tours, interviews, promotions and pitching in ideas for new projects, but be that as it may, Harry was currently on vacation. He’d taken a couple weeks off to relieve the pressure from the last busy months and catch up on some much needed time with you, and Jeff knew that meant a little less consistent contact for this break to be as rejuvenating as expected. Would he think much of the absence of texts from his friend? At some point definitely, but how long would it take for concern to replace dismissal?

Talk about rejuvenation.

"What about the plane company?" you ask, not ready to see your hopes dwindle down.

He seems surprised at the thought for a second before the anxious lines on his face smooth out some, iridescent eyes locking with your own in renewed faith. "You’re right, Jeff was the one who made the booking, so the company will have to contact him once they know about the crash." You let your lips quirk into a soft smile at his optimism before he adds, "we just have to survive until then."

"Right," you dial back on the heart-talking and dares your brain to recall any tips about survival behavior you’ve ever heard. "So we need find water asap and to make a fire before the night falls." You know water should be your priority, you have three days before you die of dehydration, maybe even less under this blazing sun. And despite behind surrounded by water, you know that the sea can’t help you with that. It’s quite ironic in a sense, you find yourself trapped by water, yet the biggest threat to you in that instance is the lack of water consumption. As for the fire, you also know temperature can drop very low at night in places like this and since you don’t have anything to bundle yourselves in, hypothermia is your second biggest threat.

Harry nods in approval before looking around. The beach is enclosed between the sea and endless stretch of luxuriant green tropical jungle. "Come on then, we should try and see if anything from the plane made it out on the beach. I think I saw some pieces earlier, maybe we’ll find something to store water." You think it’s a brilliant idea since you will need some kind of container should you be successful in your quest for water. And with that, you both start walking back towards the edge of the shore, Harry’s hand holding tightly to your shoulder keeping you close to him.

➪ Masterlist

#harry styles one shot #harry styles writing #harry styles imagine #harry styles fic #harry styles fanfic #best friends to lovers #reader insert #creative writing #harry styles fluff #harry styles ou

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midnight-in-town · 4 years

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I've been reading up on all your UT theories and--what if UT/Cedric K. Ros- (Cross?) left the Shinigami and became a Phantomhive butler under Claudia & fathered Vincent? (also a parallel to Grell!) I always thought this, considering the theme of butlers being given new names, but UT's reaction to Polaris' outburst in the latest chapter (i.e. "if I were to lose you again, I would never be able to rest in peace, even in death... because I am a butler, even in death"), I am convinced

Hello Anon and thanks for reading! So, about this idea of yours:

“what if UT/Cedric K. Ros- (Cross?) became a Phantomhive butler under Claudia & fathered Vincent? (also a parallel to Grell!)”

It’s true that I’m a believer of the UT = Cedric K. Ros, so I agree that he fathered Vincent and Frances. :)

However, while I know it’s tempting to imagine that UT used to be Claudia’s butler (since, indeed, most iconic duos of this series are made of a master and their butler), personally I disagree with this theory for 4 reasons!

Butlers aren’t the only characters who received an identity in Kuro

In fact, it’s a theme of the series for many characters to act on behalf of the identity they’ve taken for themselves (Finny, Noah’s Ark, Snake, our!Ciel himself, etc).

So while I agree that UT was possibly once given the name “Cedric” by Claudia, this doesn’t imply that it was necessarily because he was her butler. :)

UT’s lockets

I’d also like to remind you that Claudia’s locket is not the only one on UT’s chain and he apparently referred to all of them as his “treasure”.

So, unless we’re to assume he was the butler of all these people represented by the lockets, I think it’s hard to assume that UT was Claudia’s butler when he apparently met many humans he did enjoy/care about, after he deserted.

Also Seb found no link between the different people represented by the lockets, so they can’t all be fellow servants of the Phantomhive household (for instance). Speaking of which...

Tanaka’s character

If UT used to be Claudia’s butler, then what about Tanaka’s character, who’s also a butler?

After all, we know that Tanaka has been around the household since Claudia’s days as the Watchdog, as well as since Vincent and Frances’ childhood.

So I don’t think Claudia would have had 2 butlers (not considering the usual master & butler duos amongst the series) and I also don’t think UT trained Tanaka because, in ch151, UT said...

Of course, it’s hard to know whether he was telling the truth or lying in this whole chapter (since whoever he used to be is gone, now he’s only “the Undertaker”), but still, I think Tanaka as both Claudia’s and then Vincent’s butler makes more sense with what we’ve seen so far of the past.

Of course I can be wrong, but actually...

I think UT rather used to act as/be a nobleman

And I made a whole post about this idea here. :3 In other words, I’m overall more fond of the theory that UT used to possibly be “Earl Phantomhive” before Vincent, while “the Watchdog” was Claudia. [x]

As for UT’s reaction to Polaris’ words in the newest chapter, hm, well...

...it’s actually hard to interpret it, because :

UT could simply be worried about Polaris not lasting as a bizarre doll (since BDs need “episodes” of quality to keep on functioning, as much as they need edited records and, as we now know, blood transfusions)

UT could be thinking about “not being able to rest” until he’s finished what he’s trying to achieve through the BD project, and that even if the Shinigamis catch him, or Victoria or Seb get in his way

since it’s definitely a flashback arc (Ciel’s, Mey’s, etc), maybe UT could be thinking about the life he led before he killed himself

And that’s only 3 ideas out of many possibilities.

Frankly speaking though, maybe UT once had a master he served, but then again...

UT’s character does seem to enjoy the freedom to think and act entirely for himself (or for what pleases him), because he’s been existing for a long time. So after being such a skilled Shinigami and deserting, because he possibly found some huge dirt on their higher-ups, I find it hard to believe that he’d have been happy as someone’s butler. But again, I can be absolutely wrong!

TL;DR I understand why some fans choose to follow the idea that UT used to be Claudia’s butler, considering that we had many master/butler duos in the series so far. For now, it’s simply not my favorite possibility though. :)

I hope I managed to explain my point of view? Please have a nice day, Anon! :3

Hello Anon and thanks for sharing your thoughts. :))

Actually, I have no idea if Yana means for UT to be a real-life historical figure but, to be honest, if Sensei wants to introduce actual historical people in the main cast then my money’s not on UT. After all, Yana is Japanese, so I don’t know how much she would know about England’s History (and, I mean, this is quite the specific historical fact).

So who knows! Personally, I’d rather bet on Tanaka as an actual historical figure within the main cast. :)) [x][x]

Thanks again for sharing your idea and have a nice day Anon!

#kuroshitsuji #undertaker #claudia phantomhive #cedric k. ros #tanaka #kuroshitsuji theory #polaris #anon #answers #kuro169 #UT looked serious and tired in this chapter tho #so i really am vouching that his reaction to Polaris' word is more about how much hope he's putting into the bd project #it's not about money or power or stabbing his previous higher-ups in the back - it has a very emotional aspect and significance to him

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undertaker1827 · 4 years

Text

As promised, here is my Undertaker story to celebrate 300 followers!!! Thank you all, this means so much to me.

Anywho, I came up with this headcanon that Undertaker really likes and is very good at English country dancing. It just made sense to me, I don’t know how you guys feel about it, but this story is centred around it. Be warned, it takes place in a pub and there is mention of beer. Hope you enjoy and thank you for 300!!

Masterlist

The night was cold as you and Undertaker left the safety of your hotel room and walked into it, breath hanging mist and white in the frigid air. You were going on something of a tour of the British Isles, something you had wanted to do for a long time. The mortician was more than happy to oblige, having not gone anywhere to sightsee for a very long time. Whilst you had gone to some of the major attractions in each country, you had stuck more to the quitter, less well known places. Undertaker, acting as the guide, seemed to know all of the places you would enjoy best and so far the extended trip had been an absolute delight. You had gone all through the remotest parts of Scotland, enjoying the journeys almost as much as the places themselves and taking the scenic routes just about everywhere. The views you had found were fantastic, as were the small rural towns where some people still used horses and carriages, though only for the sake keeping the tradition alive.

You had then moved on to Northern Ireland, having arrived earlier this day and taken the compulsory, several hour long stroll around the hotel to explore your surroundings. You had eaten at a nearby restaurant and were now heading back to an inviting pub you had seen earlier on which boasted live music starting around ten at night. Of course, you were drawn to it immediately and unbeknownst to you, nostalgia was having the same effect on Undertaker, who couldn’t wait to get there.

You two made quite the pair, arriving in black trench coats with a confident stride and taking two barstools, watching excitedly as the group of musicians started organising their instruments. They were sat around a table a little way back from the bar, a roaring hearth to their side with a stag skull mounted on a plaque above it, magnificent antlers curving around and almost touching the support beams on the ceiling. You couldn’t guess the age of the pub, though you suspected it was at least 16th century, maybe even earlier. You could practically see people from those times sitting around tables similar to these and possibly even the same bar, discussing the day’s happenings over tankards.

You cheered along with everyone else when the players started, a slow folk song just to warm up. Many people knew the lyrics, some singing a line here and there. If you weren’t mistaken, you caught Undertaker doing the same thing. You sat and chatted through the first few pieces, but as soon as the music moved to a lively Irish jig, you felt the pub’s atmosphere change immediately. The thrill of the beat was almost palpable, and at the end of the first bar you were already wishing you could jump up and start dancing. As you glanced at the reaper to your left, fingertips resting over the lip of the pint sat on the bar, it didn’t go unnoticed for you that he had started tapping a boot in time to the song as soon as it began. You knew how long he had lived and had no doubt he was well travelled, so you took a chance.

“Can you dance to this?” You asked over the increasingly good-natured chaos taking over the warm space. He turned his head away from the musicians, a question in his eyes.

“’Course I can,” he answered, question turning to intrigue. You couldn’t help the grin that took over features. Jumping up, you held out a hand to him.

“Come on, then!” The reaper’s eyes sparked as he smirked, standing and taking the proffered hand.

“I’m s’posed to ask you to dance,” he commented, weaving his way between the various tables dotted randomly throughout the pub until you reached a vaguely clear space in the centre of it all, in front of the table that the musicians were occupying.

“Sure you’ll get another chance,” you chirped, spinning to stand in front of him as you bowed to each other. Some of the people sitting closer to you looked over excitedly, waiting for you to start dancing. You skipped backwards three steps in time to one another, repeating the movement going forwards and raising your arms when you met in the middle. You had well and truly acquired an audience by now, a happy feeling radiating throughout the room. A woman sitting right in front of you started clapping in time to the tune and soon the whole place was doing the same.

The players picked up the pace a bit as you reunited in the middle again, hands on top of each other and held high in the air as you skipped in a turn, unperturbed by the fact that this dance really needed at least one other couple. A cheer picked up as Undertaker swung you sideways and you extended the movement into a jump, acting as if you had been doing this together for years. You joined hands again to turn in the opposite direction, then arched your arms as if other couples were dancing through them. You each twirled to skip past this imaginary line of dancers, moving to the other end of the room to step forwards and back until you returned to your original positions.

You continued a few steps facing each other, then turned to repeat them standing back-to-back, again as if there were other people there. Your evidently wild imaginations drew delighted laughter from the onlookers, all of whom were still clapping to the music and talking boisterously over the top of it. They stopped momentarily for the part where the singer completed a short solo, accompanied only by the violinist standing next to him, who was moving so much in time to the music herself that it looked like she wanted nothing more than to doff the instrument and grab a partner for her own dance. Your steps slowed slightly to match the slightly calmer bars, the end of which was signalled when you stepped back and kicked your heels to the floorboards.

You faced each other once again, repeating some of the movements from earlier and ending in the middle again when the song finished, throwing your arms up and letting out a cheer of your own for dramatic effect. You each turned to the crowd, giving exaggerated bows as they erupted into raucous applause. The musicians started the next song and despite your panting breaths, it took a lot of effort to not skip on the way back to your table. You had barely sat down, faces flushed (yours, at least) from exertion and grins adorning your faces when the bartender called out to you.

“Next round’s on the house!” You each raised your glasses in thanks, looking back at each other after he nodded. Your foot was still tapping where it rested on the wooden chair.

“Didn’t know you could do that,” Undertaker commented, impressed by your ability. You flashed a wide grin then glanced back over your shoulder to the musician’s table, most of whom were now standing to do a little jig of their own while they played and sang.

“Would you have asked me to dance before now if you did?” Two fingertips on your chin brought your gaze back to the mortician who looked like he would dance the whole night away if you said you wanted to.

“Love, I would’ve asked the first night we went to the Fire Festival in Edinburgh.” He chuckled as your eyes widened in surprise - the first time you went together had been years ago.

“Well, by all means ask me next time someone’s playing a folk song, given that I had to ask you first-” you yelped as he unexpectedly dug his fingers into your ribs, effectively cutting you off. You dissolved into raucous laughter and he did the same, both of you leaning against each other and the bar to hold yourselves up. When he looked at you again, chartreuse eyes full of mirth, you knew he was going to hold you to it.

#black butler #undertaker #adrian crevan #kuroshitsuji #black butler x reader #adrian crevan x reader #kuroshitsuji x reader #undertaker fluff #undertaker x reader #black butler undertaker x reader #kuroshitsuji undertaker x reader

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pers-books · 3 years

Text

Letters to a Naturalist - Interlude 3

This is under a cut since it’s nearly 4k words.

Exchange of text messages a week before the Holby area schools’ half term:

Are we booking separate rooms for our weekend in London? S x

I’m happy to share if you are? Or I could book a suite with two bedrooms and then we can go from there. B x

A suite? Swanky! But that does sound like a good plan – just in case. S x

😊 Leave it to me. I’ll let you know the details. B x

Bernie had sent Jason and Marjorie Haynes first class tickets for the train from Holby to London, insisting that Marjorie accept them because they’d be more comfortable in first class given Marjorie’s almost constant exhaustion from the chemotherapy. Jason texts her at intervals during the journey to keep her updated on their progress, so she’s able to be waiting at the station with a private hire car to take them to the Natural History Museum. It’s not very environmentally friendly, but Bernie – this time – doesn’t care: she wants Jason and Marjorie to enjoy their trip and that won’t be possible if Marjorie feels too tired too early. Bernie’s also found a place to hire a wheelchair for the day. She’s not sure if Marjorie will agree to use it, but she wanted to have it available in case she does.

She and the driver, a woman in her thirties whom Bernie had chosen because she has a wheelchair accessible car, soon have Marjorie settled in the wheelchair in the back of the car, with Jason sitting opposite her and Bernie next to Jason.

“All set?” Bernie checks and when Jason and Marjorie agree, Bernie tells Zoe they’re ready to head to the Museum.

“How are you feeling, Marjorie?” Bernie asks.

“Not too tired at the moment,” Marjorie says with a genuine smile.

“Good.” Bernie looks at Jason, who’s almost vibrating in his seat. “I assume you’re excited to see the Museum, Jason?”

“I am!” he exclaims. “Can we see the Blue Whale?”

“We can,” Bernie agrees with a grin. “You’re going to find it hard to miss, Jason.”

He tilts his head and looks at her. “Why?”

“Well, it’s a very, very large skeleton that hangs from the ceiling of the Hintze Hall. You literally cannot miss it when walking into the Hall.”

“Okay.”

“I thought the central skeleton on display was a dinosaur?” Marjorie asks.

“It used to be,” Bernie assures her. “It certainly was when I was a child and when you were, too, assuming you visited the Museum as a child.”

“I did.”

Bernie nods at her. “Dippy the Diplodocus was on display in the Hintze Hall from 1979 to 2017, prior to 1979 it had been displayed in the Reptile Gallery. After 2017 it was carefully and painstakingly taken to pieces, boxed up, and then taken on a tour of museums around the country.”

“Goodness. That must be quite an undertaking.”

“It was and is,” Bernie says. “It’s seventy feet long and has nearly three hundred bones, which makes disassembling, reassembling, and transporting it a complex task. And because of its size, it can only be displayed at museums with sufficient space for it.”

“What was in the Hintze Hall before the dinosaur?” asks Jason.

“Immediately prior to Dippy, it was a mounted African elephant nicknamed George. The elephant was displayed in the main hall from 1907. Prior to that, it was a sperm whale, which was the first significant display in the hall as before that the hall was empty. The sperm whale was first displayed from around 1895. So, really, the Museum’s come full circle in having a blue whale as its central display.”

“You know a lot about the Museum,” Marjorie observes.

Bernie laughs softly, flushing a little. “Well, I’ve recorded a lot of the audios for the self-guided tours that visitors can take. Besides, I’ve been visiting since I was a small child and have given many talks there as an adult, so I’ve had several decades to learn the Museum’s history.”

“We’re here, Professor,” Zoe says from the front of the cab.

“That was quick!” Jason exclaims, sounding quite surprised.

“Yes, it’s only a short trip from Paddington Station.” She opens the door and gestures for Jason to exit first. “Hop out, love,” she says, and waits for him to climb out, then she manoeuvres Marjorie’s wheelchair out onto the pavement once Zoe’s unfolded the ramp.

“Thanks,” Bernie says with a smile to Zoe. “I’ll send you a text when we’re ready to be picked up.”

“I’ll be waiting,” Zoe promises. She folds the ramp back inside the cab, then closes the door and Bernie begins wheeling Marjorie towards the entrance, Jason walking beside them.

“Now, don’t forget what I told you, Jason,” Bernie says, “if it gets too overwhelming, you just have to tell me, and we’ll go somewhere quieter, okay?”

“Yes, Professor.”

“Good lad.”

“And if you get separated, you can text Bernie,” Marjorie adds.

They’ve reached the entrance and Bernie recognises the older man who’s at the door.

“Good morning, Anan. How are you?”

“Always all the better for seeing you, Professor,” he says, his white teeth startling against his dark brown skin as he grins at them. “But it’s been too long since we have seen you here.”

“I know, Anan. I’m sorry, I was off filming that series about the wildlife of the African continent for the BBC. It’s not that long since I got back from Africa and I’ve just been too busy with University work to visit before now.”

“I understand, Professor.” He looks at Jason, who is standing very close to Bernie, his expression slightly wary, then down at Marjorie. “Good morning. It is always nice to meet any friends of the Professor’s.”

“Good morning,” Marjorie says.

“Hello,” Jason says quietly.

“This is Marjorie Haynes and her son, Jason, who is my latest protégé.”

“What’s a protégé?” asks Jason immediately.

“Someone who’s very lucky in your case, young man,” Anan says, smirking a bit at Bernie, knowing that she’ll be embarrassed by such a comment since he knows full well that she doesn’t make a big deal out of her fame.

“A protégé is someone whom an older and more experienced person takes under their wing to provide them with support, guidance and, often, training, too.”

Jason frowns at her and Bernie can guess what he’s about to say even before he says it. “You don’t have any wings.” But he’s grinning at her, so she knows that means he’s understood the phrase is to be taken metaphorically not literally.

“More’s the pity,” she says with a chuckle. “It’d make travelling much easier.” She turns back to Anan. “How busy is it this morning?”

“Busy-ish,” he tells them, opening the door and stepping through it to hold the door open for them. “The usual sort of half-term crowds.”

“Okay. Thank you, Anan.”

“You’re welcome, Professor. Enjoy your visit Jason, Mrs Haynes.”

“Thank you.”

The trio make their way inside and Bernie hopes that Jason will be able to cope with the half term crowds and that Marjorie won’t feel too exhausted, even in the wheelchair.

“Okay, fellow adventurers, it’s off to Hintze Hall with us,” she says cheerfully, and sets off in the right direction, Jason almost bouncing along beside her and his mother’s wheelchair, as if he’s six not sixteen.

Bernie smiles when she sees Serena Campbell walking towards her as she waits near the hotel where she’s booked a suite for them for the next three nights. The brunette is dressed in jeans and a short sleeved blouse and looks stunning for all her attire is casual. Bernie unconsciously licks her lips, desire thrumming through her veins. She has a fairly strong premonition that the two of them will actually end up sharing a bed, but she doesn’t mind the expense of booking a suite as she doesn’t want Serena to feel pressured at any point, even if she was the one who said she wasn’t interested in taking things very slowly at their age.

“It’s criminal, how good you look in skinny jeans,” Serena says by way of greeting, then puts a hand on Bernie’s shoulder and pushes up onto tiptoes to kiss her in a manner that will leave any onlookers in no doubt that these two women are together. Bernie doesn’t hesitate to kiss her back even though she can feel her cheeks pinking up since she’s unused to public displays of affection.

“Hello, you,” she says once Serena releases her mouth.

Serena’s smile is wide and her eyes bright with a mixture of mirth and excitement if Bernie’s any judge. “Hello yourself, gorgeous.”

“Shall we?” Bernie asks, gesturing at the hotel entrance.

“Let’s,” agrees Serena, then tuts when Bernie picks up the bag that she’s brought in addition to a suitcase on wheels. “I can manage that.”

Bernie chuckles. “I don’t doubt it,” she says. “But there’s no reason I cannot carry it for you. It’s the gentlemanly thing to do.”

Serena shakes her head, then glances at the medium-sized rucksack that Bernie’s brought. “You travel rather light, don’t you?”

“Habit,” Bernie tells her, holding out her elbow, into which Serena slides her arm, before they make their way through the entrance doors, the white-gloved doorman holding the door open for them. “You don’t want to be carrying too much if you’re trekking through a jungle or across sand dunes for days.”

Serena chuckles. “Fair point.”

They make their way to the reception desk and get themselves checked in, Bernie accepting an envelope from the young woman who’s assisting them, then they make their way to the lift and ride up four floors to the penthouse suite.

“I can’t believe you booked the penthouse suite,” Serena says, sounding rather scandalised.

Bernie smirks, one eyebrow raised. “Are you saying you don’t deserve to spend the next three days and nights in the lap of luxury?”

“Oh, no, I’m not saying that at all.”

Bernie’s smirk morphs into a full blown grin. “Thought not.” She leads the way once they exit the lift and lets them into the suite with a tap of the keycard she’s carrying.

“Wow,” Serena says, sounding awed. “No expense spared, huh?”

Bernie grins. It’s true that booking the penthouse suite was somewhat expensive, but she can easily afford it and Serena definitely deserves the best. There are vases of fresh flowers dotted around the sitting room, which is elegantly appointed in a manner that combines luxury and taste. There’s a balcony outside the sitting room’s French windows and Bernie can see a table and chairs set out with a large parasol above the table. There are also various shrubs in pots on the balcony and it looks altogether welcoming. To the left and right of the sitting room are two half open doors which lead into the bedrooms.

“Do you want to pick a room?” Bernie suggests.

“We are going to share tonight, aren’t we?”

“If you want to. But there’s no pressure,” Bernie tells her. “After all, we’ve had dinner together exactly once and exchanged a handful of letters, text messages and phone calls. I don’t want you to think that I’m not fully prepared to woo you properly.” She pulls the envelope the receptionist had given her from the pocket of her bag, where she’d stuffed it. “And to that end, do you want to pick somewhere to have dinner tonight? When I made the booking, I asked the hotel staff to put together a list of four and five star restaurants with an extensive wine list.”

Serena laughs, takes the envelope from Bernie, then wraps an arm around her and kisses her soundly, leaving Bernie aching with desire. “You know me so well,” Serena says.

“I’m going to grab a shower,” Bernie tells her.

“Okay. I’ll take one shortly. I want to look at this list, first.”

“It’s important to get one’s priorities straight,” Bernie says, deadpan.

Serena swats at her ass. “Go, shower, you incorrigible woman.”

“Okay, okay.” Bernie holds up her hands in a gesture of surrender. “I’m going.”

When she returns from taking her shower Serena has disappeared and Bernie can just hear the shower running in the other ensuite. The list she got from reception is on the desk and Serena’s circled three of the restaurants’ names and scrawled a note – in typically almost-illegible doctor’s handwriting: “All of these are acceptable. Thought I’d pick more than one just in case even you cannot get a table!”

Bernie pulls out her phone and rings the first one on the list, only to discover they will be closed for a private party this evening. She rings the second one on the list and finds they cannot offer her a reservation earlier than 9pm, which seems a little late. The third restaurant, however, can offer her a reservation at 7.30pm and she doesn’t hesitate to book a table for two, mentioning that she’d like it in relatively quiet spot.

“Madam has romance on her mind?” asks the young woman on the phone.

Bernie snorts. “Yes, but it’s not that so much as that I might be recognised.” She swallows, then adds, “The table is for Bernie Wolfe plus one.” She is very aware of how famous she is, but she never knows if she’s famous enough for random hospitality staff to recognise her name.

“Ah,” says the young woman. “Professor Wolfe, you shall have a private table. Thank you for booking with us.” Bernie hears the sound of a keyboard being tapped, then, “Your table is booked for 7.30pm, Madam.”

