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moonbaby26 · 4 years ago

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Title: A Party and a Spy

Pairing: Loki x Goddess!Reader

Summary: Story set nearer the Viking Age. You were a Greek sea goddess who crossed paths with the god of mischief. Continuation of previous chapter. Loki is forced to return to Asgard to unwillingly participate in the festivities honoring Odin and Thor’s victories in Alfheim. He ends up drunk and in a piss poor mood that he then wants you to help relieve. Your secret meetings also finally attract an unwanted visitor. Super brief cameos here by Sif, the warriors three, and Thor, as well as Heimdall again.

Warnings: Semi smut possibly, but no real sex this chapter. Sorry to tease, will be some next chapter. Here is just mentions of arousal, grinding through clothing. Mention of masturbation. Also some animal abuse, but a magical animal who will be fine I guess. The princes are just jerks like that.

Chapters: Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Taglist: @rosaline-black , @lawfeys , @loveableasshole , @insanitybyanothername , @just-wordsandthoughts , @cringingmemeries

My Masterlist

——————————

You still felt warm, your head just poking out from under the blanket as you stretched a little. Your hand ran out across the mattress after a moment though, contacting nothing to your surprise as you then opened your eyes.

As you quickly sat up, the look on your face must have said far too much as you heard a chuckle from nearby.

“No, goddess, I haven’t left just yet. My, you are expressive though.”

As you turned your head towards the voice, you saw Loki now sitting in one of the two chairs at the small table opposite your side of the bed.

He was still dressed only in a pair of pants you also quickly noted, yourself still so unused to seeing this much of him as your eyes lingered on the lean muscle and pale skin.

“What?” He asked, not missing that stare either, though the sly look in his eyes told you he knew damned well what you were now distracted with. He just wanted you to say it.

“Asgardians really do wear too many clothes, if you are any proper example anyway.” You replied simply though. Why hide so much all the time?

He raised an eyebrow, but was smirking as he taunted a little further. “Oh I can assure you, there is no one in Asgard like me. And you’d prefer this not be reserved just for you then?”

You tried not to look caught off guard. Even if he were only teasing, the implication that he’d still be keeping this type of intimacy for you alone was something that made your stomach flutter slightly.

“Come here.” He said next though, snapping you back to attention, though you still hesitated. Was that a command or a request?

He only rolled his eyes after a moment though. “Oh, don’t waste time trying to be proud now. I do have to leave shortly, it will already be late morning in Asgard by now.” He extended a hand to you. “So come, sit with me.”

You eventually acquiesced, standing from the bed then, though intending just to walk to the other chair. Yet the very moment you were close enough, he only grabbed you by the arm, pulling you down to sit on his lap instead.

He was surprisingly fast and strong when he wished to be, his arms already around your waist as well before you could think to try and stand again.

“There. That wasn’t so hard was it?” He spoke lowly against your ear as you shifted.

But to your surprise he didn’t touch you any further, even though one arm did stay around your waist to keep you steady as his other hand just went back to the table.

“I have a job for you.” He added, then moving his hand oddly as a piece of parchment paper and a writing quill appeared abruptly from thin air. “At least I think it may work. I’m sure the majority of these animals are illiterate. I’m hoping at least the clan chief has some shaman or someone of the sort that understands these runes. It’s the only written language I’ve ever seen in this land.”

But even as he started to write on the paper, your mind was still only fixating on what you’d just seen as you asked abruptly. “How did you do that?”

He seemed focused on whatever symbols he was now putting on the page, but he still answered. “How do I do what? They’re just runes.”

“No, how did you conjure the pen and paper?” Controlling the elements, moving objects by will, or casting illusions was one thing. But forming a very unnatural, man made object from essentially nothing was different than the typical kind of magic you were used to.

Loki paused a moment then, like trying to digest what you’d just said before he glanced back up to look you in the eyes.

“The woman can move the seas themselves and is astonished by a piece of paper?” He mocked incredulously.

Your eyebrows lowered. “Listen, I know good and well I’m no sorceress. That’s why I’m asking. How do you create something like that from nothing?”

He shook his head. “Gods, they really just give magic to anyone these days.”

A joke clearly, as everything you had you had been born with, though learning to control it had taken time. And to be honest, was still an ongoing learning process. But you still wanted an answer as you looked at him pointedly.

He sighed under your gaze. “I really don’t have the time for this. But I know you won’t let it go.” He had continued writing though even as he kept talking. “I didn’t make them, goddess. I brought them with me. You are at least correct in that nearly all instances of magic, nothing can be made without taking of something else. I’m sure when you make those little whirlpools of yours for instance, you’re drawing the latent energy from the water. The currents, the temperature differences, what have you. To truly make something from nothing...well, that would be chaos magic. Which, may or may not even exist depending which of the ancient mages’ tomes you most believe in.”

You could tell he did take pride in his studies and the principles behind them clearly. If he wasn’t already concerned about returning to Asgard, you could probably get a whole lecture on this subject right now. But you couldn’t help but point out again, as you just responded. “Yet you still haven’t really answered my question. If you brought them with you, where were they before?” You glanced down at his pants as if to reaffirm your doubt that anything other than himself had been hidden there as they were relatively tight.

Yet he still smirked at your continued insistence. “On the scale of the things I’m capable of, my dear, that’s just a parlor trick. And if you really care so much, I can teach you at some other time.”

At that, he paused writing again though, placing the quill down momentarily as he then moved his hand again for a long dagger to abruptly be held in his palm. “You see? There are far better uses to this trick.” He flipped the knife just as quickly though, letting the blade’s point stab into the table as the dagger then stood on end.

And as it did so he made sure to look to see your reaction, also asking you, “Do you really just depend on your servants to follow you around at all hours with any weapons you may need?”

Yet you just looked from the dagger, then back to him. Surprised surely, but not actually frightened. “And do you have so many enemies as to always need that at the ready?”

“One never really knows do they?” He answered smoothly, just grasping the dagger’s handle again before it disappeared once more.

It didn’t seem like a threat really. But you felt he still wanted you to know a bit more of what he was capable of. You quieted afterward as he went back to writing for a few more moments.

When he was done, you could tell he glanced over the letter briefly, as if proofreading before he rolled the paper tightly and folded it.

He spoke rather business like then, an odd thing honestly as you still sat so intimately on his lap. “If it wasn’t already obvious, I’d like you to carry this to the village leader while I return to Asgard. I don’t have the time to deal with the mortals right now, and besides, they’re your pets.”

“Excuse me? Have you forgotten whose idea this whole ‘protector’ role was to begin with?”

“Oh, I was willing to let the lot of them be wiped out if you’d chosen not to save them. I’d only need to spare whichever the nicest home was from burning as the marauders moved through, and we still would have ended up with a place to meet regardless.”

The sad thing was, you were actually sure he really meant that too. But he just continued.

“Yet you pitied them, and now here we are. And as the beasts held up their end of the bargain, I agree it’s fair at least to give them some recognition for their work. A pat on the head and a ��good dog’ essentially, that’s what this letter says. So you see, I’m not wholly ungrateful.”

“A thank you letter?” You asked dryly. Relatively sure it likely didn’t read completely as such.

“Well, essentially. But with a reminder on the rules as well.”

“Rules?”

“Our privacy must be respected. I’ll put a green flame at the end of the trail nearer the village when we’re present. During the night, this place is also solely ours. If during the day there’s no flame, then they can come up and clean and maintenance this tiny wood hutch like good help should.”

“Your staff at your palace must just adore you.” You mused sarcastically. “The mortals are not our slaves, Loki.”

“It’s really an odd thing how you fancy them.” He retorted, though with an air of someone just humoring another person they already thought irreparably deluded. “But I suppose you have nothing else fulfilling to pass the time when I’m in Asgard. Some people like to paint, others like to craft things...you, you have your pets.”

Arrogant god you thought. As if suddenly you had no other purpose outside of him? Surely he saw that insulted look in your eyes as well, because you could see the entertained mirth in his own before he pulled you closer to kiss you suddenly.

And this one was rough again, briefly reminding you of that night in the cave as you felt his hands move down to your hips. His tongue was already in your mouth before you could even consider pulling away.

From last night when he’d only held you, to now seeming so hungry again, the sides of him could change so quickly you were learning.

His hands didn’t move beneath your dress though, even though you thought his fingers may be grabbing you hard enough to bruise as he twisted you to be fully facing him. Straddling him actually with each of your legs now on either side of him as he rested against the back of the chair.

He kept kissing you, and it wasn’t long before you felt that distinct hardness against you even through his pants. As always though, you wore nothing beneath your dress, a matter of practicality really for as often as you were in the water. Who would want any undergarments constantly rubbing and chaffing where you were most sensitive? You liked sheer and loose material in the dresses you wore, so that it moved easily as you swam and dried quickly when you were on land.

But he knew all this by now of course, as he just ground his hips then, that rough seam of his pants then moving between your legs as he drug it back and forth.

He was intentionally trying to work you up. You sensed the trap, but still found your own hands moving across his bare chest soon enough.

Your newfound lack of willpower was really astounding. Finally though, you pulled your head back to break the kiss and warn him. “If you’re just doing this with no intention to actually follow through...”

“If you wanted it so badly, you could have taken it last night.” He retorted though. “I’ve already stayed too long.”

“Why can’t I want both?” You answered, meaning it as well. It wasn’t just sex, nor was it just being in his company. Neither by itself was enough anymore. Each had its own place.

He looked frustrated himself though as you felt him thrust against you reflexively, that bulge in his pants wasted even as it scraped against where you were now becoming wet. “I’m telling you, Odin is back at the palace now. I have to be calculated in the times I come and go. There is some damned ceremony today, likely starting any moment by now for their victories in Alfheim. If I’m not there, they’re going to come looking for me.”

As much as you knew he liked to bend the truth. It wouldn’t make sense for him to deny himself this right now unless it was actually for good reason.

“Well you’re the one who pulled me into your lap and kissed me.” You relented, though your own body now fully flustered and urging you to return to him even as you stood up and stepped away.

“Well you shouldn’t have slept so late.” He grumbled back. Pulling at his pants in some discomfort as he stood as well.

But you watched as his armor manifested then, horned helmet and all as his magic washed across him. What you guessed would now be his attire for the ceremony he’d spoken of. You assumed that clothing and armor had been in whatever void the pen, paper, and dagger had been.

At least with his illusions he could also conceal his arousal if it hadn’t faded on its own by the time he reached the palace though, you thought with some amusement.

Yet, even as he walked for the door, he taunted to you as if sensing your enjoyment of his current predicament. “You’re welcome to get back in the bed you know. Think of me while you self soothe, goddess.”

So crude. But you just fired back before he could close the door. “And is that what you do at night in Asgard? Think of yourself as well to finish things off?” You were trying to mock his evident self importance of course.

Yet he didn’t even miss a beat at the intended insult. “Why be myself when I can just be you? Then I never have to forget how you feel.”

And just to prove that he could, you stared in disbelief as a perfect likeness of yourself then smiled back at you lewdly, thin dress and all before shutting the door unceremoniously.

Gods. That was just unnatural. And you had to sit down at that, arousal now paused at least as your body’s resulting confusion was almost palpable.

———————————

Asgard, not long after

Loki was back to his normal appearance, hurriedly stepping into the small grouping of warriors he’d recognized at once in the rest of the crowd at the palace ceremonial hall.

Sif’s head turned in immediate surprise and annoyance as those golden horns entered her peripheral vision. The irritation was evident even as she tried to keep her voice low with so many others still around them. “And just where have you been!? Thor was looking for you everywhere!”

“I was in the library, did he think to look in the library!?” Loki spat back immediately, knowing that even if his brother had checked there, Thor knew the layout of it so poorly, he could always have claimed to have been in another section.

“Yet why are you breathing so hard, chap? Were you actually running?” Fandral asked as well, also looking Loki over.

“And why pray tell would I have been running?” Loki shot a glare to him next. Could they not mind their own damned business for once?

“Because you were late?” Volstagg offered in that simplistic, yet matter of fact way that was always beyond annoying even on the best day.

“Well I’m here now.” Loki huffed, though not missing the way Hogun was also staring at him critically. “And do you have something to add?” Loki grumbled at him.

But only Sif answered. “Well if you hadn’t been lost in the library,” Her tone made clear how little she believed that excuse, “You’d know that Thor chose you to give the congratulatory speech before-”

“The what?” Loki stared at her, that odd mix of horror and disgust then abruptly clear on his face.

——————————

“So what more can I say of Asgard’s favorite son?” Loki’s public speaking voice boomed richly through the great hall, the throng of happy faces sickening as he smiled right back at them. What fresh Hel was this really?

“Alfheim counts her graces I am sure to have such noble saviors defend her-” By the gods he didn’t even know what Odin and Thor had done there the entire time. He assumed there’d been skull bashing and the normal heroics. But if they’d been working out peace treaties instead the last few weeks, who knew. He’d been looking for hidden portals to Midgard still on the days they’d held the main debriefings.

“And with peace secured in the realms once more, please join me in giving thanks to the noble Allfather and the mighty Thor!” Loki wasn’t normally one for alcohol. Not in comparison to most Asgardians anyway. He thought it dulled the mind too much. But by all the mages in all the realms...he so badly needed it now, as he took a large swig of the strongest Asgard had, before throwing the glass down to shatter it as was custom. “And let the feasts commence!”

The crowd erupted in cheers. And on any other day, that would have been something he obviously would have wanted. But Loki knew that not one voice was for him as he suddenly felt a large hand and arm go around his shoulders, shaking him roughly before his brother’s voice joined the yells, yet right in his ear.

“HUZZAH!” Thor cried, one arm still around Loki as his other lifted Mjolnir triumphantly.

—————————

And it was so many hours later before Loki had finally escaped. Time and time again as he’d tried to excuse himself from the endless barrage of drinks and food, it was as if his brother had somehow sensed it.

Then there would be Thor again, telling him any one of those same stories over and over as he’d somehow corralled Loki back into the feast room. If he’d had to hear one more time how with one hand forced behind his back, and Mjolnir still in mid air, that Thor had kicked one of the enemies’ bombs right back into their own garrison, taking out an entire enemy troop as more of their stored artillery then exploded...Loki may have finally vomited.

As it was now, he wasn’t exactly walking a straight line either though. Just carrying his own helmet in one hand, his head already throbbing as he made his way slowly through the corridors. His other arm reaching out occasionally, grazing the walls for balance.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d drank so much. Well, more like been forced to drink so much, just to try and maintain his sanity in what was essentially just another gathering of his brother’s sycophants.

Honestly did Thor even see it? Did he really think all those hanger-ons were truly his friends? Perhaps there was some argument for Sif and the warriors three. As thick headed as they all were, they were about cut from the same cloth. And that was not a compliment.

But all the others? It’d be almost pitiable really if it weren’t so damned annoying. Yet maybe it was the alcohol there as well, making Loki linger on so many of these feelings again.

By the time he reached the entrance to his quarters, he was frowning as he pushed the heavy doors open. He still made sure that they shut fully behind him though as he waved his hand to lock them doubly with a spell.

It was not without precedent that in some true late night madness, either Thor, or Thor, Fandral, and Volstagg may still force entry to try and get him to accompany them on some additional drunken adventure while they were still riding so high on their accomplishments.

“Idiots,” Loki grumbled to no one though. Still stuck in that sour mood as he moved across the dark room, losing clothes as he did so before finally ending up in his elaborate bed. The silken sheets were then the only thing against his skin as he laid there in silence, though the room still feeling like it was moving slightly in his lingering vertigo.

But he just wanted to sleep. That and to will this headache and the thoughts that worsened it away.

But instead he only laid there. His drunken thoughts churning louder and louder as the minutes passed, alone in this extravagant, luxurious, and also very empty bed.

Scattered across the palace now, he could only imagine all the couplings likely occurring. Not necessarily in the full sense of the word. But he knew how these types of festivities normally ended.

Thor was likely in an archway somewhere with Sif, pawing at each other with all the finesse of a pair of schoolchildren. Fandral and Hogun would still be at a table, Fandral now showing off his sword to a couple maidens simultaneously with only thinly veiled euphemisms of how it compared to the hidden equivalent. And Volstagg would have his actual wife and children there, somehow still not bored of them yet as they all laughed together.

And that’s what it really was, laughable.

Loki rolled onto his side, glaring towards the balcony and the stars dotting the black sky beyond it. No, he didn’t need any of that farce of companionship. Not just for the sake of it anyway like all the others. He took what he wanted, when he wanted surely. Pleasure was one thing after all, but it didn’t control him.

You didn’t control him actually. Because no one controlled the god of mischief.

But the longer he lay there in silence, the more he could then imagine your fingers soon running through his hair, or the warmth of your lap to lay his aching head in. He’d had bad days before, many times retreating to this very room alone. But he didn’t have to be alone tonight. He didn’t have to be alone at all anymore did he?

“Goddamnit.” He finally hissed. It was foolhardy, dangerous even after just returning from Midgard already once today. But he wasn’t going to sleep tonight otherwise. Not until he had what he really wanted.

——————————

Loki certainly wasn’t going to be walking all the way to the bifrost gate. Not at this hour, and not in this condition. So he’d taken a form that at least no one would have second guessed if they’d just happened to look up as he’d passed quickly overhead.

One of Father’s ravens, or the rats with wings as he preferred to call them. And as he’d landed near Heimdall, then regaining his normal form, the older god just looked down at him, unimpressed.

“She’s returned to the ocean. She already sleeps.” Heimdall spoke unprompted.

Yet Loki’s eyebrows rose mockingly, even if his words took a little more effort right now. “Oh? Making a habit of watching her…even without me then? That’s a bit perverse.”

But the gatekeeper’s expression hardly changed at the insult, still so difficult to goad. “I saw you coming, and your questions to her whereabouts are becoming predictable.”

It was true. Loki had already come here several nights, yes. Mostly to check whether the mortals had finished that structure or not. And it’d finally been a pleasant reward just the other night when Heimdall had confirmed it already done and you there waiting.

“I don’t care where she is.” Loki retorted though. “I’m going to Midgard. Open the gate.”

“You are inebriated.” Heimdall warned.

“And you have a severely itritating penchant for stating the obvious…open the gate.” He commanded more forcefully.

“Anywhere in Midgard particular?” Heimdall answered.

Loki paused though, hearing that slightest change in the guardian’s normal stoic tone with those last words. “Are you…attempting to make a joke?”

“I did not wish to assume or state the obvious again as you said. And you also say you do not care where she is. So do you not care where you should land tonight then?”

He was! He was mocking him. Loki growled, pointing his finger for emphasis. “Now listen here…it has been a god awful, long day. Quit trying to dissuade me. Send me to the village, gatekeeper!”

“Any village?”

Gods. “My village, her village, whatever you want to call it. But do it or I’ll use the damned sword myself!”

With one last cheerless look down at Loki, Heimdall turned the sword then, opening the gate even as he warned a final time. “Do not fall from the bifrost, Prince. The universe is vast and does not suffer the careless well. Do remember as well that all things done have consequences in the end.”

But Loki had no time to search for deeper meaning in the words, just ruffling more as he walked towards the light. “Is that a threat?”

“Only a truth and a caution.” Heimdall again answered, just before the other disappeared back across the bridge.

———————————

And as the light left him again, Loki was once more in that dark forest. Yet, the ground far lighter colored than normal as to a little of his surprise, his boots now found fresh snow. Winter had finally arrived to this part of Midgard apparently.

He cursed, realizing it would have been far smarter to have told Heimdall to deposit him directly onto the beach this time as he’d now had to navigate back down the hillside and to the trail that led between the cliff face.

It had started snowing again as well as he walked, the large flakes sticking in his black hair by the time he reached the ocean’s edge. He should have told you just to stay at the cabin this morning. But he didn’t expect to be standing here again so soon either.

Loki didn’t care about the water at this point though, the waves rushing up around his feet and over the top of his boots as he trudged forward to call out. “Hear me, sea beasts! Hear me and bring your mistress to me!”

And it didn’t take long of course before he saw two feminine looking torsos rise just where the waves were breaking in the distance. Not quite human, but expressive enough that he could see the skepticism in their body language.

“She’s asleep!” One called back over the waves.

“Then go and wake her!” He only hissed back as if scolding an insubordinate child. Why did everyone feel the need to test him tonight?

But the two nymphs just looked at one another. The other then speaking. “What is so important? Are you claiming injury again?”

He scoffed at the jab, voice easily sliding into its darker range then, even in his continued drunken state. He did not have time for this. “Do not forget your place, water sprite.”

And as he made a move as if to step further into the water, he was pleased to see them both shrink back at that. When they disappeared not long after, he knew all he now had to do was wait.

—————————

You didn’t fully know what to expect. Why was he back so soon? Not that you should complain, but he’d made such a point about having to return to Asgard this morning, and he’d never come back so quickly before. Even though it was now dead of night.

The nymphs also said he’d been acting strangely, even a bit ruder than normal. They insisted you bring your spear, and so you had as you broke the surface only to find him sitting at the water’s edge. Though not even far enough onto the beach to stay dry as the water now ran around him and then pulled back with each successive wave. His pants and cloak were clearly soaked, snow also dotting all over him to your surprise.

“Loki?” You asked, concerned but cautious. Normally the rare sight of snow would have distracted you in its own right had you not been so focused on him. The north was still unique to you for all its differences.

“The cold doesn’t bother me either.” He said abruptly, seeing that worry in your eyes. But he didn’t stand out of the water. “You really should reprimand your servants…”

“It’s not quite that kind of a relationship.” You replied, though not defensively as you still tried to realize what was wrong with him. “Are you alright?”

“No.” He said simply.

If it was just another trick, it was a good one. But you felt you had no real choice but to behave as if he was sincere. You only laid your spear down in the water as you then moved to sit down beside him.

He looked over at you as you did, and you could see how tired he looked even in the darkness. So close to him then, that was finally when you smelled the scent of alcohol, impressively strong even over the salt smell of the ocean.

He was drunk.

“Loki…” You said again, unsure at all what would have driven him to this kind of excess. “Do you want me to help you to the cabin?”

He leaned closer though, as if to either kiss you or lay his head against yours. He did nuzzle your face slightly though as he whispered in your ear. “I want him to get closer first.” Before you could react though, he’d then grabbed your chin to keep you from looking away from him. “He can’t hear us over the noise of the sea…but don’t look away.”

And he did kiss you then, that heady taste of the alcohol almost as distracting as the nonsensical words. His hand was moving up your thigh as well as his other moved around to your back. It all seemed like only the beginnings of foreplay before just as suddenly, he then pushed you down beneath him. His hand that had been on your thigh pulled back simultaneously to throw a dagger violently out into the darkness.

You heard a distinct sound of a hit, a creature screech, and then chaotic flapping in the sand and snow somewhere near the cliff’s base.

Loki was now laying on top of you, your back still pressed into the wet sand as the water rushed back up around you both. He glanced back down at you then, ignoring the confusion in your eyes as he kissed you roughly several times more before finally pulling back again. “We’ll have to get back to that tomorrow…” He all but purred, mood shifting suddenly to satisfaction as he stood once more and offered you his hand.

Utterly baffled, you still took it, letting him help you up before he let go of you to walk off towards the distressed sounds you still heard near the cliff. You only hung back long enough to grab your spear before hurrying to follow him.

You didn’t know what kind of beast to expect from all the noise, and only found yourself more surprised as a pitiable looking black bird finally came into view. It flapped even harder upon seeing Loki, but with one wing clearly mangled and blood spattering the snow and sand around it.

“Oh, you over dramatic twat.” Loki fussed, snatching the hapless creature up with little fanfare as his other hand reclaimed his now bloody dagger, disappearing it again with his magic. “And which one are you?” He asked, holding it roughly near his face as it now continually tried to bite him in defiance.

You didn’t know what he was looking for, and you were about to say something about how harshly he was holding the poor animal before Loki smirked in recognition.

“Well…Muninn, you little vermin. You saw me leave the palace didn’t you? Did you really think I was your other half? Couldn’t leave well enough alone could you?”

What? So this was one of Odin’s ravens? But, Loki had just stabbed it! Was this not treason? Treason that you were now a party to? You had so many questions as your inner panic began to grow.

But Loki only kept smiling, talking with condescension to the injured bird. “Yet, for you to be here so quickly, then you’ve found my door for me. There’s a rift between Asgard and Midgard somewhere nearby…and for that you get to keep your other wing tonight, you little spy.”

—————————

As you passed back up the trail to the cabin together, you saw Loki had indeed kept his word about signaling to the mortals when you were here. A green flame floated, ethereal in midair at the edge of the tree-line.

It had a haunting look to it, but you said nothing, still so focused on Loki’s rough handling of the injured raven. And by the time you’d entered the woods, you could no longer contain yourself.

“Please don’t hold him by the chest like that. It makes it too hard for them to breathe. You’re going to suffocate him!”

At your outburst, Loki seemed to have a genuine moment of surprise, looking over at you before his normal superior expression returned. “Just because you can become a bird….doesn’t mean you should give a damn about this one. Don’t waste your time on kindness. Despite your bleeding heart, his loyalty lies only with the Allfather. He’ll snitch you out regardless.”

“But, he has lost a lot of blood. We can’t let him die, Loki…” You still kept on, worried the alcohol had truly made him lose all sense of judgement.

Again he just gave you the oddest look before outright laughing though. He shook the bird a little, making it squawk again, before continuing. “This rat and his brother are imbued with Odin’s magic. They cannot perish so easily as long as Odin still lives.”

Yet, that was still not comforting to you in the slightest. In what possible way could torturing a favored pet of the Allfather end positively for the two of you?

But Loki didn’t miss the way you still stared with disapproval, just rolling his eyes as you finally made it to the cabin. “Do you know how long we’ve dealt with these little pests? When Thor got his first slingshot as a boy, what do you think he practiced it on? When I learned my first spells, what did I test them on? There is nothing new to this…”

“That’s awful.” You grumbled, though watching as Loki did this odd movement with his shoulders, his magic shifting over him so that he was suddenly dry again.

As he walked inside, you had to shake the snow off yourself the old fashioned way. Your dress and hair still damp from that and the ocean combined as you followed him inside, leaning your spear against the wall before closing the door. “So you could do that the whole time,” You commented as to his drying trick, though not really surprised by anything else right now.

He smirked a little, knowing what you were thinking. With a wave of his hand a couple of the candles also lit. “Oh, I didn’t do it that night in the cave. You were supposed to take pity and ask me to take off some of my wet clothes…of course they ended up off anyway didn’t they?”

You crossed your arms, just frowning as he unceremoniously opened the chest on the floor next, tossing the injured Muninn into it before slamming it back closed.

“I’ll deal with you in the morning,” Loki threatened in response to the resulting angry squawk, giving the chest a light kick before the noise inside silenced.

When he turned to look at you again, he only offered a dark smile. Though still looking tired as he started to remove his clothes.

You tried to keep your disapproving look strong even as you realized he was using no magic at all, removing his vestments piece by piece as if to taunt you into further watching.

But looking away would have just goaded him too wouldn’t it? Letting him know the sight of his body still did things to you. You couldn’t win either way as all of his clothes finally laid piled on the floor, no neatness this time as he went lay nude in the bed.

You stood there a further moment, really not knowing what to do. He didn’t deserve to be rewarded right now in your mind. But were you just supposed to walk right back out the door? You didn’t have the willpower for that either, not anymore.

He watched you lazily too, waiting. His voice was quieter now though as he did speak again. “If I’d wanted to sleep alone…I would have just stayed in Asgard.”

Your shoulders lowered a little at the softer words, but you didn’t know how much you really believed him. You finally did approach the bed however, removing your wet dress, and not missing the way his eyes moved across your body before you climbed in under the blanket beside him.

But you could also tell he was in no condition for love making, even as you felt his hand encircle one of your wrists, himself then pulling your hand up so your fingers fell into his hair.

He gave you an imploring look, making his intention clear even if unexpected. It was so strange, but you complied, starting to rub your fingers through his hair and along his scalp gently.

The way he clearly relaxed into the touch reminded you so much of a placated animal truly. And he even closed his eyes as you just continued stroking, letting the black hair work repeatedly between your fingers.

To drunkenly cross the vast breadth of space just for this minor affection, also risking exposure by his Father’s informants, was it telling you that he really was so reckless after all? Or…was this becoming a real need for him?

Were you becoming a need in his life?

You felt him line up his body with yours, flesh to flesh as he got further comfortable.

“Thank you.” You heard him say at last. Surprising you enough that you could find nothing to say in return.

You just kept on with your soft touches though, comforting the troublesome prince all the way until he finally fell asleep in your arms.

——————————

(Continued in next chapter here)

#loki #loki fanfic #loki smut #loki fluff #loki x reader #loki x y/n #loki x you #loki x oc #loki odison x reader #loki odinson #loki layfeyson x reader #loki lafeyson #loki laufeyson #loki laufeyson x reader #loki odinson x you #loki odinson x y/n #loki laufeyson x you #loki laufeyson x y/n

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yandere-society · 4 years ago

Text

A Christmas Catastrophe

Pairing: Yandere Collector Yoongi x Collector YN

Synopsis: YN’s always been a collector. She’s always had the desire to possess any and everything she’s set her heart on. So when she finds an item she’s been wanting for over a year, she jumps at the chance to finally have it, unaware of the trap that’s been set just for her . . .

Word Count: 2422

Warnings: Yandere themes, Blood, Murder

Admin: @chimchimsauce

Request:

AN: This turned out way different than I was expecting it to, but I hope you enjoy it! It’s also pretty fucked up so . . .

Collecting is in YN’s blood, she’s sure. Ever since she was a small child, she was drawn to items she found interesting - rocks, bouncy balls, figurines, etc. But as she got older and her pockets began to fill with money of her own, YN’s collecting habits skyrocketed. Common items that anyone could obtain just wouldn’t cut it for her anymore. She set her eyes on things that were rare - things most collectors could only hope to set their eyes upon in real life. It’s caused her to get quite the following online in niche collectors communities. People message her to try and buy items from her collection but she never accepts, not even when the amount of money they offer is astronomical.

Half the appeal of having something is the fact that other people want it.

But collecting rare and expensive items is not easy. YN spends countless hours every week scouring online marketplaces and thrift shops to find the items that she has on her wish list. Her constant hunt for things has taken her to a variety of places - she’s driven hundreds of miles to go to estate sales, taken flights to attend conventions, and once even dated a guy who was related to the original artist of a piece she wanted.

She was successful every time. There is no feeling as satisfying as the first time holding an item she’s been searching relentlessly for. But it always fades quickly and she’s on to the next thing, the desire to possess and collect overtaking her once more.

YN has done some pretty crazy things in pursuit of her collection, but non as crazy as this. It had taken YN over a year to find this one item she was looking for - a misprint of a novel written by an author who died two hundred years ago. Based on what people think, there are only about a thousand of them in existence. YN read the re-edited version of the book and found it rather dull, but there are people who are willing to pay over ten grand just to have it.

When she finally found one for sale, YN was quick to buy a plane ticket to fly halfway across the world to pick the tome up. She’s never been this far away from home, but the thought of getting the book pushes any anxiety she may have out of mind. YN has no idea why or how this book ended up in South Korea of all places. But she’s even more surprised by the fact that it somehow landed in a small second-hand shop in a back alley of Seoul.

Thankfully, when she called last week to have the book pout on hold for her, she found out that the owner speaks English very well, so she won’t have a problem communicating with him.

YN looks at her phone, following the map through a labyrinth of abandoned alleys. Snow is falling gently, reminding YN that today is Christmas. Usually, she’d be at home celebrating with her family, but she was more than happy to drop them for a chance to get this book.

A bell rings when YN pushes open the door to the small shop, the warm air hitting her face and knocking away some of her chill. The shop is crowded with tall bookshelves stuffed to the brim with a variety of random items - most of which are covered in a thick layer of dust. It’s clear that no one really comes here and YN absently wonders how it’s still in business.

“Hello?” she calls out.

No response.

YN huffs. She hopes this Yoongi guy she’s supposed to be meeting hasn’t blown her off, especially since she had to take the longest flight known to man to get here.

She makes her way through the shop, feeling like a bull in a china shop with how carefully she has to avoid random piles of merchandise and the occasional broken item crushed into the worn floorboards.

YN makes it to the back of the store where a small desk is pushed against a wall, a thin, somewhat ghostly looking man sitting behind it. His eyes are unfocused and earbuds are plugged into his ears. He doesn’t even register her presence originally. YN has to tap the desk right in front of his face to get him to focus.

“Oh,” the man says, pulling his earbuds out, “You’re that girl here for the book, right? YN?”

YN nods, trying not to let her annoyance show.

“Yeah, that’s me,” she says.

“It’s in the back,” he says, “Follow me.”

He rises and YN is shocked by how . . . pale he is. He nearly looks sick and YN thinks she can see his veins even under the terrible light.

“Are you feeling okay?” she asks him as he steps out from behind the desk.

“What?” he asks her.

“Nothing,” she says, retracting her statement.

It really isn’t her business. As soon as she gets the book, she’s going to leave anyway so it doesn’t matter.

The man looks her over and something about his gaze makes her stiffen. It’s uncomfortable. His eyes are almost lifeless, brown but dead like frozen mud.

He’s so creepy.

He turns without another word and behinds to walk to the other edge of the store where YN assumes the storage room is. Even the way he walks is weird. His footsteps are too heavy, loud in a way that’s unnatural. He barely lifts his feet, but she can almost feel each step in his ribs.

As soon as YN has the book and pays, she’s leaving, never to return.

Yoongi pulls a set of skeleton keys out of his pocket, taking one and inserting it into the ancient lock on the door. The mechanisms groan, nearly refusing to open. The door does unlock when Yoongi applies a bit more pressure to the key and he steps inside, becoming YN to follow her.

It’s pitch black inside, making YN’s heartbeat speed up astronomically. An icky feeling wells up inside of her, the same one that appeared whenever she had to visit her great aunt and go down into her creepy basement.

YN’s senses are hyper-aware. The air is stale in here, laced with a scent she’s never experienced before. It almost makes her gag but she forces herself to hold it in, not wanting to be seen as rude. A yellow light turns on overhead, flickering before finally staying lit. Yoongi is closer to her than she’s like him to be, but his back is turned, looking at the shelves built into the room. Even these are stuffed to the brim, absolutely filthy and covered in grime.

“The book is in good condition like you said, right?” YN asks him.

She’s going to be pissed if he pulls out a book covered in rat droppings and cobwebs.

“Of course,” he says, like it’s obvious.

YN doesn’t quite believe him. Yoongi moves deeper into the storage room, YN following him. There are a variety of things in here that pique her interest - small items that float in murky water, a collection of old stained knives, and a snow globe bigger than her hand. She reaches out to touch it, curious about the scene inside of it, but Yoongi smacks her hand away before she can touch it.

YN brings it to her chest protectively, startled.

“Don’t touch that,” he hisses out.

“Sorry,” YN says.

“It’s in the very back,” Yoongi says.

YN swallows, following after him as he gets even deeper inside of the storage room. She looks at the snow globe over her shoulders, looking at the fake snow that’s swirling around even though she never got to shake it.

This whole experience has been really unsettling, so when Yoongi stops and pulls a perfectly preserved book off the shelf, YN nearly sags in relief.

She reaches her hand out for it and Yoongi places it in her palm.

“You’re quite the collector, huh?” he asks her, his fingers still wrapped around the book.

“Yeah,” YN says, gently trying to pull it away from him.

His grip tightens.

“So am I,” he says, smiling at her.

His teeth are incredibly straight and perfect, a complete contrast to the rest of his sickly and generally unkempt appearance.

“That’s nice,” YN says, “Can I have the book now?”

“You know, I think the rarer an item is, the better it is for collecting.”

YN nods, agreeing and trying to decide if she should just cut her losses and run. But she’s looked for this book for over a year now and she finally has it in her grasp. She can’t give up yet.

“What do you collect?” YN asks, hoping that indulging him in conversation will get this experience to fly by faster.

“Figurines, mostly,” he says, “Though everything else in this shop is mine as well, none of it holds my attention for very long. My figures, though. I adore them.”

“I like figures too,” YN says, all of the hairs on her body sticking straight up.

“Really? Would you like to see my collection?”

“No thank -”

“It won’t take long at all!” Yoongi says, suddenly insistent, “I’ll show you and then we can get you checked out, okay?”

Yoongi pulls the book away from YN entirely, practically dangling it in front of her. All the warning bells in her head are going off, but her desire to have this book has her internally soothing herself. Plenty of collectors are weird or just bad at speaking to people. He’s probably just the same as them.

“Okay,” YN says after a moment.

Yoongi gives her that perfect smile again and then turns to walk back the way they came, stopping in front of that snow globe. He picks it up and the entire shelf groans, sinking inwards and to the side to reveal a hidden pathway. A draft wafts up and tousles YN’s hair.

To hell with it. This is too far. Just as YN turns on her heel, preparing to run, Yoongi’s hand grasps her wrist, his skin cold as ice.

“You wanted to see right?” he asks her.

YN’s never seen a man so creepy. Everything about him is off.

“I changed my mind actually,” she says, wetting her lips and trying not to panic as those dead eyes follow the movement of her tongue, “I don’t really need the book.”

“Nonsense,” Yoongi says, dragging her inside, “You simply must see it.”

He’s surprisingly strong to look so sick. YN digs her heels into the floor but Yoongi has no problem dragging her inside. The door shuts behind them and Yoongi pulls her crying and screaming through another maze of pitch-black hallways until he steps foot into a showroom.

Everything in here is impeccable. The floors shine and the lights overhead are bright. Her attention is immediately brought to the dozens of life-sized figures he has, each of them different. There are men and women, figures of all shapes, sizes, and ages. It looks like a creepily realistic wax museum.

YN doesn’t want to know why Yoongi has these figures. All she wants to do is go home.

“Please let me go,” YN says, tears streaming down her face.

“Let you go?” Yoongi asks her as if he’s genuinely confused, “Why would I let you go? You’re the final piece before my collection is complete.”

YN’s blood turns to ice. She turns her head to look at the figure closest to her, noticing the way its skin is too lifeline to be made of wax.

“Please no,” she begs him, trying her best to fight him off.

Just as she swings her free hand at his skull, he drops her and pushes her harshly, sending her straight to the ground, her skull smacking into the floor.

Her ears ring and the bright lights overhead blur her vision. She feels nauseous as she raises her hand to touch the blood seeping from her scalp.

“Damn. I’ll have to make sure that gets cleaned up,” Yoongi mutters to himself, annoyed.

YN is terrified on the ground, but the blood on the ground makes her look like an angel, one surrounded by a halo. Yes, she really will be perfect, the very last piece of his collection.

He’s been following her for years, countlessly one step behind her as she snatched up several of the items he wanted for his own collection. It pissed him off to no end until he couldn’t stand it anymore. Even the thought of that smug smiles she always wears in her YouTube videos sent him into an outrage, one that landed him his first figure.

It was an accident, of course. The woman in his store had been there and accidentally knocked over one of his shelves, crushing her underneath it.

She could have been saved, probably, but he’d never seen someone with a face like hers, so completely one of a kind, something he knew that YN would never be able to possess.

And so a new obsession started. He would lure people he thought were interesting into his shop and lock them deep inside of it, propping them up on giant doll stands when they submitted to him.

It made him feel so powerful.

But YN was still out there, still always one step ahead of him. And so he laid this trap, ecstatic to finally have her in his possession.

Yoongi leans over YN, watching as the light slowly starts to fade from her eyes. It’s the prettiest thing he’s ever seen, a true Christmas miracle. He can’t resist sinking to his knees, watching as confusion and fear swirl in her eyes. For once, his own gaze isn’t clouded, clear as a night sky, dark and absent of stars.

Her blood smears on his fingers but he doesn’t mind, taking YN’s face in his hands tenderly and painting her lips crimson. He kisses her then, sucking her final breath into him, stealing it and her life away.

For an hour he just sits there and looks at her, completely mesmerized. She looks so beautiful in red that he decides to dress her in it, carefully pulling a red dress over her forms. She’s heavy in his arms when he picks her up and takes her to the spot he’s saved just for her, a plush red couch where she looks like she’s lounging peacefully, her lips smudged with her own lifeline.

And finally, his collection is complete.

#yandere society #yandere yoongi #literal murder sorry #i think i've been thinking about sangwoo too much #yandere bts #bts #yoongi

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neonponders · 3 years ago

Text

*sigh* catch me projecting on a Saturday.

I read this post ( @lazybakerart you wizard - ALSO IT’S YOUR BIRTHDAY?????? HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!! 🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹) and am now thinking about a sugardaddy!Billy with an ace!Steve. (*emphasis on grey ace*)

* Please nobody attack me for writing about leather fashion. I’m vegetarian and it’s fiction. Live a little. *

Read on ao3 ~

🌹 🌹 🌹 🌹 🌹 🌹 🌹

Steve just kind of stared at the box on the restaurant table. It wasn’t a ring box, but it was velvet. Goodness knew how many of these he’d seen in his life.

Steve knew wealth. He knew money, and all of the material variations therein.

He’d gotten pedicures with his mother before his father declared such a thing unfit for a boy coming into puberty. If you look like a man, act like a man. As if men didn’t have feet, or something.

Then he went to the salon. That wasn’t so easy to take away. Ventures with her son seemed to be the only things keeping Mrs. Harrington from being connected to her husband’s hip, so Mr. Harrington let them both have this one. Steve, fresh out of graduation, being given a hairdresser’s chair to accomplish summer-fresh highlights.

Mrs. Harrington was also the type of woman to enjoy shoes. Everyone has a thing. For some, they had bags. Others, jewelry. Vintage furniture. Designer wallpaper. Mrs. Harrington enjoyed shoes. It was where Steve learned to carry a woman’s bags, but he didn’t stay outside of the store. He learned how to clean suede, the difference between a 130 So Kate and an ordinary heel. What fetish meant in terms of fashion. He can convert heels sizes in millimeters to inches faster than a cashier calculating change.

Tommy and Carol had joked about Steve’s father having a different kind of fetish. Nothing to do with fashion, and everything to do with sex. Steve had foolishly let them into his mother’s bedroom and they were having a field day with a shoe closet that cost more than both of their houses combined. Still smelling of Nancy and pool chlorine, Steve as good as ended that friendship right there.

Because they didn’t get it.

Mr. Harrington certainly didn’t get it. Could never have such a sexual inclination because he didn’t understand pampering or indulgent interests.

He understood favors. Material apologies.

Mrs. Harrington had a collection of pearls and diamonds that she never wore.

Steve knew she liked opals and pink, pink rubies, because Steve liked opals too. Because he used his father’s money to buy ruby studs his mother actually wore. Because he gets her oldest, broken bracelet with green amber fixed, and she wears it until it breaks again. And then she presented Steve with a thin, gold chain to go around his ankle. With a gleaming, green amber stone flanked by two opals.

The green goes with our eyes, she said. Someone special will see the green in all that brown. It’s why we look good in reds.

Steve was still looking at the box on the table.

“It’s not going to catch fire, the longer you glare at it.”

His dark hazel, creek water eyes slanted up to the man sitting opposite him.

Billy Hargrove.

Stubborn to a fault. Gorgeous as Lucifer with wings freshly burnt off. And just as dangerous.

“I thought I said no more gifts.”

“And I ignored you. Open it.”

Steve went about it like ripping off a bandaid. He sighed at the window beside their booth, wrenching the thing open to see -

Diamonds.

He shut it with a loud clap and set it on Billy’s placemat. “No, thanks.”

The man’s features froze in tolerant stoicism, but he eased the box inside his suit jacket pocket. “You’re a hard one to shop for.”