“Thank you,” Bernie says with gratitude. “I’ll see you this evening.”

“We will look forward to it.”

She ends the call, then smiles when Serena walks into the sitting room dressed in just a fluffy white bathrobe with the hotel’s monogram on it and a pair of matching slippers. Bernie herself is dressed in the same fashion, more in hope than expectation that anything is going to happen.

“I’ve booked us a table at Franco’s for 7.30pm,” she tells Serena, who nods, continuing to move towards Bernie in what the naturalist considers to be a deliberately provocative fashion as her hips are swaying temptingly.

“Come here, you,” she says and grabs the belt of Bernie’s robe to tug her forward.

Bernie steps right into her personal space and bends her head to kiss Serena with great thoroughness.

“Whatever are we going to do with ourselves?” Serena asks with a cheeky glint in her eye once Bernie releases her. “After all, we’ve got several hours before we need to go out.”

Bernie smirks at her. “Well, I thought you might like to test one of the beds,” she suggests. “If that’s something that you think might interest you.”

“Definitely,” Serena says with a smirk of her own. “Be a good girl and put the card on the door, will you?”

Bernie offers her a mock salute, then picks up the ‘Do not disturb’ sign from the desk and opens the door to the suite just far enough to slip the string over the door handle, then closes and locks the door. She turns around and finds herself pressed up against the door by a very amorous brunette, who wastes no time in untying the belt on Bernie’s bathrobe, then sliding her hands over her hips.

“The very first time I saw you,” Serena says, sounding surprisingly breathless, “I wanted to snog the life out of you.”

“Is that right, Ms Campbell?”

“Absolutely, Professor.”

Bernie’s not sure why, but there’s something about the way Serena says ‘Professor’ that sounds incredibly sexy and naughty; it’s ridiculous, given that Bernie’s never had any teacher/student fantasies at any point in her career (and she’s had more than a few really gorgeous young women students). She swiftly pulls Serena’s bathrobe open before pulling her closer so that they’re pressed together, skin to warm skin, then she guides Serena so that her thigh is pressed between the brunette’s legs. That elicits a groan, a nip to her bottom lip, then Serena’s mouth is hot on her own.

When they pull apart to breathe, Bernie says, “Weren’t we going to test out a bed?”

“Yes,” Serena says and steps back, then she shrugs out of her bathrobe and allows it to slide down her arms and onto the floor. “Well, Professor, are you coming?”

“Not yet,” Bernie quips, “but I hope to be soon.”

Serena lets out a peal of laughter, then saunters towards the room where she’d showered in the ensuite and Bernie follows, pausing to scoop up the fallen bathrobe in case Serena needs it later.

She finds the bed already turned down, the slippers discarded on the floor, and the other woman spread invitingly on the bed. She quickly sheds her own bathrobe and slippers, then crawls up the bed to join her.

“Now, where were we?”

“Right about here,” Serena responds, tugging at Bernie’s body to get her to move into position.

“So we were.” She lowers her head and licks a line up Serena’s throat, which causes her to moan quite loudly. She can’t help smirking at the thought that the brunette is going to be a very vocal partner, something she personally enjoys.

Later, when they’re sprawled, spent and sated, on the sofa in the sitting room, the remains of a full afternoon tea spread out on the coffee table, Serena asks, “How was young Jason and his mother? Did they enjoy the visit to the Museum?”

“They did, although Jason was disappointed that he couldn’t get to see everything. I had to gently point out that even if his mother had been well enough, or even if he’d come with only me for company, he still couldn’t have fitted it all in as the Museum’s just too extensive for a single visit to encompass everything. I’ve promised him that we’ll make a longer visit in the summer and spend several days there.”

“And how is his mother’s treatment progressing?” asks Serena.

Bernie shakes her head. “If Marjorie makes it to the summer holidays, I think it’ll be a miracle. I lost my own mother to breast cancer when I was nineteen. She had it twice, in fact, and Marjorie, even with the chemotherapy, looks worse than my mother did the first time around.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Serena says, reaching out to clasp Bernie’s hand. “What will happen to Jason if he loses his mother? Will he go to his father?”

Bernie shakes her head. “Marjorie never told Jason’s father that she was pregnant. She’s had no contact with him since she fell pregnant in fact, so Jason’s never met the man. No, she’s appointed me as his legal guardian.”

“That’s incredible,” Serena says, looking surprised at the news. “You haven’t known them that long, have you? I thought that was what you’d told me.”

“No, it’s just a few months since Jason first wrote to me. However, since he’s sixteen I’ll only be his guardian for two years, although I’ll still be around for him even after he becomes a legal adult.” She shrugs. “It’s fortunate that I’d previously been head hunted by Holby City University and was already planning to move to Holby over the summer. If Marjorie doesn’t survive, I’ll move into the Haynes family home in order to minimise the disruption of Jason’s routines.”

“Does it worry you?”

Bernie frowns at Serena. “Does what worry me?”

“Effectively becoming a mother at our age?”

Bernie snorts. “Well, no. I have been running field trips for teenagers and young adults for schools and university courses since my late twenties.”

“That’s not the same as living with a teenager 24/7 for two years, though.”

Bernie shakes her head. “Maybe not, but Jason’s pretty easy to live with. He’s strict about his routines as a consequence of the Asperger’s, yes, but he proved to himself that he can cope with his routines being disrupted by coming on that camping trip with me. He’s kind, smart, and capable, and luckily for me and for him, he already likes me, so I don’t doubt that we’ll cope. It’s not like I’m being left to look after a six year old. The only thing that really concerns me is how he’ll cope with the loss of his mother since they’ve been each other’s world for sixteen years. The fact that I lost my own mother to breast cancer isn’t quite the same since I still had my father and three older brothers, not to mention various cousins, aunts and uncles.”

“Perhaps he and Ellie could meet,” Serena suggests, sounding tentative, as if she’s not sure Bernie will find the idea acceptable.

“It couldn’t hurt,” Bernie says with a smile. “Thanks.” She leans over and kisses Serena, intending to keep it brief, but the brunette has other ideas as she quickly discovers when Serena straddles her lap.

Bernie sees Serena off at Paddington on Monday morning with the promise that they’ll speak on the phone during the week and arrange a weekend visit to Holby soon, during which Ellie and Jason can meet each other, assuming that both children agree to meet the other. She’ll broach the matter with Jason when he rings her on Wednesday after he gets home from school: it’s become a part of their weekly routine, now, that Marjorie goes into the hospital for her chemotherapy treatment after Jason leaves for school on Wednesday morning and he rings Bernie in the afternoon once he returns from school.

As she heads across London from Paddington to Victoria Station to get the train back to Chatham, Bernie contemplates the prospect of another trip to Holby with satisfaction. Serena’s invited Bernie to stay with her, rather than book into a hotel, which is an enticing prospect. She rather thinks Serena might be ‘The One’ – the person she’d like to spend the rest of her life with. She’s not sure how that’ll work out with regards to her guardianship of Jason, but she hopes introducing him and Ellie to each other will help in that respect. She hates herself, a bit, for thinking this way, as if assuming that Marjorie’s death is a foregone conclusion, but she finds it hard to hold out hope for the other woman’s recovery from the breast cancer. She decides she’ll have to have a chat with Donna Jackson on Wednesday, to see what she thinks of Marjorie’s prospects.

She heaves a sigh, then focuses her attention on hopping off the Circle Line tube train at Victoria. She has a lot to get through this week and mooning over Serena will not help it get done. However pleasant it might be to moon over Serena Campbell.

# # # #

I’ve no idea if the Natural History Museum normally has someone at the door - I’ve not visited for forty years, but let’s just accept that in the Holby ‘verse, it does.

#Berena #Bernie Wolfe x Serena Campbell #Bernie Wolfe + Jason Haynes #Fanfic #Holby City #AU: Letters to a Naturalist

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thecleverdame · 4 years

Text

The Oath - 5

Parings: Dark!Alpha!Sam x Omega!Reader

Summary: After an unsuccessful escape attempt, the reader finds herself taken as a spoil of war. She ends up in the bed of a ruthless Alpha, the son of John Winchester, leader of the kingdom of Gilead. She struggles to conceal her true identity and navigate a society where being an Omega means nothing more than serving at the pleasure of powerful men.

Warnings: non-con, sexual assault, rape, attempted suicide, sexual slavery, branding, torture, ownership, voyeurism, anal play, smut, violence, and murder.

Sam is dark in this story. If any of the warnings are triggers for you, I would suggest skipping this one. Please read and heed all the warnings.

Beta: ilikaicalie

Chapters 1-14 are currently available on Patreon. To get access to this and many other stories, subscribe for a pledge of 2.50 per month. CLICK HERE

You’re drifting in and out of sleep, jarred half-awake with every bump in the path. The cart sways, side to side, bringing the same nausea you felt the first time you took a voyage by ship. There’s the sound of horse hooves trotting closer and Sam Winchester appears above you, looking down from his horse.

“Are you cold?” he asks.

Tilda looks down at her hands, trying to fade into the background.

“Yes, the wind is strong today.” It’s such a foreign thing to have such an inconsequential conversation with a man who’s sworn to eradicate every member of your family. Not to mention forced you to take his knot only hours before. Yet he acts as if all this is nothing out of the ordinary.

“And your arm?” His horse starts to pull away from the cart and he guides the steed back, trotting right beside you. “Are you in pain?”

“I’ll manage.”

“I asked if you’re in pain.” His voice grows tight with impatience. It’s a reminder of your place in this brave new world. He asks questions and you answer.

“Some,” you admit. “It never really goes away.”

“Here.” He reaches into his cloak and pulls out a metal flask, dropping it into your lap. “Drink. It’s wine, it’s strong. It will keep you warm and help you to forget your arm. I’ll come back with food in a few hours.”

“Thank you,” you offer but he’s already out of earshot, riding away.

You uncap the flask, taking a sip and sputtering at the taste. You’ve never been a fan of wine, but desperate times call for desperate measures. You drink down as much as you can before wiping your mouth.

“Would you like some?” You offer Tilda a sip.

“No, I wouldn’t dare.” She shakes her head, holding a hand up. “He didn’t give it to me, it’s yours.”

“You think he’d be upset?” You feel sick, all these unspoken rules are a far cry from any iteration of your old life.

“Are you joking?” she laughs dryly. “He kept you for himself. Samuel Winchester rode back to check on you. You’re lucky to be in his favor. I’ve never seen him show interest in any of us before. Dean takes his pleasures, and Sam will get his cock sucked but never anything more. Did he knot you?”

“I beg your pardon?” You’re aghast at this sort of talk. Is this your life now? Discussing such intimate matters while being pulled around in the back of an apple cart. You want to cry, to curl into yourself and die right here and now.

“Did he knot you?” Tilda asks again, looking around to ensure she’s not overheard. She leans closer. “Come on, tell me. I can help you.”

“I’m not I should talk about it.” You gulp, taking another sip from the flask. “Yes. I spent the night with him.”

“Oh, God has smiled on you. Trust me when I tell you, keep him satisfied as long as you can. Sam might be a brute but it’s better than being passed around like a prize.”

“Is that what you are? A prize?”

“I never know who I’ll end up with next. Some of the Alpha’s aren’t so bad, all they want is to knot a hole and they’re satisfied. For some, we’re the only Omega’s they’ll ever come close to in real life. But some…” she stops to look at her hands. “Some are evil men. They enjoy inflicting pain. He might not be a good man but he’s good enough to bring you food and drink. Give him a reason to keep you as long as you can.”

That night proves to be no different than the first. The men set up the tents as far as the eye can see. It’s dark by the time Sam comes for you, lifting you out of the cart and escorting you to he and Dean’s personal quarters. It’s been set up exactly the same as yesterday. It must be a huge undertaking to erect this elaborate space only to tear it down the next morning as the brigade moves on.

You quietly eat dinner with Dean at one end of the table, Sam at the other. For the most part, they act as if you’re not there. Arguing about strategies on the battlefield and who will end up in their father’s favor. Sam doesn’t skip a beat, cutting your meat into bite-sized pieces so you’re able to eat with one working hand.

Your mother always said there was good to be found in any situation. While there are certainly dark times, you search for the tiny offerings of hope that appear. At least he doesn’t take joy in your pain or the inclination for some of the more tortuous acts Tilda spoke of. Not yet anyway.

You’ve heard the stories, the horrifying tales of the Alpha of Gilead. You know full well what you are to them, nothing more than what’s between your legs. You’re a being stripped of personhood to be used at the whim of another. Things could be worse. You could be given to the men, viciously beaten and raped until you fell pregnant or died. And even then they’d continue to have their way with you.

No, you tell herself that ending up in Sam’s good favor is a higher power watching over you.

“I’m going to find a card game.” Dean throws his handkerchief on his plate, sitting back in the chair. He looks from you to Sam. “Is it safe to assume you’re staying in?”

“Yes,” Sam confirms. The nod of his head and the squeeze of his fist seem to tell his brother all he needs to know.

Their communication is intricate. They can have an entire conversation with a few words and pointed looks.

Dean wraps himself in a cloak and heads out for the night, leaving you alone with Sam yet again. He watches you wordlessly as you stare at the fire, waiting for what you already know is coming.

But tonight, before he has the chance to make his move you preempt with a request.

“Alpha,” you whisper, finding your voice shaky. At the sound of his title, he snaps to attention, eye drilling holes in you. “Would it be possible to have some of the tea you made me last night. For my arm.”

He blinks, studying you carefully before answering.

“Yes.”

He grinds the herbs as he did before, boiling the water and setting the mug on the table in front of you. It seems like a lifetime while you wait for it to cool. The silence goes unfulfilled as the fire crackles in the background.

“May I make one more request?” you ask, timid as mouse staring at the herbs in the bottom of the cup.

“What is it?” He leans forward, tilting his head to the side.

“May I wash up before we’re together? I was in the cart all day and I stink of horses.”

“Yes, of course.” Sam sits back, gesturing toward the water basin next to the fire.

There is much that doesn’t need to be said out loud. You know what to expect. You’ll bathe out here in the open and he’ll watch, just the same as he watched the cook clean you the night before. Even your most basic acts are privy to his observation.

This is what it feels like to belong to someone.

Standing, you go through the logistics. With one arm you’re limited in nearly every aspect.

“Would you help me with my dress?” you ask, turning your back toward him.

Sam leans forward in his chair, pulling at the laces at the back of the dress and yanking it down until you’re able to step out. You’re naked in the firelight, perfect skin glowing save the bruises you sustained in the woods. His cock stiffens in his pants as you walk to the fire and squeeze the excess water out of the cloth before washing yourself.

Even in the low light of the fire, he sees your cheeks grow red as you clean your breasts and underarms before rising out the rag. You stare at the floor, washing your sex and then begin a second pass over your body.

You’re doing this half for your own comfort, and a half in an attempt to keep him happy. Tilda was insistent about keeping him satisfied. Now you know your fate when he grows tired of you.

“How would like me?” Your eyes dart up, meeting his with hesitation.

“Here.” He remains seated, reaching out to you. You walk to him, standing between his legs. His finger trails over your ribs as he sits up tall, arching up to scent you. It’s uncomfortably intimate as he buries his face in your neck. His open mouth breathes hot, nose rubbing back and forth across your pulse point.

Your body responds despite any internal protest. Breath goes choppy, a tingling between your legs bringing you to life. His teeth scrape over your throat and to your horror you moan, a fractured breathy sound as he smiles against your flesh.

“That’s it Omega, stop thinking and just feel.” He nips under your chin before cupping your breast with one giant palm. Your nipples are hard as rocks, standing at attention and he promptly sucks one into his mouth. You make a garbled sound, head falling backward as he sucks hard, hot tongue swirling around the bud. His hand snakes between your legs, a finger sinking into your slick before rubbing your own arousal over your clit with easy strokes.

He’s right. If you don’t think about the rest of it and just focus on the Alpha in front of you, all the bad slips away. It becomes clear, this is how you survive. You can do this, be an Omega to his Alpha. And whatever happens outside of these private moments you’ll deal with when the time comes.

His mouth comes off your breast, wet nipple instantly pebbling in the cold air.

“Your body wants me, Omega.” He looks up at you, the reflection of the fire dancing in his eyes.

“Yes,” you whisper. That one word of confirmation brings complete and utter shame. You spent the better part of the day imagining ways to escape and now you’re practically begging for him to take you.

His thumb presses over your clit as two fingers stroke between the lips of your cunt. He doesn’t push inside, he just strokes slowly through your arousal, back and forth as your legs begin to tremble.

“Your sweet little cunt is drooling.” He offers a dark grin, rubbing his thumb in a circle around your bud. Everything between your legs is throbbing. “Why are you fighting it?”

“Because you scare me.” You whimper this truth and immediately wish you could take it back. Fortunately, he doesn’t seem the least bit bothered by the confession.

“You should be scared of me,” he chuckles, stroking over your clit. Your entire body is vibrating in pleasure and fear, you’re sweating from head to toe, barely able to stay standing. “But not when you’re in my bed. Don’t worry, I’ll be careful with your arm. All you have to do is be good for me. Let me in here where you’re warm and soft and tight.”

His fingers slip into your cunt and you groan, eyes shutting as you grip his shoulder for balance.

“That’s it,” he coaxes, fucking you slowly, sliding in up to his knuckles. “Tell me what you want?”

“I want,” you start and have to stop, drawing in a breath. Licking your lips, your brow furrows as he twists his wrist between your thighs. “I want your knot.”

A single tear slides down your cheek and Sam watches it disappear under your jawline.

“I bet you’d say anything to get my cock in this greedy little cunt, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes!” you agree in desperation. Between his scent and the way he touches you, it’s a potent combination. Despite the humiliation, you would do anything he asked at this moment.

“Good,” he grunts.

Sam pulls his hand from between your legs, standing up to guide you back toward the bed.

“This arm is a problem. If you weren’t hurt I’d fuck you so hard you wouldn’t be able to walk for the rest of the week. But we don’t want to do any permanent damage, do we?”

You turn around, looking up, covered in sweat and aroused beyond anything you’ve ever known was possible. No wonder the men of Gilead think of you as a mindless breed mare when you respond like this.

Sam wraps his hand around your hip bone, pushing you down onto the bed.

“Get in the middle and spread your legs for me.”

Sam watches in satisfaction as you do as you’re told, scooting backward and letting your thighs fall open. The scent of your cunt is overwhelming, nothing’s ever been as sweet or as temping.

You need the lie, to lose yourself n the guise of a true believer. If you give in maybe you can trick yourself.

“Tell me what I am,” you gaze up at him.

Sam stares at you as he strokes his cock, watching your breasts rise and fall. It takes him a moment to understand what you’re asking, but he catches on quickly.

“You’re an Omega.” He crawls onto the bed between your legs. Your skin is so warm he feels the heat coming off you. Your pussy is glistening, thighs wet and inviting. He can only imagine what you’ll look like when you’re in heat. “You exist for this.” He lowers himself over you, fisting his cock and pressing the head into your pussy. “To take my cock, to cum around my knot until your belly is full of my seed. This is what you are, Omega.”

His weight pins you to the bed as he slides inside, not stopping until he’s rooted. It’s different than the night before. It doesn’t hurt this time. Maybe it’s because he’s already been inside you or perhaps the position is more conducive to your pleasure.

Two hands planted on either side of your head, he fucks you at an even pace, taking his time to watch. If he lifts himself up he has a bird’s eye view of his cock disappearing into your hot pussy. The visual only adds to the feeling of your cunt sliding around him as he thrusts inside again and again. Your eyes are clenched shut, mouth open as you let out strangled sounds, moans, and sobs until you end up biting down on your own finger to quell the noise.

He’s not sure how an Omega as beautiful as you went this long without being claimed by an Alpha. It’s unfathomable to him that the first Alpha to cross your path didn’t sink his teeth into you. The way you smell, the feel of your skin and the way you press your lips together when you’re holding back. His father has always been the one who believed in the religion of it all, Sam has always drifted in and out of belief, but you’re enough to make a believer out of him. Perhaps you’re the reward his dedication has all been leading up to. He knows he’s getting ahead of himself, it’s only been two days and he knows nothing about you.

“Alpha,” you call out. Your back arches, tits pressing upward, belly pushing into his stomach. Small hands clutch at his biceps, pushing and pulling as if simultaneously trying to push him away and bring him closer.

You’re going to cum, he knows that much. He’s making a point to grind himself over your clit with every thrust of his hips. He’s never been one to be overly concerned with the pleasure of an Omega, but he wants to see you cum this time. See it on your face as you give up the fight and surrender to what you are.

Your hips start to move in rhythm with his, working with him to take him deeper, faster, harder.

His knot begins to swell and before he even pops you cum with a wanton cry. Your mouth falls open, head pressed back into the bedding as you tighten around his cock. Sam gives one final thrust, your cunt pulling him inside as his knot locks him inside you.

It takes a moment for him to catch his breath, pressing his forehead against your collar bone and taking in every sensation. There’s a hand at the back of his neck, fingernails digging into skin as you pant underneath him. Your thighs squeeze around his hips, pulsing in tandem with your own fading orgasm.

When he finally raises his head, you’re laying against the bed, eyes closed as tears streak down each of your temples. There’s a darkness inside him that enjoys this reaction, that you cry after you cum, when he’s still inside you.

“You’ll get used to it,” he pulls back enough to gaze down at where your bodies are joined. “Give it time, Omega. You won’t even remember who you were before.”

#alpha!sam x omega!reader #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester smut

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marmolady · 4 years

Text

The New Taylor: Part 2

CONTINUED FROM PART 1

Book/Series: Endless Summer

Main Pairings: Estela x MC(f)

Summary: (Endless Ending). Saving the world takes a lot out of a person. For Taylor, growing into her new self beyond La Huerta can only happen as fast as her exhausted body will allow her….

Warnings: Non-graphic sex scene, little bit of blood.

Word Count: 6246

Tagging: @saivilo, @edgydepressedchoicesthot, @sceptilemasterr, @greengroove

______

“Estela-- no!”

Unblinking, Estela brought her knife to the side of her head, and plunged it behind the blinking mind-control device. She yelped and dropped the knife, but renewed her assault with her own fingers, tearing at her flesh until the cold metal device came loose, to be flung across the room. All the while, she was deaf to Taylor’s cries, dodging the frantic attempts at prising her fingers away from the now gaping wound.

She slumped to the floor, her face pallid as blood continued to gush.

“T-Taylor…”

“I’m here… I’m h-here, okay?” Desperately, Taylor tried to stem the bleeding with her hands, but as Estela’s cold fingers reached up to touch her face, scrunched in anguish, she knew it was already too late.

“I-I d-didn’t… hurt… you?”

“No. No, baby, you could never.”

Estela’s choking exhale shook. “I’m… m-me. I would never h-hurt you… Tay….”

“Shh, shh…. I know. You’re here. My Estela. You saved me.” Tears cascaded down Taylor’s cheeks, mingling with blood. Please, Estela…. No….

Estela shuddered, her body a dead weight against her lover’s chest. “I g-get to go out as m-me. W-with you. T-taylor….”

“With me. I love you-- I love you-- I--”

“...Love…you….”

The last light behind Estela’s eyes dulled, and she was gone. Taylor unleashed a howl of agony….

And she awoke.

Taylor’s heart felt as though it might pound right out of her chest. Her face was wet-- tears?-- sweat?-- both? She let out a quiet, dry sob. The tingle of blood on her hands could have been real. After so many of these nightmares, though, she knew how to ground herself. Against her back, she felt the gentle rising and fall of Estela’s chest. Against her ear, the soft, grumbling breaths of Estela deep in slumber. In the dim light of the bedroom, Taylor could make out the outline of the tiny dog that lay curled up at the end of the bed. All was peaceful.

Slowly, the thundering against Taylor’s ribs calmed. It’s okay. You’re home. Estela’s with you; she’s safe. You’re safe. Stress seemed to make these nightmares-- flashbacks of memories bestowed by the Endless-- rear their heads. Her throat was dry, as if she truly had screamed for the loss. Taylor carefully extricated herself from Estela’s arms, and stood on shaky feet. She’d disturbed her lover too many times; as much as she herself did, Estela needed to rest and recover.

Taylor padded out to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of water.

“You’re not sleeping so well, mija?”

It was perhaps the third time Nicolas had called her that, and it still gave her a happy jolt. She stood up from her slumped stature over the sink and turned to see the tall silver-haired man perched upon his desk chair, apparently restless himself.

“And what are you doing up so late?” she asked, the croak to her voice betraying the impact of that haunting vision. “An old man like you? You need your full eight hours.”