Steve’s eyes widened dramatically over his wine glass of water. Not because he was sober - he’d willingly pay for an overpriced red, himself, if the handsome asshole weren’t trying to wave his wallet everywhere. “You can stop trying to buy your way into my pants any time you want.”

“If that’s all I wanted, I would’ve stopped three months ago.”

Three months ago,

When Billy breezed into Steve’s life as easily as he had senior year of high school. The two of them certainly deserved some kind of award for having a bizarre history.

Within a handful of months, Billy had arrived upon a turbulent time in Steve’s life, and then left nearly as quickly. Billy witnessed Steve and Nancy’s break-up, Steve’s fall from Hawkins High grace, and even beat his face a little bit. Because that’s what teenage men with bad emotional processing and even worse communication skills do.

Now, almost ten years later, Billy had some kind of empire behind him and Steve, well, didn’t. He had no idea what Billy’s job consisted of, but he got little hints. Mostly the negative space from Billy’s lack of discussing his job told Steve a whole lot.

Steve, who worked two jobs and occasional gigs wherever he was needed. During one such time, while Steve managed the cables and sound boards for Robin’s band, Billy Hargrove sauntered up to him with just as much charm mixed with hauteur as he’d ever displayed.

It wasn’t like meeting an old friend, because they had never been more than acquaintances, and roughly ten years was enough time for a personality to evolve ten different ways.

Steve couldn’t say how much he and Billy had evolved, really, but there was a point in there somewhere.

Maybe it lived in the, “I never expected to see you in a dyke club, pretty boy,” since it was all the coming out either of them needed.

Or the wanton kisses and fervent hands underneath the neon rainbow on the venue’s wall.

Maybe the point sat in the things Billy wanted, and what Steve was reticent to provide. Because Billy was a king who knew what he liked, and seemed particularly talented at walking into Steve’s personal crises like an anniversary.

Steve craved.

But he didn’t know what he craved. What he yearned for. He knew Billy’s kisses made his brain go molten and fuzzy. He knew Billy’s smell brought him just as much comfort, excitement, and anxiety. He knew finally being outside of sex-crazed high school had deflated something in him. The expectations to perform. He knew losing Robin’s stupid game of You Rule / You Suck gave him a secret gift of relief.

But he still craved. He wanted touch but he wanted to be alone. He wanted companionship but he didn’t want sex. But he did enjoy sex, except he didn’t want the expectation of it.

Well.

That was it, wasn’t it?

Billy Hargrove, who could have anyone he wanted plastered to his stupid, unbuttoned chest, had sought out Steve. Steve, king of mixed signals, Harrington. It was only a matter of time before he got his face beaten again. For wasting Billy’s time. For refusing Billy’s advances even though Steve clearly enjoyed Billy’s lips on his neck, and Billy’s hand on his inner thigh. For wanting Billy’s company and flirtation without the rules that finished in the bedroom.

So Steve refused the gifts. The material favors he could’ve sold for a better apartment. Fucked his way to owning a house that his mom would feel comfortable visiting. Be an unfeeling toy who could pay for his mother’s shoes and his own pedicures.

“Steve?”

He turned away from the window and the city’s electric constellations. “Hm?”

“Where’d you go?”

The back of Steve’s throat ached. He looked down at their appetizer plates and decided, “I think I’m going home.” After a second of them both hearing it out loud, Steve said with more conviction, “I need to be home right now. I’m sorry. Thanks for dinner.”

He almost reached for his wallet to pay for his half of the artichoke dip, but reconsidered. He took his old prom tuxedo jacket off on the way to the elevator, waiting for the doors to close before he pressed his face into the old fibers.

It would be easier if Steve didn’t know money. If wealth were a foreign pillow he had never slept on; could be spoiled into never giving it up again.

Like a true mother with a sixth sense, Steve withdrew a package from his mailbox when he returned to his apartment building. Mrs. Harrington’s versions of care packages were fashion magazines, a subscription to The New Yorker, polaroids of her latest closet pieces, and Steve’s favorite candy.

He loved it all. He didn’t need laminated recipes, bags of rice, or resupplied hair products. He went up to his bedroom, stripped down to nothing, and fell into bed with the hefty parcel. Fruity hard candies fell out like confetti, and he stuck a green apple square inside his cheek while he looked through her baggie of polaroids.

Peach suede 130s. Steve felt a warm tickle in his belly at that. She only wore 130s if she was pissed at his father. A woman in 130s walked with the force of a storm, mostly because the damn things were nearly intolerable to wear without a platform.

Another pair of diamond earrings. One of these days, people were going to realize how boring clear rocks were.

Dark, amethyst Miu Mius with the heel and toe encrusted with pearls. Steve’s dad must’ve really pissed her off to warrant that apology.

The magazine subscription had piled up, so he had three New Yorkers to read, but he opened the tome of Vogue first. His mother dog-earred her favorite articles, scent samples, and spreads. She often favored the androgynous and male fragrances. Steve liked that a whole lot. He wasn’t sure if she did that for him because he liked them, or if he liked them because she did that.

He held the magazine to his face as he went to the kitchen, smelling the first fragrance sample while he reached for his cache of boxed cake mix. It was a funfetti kind of night. He rattled the package of sprinkles in his hand while reading about some summer collection where the runway happened in a Greek ampitheatre. Sounded fun. Sounded like a great vacation. Beach, wine, and then modern art fusing with ancient architecture.

Steve didn’t excel in chemistry, but he knew a different kind of magic.

Which didn’t actually include baking. The cake emerged a little dark, but he cut off the burnt top, iced it to glorious, sugar perfection, and took a slice to bed with him. He turned the parcel upside-down for the last of the candy to come out so he could throw the envelope away -

Two bottles of nail polish landed heavily on the bed. Steve lifted the darker bottle to see a purple so ebony he thought it was black until he opened it to see the paint up close.

Purple and peach. To match his mother’s shoes.

Not many people understood his parents’ methods of producing or avoiding affection. But Steve did. He shook up the poison violet and painted his toenails in between forkfuls of cake.

He didn’t hear from Billy the next day.

Or the next.

As bad as Steve felt, he couldn’t say he minded. Nor would he be surprised if Billy never called him again. The idea brought a lonely peace during the commute to work, reading his magazines on the train before keeping them safe in a folder that he stuffed inside his backpack. Even if Steve’s chest felt like a cold balloon, with its latex worn thin and tired, he had his little things to keep him warm.

Then a knock on his apartment door.

Steve answered it with a cheek full of cake, interrupted from making his grocery list of actual nutritional value -

Billy had never visited before. Steve stared at him long enough for him to ask, “Are you going to let me in?”

Steve glanced at the box under his arm and turned into his apartment with a sigh. Billy closed the door behind him as he remarked, “You don’t know what’s in it yet.”

There wasn’t exactly anywhere for Steve to theatrically storm off to. His kitchen was also his living room, and a half-wall partitioned the bedroom off to the side. His apartment was one long rectangle, and Steve remained stuck in the middle of it.

“Billy, I don’t know what you want from me that you think you can get from expensive things.”

“I don’t recall asking for anything in return,” he drawled while removing his coat.

“Don’t take that off,” Steve retorted.

“I’m taking it off.”

“This isn’t going to be a long visit.”

“Would you at least open the damn thing first?” Billy presented the box on the flat of his hand like a waiter’s tray.

Steve knew a shoe box when he saw one. He swatted the lid off the box before he even meant to. He was so tired of this game. Of these rules. He doesn’t want to see some snotty designer sneaker that isn’t to his taste. Some item the rules would dictate he accept without complaint. Or some chunky, foamy plastic, glorified tennis shoe that is over hyped . . .

He sees the red first.

It’s not a sneaker.

Hot Chick heels. 100mm. Black suede on top, red bottom. The leather around the heel scallop-cut like minimalist flower petals.

Steve’s breath has stopped in his chest. The pad of his thumb moved across the soft, matte leather before he stops himself. He tries to look stern when he dares to peek up at Billy, but those water-turquoise eyes are steady on him, absorbing his every reaction.

“These don’t exist in suede.”

Because they didn’t. Hot Chicks came in patent leather only.

“They do now.”

“Louboutin sizes down.”

“Then we’ll have them stretched.”

Steve is losing. Billy knows he’s losing. Billy - he -

“How - ?” Steve begins but stops. He closed his eyes and swallowed, only to flinch a little when Billy grasped his chin, holding him in place as he leaned in to lick the corner of his mouth free of icing.

“Will you try them on for me?”

Steve feels a mixture of defeat mixed in with petulance and vulnerable glee as he warily takes the box to his humble couch. Billy looked at his bed, and then to the kitchen on the other side of the apartment. He strolled into it and lifted the knife for a slice.

Steve, meanwhile, took his time. He opened the paper from where it had floated back over the shoes. He lifted the box to inhale the leather. He took one shoe out just to...see it. Look at it. Read the number stamped on the red arch.

Steve had to remove his socks, revealing his lacquered toes as Billy sat next to him with a plate. He eased the coffee table out of the way, giving Steve room to wiggle his foot into the severe 100mm heel.

They were hardly glamorous under his old, cut-off sweats.

But.

He’d never actually seen his feet in heels before. Never bothered to try to find his size.

Billy handed him the other shoe, and stood up with a ready hand. Steve wiggled into it and accepted his hold as he stood up.

How do you walk in those? he’d once asked his mother.

Trust the heel, my love, she’d answered, strolling around her bedroom in her 130s. If you’ve paid enough for it, it better hold up your entire form, and your dating baggage.

Steve had laughed, but listened to her every word. Move like a wheel barrow. You pivot on your toes, like the wheel, and rest on the heels.

“I’ve got you,” Billy purred when Steve teetered. Just a little.

“Why did you get me these?” Steve had to ask while he began to ease his arm off of Billy’s shoulders.

“Might’ve had a look inside your mail,” he admitted shamelessly. “I thought you might’ve ordered something and I could finally see what you liked. Instead, it’s the one thing I’ve seen you accept.”

“You’re a creep,” Steve declared, but he couldn’t look away from his feet as he strolled around the coffee table.

Billy laughed and sat down to his cake. “This is good.”

“It’s from a box.”

“It’s still good.”

Things . . . changed, after that. Billy came over just to come over. And he pestered Steve with endless questions.

“Do you like these?” he asked with his nose against the magazine pages.

Steve towered over him in his heels, but he’d wash dishes in whatever he wanted, thanks very much. And leather needed to be worn, as his mother taught him. Plastic is trash. If it comes from a living creature, it lives on a creature.

Steve snorted beside him. “My mom crimps those pages.”

“But do you like them?”

“They’re fun in magazines, but perfumes were never really my thing.”

“What is your thing?”

“Right now? You, elbows deep in here.”

Billy perked right out of the magazine only to lock onto the sink. “Because you’re having trouble reaching it now?”

Steve meant to have a witty come-back, but he got caught up in his own giggles. “Yeah.”

Then,

“Can I stay the night?”

Something must have flashed across his face, because Billy added, “Not for sex. I’ve taken the hint, all right?”

Steve slowly unfolded his socks where he sat on the foot of the bed. “Why do you want to?”

Billy wiped his hands on the dish towel and padded across the room to sit beside him. “Because I want to taste you before I sleep. And I wanna taste you when I wake up. I want your snark in my ears all the time - ”

“All the time?” Steve repeated, deadpan.

“Yeah, all the time. I can’t believe it either.”

Billy’s features were warm, unbelievably warm as he watched Steve laugh. “Of course I want to have sex with you. But I miss you when... I miss you all the time. It’s embarrassing.”

Steve rolled his eyes onto him, to which Billy defended, “I have things to do.”

“Yeah, ‘cause you’re the big man in town,” Steve babied, pushing his chest so he toppled backward.

“I am, actually,” he crooned, his hands finding Steve’s legs easily when he straddled him. “I’d work better with you on my desk.”

“My hairy legs and scraped up heels?” Steve threatened breathily, holding Billy’s cheek and jaw in one hand while he leaned over him so all Billy could see was Steve.

“All of it,” he exhaled, and pulled Steve’s head the last inch for a kiss.

Billy’s next gift was a pair of slippers. Plush, soft, and perfect after an afternoon in 100s.

Then he gave Steve a massage. Steve could accept those with ease. The balls of his feet hurt and even blushed a faint indigo from being so unused to heels. The warm attention of Billy’s hands on the arches of his feet, heels, and ankles; as well as the cold tennis balls he stored in Steve’s freezer to roll along his feet.

By then, he’d seen Steve’s anklet. So the next shoe box Steve opened were dark green suede, as poisonously dark as his mother’s violet heels. The toe was bare, but the heel was encrusted with opals. The milky stones flashed green and orange as Steve walked in the 120mm heel.

“How do they feel?”

Steve, with far more mastery over heels now, pivoted on his toes and planted one on the couch in between Billy’s thighs. His warm hand cradled Steve’s ankle immediately.

“What if I shaved for these?”

“Then I’d never take my hands off you.”

“So nothing would change,” Steve giggled, teasing gone as he landed on Billy’s lap. The man underneath him hummed his mirth into Steve’s mouth, his other hand burying in Steve’s hair while he let Steve control the kiss, explore his mouth.

“I thought they’d go with your eyes,” he said when the kiss petered off and Steve kissed his nose. Billy touched the pad of his thumb high on Steve’s cheek. “There’s a little bit of green there.”

Steve let Billy fuck him in those shoes.

Because he finally craved all the way, beyond fear of rules. Beyond the existence of toys. He craved Billy deeper than skin, and Billy gave it to him.

And when Billy got him a pair of 130s . . . blood red and spiked with tiny, crimson points, he let Steve fuck him.

#everything i know about shoes i learned from Violet Chachki #harringrove #ficlet #asexual!steve #sugardaddy!billy #sugarbaby!steve #neonponders #pondermoniums #lazybakerart #happy birthday love!!!#no i don't know billy's job #cover a plot hole with an unreliable narrator~

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chockfullofsecrets · 4 years ago

Text

Critical Role: Unnecessary

(Read on AO3)

Rating: Gen

Summary: The thought stays with her the next time she visits Nicodranas, though, and she determines to make an experiment of it. Maybe without the shoulder bumping - she is here as an emissary, after all.

Allura's new mage friend in Wildemount seems a little lonely and very reckless. She takes it upon herself to investigate.

Wordcount: 2.3k

A/N: MORE WIZARDS

one more @ticklesofcolor event fill for @ticklishnonsense - i am starting to think that assigning us each other in this event is taking the shared braincells to a whole new level 😅 Prompt was “Allura, early in her friendship with Yussa, discovers he's very touch-starved and very ticklish, and takes advantage of this.”

---

The first time it happens, Allura is fairly sure that she’s just caused an intercontinental diplomatic incident.

She can hardly fault herself, though. There are certain instincts one develops when one regularly dines with adventurers and has the pleasure of being married to a halfling paladin who takes particular delight in tackling her every so often. Her arms are full of books, newly on loan from the only mage she’s found in Wildemount that doesn’t seem to be completely obsessed with politics, and she needs to bid her new friend farewell somehow. It seems perfectly logical to knock her shoulder lightly against his as she brightly thanks him for the pleasure of their meeting and turns to leave.

Apparently, this is not a logic that Arcanist Errenis shares.

The air itself seems to still as he stares at her. Stares some more. Then reaches up, cautiously, and presses his palm against one silk-covered shoulder as if he’s reaching for some unidentified magical artifact.

Allura winces. She can’t see any of the signifiers of elven disgust that Vex has mentioned to her, being uniquely suited to identify them, but to have such a reaction - “Oh - oh dear, I apologize. A rather uncouth habit I’ve picked up from my wife, I’m afraid.”

And she’s going to have quite a time confessing that particular sidestep to Kima later, but Errenis holds up the same hand to cut her off and lifts his chin, instantly settling into his usual placid composure with enough ease to lull her heartbeat back down to a reasonable rate. “No harm done, Arcanist Vysoren, merely… unnecessary.”

He blinks, slow as melted gold, and frowns lightly at her for a moment before turning away and gesturing sharply for a nearby tea set. “I trust that you can activate the circle yourself?”

She can, as well as take a hint - bemused, she casts without looking and steps backwards into the glowing circle, barely catching a last glimpse of him reaching for his shoulder again.

---

She tells her wife.

“Kima - Kima, darling, I’m glad you think this is funny, but it’s hardly helpful-”

Kima sighs a little, wiping a tear from her eye, and wraps her arms a little more securely around Allura’s waist where they’re lounging together. “Aw, Al, the poor thing’s just lonely! You antisocial wizards and your pretty little towers and your, what was it called? Oh, intellectual property-”

“I am perfectly social,” Allura says, prim, and promptly ruins it when she can’t help smiling at Kima as she laces their fingers together. “I certainly became acquainted quickly with you, didn’t I?”

“Oh?” Kima responds, catching Allura’s other hand in hers. Her eyes brighten in that unique combination of challenge and affection that Allura will never tire of seeing. “Is that how you remember it?”

Allura sniffs. “Well, if you’d like a refresher - mmm-”

And, well, it’s a little hard to remember anything after that.

---

The thought stays with her the next time she visits Nicodranas, though, and she determines to make an experiment of it. Maybe without the shoulder bumping - she is here as an emissary, after all.

Acquiring an adequate sample size becomes. Frustrating. He levitates everything, removing any chance to pat his hand in thanks when he offers her a cup of fragrant cardamom tea or to tap her knee against his as they pass a tome back and forth.

They are making progress, though, equally enthralled by the arcane, and it’s genuine excitement that does it in the end. A particularly difficult passage of an ancient spell untangles under their combined effort, bandying translated syllables back and forth with increasing urgency until they fall into blessed, triumphant silence, and she sweeps over and claps him between the shoulders in celebration. “Wonderful! You know, this might be quite useful for facilitating crop growth in arid land-”

He freezes under her touch in what seems like genuine shock. She pats him again and he lets out a little surprised huff, ears twitching confusedly even as his gaze remains pointed firmly ahead. It’s like blowing dust off a statue that hasn’t been touched for centuries.

Which, considering his introduction - I have been a practitioner of the arcane arts in seclusion for over 200 years, he’d told her, neither proud nor regretful - may be somewhat too close to the truth.

He sways back slightly towards her when she retreats to the other side of the room, shoulders rising and falling at a degree just shy of unpracticed. Interesting.

She does it again, and again, over the next few months - shoulders, back, arms, anywhere suitably innocuous, watching closely for any sign of annoyance. He is, after all, far older than her and perfectly capable of enforcing his own preferences. To say nothing of the way he tilts his head, when he’s deep in thought, in a way that seems so other that such petty mortal things as touch might be of no concern to him at all.

At one point, her hands are full of charcoal as they successfully cast another new spell and all she can do is smile at him. He glances over at her, implacable as always, but there’s a nearly imperceptible tightness as he turns away that she just barely knows him well enough to catch.

The next time, he brusquely commands her to put everything down before he casts. It’s sweet - nearly as sweet as the surprise on his face when she does so and completes the spell before he can.

---

There is, of course, increasingly apparent over time, Yussa’s irrepressible lack of instinct for danger. There have been fires. There have been many frantic castings of Dispel Magic. Allura starts to understand why his faithful goblin manservant is constantly twitching.

Today, she arrives in his study with a tired smile and sore fingers. “Yussa, I’m sorry - I’m afraid that I haven’t got a Dispel in me today, I’ve been Identifying a cache of arcane items all morning.”

“No matter.” Yussa waves off her raised eyebrow with a casual flick of his hand that serves the double purpose of summoning a tea set from thin air. “Tea?”

She accepts the cup. “Are you certain that we shouldn’t wait?”

“Unnecessary. Come.”

His study is as brilliant as always, cramped only in the sense that combined the artifacts lining his walls hold enough arcane power to reduce a rather large portion of the coast to rubble.

She’s a little jealous, honestly.

Yussa plucks a little beaker of gold dust up in one hand and a crisp sheet of paper in the other, beckoning her over with a brusque tilt of his chin that would be highly annoying from anyone else. “Now, there have been whispers of Kryn spies using a spell that renders objects immovable to cover their retreat on multiple occasions. I believe I’ve finally been able to recreate it, to some degree.”

“Oh!” Any lingering exhaustion forgotten, applications are already racing in her mind. “How interesting, please show me!”

He hands over the page and she scans the runes eagerly as he flicks his long sleeves back over his wrists and prepares to cast. “A little gold dust, and - it seems quite inelegant, at the moment, as if they are using some frame we have yet to find reference of, but-”

He gestures towards an empty box on his desk, sending gold dust and bright energy scattering. For a moment, there is only light.

And then, the spell shrinks back onto him, sinking into the fabric of his golden robes. Allura gapes - she has wondered, certainly, but to wear actual gold on a daily basis, especially when casting a spell that has it as a component-

Yussa stands very, very stiffly.

She presses her lips together as tightly as she can to hold back the surprised, giddy laughter brewing in the back of her throat. “You - the components-”

The sleeve of his robe looks slightly duller. The box, on the other hand, sparkles merrily under its powdering of gold dust.

Yussa sighs at her as she fails entirely to contain her amusement. “I seem to recall that you are lacking spell slots at the moment.”

She takes a deep breath, regaining her composure, and shakes her head. “Maybe I can go fetch someone-”

He grimaces instantly. “Absolutely not.”

Both of them spend a fruitless moment tugging at the robes, but it seems that Yussa has indeed managed to create a temporarily immovable object. He sighs again, after a minute, and lets his hands flap loosely against the stiff material. “Well, it’s only meant to last for an hour - I’m sure we have a Teleport spell stored somewhere around here, if you would call Wensforth-”

Allura bristles. “I can’t just leave you like this!”

“An hour passes quickly with meditation-”

“No, no, certainly we can do something.” She steps away and paces around him. “You know, your robes are quite, ah, voluminous - do you think you could squirm out, perhaps?”

Yussa sniffs in clear distaste. “I’m quite sure there’s no need.”

Really, she shouldn’t find his arrogance half as endearing as she does. “Oh come, Arcanist Errenis,” she teases, smiling despite herself, “surely you can do better than that, for a friend.” She crouches in front of him, heedless of her dress trailing onto the floor, and tries to gauge the possibility herself from what she can see through the open front of his robes - his legs, dressed in equally fine trousers, shift indignantly as she does. “Here, just bend your knees a little-”

She prods lightly at the back of one of them, hoping to spur him into action, and Yussa jumps. “Arcanist Vysoren-” he begins, and - there, almost unrecognizable for its novelty, a thread of nervousness creeps into his voice.

Allura tends more towards caution than mischief in most cases - a necessity, with the company she keeps - but she’s already grinning as she leans back a little to catch his eye. “Oh, this will be quite simple after all, I think.”

Yussa’s ears twitch up in clear, startled embarrassment as his legs attempt to press themselves to the back of his robes. “Arcanist Vysoren, I would thank you to - mmM-” She reaches for him again, sending one hand to wriggle behind the vulnerable joint and the other to scratch gently across his kneecap, and watches happily as his entire leg buckles under the attack. “Ah - haaah-”

The tremulous gasp that wrenches from him as she takes hold of his other knee to repeat the process is music to her ears - clearly, what her experiment has been needing all this time is a more direct approach. “This will be a little faster if you help,” she tells him, and crowds her fingertips up into the tender dip of flesh before he has a chance to respond.

“Vysoren-” Yussa tries, as tersely as he can with a frantic whine climbing up behind his words, and promptly cuts himself off as his other knee gives out. His robes are, in fact, made more for their drapery than their fit, and as what could graciously be called standing dissolves into ticklish squirming he’s slowly but surely sliding out of them and onto the floor. “Ihi - I can handle this from here, don’t-”

“Don’t what?” she responds innocently. The bottom of his silken shirt, neatly tucked into his waistband and glimmering even in the dim light, sinks into view. She elects to confirm its luxurious quality by prodding along the softness of his belly until he sputters and curses and drops another few inches, his indoor slippers sliding uselessly against the tiled floor. “You’ll have to offer an alternative solution - we’re a bit limited, at the moment.”

He’s laughing outright now, high and stilted and quite a bit more ticklish than she expected he might be. The way she’s kneading at his sides certainly isn’t helping. “Ahaaaaha - the damned - unnecessary - eheeh! -”

“Unnecessary,” she says, raising her voice enough that he can hopefully hear her through all the layers of fabric he’s trapped in, “would be insisting on testing a spell without taking any of the proper precautions beforehand. This, I fear, is entirely necessary, Yussa.”

And fun, besides, but there’s no need to tell him that. Besides, it seems that he shares the sentiment somewhat - she hasn’t been kicked in the face yet, and he’s hardly trying to get away from her hands, for all his grumbling. She wonders, absently, if he might allow her to do this again, the same way he’s slowly becoming accustomed to her casual friendly overtures.

He’s far too ticklish to let her wonder for long, though - it’s hardly a moment more before he squirms his way entirely free, tumbling nearly into her lap and grabbing desperately at her hands with his own elegant fingers. His face is flushed with laughter, hair falling into his eyes, and he looks like an entirely different person as he flops tiredly away from her and curls up on the floor.

It’s enough to send Allura straight back into her own startled amusement - she reaches for him, unable to help herself, and smooths a hand over his back. “Alright, alright,” she soothes, “you’re free, no harm done-”

Yussa grumbles something under his breath and twists to butt his head up against her hand instead. Allura nearly freezes in shock - and so does he, realizing, eyes wide just under the heel of her palm.

They stare. Yussa’s jaw works for a moment. “Your hand,” he says, glacially slow, “is on my head.”

“You put it there - oh, fuck it,” Allura decides, and leans forwards to drag her friend in a proper hug. “That could have been much worse, you fool. ”

Yussa stiffens and then relaxes all at once into the hug, bonelessly dropping his head onto her shoulder - he’s breathing unevenly, still, the aftereffects of laughter working their way through. “This is unnecessary, too,” he murmurs. “But I offer you my thanks, regardless.”

Chin resting atop his head, Allura smiles and plans a slight revision to her experiment.

#critical role #tickling #allura vysoren #yussa errenis #chocfic #i hear that allura is in campaign 1 and so i apologize in advance for whatever i got wrong but. wizards good.

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lost-andfound · 4 years ago

Text

CARRY ON (How Supernatural Should Have Ended)

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28041390

INT. VAMP NEST BARN. NIGHT.

A VAMPIRE has just impaled DEAN on a nail. It is suggested that he is about to die. There are two flickering light bulbs hanging from the ceiling. The barn looks uncannily similar to the barn in which Dean and CASTIEL first met.

Dean chokes, blood pooling from his mouth. His eyes are glassy and fighting to stay open. SAM’s eyes are filled with tears--he can’t believe it.

DEAN (coughing, trying to speak through the pain) I thought— dammit, man, I thought this was our chance. A chance at a real life.

SAM (truly, genuinely, painfully) I’m sorry.

Sam’s hand hovers around the wound, as if trying to cure it. Dean shakes his head. He doesn’t want to die, but he’s past the point of no return.

DEAN (gently) Sammy— everything we’ve been through, everything we’ve lost— I’m glad it was with you.

SAM (starting to panic) No, Dean, no—

DEAN (breathing slower, but doing his best to look his brother in the eyes) I didn’t wanna die. I didn’t. Promise me you know that.

Sam nods. He can’t speak. He wishes— he prays— but no one comes. Dean’s head goes slack in Sam’s hand. His eyes are empty. He’s dead. The camera PANS slowly to Sam’s stunned face.

SAM Dean. (He waits for an answer, but none comes.) Dean, please.

Behind, there is a flutter of wings. The light bulbs blow out, glass shattering on the ground. Sam freezes, hoping against all odds—

CASTIEL (firmly, as if with all the power of Heaven on his side) No one dies today.

Without further ado, he grasps Dean’s body and pulls him off the nail. Sam winces at the sound, but Castiel does not flinch. He grips Dean by the shoulder and puts his hand over the wound. An unearthly blue light— the light of angelic Grace— flows from his hands, shines from his eyes. It is not the healing we’ve seen before— this power seems to come from the deepest part of Cas himself.

A beat. Sam stares, tense, hoping. Cas steps back, and Dean gasps.

SAM (with deep relief) Thank God.

DEAN (exhausted, yet still wise-cracking) That asshole ain’t to thank for this one, Sammy.

He sways, and Sam rushes to hold him up. Dean looks at Cas, who is, as usual, unreadable.

CAS Hello, Dean.

DEAN (softer) Cas. Jesus, you’re— you’re here.

CAS (with a slight smile, hardly believing it himself) Jack. He came for me.

Dean’s smile falters. He glances at Sam— they both feel guilty for leaving Cas behind. Castiel catches this look, and is about to speak, but winces. A curl of blue Grace floats from his mouth, winding into the air and vanishing like smoke.

SAM (concerned) Cas— are you okay?

Cas stumbles, falling to brace himself on the wall. Both Sam and Dean reach out to grab his arms on either side.

CAS (looking between them, suddenly weak) I think— I think I’m falling again.

BLACKOUT.

END OF ACT TWO

ACT THREE

INT. BUNKER - KITCHEN - MORNING

With a WIDE SHOT, we see that Dean is making eggs this time, with less spirit than the last morning. He slices peppers and onions with precision, but we can tell that he is worried, his brow furrowing as he sprinkles them in the pan.

Sam sits at the table, flipping through a huge, ancient tome. A stack of books rests next to him, waiting to be studied. Cas is not at the table, a noted absence.

Dean flips the omelet off the pan and onto a plate, setting it in front of Sam, who barely looks up.

DEAN (demanding) So?

SAM (looking up apologetically) I don’t know. I think it’s something to do with The Empty— sapping his grace, somehow. Saving you probably took a lot of mojo.

DEAN (muttering sarcastically, as usual) Great.

INT. CASTIEL’S ROOM

Castiel sleeps, his face serene. Morning light spills in through the window, the drapes gently fluttering. It’s a beautiful scene, almost like a painting. The song “THANK YOU” by Led Zeppelin begins to PLAY. PAN TO Dean in the doorway, awkwardly holding a plate of eggs and mug of black coffee. Dean’s face is softer than we’ve seen it in a long time. He hesitates, not wanting to disturb his friend.

CAS (sleepily) Dean?

The music fades, but remains in the background of the scene.

DEAN (gruffly) Mornin’, sunshine.

Dean moves to sit on the bed, a respectful distance away from Castiel. He sets the plate and mug on the bedside table. Castiel shifts into a sitting position. Dean looks at Cas, and we think he is about to speak— he thinks he is about to speak— but he remains silent. Cas merely looks back at him, at the face he thought he’d never see again. The awkwardness is mostly on Dean’s side, which is not a surprise. Castiel seems content to merely look.

DEAN (eventually) So, are you… human now? For real this time?

CAS (eyes flickering briefly) Yes. I believe so.

DEAN (gearing himself up to be angry, to find a solution) Okay. Well— we’ll fix it. Find some spare grace, find a spell to restore your grace, whatever. We always do.

CAS (sighing) Dean—

DEAN (a little heat to his voice) Dammit, Cas, let us help you. You saved my skin at the cost of your own for the hundredth time and— and I won’t let you do that. Not again. No one dies this time, remember?

CAS Dean, you’re not gonna find anything. Not this time. And I’m— (he pauses, smiling slightly. He looks calm, at peace.) I’m happy. And I can say that now, without fear. I can feel. That’s all I’ve wanted, for so long.

There is a pause. Dean swipes a hand over his face and shifts closer on the bed. There is so much left unsaid, between these two, and it hangs heavy in the air.

Dean (voice ragged) Cas. What you said. Before the Empty took you.

CAS (steadily, without hesitation) I meant it.

DEAN I’ve wanted to say it back. For so long, Cas. But I— I didn’t think— I mean, you were an angel, and there was Lisa, then Purgatory, and the Mark, and Chuck, and everything against us— it was never right, and I never thought you felt— (he breaks off, swallowing.) I never thought you could. Love me, I mean.

Cas says nothing, but laces his fingers with Dean’s. Dean looks down, stunned, then back up at Castiel’s face.

CAS But I do. Against all odds, I do.

Dean kisses him. “Thank You” by Led Zeppelin resumes. Cas pulls him in, closer. It is a beautiful, tender kiss, a movie kiss. After a moment, they break apart, still holding hands.

DEAN (slightly embarrassed, yet as unguarded as we’ve ever seen him) I love you too, Cas. I always have— you’re family.

CAS (softly, as if this moment is one he could break) So what now?

DEAN (his voice opening, finally, into hope) The rest of our lives, man. Everything that comes after.

PAN OUT, as they move into a tight, intimate hug. They’re family. The camera moves from them to the window. The curtains. The soft light outside.

INT. BUNKER - KITCHEN

Sam sits at the table, hands in his hair, still poring over the books. His plate is empty— Dean is a good cook. He is unaware of the conversation his brothers are having inside Castiel’s room. There is a CRASH. Sam sits instantly alert— there are those killer instincts. He grabs a gun and creeps slowly towards the entrance, where he finds… EILEEN. She stands at the entrance, confused, looking around. Sam keeps the gun trained on her, grief and rage and confusion flitting across his face.

EILEEN Sam?

SAM (speaking with certainty) You’re not her. You can’t be her. No one ever really comes back, no one that I— that I—

EILEEN Sam, it’s me. I promise.

She pulls out a silver knife, slashes it on her arm. She lets Sam pour some holy water on her hand. She goes through every test, staring at Sam’s face, willing him to believe her.

SAM (disbelieving) Holy crap. It’s you. It’s really you.

EILEEN (smiling) Duh.

Sam sweeps her into his arms, as if he’ll never let her go. She holds onto him just as tightly. In the same moment, they both realize how lucky they are to be here, together.

“CARRY ON MY WAYWARD SON” begins to PLAY.

CUT TO MONTAGE:

Dean hunting with Charlie and Cas, watching their backs as they move through a dark tunnel.

Sam and Eileen sharing a beer as they watch a movie, the lights flickering on their faces.

Dean throwing popcorn and Monopoly pieces at Sam, chasing him around the living room as Sam raises his arms in protest.

Cas and Dean washing dishes together, bumping shoulders and hands, smiling.

Eileen holding a newborn child as Dean, Sam, and Cas all crowd around her— someone takes a picture.

PAN UP from that picture on a table to an older Sam, reading in the study while his son reads next to him, a picture of his father.

Cas playing catch in the yard with Claire, who is clearly indulging him. His brow furrows as he drops the ball again and again, Dean laughing from the porch.

An older Dean finally perfecting his pie recipe, passing the plate around the dinner table, looking pleased with himself. Contented.

Sam’s son goes off to college, and Dean takes a breath, and claps a hand on his shoulder. Smiles proudly at him.

Finally, Dean in a hospital bed, surrounded by his family. He grasps Sam’s hand, looks at Cas like he’s trying to memorize his face. They are all old. They are all satisfied with their lives. Dean smiles, closes his eyes.

BLACKOUT. Heart monitor FLATLINES.

ACT FOUR

EXT. BOBBY’S FARM - PORCH. LATE SUMMER.

The field is golden and beautiful, yet as ragged as Dean remembers it. BOBBY SINGER sits on his rocking chair, beer in hand. Dean walks up to the porch. He takes his time— he has all the time in the world, after all.

BOBBY (fondly) Took you long enough, boy.

DEAN (looking around, smiling slightly) Had a life to live.

Bobby grunts, motions for Dean to sit down next to him. He hands him a beer from the cooler.

DEAN Thought you’d be able to magic yourself one of those from thin air, up here. Service not working lately?

BOBBY More authentic this way. (pause) Heaven’s better now, actually. You saw the old version— it’s not like that up here anymore.

DEAN How’s that?

BOBBY That kid of yours: Jack. He made it so you’re not just trapped in old memories— you can go anywhere, see anyone. (another pause— he knows how much this means to Dean) Anyone.

DEAN (swallowing— this is difficult, painful) Even—

BOBBY (more gently) They’re just up the road. (He takes a sip of his beer.) You have a lot to talk out. Bad memories to work through. But you can do it, with time. Work it all out.

DEAN I hope so, Bobby. I think so.

Pause. Something catches Dean’s eye. PAN OUT to the road— to the IMPALA, shiny as the day she came off the line.

DEAN (reverently) They brought my Baby.

BOBBY (looking at him like a father looks at his son) Go. They’ll wait.

Dean smiles, as big as we’ve ever seen, like a kid on Christmas. Driving down an empty highway, with nothing to do, nowhere to go. His favorite.

Dean turns on the car, smiles nostalgically, and flips on the radio. “HEY JUDE” by The Beatles begins to PLAY.

As the song plays, Dean sees people standing by the road— old friends, old lovers, old rivals, old members of his family. There is CHARLIE, waving frantically, a grinning KEVIN by her side. There are JO and ELLEN and ASH in the Roadhouse, bickering among themselves. There are MARY and JOHN, young lovers again, looking at each other with hope in their eyes. There is PAMELA, there is JODY, LISA, JESS, countless others they’ve loved and lost. JACK even blips in to wave hello.

And then, as the song concludes, Dean pulls to a stop. At the end of the road is Cas, and Sam standing behind him, waiting. They stand on a bridge that stretches over a river. The sun is just beginning to set. Dean gets out of the car, closing Baby gently.

DEAN Miss me?

SAM (rolling his eyes fondly) Shut up.

DEAN (brief confusion) So? Where’s everyone else?

SAM They’ll be here soon.

CAS They have some more living to do.

Dean nods, and turns to gaze out over the bridge. Cas slips a hand into his, and they stand together, looking at the sunset, breaking gold and crimson rays over the water, finally calm, finally peaceful.

BLACKOUT.

CARRY ON WAYWARD SON begins to PLAY again as the credits roll.

THE END.

#supernatural #destiel #dean winchester #castiel #Sam Winchester #supernatural fanfiction #carry on #IT'S FUCK THE CW FOREVER #mine #writing #script #supernatural finale

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raevenlywrites · 4 years ago

Text

Dasi High, for really reals

Finally got a first chapter I actually like!

I walked an expanse of endless sand. The night desert air carried hints of spice and stone and worried at my exposed skin with cutting cold teeth. I shivered and rubbed my arms in annoyance. This part of the dream was getting old.

But I knew that just over that dune lay a fire, and around the fire, figures danced.

Their long shadows cast out like the tails of an inverse sun, snapping and cracking like dark twins to the flames they danced around. Music made of wind and whispers pulled at me, urged me to come down, come dance, become a shadow.

I’d never once made it down to the circle.

I didn’t dream this scene every night, but I’d dreamt it often enough to be annoyed with its tantalizing tease. If I didn't’ waste so much time on the stupid sands, I might finally get to see who danced in that circle. A figure always broke off, coming to meet me half way, and though I got a little closer every time--

“It’s the top of the hour, and you’re listening to WKSR!”

I smashed my hand against the alarm clock, wishing I could hurl it into the dreamscape’s flames.

Never make a song you love your alarm tone, unless you’re ready to hate that song forever. That goes double if its from show you used to really love, but now associate with rage and dreamus interruptus and can never watch again. I flopped forcefully back against my pillow, tempted as always to just go back to sleep. What was out here for me in this world of pop songs and overly enthusiastic radio announcers?

Plenty, was the answer, and after a while the ennui of waking left me, and I rolled out of bed to wash the sand of sleep from my eyes. - “Hey.”

I looked up to see Brass standing in front of my desk, something held to his chest. Since it was neither latte nor donut, it was hard to muster interest in it this early in the morning. When he set the crusty old book down on my desk like it was supposed to mean something, I just stared up at him.

“Since when do you read?” I teased. Picking on Brass was one of the constants in my world. Sky was blue, grass was green, Brass and I bickered and teased.

He gave me a half-hearted smirk, but I could tell he was distracted. I leaned back in my chair, cocking my head in what I hoped was a sympathetic manner. This was why we hadn’t worked as a couple. Teasing I got. Real emotions? They seemed weird between me and Brass. And it was way too early for it. Best to just let him get it off his chest and get it over with.

He drew a deep breath in through his nose, reminding me way to much of all the times he’d started “a talk”. It was hard not to get automatically defensive.

“So you know how my mom runs that homeopahtic shop or whatever?”

I nodded, biting my tongue to keep from interrupting him. We’d been friends since diapers. I knew his mom as well as I knew my own. Maybe better. “Aunt” Cynthia was way cooler than my stick in the mud mom. And her shop carried some of the coolest stuff. Suddenly this rusty crusty Giles-like book got a lot more interesting.

“What’s with the Necronomicon?”

“It’s not a--“

He cut off, his mouth twisting in that sideway grimace that made his nose scrunch. I hated that I still thought it was cute. I distracted myself from it by flipping open the tome. “Tome” had a lot better ring to it. Yeah, I was liking this tome more and more.

“Apparently it’s a grimoire. Mom likes to collect them for old recipes and stuff, but this one...”

His fidgeting was enough to ruin the mystical communion I was trying to have with my cool new book. I propped my face on a fist, giving him a sort of “spill it” gesture with my eyebrows. I did a lot of talking with my eyebrows. I had expressive eyebrows, worked hard to get ‘em that way. They were kind of my signature thing now. I hoped. Too cool to speak. Talk to the brows. Yeah.

Brass wilted under my killer gaze, reaching down to flip a page in the book. I felt weirdly protective of it, annoyed that he’d dared touch it--even though it was his book. Just because he’d put it on my desk didn’t mean he was giving it to me.

“I thought you should have it,” he said, seeming to echo my thoughts. I felt immediately embarrassed and empowered at the idea. Heck yeah, bow before my cool mind powers--but ick, stay out of my thoughts. Especially since I still kind of like you. Double ick.

“Brass, what about this crusty old book makes you think I should have it?”

When in doubt, pretend you don’t want it. Lessons learned from Sassy the Cat of Homeward Bound fame.

“Cause you’re crusty old news!”

Izzy wrapped her hands around Brass’s arm, giving me her “trying too hard to be cute” nose-wrinkled grin. Brass’s nose wrinkle was better. But hers was cute, I could admit. Much easier to admit since I knew her passes at Brass didn’t mean anything. Izzy didn’t want to date him any more than I had. She’d just been smart enough to say no when he’d asked. Which made him more fun to flirt with now, I guess. I dunno. The mind of an Izzy is a mystery.

“No,” Brass said tightly, trying on the new tactic of “ignore the PDA”. Good for him. The blushing had been cute, but it made him look easy to rile. More fun to tease. Stoic man, that was the way.

“I thought she should have it because--“

“The vibes!” Dani invited themself in our conversation and I tried not to sigh. I loved my friends, I really did. We were tight, tighter than family. But now they were going to chat all through homeroom and there would be no coffee, no book, no ten minute nap. My desk had become socializing central.

“It’s the vibes, right?” Dani insisted, helping themself to my book. I let out a protest as they picked it up, but too little too late. They turned the book over and over, as if looking for a review or pricetag or something. “This thing totally has spooky vibes, just like our Ki.”

“It’s because she’s a Scorpio.” Oh great. Landon had invited himself over too. Party and Kiesha’s desk. “Scorpio’s exude a mysterious energy. But they’re secretly big cry babies.”

I stuck my tongue out at Landon-the-know-it-all, but he ignored me.

“No,” Brass insisted, taking his book back once again. He spread it out over my desk again, opening it back to that same page. It looked like a family tree. He ran a finger over the lines, indicating a very familiar name.

“It’s because it’s literally got her name on it.”

Everyone leaned in, casting an actual shadow on the page they crowded so close. It made the age-faded ink even harder to parse, but the “Kiesha” Brass had indicated was plain enough.

My book.

The urge to close it up and clutch it to my chest nearly overwhelmed me. Instead I leaned away, ostensibly to let everyone else get a better look. In truth, I hated ever looking too interested in anything. I had always been so obnoxious with my interests as a child. I never let anyone see anymore when I was really into something. Always play it cool.

But the book called to me, and the more I held myself back from it, the more I wanted to pour through its pages, discover its secrets. It was my book. It had my name on it. Fate had sent it to me.