Nicolas chuckled. “The mouth on this one…. Well, being so old, as you say, I find myself with a lot of accumulated thoughts to organise. Estelita told you I was thinking of writing a memoir? It happens that such an undertaking comes with the stirring of memories. Some… are disquieting. The thing with war is you might find yourself processing memories you’d once pushed aside for sheer survival. But it is nothing I don’t know how to deal with-- a way of life by now.”

Having tiptoed into the front sitting room, Taylor set herself down in a chair; there was little point to heading straight back to bed while her mind was a whirl of traumatic images. Quietly, she was grateful for the company, appreciating how comfortable she was in sharing with her wife’s cantankerous uncle, even for the bumps they’d had in the road.

“I’m surprised she let you slip away,” Nicolas growled-- not an unfriendly noise, but gruff. “After your fainting episode, she’s been on you like an extra limb.”

“I didn’t want to wake her. Estela has had too many bad nights because of me.”

Understanding, Nicolas gave an almost imperceptible nod. “You haven’t been sleeping well?”

Taylor opened her mouth, then closed it again. How to even explain her visions to someone who’d never stepped foot on La Huerta? “I have nightmares,” she said, after a moment of deliberation. “But like, really, really vivid. And not like just a random dream, more like… like I’m living this version of a past with crystal clarity. What might have happened on the island… how it could have all gone wrong; as real as my own memories. I see all the hundreds of ways my friends might have died, how Estela….” She shuddered. “I’ve seen her die so many times. I’ve felt her dying in my arms.”

“This is… all the time?” Nicolas was frowning, but didn’t appear alarmed. Apparently, life had made him pretty unflappable.

“Mmm… more when I’m emotionally stressed. Or at least, that’s what it feels like. And then it’s this really fun vicious circle; you try and not be an emotional wreck when you can’t close your eyes without seeing everyone you love die.”

Nicolas grunted, thoughtful. “It seems the last thing you need is to not be sleeping properly. Have you considered meditation before bed?”

“Yeah, actually. Estela suggested I try that. It helps me with getting to sleep, but I still have the dreams.”

When Nicolas spoke again, his voice was small. “I spent many months unable to shake scenarios my mind conjured… how that fool’s mission would have Estelita killed. It seemed inevitable for so long that I’d lost her, that she’d been wiped from the face of the earth without a trace. And here you have all those ‘what if’s’ collected in your mind. All the ways it could so easily have all come undone.”

“She always would have gone down fighting. I think… every single time. Whether she was going after Rourke, or saving her friends from some monster from the pits of hell… she would be this unyielding force of nature, so sure. To Estela, none of those eventualities ever happened-- she doesn’t have these memories, thank God--, but they’re real to me.”

For a little while, Nicolas was silent, lost in thought. He looked up at Taylor, a twitch of a smile upon his lips, and then his tired face was sombre once more. “I’ve learned a few things over the years of being the guardian of a wonderful, foolish child; one of those things is that to come down hard is to create fractures. And I have been hard on you-- harshness you do not deserve. I am very sorry.”

She swallowed hard. “I… I appreciate that. I’m sorry too. For blundering around like an idiot.”

“Yes, but you are our idiot. My second niece.”

Taylor was certain her heart just skipped a beat. She covered her shock by laughing it off. “You’ll be having me call you ‘Tio’ next….”

“By all means. It is quite clear that Estelita intends to keep you; we may as well cut to the chase with familiarity, mi Taylita.”

“Well, fine. If you say so, Tio.” In spite of her casual tone, Taylor couldn’t keep the smile from creeping to her face. Acceptance.

Nicolas took a long drink of rum.

“I’ll admit it seemed too good to be true; for Estelita to be happy. I always had this dream of seeing her, sharing a life with someone she loved, free from the shadows that have been there for as long as she knows. You’ll forgive me-- it is not that I didn’t wish to believe it, but my guard is there to keep her from being hurt more. Do you know when I knew that this-- you-- were real, not some cruel wishful thinking?”

“What was it?”

“It was, I think, four, maybe five , days after you came home. I didn’t hear what you said, but she was laughing. Really laughing. As though her body could not possibly even try to contain her joy. It was the sort of unrestrained delight in living that I hadn’t seen in her eyes since she was a little child. It was magic. So, I wish for you to know that I will be forever grateful for that gift. For your care for her.”

Feeling like she might just about burst with happiness-- with love for her wife-- Taylor flushed. Whatever life would make of her next, she could be proud of the person she’d been for Estela. “It’s not just me, you know. The rest of us, our friends; they love Estela so, so much. I guess you see that with Jake, but it’s like we’re our own family. This thing we all went through together, it’s seared in us. Whatever happens next, even if I was to get struck down by lightning tomorrow, Estela is not gonna be alone ever again. Not really.”

“I’ve seen a good few impossible things these past weeks. I’d been certain that if she dared try to smile, her miserable old face would shatter! And now, here she is, light as a feather.” Nicolas looked down, his eyes misted over. “I have seen what you, your friends, have done. To say… to say I am thankful feels small. Inadequate.”

Taylor shook her head. “Something like that doesn’t even need thanks. What we have is a privilege. It’s… all the family I thought I’d ever have-- until I came here.”

“Then, it seems my family has grown more than I know.”

_________________________

Sprawled out in front of Taylor were a collection of notes, cutouts and photographs, atop a poster-sized paper. When the idea of a vision board was first put to her, she’d barely given it a thought, but it had become so damn hard to see anything past this period of physical rehabilitation that doing something was a necessity. With a piece of toast in one hand, and the other offering quiet reassurance to her thin half-hairless canine companion, she pored over the visual summation of herself. As it happened, she didn’t appear to amount to much. In the middle of the board, she’d scrawled ‘Who Am I?’, and the wishy-washy answers she’d managed to surround it with did nothing to light the much-needed fire of self-confidence.

‘A people-person’, ‘nurturing’, ‘compassionate’. She scritched Fenix’s belly. ‘A strong leader’, ‘determined’, ‘resourceful’. There was no need for any kind of translation into the real world; all that had come with her. Those things, at least, were hers. But there was no history-- not any that she could ever talk about outside her own close circle.

“I can’t even put down any hobbies…,” she muttered.

Beside her, Estela peered over.

“I don’t think that’s true. You’ve been learning to knit; that’s definitely a ‘you’ thing. And we used to go hiking, swimming, wind-surfing….”

Taylor flinched, and it didn’t go unnoticed.

“Hey… I know it feels like your body’s giving out on you right now, but this won’t be forever.”

I love you, but you don’t know that.

“Taylor, you can look at me like I’m crazy all you want, but… I know things are gonna get better.” Estela gently took Taylor’s hand in her own. “When you were in the med centre, those first few days… I couldn’t see a light at the end of the tunnel. You were gone, and there was no hope. But you came back to me. From nothing, you came back. I’m scared too, no matter how much I try and push it down. Even hard as things are it seems like it’s too good to be true. We can’t listen to those doubts, okay? I believe in a lot of things, but more than anything, I believe in you.”

“Well, at least someone does.” Taylor gave her wife’s hand a squeeze, and offered a grateful smile. “Considering what I clawed myself back from, this could be as good as it gets. But… I guess I’m not done fighting.”

Estela pecked a kiss to Taylor’s cheek, nuzzling close. “Good. I’m glad some of my stubborn streak has rubbed off on you.”

Taylor couldn’t help but chuckle. She was just about to go in for another kiss, when Nicolas marched into the kitchen for a drink of water.

“Buenos días, Tio!”

So… the smooch session was on hold. Resigned to being patient, Taylor reached for her glass of orange juice.

“Estelita, your poor esposa tells me she is having nightmares!” Nicolas announced as he popped a couple of slices of bread into the toaster. “You need to be making sure she is nice and relaxed before she goes to sleep. A hot bath would not go amiss. And you should have plenty of sex. The oxytocin will do you both many favours.”

Taylor spluttered into her juice, slopping it down her front, while Estela promptly turned a glowing scarlet.

“Tio!”

“Sex is good for you, mija.”

“Ohmygod!”

Of course, Jake chose that moment to stroll into the room, a shout of laughter giving away what he’d overheard.

“Ya hear that, Katniss? Sex is good for ya.”

The look Estela gave him might have killed a lesser man stone dead on the spot.

“Eh, Lobito, I hope you are not expecting sympathy when she murders you.”

Taylor snorted. “And you will have no one but yourself to blame!”

“Enlighten me, E.T.; what’s all this you’re up to? Taking a break from being nurse to the world’s ugliest dog?”

“That’s Princess E.T. to you,” she retorted, placing a hand over the sleeping animal by her side. “And she’s characterful. Pretty sure she’s a damn sight more attractive than you’d be if you were half starved and crawling with mange.”

“Ten out of ten would not let you in the front door,” Estela said dryly. She looked to Taylor and Fenix with an affectionate glance. Having someone to help out was good for her wife. A few days after the little dog came home and the fire in Taylor’s eyes was once more shining bright. When Estela had suggested the name for the dog, it had not just been an expression of hope for the miserable little creature.

“What I’m up to,” Taylor explained to Jake, “is something like a personal vision board. I’ve been really tripped up by not really knowing who I am in, you know, the real world. Quinn actually suggested this-- I use words and images to make a tangible impression of who this new Taylor is, what I want her to be. The more I think about it… the more I actually see it in front of me… I find it really difficult to separate my sense of self from my friends.”

“Kinda makes sense considering what Vaanu made you for.”

“Yeah… it does. But they didn’t make me with this life in mind. It’s hard to see me fitting.”

Estela grasped Taylor’s free hand, entwining their fingers. “Nope. You fit perfectly. See? It’s just a case of you finding your feet.”

Taylor exchanged a look with Jake. It wasn’t that simple. She’d been created for a purpose, and she’d fulfilled it. How would she even relate to people beyond that world? It would have to be built up slowly. Her friends had ensured she left La Huerta with a plausible life story to parrot, a medical history, even a collection of fabricated childhood anecdotes. Anything more that was a matter of time; she’d be built into a semblance of a real human being through her stumbling experiences.

“I’m serious, carińa! You know it doesn’t help you to see yourself as something set apart. Vaanu created a human person-- not anything else. The human experience isn’t defined by just one thing.”

Jake shrugged. “Eh, that ain’t a bad point, if I’m honest. Not a soul outside anyone you’ve told is gonna think of you as anything but what you look like; and that’s the same slightly irritatin’ human woman that came barging into my cockpit. Ain’t as if anyone’d believe who you are if you even tried tellin’ ‘em.”

Taylor frowned. They couldn’t get it; not really. How was she supposed to see herself as anything other than an outsider when her very body seemed intent on telling her that she was incompatible with this life.

“Look, I know you guys are trying to help, but I really don’t want to talk about that. I want to focus on recovery… on who I am in the here and now.” Maybe to them that was one and the same, but to Taylor, there was a big difference. She didn’t want to hear reassurances of how human she was-- she wanted to just be that human.

Jake put his hands up and backed away, but Estela simply held her wife’s gaze, thoughtful, then nodded.

“I guess I can’t really help you with what to put on this collage-thing-- what with the whole point being that it’s personal-- but I’ll dig out some old papers and magazines. And if you want any pictures printed….”

“Thanks,” Taylor said warmly, offering a squeeze of Estela’s fingers. Even in her gratitude for the subject being dropped, something had been stirred; was she making an outsider of herself? Could it be that she was her own worst enemy? If she’d never uncovered the truth of her being, would she be so scared now? The Taylor who arrived on La Huerta did so with no hang-ups about how she’d fit with others; she just got on and did it. That Taylor wouldn’t be drowning in this cursed self-doubt.

___________________

The little dog, Fenix, made for good company. There were no preconceived expectation to meet, and it was refreshing. Nursing the dog back to health had occupied most of Taylor’s past few days, and it had been a welcome point of focus. Fenix wasn’t in the best shape, and the thought of having a recuperation buddy actually did a lot to lift Taylor’s spirits. If nothing else, she was grateful that she at least didn’t have mange.

The sight of Fenix rolling contentedly onto her back made Taylor smile. It seemed she’d managed to put the sickly animal at ease. That ability to reach people-- and mangy little dogs, apparently-- was one part of herself she was sure of. To be building new relationships, with Nicolas and Fenix, gave her the confidence boost she’d sorely needed”.

“Okay, pupper. See if you can help me with this. I’ve got to do some kind of representation of my future. Whatever the hell that looks like for someone like me.”

The basics were simple. She’d be by Estela’s side. They’d have a child together-- even before Taylor had decided to sacrifice the alien part of herself to restore the world, the two of them had discussed that. She would remain close to her friends, now family for all intents and purposes. More than that… did she really need to have it all worked out?

Maybe it would help.

In spite of herself, Taylor pouted. It’s not as if I even know if I’ll physically recover. Maybe… small goalposts are gonna be more helpful.

She jotted down some notes; small goals…. ‘Go on hikes with Estela’-- they used to go on long walks all the time back on La Huerta. ‘Lean some Spanish’… if nothing else but to see the gobsmacked look on Nicolas’ face. ‘Survive first year of college without worrying too much about picking a direction’…. ‘feel in control of my own body’… ‘take more baths, have more massages-- basically, anything to get me to actually relax’. She tickled Fenix under the chin, and chuckled to herself as the dog groaned happily. “Get this little lady on her feet and living her best life.”

Progress, though, quickly ground to a halt. Self-reflection was tiring, and Taylor simply couldn’t handle tiring. With a hand to her forehead, she looked down upon the jumbled mess before her-- at least in that way it was a fairly accurate representation of the woman she was. It felt pointless. Quinn’s idea had been lovely in the abstract, but all this just hammered home that she was building something from scratch. Her eyes stung. It was crystal clear that she’d been fooling herself; a bit of positive thinking and visualisation wasn’t going to make a human being out of a glorified lump of stardust.

“Taylor, if this is only making you more stressed, you should take a break,” Estela said calmly from the doorway-- how long she’d been standing there, Taylor couldn’t be sure. “The whole idea is to help your recovery.”

Taylor hunched over, her eyes stinging. Torn between letting it all pour forth, taking comfort in her partner, and holding back and keeping up the crumbling facade of some easy happy ever after; she froze, all the while tears wove their tracks down her cheeks. Then, two strong arms took her from behind, carrying away the burden of choice. She sobbed.

Why am I falling apart like this?

After a long while of simply being held, caressed, kissed through her tears, Taylor found her voice.

“I thought I knew who I was. I guess… the fact that I don’t physically feel like me right now… it… it makes all the other things stick out to me so much more. All the ways I don’t fit.”

Estela nodded thoughtfully. “That makes sense. It… it must be hard.”

“‘Stel… are we insane to think I could just waltz into Hartfeld and just be another student? I never even went to school; people are gonna see right through me. I’m scared, ‘Stel. Of being some kind of broken half-person who can never be what you deserve.”

“Amor, no--”

Taylor shook her head. “I know how much you love me. You’d never say those things or even think them… but I might not be the same woman you fell in love with. Back then, I was ‘Taylor, Hartfeld student kicking ass on crazy island’, not ‘Taylor, sad little alien that might not ever be close to keeping up with you ever again’.”

“Not that I don’t appreciate a good badass streak… but everything I fell in love with is still here. I’m looking at it right now, and falling in love all over again.”

“I’m not even human.”

Estela gave her wife a hard, penetrating look. No way would she let that go.

“Look at me. Your favourite flowers are sunflowers. Your favourite food is ice cream-- strawberry. To you, a day when you haven’t given out, like, ten hugs, is a day wasted. If you could only watch one movie for the rest of your life, it would be Princess Bride, which I find personally amusing, but Back to the Future would be your close second choice. You’re more clued up about world issues than most of the people I shared a lecture theatre with in college, and you actually care. You might have just appeared on some magical tropical island a year ago, but you know all the words to songs I’ve never even heard of. You never needed a high school education-- it’s all there, innate to you. More than that… more than anything, you’ve got more humanity in your little finger than most people have in their whole bodies. That person who came and sat with me on that first night on La Huerta… she wasn’t just a human being, she was a wonderful human being. You are and always will be.” Estela brushed Taylor’s hair out her eyes, seeking her gaze. When she found it, those sapphire eyes were welling. “I just… you’ve gotta know that. I know it’s hard-- God, I just want to make it easier for you… for you to see it. And we’re gonna keep building your strength up. It’s okay that this is getting you down-- that’s only natural--, but I won’t let you stay down. It’s your corner I’m fighting in now.”

“Thank you. For always knowing what to say… and for making me feel so, so loved.”

“It’s only because you are.”

“I love you too.”

“We’re getting through this, okay? We need a solid plan. All these things we’re doing that help… but there’s no routine, no targets-- you can’t see how far you’ve come.”

“So… you’re gonna be my personal trainer? Just like old times.”

“Well, kind of. We don’t have the threat of you dropping dead to worry about, so it’s definitely gonna be more pleasant than preparing you to return Vaanu’s essence. And I’ll be taking things a lot gentler.”

“Oh, thank god.”

Estela couldn’t hold back a giggle. And the sound of it, the airiness… and the sight of that once-so serious face scrunched up in mirth, it tickled Taylor until she was laughing herself.

“I mean it though. I love you, so damn much.” Catching her breath back, Taylor looked down beside the table, where Fenix was now fast asleep. Peaceful. There was something kind of satisfying about seeing that. A little sign that Taylor might just still be capable of doing something worthwhile. She needed more of that feeling. Much more.

She brought a finger to Estela’s chin, and let her eyes speak her desire.

“Hey… the dog’s sleeping, no one’s home…. I could really use some nice feelings right now, if you wanted to take this to the bedroom.”

Concern furrowed Estela’s brow, and it made Taylor laugh all over again.

“I wouldn’t be suggesting it if I was to tired. We can just take it slow.” As usual. She was pretty sure there was a joke to be had there about a worst case scenario in which at least she’d die happy, but she kept it to herself. Too soon. Besides, it wasn’t important. Something else was on Taylor’s mind.

The smile slowly returned to Estela’s face. “I won’t say I’m not tempted,” she said quietly. “Okay, fine, I’d love that.”

As Estela settled on the bed, Taylor carefully pulled the door closed, not wanting to wake Fenix from much-needed rest. She looked at her wife, waiting there for her, all tenderness and affection, and felt a rush of warmth. There could never be any discomfort in expressing what she needed, not here. Estela was her safe place.

“I… actually wanted to try something different,” she said, slowly moving toward the bed. When Estela’s quirked eyebrow gave away her interest, Taylor continued, pink spots blossoming upon her cheeks. “You know how I’ve been feeling like I’ve got no control… like I’m just along for the ride in my own body…? Well, I want, I guess, the opposite.”

Estela nodded solemnly, but a matching blush rose up on her face. “Oh, you want to be in charge. Are you thinking a… um… bondage… kind of… thing?”

Ignoring the raging heat that had flushed her skin, Taylor responded enthusiastically. “Yeah. Something like that. If you’re open to giving it a try?”

Having shrugged off a pesky layer or two of clothes, Estela settled into the pillows and offered her wrists. She watched with smoldering eyes as Taylor rummaged through her La Huerta luggage until she came across a scarf.

With gentle hands, taking time to caress along Estela’s sensitive inner arms, Taylor carefully secured a knot, then slipped out of her clothes-- all the while, butterflies danced in her stomach. The kind of trust involved here was… a lot. Complete vulnerability should have been against everything life had hammered into Estela, and yet she looked comfortable. Okay-- more than comfortable.

“You’re sure this is okay? Just-- I’ll stop the second you--”

“Taylor. I know. I wanna try this. So, now you’re in charge.” Estela settled back into the mattress, her glittering eyes poring over her wife’s scantily clad figure. Have me.

One hand remaining firm on Estela’s tied wrists, Taylor let the other trail downwards, dancing a slow dance across supple shoulders criss-crossed with faded scars.

“Close your eyes.”

Estela did so, though not before meeting Taylor’s gaze with a smirk clearly intended to make her lover go to pieces.

“Oh, god,” Taylor hissed out as the warm throb between her legs heightened. She took a moment to catch her breath. This was another area in which her confidence had taken a knock, but she was safe and loved, and knew she could take all the time she needed. She leaned close, and began to touch, to feel, responding to the soft whines and moans of pleasure that followed in her wake.

Some time later, after a few stops and starts, for rest breaks were something Taylor now simply had to accept, the two lovers lay entwined in one another’s arms.

“That… was nice.”

Taylor collapsed into breathless giggles. “’Nice’? That’s the review I get?”

“I’m sorry, it’s not my fault I can’t throw a sentence together right now. Most of the things I’m feeling are kind of… too big for words.”

“Yeah? Well, I guess I can take the compliment.”

“You should. I am so lucky.”

“Not nearly as lucky as me.” Taylor sighed contentedly, snuggling against Estela’s shoulder and appreciating the joyful hum that rumbled from her throat. “It just felt so good, to feel like I’m actually in control of something, to not be helpless. So, thanks for giving me that.”

Estela flushed. “When I say it’s my pleasure, you don’t know the half of it.”

Giddy, Taylor couldn’t hold back the laughter. For the first time in a long time, her body felt simply light, no longer an anchor dragging her down. As Estela gave into giggles herself, the tickling bounce of her stomach only served to chase out one laugh after another, until Taylor found herself spent.

“I love you…” she gasped. Her body ached all over, but it was the happiest kind of exhaustion, without a trace of the frustration that had plagued her. She’d stopped fighting it, and as it turned out, her body was still hers.

“I love you too, mi vida. With every beat of my heart.”

Taylor gazed adoringly into Estela’s dark eyes and knew home. How is it even possible for someone so tough and prickly to be utterly soft? Of course, she knew, the hard outer shell was itself a force of love. As long as you’ve got her, you’re indomitable.

“I guess we’ll see if Tio’s right about the oxytocin helping with the nightmares.”

Estela snorted. “Joder-- I’d never hear the end of it. Whatever works, I guess… but I still think we should keep up the meditation before bed tonight.”

“A bit of clearing out the old noggin never hurt anyone.” Taylor grinned, and pecked a kiss to her lover’s cheek. “It’s like… the more I’ve been scared, the more tired I get, just from the worrying. Well, I’m done. The new Taylor might be a little frustrated with her limitations, but she’s done being scared by them.”

Pulling Taylor ever closer, Estela kissed her deeply, then pressed her forehead gently to hers.

“This is how you’re gonna get better,” she said. “By ramping up the self-care. If it’s knitting a jumper for our sad, naked dog, or taking two or three baths a day, or curling up with me in a hammock and watching the world go by. I think… in this instance, fighting looks like… like letting go. Like enjoying the quiet moments, and letting your body rest and heal.”

Taylor nestled into the blanket, and slid down so that her face was tucked against the sensitive crook of Estela’s neck. I’ve been such an idiot.

“I’d over-think myself to death if I could,”she sighed. “And I’d miss all of this in the process. You.” Her lips tickled a teasing trail of kisses down to her love’s collarbone. Maybe she’d been so focused on the impossibility of her being her, alive and with a life by Estela’s side, that she’d been fighting it. Fighting herself. Sabotaging her own happiness, her own body, with fear. Maybe she didn’t need to fear letting Estela down.

The ‘new’ Taylor, was, after all, just the old Taylor. And she was enough.

#endless summer #playchoices #es fanfic #choices fanfiction #estela montoya #estela x mc #wlw

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antihero-writings · 3 years

Text

His Butler, and the Problem with Magic (Ch1)

Fandom: Black Butler | Kuroshitsuji x Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets Crossover

Fic Synopsis: Life at Hogwarts isn’t all bad…usually. But when Valentine’s Day rolls around, and Lockhart throws an extravagant ball, the number of couples at school the next day skyrockets, and Sebastian finds himself a new object of devotion…Can Ciel save his butler from the spell on his own?

Character Focus: Ciel (Sebastian, Undertaker, Harry, Grell)

Notes: This is a fic I wrote for @elegantkittycat for a Valentines day secret-santa-style event I made a few years ago!

Yes, I’m aware there are typos in this chapter. I intend to fix them at some point.

If you’d be willing to comment and/or reblog, it would mean more to me than you know!! They really really help motivate me to keep writing.

Chapter 1:

The great hall, quite frankly, looked like Valentine’s day threw up on it. Those lurid pink flowers from lunch still lined the walls, but now bright streamers glided across the ceiling, big, shiny hearts fluttered in the air, reflecting mood lighting, and bubble hearts popped out of bouquets of roses, (each flower cut into hearts). The ceiling itself not only continued to drop confetti, but was blighted by puffy clouds that read the same banalities you could find in every Sweethearts box; Be Mine, and True Love, and XOXO. (The clouds may have actually read that outside too, but Ciel didn’t want to check.) The burly cupids from earlier in the week lumbered about the room, continuing to pelt people with off-key music, and cards that only the most hopeless and idiotic of romantics would provide, filled with the same empty statements the clouds read—(every once and a while a howler burst forth, and the actual band would come to a shrieking halt at “YOU’RE REALLY CUTE”).