My friend’s chattered turned to white noise in my ear. Distantly, I caught snatches of “where did you get it?” and “that’s so cool!” but all I could really hear was the pounding of my own heart in my ears. It felt like drums, dusky and ancient, and more important than anything else that might happen that day. Damn you, Brass, for giving me something so cool at the start of the school day. This was going to taunt me all day, just like that stupid fire circle.

I swooned as the beat of my heart joined the whispers of smoke and song. A hand on my shoulder made me jump. I blinked up into Brass’s concerned face.

“Ki? You okay?”

I nodded, shaky and shaken. I needed some air.

“Skipped breakfast. Could one of you snag me something from the vending machines?”

Izzy nodded and hopped off, knowing Brass would be completely distracted by concern for my well-being now. He still hovered like a protective mother hen, even though we’d broken up months ago. Talk about your brooding hero. Dani pulled Landon away and I sent a silent thank you to them for wrangling their snotty boyfriend. Landon was a great study buddy, but he had the personality of Metamusil. Good for you, probably, when you were ancient. We were too young and cool for his old man routine.

Brass crouched down by my desk so I didn’t have to crane up at him.

“Are you really good?”

I nodded, letting myself rest my head on his shoulder. Brass was a constant, weird ex or not. He’d been childhood friend longer than he’d been my... whatever we’d been, and enough time had passed that I could let myself take comfort from him again.

“Sorry about the book thing. I can--“

“It’s great.”

I cut him off before he could finish whatever he’d been about to say. I wasn’t about to let my “be cool” rule part me from my book. I pulled back to better look at him.

“I do really like it, weirdness or not. Thanks for thinking of me.”

“Of course.”

He pressed a quick kiss to my forehead, then stood and beat a retreat to his side of the classroom. Izzy came back with a Coke and some donut sticks, and I slid the book into my bag before any sticky accidents could befall it.

#raev does fic #the kiesha'ra fic #kiesha'ra fanfic #the kiesha'ra #dasi high #kiesha'ra #my writing #fanfic

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dandy-writes · 5 years ago

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Crowley x Reader - Chapter One

QUICK AN: The reader in this fic is portrayed as non-binary and throughout the story referred to using they/them pronouns. However, them being non-binary at all is only brought up once in the story, and as such I hope that readers of any gender and pronouns will be able to enjoy this story. Thanks, and I hope you all enjoy! :)

Candlelight flickered across the dimly lit library of the bunker. Standing at a table, on which was placed various objects -- a bowl of herbs, a piece of chalk, and a few burning sticks of incense -- were two men. One held a thick leather-bound book, the cover worn from years of use. He read from the book as the other man looked on, arms folded.

“Et ad congregandum, eos coram me.” The man finished reading in the ancient language, swiftly closing the book and looking up expectantly. There was only a moment of silent pause before a presence joined them in the room. The air became stuffy and charged with static electricity, the candles flickered in unison, and the temperature in the room dropped by a few degrees.

The cause of the sudden disturbance had appeared at the other side of the table, clad in a black three-piece suit. He had a short salt and pepper beard and polished shoes. “Hello, boys,” he said. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

The man with folded arms replied. “We need to ask you about some demon activity over in Stockton.”

The newcomer sighed. “Of course you do. You do know you can just call me, right? There’s no need for this whole mess.” He gestured towards the table. “We could actually schedule for once, rather than just leave fate to decide whether you’re pulling me out of an important meeting or not.”

The other man set the book down on the table. “We don’t need any of your snark right now, Crowley. What we need is--”

He was cut off by the sound of a door opening and closing in the bunker, the noise accompanied by a voice. The disturbance came from behind the newcomer, causing him to turn around and for the attention of all three men to veer from the topic at hand.

“God, the windchill out there is just awful,” The voice came, paired with the clamor of feet coming down the staircase from the main entrance to the bunker. Soon the source of the words came into view, standing at the top of the small flight of stairs leading down to the library. “Sam, I thought you said it was supposed to be nice…” The person paused, looking down at the scene before them, eyes lingering on the darkly-clothed man before their confused gaze turned to the two others. “I didn’t know we were having company.”

After an exchanged glance, the man who had just set down the tome strode around the table towards them. They walked down the stairs, just reaching the bottom as he carefully grabbed their arm and pulled them away from the newcomer, earning a perplexed glare.

“What are you--” They began.

“I thought you were going out on your walk,” The man whispered, brow furrowed.

“I was, but -- well, like I said when I came in, the windchill was…” They took a moment to reorient. “Sam, what’s going on?”

“Ahem.” They turned back to face the mystery man, who had just cleared his throat. “I don’t believe we’ve met.” He began to move towards them. “I--”

The man with folded arms interrupted. “Don’t take another step.”

He merely smirked. “Really, Dean. I’m not going to bite.” He turned his attention back to the stranger. “Not unless they want me to, at least.”

Despite Sam’s tightened grip on their arm, he was quickly shaken off as the person took a cautious step towards the strange man. Though their brows were knitted, they seemed unbothered by his blatant innuendo. “How did you know my pronouns?”

He seemed a little taken off-guard by their question, though clearly pleased at their approach. “It’s a demon thing, darling. Don’t worry about it.”

They paused, standing very still, mouth opened slightly. Quickly their eyes scanned over the table, taking in the sigil drawn onto the wood, before returning their focus to the “man” standing in front of them. They gulped. “Right.”

He smirked, putting out a hand. “Crowley, King of Hell, at your service.”

Hesitating momentarily, they put their hand in his. “Y/N.” Expecting a handshake, they blinked in surprise when the demon lifted their hand to his mouth and laid a light kiss on their knuckles.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” He said, still smiling.

“Oh, um. You too,” Y/N replied, face hot.

“Alright, alright, that’s enough,” Dean jumped in, clearly uncomfortable with the way things were going. Crowley released Y/N’s hand, letting them retreat slightly. “We didn’t summon you here to make pleasantries.”

“Ah, yes. Those rogue demons you mentioned.” Crowley said. “Care to elaborate on what exactly is so ‘rogue’ about them?”

“Tale as old as time,” Dean replied, unfolding his arms to rest his palms on the table. “Crossroad demons get greedy, start taking the souls of their victims long before they’re due. What do you know about this?”

Crowley sighed. “Nothing at all, Squirrel.”

“They said they were acting under you,” Y/N said.

The demon turned a little to face them, cocking his head and fixing them in his gaze. “Are you calling me a liar, darling?”

Y/N’s frown deepened. “No, I just… Well, I just figured that if I were in your shoes, and there were demons claiming to be mine and doing things that go against my principles as a leader… Well, I don’t know, I’d be kinda pissed, I guess.”

Crowley didn’t break eye contact with them, staring them down. Y/N blinked back at him, expression innocent. After a few seconds, the demon straightened up slightly. “I suppose that I can see where you’re coming from.” He returned his focus to Sam and Dean, who had been watching the interaction with concern. “Well. What is it you want from me, help with the hunt? I can check my calendar if you’ve got a date.”

“There’s no date yet, we don’t have enough information on the demons involved. We were hoping you’d be oh-so-kind as to provide a few helpful particulars.” Dean said, a mock smile growing on his face.

“I can go get the list of names we have so far,” Y/N cut in, seeming to notice the growing hostility. After a quick nod from Sam, they turned and went deeper into the library, soon hidden in the stacks.

“You didn’t tell me you recruited another hunter,” Crowley said quietly, glaring at the two men. “If we’re going to be working together, I’d like to know about that kind of stuff.”

“What are you, our boss?” Dean replied.

“Hey, you don’t need to worry about them, okay?” Sam said. “They’re not even a hunter really, more of the researching type.”

Crowley opened his mouth to respond when Y/N returned, holding an open notebook which they set down on the table near him.

“Here -- there’s not a lot, but it’s what we have so far.” They said, pointing at where four names were written in neat handwriting. The demon closed the distance between them, positioning himself so that he was looking over their shoulder, chest nearly touching their back. If Y/N at all noticed or was bothered by his proximity, it didn’t show.

“I can work with those,” Crowley said after a couple seconds of looking down at the paper. He stepped away slightly. “Thank you, kitten.” He quickly continued before anyone could respond to the nickname. “Is that all?”

The three hunters exchanged looks. “I mean,” Y/N said. “Unless you have any suggestions.” When Crowley’s only response was to tilt his head slightly, they continued nervously. “Just off the top of your head, I mean. Not to be rude. I know we called you, so it’s no problem if you don’t--”

“Check the crossroads in Stockton for any evidence of spellwork. I want to know how the traitors are redirecting the rituals so that they’re being called upon rather than my own crossroad demons.” He said, looking pointedly at Sam and Dean. “Call me when you get any leads.”

The two nodded, and with another flickering of the candles, the demon king was gone.

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stringergames · 4 years ago

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Downtime Roleplay 4 - Checking Out

Post Session 5 - Misty Eyed

Ireena and Magpie spend some one on one time in the Kolyana Library, as the rest of the party continue to exasperate Ismark downstairs.

Words spoken in Elvish are denoted in italics. Spoiler warning: contains spoilers for episode 5 of Edge of Night

Content warning: grief, implied dead parents, alcohol consumption

"So, Mr Magpie, do you like poetry?" Ireena smiles at him as they climb the stairs.

"I do, it can be very beautiful. I prefer such things set to music, but that's a personal taste."

Magpie casts a slightly wary eye over the opulent staircase, taking in the disrepair and lack of upkeep. He takes another sip of wine and makes no comment.

"I enjoy the simplicity of poetry, so much can be said with so few words." Ireena is caught up in her own enthusiasm and does not notice Magpie's appraisal of the house. "Novels are good for escaping entirely to another realm, and you already know of my enjoyment of learning through books." This is said in Elvish, with a smile, before switching back to Common. "But poetry will remain my favourite, I think. If only for its love of pain that cannot be spoken in other ways."

Ireena opens a door on the landing that leads to a damp room piled with books, in the centre of which is a chair. The dust marks on the floor indicate that a desk once also stood there, but judging by the fate of other furnishings in the house, this was probably pilfered to become barricade materials a while ago.

Magpie replies in Elvish, quietly pleased to be able to use his native tongue. "Songs are my favourite, I believe. The dual storytelling between lyrics and tune is wonderfully versatile, but poetry definitely has a beauty of it's own, I can see why it calls to you so." He takes an almost hesitant step into the room, and checks back that she's joining him.

Ireena follows him into the study and responds in Elvish, clearly excited to be able to do so. "I wish I had a better understanding of music. It is a rare thing to hear music in Barovia that isn't a funeral march. Unless you encounter the Vistani whose performances are... livelier." Ireena smirks, and gestures to the room. "This is my library!"

Magpie quirks an amused grin at her Elvish, and takes a slow look around the room. "We heard Vistani musicians at the party. They played very well, Sierra was there among them actually. You'll have to see if she'll play the violin for you, it's truly beautiful."

"I would like that." Ireena pauses, wondering how far she can push her luck. "Maybe you would dance with me."

Magpie crouches in front of a bookshelf, scanning the titles distractedly, not so much as reaching a hand out to touch any of them. "I'm not sure you'd enjoy that, I was... never in a position to be taught any of the proper dances, and quite besides, I've been reliably told I have two left feet."

Ireena crouches next to him. "Then I shall simply have to teach you."

Her smile is soft and her tone no longer teasing. The tension in her shoulders is heavy, but not directed at this conversation or her present company. It is tension she's clearly been carrying for a long time.

"I like this one." She selects a book from the shelf. "It's long, but it tells the most wonderful story of a hero who journeys to find his way home after a long battle away from those he loves." She strokes the cover wistfully.

Magpie looks over at the book, admiring the cover.

"Sounds like a compelling tale." He casts his eyes to the floor briefly, and takes another drink of wine before focusing back up on Ireena and the book. "You have so many books, it must be lovely to be able to come here and escape with them."

"Father loved to read. And there weren't exactly many other ways for me to spread my wings beyond this village." She sighs darkly and gestures at the window. "Even before..."

Aware that her façade has slipped again, Ireena straightens her shoulders and attempts another smile.

"But yes, I am lucky. There are a few tomes in here that predate the beginning of the Von Zarovich reign in Barovia."

"Really? How old does that make them?" Magpie looks very interested at the promise of old books, a shadow that had fallen over his face lifting a little.

"Well over a century! Father rarely let anyone handle them, they're very delicate, but I always loved the way old books smell."

“Incredible. I shan’t ask to look at them, but what are they about? I often find some of the most fascinating stuff is in the oldest books.”

"There's a first edition of some very dramatic plays, and a couple of these epic poems too. If I'm being entirely honest, I am not completely sure I know what is in all of the oldest books Father had. But please, if you would like, feel free to select any volumes that take your fancy to take with you. It is wonderful to finally have a fellow bibliophile to share these with. My brother is not opposed to literature, but he's mostly been too busy with more important things to indulge me in expounding the joys of fiction."

Magpie looks gently surprised. "You'd let me bring some? Just like that?"

"I doubt Ismark will miss them, I will certainly be bringing some with me, and Father hardly has a use for them any more. Of course you may take some, as many as you would like." She laughs a little. "Or as many as you think you can carry, at any rate!"

Magpie laughs a little in return, a hesitant set to his face still. "It won't be many then. Most of us ended up here without a bag. You're sure I can borrow some?"

"Borrow, have, whatever you would like. And while we can't promise armour or weapons, I feel confident my brother can provide satchels or something to carry possessions in." Ireena puts a hand on his arm gently. "I mean it, really."

Magpie flinches at the touch, and pulls his arm away gently. "Satchels would be a great help, I don't think Fox's bag will survive anything else being put in it."

Ireena retracts her hand, but does not seem offended. "I did notice that sewing does not appear to be among Lord Ripley's particular skills."

Magpie laughs properly this time. “Apparently not, though I’m not sure I can say much after the gods awful job I did on those replacement gloves. It turns out not having something proper to cut the fabric with is a significant hindrance.”

"I hadn't liked to mention it, but they were somewhat unorthodox." Ireena giggles. "I wondered if it was some new trend from where you're from!"

“Decidedly not, just shoddy and hurried craftsmanship on my part.” He gives her a lopsided grin. “If you’re certain I can take a couple of books with me, do you have sections you’d rather I chose from? Or perhaps any recommendations?”

"You must feel free to choose whatever you'd like, although I suggest you take something less likely to fall apart when you touch it! But if you are open to suggestions, then I could show you some of my personal favourites?"

“I’d welcome that gladly, I find myself decidedly in a position of rather too much choice, and while I’d often like nothing more than to stay up all night browsing, I fear after the day we’ve had I need the rest.”

Ireena starts pulling books from shelves and various piles. They're all well-thumbed volumes, but don't seem in danger of falling apart completely. They span a wide range of genres: a poetry anthology by a Lord Byron, the classic epic poem she'd picked out earlier, a trilogy of long form fantasy, a collection of old Elvish plays, a couple of shorter looking novels (one historical fiction and one murder mystery), and a nonfiction biography of ancient rulers of Barovia. She sets them down in a pile in front of Magpie.

"This should narrow down the selection somewhat, I wasn't sure what you preferred, so I have chosen my favourites of many genres." She looks between Magpie and the pile a little nervously. "I hope there's something to your liking here?"

Magpie looks at the pile in astonishment, and brushes a gloved hand delicately across the covers.

"All of it, I'd wager; I'll struggle to pick those that I can carry from such a fascinating collection." He looks up and catches her eye. "Thank you. Truly."

Ireena shows him a flash of the smile she must've had before the recent events of her life, and it lights up her whole face for a moment.

"You are more than welcome, Magpie. I am aware that the journey ahead of us will be difficult, but I will not regret the opportunity to spend more time with you." She pauses and then adds almost as an afterthought, "With all of you. It will be nice to be able to say I have friends."

"It would be lovely indeed." Magpie looks back at the books, carefully thumbing through a couple of pages and starting to sort them into two neat piles. "After such a kind gesture, the least I could do is help you with your Elvish, if you still want to learn."

"Very much so, if it isn't too much trouble!" Ireena suddenly looks like she might cry and turns towards the door. "We should be getting back to the others, it is intolerably cruel of me to leave them solely in the company of my brother for too long." She turns back, and if her voice cracks, she doesn't acknowledge it. "Besides, as you said, you've all had a very long day. I imagine you will be wanting to rest soon."

Magpie blinks a couple of times at the abrupt change in mood, but makes no comment on it. He drains the last of his wine and sets the glass down, carefully picking up a stack of five books he'd set aside, the biography of rulers of Barovia, Elvish plays, and trilogy of fantasy, balancing them carefully in his arm before picking his glass back up.

"Are these alright? Is it too many?"

"No, no of course not! That's fine! Would you like some help carrying them?"

"That's very kind of you, but I have a good hold on them, and there's no risk of me spilling my wine." He gives her a cheeky grin. "Well, shall we go and save the others from the company of your brother then?"

Ireena smiles back, small and shaky, but perhaps more real than some of her smiles up to this point. "An excellent idea, Mr Magpie."

She leads the way back out of the study. She pauses on the landing and points at another door. "I believe that is to be your room for the night, if you'd prefer to drop the books off there, although I have no objections to you bringing them downstairs to share your finds with the others, if you wish."

"I –" Magpie looks torn, and a flicker of something passes over his face. "Perhaps, I'll drop most of them off. Bring just one down. To flick through."

"Great, I can wait here, or just meet you downstairs if you'd rather?"

"I'll be just a second." Magpie smiles at her briefly, and dips into the room to gently place the books down, keeping hold of the Elvish plays, and returning to her quickly.

"Shall we?" Ireena gestures at the staircase.

Magpie nods, and walks alongside her downwards, gently clutching the gifted book to his chest.

Written by Francesca Forrest & Nick Drew

Edited by Rowan E. Madden

Edge of Night is a dnd 5e actual play podcast, brought to you by Stringer Games. It is available on iTunes, Spotify & all good podcast providers.

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thefandomlesbian · 5 years ago

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Graveyard Shift

For a prompt from @unika542.

Summary: Realizing Misty is battling insomnia, Cordelia sets her text tone to the loudest one so she will awaken whenever Misty needs her.

Read here on AO3!

Cordelia burned the midnight oil in her room, leaning over her bed. She had spread out ancient tomes as she planned class plans for the following weeks. The work of the Supreme was never finished, but she had to try to get her act together for the number of students she was now responsible for. Her council, not much more than students themselves, helped as they could, but there were only so many of them in a large school, and they all had their own haunts to deal with. Some more than others, Cordelia realized, sucking on her lower lip. Misty’s eyes hadn’t been the same since Cordelia had retrieved her from hell. They were emptier, less light, now.

Cell phone buzzing, Cordelia glanced at the screen. Yikes. Three in the morning. But Misty’s name on the notification caught her eye. She opened it. “You up?” Misty had asked her.

Pursing her lips, Cordelia reclined in her bed. The pillows were so luxurious where she struck her head, and with their touch, she realized for the first time how exhausted she was. “Yeah,” she texted back. “You okay?”

The gray bubble of Misty’s reply appeared and disappeared and appeared and disappeared again. Cordelia waited. Then, finally, Misty texted her, “No.” Cordelia frowned and reached for her reading glasses, sensing this conversation was going to be long enough that squinting would give her a headache.

“What’s wrong?”

“Can’t sleep. Nightmares.”

Cordelia didn’t know why she was surprised. Misty had endured a great ordeal—several, actually. She couldn’t expect to walk away from everything unscathed. “Do you want to tell me about it?”

A gif appeared of a cat shaking its head. “I don’t want to think about it.” She sent Cordelia another gif of a fat baby laughing. “Are you going to bed? I don’t want to keep you up.”

A smile graced Cordelia’s face at the sight of the chubby baby kicking its legs in its crib. She rolled onto her side, holding her phone out. “No, I’m gonna be up for awhile yet.” It was true; she was going to be up as long as Misty needed her. “Pick your poison: fat babies, sad puppies, evil kittens.”

Misty sent a crying-laughing emoji. “Hit me with your best shot.”

Cordelia did so. She fired off photo after photo of chubby babies, sad-faced puppies with all of their hanging folds, and kittens laughing with unsheathed claws at explosions in the background. A few of them, Misty sent back to her with captions added to make them into memes. Each one made Cordelia laugh; Misty had a brilliant sense of humor. “You’re funny,” Cordelia sent back to her, and she found a gif of a guy doubling over laughing and slapping his knee.

A heart appeared. “Thank you, Miss Cordelia. I appreciate it.”

“Are you okay now?”

“I will be. I’ll let you sleep.”

“I’m here if you need me, ever.” Another heart emoji answered her, and Cordelia closed the conversation. She was tired… but she didn’t trust that Misty was okay, like she said she would be. She opened her settings and changed Misty’s text tone to a stupid foghorn noise. Madison liked to sneak behind her back at times and change all of her text tones to the foghorn noise. It always caught her off-guard, and she hoped it would work to get her attention if Misty needed her again. She blinked at Misty's picture on the text conversation. She was beautiful. I hope I can help her.

…

About a week passed before Cordelia’s phone made the foghorn noise. This time, it did wake her up from a dead sleep. She rolled over, fumbling around for her phone on the charger. Holding her phone away from her face, she squinted at the screen. Misty’s name topped the notification. “Are you awake?”

Cordelia flicked on the bedside lamp and sat up, putting on her reading glasses. “Yeah. What’s up?”

“I’m lonely.”

Cordelia’s heart chipped off at the sight of those two little words. Misty was asking her for help… She needed a friend. I’m here for her. “What can I do to help?” she asked.

“Can we just talk for awhile?”

“Sure.” Cordelia scrolled through her camera roll, looking for a silly picture to send Misty. It took her a moment to land on a picture of a puppy hugging a kitten, but once she did, she tapped it and forwarded it into their conversation.

Misty didn’t give her the answer she was looking for. “Aw.”

Two letters? Cordelia thought. I have to be able to do better than that. If puppies, kittens, and other infants of all species wouldn’t cheer Misty up, she had to up her game. That meant asking Misty. “What’s bothering you?” She tacked a heart emoji onto the end, hoping to entice Misty to answer her honestly.

It worked. “I smell smoke whenever I wak up. I can’ scape it. It follow me from my dream.” Her hands were shaking, Cordelia noticed, the way her words didn’t fit together exactly right. She’s not okay. But then, the little gray typing bubble appeared again, and Misty sent a fuzzy picture of the night sky. “Moon is beutiful tonite. Stars brite.” The camera wouldn’t focus on the sky, making nothing but little streaks of light on a black background, like Cordelia’s astigmatism.

Whatever was wrong with Misty, Cordelia didn’t think she could fix it via text. Those anxious, shaky hands would come between them. She needed to use her speaking words, not her thumbs. “Where are you?”

“Roof.”

Frowning, Cordelia donned her robe and slipped her phone into its pocket, and then she tiptoed out of her bedroom. The ladder to Spalding’s attic was down. Cordelia climbed up it, careful not to get any splinters in her hands, and emerged in his bedroom, filled with weird antique dolls and a horrible stench like rotting bodies. “Ugh.” We’ve gotta clean this room out. She didn’t know what had happened to Spalding, but clearly he was gone for good, and if they allowed that odor to go unchecked, they would be lucky if they didn’t get the building condemned.

The window stood wide open, the silver moonlight flowing into the room. On the flattest part of the roof, Misty rested, stared down at her phone and a lit joint in her other hand. Smoke curled from its tip and formed rings from her open mouth. Her hands shuddered with anxiety. Her hair was tousled, as if from tossing and turning for hours. She wore only a sheer nightgown, and her flesh formed goosebumps all over her limbs. The wind carried the smell of pot away from her.

Cordelia crawled onto the roof, using her feet to brace herself against the shingles. “Hey.” Misty jumped in surprise, blinking back at her, and she started looking for a place to hide her lit joint. “Hey—It’s okay. You don’t have to hide anything from me.” She sat beside Misty. Her fingers still trembled. Cordelia took Misty by the hand and flattened out her fingers. “Talk to me.”

“Just needed to calm my nerves,” Misty mumbled. She offered the joint to Cordelia. “Want some?”

Had it been anyone else, Cordelia would’ve refused, but it was Misty, and Cordelia wanted to make sure she felt welcomed and acknowledged and understood, so she accepted the joint and took a long, deep hit on it. Her lungs crackled and burned. She battled with herself to keep from coughing so she could hold in the deep breath as she passed the lit joint back to Misty. Her brain clouded up, all fuzzy and soft. She coughed, unable to shake the piercing pain in her chest. “Jesus,” she gasped. She leaned back. Dizziness overwhelmed her. “That’s some strong shit.”

“Yeah.” Misty kept puffing on it. “You alright?” Cordelia lay on her back, gazing up at the stars. Misty was right. They were beautiful tonight. The whole sky had her in awe. Misty grinned down at her and copied her, lying back on the roof. “Ain’t it beautiful?”

“Mhm.” Cordelia didn’t feel as chilly now. She kept Misty’s hand in hers. “Do you come out here a lot?”

“Whenever I can’t sleep, unless it’s raining,” Misty confirmed. “Sometimes when it’s raining…” She gave the joint back to Cordelia, who took another hit. The second one didn’t cramp her lungs as badly. “This is the only place I feel like—like a normal person,” she whispered. “The cold air, and the stars… I don’t know. It makes me feel. It’s the only time I ever really do feel.” When she took the lit joint from Cordelia, she took a final hit from it before it disintegrated into nothing, and she dropped it from the roof. “I feel so numb…”

Misty’s hand in hers was bony but warm. Cordelia gave it a squeeze. She tingled all over. That’s some good stuff. She turned her head to look at Misty. “I want to help.” The wind carried her voice. A small, sad smile touched Misty’s face. “What can I do?”

“You’re here.”

But that’s not enough. Cordelia couldn’t heal Misty. “When did it start?” she asked.

Long, spidery fingers shifted in Cordelia’s, taking their hands from clasped to folding their fingers together in a series of mountains and valleys between their knuckles. “When he lit the match.” Misty’s eyes were distant, unfocused. In their depths, the starlight reflected. Cordelia imagined an ember there, too, lying deep in the navy tones of Misty’s eyes, only coming to the surface when she remembered her darkest hours. “The gasoline hurt when he poured it on me. It burned, kinda, like acid. And it tasted—it tasted so bad. I was choking on the vapor before I ever saw the flame. And then he struck the match. That was the last thing I felt, when he dropped it on me.” Misty’s distant eyes moved to the sky. “Now, any touch… That’s all I can remember, or I don’t feel it at all.”

Cordelia watched her, tears budding in her eyes as the moonlight glimmered over Misty’s alabaster face. “What did it feel like?”

Misty’s eyes flitted to Cordelia, coming into focus. “Not everything feels like something else.” She squeezed Cordelia’s hand, and then she looked away. “I’m sorry if I woke you up. I don’t want to bother you.”

“It’s an honor.” Cordelia stroked the back of Misty’s hand with her thumb. “I care about you, Misty… I want you to be okay.” These words brought Misty’s eyes back to her face. “And maybe together, we can work on that—that not-feeling thing.”

Teary blue eyes met Cordelia’s. “It’s scary. It hurts to try to break out of it. I think I’m safer this way.”

“But you know that’s not healthy.” Misty nodded, averting her eyes. “Maybe we can just start with a hug?” she suggested.

Misty chuckled, a wry, quiet thing. “Okay.” She opened her arms.

Cordelia blinked a few times up at her. Her limbs didn’t seem to want to coordinate themselves for her to sit up and meet Misty halfway. “I’m so high that if I move, I’ll fall off the roof… so you come to me?”

Misty giggled. It was light and happy. Cordelia hoped she got to hear it many more times. Her arms wrapped around Cordelia, and her floral scent wreathed them in joy. Cordelia held onto her body as Misty helped pull her up. The world spun around. Cordelia laughed. Misty didn’t let go, and neither did Cordelia. “You can’t take your pot very well, can you?”

“I haven’t smoked since college.”

“You could’ve said no,” Misty pointed out gently. “I would’ve understood.”

“I wanted you to be impressed.”

“Impressed by you unable to move on the roof and having to roll you back inside? You’re right, I’m riveted,” Misty teased. She helped Cordelia sit up. “Thank you, Miss Cordelia.” The wind tousled her pale gold hair, almost silver beneath the full moon. “I appreciate your help.”

Cordelia smiled. “Anytime. I don’t mind. I want to be here for you.” She fumbled for the open window and managed to land on her feet, with Misty clinging onto the back of her robe to keep her from stumbling over herself. “What was Spalding doing up here? It reeks.”

Misty shrugged. “I looked for it, but I can’t find the source. But the dolls are super creepy.”

“Well, we can clean it up so you don’t have to climb through it when you need the roof.” Cordelia stifled a yawn with the palm of her hand. “I bet these dolls are worth some money.”

“Probably.” Cordelia stumbled over the opening to the ladder. “Careful, there.” Misty steadied her. “Let me go first. I’ll catch you if you’re too messed up to use the rungs like a person.” Cordelia snorted. “Sh! People are asleep. They’ll hear you.” Cordelia found this especially amusing and covered her mouth with her hand to try to muffle the sounds. Misty walked her back to her bedroom. “Get some sleep, Miss Cordelia.”

“I will.” Cordelia paused outside the door, and Misty looked at her expectantly before sinking into another hug. “Goodnight, Misty. Text me if you need anything.”

“Thank you. I will.”

Cordelia closed her bedroom door, but she left it unlocked, just in case Misty decided to follow her into the room.

…

Several weeks passed. Misty interrupted Cordelia’s sleep a few times. Each time, the foghorn awoke Cordelia, and she promptly answered it. Misty shared with her, little by little, and they exchanged memes and pictures. They worked together on cleaning out the attic, so twice, Cordelia joined her on the roof in the middle of the night, and they watched the stars or the sunrise.

The sunrise had never been so beautiful as it was when it struck Misty’s exhausted face and rumpled hair.

Cordelia had just started to drift off to sleep when a ragged scream pierced the air, echoing through the walls. “Huh?” She pushed herself up onto her elbows and tore off her sleep mask, reaching for the lamp on her bedside table. The foghorn noise blinged off thrice in succession. She jumped out of the bed and dropped her phone. “Goddammit!” She fumbled around on the floor to find it.

Misty’s name scrolled across her screen. She slid the notification open. “HELL.” The next messaged was, “HHELP,” followed by a quick, “PLEAS.” Cordelia flung her phone back onto the mattress when Misty’s patchy cry ripped between the walls again, inconsolable and distraught. Her feet slapped the hardwood floor, rushing to Misty’s bedroom door. She flung it open. Misty thrashed on the bed in the dark. The blankets had tangled up around her like ropes. She battled them, tearing at them, as she gnashed her teeth and wailed.

“Misty!” Her name didn’t disturb her from this nightmare. Cordelia tore the blankets from Misty’s body and tossed them onto the floor. Astonished, terrified blue eyes wrenched open, bloodshot and rimmed in red. They couldn’t focus on Cordelia; they were with her mind, somewhere far, far away. Her cell phone was facedown on the floor. “Misty—” Cordelia sat beside her on the bed. She reached to take one of Misty’s hands.

Recoiling like Cordelia had burned her, she shrieked again. “It burns! Don’t touch me, it burns, it hurts!” She retreated into the corner of her bed, wedging herself up against the wall. Her eyes didn’t see anything at all, nothing but shadows and flames. Hands bunched into fists, she curled up into a ball, hitting herself. “Make it stop!”

Cordelia followed her. “Misty, I’m here—I’m here.” She placed her hands on Misty’s shoulders, drawing her near, pinning her arms to her sides so she couldn’t hit herself. “You’re hurting yourself.” Misty howled, unintelligible but anguished, in response to Cordelia’s gentle touch. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.” She pressed Misty’s face into the crook of her neck, snot and tears and thick saliva pouring from her face over Cordelia’s robe. There was a warm, wet spot in the center of the bed, and the heady scent of urine clung to the front of Misty’s nightgown. “Misty, I’ve got you, I’m here.”

Another wail flew from Misty’s lips, muffled against Cordelia’s shoulders, and she writhed in terror and in pain. “It burns!”

“It doesn’t burn, it’s in your head—you’re here, you’re safe—” The lights flicked on, and Cordelia lifted a hand to shield her face, but icy water dumped over the bed, bathing both her and Misty in a frigid shower. “J-Jesus Christ.” Using her hand, Cordelia flung the slushy droplets from her eyelashes, peering up at Madison, Zoe, Nan, and Queenie, who all hovered over the bed. Madison still clutched the bucket she had used to pitch the water onto them, her jaw set and firm. “What the hell has gotten into you girls?”

Slowly, Madison lowered the bucket, setting it on the floor with a hollow click. “Sorry. That’s the only thing we’ve found that works.” The girls gathered around, sitting in a circle on the piss-soaked, frigid bed, ice cubes and water pooling on the covers. “We would’ve been faster, but somebody was occupying the upstairs tub.”

“Oh, back off,” Queenie snapped. “She hadn’t had one in weeks. I thought I could use a bath bomb in the middle of the night in peace for once.”

Motionless and quiet, a shiver passed through Misty’s body. Cordelia looked back at her. What Madison had said was true—her teary blue eyes were lucid again. “Thank you,” Misty whispered, her voice hoarse and brittle. She didn’t let go of Cordelia, and Cordelia smoothed a hand up her back. She flinched and grimaced. The phantom pain hadn’t left her yet. Azure eyes averted to the side. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake all of you again.”

How many times has this happened? Clearly, before they’d acted fast enough to keep it from waking Cordelia—or she was an abnormally heavy sleeper, which she found unlikely. “Does this happen often?” she asked, tucking a sweaty and wet blonde curl behind Misty’s ear. Her eyes fluttered closed at the intimate touch.

“It used to be every other night,” Zoe said, sitting cross legged on the bed in spite of the wet blankets. “Nan would hear it coming before it happened, so Queene would put a silencing spell on the room so nobody else woke up, and Madison would fill up the super soakers.”

“It was like storming the beaches of Normandy every night around four AM,” Nan affirmed with a pleased nod.

No wonder they all seemed so tired all the time. Cordelia was ashamed she had missed it. All this time, she had regretted the council had too much drama to support Misty the way she needed it… Maybe I was the one failing Misty. Misty blinked a few times. “What happened to the super soakers?” she rasped.

“You kept exploding them with your mind,” Madison reminded her, sitting beside Zoe, and her voice was unusually smooth and soothing—no hint of sarcasm or bullying. “The bucket is altogether more effective.” Misty blinked a few times, wiping the icy drops from her eyelashes. She carried a dazed look, her trembling hand in Cordelia’s. Cordelia didn’t allow an inch of space between them. “But your bed is ruined. C’mon, get up. You can have Zoe’s bed. It’s her turn to wash your bedclothes.”

“It was my turn the last time.”

“It’s definitely Madison’s turn,” Nan insisted.

“Madison just carried a five gallon bucket of ice water up the stairs from the backyard, so it’s somebody else’s turn,” Madison reminded them.

A wrinkle appeared between Misty’s eyebrows. “Why didn’t you just float it?” Her voice was barely audible over the rest of the girls tittering. They were so familiar with this routine.

“Why didn’t you just float it?” Madison mimed in a high-pitched voice, and a sleepy, odd smile crossed Misty’s face, her fatigued eyes crinkling at the corners when she breathed a chuckle out of her nose. “When I’m having panic attacks in the middle of the night, you can float all the water you want.”

Cordelia pressed her hand into the small of Misty’s back. “Don’t worry about the bedclothes, girls. I’ll get them tomorrow.” It was the least she could do, given she had somehow managed to miss all of this for months. Misty clutched her hand tightly, like she feared she would leave, but Cordelia wasn’t going anywhere. “Come with me.” Misty hitched a tight breath when Cordelia touched new parts of her body. “You can take a bath, and I’ll get you some clean clothes. You can stay with me.” Gangly limbs unfolded from where Misty had wedged herself in the corner between her bed and the wall, and she slid across the soaking sheets to follow Cordelia’s gentle touch.

Misty looked back at all of them. “Thank you,” she uttered. Their gazes followed them down the hallway. Cordelia opened her bedroom door and gently closed it behind them, the latch clicking into place. Misty didn’t make eye contact with her. “I’m awful sorry I woke you up.”

A hand went to caress Misty’s cheek, but she flinched away. Cordelia kept her hand to herself. “Misty, I’m not upset… I want to take care of you.” A harsh shudder passed through Misty’s limbs. “Let me draw you a bath, okay?”

“Cold water, please—” Misty’s voice cracked.

“Okay,” Cordelia agreed. She did as she promised, running the water as cold as it would go and filling it with bubbles She gathered up a towel and a nightgown and folded them in the bathroom where Misty could reach them, and then she left the door open for Misty, who stood like a phantom, gazing at the floor. “Hey.” She didn’t touch Misty again. “Are you okay?”

Misty nodded. They both understood it was a lie. “Can I leave the bathroom door open?” she whispered. “So I can see you?”

“Of course. I’ll stay right in bed.” Misty hesitated before she extended a shaking hand to Cordelia. Cordelia took her by the fingertips, not touching anything else, and brushed the pads of her fingers across them. “Call me if you need anything.” She lingered there until Misty pulled away, and she headed for the bathroom. Misty left the door to the bathroom ajar, wide open, so they could see each other, and like this, she stripped herself of her clothing.

Cordelia kept her eyes to herself, viewing only a flash of ivory skin before she turned her back and changed out of her own sodden nighty in exchange for a clean, dry one. She settled herself onto the bed, the covers drawn back from where she had flung them when she had scrambled to Misty’s side. In her haste, she had folded her phone up in the blankets, and now she reached under them to find it. As she searched, the foghorn noise rolled in. Cordelia blinked in surprise, following the noise and pulling the phone out. Misty had just texted her. She took her phone with her in the bathroom, Cordelia realized.

“I don’t remember texting you,” Misty said.

A small smile touched Cordelia’s face. “I’m glad you did.” She sent a heart emoji and a heart-kiss emoji. Misty sent her a heart of a different color and some heart eyes. “Is it easier to text than talk?”

“My throat hurts.” She was screaming, Cordelia acknowledged. Of course her throat hurt. But then, Misty added, “My chest hurts when I have that dream. The fumes still burn. My skin still hurts.” Cordelia’s phone made the foghorn sound again. “I didn’t realize your text tone was so loud.” Another foghorn noise.

Cordelia smiled, tilting her head back as she relaxed in the bed. “I turn it on loud at night so I’ll wake up if somebody needs something.” It was only partially a lie, that only Misty’s texts made the foghorn sound and everyone else was expected to wait until the sun came up for their chance at Cordelia’s attention. “You can use the lotion in there if you want.” She hoped the invitation would help Misty’s nerves adjust to the real world, to the awakening world, instead of being dragged back into her memory again and again.

“Thanks.” Foghorn noise. Cordelia sent her a heart, and she listened as Misty splashed in the tub and rinsed her body and her hair. Cordelia put her phone aside. She grew sleepy, but she stayed there, sitting up against her pillows, until she heard Misty unplug the drain and all the water rush down it. From where she sat in bed, she could see Misty stepping out of the tub and hastily drying herself. She rubbed her hair and her body. This time, Cordelia couldn’t bring herself to avert her eyes—perhaps she was too tired to remember to be couth. If Misty noticed, she didn’t mind or say anything. She donned the sheer lace nightgown Cordelia had given her, and she placed her dirty clothes and the wet towel in the hamper.

Misty sat down on the bed beside Cordelia, on the edge, like she was afraid to encroach upon too much of Cordelia’s space. She shivered from head to toe. Her lips were blue with the cold. Cordelia lifted her eyes to look at her. “You’re freezing.” She pulled the covers back. “Come here, let me warm you up.”

Blue eyes found hers, and she grimaced as she scooted along the sheet. Even the smooth fabric irritated her body. “The cold helps,” she whispered. Her lower jaw chattered. The tips of her fingers, too, were tinted gray. She lay on the pillow, facing Cordelia. Cordelia’s hands moved toward her. Misty’s whole body tensed in some terrible anticipation, her eyes wide with fear and pain.

“Misty…” Misty’s eyes fell closed heavily with shame. Cordelia touched their fingertips against one another’s. Misty gasped quietly at the touch. She had expected something much more brutal and heavy-handed. What type of people have touched her throughout her life? “I won’t do anything to hurt you. Let me start with your hands… You tell me when to stop.”

Misty nodded. Cordelia brushed her fingertips against Misty’s, drawing circles around the pad of each finger. She moved down her long, spidery fingers in a spiral to the first knuckle, and then back up to the tips. A long breath wafted from between Misty’s lips. The tension ebbed from her. “That feels nice.” Cordelia headed down again, this time spiraling her touch all the way down to the base of her fingers and coming back up again to the tips. Her face relaxed as Cordelia worked. With her next movement, she followed Misty’s hands all the way down to the wrist.

She paused, waiting for some encouragement, and Misty gave a slight nod, urging her on. Cordelia smiled a grim smile, and she started at Misty’s fingertips again, this time meandering all the way down to her forearm. Misty’s muscles eased under her gentle touch. She rubbed the tendons and ligaments which were ordinarily so tight. She made it to Misty’s elbows, and then, following her pattern of reaching joints, she worked her way back down her arm, massaging any of the muscles that twitched beneath her touch. She reached Misty’s fingertips again, and she repeated the process, past her wrist, past her elbow, pressing her fingers deep into the muscles of Misty’s upper arms.

As her fingers grazed the tip of Misty’s shoulder, she paused as blue eyes flickered open and found her. Misty reached for a hug, and Cordelia accepted it, wrapping Misty up in her safe embrace. “Miss Cordelia?” Misty whispered, to which Cordelia hummed her acknowledgment. “Am I the only person who makes your phone make the foghorn noise?”

This question surprised Cordelia. But she answered it honestly. “Yes, you are.” She brushed her hand over Misty’s damp curls leaving watery streaks on the pillowcase. “Why do you ask?”

“Maddie thought so. She texted you a few times to make sure. I didn’t hear the sound again.” Indeed, Cordelia’s phone hadn’t made a sound—Misty was the only person who had a text tone. For everyone else, it was on vibrate. “I thought she was just trying to make me feel better.”

Cordelia allowed Misty to snuggle nearer to her, face pressed against her body. “Feel better about what?” she asked.

Azure eyes found hers in the dim light of the room. “That—That I love you.” Oh. It struck Cordelia in the pit of her gut, these words. “Maddie thought… you know. I told her it wasn’t, but she’s been blowing up my phone regular about it since I started texting you instead of her.”

“You used to text her instead?” Misty’s brow quirked in bewilderment, and Cordelia realized that a vague, strange, jealous answer was not what Misty had expected to hear. “Er—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that to come out the way it sounded.” But I did, didn’t I? She was somewhat envious of Misty’s attention, not in a way she would ever act upon, but in a way that gave her a slight tingle in her tummy at the thought of Misty choosing to be with her over someone else. It made her feel victorious in a way. “She’s not wrong,” she said finally. Misty blinked, not saying anything yet. “I do… feel a certain way for you. But that’s not why I’ve been spending time with you.”

Misty smiled. “I know.” She sighed happily, easing into Cordelia’s arms. She was relaxed, worn from her ordeal, but her heavy-lidded eyes didn’t yet fall closed. “If we’re still working on the—on the not-feeling thing, maybe we could try kissing?” Misty suggested.

A ridiculous grin crossed Cordelia’s face. She hadn’t even considered it. “I think I’d like that.” She puckered up her lips, and Misty slid forward and pressed her mouth to them gently. It was clumsy and raw and strange, them clutching each other, and when they broke away, they both were a little breathless. “That was nice.” Misty nodded. “We should do it again sometime.”