Lockhart had insisted a Valentine’s day ball was in order—(a lurid end to a lurid day)—and remarked with a toss of his perfect hair and blinding smile that it would be ‘just the thing’ to brighten everyone’s moods.

The fact that Lizzie had been the first (of many, mind you) to offer her decorative expertise and assistance may or may not have contributed to the overall… valentines-day-puked-and-so-will-I vibe of the room.

Currently, said mission to lift the general spirit was failing; aside from the few school lovebirds, (who were already widely despised and avoided, without school-sanctioned and overly sugary displays of affection) most people took this as the perfect opportunity for your daily dose of sulking at the sidelines, and contemplating if magic was quite worth this amount of suffering. Not least of all Ciel, who was currently propped against the wall behind the food table. (Lizzie had pried him away from his brooding earlier to dance, but now he happily returned to the indent he’d made in the wall). He had made many attempts throughout the evening to sneak a piece of chocolate cake, but Sebastian always magically appeared to slap his hands away whenever he got too close.

Most people would have stayed in their dorms, given the chance. Lockhart, however, had sent everyone cards with his kissy face on them, telling them flirtatiously not to dawdle, and his commands got more sugary, and insistent, (not to mention awkward) the longer they stayed indoors, and floated over their heads until they dragged their butts to the ball. This was particularly affective at making sure everyone was there, because the girls melted for his voice, and the boys wanted to shut him up as soon as possible.

“Isn’t this wonderful, Ciel!” A certain Indian prince put his arm around the earl’s neck and noogied him.

“Wha—No!” Ciel struggled like a fish out of water. Upon release he wiped his hands on his dress robes (the robes Sebastian had thrown together for the event—his ‘thrown together,’ of course, looked like others ‘spent-months-laboring-over-this’)—as if he didn’t want to catch Soma’s contagious happiness. “And I’d thank you to not touch me so casually!”

“I’m sorry Ciel, it’s just seeing all this love in the air makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside!” he spun around, “Doesn’t it do the same for you?”

“That’s called acid reflux.”

Soma pouted.

“Ciieel!” Lizzie’s hug was a torpedo. She snared his hands and spun him around, “Come dance with me!”

“Ack…I just danced with you ten minutes ago! How many times do I have to dance with you before you’re satisfied?!”

“Don’t you want your fiancé to be happy?” Her green eyes, (which were already big), became the puppy dog eyes of a little girl who wants an expensive toy.

“Don’t you?” he grumbled.

“I’ll dance with you, Elizabeth!” Soma came to the rescue. “It would be an honor to dance with such a lovely young lady!”

She blushed—“Oh please! It would be more than an honor to dance with a Prince!”—and curtsied, shooting Ciel an icy look, before joining the dance.

The young earl folded his arms over his chest and rolled his eyes.

As if that wasn’t enough sappiness for a lifetime, cloying words floated to his ears:

“Oh Professor Michaelis~!”

Ciel’s brow twitched.

“Come now Lavender, that wouldn’t be fair, would it?”

“Ahh, he’s so noble!” came a not-so-whispered consensus.

Ciel jerked his head to see the group of girls crowding around his butler, like birds to sunflower seeds in the park.

Rather than sharing his annoyance, and refusing their advances, Sebastian shimmered with flattery and flirtation. A few of them offered him boxes of chocolates and other sweets, which he took with flowery compliments, but surely had no intention of eating—it didn’t take a love expert to know they were all laced with love potions. (Or maybe he could eat them anyways; the jury was still out if love potions had any affect on the demon…some magical methods worked on him and others didn’t).

Ciel’s hands clenched into fists at his sides, “Don’t you have better things to do?!” he shouted over the throng.

Sebastian chuckled. “Mr. Phantomhive, don’t you know it’s rude to question a teacher?”

Ciel growled.

“These lovely ladies took time out of their day to offer me gifts,” the butler’s calm voice carried across the room. “It would be rude to refuse them.”

There was a syrupy sigh from the group.

“Ugh,” Ciel gave the opposite kind of sigh, and turned away before he gave into the urge to murder.

A familiar laugh at his side made him turn.

“What’s so funny?” he asked the Undertaker.

“Oh nothing much,” Undertaker forwent his usual dog biscuits for a piece of cake, “I just find your sour mood rather humorous.”

“You know me, I’m always in a sour mood.”

“Can’t argue with that,” he said, his mouth full of cake, “but,” he swallowed, “it seems the atmosphere of love and joy has put you in a particularly foul state of mind,” he pointed a black nail at him.

“I just don’t find romance being thrown in my face to make for a very fun evening, that’s all. One of Lizzie’s cutsey rampages is enough for me…but this?” he shuddered.

“Well, some would say it’s sweet. That it makes them feel happy and romantic.”

“When I rise to power, those people will be sterilized.”*

He laughed. “Always the life of the party, you are.”

“What? Are you one of those people?”

“I wouldn’t say so. But seeing you in such a state is worth all the romance any day.”

“Glad I could be of service,” he grunted.

Undertaker set down his plate and twirled in front of him, then leaned forward and spoke behind his hand, “What do you say we make this party…a party?” he reached into one of his drapey sleeves and pulled out a vial, teasing it in front of his face.

A quizzical look from Ciel made Undertaker whistle in the direction of the nearby punchbowl.

Ciel sighed and rubbed his temple. “Spiking the punch…really? Isn’t that a little too cliché, even for you?”

“I prefer the term ‘failsafes.’ Even you have to admit, the atmosphere could use a little...” he glanced around the room, “spiking. Besides,” he leaned in close and whispered, “this isn’t alcohol, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“…What is it then?” Ciel moaned, eyeing the ex-reaper.

He stood back up to his full height. “I’m not one to spoil the punchline before I tell the joke.”

The young earl sighed, “You really think we should deprive people of their misery? I’m not one to interrupt some good, old-fashioned sulking.”

“The general idea is that those who are miserable would like to…not be.”

“They also say that misery loves company. Misery and I, for instance, have quite the close relationship.”

As if called by them saying ‘misery’ too many times, Lockhart’s pretty face showed up.

Ciel coughed to cover his distaste.

“Ah Undertaker! Good to see you here! Everyone’s loving the party aren’t they?”—He gestured to the glowering room—“It’s so wonderful to see all these young people in love!” he gave a throaty chuckle.

“Well, I wouldn’t say everyone.” Undertaker had a way with honesty.

“What makes you say that? Did someone tell you they weren’t enjoying it? We can’t have that!”

“It’s not so much anyone specific, but—”

“…What’s that you have?” his eyes fell on the vial that Undertaker had barely tried to conceal. Despite Ciel’s theory that Lockhart was dumber than a bag of rocks (even if the rocks were magic), it didn’t take long for the truth to dawn on him, “Spiking the punch are we?” He held up an accusatory finger, “Naughty naughty. I would have expected this from one of the students, but shouldn’t a man of your stature know better?”

“What stature?” Ciel snorted.

“What’s that, Dear Boy?” Lockhart leaned forward.

Undertaker put his hand on Ciel’s head, covering his vision with his sleeve. “The young Er—student was just about to say that a man of my stature is not one to shy away from a little fun.” he put his other hand on Ciel’s shoulder, his grip a little too tight.

“I hardly think it’s ‘a little fun.’ We don’t want any students getting hurt, nor do we the party ruined, now do we? All it takes is one slip of the foot and someone ends up in the hospital.” He held out his hand, expecting him to hand over the vial.

“On second thought, do it,” Ciel whispered out of the corner of his mouth. “I’ll be the kid who winds up in the hospital. Anything to get me out of this hellish party.”

“What are we up to?” Dumbledore joined the conversation. It appeared as though Lizzie had got to even the headmaster, as he had bows in his beard and hair, though he didn’t seem to mind much.

“I regret to inform you that our dear Undertaker has intents to spike the punch.” Lockhart said like he was a student tattling.

“Ah,” the headmaster said casually, popping a heart candy in his mouth and burping out a heart, “(Pardon me). Well you can’t blame him for trying to bring a little…sprucing up, to the room, can you?” he lifted his hands and smiled genially.

“Are you saying that my party is not of the highest caliber?”

“Oh we aren’t denying that you have an air for the grandiose, Gilderoy,” he began cutting the cake with his wand; “Mr. Phantomhive, would you like some cake?”

Ciel glanced at Sebastian, who was currently preoccupied, and tried not to smirk. “I’d love some, thanks.”

Dumbledore cut him a huge slice, handing it to him gracefully, as if he were dropping a tiny lemon sherbet into his palm instead of a mountain of chocolate. Ciel inclined his head in gratitude, (and made sure to eat a big bite when Sebastian was looking, and the incense on his face was worth it—he, of course, couldn’t do anything butler-like with the headmaster and another teacher standing there).

“Don’t beat around the bush Albus!” Lockhart cut back in, “What is it you’re trying to say?”

“No one denies your party-throwing skills, dear Professor Lockhart.” He stood, placing his hands behind his back, “But your em…” he cleared his throat, “other skills can sometimes be rather lacking…”

“I’m shocked, and hurt, Dumbledore.” He put his hand over his heart. “Shocked and hurt. I’ll have you know that I won ‘best party-thrower’ in three”—he held up three shaky fingers—“countries! I think that should more than make up for any spoiled brats who can’t see fun even if it’s standing in front of their face!”

“Was he talking about me?” Ciel murmured to Undertaker, without a hint of hurt in his voice, “I feel like he was talking about me.”

“And what countries were those?”

As they argued, Dumbledore inclined his head towards the punch bowl.

It was Ciel’s turn to be shocked. Everyone knew their headmaster was rather eccentric, but he didn’t take him to be so reckless. He’d expect this from Undertaker… but Dumbledore? He thought he had at least a little ‘responsible-grown-up’ in him (even though Undertaker was definitely a lost cause).

Ciel turned to stop the ex-reaper, but now a dotted outline remained where Undertaker previously had been, and a second later he saw a long-nailed hand appear above the punch bowl.

Ciel facepalmed.

Any desire he had to drink said punch, as well as be at this party at all, had gone into the negatives.

But, eh, at least he had cake now. So maybe it wasn’t all bad.

“Young Master!” Sebastian snatched the plate from his hand, “How many times have I told you—!”

“Oh, so now you can walk away from the girls?” Ciel spun to his butler, whose arms were full of assorted treats. (Ciel, of course, knew he’d probably have walked away sooner if it weren’t for Lockhart and Dumbledore).

He tapped his foot on the ground (which somehow didn’t imbalance the tower of sweets), “I won’t allow it. You’ll get a tummyache.”

“I’m not a child!”

Sebastian raised an eyebrow at his whining. “That may be…but regardless, you have a delicate composition.” He leaned over and set Ciel’s unfinished plate in the ‘dirty’ pile. “Sweets of this size will certainly impair your gastrointestinal health.”

Ciel looked from side to side, hoping no one was listening, feeling his face grow hot. “Delicate!”

“Would you prefer a different term? Fragile? Frail?”

“I’m not a vase!”

“Tender?”

“I’m not a steak!”

Sebastian looked over his professor-glasses at him as if to say Do you think you’re talking to someone else?

Ciel groaned, giving his butler the victory.

Sebastian set his armful of gifts in a pile along the wall. Clapping his hands clean and wiping his brow.

“What, are you tired?” he mocked, knowing full well the demon couldn’t get tired. “Is having a bunch of high-school-girls fawn over you exhausting?”

“Well, now that you mention it…” Sebastian joked back, feigning thought.

He rolled his eyes. “Come on, let’s get out of—”

A mischievous idea curled itself around his brain.

“You must be thirsty,” he said in a mockingly-concerned voice, trying to lean sideways on the table by the punch (but he almost fell over, and had to catch himself).

Sebastian raised an eyebrow. “Well, I don’t really require hydration like you humans do.”

Ciel gave him a look as if to say No, go ahead, I won’t mind. You really do look exhausted.

“But I suppose it couldn’t hurt….If you insist.”

“Oh I do.” He smirked as he watched Sebastian pour himself a cup.

More likely than not it wouldn’t have any affect on the demon, but, presented with the potential, he wasn’t going to deny himself a few hours to imagine what it might be like if it did.

“Why are you looking at me like that, Young Master?” he asked before raising the cup to his lips.

“Oh…I’m just enjoying the party.”

That didn’t clear things up. Sebastian’s brow furrowed, but, after taking a sip, he didn’t have time to ask because—

“The party has arri-ved~!” a certain familiar voice sang.

Ciel was starting to wonder if this was God finally deciding to punish him. Both master and butler felt like they were going to be violently ill, and simultaneously had a thought something akin to that’s my cue to leave! Before they could even make the first step, however—

“Ahh Sebas-chan!”

They winced, turning slowly to see Grell waving a princess wave at the butler over the crowd, while Ronald followed suit, nodding and blowing kisses towards the girls.

“All this love in the air,” Grell materialized beside them (they jumped a little), and crossed his hands over his heart, staring blinkily into the ceiling, “Kinda gets you thinking, doesn’t it.” He sidled up beside the demon.

“If you mean thinking about ending your life, indeed, it does.” Sebastian showed him no mercy.

“Playing hard to get, are we? Ah! How saucy!” he slapped his shoulder playfully,

Sebastian sighed, folding his arms over his chest, trying to ignore the nagging presence.

“Ciel! Ciel! Are you going to introduce me to your friends?!” Lizzie and Soma arrived at his side, as if hopeless romantics were coming out of the woodwork.

“They’re most certainly not my friends.” He cleared his throat.

“What’s that supposed to mean, Old Chap?” Ronald asked, “We may not be close, but I thought all those times we tried to kill each other meant something.”

Lizzie stared at Ronald, inching slowly away.

“Oh that’s just…a joke we have,” Ciel defended weakly.

“Oh…” Lizzie looked away, then recovered quickly, “Well, anyhow, you didn’t tell me Prince Soma was such a lovely dancer!”

“How was I supposed to know?” he grunted, “I’ve never danced with him!”

“Don’t be so rude, Ciel!” Soma defended her, “Please, you were like a—what are those dancers called? That’s right, a ballerina! —You were like ballerina, Miss Lizzie.”

“Don’t be so modest! Ciel, should take a page out of your book!”

“What page?” Ciel demanded, “The one on being a spoiled brat?”

“Sounds like someone’s already read that one,” She punched his shoulder. Her attitude changed in a second again, “I’m so thirsty!” She reached for the punch ladle.

“Wait—NO!” Ciel grabbed her wrist.

She blinked. “What are you doing?”

“I—uh” his face was a thermometer slowly going into the red, “I just umm…You don’t want to drink that.”

“I don’t?”

“No…yeah…it uh, tastes like uhh… cat pee,” he started to pull her away.

“How would you know what cat pee tastes like?” Ronald’s butted in.

“Maybe a cat peed in my mouth one time, you don’t know my life!”

“I’m having a hard time believing a nobleman such as yourself—”

“I just don’t think she should drink it, that’s all! Is that so inconceivable?!”

“Sorry! Sorry! Sheesh,” he shook his head, “you Nobles are pieces of work!”

Ciel rolled his eyes, turning back to Lizzie. “Why don’t you go back to your dorm?”

“But… I don’t want to go back to my dorm.” Lizzie pouted, “I’m having fun! …Or at least I was,” she murmured.

“…Look I’m sorry. I’ll-I’ll dance another number with you, okay?”

As they walked out onto the floor, he watched the other students drink the unassuming punch over his shoulder.

*****

At the risk of sounding even more cliché; the day started like any other. Ciel got up before the other boys in his dorm to a chilly February morning, and started his routine—an aspect of which was speaking to Sebastian about today’s mission and objectives before classes began. Their current mission had to do with the Chamber of Secrets—such as figuring out where it was, if it existed at all—and the heir, who they were, and how to dispose of, or join them, accordingly. At this point, they had little to no leads. With his day robes on, and homework and books in hand, he slipped out into the hall.

He’d soon wish he stayed in bed.

Once the common room door closed, his day-from-hell would begin.

For a magic school, not much happened day-to-day. Well, that wasn’t true, Harry Potter added some…pizzazz. But it was still a school, and once you get used to the magic…normal-school-things happen.

Today was one of those days which reminded him that this was not a normal school.

Sure it was the day after Valentines Day, but did those Huffpuffs have to kiss in the hallways?

And guess what? You there, standing in the hall, blocking everyone’s way? Yeah, you. There is a perfectly nice wall behind you, just waiting to be leaned against (ignore the judgmental painting in the background).

And why did anyone who wasn’t in the throws of *shudders* youthful passion have this glazed look in their eyes, like they’d eaten pot brownies for breakfast?

Most of the time, the few students who were awake at this hour chatted and giggled, inflicting the general populace with the daily gossip, at which, sure, he would still roll his eyes and groan, but it was at least better than kissing and clogging up the hallway (as well as each other’s mouths).

He was relieved to finally reach Sebastian in the The Defense Against the Dark arts classroom.

This was one thing that was no surprise, as he shared the teaching position of the class with Lockhart—(no easy task, as they were both divas who didn’t enjoy sharing spotlight, and one was totally incompetent, and the other was as overqualified a professional chef at a kids easy-bake bake off. But their even-keeled headmaster had to give them each equal time teaching. At the beginning of the year, after it was decided which classes would get which teacher, some students begged the heads of houses to reconsider putting them in Sebastian’s class. Sebastian, amicable and excessive as ever, decided to host extra classes after school to satisfy the disappointed students).

“Alright, shall we pick up where we left off?” Ciel marched towards Sebastian, throwing his books on the nearest desk.

However, unlike his usual, attentive I-solved-all-our-problems-overnight-here’s-the-solution self, the butler stared out the window…he didn’t even pay his master immediate attention.

Said master tapped his foot impatiently on the ground and snapped, “Oy, Sebastian!”

“Mm?” the demon faced him, slowly.

Again, there was that glazed look. Like he had been in a donut factory.

“Young Master, I… didn’t hear you come in.” His eyes darted around the room.

“You bloody well didn’t,” he continued to tap his foot, muttering, “Demon hearing my ass.”

When Sebastian didn’t use said demon hearing to reprimand him for swearing, he knew something was wrong. He stopped being aggravated for a second and looked a little closer.

There was a smudge on his glasses. His hair was sticking up in front of his forehead, and there was some cat hair on his robes (probably from a clowder he kept in his room).

He was…imperfect. His appearance, while still practically impeccable by human standards was sloppy by Sebastian’s. His attention, divided.

And that was reason to worry.

Ciel leaned over the desk and snapped in his face. “You can ogle photos on your own time!”

Sebastian looked at him, but every time he focused on him, as if magnetized, his eyes reeled back to a photograph on the desk.

“Do you think…do you think he could like me?” Sebastian said in a strangely uncertain voice that didn’t sound at all like him.

“Huh?”

He had never known Sebastian to be uncertain of, or fascinated by, anything, and, more importantly, he had zero regard for whether or not people liked him. He also never pried his concentrations from the missions, especially not for something so trivial and/or emotional as photos.

Ciel walked around the desk to get a good look at it. He thought it might be Lockhart, as the room was crawling with his glimmering face. Instead, in a shattered case—(Ciel thought he might hurl)—the demon fixated on a picture of Grell.

The young earl vaguely remembered Grell giving it to him—mentioning passionately something about it being a way for him to be with him at all times, with hearts in his eyes. At the time, Sebastian had rolled his eyes, said, ‘is there a version of this when I can see you at no times?’ and tossed it into the drawer with enough disregard that the glass had shattered, and (now this is just speculation) hoped to never look at it again.

For what unholy (or holy, by demon standards…no, it definitely wasn’t holy) reason would Sebastian return to it now? And what’s worse, how could a picture of Grell possibly distract him from the task his master had placed before him?

Was it possible that all those pictures, cards, the cheesy lines, and sappy gestures, all the maudlin advances, had finally made it through to Sebastian?

Hell no. He’d watch the world burn before that happened.

Hang on a minute, let’s check.

Nope, still snow on the ground.

Okay, more plausibly, did he lose his mind?

Let’s tone it down a little; Maybe this was a—albeit not funny—joke?

“What are you on about?”

The demon picked up the picture. “Grell.” He rushed towards Ciel, putting the picture in front of his eyes—“Get that out of my face!”—“Do you think he’d ever want to be with someone like me?”

The earl began to laugh, a fake, loud laugh, then abruptly stopped.

“Very funny, Sebastian, you like Grell. Can we get back to work now?”

Sebastian grabbed a book off his table and Ciel had to duck to keep it from hitting his head.

“What are you on?!”

“I may be cleverly witty when the situation calls for it, but I am not joking, Young Master! And I’d thank you to treat my beloved one with respect!”

Ciel blanched, his eyes glued open, swallowing the bile that rose in his throat. “You mean this,” he pointed to the situation at hand, the words soft and enunciated, a nervous laugh behind them, “This isn’t a joke?”

“No!” he cradled the picture, “I think Grell’s the most lovely person I ever met.”

He waited for the butler to burst into laughter.

…and he kept waiting.

He knew more than anyone, neither master nor butler pulled stunts of this caliber.

Ciel grabbed one of the scrolls on the wall and wacked his butler over the head with it.

“Quit playing around! We don’t have time for children’s games!”

“I don’t understand, Young Master,” he rubbed his head (as if that could possibly hurt the demon). “You aren’t insulting Master Grell, are you?”

“No, I’m insulting you, you twat!”

He swiped the picture from him (hurt flared in the butler’s eyes). “You see how the glass is shattered here?”

He placed his hand over his heart. “Who would do a thing like that to such a perfect face?”

“You, you bloody idiot! Don’t you remember?” he smacked his head with the paper again, making it crease, “When Grell gave you that you tossed it into the drawer and said you ‘wanted to see him at no times.’”

“Me?” he snatched the picture back, holding it tight to his chest. “No, I would never!” he said like Grell was the purest little ray of sunshine, and Ciel said he’d kicked a puppy yesterday.

“No, what you would never, is return said…” he cleared his throat and didn’t finish the sentence.

“I don’t understand, Young Master. Here I am, bearing my heart. Why must you squash it?”

His eye twitched. “To remind you you don’t have a heart!”

“I—”

“Shut up! Just shut up!” he slammed his hands on the desk, “There’s no way this can be real!” he slumped onto the desk and ran his hand through his hair, looking more deranged than the one who was actually delirious, “Why, in all that is—How—Why would you ever—?!”

“Be careful, Young Master, don’t let that anger fester; it’s bad for your health.”

And it dawned on him.

He slammed his palm into his forehead.

The punch at the party—it was so obvious. Undertaker had even told him it didn’t contain alcohol.

“Young Master, are you saying our love is not real? Are you insulting master Grell?” his voice became a sickening tone.

Ciel now fully understood the situation: Sebastian, having been given a love-potion—(turns out they did work on him…or, even if they didn’t, maybe Undertaker made some extra-potent, mutant variety that did)—and Grell being the first person he saw (or heard) after taking it, fully believed Grell to be his one-true-love.

And as he watched a shadow (much bigger than the demon’s human shape) spread across the floor, he realized he believed it enough to attack anyone who stood against said love. Even his master.

The young earl knocked into desks as he scrambled way, his outward attitude towards the situation performing a 180:

“Uh, no no! No, no, no! I believe you!” he grabbed his bag, “There’s nothing weird or horrifying about you being in love with Grell at all. I just was a little…mmmm surprised!” his voice went up an octave. He shoved a desk into the space between them, “That’s all?! I’ll…I’ll just be going, now! You uh…you go back to…what you were doing!” he gave him a thumbs up (something he’d never done in his life) as dashed out the door.

After getting some ways down the hall, he doubled over, breath sharp and fast, piercing his side, his thoughts whirring around.

He’d wanted to mess with Sebastian, but he, first of all, hadn’t thought it would work, and second of all, hadn’t meant to mess with him this much—especially not in a way that affected him. This wasn’t fun or funny, this was just…gross. And now he had to fix it, when, had he left the situation alone and not given Sebastian the punch in the first place, he’d have his demon butler to help him, and the predicament would probably be solved in less than a day.

Now when he saw the students making out, or walking around dazed, he understood the full ramifications of Undertaker’s little stunt.

Speaking of which…

He heightened his pace until he was rushing through the halls, speeding past dreamy eyes, and cuddly couples.