A silly laugh left Misty’s open mouth. “I agree.” She nestled close against Cordelia. Her body was warm. “I’m tired,” she said quietly.

Cordelia kissed the crown of her head. “Get some sleep… I’ve got you.”

Misty fell into a dreamless sleep.

…

The next night, Cordelia was surprised to enter her bedroom to find it empty. For some reason—and she couldn’t quite think of why—she had expected Misty to join her again. She left her door unlocked as she showered, just in case Misty decided to enter, and when she emerged, she checked her phone. No one had messaged her. I’ll wait. Part of her wanted to text Misty first, but another part of her worried she had misinterpreted the night before completely. But the hours ticked by, ten into eleven into midnight and beyond.

By one, Cordelia couldn’t help herself any longer. “Are you okay?” She added a heart emoji.

Immediately, Misty answered, “Yes,” and the foghorn noise buzzed. The gray speech bubble appeared and disappeared and appeared again as Misty typed more out to her. “I miss you, though.”

Cordelia almost sighed with relief. “You too. Come over.” Within minutes, Misty tiptoed across the hall and closed the bedroom door behind her. “Hey. I was waiting for you.” She drew the covers back, and Misty folded herself underneath them. Her hair was tousled and eyes heavy. She looks like she was asleep. Cordelia spooned up beside her. “Are you okay?” she asked again, just in case the answer in real life would change.

A sleepy smile touched Misty’s face. “I’m great.” She put her hand over Cordelia’s where she clasped her body. “I’m sorry… I thought maybe I had gotten everything wrong, so I didn’t want to come unless I was invited.” Her voice was heavy and thick.

Kissing the crook of her neck, Cordelia smelled her hair. “I should’ve texted sooner. I was afraid I’d gotten it wrong.” Misty made a happy, satisfied sound, settling down into the bed, and she fell asleep within minutes with Cordelia’s arms wrapped around her. She never settles so easily. Cordelia was glad Misty finally had some reprieve, but some part of her was still a little curious… She reached for her phone, and she texted Misty, “I love you.”

Misty’s phone blared a siren sound. She shuddered awake. “Uh—huh?” Blind hands groped for the phone. “Delia—” She had forgotten where she was, and her hands fumbled for the phone.

“Sweetheart, I’m right here.” Cordelia squeezed her from behind.

Misty peeked back at her. “What the hell’d you text me for?” she grumbled, but she rolled back over and nestled happily against Cordelia’s body, purring as Cordelia stroked her hair. She rubbed her face into Cordelia’s hand. She was a satisfied cat soaking up the sunbeam as long as Cordelia was near. Cordelia’s heart swelled with joy, and she allowed Misty to settle down, holding her near and focusing on the sound of her breaths until she drifted off to sleep.

…

Cordelia didn’t hear the foghorn very much after that. Every night, Misty would curl up beside her, and they would stay close to one another until sleep consumed them. Misty’s bad dreams woke Cordelia when she stirred in the middle of the night. She had a night terror, too, and Cordelia dragged her to the tub and dropped her in cold water. The girls were right. It worked. Then, she bathed Misty’s body in the cold water and touched just her fingertips until the rest of her skin could accept touch once again. She slathered Misty in lotion to try to soothe her aching skin. Her blue lips buffered as Cordelia helped her don a fresh nightgown she hadn’t sweated in.

“I’m so sorry.” Misty never stopped apologizing. Cordelia refused to accept the apology; Misty had done nothing wrong, and Cordelia told her so over and over again. She combed Misty’s wet curls back out of her eyes after she washed the sweat from them. “I thought I was getting better…”

“You are,” Cordelia soothed. “You are getting better. It takes time.” She spun Misty around and kissed her hard and led her back to bed, where she eased Misty into her touch until she could accept it, and then they made love passionately. Cordelia touched Misty until no part of her body shuddered with pain or with fear.

Swimming in the post-orgasm haze, Misty spooned Cordelia. She was barely awake. “I think I want to marry you, Delia,” she whispered against the back of Cordelia’s neck.

Cordelia blushed. This was the most unofficial way anyone had ever proposed to her—though, granted, it was only the second time she had ever been proposed to. “You want us to get married?” she asked, just to clarify, and Misty hummed her vivacious approval. “Alright. We can get married.” And they did less than a month later in the foyer of their home with the whole coven applauding.

Cordelia never turned off the foghorn noise on her phone, though it only woke her now when Misty wanted to get high on the roof in the middle of the night and didn’t want anyone else to find out. Now, Misty would wake her by tugging her closer in the middle of the night, whispering sweet nothing into her hair. If she fought a nightmare, Cordelia pulled her from her dreams with gentle hands and showed her pictures of fat babies and sad puppies and evil kittens, and they took some pictures of their own, as well. They rested at ease in one another’s arms. “I’m so grateful to have you, Delia.” Misty pressed these words against her hair.

“I’m luckier to have you, sweetheart.” Cordelia believed it to be true.

#foxxay #misty day #lily rabe #sarah paulson #cordelia goode #raulson #my writing

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missnight0wl · 5 years ago

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Isolation

Summary: Have you wondered what Rowan is up to after their “death”?

I recommend reading “Six minutes” first.

Words: 3215

Winter, 1990

Rowan didn’t remember much about what happened right after she was revived. She wasn’t sure how they got to Rakepick’s house – or what she assumed was Rakepick’s house. She passed out shortly after arrival, and according to Jacob, she was asleep for the whole day.

“It’s good, you need to rest,” he told her. “The thing is that Rakepick and I have to leave now, only for a while. Can you manage on your own?”

Rowan knew that he’s asking rather for formality sake, so she simply nodded. After that, she was instructed where she can find necessary supplies like food and medicine.

“You can use the study if you want,” Madam Rakepick added when they both were ready to go. “Just keep your wand by your side, Miss Khanna”.

Rowan stiffened a bit hearing that remark. “I thought it’s safe here.”

“It is.”

“But it’s always better to be cautious,” Jacob hurried to explain. “You’ll be fine as long as you’re inside. And you won’t be alone for long, hm?”

The empty house appeared overwhelming at first, but Rowan quickly got distracted by pain. It could’ve been from the curse, from the physical impact she experienced in the Forest, or maybe from the times they had practised her timing with the Banishing Charm. Most likely, it was due to all of that combined. Potions and ointment were helpful just enough to let her focus on anything else. She wouldn’t dare to snoop around, she wasn’t even tempted to. But since there were plenty of books available and she had permission to use them, time was passing pretty fast.

It had been three days when she finally heard the front door opening. Madam Rakepick appeared at the doorstep of the living room where Rowan was spending most of her days so far.

“How you’re doing, Miss Khanna?”

“I’m fine,” Rowan replied quickly.

The Curse-Breaker glanced at a small pile of tomes next to the girl, yet she didn’t comment. She got to her business in other parts of the house, leaving Rowan to herself. Then she left for a night. The similar situation repeated a couple of times in the next week. Sometimes, Madam Rakepick would ask her more questions or suggest her reading particular titles out of nowhere. Other times, she said nothing at all and just watched her carefully. No matter what, it always made Rowan a bit uneasy. Until one day, the front door opened once more, yet it was someone else who came in.

“Hi,” said Jacob blithely, popping into the room with Sickleworth on his shoulder. “How you’re feeling?”

Rowan got surprisingly happy to see him again. She could definitely use some change in the company. Besides, she actually grew to like him during that short period they knew each other, even though they had a quite hard start. A lot of things had rocked the girl’s world at that time. For one, she had to process the fact that Madam Rakepick is not evil - or at least that there’s the bigger plan behind her actions – and that she’s not going to actually kill her. Rowan was often worried about that even before the events of the Buried Vault, so overcoming it after everything was a huge deal. And then, she met Jacob – her best friend’s infamous brother, whose second disappearance was maybe as devastating as the first one. Should Rowan be angry with him because of her loyalty to Helena? But then, all of that was supposed to protect her, and not only her… There was also the fact that Jacob was older, more powerful, and appeared to be able to easily kill her as well if he wanted to. It required some kind of respect. Rowan had been conflicted. As if it wasn’t bad enough that she already had a difficult time around new people, even without those additional factors! Now, it seemed rather silly, and she still felt awkward about the moment when she called him “Mr Ellis”.

“Just call me Jacob, please,” he said then, partially amused and embarrassed. The young witch could swear that Rakepick smirked at that too.

Unlike his associate, Jacob didn’t leave shortly after his arrival, and he hung about for the next day. In fact, it turned out that he’s staying for longer. Rowan thought at first that it could be strange to have him around all the time. However, he was doing fine at being busy with his things, and usually, he wasn’t paying much attention to her. Not that she felt ignored. It was simply… natural. Sometimes, she was peeking at him curiously when she entered the study for new books, trying to figure out what he’s working on, but it was hard to tell if he’s noticing her at all. Unless he was smoking at the moment, that is. Then he would stand up almost immediately to open the window.

“Don’t tell Rakepick I smoke in here, okay?” he tended to say with a coy smile.

One day, he came downstairs and sat in the armchair, putting his legs over an arm rail – almost like his sister used to do in the Ravenclaw Common Room.

“What is it?” he asked suddenly, making Rowan realise that she’s staring at him. She shook her head, startled. “You look like you want to ask me about something, so…?”

“No, it’s nothing. It’s just… I’m sometimes noticing how you and Helena are similar.”

“Is that so? O.W.L.s were so hard on her, huh?”

Rowan didn’t understand right away, but then it occurred to her that when he smiled, you could see small wrinkles on his face. That he had bags under his eyes and single grey streaks among his dark hair. He looked tired and ill, even if he was making up for it with his attitude. It must’ve been caused by the Vault. Come to think about it, it was odd that Helena had never really mentioned his physical state. On the other hand, perhaps it’s understandable for a sister to focus more on his behaviour. Everything was always happening so fast, after all.

“Oh no, not like that! That’s not what I--”

“I know, that’s all right.” He smirked and spaced out for a moment. “I’ve got something for you. Wait here.”

He jumped out of his spot and ran back upstairs. When he returned, he was holding a purple notebook, marking some pages with his finger.

“When Helena was ten, I bought her a diary for Christmas,” he started explaining.

“I know, she was writing in it quite a lot.” Rowan recognised it as soon as she saw it. It wasn’t the exact same diary – the one Helena owned was more worn-out, and it had stickers and drawings on the cover, but they could’ve been indistinguishable when they were new.

“Yeah…” Jacob seemed to be pleased to hear that. “Though she probably didn’t know that it’s a two-way notebook. I never had a chance to explain it to her because, y’know…” He paused and cleared his throat. “Anyway, that’s the second notebook from the pair. I left it here long ago and nearly forgot about it. I normally wouldn’t read it, but… It turned out she was writing letters to me, so I guess it’s not that bad. Right?” Rowan got the impression that it was an excuse more for himself than her. He sighed. “She stopped writing months ago, but I’ve noticed recently that new entries are appearing.”

He passed to her the open notebook, and she took it uncertainly. On its pages, she saw familiar handwriting, the same she knew so well from the notes exchanged during classes.

My dearest Rowan…

She glanced over the first sentences and put her hand over her mouth to stop a sob. She closed her eyes to calm down. When she looked again, Jacob was watching her with sympathy.

“It’s your choice if you read it,” he said gently. “I didn’t look at your parts, but I imagine it’ll be a rather bittersweet experience, so consider yourself warned.”

“You said it’s a two-way notebook,” she tried to control shaking of her voice. “Does it mean I could use it to contact Helena?”

“Probably. But you know you can’t. I’m sorry, Rowan.”

She shook her head and smiled weakly. “No, don’t be. Thank you for showing me that.”

It seemed like Jacob wasn’t sure if he made the right decision. “Hey, would you help me with something, too?” he asked more cheerfully. “You know Ancient Runes, don’t you?”

“Yes, of course.”

“You think you could translate something for me?”

“I can try,” Rowan replied, pressing the notebook to her chest.

“Brilliant. I’ll bring you the texts then. Take your time with them.”

She wanted to get to work right away once she got materials, but the purple notebook was still in the corner of her eye. Eventually, she gave in and started reading about what was happening at Hogwarts. She laughed and cried, learning about how her friends were dealing with everything. She was proud of them for being strong, and she wanted more than anything to hug them in the weaker moments. She felt as if Helena was sitting next to her, telling her all of that in-person – except she was so far…

Rowan couldn’t bring herself back to translating that day. Though after the sleepless night, she was glad to have something to focus on. She wondered if Jacob gave her that task right now purposefully.

“How it’s going?” he asked when he came to check her progress.

“Pretty well, actually. I had some difficulties at one point, but it went easier when I overcame it. I think I’m about half-way through.”

“Already?” Jacob flipped through some pages of her work. “I’m impressed. Good job, Rowan.” He smiled at her, but then he frowned unexpectedly. “Can I see your glasses?”

She blinked, surprised. “Um, sure.”

He carefully took them from her and examined them against the light. “They’re not mended properly. That’s why you squint,” he declared. “Did you do it yourself?”

Rowan felt that she’s blushing. “Yeah, I did…”

“It’s not your fault, glasses are tricky. They’re not as complex as tissue, but still,” he reassured her. He took his wand out to cast the spell. “Here, it should be better now.”

Rowan put her glasses back, indeed noticing a difference in her vision. “Thanks.”

“Why you didn’t say anything earlier?”

She shrugged, ignoring the warmth of her cheeks. Truth be told, she didn’t know why. She didn’t want to bother anyone, and she assumed any discomfort she’s experiencing might be related to her other injuries.

“I think I’m gonna cook something,” stated Jacob casually, changing the subject. “Are you hungry?”

He left the room and apparently encountered Madam Rakepick, who happened to be at the house.

“You could’ve at least checked her glasses,” Rowan heard him saying. He didn’t talk loudly, and the girl didn’t intend to eavesdrop, but she couldn’t help it.

“What’s wrong with her glasses?” Rakepick replied with a question.

“They had a flaw from mending. You should take care of things like that.”

“How was I supposed to know? She didn’t complain to me.”

“Maybe because she’s afraid of you.”

“Why would she be afraid of me?”

Jacob made a weird sound which could’ve been a cough or an attempt at hiding a snigger. Rowan didn’t catch the Curse-Breaker’s response, but she made a note to herself to never reveal how sensitive her hearing is. Still, that short exchange made her think again. Because a lot of things in her life recently were confusing, yet the relationship between those two had to be at the top of the list.

Madam Rakepick continued to come back every now and then for short periods. She was spending her time mostly with Jacob alone, but sporadically, Rowan had an opportunity to be around them, too. To her surprise, they usually were getting along really well. Whether it was the case of them used to working together or just knowing more than they were telling, they quickly understood each other, and it seemed they’re making a good team. Rowan even caught them joking around a couple of times. Everything was fine - until they started fighting. Even though they never did it in front of her, she always knew about it because of yelling, which was the most unsettling part, although she rarely could distinguish the exact words.

As far as Rowan remembered, she had never heard Madam Rakepick shouting. Even when she raised her voice occasionally, she was still steady and cold. It definitely fitted her ominous aura. Supposedly, her behaviour was different in the Buried Vault, but Rowan didn’t witness that, and she never wanted to even imagine the whole situation. As for Jacob, though… Well, if Rowan didn’t know that he’s the only other person inside, she’d doubt he could yell at all. His appearance could intimidate at first, sure, but the longer she knew him, the more certain she was that he’s one of the gentlest people she had met. She kept in mind that his approach towards her might be related to Helena. However, she could also easily see him using that natural appeal to endear both teachers and classmates during his school period. Ironically, that’s probably the most effective type of troublemaker. Overall, getting into such heated quarrels seemed unusual for both of them, so the girl never knew if their subjects were this serious or it’s the matter of two characters clashing.

After one of those argues, Jacob stormed into the kitchen where Rowan was sitting at the table. He lent over the counter, hanging his head down in frustration until the door slam.

“Don’t worry about it,” he muttered. Rowan looked at him questioningly. “Me and Rakepick, that is,” he clarified, straightening up. “I imagine it’s not very comforting when the only two people you’re supposed to depend on are at each other’s throats.”

She didn’t know what to answer, so she kept quiet. Jacob in the meantime took out his pack of cigarettes and lit up. He took a puff and chuckled softly.

“Patricia can be difficult to work with,” he continued talking. “She’d probably say the same about me. But it’s nothing that should concern you. In fact, things go pretty well.” He seemed genuine, as always.

They sat in silence for a while before Rowan tried to take up the conversation. “It had to be hard for you to trust her…”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, after she left you in the Vault and all.” She felt nervous talking about it, but it was bothering her for so long. “Or did you know that she had no choice or something?”

He didn’t reply right away and bit his lips. “Yeah, something like that…”

He suddenly appeared more absent but not upset with her, so she decided to push further. “Jacob? Can I ask you something?”

“Hm?”

“Last year, when there was the Portrait Curse at Hogwarts, our friend’s sister got trapped. She was getting weaker with each day, losing the sense of reality. How it’s possible…” She forced herself to raise her head and look at him, hoping to see his reaction. “How did you even survive for so long?”

There was no reaction, he only stared at the floor. That’s what Rowan was afraid of. She kept noticing little things that weren’t adding up. Like from time to time, Jacob would mention not seeing his sister in years. She also couldn’t believe that Jacob would reproach anyone for anything, even if it was about hesitating before setting him free – and that’s what he was doing according to Helena’s stories.

“You weren’t trapped at all, were you?” she asked quietly.

Their eyes finally met. “No, I wasn’t.”

Rowan instinctively reached to her wand, which she always carried with her, just like Madam Rakepick told her to. Yet Jacob remained calm, resting against the counter and smoking casually.

“But you are Helena’s brother? And she has only one brother?”

“Yeah.”

Her heart started beating faster. “Then who did she save from the portrait?”

“Let’s not talk about it.” He took a deep breath. “Look, Rowan, I’m sorry, I really am. I just can’t tell you everything, at least not now. Helena is safe, and I’ll do anything to keep it that way as long as I’m alive.” He put out the cigarette and sat in front of her. “I want to protect you, too, but it means keeping information from you. I know it’s hard, and frustrating, and scary. But it has to be that way. Do you understand?”

Rowan truly wanted to believe him. But at the same time, it hit her how little she knew about what she had gotten into. What if she was on the wrong side? What if she got manipulated? But it couldn’t be… She spent the whole night thinking about different possibilities. She ended up browsing the purple notebook once again. Could it be fake, forged to influence her emotionally? No… The new entries were still appearing and some of them were too detailed to not be written by Helena. No, neither Jacob nor Madam Rakepick was lying to her. But even when holding to that faith, it was terrifying to realise that there is a lot of unknown danger out there. Rowan believed that her decision would keep her friends safe. However, how much truth was in that? And if she somehow could warn them to be careful, how would she warn about something she didn’t understand? She closed the notebook, resisting the urge to write something in it.

The next morning when she went down to the kitchen, she found there both Jacob and Madam Rakepick drinking coffee. It actually was the first time she saw them in a situation like that, and it was almost bizarre. If she had any company in the morning, it was Jacob alone. For a moment, she was taken aback, not sure if she can interrupt them. Nevertheless, she wanted to talk to them anyway, so she got the courage up to speak up.

“I want to help,” she announced. “I don’t have to know everything, but I can still do something. I did translations for Jacob, I can do more. I can do analysis, I can organise things--”

“I hope you paid attention to the books I recommended you, Miss Khanna,” Rakepick cut in.

Rowan hesitated, confused by the sudden remark. “Yes, of course.”

“Good. It’ll be helpful in your research.”

“I’ll be doing research?”

“Yes, you just said that you want to help.”

The girl immediately got excited and lightened up. “On the Cursed Vaults? Or on R? Or–”

“How about you start with breakfast?” the redhead interrupted her again, raising her eyebrow. She took a sip of her beverage, temporarily closing the case. Jacob only grinned at them while placing an additional plate.

Rowan took her seat at the table, even though she wasn’t hungry at all. If everyone fights, she’s going to fight, too, in the best way she can. And should the worst happen – whatever it would be – she’s going to be prepared.