Everyone, everyone had been at that party. Not only had the whole school been at that party, the punch was one of the few things available for the sweaty and thirsty dancers to drink. Even the sulking folks, who didn't intend to dance, surely wouldn't have had a problem grabbing a snack or two, and, well, a cup of punch to go with it. Now instead of one night of suffering in a lovebird’s playground, the whole school could be set to pop music. And, like the villain in a fairy tale, it was his job to break apart the happy couples.

And his first order of business was to find the mastermind who put them together.

Undertaker performed many of the odd jobs around, and often made it a job to make things odd (but Ciel of course knew that his primary function was probably to make dead bodies disappear discreetly). He and Peeves were overly chummy, and their pranks could sometimes be unbearable…but neither had ever attempted something of this magnitude before.

He was close to Filch’s corridor—

When the bell rang.

In the pandemonium he had forgotten today was still a normal school day.

“Sebast—” he began, hoping for an easy way not to be late, but remembered that his butler was …otherwise occupied. He grit his teeth, clenched his fists, and hurtled towards the transfiguration classroom.

*****

“Mister Phantomhive!” snapped a clipped voice as he swung open the door, gasping for breath. “I thank you not to be late! And while you’re at it, not to disrupt my class while in session!”

“Sorry—” he clutched at his side, “Professor— McGonagall.”

“Usually,” she ran her fingers along her wand, stretching out the word, “I would give you detention. However, as it seems you are not the only one…out of sorts this morning” she drummed her fingers on the podium, giving Ciel a moment to look around the room—There were always a few latecomers, especially during first period, but the number of empty chairs rivaled the number of students present—“I will let you off with a warning.”

“Thank you,” he coughed—“Professor.”—And slumped at his desk like an old sock.

Thankfully not everyone had been affected by the spiked punch. Certain kids in class had that far-off look in their eyes, and a few even kissed in class (they were definitely sent to detention, though, of course, nothing much mattered to them but their newfound love). There were also teachers who had starry looks, and instead of giving them genuine lessons, muttered trite words about love, like a broken radio that only plays emo songs. There were, however, others who acted just as confused, annoyed and shell-shocked as Ciel at the current predicament. Clearly they had either found something else to drink at the party, simply not drank anything, or escaped the festivities somehow.

McGonagall was clearly among the unaffected, and while he was grateful for a little normalcy, he might have traded her for someone a little more lenient, and liked to see how her disposition changed while under the affects of love.

Throughout the day, he told the few students who were still awake and alive to the world that someone had spiked the punch with a love potion the previous night. This seemed to give them relief that they weren’t going crazy, still, none of them had any idea what to do about it. Love potions weren’t exactly considered an important course in potions class, especially not with a teacher like Snape—(in fact, a certain Ravenclaw had asked how to make a love potion in class on Valentine’s Day, and later Ciel saw that Ravenclaw mysteriously lost ten points). Some worried for their friends, while others eyes lit with an impish glint at the realization that—as long as they didn’t insult their ‘true love’— they could do anything to mess with their friends.

He had to give Undertaker at least a little credit: that day was one of the most memorable in his entire time at Hogwarts:

During transfiguration, on multiple separate occasions, students, instead of transfiguring their hamsters into dominoes, transfigured them into rings, and flowers used to profess their love, or even propose to Professor McGonagall herself. She only looked down her nose, and demanded where this talent had been the entire semester, and wracked up a body count of detention-bound students.

In Herbology, while not nearly as exciting as others, Professor Sprout went on and on about how amazing Neville was—(whenever he passed him in the hallway that day Neville looked as red as plants they tended to...He probably hadn’t had much of anyone else to talk to at the party).

If Divination wasn’t enough already, Trelawney made them look into their futures and see their potential for romance (…it was hard to tell if she was under the spell or not), and it was both worth noting, and a source of personal pride that she looked into Ciel’s and saw lots and lots of hate.

And best of all, during potions, which was his last class of the day, Snape looked like he was ready to kill someone…and got close when Lockhart burst in and proclaimed that he simply couldn’t take it anymore, that they were made for each other. (Out of all the the crazy, embarrassing things that happened that day, this was the one Ciel guessed would be the most difficult for either of them to live down).

Hilarious confessions aside, Ciel was relieved to find that the potions master was at least trying to counteract the curse himself, by having them make antidotes and anti-love potions, and drink them (allegedly, lots of students refused to drink them in earlier classes, so he had to forgo their Latin name and call them “Happy Sunshine Potions,” which was quite possibly the best string of words he’d ever heard Snape say, and the unaffected students looked like chipmunks holding in their laughter in when hearing it). Although this was another teacher Ciel would have liked to see under the affects, he was guessing the net worth of breaking the curse would be far greater.

However, as far as he could tell, currently, Snape’s attempts to douse the proverbial fire were ineffective. (Yet another reason to think Undertaker’s love potion was some mutant version).

At each break he had, Ciel attempted to find Undertaker—(Except at lunch, when everyone was screaming that Draco was running around, and in increasingly boisterous and/or risqué methods, trying to declare his love for Ron Weasley. While Harry and Ron were also running around, either avoiding him at all costs, or messing with him. It was, first of all, difficult to get around the crowd, and, second of all, not something to miss.)—But Undertaker had an ongoing disappearing act that had nothing to do with magic. The one thing Ciel knew, was that the old coot couldn’t have left; he’d want to see every glorious minute of the chaos he wrought, so Ciel wasn’t giving up on finding him.

After school, hungry, tired, and desperate (especially after a run-in with Peeves, through which he earned the ex-reaper’s location, but also a cluster of lipstick marks on his face) he finally found Undertaker back in the Divination Classroom (of course he just had to pick one of the tallest, most tiring towers to climb). The room was cold, and Trelawney was nowhere in sight.

The pretty, setting sky over the frosty roof outside didn’t provide an iota of solace.

Ciel rolled up his sleeves, his anger a newfound immunity to the cold, and, with fingers curled into fists, marched up to him.

“You.”

The Undertaker, resting against the windowsill, turned to the seething boy, grinned, and spoke as if this was no more than an ordinary meeting.

“My, Young Earl, looks like you’ve been getting busy.”

“Wh—?!” he remembered the marks on his face and rubbed them off on his sleeve as Undertaker cackled.

“You seem awfully upset about something,” Undertaker continued, “Don’t want to let it fester—as your butler would say.”

“You spiked the punch with a love potion.” The boy growled.

“Did I?” he put a finger on his chin as if thinking, “I can’t seem to recall.”

Ciel’s brow twitched. “You bloody well know you did, I watched you. Now tell me how to undo it.”

“How do undo it, you say? And why would we want to do a thing like that?”

“I am in no mood for your games.”

Undertaker shrugged. “‘Fraid I can’t help you then. You know the rules; no payment, no information.”

“The whole school is a joke! That’s your payment!”

He contemplated it. “Sure you wouldn’t like to give an old man a good chuckle?”

“I’m certain.”

He sighed. “I suppose you got me there. To tell you the truth, I hadn’t quite got to the whole undoing it part.” He twirled his hand in the air like the ringmaster in this show.

Ciel blinked, emotion flickering as he spluttered, “How can…? But you—? I—? What?!”

He laughed, and the Undertaker’s nonchalance and disregard made anger jumpstart his tongue.

“You made it, didn’t you?” he kept his voice low, and his hand on the wand in his pocket, marching forward, “You can at least tell me how you made it. Then maybe I can unmake it.”

Undertaker tapped his chin, as if knocking around the marbles in his skull, “Don’t much feel like it.”

“You don’t feel like it?! Listen here—!”

He no sooner pulled out his wand than it was in Undertaker’s hand. He hadn’t even noticed Undertaker draw his own wand.

Undertaker ruffled his hair as he walked by, dropping the boy’s wand back into his pocket, “Part of the fun is figuring it out for yourself, Young Earl. Didn’t anyone ever teach you that?”

He headed down the stairs, leaving Ciel standing alone, angry breaths steaming up the chilly classroom.

*****

When Ciel trudged back to his dorm, all the energy he had used to run around that day had given up the ghost. He barely noticed the smooching and starstruck kids in the hallways anymore, and didn’t have the energy to send even a derisive snort their way.

Sebastian was supposed to be the one running around trying to find answers. These menial tasks were beneath him. Hard work, and running around, looking for answers, was no suit for a fourteen-year-old boy to wear. Oh, Ciel would devise a particularly difficult and useless task for his butler to accomplish once he—or someone—finally broke the curse.

Caught up in thoughts of needless revenge, he ran into someone in the hallway, sending both their books to the floor.

“Sorry!” The boy called.

As they both crouched down to pick up their fallen items, Ciel looked up to see unruly black hair, crooked glasses, and lightning-struck forehead.

“Harry Potter.”

“Yeah…?”

“Sorry, I don’t believe we’ve formally met. I’m Ciel Phantomhive.” He held out his hand.

“Nice to meet you,” Harry smiled, taking his hand.

“Likewise—er, sorry about your books.”

"It's alright. I seem to have some bad luck with that lately! At least ink didn't spill all over everything this time."

"That happened?"

"Yeah...It happened yesterday actually."

"Oh, that sounds awful."

"Nothing a little magic couldn't fix," he shrugged.

They both returned to their task.

“It looks like you haven’t been…love-ified,” Harry noted.

“You seem to have your wits about you as well.”

“Lucky us…Draco wasn’t so lucky though,” he laughed. “I heard someone spiked the punch at Lockhart’s Valentine’s day ball.”

“I heard that too.”

“A perfect end to the night, huh?”

“Hehe…yeah…”

Ciel turned to the next book, about to hand it to Harry.

Here’s the thing, about dark magic.

It has this sort of…pull. The more you use it, the more sway it has on you.

A pure soul looks at a dark object and feels uneasy, but doesn’t know why.

Someone who has participated in the dark before, let it creep in and corrode the soul, is attuned to the darkness. Like a resonant frequency, a humming in the back of their mind, putting them on the same wavelength, (and if they listen too long, they might shatter). They may not always know what it is, or does, and sometimes they wont recognize why something has this aura, but they will know that an object is not just that, in as much as darkness is not just the absence of the light.

Ciel Phantomhive was no ordinary student. While he may have learned from the teachers at Hogwarts, the reason he was here was at the request of the Queen, not for learning, and his most informative teacher, was Sebastian. Before they arrived at Hogwarts, Sebastian, going above and beyond as always, made sure he knew more spells than half the students in his year. More importantly, however, fear of the dark had long left them both. Knowing dark magic, they surmised, would put them ahead of their enemies (not to mention their friends...well, if you could call them friends), and could be a powerful trump card were the situation to call for it.

When Ciel looked at this diary everything slowed. Like in a movie, when you can hear your heartbeat, and the camera zooms in. From the moment he saw it he knew it would be both silly and dangerous to think it was merely a diary. One may pour their soul into the words dear diary, but the Something that lurked beneath it’s pages was far more than the heartfelt and trivial adages of teenage boys and girls. There was something living in those pages.

He knew it was alive. Unlike other dark artifacts, which gave off a hint, a whisper of more-than-I-seem, this was more than a whiff of untapped potential, or forbidden mystery; the resonant darkness, rather than a faint, inanimate hum, was a Horror singing old-fashioned lullabies to himself in the darkest corners of the pages.

Ciel was tired. Tired of running around, tired of searching for a cure, tired of doing all the work himself. He wanted an easy way out. That’s how he’d always been. People who like to take the long way ‘round don’t make contracts with demons.

So, in a moment of weakness…

…or a moment of strength

He slipped the diary into his own bag.

*****

That night, despite being interested enough in the book to steal it, he hadn’t had any energy to begin figuring out what that darkness was, meant, or could do. Nor did he have any energy to spend on figuring out the antidote to the plague himself. In fact, he had had so little regard for either, that he ignored the dumb looks of his roommates, slipped the diary into the chest at the foot of his bed, flopped facedown on top of his covers (screaming into his pillows for good measure), and went to sleep.

The next morning wasn’t much better. He woke up with a splitting headache, the love-zombies were still up to their shenanigans—(he half hoped it would end in the morning)—and when he tentatively checked on Sebastian, the demon had traveled further down the Grell-obsessed rabbit hole than before.

When Ciel entered the teacher’s lounge (it had taken a moment to find him) the smell of flowers smacked him full in the face. Unlike some of the teachers present, Ciel was unimpressed, and quite honestly queasy, to see that he had moved on from admiring the picture of his affection, to creating his own; or rather than a picture, a bust made of flowers of none other than his…erm lady-love, Grell.

Just like Sebastian, he was attentive to detail; only the freshest of flowers for his beloved, and each component of Grell’s complexion was a different flower: the coat was made of red Amaryllis’, the vest, brown orchids, the shirt, white hydrangeas, the face was pale dahlias, the eyes were green carnations, and the hair was, of course, roses. He wondered if Sebastian went far to find all of them, though knowing him he probably ran to the finest flower shop in Paris at 1:00AM that morning for them and was back before anyone could wonder where he’d gone.

Yes, quite far gone. But not far enough to forget the ‘offense’ Ciel had caused to his new master the day before.

Or perhaps Ciel had caused him new offense by blurting out “What the devil is this?!” upon seeing his labor-of-love.

If it was good idea in general for the public not to talk to the young earl, today, it was an inescapable rule: if people didn’t give him a wide berth, they learned quickly he was not in the mood for human (or reaper, or demon) interaction.

Wasting his time before class on pointless attempts to slap the delusion out of his butler was idiotic. So he headed to the library to actually try and make some progress, and picked up a book on love potions—(Madam Pince was too busy writing love poems to scold kids like him for going into the restricted section. Knowing this was a rare opportunity, he grabbed several more books he’d had his eyes on while he was there.)—with the intent to read up on counter curses every spare minute he got, not excluding during certain classes overtaken by horny teachers.

More students were missing from classes today, and those who weren’t were either more randy than before, or losing patience and brain cells every second they were around those afflicted. The teachers who were still in possession of their faculties—namely McGonagall, Snape, Vector, and Flitwick, (Madam Pomfrey was too, but she wasn’t present)—made an announcement at lunch, in front of their dreamy-eyed headmaster, that they were trying their best to find a solution to the problem presently.

While it was comforting to hear they weren’t sitting on their asses, and it would save him a hell of a lot of trouble if they did solve it, he didn’t expect they’d figure it out anytime soon. If Snape couldn’t figure it out on his own, he wasn’t sure they would have much luck, even together. Even if he had had faith in them, he wouldn’t have stopped his own research. He and Sebastian always did it their way, this was personality, not practice—(he’d learned from a young age he couldn’t rely on anyone else)—and a setback, even one that kept his butler from his work, wasn’t going to stop him.

It was during a disappointing lunch that he saw a flash of red in the doorway to the great hall. At first he thought nothing of it—it was probably a banner some kid made to impress their one-true-love, or a bunch of heart-shaped balloons, or a leftover decoration—it didn’t matter, he was going to try his best to eat, and read, in peace.

Until the ‘banner’ came inside to steal his food.

When he finally realized who it was, he practically screamed;

“Grell!”

“That’s my name darling, don’t to wear it out,” he blew a kiss, sitting up on the table.

“Love potions, huh?” in his horror, Ciel hadn’t even noticed Ronald had stolen the book (as well as a sandwich).

“Ooh!” Grell called, leaning in closer, raising his eyebrows. “Is somebody looking to trick some poor soul into loving him?”

“No! No, in fact I’m trying to un-romance someone, thank you very much.” He stood.

“That shouldn’t be too hard…for you.”

Ciel rolled his eyes.

“So, not that crushing the dreams of others isn’t in your repertoire, why do you want to do that?”

“It may be difficult for you to understand, but some of us don’t look for romance in every guy they meet,” he stole the book back from Ronald (who was starting to to look too interested for the young earl’s comfort.)

“Now that’s just rude,” Grell folded his arms over his chest and put his chin in his hand. “But, I’ll choose to ignore your impotence,” he turned, becoming more animated, “because you’re in charge of my Sebas-chan. Speaking of love,” he said the word like it was fine caramel, “where is my precious Sebas-chan?” he looked around, casting his eyes towards the blank spaces at staff table.

“He’s—”

Before the sentence could fall on his tongue, the words snagged on the mental image of Grell and Sebastian canoodling like schoolboys.

“NO!”

That caught their attention.

“I mean uh—” he coughed, “No…He’s uhh…I…”

He could barely think with these images making him sick to his stomach. He set down what was left of the lunch he was no longer hungry for, trying to shove his brain into the mode where it could formulate a cunning plan.

“Well? Spit it out, boy! We haven’t got all day! Some of us have plans. I, for one, have a hair appointment this afternoon,” he fluffed his crimson locks.

“You know what?” Ciel chose a more confrontational approach. “I don’t have to tell you where Sebastian is.”

“You don’t have to, darling, you should want to.”

“No. You know what? I don’t want to. And you know why I don’t want to?”

“I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.”

He had to think of something fast. Something clever. A good excuse.

“Why don’t you ever want to spend time with me?” he slammed the book on the table.

So much for that.

“Huh?” Grell, Ronald—(and Ciel’s own brain)—responded upon hearing the words.

“Yeah. You heard me.” It wasn’t the best plan—hell, it wasn’t even a good plan—but Ciel was committed at this point, and came up with a plot fiercely in his mind, “That’s right. It’s always ‘Sebastian this’, ‘Sebastian that’, but what about me?!”

“What about you, brat? You’ve never shown any interest in me. What happened to ‘we’re definitely not friends?’” he mocked his voice.

“….That’s what I say to my true friends.” They definitely weren’t convinced, so he added, “I’m only nice to my fake friends.” (Ronald lifted his head like a dog being told he was a good boy all along).

“Regardless if you’re telling the truth—which, I don’t believe you are—what makes you think I’ll give you the key to my heart now, after you threw away your chances? That’s no way to treat a lady!”

“I…I never had the chance to,” he looked away and hugged himself, trying to look pitiful, “what with you fawning over Sebas…chan,”—it made him sick to speak the nickname, but not as sick as he would feel if they found each other— “you never even pay me any mind.”

“What’s there to pay mind to?”

Ciel bit his tongue, and tried not to let that get to him, reminding himself everything could and would be far worse.

“Hey, hey!” Ronald stepped in the middle, noticing the rising tension of the scene, “There’s a simple solution after all; why don’t you and Mr. Sutcliff go for a walk today? That’s not too much to ask, right?” he turned to Grell, “You’ll still have time to see Sebas-chan before your appointment.”

“I suppose,” Grell bit his nails, ruining his manicure—which he quickly realized, and petted them as if to say ‘forgive me!’ “But I’d better get some quality time with my Sebas-chan!”

“Does that sound alright with you, Mr. Phantomhive?”

The thought of spending any amount of quality time with the reaper was repugnant. But not more repugnant than certain other thoughts and predictions his brain was happy to provide.

“Yes, that sounds just fine.”

“Then let’s get this overwith,” Grell stepped dramatically off the table, twirling his high-heeled shoes in the air.

Ciel’s thoughts exactly.

But there was something he had to do first.

“Erm, Ronald, would you mind doing something for me while we’re on our walk?”

Grell put his hands on his hips, suspicion and curiosity in his eyes.

“Uhh sure—I mean, that depends on what it is”

He pulled Ronald aside, towards the wall, out of earshot of the red-haired reaper.

“I just need to buy some time,” he whispered, “Will you please get Sebastian out of the teacher’s lounge for me.”

“Um…” he glanced between the two of them. “I suppose I could. May I ask why?”

“No you may not.” When Ronald seemed less than happy with this response, he added, “I can pay you back. Money, sandwiches…whatever you want.”

“Well, when you put it like that,” he grinned.

“Alright, Grell,” he cleared his throat, “it appears as though you and I will be going for a nice walk together.”

“‘Nice’ would be pushing it.” Grell muttered.

Ciel couldn’t agree more.

*****

The scene reminded him too much of a Thomas Kinkade painting; the snow covered trees and grounds, the faint chirping of birds, the pitter of small animals in the snow, the patter of kids playing, as well as more than a few romantic escapades displayed for all the world to see—like everything else in this sugarcoated nightmare, it was so sweet and was sickening. Ciel spent great lengths trying to avoid the mystic hellscape that was ‘outside,’ and whenever he found himself forced into its grasp, he remembered why.

Well, he supposed it wouldn’t have been so bad…if it weren’t for the blithering idiot beside him.

“Yeesh… love really is in the air around Valentine’s day.” Grell commented in the direction of the kids kissing by the frozen river.

“Oh? I thought romance was…your thing.”

“When I’m involved! Not these ragamuffins slobbering all over each other,” he shuddered.

They spent a while in awkward silence, before Grell spoke, “So, what do I have to do to get you off my back, Brat?”

“Ohh just spend a little quality time with me,” Ciel sang, putting his hands behind his back and stepping in front of Grell like a mischievous schoolboy. “That isn’t too much to ask, is it?”

Grell looked away. “I better be Carlos’ last customer today; my hair’s going to be a mess by the end of this.”

Ciel laughed fakely.

“So…” Ciel tried to think of something to talk about, “tell me about Carlos. Is he…cute?”

“Oh come on!” Grell stomped in front of him, “You can’t possibly mean any of this! You’ve never shown any amount of interest in me. I may be prone to fantasy, but I’m no fool!” he crossed his arms and looked away, then his green eyes trailed to him suspiciously, “What are you plotting?”

“Plotting?” Ciel laughed again, “Why so sinister?”

“Oh things are always sinister when Sebas-chan is involved,” he said ‘sinister’ like a radio announcer telling you that sinister is what you want, “usually it sends tingles down my spine! But this is just…” he looked down at the earl, his lip curling in distaste, “freaky.”

Ciel tried to ignore the fact that they were on the same brainwave today.

But he could see that he wasn’t going to fool him for long if he didn’t do something.

“Well…” Instead of formulating a suitable answer, he subtly pulled his wand from his robe pocket sliding it behind his back, and cast a little nonverbal spell that sent a snowball hurtling at the back of Grell’s head.

“Hey!” Grell spun around to two kids playing on the bank. “Which one of you imbeciles did that?! Haven’t I suffered enough?” he held up a split end of his hair.

The kids glanced at each other, confused.

“Now Carlos will have to give me the extra treatment to cover this!” he took a strand of hair and petted it.

Ciel smirked.

Messing with the reaper seemed both more effective, and more enjoyable, than chatting, so whenever a risky topic came up, he had a little extra fun avoiding the subject (goodness knows he needed it)—until enough time had passed that, if Ronald had done his job, Sebastian would be out of the teachers’ lounge, and they headed back into the school.

“Sebastian’s right around the corner.”

“He better be, Brat, after the hell-walk you took me on.” Ciel tried not to laugh when he looked at Grell—the sticks in his frazzled hair, the smeared mascara and lipstick, the muddy clothes (he had eventually stopped trying to protect or fix his appearance).

Ciel gave the fake laugh again, opening the door.

Despite requests and expectations, Sebastian was right around the corner.

There the demon remained (apparently he had been there all day) with a finished bust of the reaper sparkling beside him, not to mention a few more, smaller art pieces of the Redhead in different poses of increasing erotica.

Ciel felt all the anger that had been briefly soothed by messing with Grell re-entering his body with ferocity.

Why hadn’t Ronald removed him from this place like he asked? All he asked for was one simple thing, and he couldn’t even do that. Well, maybe it was his own fault he had put his trust in someone so incompetent as Ronald. Whoever’s fault it was, this encounter, and the memory of it, might just stain his brain forever, and someone was surely going to pay for it.

He turned towards Grell (the real one). Both his eyes and mouth were open wide, focused on the statue of himself, leering down at him with a flirtatious grin.

When the butler emerged from behind it, and saw Grell, he too froze, but in the quiet, reverent way the hot dude does when they see their love in romantic movies.

Ciel wanted to grab one, or both, of them and wrench them away from each other—exorcise the romantic spirits out of them (it’s an odd day when you want to exorcise a demon out of a demon), and maybe wring their necks—but he knew that would be met with more than a little resistance, (and using the Imperius curse in the teacher’s lounge would be more than a little conspicuous), and there was something rather mesmerizing about the scene; like a horror movie you can’t bring yourself to look away from.

Sebastian closed his eyes, giving a small smile before rushing to grab a rather large bouquet (likely made of the leftover flowers) and bowed, presenting them to Grell.

“For you, my darling Mr. Sutcliff.”

Ciel covered his eyes with his hand.

“For…me?” Grell’s words were distant and confused.

Rather than taking them with honors—Ciel saw between his fingers—however, he took a step back.

Sebastian held them higher. “Only you.”

Grell glanced between master and butler, and his hands shook as he took them (then his arms sagged with the weight).

Ciel shut his eyes tight, waiting for hell.

Soon the scene would turn into the amorous novel Grell always dreamed of, and that would be it. They’d find love in each other…or what passed for love when it comes to love potions. Should Ciel leave now and spare his mind the eternal horror? Or should he wait and just make absolutely sure that’s what would happen? Maybe there was some sick part of him that was even curious what would happen.

His patience, however, was rewarded;

“Get away from me you freak!” Grell threw the flowers across the room, and rushed to hide behind Ciel. “What the hell have you done with my precious Sebas-chan?!”

This time it was Ciel’s mouth and eyes that dropped open, staring, dumbstruck, like a bird that had hit a window.

Grell had flirted with Sebastian from the moment he met him (to be fair, he did this with pretty much every attractive guy he came across, still…). There were times when master and butler could use this infatuation to their advantage, but most of the time it was just a gigantic nuisance. Luckily, Sebastian shared Ciel’s distaste for the reaper’s advances, and never returned them. Since it had seemed impossible, before today, Ciel hadn’t had much time to imagine what Grell would do if the butler returned his affection. Not one of the sickening scenarios his mind had provided today had Grell rejecting Sebastian. Grell had always appeared superficial enough that Ciel guessed he wouldn’t care how or why Sebastian returned his feelings, just that he did. The fact that he could tell this was not Sebastian’s normal self made Ciel think slightly higher of the reaper.

But only slightly.

Maybe it should have made sense; it was the flirtation; the game, that Grell enjoyed, more than true romance, and heart. He had said so himself—he was just as disgusted by the teen romances in the courtyard as Ciel. (Though, to be fair, most adults generally found teen romance to be gross).

He couldn’t help but feel a growing pride and satisfaction that he would not have to witness any romance, or worse. That the roles of disgust had now reversed, and Grell could walk a mile in their shoes. Not that he thought Grell would become a better, less annoying person after this.

“I…don’t understand,” Sebastian’s eyes were full of welling hurt. He stood, staring at the discarded bouquet (which had all but exploded on the wall), “I’ve done everything for you…” he gestured around the room, “I thought this is what you wanted.” He looked at Grell like a puppy who had been thrown from a warm and loving upper-class home, out into the streets of London. He pulled out the picture he had barely stopped staring at since the other day, “Remember?” he held it up, “You said you would always be with me.”

Grell seemed torn, almost like Sebastian’s puppy-like disappointment drew his pity, but he backed away further, (still holding on to Ciel, almost making him fall backwards).

“What is this?!” he pointed, “Some kind of sick prank?! I want my sexy, coy Sebas-chan, back! Not this coddling fool!”

Ciel had to bite his lip to keep from grinning. This was too rich.

Sebastian looked at the ground, sadness, anger, rejection flaring in his eyes. Ciel would have liked to stay and enjoy Grell’s blubbering a little more, but he could see a demon-sized tantrum coming a mile away.

He didn’t make it a practice to touch pests like Grell, but in this case, he didn’t have much choice; he grabbed Grell and pulled him out the door, dragging him down the hall.

“What the hell is going on?!” Grell ripped his hand from the boy’s grasp and blocked his way, “Who was that idiot?!”

Ciel could barely breathe from laughing.

Grell blinked at him, then anger flared in his eyes again. Before he could catch his breath, Grell grabbed the boy’s shoulders and shook him, “What have you done with my Sebas-chan, you little Punk?!”

This made him regain composure quickly. He brushed his hands away and explained, “You remember the Valentine’s ball Lockhart threw?”

“Of course. My Sebas-chan was looking particularly dashing that night,” he blinked dreamily, then his expression changed as he remembered he had just seen Sebastian, and he was not so dashing today as previously advertised. “What did you do to him?!”

“I didn’t do anything!” he half-lied, “Undertaker was the one who spiked the punch with a love potion.”

“Undertaker’s the cause of this?! He took my Sebas-chan from me?! Oh that sexy bastard hasn’t seen the last of me!” he started to march past the earl.

Ciel blocked Grell’s way. “I already talked to him. He didn’t have the antidote.”

“Well maybe he just needs a little roughing up!” he rolled up his sleeves and tried again to go around him.

“You really think a man who takes pleasure in ruining other people’s lives will help us fix this?” he said to his back.

Grell stopped, turned around, “Well you would know wouldn’t you?!” He looked away, biting his lip. “You put him back then!” he shoved his chest.

“Why do you think I was reading that book about love potions?!”

That quieted his rage slightly.

In that moment, a certain student walked by, though not one of Hogwarts. He was surrounded by a gaggle of girls, and didn’t even see them.

Levicorpus! Ciel cast, and the girls’ gasped as Ronald was hoisted into the air by his ankle, his clothes hanging off him (showing off his stomach, and a bit of his underwear—the girls’ blushed and giggled).

“Whoa, whoa! What’s this—?! Oh…” the young reaper blinked upon seeing Ciel, recalling the task the earl had given him, and he rubbed the back of his head giving a mock-sheepish smile, “Hehe.”

Ciel tapped his foot impatiently on the floor. “Would you care to offer an explanation?”

Now that he knew Grell had no intentions or returning Sebastian’s artificial affection, the fact that Ronald hadn’t accomplished the task wasn’t nearly as big of a deal, but it could have easily been catastrophic, the anger was still there—someone had to pay, after all—and letting those who disobeyed him off, without even a decent scolding, was a bad precedent.

“I’m sorry, Earl, but these girls…they just kept coming up to me! There must be something in the air today!” he held out his hands as if to say you really think I was going to turn them away?

Ciel rubbed his temple, muttering, “Nope it was in the punch.” He sighed, taking a step forward like a predator. “I’m going to let you off this time, but believe me, I won’t be making that mistake again.”

“Come on, it was an honest mistake!”

“And an honest—”

“Mister Phantomhive!” a deep voice rang out across the hallway.

Ciel winced.

“…Professor Snape.”

His footsteps were a judgment toll.

“Care to release Mister…?” he looked at Ronald quizzically, realizing he didn’t recognize him.

“Knox,” the reaper offered.

“Knox.”

“Yes, Sir.” Ciel murmured.

Liberacorpus he cast, nonverbally, and the reaper spun in the air until he was set upright again.

Strictly speaking, they weren’t allowed to do magic outside class, and the curse on the school evidently hadn’t made the potions master forgo any of the traditional rules.

“I’d like to know who you two are, and what you’re doing at Hogwarts.” Ciel felt a little smug thinking of the potential trouble they could get into….until Snape turned “As for you, Mr. Phantomhive…”

“Yes, Professor?” he said politely, as if his politeness could suddenly change his heart and get him a less-harsh punishment.

“Detention.”

“…Yes, Professor.”

Ciel glanced at Grell, who had crossed his arms and whose look said it’s-what-you-deserve.

“Well!” Grell broke the tension. “We can certainly explain who we are and what we are doing here…at a later date. As of now, I have an increasingly important appointment to get to—Good Professor, I’m so sorry you had to see me like this, I promise wont look this bad when when we next meet!” he bowed low, “Come along, Ronald!”

“Yes, Mr. Sutcliff!” He blew a kiss towards the girls.

“This isn’t over” Grell whispered in Ciel’s ear as he skipped by.

“Nothing ever is with you, is it?” he muttered.

“What’s that?” Snape raised an eyebrow.

“Nothing, just excited for my detention!”

Snape raised an eyebrow, perhaps wondering if Ciel was under the spell after all.

*****

Ciel didn’t even go to class that afternoon, as it was double Defense Against the Dark Arts. Once again he returned to his dorm, and flopped onto his bed. He had only made it halfway through the day this time, and he was already drained. After some time resting (though his mind raced too much to actually take a nap), he finished skimming through the book on love potions. In the end, the only help it gave was a comprehensive list of the usual ingredients in love potions.

As he was putting the book away a diary fell out of the trunk at the foot of his bed. In the fatigue of the evening, and the tumult of the day, he had forgotten about his run-in with Harry yesterday.

He picked it up; the same simple, dusty, empty notebook as before—the simple, dusty notebook that was seething with dark magic. When he opened it to the first page he saw the smudged name T. M. Riddle. He hadn’t thought it was Harry’s in the first place, but was still displeased that the name didn’t sound familiar to him. He wondered if he was a student who dabbled in dark magic. Still, the power it held seemed more than what a mere student could conjure…

Ciel had never been one for feelings and the kind of sentimentality a diary implied, but it couldn’t hurt to try it out. There wasn’t much else to do but write in it. Evidently it wasn’t just a diary.

Setting it down on his desk, he flipped it open to the first blank page, got out his quill, dipped it in the ink, and began to write:

“February 16th

“Two days ago, Undertaker spiked the punch at Lockhart’s god-awful Valentine’s ball with a love potion.

“Now Hogwarts is infested with a swarm of insolent, love-struck zombies, because Undertaker is a—”

As he wrote, the words, instead of staying in place like words should, they were swallowed by the paper. As the earl stared, the ink resurfaced like a serpent beneath water, a reply forming from secondhand ink.

“My, that does sound awful.”

The words disappeared as soon as they came, then reappeared…

“Perhaps I could be of assistance.”

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raywritesthings · 4 years

Text

Bird in a Storm 11/17

My Writing Fandom: Arrow Characters: Laurel Lance, Oliver Queen, Tommy Merlyn, Quentin Lance, Ted Grant, Captain Stein, Athena Pairing: Laurel Lance/Oliver Queen Summary: The confrontation between the Hood and SWAT on the roof of the Winick Building goes differently, altering the course of Laurel’s career, relationships and efforts to save her city forever, the shockwaves of such an altered path making themselves felt throughout her family and friends. *Can be read on my AO3, link is in bio*

No matter what he seemed to do at night to counteract the problems plaguing Starling City, Oliver always seemed to end up with a whole host more of them the next day. The unexpected call he had received last night from Detective Lance was only the latest proof of that.

The man had a point. What was Oliver’s plan once he had deciphered the true purpose of the Undertaking and put a stop to it? He didn’t want to be doing this forever, not while it kept him away from the people he loved most or hurt them the ways it had done to Laurel or Tommy.

But Laurel and her father were both right that there was more than just the Undertaking troubling this city. Right now, the police couldn’t handle it, maybe because they were corrupted like Lance said. Maybe that was where he needed to direct his focus next.

Or perhaps it would better serve his time to go after this Woman that Lance had mentioned and Raisa had described. Contrary to what the police or the public might think, he did not wish for the city to be overrun with vigilantes like him. He did want the traditional institutions to be able to do their jobs on their own, and well, someday. Stopping others from following in his footsteps was therefore necessary.

But at this moment, the Woman did not pose the same sort of threat that the Savior had to law and order. She had no known body count, made very little noise and these murmured rumors were the first he was hearing of her. And in some ways, she only represented a symptom of the problem Lance was asking for help with regarding the corruption in law enforcement.

It wouldn’t be easy to back trace every single cop in this city. He would need to ask Felicity very nicely for help, assuming that she would be willing since this had little to nothing to do with finding Walter. Though perhaps he should use that as an angle; Walter had been captured and held this long, in part, because law enforcement wasn’t able to do their jobs. He’d run it by John first to see if he thought it might work.

The irony of Lance asking for his help wasn’t lost on him, especially when the detective showed up at the Verdant the next night to accuse his club of giving Vertigo to people. A young woman had been found dead after leaving it last night, and Lance thought, as usual, that he was onto something.

“Her last text was to your good pal Merlyn.”

“Tommy left the club earlier in the month to take over running his father’s company,” Oliver countered with a frown. “Even if he was still the manager, I can’t believe he would have given her anything. We both agreed to a strict no narcotics policy.”

“Then I guess I’ll go see how he still feels about that,” Lance said, marching back out the doors.

Oliver let out a breath. He was sure Lance would be back once he’d finished questioning Tommy and probably want a look around the place as well. He could tell the detective to go get a warrant, but he didn’t doubt Lance would do just that. So how did he let him look around without him discovering anything?

First thing first, however, Oliver needed to send Tommy a little heads up notice that Lance was on his way. He winced when looking back through his recent contacts and realizing just how long it had been since he’d spoken to his friend.

Tommy picked up after the third ring. “Hello?”

“Tommy, it’s me. Listen, I wanted to let you know that Detective Lance might be over your way soon.”

“What about?”

“They found a young woman dead from Vertigo after she visited the club last night. Did you get a text from her?”

“I wouldn’t know. I’ve been blocking unfamiliar numbers. I’m thinking of changing my own,” Tommy said. His voice turned sardonic as he added, “I guess Lance thinks that’s a good enough reason to give us the third degree?”

“He’s doing his job,” Oliver replied. Even if Lance was wrong, it wasn’t like he could stop pursuing a possible lead based on Oliver’s word.

“He’s pushing his agenda is what he’s doing, against the both of us, and I’m sick of letting him get away with it. It doesn’t matter that he’s Laurel’s father — especially now.”

“I don’t think she meant to hurt you,” he couldn’t help saying, guilt churning in his gut. If he’d never come back, never involved Laurel in the Hood’s mission, would his friends be happy now?

“Yeah, well she didn’t mean to be with me, either. Look, I don’t really have the time to talk about this. I’m going to have to make a few calls before the boys in blue come sniffing around. I’ll take care of this, Ollie — but I��d get in touch with Jean just in case.”

Oliver hadn’t even been thinking of his family’s lawyer. If anything, he’d thought to call Laurel for her advice, but it was clear he shouldn’t mention that to Tommy. “Okay. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”

Oliver tried not to worry about Lance the next day, focused as he and Diggle needed to be on tracing this new supply of Vertigo. Therefore he was surprised and a little nervous to receive a call from none other than Captain Stein, the de facto leader of the SCPD since Nudocerdo’s ouster over the holidays.

“Mr. Queen, I’ll do my best to keep this brief,” the other man said. “I’ve received a complaint from Mr. Thomas Merlyn that one of my detectives has been harassing the pair of you.”

Oliver’s eyebrows raised. What was Tommy doing? “Harassing is a strong word, Captain. I understand that Detective Lance has a job to do.”

“Detective Lance always thinks he has a job to do, and frankly I happen to agree that he’s got blinders when it comes to certain issues.” Stein didn’t seem to mind making it perfectly clear just what his feelings on the man were. “Now, I value what you and Mr. Merlyn have done with the Verdant to gentrify the Glades neighborhood, and if there’s anything jeopardizing that, you just have to say the word.”

“I…” Oliver found himself unsure of what to say. It was clear what Stein was implying: disciplinary action, perhaps even termination, of the man who was leading the task force against the Hood. For one selfish moment, he could picture just how much easier it might make his mission.

But Lance was right. The SCPD was suffering from corruption, and if that was ever going to change so that the city didn’t need the Hood, he needed people like Lance to stay on the force. Not chased off because he was making those upstairs uncomfortable.

And if he lost his job because of Oliver? Not only would his own guilt eat at him, but he couldn’t imagine what Laurel would say. How betrayed she would feel after everything she’d willingly given up for his cause. After everything he had done wrong by the Lance family, how could he even entertain the idea?

“Thank you, Captain,” he finally managed. “But I’m sure that’s not necessary. I’m confident the SCPD will be able to track down the real distributor of this terrible drug that’s caused so much suffering to so many.”

“I’m hopeful they will now that this case has been transferred to narcotics. I’m also barring Detective Lance from any police matters involving you or Mr. Merlyn from now on.”

“I see,” was all Oliver could come up with. “Thank you, Captain Stein.”

“Just making sure we’re taking care of our citizens, Mr. Queen. If you’ll excuse me, I need to be getting to other matters.”

“Of course.” Oliver hung up, his mouth twisting into a frown as he digested this latest development. Just as Lance had reached out to the Hood for help in fighting corruption in law enforcement, his own influence and latitude to act was curtailed. It seemed a coincidence, but it also seemed to him a bad omen.

He didn’t know much about Captain Stein, though his overly-eager tone on the phone made him suspicious. He would need to start with looking in to him, and the best place to start would be with the person Oliver knew had talked to him last: Tommy.

He found his friend still in the CEO’s office at Merlyn Global. It was strange being here in light of what had happened the last time.

“Just got a call from Captain Stein,” he said in greeting. Tommy looked up and nodded once, hardly seeming surprised. Instead, his friend walked over to a small mini bar tucked in one corner of the office and got out two glasses and a bottle. “What exactly did you say to him to get him to go after Lance like that?”

“The truth. He’s had it out for us ever since you tangled with his daughters, but we’re not a couple of bad boys anymore, Ollie. We have businesses, employees who count on us. We can’t let him throw his weight around.”

“So we throw our own? What’s Stein getting out of all this?”

“Nothing.” Tommy narrowed his eyes. “You think I bribed him?”

“No,” Oliver said immediately. It sounded weak even to his own ears.

Tommy scoffed and shook his head as he finished pouring. “I didn’t need to bribe him. The special election to replace Nudocerdo is coming up in late spring.”

“So you offered your support,” he guessed.

“Hey, the guy’s clean from everything I know. Why shouldn’t he be commissioner?” Tommy crossed the room with both glasses in hand, holding one out that Oliver took out of social nicety more than wanting it. “And if he feels inclined to keep annoyances like Lance off our backs, what’s the harm?”

“The harm is if it doesn’t stop with voluntarily warding off ‘annoyances’,” Oliver answered. “The problem is that once the favors start rolling in, guys like Stein might find it hard to stay clean.”

Tommy sipped at his drink. “I didn’t hear you complaining when your mom and Walter had Nudocerdo over for their dinners.”

“That wasn’t really my choice.” Oliver set his drink aside, looking his friend squarely in the eye. “Come on, Tommy. I thought we weren’t trying to be our parents. I mean, you always said you never wanted to be your dad.”

“Well, I was wrong. My dad might have had trouble being there for me after mom died, but he understood how the world worked. I should have made better use of the time we had.”

The use of past tense alarmed him. “He’s not—”

“His condition’s the same. But even if they revive him, can he really be the same?” Tommy knocked the rest of his drink back, though Oliver doubted it was the sting of alcohol causing his eyes to brighten with a wet sheen. “He’s all I really have.”

“That’s not true.” Oliver stepped forward, but the hand he’d intended to lay on Tommy’s shoulder was brushed off.

“You’re not the same, Oliver. We both know it. And dating Laurel… it was a mistake. I thought I’d be happy without you as a friend if I had her, but I never did, did I?” His gaze seemed to rest heavier on Oliver for just a moment. “And now I have neither.”

His friend turned and walked towards the large windows, the same windows Deadshot had fired through to strike Tommy’s father and leave him fighting for his life in Starling General.

“You can decide how to deal with Lance in the future if you really want. I just thought I could help my friend.”

“Tommy…” How did he explain that he appreciated it, but that it just wasn’t the right way?

Breakup or no, it troubled him that Tommy would do something like this. He had very nearly ended Detective Lance’s career with a single phone call. Yet he couldn’t explain why it was so vital that Lance remain on the force without revealing his interest in helping the city and possibly tying himself to the Hood. Something he could never let Tommy know.

So Oliver swallowed down the words and left, hating himself for it. No matter what he did, he just ended up with more problems at the end of the day.

He didn’t know how much damage had been caused to Lance’s position in the precinct. He didn’t know how to fix things with Tommy, or how to make things okay for them to be friends again the way they’d once been. He didn’t know how to restore the balance between the two of them and Laurel. Maybe there had never been a balance; maybe he’d only been fooling himself trying to keep them all happy.

He wanted so badly to see her whether it was against the cover or not, but as he exited the lobby of Merlyn Global his phone buzzed. Diggle had the answers they’d been looking for about the location of the Vertigo. After heading to the psychiatric facility and being force-fed an overdose only his own injected antidote saved him from, Oliver decided that the cover could go to hell.

The only problem was, when he reached Laurel’s apartment and slipped in through the back door, no one was home. In the middle of the night.

The exhaustion from the fight with Dr. Webb and his orderly assistant left him instantly upon realizing this. Where was she? What could have happened?

---

Laurel frowned as she drew up to the front doors of the Wildcat Gym that afternoon only to find a sign taped to the front that read Closed Till Next Week. When she tried the handle, it was unlocked, so she let herself in.

“Ted?”

She spotted him gathering some kind of supplies in a couple duffle bags. He glanced up at her once in acknowledgement “I’m pretty sure you can read.”

“Is everything okay? You kind of look like you’re packing there,” she remarked, walking further into the space.

“It’s not for me.”

“Then what?”

“Some girl OD’d last night while she was out partying.” Ted shrugged. “When a white girl dies, people wanna look like they’re doing something. And then it’s the less fortunate who suffer.”

Of course. The more she learned about the ways their systems kept cutting the residents here down, the more ridiculous her ideals about justice in the courtrooms seemed. “Because she was out in the Glades, they’re going to crack down on the people who live here,” Laurel summarized. When her teacher nodded, she asked, “How can I help?”

He straightened up and looked her over as if assessing her for a moment. “We’re going into the crackhouses, getting the people out before the cops can round them up. I’ll be keeping some of them here, some friends that run a shelter are gonna take more. By the end of the week, everything should be calmed down.”

Laurel nodded. “Sounds like a plan.”

Ted drove them around to different rundown tenements in the neighborhood. She’d seen one or two like this on her visits to clients in the past, though never set foot inside. That was changing today.

The smell was what hit most strongly. Sweat, piss, bile. The very air seemed stale, trapped as it was behind windows covered in dust and grime.

There were a few people slumped around on couches with broken springs or up against walls. Most of them were young, she was dismayed to see. Laurel supposed this wasn’t the kind of life that allowed a person to grow old.

“Come on,” Ted said gently, gripping the shoulder of a boy around Thea’s age. His dreads were practically plastered to one side of his face where he leaned on his friend. Or maybe they were strangers. “You’ve gotta get up. Cops are coming.”

“Man…” the kid groaned and blindly reached out. Ted helped him to stand.

“You have anyone to take you in?”

“Nah.”

“Alright, come on.”

Laurel watched Ted help him outside, then approached one of the girls on the couch. “Hey.”

“Mmph.”

“I know moving is probably the last thing you want to do right now, but I promise it’s better than jail. Do you need somewhere to stay?”

That got a head turning in her direction and eyes blinking at her blearily. “I stay here.”

“Not anymore. Come on.”

Calling on the approach she’d sometimes used with her father, Laurel lifted the young woman’s arm around her shoulder and helped her to shakily stand. The girl was barely supporting any of her own weight as she marched her out to the van.

Some of them were barely conscious. Some of them couldn’t move until they had water or food from the bags Ted had brought. Some of them were missing shoes or couldn’t remember where they’d left their own belongings.

It was slow work, especially since they could only take so many people at a time. They briefly crossed paths with Ted’s friends who ran the shelter in one of the other houses. They passed off some more supplies, food and blankets and the like.

It was dark by the time they called it quits, and Laurel stood with Ted looking at the people lying or sitting around on the gym floor. They looked just as lost here as where they’d brought them from.

“Do you think we got everyone?”

Ted shrugged. “No way to know. But probably not.”

“Where will they go after the gym reopens?”

“Right back where we found them.” He sighed when she turned to him with crossed arms. “Not like that. I couldn’t keep them here if I tried. Those houses are where they’ve found their escape, and they’re the only ones who can choose to stay away for themselves.” Ted took a number of cards for Narcotics Anonymous out of his pocket. “I make them take one when they leave. Sometimes it works. Sometimes only for a little. But what can you do?”

“It’s hard when people have lost hope,” Laurel agreed softly.

Only several weeks ago, Thea had been refusing to listen to any of her brother’s pleas or demands to stop using. Only once it had nearly cost her her life had she gotten herself off the drugs. And not everyone found it so easy to go cold turkey like that. She’d have to let Thea know how strong she was, even if she had certain advantages and privileges these people certainly didn’t.

“Thanks for helping out,” Ted remarked.

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“Does it feel better than dressing up and beating on people in the middle of the night?”

Laurel froze and stared at him. “How—”

“Let’s just say you remind me of someone.” Her teacher looked her square in the eyes. “I know what you’re thinking because I’ve had those thoughts, too. That someone ought to do something about all the crap going on in this world. That that someone might as well be me.”

“You’ve… you were a vigilante?” She wondered how she had never heard — but then, she was mostly flying under the radar so far herself, wasn’t she? Not all of them could afford the high-budget theatrics of the Hood.

“They called me Wildcat. But I was a thug,” Ted said. “Beating up on other thugs. It didn’t change anything in this town. Things just kept getting worse. That’s why I’m asking you to hang this up now, before you really get going, Laurel. It’s only going to end with you getting hurt.”

She shook her head. “You didn’t fail because of what you were doing, Ted. And you weren’t fighting a losing battle. You just didn’t know who you were fighting.”

Laurel walked around to keep him facing her when he turned away. “I’ve spoken to the Hood. He has evidence that a group of the wealthiest people in this city and their associates conspired to make the Glades worse off than ever over the last five years. He doesn’t know why yet. But that’s why things have become so bad. It’s not some statement on the people living here or some failure on your part. It was planned.”

She could see that this hit him somewhere inside. For a moment, his eyes widened, a dozen different emotions passing across his face. But at last, he settled on resignation. “All that means is I was never going to make a difference at all.”

“But we can now,” she insisted. “With the Hood taking on people at the top, it’s up to us to change things on the ground.”

“Maybe. But I’m doing what I can here, Laurel.” A frown creased his brow as he admitted, “I’m not in the shape I was, and I have things to lose. Maybe not a family, but this place.”

Ted walked to the nearest heavyweight bag and took it down off the hook. “You keep practicing, keep fighting. But it can’t be here. I’m sorry, but if they trace you back here and shut me down, that’s a lot of people back out on the street with nowhere to let out their hurt and their anger.”

Laurel nodded in hopes of disguising the lump that rose in her throat, especially as she didn’t trust her voice at the moment. She knew intellectually she hadn’t known Ted or the gym all that long, but it felt like yet another door being shut in her face. Another person walking out. Even if he explained, even if he had a good reason.

“Okay.”

“You take care of yourself, alright? And if you need me, I’ll do my best to be there,” he told her. “I hope you do make a difference. I hope you’re right. But I’ve found where I need to be.”

“Good.” She hauled the bag up from the ground by its straps. “Cause I’ve found the same thing. And I’ll be there, too.” Laurel turned and left the gym, her heart hurting more than the strain on her shoulders.

The more time went on, the more people she seemed to lose. Sara, her mother, her father, Tommy, Oliver more than once and now Ted. Was this just the way things ended for people on this kind of path, or was this just her?

She dropped the bag on her front stoop in order to get out her keys. Laurel froze as she placed the key in the lock. Was that the creaking of floorboards inside?

Drawing in a breath, she turned the knob and threw the door open, launching forward with her key pointing straight out of her clenched fist. An arm in dark leather took the brunt of it, and someone else’s hand grabbed towards her. She dropped and kicked one leg out, catching him in the shin.

There was a grunt, though he didn’t fall, and then he called out, “Laurel, stop!”

“Ollie?”

Laurel scrambled back up and their fingers tangled as they both reached for the light switch. Oliver’s face looked pale and drawn, though he still smiled weakly at her.

“Guess I should call ahead.”

“Are you okay? I didn’t hurt you, did I?” She reached for his arm. The leather of his jacket now bore a scratch, but it had protected him.

“Believe me, I’ve had much worse. That was a hard kick, though. Where’d you learn that one?”

“Uh… my neighbor.” It was strange; she hadn’t thought about what to tell Oliver or when in more than the abstract. Their limited ability to see each other meant that she hadn’t necessarily felt obligated to disclose her nighttime activities. But now that he was here, what should she say?

As she looked at him, how worn and tired he seemed, would he even want to know?

“What was that thud I heard outside?”

“What? Oh, my punching bag.” Laurel stepped backwards out into the night to grab the straps again, but felt Oliver’s warmth and presence behind her as he reached around her to take hold. She could admit with some chagrin that he had an easier time carrying it inside. “My trainer is using his gym for something else for a week or so, so he lent it to me.”

“Is that why you were out so late?”

“Yes and no.” She could at least open up a little, right? “I was helping him get some people help. With the latest Vertigo scare, the police are going to be renewing the war on drugs, and that means a lot of people would suffer.”

Oliver opened his mouth for a moment, stopped, then said, “They’d only find the victims and not the ones dealing.”

She nodded. “Ted was the one who pointed it out to me. He’s a good guy.” She was really going to miss him, even if he was doing what he felt he needed to protect the gym.

“Well, the scrutiny over Vertigo should end soon. I took care of the new distributor tonight.” The way he said it, the slump of his shoulders, she thought she knew what must have happened to the distributor.

“Thank you.” Laurel crossed to the couch, gesturing to the open space on the other end. Oliver sat, and though he looked better for no longer having to hold himself up, he still wore a troubled frown. “What really brought you over this way?”

“I don’t know.” He sat forward, staring at his hands in his lap. “It feels like lately I can’t find the answers to the problems I’m facing. Or this city’s facing. I’m no closer to figuring out what my father was trying to stop except that his list has a map of the old subway tunnel system on it, which has nothing to do with the names. I don’t know what happens once the mission is complete. And Tommy… he’s lost, and I don’t know how to help him.”

Laurel bit her lip and looked down. “Is he still hurting over his father?” She hoped it wasn’t still the breakup.

“It’s more than that. Some of the things he’s saying, how he’s been acting since he took over Merlyn Global. And I think he knows I’m hiding things from him.” Oliver’s eyes searched hers. “I can’t be the friend he needs when I’m keeping all of this from him.”

She looked down. Just how good of a friend was she being to Oliver when she was keeping things from him?

“I wish we could all just go back sometimes,” he said wistfully.

“So do I. But we can’t go back, Ollie.” She looked up then. “We can’t change the past. We just move forward and hope that we’re acting for the best now.” Laurel leaned across the space towards him, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Whatever comes of your friendship with Tommy, I think most of the people of this city would agree that you have been doing your best by them. I know that doesn’t make it any easier to let go.”

“No, but it helped me realize what I can and can’t let go of,” he said. Oliver turned his head toward her. “I need you in my life, Laurel. Whatever story we have to make up, whatever excuse. Friends have differences of opinion all the time, and whatever else people have to believe of me as Oliver Queen, I want them to know that I am someone that sticks by my friends. No matter what. I miss you. Please.”

She had never been good at resisting those begging eyes. Laurel leaned across the couch space, her arms circling around him. He held her, his face turned into her neck, breath washing over her skin without her hair to act as a curtain between them. She wished they could simply stay like this forever, but they couldn’t cause time to stop any more than they could turn it back. And there was something he needed to know.

“Ollie—”

A sharp rapping on her front door caused them both to tense up and pull back. It repeated, and Laurel stood. Oliver grabbed for her hand but she pulled free, going to the door and checking through the peephole.

“Dad,” she said aloud out of surprise. She thought she heard Oliver scramble to stand up as she pulled open the door. “Dad?”

“Hey, uh. I wasn’t gonna stop if it looked like you were sleeping, but I saw your light on. I guess I just needed someone to talk to, cause of—” He froze upon spotting Oliver, who Laurel noticed looked stricken as he watched them. “What the hell is he doing here?”

“We were just talking,” she began.

“Detective, I’m so sorry,” Oliver spoke at the same time, throwing her completely. “I never meant to cause you trouble at work.”

“Never meant to, huh? So you gave your buddy Merlyn a call so he’d, what, cooperate with the law?”

“I didn’t know that he’d go to Stein, I only—”

“Okay, hang on, both of you,” Laurel said, holding her hands up like stop signs. “Before you keep arguing in my home, I need to know just what is going on.”

“There was a girl who died of an overdose after visiting his club,” her dad said, throwing a glare in Oliver’s direction. “Had a text on her phone to Merlyn asking for a fix. I was following the lead.”

“I called Tommy to tell him the situation,” Oliver admitted. “He’s been out of the club management for weeks. I just didn’t want him caught off guard. I didn’t ask him to call your boss, I swear.”

Laurel believed him, but she had her father to worry about. “Daddy, what did Stein say? Did he suspend you, did he—?”

“I still have my job,” he clarified, then scowled in Oliver’s direction. “No thanks to him.”

“Detective, if there’s anything I can do—”

“Yeah, there is something. You stay the hell away from my daughter. You and Merlyn.”

“Dad!”

Oliver bowed his head. “I understand that you’re angry with me, Detective Lance, but Laurel is my friend.”

“Really? You have a funny way of showing it!”

“That’s enough,” Laurel snapped. “Oliver was not intending to hurt you, and whatever strings Tommy pulled with Stein doesn’t change that Oliver is my friend. I know you’re upset, but you cannot keep blaming him for every single thing that goes wrong in your life.”

Her father was breathing harshly through his nose but remained silent.

“I should let you two talk,” Oliver said quietly. He made his way to the door, skirting around her father. “I’ll see you…?”

Laurel nodded. “Yeah.” Even if she didn’t know when. Between her work — both the kind she was paid for and the kind she wasn’t — and needing to pull her father out of this latest funk, it wasn’t going to be easy.

He glowered at Oliver until the door was closed behind him. Then, predictably, he rounded on her. “What are you doing, letting him back in your life? Where exactly was he when you lost everything this winter?”

“He offered to help me find work, actually,” Laurel revealed, perhaps rashly, but she was getting tired of remembering which conversations were a public or private matter. “But after the Hood visited Mrs. Queen to question her, I told him he shouldn’t have to choose between him and his family. I was keeping my distance from him, not the other way around.”

Her father opened his mouth, closed it, then frowned as she watched the wind deflate from his metaphorical sails. “I still think it was a bad idea for you to get mixed up with these billionaires.”

“I will agree that it got complicated,” she replied. Especially with Tommy. That really hadn’t been one of her better decisions. But then, she wasn’t the only Lance who had made bad decisions in the wake of the Queen’s Gambit sinking.

Was her past decision part of why her father was having such trouble at work? Was Tommy taking his anger out on her father? Maybe she should confront him — or would that only make everything worse? It was hard to know. She felt like she’d taken Tommy’s snark and devil may care approach to life for granted, not realizing the deep anger and hurt that lurked underneath. Could she have done more to be there for him? Would he have even let her?

“What’s this?” Her father was prodding the heavy bag with his toe.

“Gift from Ted. Uh, he’s a trainer at the local gym. I started going,” she told him. It was hard to remember what he did and didn’t know thanks to the time they had spent not talking. “I know you worry about me taking care of myself out here.”

“I do, yeah.” He glanced around. “How are you gonna hang it?”

“I’ll probably ask Jerome for some help. He’s next door with Anita.”

“You’ve really made a home for yourself out of this place, huh?” Her dad shook his head. “I didn’t used to believe you, but… I think you were right.”

It was rare enough that he said so that she sorely wished she knew what he thought she was right about. Laurel crossed her arms and raised both brows. “Oh?”

“What I was trying to make you do. Stay safe, keep your head down, all that. It wasn’t living.” He took a step towards her. “I was too hands off with Sara, so I doubled down on you and it wasn’t fair. You needed to find your own way.”

Laurel bit her lip. It was the last thing she’d been expecting to hear, and she had no idea what to say to it.

He waved a hand, like he knew exactly what she was thinking. “I just needed to tell you that. Now I think we both could do with some sleep.” He saw himself to the door, but paused as he opened it. “Look, about Queen.”

Laurel watched her father as he stared at the ground, obviously warring with himself.

“You do whatever you think is best. I trust you to know what that is. Just want you safe and happy, okay?”

“Okay,” Laurel agreed quietly. “Goodnight, daddy.”

“Goodnight sweetheart.”

Laurel slowly sank back down onto her couch when she heard the door of his cruiser shut outside and the motor start. She hoped he really was going home and not back to work, especially if he was on thin ice with his superiors at the moment. That didn’t lend well to his temper.

Laurel placed her face in her hands. What she thought was best. There were just so many moving parts in her life, it was hard to know what that was anymore. Was she really doing right by the people in her life and in her city?

She thought of a gym full of people sleeping and safe from being thrown in prison. She thought of the things she had achieved so far out in the streets.

Maybe she couldn’t know for sure, but she was the daughter of a cop, and her gut was saying that in at least one regard she was right on the money.

---

Tommy didn’t used to like drinking alone. In a way, it felt like admitting that he was alone. But it really was time to stop pretending.

He left Oliver’s untouched drink on the table for the janitors to clean up and locked up for the night. It made him uncomfortable staying here too late; too easy to recall the night his father had been shot and poisoned. So he made the long drive home, out of the city and into the peace and quiet of the surrounding countryside with its rolling hills and family homes.

He’d regrettably had to cancel the lease on his new bachelor pad so that someone was living in the Manor to give the staff reason to be paid. Being here made him feel closer not just to his father, but also his mother. If he closed his eyes and thought hard, he thought he could still picture the better times. The times they were a family, before the violence in this city had taken his parents away from him.

His footsteps carried him towards his father’s study. He hadn’t entered it since before the attack that had left him comatose, but Tommy did so now.

Papers sat on his father’s desk, correspondence and notes forever paused with no way of knowing when they would be picked up again. Tommy circled around the desk, standing where his father might have stood. His hands rested palms flat on the wood as he drew in a breath and closed his eyes.

He missed his dad. But Oliver’s question did make him wonder, was this truly what he wanted to be?

There was so much he felt he didn’t know. How had his father been able to fight those men that had attacked them? And what was behind that sliding wall his father had started to open in the panic room that night? A part of him was afraid to find out.

The other part of him, that part that truly did sound like his father, told him to stop being such a coward about it. Without his father’s unexpected skills, they would have both died that night, rather than him living and his father being in hospice. Strength was something good, something people respected. If Tommy had been strong, maybe Laurel wouldn’t have left him for the Hood.

His hands curled into fists against the cool surface of the wood. The Hood was an example of strength gone too far, strength that took what it wanted and bullied everyone else into submission. He was a product of the very neighborhood he seemed to slink out of every night to conduct his one-man crusade against the wealthy and successful in this city. And he needed to be stopped before more families were ripped apart.

“I’m beginning to see the resemblance.”

Tommy straightened up and turned towards the door. An unfamiliar woman stood there. She was beautiful in an exotic way, and not just because of the scar on her face.

“Who let you in here?” He would need to know which member of the staff to have words with.

“No one. You are the only one who knows I’m here.” She stepped forward, and Tommy took in the strange clothes she wore and the quiver of black arrows strapped to her back.

“If you’re some new girlfriend of the Hood’s—”

“I have no association with him. I belong to a much older order. A higher calling than this Hood aspires to in a vain attempt to salvage the ruin your city has become.” She reached a hand out, fingertips brushing a photo of his mother that sat on the desk. “A calling your father dedicated himself to in service of the one you both lost.”

He removes the photograph from her reach. “What do you know about my father?”

“Everything.” Her gaze was hypnotic in some ways. He didn’t doubt she was dangerous, lethal even. But did she really hold the answers to all the questions he had? “And I can heal him. With your help.”

After so many weeks of despairing, this stranger offered him hope. “What’s your name?”

She smiled, though like his father’s own smile, it held little warmth. “Athena.”

#lauriver #laurel x oliver #laurel lance #oliver queen #arrow #green arrow #black canary #my writing #bird in a storm

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camerinhell · 5 years

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[Hazbin Hotel Meta] Hazbin MBTIs~! Get your fresh Hazbin Hotel MBTIs here~!

I feel pretty…happy and confident about these ;w; I tried to use best judgement, the canonical info we have so far (even if a bit vague, gotta take what we can get!), and took into consideration like…that I’m really trying to be as realistic as possible. I really enjoy keeping to canon and building off realistic expressions of the characters even with a lot of the interactions between them being so bombastic or humorous. This is how I like to go about my writing for them too :)

Alastor: ESTP - Extroverted, Sensing, Thinking, Perceiving

Al is driven and motivated (on a base level, from what it seems) by pure stimulus. Regarding stimuli in his environment, he’s not looking to gain any philosophical or emotional insight, development or further connection to others from it; he wants to enjoy the experience in and of itself, even more so with the ability to manipulate it or those involved. Alastor wants action, entertainment, and the ability to make decisions, watch others make decisions, and watch the pieces fall where they may (long as that doesn’t lead to actual stability, peace or resolution). He enjoys engaging with others on his own terms/working a room, shaking things up and not just thinking about ‘what ifs?’, but actively creating those situations. He doesn’t want to be restricted, controlled or bored. ESTPs can tend to be impatient, self-important and prideful, have a habit of turning their noses up at others, and can be selfish. All these things definitely pertain or easily could pertain to Al.

Angel (and Cherri): ESFP - Extroverted, Sensing, Feeling, Perceiving

Angel and Cherri revel in dramatics and energy! They are bright, relatively warm (given…where they are, lol), sociable and like to have the spotlight on them. They take pleasure in the things around them and engaging with their surroundings. They’re enthusiastic, loud, active and want to be seen and heard. Real lives of the party that are generally supportive of their friends and unafraid to speak their minds. All this taken into account, some downfalls of their personalities are that they can react aggressively towards critique or inquiry, get bored easier than (most) other types and are easily distracted. Their empathy can also come off as superficial or insincere because of their playful, non-serious attitudes (remember, we even got to see Angel struggle with empathy and support when he was attempting to console Charlie).

Charlie: ENFJ - Extroverted, Intuitive, Feeling, Judging

Charlie is the definition of an ENFJ. She is a benevolent idealist who wants to see the best in people, and honestly believes in the best in people (as we see with her dream/goal for the Happy Hazbin Hotel. She wants to inspire and be inspired. Her type is actually pretty intrinsic to the plot at large). Charlie is unbelievably selfless; her motivations and what she wishes to contribute to those and the world around her are for their betterment. She is infatuated with the thought of things but needs the assistance in executing those thoughts and dreams into reality. Weaknesses that accompany this type and definitely Charlie herself are: not thinking things through, stubbornness/lack of flexibility (particularly for themselves), and being prone to burning themselves out. From the onset of the pilot all the way until the end she’s pushing herself, having difficulty really taking advice/direction and isn’t willing to see beyond her own scope of things.

Husk: ISTP - Introverted, Sensing, Thinking, Perceiving

Coming up with a likely MBTI for Husk was an enjoyable challenge! It definitely put my critical interpreting to the test and also helped me more critically assess the MBTIs for the other characters (though most of those wrote themselves/were much more apparent imo).

Husk is an avid gambler and alcoholic drinker, and these two things guided me in understanding his type. He appreciates tactile interaction and socialization on his own terms (as is required by most gambling), easily comes to decisions/conclusions from changes/information in his environment and is sensitive, for better or worse, to stimuli in his environment as many SPs are, and likely craves it actively or on a base level. Husk seems to be quietly dependable and competent/effective based off of Alastor’s (albeit humorously manipulative) words to him, which is a hallmark for ISTPs. He’s operationally a loner, but not misanthropic, just reserved/internalized unless caused to act. Some obvious issues that can arise with this MBTI and clearly would apply to Husk are: being distant or closed off, potentially risky or self-destructive behavior (yuuup~), and lacking compassion or emotional sensitivity.

Sir Pentious: ENTJ - Extroverted, Intuitive, Thinking, Judging

Pentious is goal-oriented (as are most other NJs), rational, intelligent and clever (despite his loud personality and Saturday morning villain aesthetic lol). He desires order and values exacting organized, calculated plans. He’s rather assertive and craves a high degree of control in his surroundings (I mean he’s a mechanical mastermind hellbent on ruling Hell and attaining more recognition and influence, after all). Being an EN type, he has a natural charisma, and much like many charismatic types, he wants to be noticed and valued. ENTJs have a tendency to desire legacy and recognition for their accomplishments since they are born leaders who enjoy setting all the dominoes in place, this is no truer than for Sir Pen. If he is to set up a lengthy, complex far-reaching plan to exact his visions, he wants to be noted, and noted well for that. Weaknesses that tend to hinder ENTJs are being overly confident and condescending, bossy, inflexible and prone to outbursts/meltdowns. If that’s not our snek idk what is tbh.

Vaggie: ISTJ - Introverted, Sensing, Thinking, Judging

Vaggie is logical (if fiery; which should not be confused for Feeling), perceptive (which should not be confused for Perceiving), reliable, detail-oriented and hard-working. She is incredibly dedicated and forward with her intents and expects no nonsense. ISTJs like to keep a keen eye on those in their surroundings and expect those around them to abide by the standards they set as they truly do value the tasks at hand and the well-being of those around them/those they’re in charge of or aiding. If we look at her interactions with Angel in the limo, and Alastor back at the hotel, it is super clear that she is protective personally and professionally of those under her care but also the hotel/Charlie’s endeavors. ISTJs aren’t typically noted as being the guardians and protectors, and that’s usually because others are only viewing those roles from a purely emotional standpoint. Though ISTJs still have feelings like any other human-being, they approach protecting and guarding as a matter of duty first and foremost (that they wouldn’t undertake if they didn’t care in the first place). Very Vaggie. Weaknesses that can befall people of this MBTI are: being stuck in their ways/stubborn, brash and indelicate, and being unable to compromise for/with others.

I hope I did justice to these wonderful characters and helped extrapolate on them some more! With any luck, ya’ll enjoy this and it serves as a great resource for writing these characters and their interpersonal interactions ;w;/ I know there’s no way to confirm any of this as canon, but I’d like to think it’s hopefully not too far off lol Thanks for reading~!!

#alastor #alastor hazbin hotel #sir pentious #angel dust hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel #charlie hazbin hotel #husk hazbin hotel #vaggie hazbin hotel #cherri bomb hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel meta #camerins metas #hazbin hotel theories

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pigballoon · 5 years

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Star Wars Episode IX: The Rise of Skywalker

(J.J. Abrams, 2019)

If you are one of those switch your brain off and enjoy it people then there is a lot to love in this movie. Big space battles, nostalgic callbacks, chase scenes, shooting, more nostalgia, lightsabering, amusing droids, death, two unnamed lesbian extras starring in their own Where's Waldo page, and more nostalgia.

If those things don't do much for you, or are not alone enough for you to enjoy a movie, and as someone who grew up watching Star Wars movies, they certainly were not for me, then this is the sort of movie that caps off a trilogy defined more than anything else by how much of a pastiche it was of Star Wars' of days gone by with the ultimate act of pastiche that in slapping itself together from bits of old Star Wars movies forgot to be particularly coherent (The conclusion for our beloved Leia Organa’s part in all this is particularly damning in this regard. Nice moments, obviously hamstrung by Carrie Fisher’s passing, but why do something some way if you don’t have the ability/material to pull it off?) in an overall way.

When George Lucas began releasing his much maligned prequel trilogy 20 years ago they were savaged by fans and critics alike from beginning to end, but Star Wars Episode IX, the for now last Star Wars movie makes me for one appreciate those admittedly badly made movies all the more. Overdosing on CGI they may have been, bad acting and occasional overwriting they may have been polluted by, but they were original (as original as any of these movies get anyway) stories taking the story of a galaxy far, far away in new directions. They were a clear counter part to their predecessors, where that was the tale of light, of saviours, new hope, and redemption, the prequels were a tale of darkness, of fear and frailty, falling empires and despair. This new trilogy, Abrams entries anyway, just appear to be tributes to the original movies. That Disney could have embarked on this undertaking without a clear thought through arc is bewildering beyond belief, and after getting away with it for 2 movies, with The Rise of Skywalker the chickens have well and truly come home to roost.

JJ Abrams, and Chris Terrio, the academy award winning genius who reduced Argo to what it was, couldn't writing a satisfying Batman and Superman movie in spite of trying twice, is now given the keys to the kingdom in taking home a 42 year saga, but more importantly, retconning as much of Rian Johnson's Last Jedi as possible. In the process it becomes a mess of a movie that can barely even seem to stay logically straight within its own confines, and in its desire to be an act of worship to Star Wars movies of the past manages to triumphantly undo even the socially agreed upon good ones. *spoilers* the end of Return of the Jedi now literally means nothing. *end spoilers* That’s the other great crime of this movie. Kylo Ren putting his helmet back on, key details left out of the film but included in tie-in books, like last years Solo it ties these movies in far too much with the extended universe beyond, it ties it all in with the merchandise, the toys, its testament to modern blockbuster filmmaking at its worst. A corporation trying to drain every cent from you that they can.

I mentioned before how it is all an act of worship to the original movies, but the one thing you can say for this film is that it is so more in the way it cashes in on Star Wars iconography of days gone by more than how it narratively treads as much already tread water as both The Force Awakens and The Last Jedi did.

The trouble is that in trying to do that it reveals what a lot of creative bankruptcy there is in the brains of the people making it. So many scenes come off like the creation of some preteen more interested in crafting new cool moments around characters and ideas long established than trying to tell a coherent story. The opening minutes in particular are particularly bewildering from a writing, editing, directing point of view, and is almost certainly the worst introduction to a Star Wars movie ever. I guess now we know why they stuck to the old formulas so closely... Even when they do come up with a good moment (”but there are more of us”) if you happened to be one of the number of people that a few months ago watched the now highest grossing movie of all time then you may have seen a scene that did almost the exact same thing. Further still as more testament to the storytelling incompetence of its creators it manages to immediately undo that moment in order to give us one more moment of nostalgia driven fan service.

So yes, comfortably the worst Star Wars movie I’ve ever laid eyes on. Takes Solo’s issues with trying to transform itself from major movie event into one small part in the larger Disney cog innumerable steps further, makes me pine for the savaged prequel trilogy that had an actual new story to tell rather than just coasting entirely on nostalgia and iconography, completely dismantles the half built arc of its own trilogy, and commits again and again that crime of final chapters where instead of riding your two acts already told story to the finish line, it spends too much time introducing new ideas, new characters, again, we can assume as slaves to the corporation that created them to have new content to shuffle into its other products. It’s a heinous piece of work on so many levels that makes certainly this lifelong Star Wars fan more fully appreciate the franchises weaknesses in days gone by.

Still, the one genuinely good thing here is the conclusion to the central arc of Daisy Ridley’s Rey. Granted, in going the way that they go with it they are annihilating a large part of The Last Jedi’s subtextual brilliance (they try bringing that back to some degree with the aforementioned rare good moment, but then undo it with their pandering stupidity) but her internal struggle over the course of the movie is really well written, and brilliantly played by Ridley herself, and the conclusion basically satisfactory, even if in its wrapping up it still can’t avoid the wallowing in nostalgia. Storytelling wise they could have surely picked a more appropriate location for that character, and the two characters she’s honouring.

I could go on and on with the issues that just keep overriding even the good stuff, but anyway, I’m sad to say I’m just sort of relieved it’s all over. I remember the feeling of sadness when Revenge of the Sith ended, going to see it over and over again, feeling this was really the end, not wanting it to be over. In the 15 years since the cinematic landscape has changed so much that not only do I have not even the slightest doubt that this will all be back (and that in spite of it selling itself as the conclusion of the Skywalker saga, Skywalker’s even if in name only, will feature.) but after two promising previous entries it’s whimpered out so spectacularly that I’m just happy it’s been put out of its misery. 42 years on from the emergence of a new hope... I’ve lost all hope.

#star wars #the rise of skywalker #episode ix #episode 9 #rise of skywalker #star wars episode ix: the rise of skywalker #jj abrams #j.j. abrams #j.j abrams #daisy ridley

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snowbellewells · 5 years

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Self Promo Sunday: “Strays Find a Way Home”

(I wrote this back before 5x21 aired, and so in the world of this story, Robin Hood lives. In this story's timeline, the funeral was Killian's, and his return was not right there at the cemetery. Also, I can't take total credit for this one, as I saw the prompt/idea on Tumblr a while back. There were a few people discussing, "what if Emma found this little black kitten with blue eyes like Killian's, she and Henry took it in, and it helped her deal with the loss of her pirate?" I hope no one feels any disrespect that I had to try it as well. The idea just rooted into my imagination and wouldn't leave! I've seen at least one other story from this idea, but I think this one is unique in its own way, and I hope you'll enjoy! Please let me know what you think – I'd love to hear your thoughts!)

And of course, they aren't mine, I only own my ideas and the fluff I want to give Killian and Emma a break to enjoy! ;)

"Strays Find a Way Home"

By: @snowbellewells

Coming home from the funeral of her True Love is the sort of crushing blow Emma Swan could never have imagined herself enduring. Not so very long ago, she was completely alone, encased in her armor, tough, self-sufficient, and – if not happy – at least settled with her lot in life. Bail bondsperson Emma in her tiny apartment in Boston couldn't have envisioned her son, her parents, friends, and then a stubborn, charming, sexy, devoted pirate, working their way over her walls and making themselves at home in her forcibly expanded heart, but by extension, she'd also thought she was shielded from this level of pain. Now, her heart, which – no matter how hard she tries – still feels, is cleaved in two as surely as it was in a prison infirmary nearly fourteen years ago as her newborn was carried away where she couldn't follow. She had vowed never again… Yet, piece by piece her loved ones dismantled her inner stronghold and made themselves at home with her until she'd had no choice but to relent and return their affection.

Killian had done so more than any of them. She'd wanted to run from him and the feelings rushing back after a decade of disuse from the very moment she saw him as the dust cleared in that destroyed haven of the Enchanted Forest. She couldn't deny how fast her heart had beat when he bandaged her hand with his scarf atop the beanstalk, how tremors had run through her body as his fingers brushed her palm when he returned the bean allowing them to follow Henry to Neverland, how feverishly her blood had burned when she'd grasped his lapels in her fists and hauled him toward her in the midst of that thick, muggy jungle for their first kiss, or how sickeningly her stomach churned when the Snow Queen's jagged spikes of ice nearly pierced him, almost taking her infuriating rogue away from her. It made her crazy to be so attached to him, and she'd fought admitting it for so long, until the day her tears finally broke free as she fully accepted the inevitable when he had told her she was his happy ending. Killian had actually, however improbably, made her believe in the fairy tale, all of it: who she was, her magic, her family and her home, and his own love and devotion.

Now he was gone.

The service had been brief, but heartfelt, and Emma knew instinctively that Killian would have been moved by how many of the townsfolk were in attendance to mourn his loss. However nothing would have touched him more than the young man he had treated as his own son, than Henry's, show of both grief and bravery. Manfully, her boy had stood at her side, shedding only a few silent tears, almost as tall as she was and doing his best to lend support as she leaned her head on his shoulder. Both he and David had said a few words in Killian's honor, which the other attendees seemed to appreciate, though she couldn't seem to focus on anyone specifically, staring blankly at his headstone instead. Then her son had stepped forward, setting a perfect sailor's knot – one of the first Killian had taught him – on top of the marker. It was then that she had given Regina a beseeching look as the memorial concluded, and his other mother had convinced Henry to come to Granny's for the impromptu wake of sorts with her, Robin, Roland, and their baby girl, giving Emma a moment alone.

Her mom and dad had hesitated, Charming looking torn about leaving his "mate" there in that dusky, cold cemetery rain, finally admitting that their mission had failed, and Snow looking desperately as though she wanted to hover, to placate, to offer hope where Emma knew there was none. But at the look they saw in her eyes, both had halted and then told her they would wait for her in the truck before heading away from the fresh plot.

Once she was by herself, Emma stepped forward, wiping the moisture of the soft rain and tears from her face, no longer sure which were which as they blended while she stood in the drizzle and laid her hand on the marbled stone polished smooth, wishing that he could feel her touch and that she could still draw from his constant warmth. Reaching into the pocket of her dark coat, she pulled out and almost reverently cradled a small flask filled with rum. It wasn't his. They hadn't found it on his body, realizing belatedly that he hadn't been seen to pull it out for a drink nearly as often in his last few months. She had bought this one specifically for her purpose today, to leave as a final offering here in his last resting place. She'd had it engraved simply "K.J." in delicate, swooping script.

She raised the flask toward his marker, murmuring "Here's to you, Killian" in a final toast. "You were right, you know, I couldn't handle it." She almost smiled, remembering the challenge, the teasing, the sparks at their beginning, and all that had followed, when he had been continually at her side, helping her meet each new undertaking, even when she didn't know how or thought she had no more to give. That done, she brought the flask to her lips and took a long sip, letting the liquor travel down her throat, warming and lingering on her tongue and in her chest. Then, swallowing firmly and nodding to herself, admitting that there was nothing more for her here, no way that lingering would bring her pirate back, she tipped the flask, pouring the rest of the amber liquid out over the freshly turned earth, then placed the small, silver container at the base of his stone.

Whispering huskily, Emma bowed her head, wishing so desperately once more that she were not speaking at his grave, "You changed me, Pirate… more than I would have thought possible. It hurts…" she had to pause, gulping air for a moment until she could continue, "but…I won't go back. I won't shut the rest of them out…I promised you…and I'll keep it."

Nothing else to do, she touched her fingers to her lips, then pressed that semblance of a kiss to the etched letters of his name in cold, wet granite and turned to slowly walk away.

~~~~~~~~~~~CS~~~~~~~~~~

It wasn't until she stepped out of the truck, unfolding her shaking legs to touch down weakly on her front walk, and turned back to promise her parents she would speak to them later, that Emma registered anything else clearly through the vague fog of grief she'd slipped into after leaving behind what remained of her True Love here in this realm. She waved gamely, heaving a sigh of relief when they pulled away from the curb. She knew they only wanted to help, but she could barely breathe and stay standing, she couldn't remain stoic in others' presence much longer. With tired head bent and shoulders slumped, she made her way up the front steps of the white two-story and let herself in. Standing in the entryway and looking around at the house she had hoped the two of them, with Henry, would fill together with laughter and hope for the future they had earned, she nearly crumpled to her knees, feeling sobs she'd kept down for the last two hours rising up to consume her.

Frantically Emma stalked through the kitchen, down the hall, and out onto the screened back porch looking out over Storybrooke's small harbor, needing to escape from the interior of this place she now feared would never truly be a home. Of course, as she stood there feeling the chilled evening breeze on her flushed cheeks and blinking rapidly while she brought her breathing back under control, her eyes came to rest on the Jolly Roger docked proudly at the pier and a strangled cry tore from her throat. He was everywhere – inescapable – so much a part of her now, and yet not close enough for her to hold.

Clawing against the rising panic, sniffling and wiping away tears, she heard a small, plaintive cry that was not her own. Pausing, perking her ears up, and nearing the latched screen door to peer down the steps into the closest part of the backyard, Emma strained to catch the sound again. Sure enough, a pitiful little squeak, hovering barely audible over the sound of the wind and the rain falling on the roof, came to her ears once more. It cracked as though about to give out, while she strained to see anything in the gathering dusk. She held her breath, and the sound peeped up once more, seemingly almost underfoot, this time recognizable as the pleading, tiny "mew" of a lost cat.

For a brief moment, Emma caught the quick glimmer of an animal gaze near the bottom step, huddled in the barest shelter of the wooden stairs to the porch and a badly neglected rosebush. Quickly, she unlatched the door and descended the steps. Bending swiftly and hoping the thing wouldn't run, she reached out to scoop up a bedraggled, wet, and muddy bit of fur, so dirty it was impossible to tell its color, eyes matted so helplessly that it could barely open them enough to look up at her, though it tried, and nearly weightless in her gentle hold.

She spoke in a whisper, trying not startle it, and tucked the tiny kitten in her hands against the shelter of her chest, caring little for how dirty it was quickly turning her formal black attire; she would never be able to wear these things again anyway. "What are you doing out here all alone, little guy?" she asked, worried over how young and feeble it was.

Feeling a surge of protectiveness for someone worse off and needing comfort even more than she did, Emma was already back up the porch, latching the screen door, and through to the kitchen, on a mission now and glad for anything to divert her focus for at least a moment or two. "It's gonna be okay," she promised the slight, quivering bit of skin and bones she held. "We'll get you all fixed up."

Henry would be back after supper, and if nothing else, this little visitor would make him smile. She couldn't very well let the poor thing suffer out in the rain, and it was clearly starving. She could figure out what to do with it long term tomorrow…

Half an hour later, the kitten was washed and rinsed thoroughly in her kitchen sink full of warm, sudsy water, and Emma was drying him with an old hand towel until he gradually came to resemble the soft, fluffy, black ball of cuddly fur he was meant to be. Turning her attention to his eyes next, Emma found that where they had been firmly almost sealed closed before, that had softened now. Brushing gently, hoping the poor critter wouldn't panic and scratch her to bits, Emma used the corner of the towel to wipe the last of the matted gunk away and coax the kitten's eyes open.

A small, soft whine issued from its mouth in protest at her ministrations, but first one and then the other eye blinked open to peek out at her. Her heart ground to a halt as they did, her chest clenching painfully. Those eyes were startlingly blue – a clear, sparkling shade she’d thought she would never see again. With the inky black fur and those curious, knowing blue eyes studying her, Emma's mind flashed to Killian so viscerally it nearly sent her to her knees.

Gripping the edge of the countertop to steady herself, she forced several deep breaths, drawing air in and out of her tightened lungs. The kitten tilted its head, studying her with an oddly puzzled expression, and then ventured from the mound of terrycloth he had been swathed in by her drying efforts. Picking his way over to her on soft, silent feet, he looked up at Emma hopefully before dipping his head to rub against the back of her hand, letting out another tiny chirrup of sound.

It might well have been her own floundering emotions, but Emma sensed almost human concern in the creature's gaze, and she scratched behind its ear affectionately, managing a watery smile. She moved to scrounge up something the hungry cat could eat, already finding herself way too attached, and she couldn't help asking the quiet around them, as if somehow her lost Love would hear. "Killian, did you send him to me?"

~~~~~~~~~~CS~~~~~~~~~~

By the time Henry returned three hours later, the kitten had eaten some bread soaked in milk, nearly stealing each piece she had torn off the loaf from her fingers with his paws before she could get them into the bowl. Emma had forced herself to swallow down some soup, she had made an entire list of things to purchase for her small new charge at the store, and she and the new arrival were curled up on the couch watching Dark Angel on Netflix. The kitten had settled himself up high on her chest, his head tucked warmly under her chin as she stroked his downy fur, a steady, low purr emanating from his tiny body, vibrating against her skin.

She had been so relieved the little guy was with her in her loneliness all evening, his tiny body warm against hers where she had felt there would only be emptiness from now on – Killian's comforting heat whenever he'd held her close lost to her forever. Emma knew Henry would love their family's tiny addition, but the kitten was also already hers as much as Henry's.

Her son entered the living room quietly, clearly subdued in his own right as well as unsure of how he would find his mom. But as he came around the couch to sit with her, his eyes found the new arrival and his face lit up. A watery chuckle and a shake of the head accompanied his question of "Who's this?" as he reached out to stroke the soft, black fur.

"Henry," Emma grinned proudly, even if her eyes were still red from tears and the smile was fleeting, "meet Pirate."

~~~~~~~~~~CS~~~~~~~~~~

To Henry's credit, he didn't question the name, and by the following morning, the initial prompting of it at least became obvious when the kitten sitting beside him on the kitchen counter flicked out a paw and swatted his spoon away just as the teen reached for it to eat his cereal. "Hey!" Henry exclaimed, catching the kitten before it could get far while trying to pull the shiny metal object nearly as big as he was along behind. Henry picked Pirate up, scratching him under the chin for a second before plunking the kitten down in front of its own breakfast and retrieving the pilfered utensil.

When he moved into the living room where his aboveground version of the storybook sat open to a blank page, and he began attempting to record Captain Hook's last brave adventure while Killian Jones, the man behind the moniker - the man he had begun looking to as a father figure - was still at the forefront of his mind, before the details began to fade with time and healing, he found that his chosen pen was not where he left it. Curled up on the seat across from him – seemingly dozing – Pirate cracked one eye open warily, and Henry realized that the little thief had curled up on top of the pen, as though hoarding anything with shiny tips or pieces away for himself. The way that the small cat peered back at him in challenge arrested Henry right in the motion of picking him up and closed his throat thickly. If the kitten possessed a human face, Henry could clearly imagine one eyebrow being raised in an expression asking, "And just what do you plan to do about it, Lad?" More than the animal purloining things, Henry suddenly saw exactly why his mom named their cat as she did, and what he was doing here when she had never mentioned wanting a pet before. "I'll get another pen," Henry croaked hoarsely to the empty room, patting Pirate on the head as he stood.

~~~~~~~~~~CS~~~~~~~~~~

Emma had been afraid to even enter the bedroom that first night. She had spent so long as the Dark One just waiting, hoping for the time that she could sleep again, when she could truly rest safely in her own home. All those dreams and wishes were ruined, her hope of finally curling up in his arms shattered forever, and she dreaded her first night in their room where she knew she would not find peace.

However, as one, then two, then three days dawned, and she managed a restless hour or two here and there, Emma found her heart full of gratitude and affection for the errant fluff ball who’d found his way to she and Henry's doorstep. That first night, with rain pattering down on the roof and the vision of Killian's grave still haunting her mind, Emma had made a little bed of blankets and an old sweater for Pirate at the foot of the living room couch, and then snorted a laugh and let it go when Henry had turned his pleading gaze on her and carted makeshift bed, cat, and all to his room. She had been certain not a wink of sleep was coming to her anyway, and so she might as well allow her son all the comfort he could get.

Sure enough, the hours of the night crept by in the dark and yet her eyes remained open, trying to bring the beloved features that should be there resting on the pillow beside her up before her dry, sleepless eyes. She rolled over, staring at the ceiling dimly lit by the moon's glow, trying not to let tears start flowing again. All the times she had ached to get home at last and sleep for weeks, and she still could not experience the healing comfort of rest.

At that moment, when despair had begun to creep back in more insidiously than ever, she felt the impact of something landing on the bed near her feet. Surprised, Emma rose on her elbows to peer down, glimpsing the waving tip of a furry tail as Pirate disappeared under the blankets; she could see the bump in the covers moving and felt the brush of his fur against her leg as he moved further up the bed. When the little face popped out at the top again with a soft "mew" of greeting, batting at her chin and then bumping her nose with his affectionately, those unnaturally blue eyes blinking knowingly at her, her heart couldn't really ache much more than it already did, and so the resemblance seemed almost reassuring.

"What's the matter, Kitty? Is sleepy Henry boring you?" she'd asked playfully, wiggling a finger before him to bat at. "Poor Pirate."

Meowing again as if to agree with her, her kitten lay down on her chest, gazing back at her sweetly, and Emma gratefully felt a small smile slip over her lips.

When she woke the next morning curled on her side, the sun streaming in the window, she hadn't been surprised at all to find Pirate nestled on the pillow near her head. He might not have been the pirate she'd hoped to have with her in the morning light, but just as her captain would have, he had stayed by her side.

~~~~~~~~~~CS~~~~~~~~~

A week after Pirate came to them, Emma was sitting on the back steps, watching as her father and Henry returned to their swordplay lessons in the shade of the large oak tree about hallway down the yard. Their words of challenge, encouragement and advice came to her ears on the light breeze, mingled with their laughter and the cracks of the wooden practice swords making contact. Emma smiled fondly – if a bit bittersweetly – glad to see her dad and her son genuinely happy, even if Killian would have loved and deserved to be there too, would have treasured adding to the lesson and being part of the familial bonding. She clutched the ring still on a chain around her neck, missing him sharply again, though he was never far from her mind.

Pirate, who had been playing happily at her feet, suddenly pulled up short, standing stock still for a moment, then darted off like a shot. Emma turned, meaning to follow him, and already opening her mouth to call his name, but was then frozen in shock –

Standing at the corner of the house, looking winded, exhausted, and a bit worse for wear, but pleased and disbelieving, and with love in his eyes, stood Killian Jones, seeming solid and alive. For a moment, Emma couldn’t process the miracle she was seeing, couldn’t take in what was right before her eyes. She blinked, shaking her head to clear it, expecting him to fade away and disappear, as he had when she'd dreamed of his return so many times before.

Then his mouth opened and he spoke hoarsely, a crackling tone of uncertainty in the single word, "S-Swan?" He was still real and there in front of her as she stood, tears streaming down her face. Behind her she heard the sounds of swordplay breaking off and exclamations of surprise ringing out as David and Henry caught sight of him too. That all faded vaguely into the background though as she whispered, "Killian?" shakily and ran into his arms.

She crashed into him with the force of waves breaking against rocky shores in a storm, and they were both trembling so hard with emotion and relief that the impact sent them toppling to the grassy lawn together in a heap.

"Emma…my love," he breathed, awed, just before their lips met and then he was laughing, she was laughing, both shedding tears as they did and placing quick, roving kisses all over each other's faces, hands tracing over shoulders, arms, and necks.

Then Henry has flung himself to the ground with them, wrapping Killian in an exuberant, tight embrace as well, laughing and crying right along with them.

David was only a few steps behind his grandson, and just barely managed to hold back from falling into the pile of arms and legs locked in giddy embrace. The Prince found that tears were welling in his own eyes too at the sight of his daughter's hard won love and happy ending returned to her from beyond the grave. Eventually, Emma and Henry both eased off of Killian enough that David could offer his hand to help pull his friend back to his feet, and once Killian stood facing him, David's arm clasp quickly turned into a fierce "man hug" that Killian Jones did not hesitate even a second to return.

Apparently this was the moment that their small new member of the family decided to reappear and make sure no one ignored him. Darting back out of the rose bushes, Pirate streaked over to them, and before anyone saw him strike, latched his claws into Killian's leg, just below where the leather pants stopped and sunk his claws into the man's ankles.

"Oi! What the devil?!" Killian cried, jerking in startled pain and kicking his leg out to dislodge whatever assailed him. Looking down, they all saw Pirate sail over the grass a couple of feet and, after shaking his head briefly to regather his bearings, begin stalking back toward them.

"Oh no you don't!" Henry stooped to scoop the kitten up and hold him to his chest as he showed Killian his furry attacker face to face. "Killian, this is Pirate. He must have gotten jealous at being left out."

"Pirate, eh?" Killian asked, arching a brow sidelong at Emma. Gamely, he reached out to brush a gentle finger over the kitten's forehead, and just like that, the little thing stared up at him, charmed as everyone else by the man before him. Looking at Emma once more, while still lightly stroking the kitten's fur, her sailor’s voice went softer, aching, though he tried to make the words lighthearted. "Missed me that much did you, Lass?"

Emma had to swallow hard around the lump in her throat even to rasp out her answer, "You know that I did." She was hovering at his elbow, clearly not wanting to let him even an inch out of her reach, and Killian gravitated like a magnet to her in return, always leaning toward her.

David remembered his own and Snow's early days together, when one thing after another seemed constantly determined to separate them, and he understood all too well. It wasn't long before he was promising to see his mate again soon, giving his daughter a kiss on the forehead and making himself scarce so that this little fledgling family could re-acclimate itself and he could go home to tell Snow the good news. Emma chuckled despite watery eyes, her arm threaded through Killian's and her head leaning on his shoulder as Henry urged him inside, anxious to show the man how he had written his quest with Arthur in the Underworld, and to show Killian what he had done with his new room.

Looking back over his shoulder once more just before he turned the corner of the house, David smiled in contentment at the sight of the three of them climbing the back steps together, nothing else mattering in this world but their reunion. It was all he’d ever wanted for them.

~~~~~~~~~~CS~~~~~~~~~

That night as Emma got ready for bed she couldn’t remember when she'd ever felt so free, so light, so unaccountably happy that it almost scared her. She couldn’t help fearing when it might all be taken from her again. Stepping back into the master bedroom from her attached bath, one of Killian's formerly retired black pirate shirts skimming her mid-thigh as she gathered her hair into a ponytail, Emma smirked at the sight that greeted her.

Killian sat on the bed, looking adorably comfy and yet somehow still unfairly sexy in grey sweatpants and a plain, white t-shirt. What fully completed the picture was Pirate purring happily on his lap, rubbing his head against her love's fingers, eyes closed in bliss as Killian scratched behind his ears. The kitten's tail switched back and forth playfully, lapping up her man's attention, and Killian was grinning down at the cat indulgently. When he glanced up again to catch her eyes, his were twinkling, and his grin was wide and bright, making her heart flutter.

Padding barefoot across the carpet to stand before him, Emma delved her hands into his thick dark hair, brushing her thumbs over his temples. Killian tilted his head back to gaze up at her adoringly, devastating smile on his face gleaming with mischief and love, hand and hook trailing over the back of her knees as she came to a stop before him. His mouth fell open, simply relishing her touch and the moment. Then a grin lifted one corner of his mouth, he licked his lips salaciously and asked, "See something you like, Swan?"

Her breath hitched, her hand on his chest pushing him to recline slightly and following him with her own body. Pirate was unseated and spit unhappily, hopping off the bed and flattening his ears back in irritation, glowering at them from the floor in affront, as if they had insulted him personally and Emma had just stolen his new favorite human. His blue eyes narrowed as he studied them both, and it was suddenly all Emma can do not to burst out laughing at how much the kitten's expression resembled Killian's offense when someone calls the Jolly Roger a mere 'boat'.

Trailing her finger through the enticing dark hair peeking from the vee'd neck of his shirt, she leaned in to trace along Killian's cheek with her nose, biting her lower lip lightly in anticipation. Nodding as she stared deep into his eyes, she replied. "Oh, I see something I like, alright."

"Well, then, Love, what do you plan to do about it?" he bantered back.

"Plenty," she assured, snapping her fingers to douse the lights. However, she then curled into him, arms wrapping around him tightly, her body language practically begging him to do the same. "For the rest of our lives," she added emphatically, "but for tonight. Will you just hold me?.. Please?"

Killian swallowed hard at her words, hearing the devastation she had been living with in her voice and knowing its echo from how he had felt below, thinking she was lost to him and that he had no hope of ever reaching her again. "Aye, Emma, I can do that."

His eyes had adjusted just enough that after she sighed in relief, and they lay together for several quiet moments, legs entangled, her head on his chest, his fingers running through her hair, he could see her wink before she stole the last word. "By the way, you get to tell Pirate he can't have your pillow anymore."

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