#hogwarts mystery #hphm #hphm spoilers #rowan khanna #hphm jacob #jacob ellis #patricia rakepick #jackepick #year 6 #six minutes au #my writing

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cantfoolajoker · 5 years ago

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the investigation team as dnd classes

after sees and the thieves, we’re here now for the final part of this dumb series. thank god the i-team has the smallest cast size so this isn’t as lengthy as the other two, but it’s still going under the read more for reading sake. enjoy!

lets start off with our main lad souji/yu who i vote is a knowledge domain cleric. alternatively, could also be a tempest cleric if you want more zappy zappy, but i’m focusing on his pursuit of knowledge here. as the name implies, these clerics worship gods of knowledge and their temples are typically libraries. they get things such as read thoughts (using their channel divinity to read the thoughts of creatures at a surface level if they fail a saving throw) and visions of the past, which lets them see what happened in the past to a specific item or area. their domain spell list also includes speak with the dead (yikes) and scrying (so he can talk to nanako whenever :) ).

yosuke is 100% a drunken master monk and here’s why: drunken master monks fighting style is entirely based around being agile and essentially moving as if you had the unsteady feet of someone drunk, making yourself light and able to effectively dodge moves while making your opponent undermine you. while yosuke isn’t That ahead of the game in terms of how he tries to portray himself, his actual fighting style of being very acrobatic and airy fits into drunken master nicely especially considering the hit and run tactic the class utilizes. also, since we all now know yosuke is the fastest character in the p4 arena games, here’s some extra tidbit info: monks get extra movement speed every few levels and if you were to make him a wood elf, he’d have the highest speed of anyone, including a certain warforged monk. have fun with that.

so this may be a bit of a controversial take but chie as way of long death monk because of how much she wants to protect other people. their fighting style focuses on understanding how death functions and essentially ensuring they are able to accurately take down opponents by examining the different aspects and fundamentals of death. they can expand ki points to avoid death with “mastery of death” and can frighten enemies with “hour of reaping” due to their skill set. also, they get the main staple of monks which is a normal hit die for using an unarmed strike, so chie can kick as much as she wants.

i feel like yukiko is an evocation wizard since she is both a magic user and also like does put in some dps, as well as it makes sense her highest stat would be intelligence. school of evocation as a subclass is basically the dps subclass for wizard that focuses on blasting spells of most elemental affiliations but it is very commonly associated with fire since that is the most explosive (and also fireball is a very fun spell). you also get the sculpt spells feature which allows you to redirect your spells mid casting them which no other wizard subclass can do, and potent cantrip, which basically forces the enemy to take half the damage of the cantrip even if it succeeded on the saving throw. also yukiko Would threaten to hit people with her giant magic tome she keeps her spells in, don’t lie to me.

kanji’s a paladin because he’s a tanky boy and i felt that giving him barbarian would be a cop out. oath of ancients paladin i feel is the best fit for him since they’re first and foremost considered one of the oldest subclasses as they date around to druids, their essential full class cousin, who are considered ancient divine magic, and this fits as a reminder that kanji comes from an equally traditional family. their tenets essentially stand for protecting the inherent light and creativity of the world rather than a sense of morality; they uphold art and song and the general beauty of life, meaning kanji’s sewing also takes a very important role as they typically don their armor with decorations relating to this concept as a reminder that they are protecting light and life. most of their attacks center around a nature theme, and they even get a new form at 20th level due to elder champion that is almost akin to an ancient force of nature. also, they get speak with animals as an oath spell, i feel like that’s the best selling point.

alright rise’s a bard. we all knew that one. i feel like she’s a valor bard especially given her ability to fight in p4au, since valor bards aren’t exactly melee like their swords cousins but they still can pack a punch and assist their dps in combat. they can provide inspiration mid fight and also use their music to heal some hit points. flavor wise, they’re known for singing about heroes to inspire other heroes and can be considered very classic bards, and since those are typically the most popular kinds of bards, it does parallel nicely to her idol status.

teddie’s an eladrin first and foremost, potentially one that’s sort of mixed between all of the seasons to match his primary color self as well as encapsulate on the fact he would essentially be an off color fey adjacent figure like his harmless-yet-potential-to-be-harmful shadow origins in source. because of this, i think leaning into that would be good and druid circle of dreams may be the best fit for him; these druids pull their power from the feywilds and specifically the dream like state it has since generally being in the feywilds feels unreal to most people not naturally originating from it. they invoke the power of both the summer and the gloaming courts in order to act as essentially a poster child for the hopefully peaceful relations between the feywilds and the material plain, and as such they get “walker in dreams” which allows them to plain hop much like teddie can do between the shadow world and the normal world. also, like all druids can do, he can shapeshift into animals, and he can keep being his beary best self.

okay so like, i know gunslingers are a thing, but also naoto strikes me as an inquisitive rogue because they’re basically the actual detective class and subclass combo of dnd. the big take away is they have a very keen eye and basically amp up their insight and perception skills to the max, with unerring eye even allowing them to see through illusions or other magic designed to deceive one’s senses. naoto can Also have a gun still while in this class regardless and even get bonus damage on it if they get sneak attack, which is pretty neat.

bonus: adachi is a gunslinger fighter bc he literally made a model gun have a functional barrel cause he wanted a gun that badly. alternatively, he could be a fiend warlock or even the artillerist artificer bc he almost definitely has the int stat for it.

#p4 #souji seta #yu narukami #yosuke hanamura #chie satonaka #yukiko amagi #teddie #kanji tatsumi #rise kujikawa #naoto shirogane #tohru adachi #investigation team #text tag #dnd au #dnd #its Done finally #i finished it right as cr live from chicago started lmao

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tazzytypes · 4 years ago

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Apocalypse: Sanctuary - Chapter 14

Hey guys! Thank you so much for being patient with me as I work to keep this story going. Between work and school my schedule is completely booked so finding time to sit down and write can be hard. As always, thank you for all the likes and comments. They really make my day and I get super excited when I see those notifications on my phone.

Read more on AO3 or see the Masterpost for more chapters!

Emily stood dutifully with her “sister witches” in the salon of the subterranean boy’s school, glancing here and there. She was desperately trying to read the room. Tension was high, but no one cared to explain why. Instead, she felt like a toddler watching her parents get a divorce without the needed schema to even understand marriage

God, she missed college. At least there, things were actually explained to her. All Cordelia said was they were here to perform a ritual of the Seven Wonders. The name sounded familiar, but other than that, she knew nothing.

What she did know was that the Hawthorne School for Exceptional Young Men was the counterpart to Robichaux. Why they separated the coven based upon gender alone was… perplexing. Emily imagined prestige had something to do with it, a concept that made her roll her eyes at the sheer absurdity of it all.

Emily had never been to California. One of her friends had moved there after high school, but they weren’t particularly close and the contact between them was now non-existent. It wasn’t as if she could reach out to the girl — duty being what it was and the fact that they were now in the least hospitable place in the entire state.

It was a pity, Emily hoped she would have at least seen the beach or LA. More to say she had than out of actual desire.

She looked up as Myrtle shimmied beside them, keys in hand. Quietly, she bestowed them upon the group — first Zoe, then Queenie, and finally Madison and herself.

“We’ll be doubling up in the broom closets they call rooms,” Myrtle said, keeping her voice low. “Make sure you check the sheets before you lay down.”

She spared a pointed look at Madison, “and don’t go about wandering in the night. God knows what these little perverts will do.”

Madison stood with her arms across her chest, an unconvincing smile more a smirk than anything else. She leaned forward and flashed a grin. “Just because I get more than anyone else in this coven doesn’t mean I don’t have standards.”

Myrtle smiled in a way that made the blonde frown and turned back to the center of the room where Ariel and Cordelia were still talking logistics. The Seven Wonders required careful planning. With the stakes being life or death, there was no room for even the smallest of errors. They also had to assure that the greasy little weasels weren’t cheating them out of their throne.

Madison leaned in towards Queenie, eyes flickering from the boy wonder.

“I have dibs,” she said.

A brow shot up Queenie’s forehead, “On what, bitch?”

“The bed.”

“Girl. I am not sharing a room with you.”

Madison turned to Zoe. The brunette’s eyes were trained ahead, purposefully not meeting Madison’s eyes. The ex-movie star rolled her eyes which came to settle on Emily. She shook the key with a painted “6” on the fob.

“Looks like we’re bunk buddies.”

Emily spoke before she could think, “Joy.”

“Whatever.”

Across the room, Michael watched Emily. He didn’t stare, but blue eyes frequently dashed to the girl. She stood stoically a few steps away from her sister witches with a stern expression on her face. As soon as she was brought into the light, however, it disappeared. Furrowed brows relaxed with the rest of her expression, only to return as it was but a moment before.

Her companions seemed not to notice, treating her as a bumbling and anxious thing. No, this girl was but a cat waiting to pounce from the shadows.

Emily’s eyes dashed to his as she felt his stare. For a moment they locked eyes, but she quickly averted her gaze and focused on anything but him. He watched a moment longer.

Madison whispered something and she rolled her eyes, but a blush crawled up her neck. Her eyes flickered back to him, but he quickly turned his attention to the conversation at hand.

Days before, all Emily had been able to glean from her conversation with Cordelia was that this important ritual would determine who the next Supreme would be… whatever that meant.

For all the useless information the others had given her, they did not explain what the Seven Wonders entailed. “You’ll see,” was the closest she had gotten to a response.

Either way, Cordelia wanted her help. What she could help with, she wasn’t quite sure. The witches seemed to find pleasure in keeping things vague.

Thus, long story short: Emily was in an underground all-boys boarding school doing occult shit straight out of a Steven King novel.

Green eyes flickered to a nearby bookshelf, her eyes trailing over the titles instinctively. Most of them were old, books having that rough binding with wrinkled spines that only came from constant use and gold inlaid titles. There was one, however, with no name.

Looking about, she carefully made her way over to the shelf. It wasn’t far from where she was standing — a few feet at most. Gently, she eased the large weathered tome into her arms, balancing it upon her hip as if it were a child.

It was a grimoire written in Latin. It was the one subject she had made traction in, reassuring her whenever she couldn’t conjure small objects to her hand or make butterflies out of roses.

That being said, she was far from fluent. Some words and basic sentences popped out at her, but beyond that was incomprehensible. Emily wished she had her pile of references with her. It would at least give her something to do while the adults tackled the issues at hand.

“Finis venit,” she muttered under her breath, eyes narrowed as she read the handwritten note on the inside cover of the book, “ante initium.”

The end comes before the beginning?

A burning sensation in her hands nearly made her drop the tome with what would no doubt have been a very loud, attention-drawing thud. Biting her lip to keep from crying out, she eased the book back to its place.

Her eyes darted around the room as she shuffled away from the bookcase. No one seemed to notice her faux pas, too engrossed in their own thoughts and tasks. Eventually, her gaze was drawn to the blonde boy who stood next to Ariel, Hawthorne’s headmaster. His hands were positioned behind his back, fist clenching as he continued to pay attention to the discussion before him.

Glancing back to her hands, she found a small circular burn mark around her right middle finger. Red irritation bloomed brightly upon her skin but quickly faded into nothing.

“God, I need a cigarette,” Madison whined beside her, crossing her arms and leaning back on the wall. Bored, her eyes trailed back to her new Sabrina. “Why are you here, anyway?”

“Cordelia asked me to come.”

Madison scoffed, “What does she want you to do? Throw up on them?”

“Who the fuck knows,” Emily said with a sigh. The reaction gained her a small, cheeky smile from the blonde. The amusement didn’t last long.

“If you know you’re not a witch, why the hell do you even stay here?”

“Cordelia thinks I have potential.”

“Ha!” Madison said, “What a load of crock.”

Queenie rolled her eyes as she stood beside the two, Madison sandwiched between the human voodoo doll and the powerless newbie.

“Can you stop being a bitch for, like, five seconds?” Queenie snapped at the blonde.

“Whatcha’ gonna’ do? Kill me?”

“Don’t tempt me.”

A small smirk crawled onto Emily’s lips at the banter, but quickly vanished the second she felt Madison glance towards her. From across the room, Michael couldn’t help but be amused at the scene. He did his best to hide a smirk of his own, covering it with a hand in an attempt to save face.

Madison rolled her eyes and scoffed before shuffling away from the pair to put as much distance between them. Emily glanced at Queenie and they both snickered.

“Like I said,” Queenie said, “I got you, girl.”

“I’d hate to be on your bad side.”

“Damn straight.”

Emily pushed off the wall and stood a little straighter as she noticed Cordelia turn. The warlocks retreated to their side of the room save for Ariel and the curly-haired angel. Green eyes met blue and the two simply stared at each other for a long moment before diverting their attention back to the reigning supreme.

There was something about that boy… something Emily couldn’t quite place.

“Today we take part in an ancient ritual used by our coven for generations,” Cordelia spoke, “The new must be ushered in and the old ushered out to maintain the strength of our coven.”

Finally, she turned to the boy-wonder, “Are you ready to take on this momentous task.”

“I am.”

Emily jumped as a loud chorus of cheers erupted above them, boys stomping their feet and yelling as loud as they knew how. She forced her eyes back on her headmistress and tried to quiet her racing heart.

Cordelia didn’t look pleased, everyone else too preoccupied with the noise to notice. It was a slight difference: the near imperceivable furrow of the brow and thinning of the lips.

Her eyes then trailed to the boy. He was smiling up at the crowd, basking in their adoration. It was a genuine smile — not the one he had shown when they first arrived.

The rowdy boys were quickly silenced with a well-aimed look of their headmaster. Emily could hear the shuffling of feet above her head as they skittered off into the halls, leaving the room feeling tense and lifeless.

“Like little roaches,” she heard Myrtle whisper to Zoe. The girl’s response was drowned out by the voice of their headmistress.

“Let the test of the Seven Wonders begin!”

***

The Seven Wonders was a test of seven magical talents… or at least that is what Emily observed.

Telekinesis was the first wonder, an easy enough skill for those who could actually use their magic. She felt a surge of jealousy at that thought. It was easy for Cordelia to say magical talent didn’t matter when she had more than Emily could hope to possess.

Michael held up his hand and a book crossed the room as if it had a mind of its own. The grimoire was a heavy tome in her arms, but the boy made it look as light as a feather.

He opened it to the first page, brows furrowing as he read the hand-scribed dedication. Closing the book, he looked to Ariel. The man was grinning ear to ear, clapping the boy on the back and praising him for a job well done.

“This is but the first test,” Cordelia reminded, voice stern, “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

The fair-haired woman turned to Michael, “The next test is Concilium. Control the minds of someone in this room.”

That wording did nothing to ease the tension in Emily’s body. She quite liked being in control of her own thoughts and actions. The thought of someone being able to override her autonomy at will made her palms sweat.

Emily didn’t know what to expect until Madison and Zoe started dancing at random. Their faces betrayed their true feelings, Michael’s powers not strong enough to make the pair like one other. A small smile flickered to Emily’s lips at the frowns carved into their faces, but it quickly vanished when she felt the boy’s eyes on her.

They danced and danced and danced some more in a silent room. If not for the circumstances it may have been poetic. The strings of the puppet-master were far too visible, their bodies too stiff. It made her skin crawl.

Just as the dance ended, Emily felt a sudden presence behind her followed by a feather-light tap on her shoulder. Her hair stood on end and a shiver ran up her spine. Hands instinctively curled into fists which swung back towards the sudden presence.

The problem with instinct was that your body moved before your mind could decide to. Her fist was mere inches from his face when she finally realized what she was doing. Michael’s hand swung out to block the blow, fingers curling around her hand as he caught the punch mid-air. Emily’s heart was racing in her chest and the boy-wonder could feel her heartbeat through her hand.

Power flickered through the air. Michael feeling like he was on the other end of an electrical shock. Gently, he let her hand go and it pulled back to her side as if his touch was fire.

“Careful,” He warned, a crooked smile curling at his lips. Emily’s eyes narrowed ever slightly. “You’ll end up giving someone a black eye.”

Emily’s eyes narrowed ever slightly, biting back a retort. If someone didn’t want a black eye, they shouldn’t sneak up on others. She was tempted to throw the other fist… but she doubted her headmistress would approve.

“You have conquered transmutation,” Cordelia noted, the pair turning back to the current supreme. Michael stepped back from her charge with the expression of a content cat. The Supreme’s frown was more prominent now, her eyes filled with annoyance she could no longer hide. “Now it is time for you to conquer the next task.”

She spared a glance at Ariel who stood beside her. He beamed at his student, looking to the woman beside him with an air of smug contempt. He was comically shorter than the woman, but her own expression did nothing to squash his silent gloating.

“One of your mentors has hidden something in this room. Find it using divination.”

Michael stepped around Emily, the girl taking a step away from him as he made his way towards the blonde woman. Stopping before her, he held out a hand palm-up. After a moment, Cordelia placed a dozen or so runes and bones into his hand.

Turning on his heel and taking a few deliberate steps, Michael crouched in front of the fire. He tossed the objects onto the floor. Emily stared at them, trying to sense their meaning. She had read tarot cards before — accurate readings, too… or so her friends had said. Runes and bones, however, were another beast entirely.

The bookshelf. Her own thought startled her as if she had heard another’s voice inside her head. She watched Michael’s eyes flicker up to one of the many bookshelves.

Then he was gone, vanishing into thin air. Emily moved closer to the wall, hairs standing on end once more. The next thing she knew, the boy-wonder was standing next to his headmaster who jumped as a hand was placed on his shoulder.

“I believe this is yours,” Michael said to the man. Ariel grinned and laughed, patting the boy on the back as he took back his pocket watch.

With every task, Cordelia’s mood soured. Anyone outside of Robichaux wouldn’t have been able to tell the slight difference in her demeanor. Her posture straightened into a thin line, her eyes growing sharper and sharper until her gaze could cut stone.

Pyrokinesis and Vitalum Vitalis. Michael made them look easy. Flames roared when drops of his blood hit the wick of a candle. He made a mouse come back alive after snapping his neck.

The latter disturbed Emily more than the former. Emily realized she had never seen anything die before. She’d experienced death, naturally — old pets and family members passing to the other side. There was something about the sharp cracking of tiny bones accompanied by a shrill shriek that made all her hairs stand on end. Her body buzzed and she felt a momentary pressure on her forehead.

Zoe turned at the sudden snap of power which echoed through the room. Emily stared at the sight before her, her eyes distant. It unnerved Zoe, the way the other girl stared. It felt like a black void had curled around Emily.

The second the mouse was brought back to life, the spell which entranced the woman broke. Clarity came back to Emily’s eyes and she finally felt the presence of eyes upon her. Zoe averted her gaze, pretending she had seen nothing.

“And so, we arrive at the final test,” Cordelia announced, “Descensum.”

Slowly, Michael’s hands came to rest behind his back. The more wonders he accomplished, the more contempt he held. Cordelia worried what his plans for the coven were. There was something about that boy that sat her on edge.

Her eyes flickered to Emily for but a moment, watching her whisper something to Queenie. Green eyes widened at the senior witch’s response.

Emily’s attention darted between the line of witches now standing before the fire. Queenie had chosen to stay with the younger witch to explain what was going on.

“What’s Decensum?” Emily asked

“To prove you are the next supreme, you have to go to hell.”

“Hell?”

“I didn’t believe it at first, either.” Queenie said, “but, then again, I’m a human voodoo doll so anything is possible.”

Emily’s lips twisted as she took in the information, trying to decide how she felt about the concept of hell existing. She had never been a particularly religious person… agnostic at best. It was an existential conundrum — one existing thus implying the other did as well.

Closing off her thoughts, Emily forced herself to save the existentialism for after their little trip. Hopefully, by then she would forget about it entirely.

Cordelia’s voice pulled them from their whispered conversation. Their headmistress’s voice rang loud and clear throughout the room, demanding attention.

“But today I am not asking you to perform this wonder,” The Supreme continued, dragging her eyes back to Michael, “I am asking you to conquer it.”

Emily’s eyes flickered back to Queenie as she shifted to her other foot, eyes narrowed at her supreme and brows furrowed.

“What is she doing?” Queenie muttered. Emily pulled her eyes away from her companion and looked to the scene before her. The wizards shifted uncomfortably, lips pressing into thin lines. Emily’s eyes then settled back on Cordelia.

“I’d like you to retrieve my dear friend, Misty Day,” the blonde woman continued, “who lost her own battle with this very task.”

“That’s impossible!” one of the warlock’s snapped, an African American man — Behold — dressed to impress in the same black color they all donned. “Those who don’t return from Decensum are gone forever; property of the underworld.

“But even Orpheus was able to challenge Hades to bring back Eurydice,” Emily muttered. She felt eyes upon her, but when she looked to the boy-wonder his attention was solely on Cordelia.

Queenie spared the girl a glance, “What was that?”

Emily slowly removed her eyes from Michael, “Nothing.”

““No other Supreme’s been made to do this, ever. This is not only unfair,” Another wizard — Baldwin — noted, angry eyes encased by thick-rimmed glasses, “this is suicide!”

Cordelia cut them off with ease, “Which is why I offer a compromise.”

The Supreme looked to Emily expectantly. The brunette glanced about the room, unsure of what was coming. Finally, after a good moment, she stepped out of the shadows. Cordelia offered her a reassuring smile as Emily came to stop by her side. She could feel the warlock’s eyes on her and she found herself focusing on the floor after meeting their gaze.

“Emily is a catalyst,” Cordelia explained to the warlocks. “One of the strongest I have ever seen. While she has yet to show any magical ability, we have found that others of our kind can tap into her magic and use it to power their own.”

“This is sabotage!” Baldwin said, his pose reminding Emily of a hungry wolf. What was Cordelia thinking? She wasn’t ready for this. She didn’t want this. She didn’t—

“Michael will need all the help he can get,” Cordelia reminded.

All this while, Ariel had been quietly fuming. He should have known the witches would try and undermine the alpha. Jaw clenched and expression sour, he did his best to keep his cool.

“Enough.” He said, head turning to his fellow warlocks before his gaze returned to the blonde witch, “Cordelia—”

Cordelia’s head cocked ever slightly to the side, waiting for him to speak.

“I need a word.” He finally concluded, words rushing past his lips. Cordelia simply nodded, and he led the way back into the shadow-filled halls of Hawthorne.

***

“You’re changing the rules!” Ariel exclaimed, voice rising and anger taking the forefront as soon as they were out of earshot. He paced back and forth in his office, trying to contain his rage. “Michael should only have to descend as you did!”

Cordelia stood calmly at the center of the room, poised with her hands resting in front of her. Her stillness was unsettling… more similar to a snake than a woman. It only served to anger Ariel more, waving his hands as he talked just to keep from imploding.

“You didn’t see what I saw,” the woman noted, voice stern and unwavering. Stubborn. Just like her mother. “Our world hangs in the balance. There is darkness coming and, if Michael is going to be the one who leads, us he needs to be able to withstand anything.”

Ariel stopped in his tracks.

“Bullshit.”

Cordelia’s gaze was as cutting as a knife, her hushed tone betraying her surprise, “excuse me?”

“I saw you drop. I know what’s really happening here.” Ariel said, satisfied as Cordelia’s face fell into a frown. “You’re fading, but you’re afraid to let go.”

“And you’ve hit a wall. Grand Chancellor is as far as you’re going to get,” Cordelia spat, “You and your powers have reached their limit. Your kingdom will only just be this hole in the ground.”

Ariel sputtered, unable to find a single retort. The woman was a scorpion and she was more than ready to sting him with her tail.

“Unless, of course,” She continued, “you use Michael to extend your influence.”

“This is pathetic — accusing me to cover your blatant attempt at his life. I won’t lose that kid over some sad, futile cling to power.”

“I’ll remind you that I am also risking one of my own girls in this venture.”

“An inexperienced whelp!”

“Who has more untapped potential than you can ever dream to have!” Cordelia snapped, “You may insult me, but I will not let you insult one of my girls.”

“But you would send her to her death… What a supreme you are.”

“You actually believe I am trying to get them killed?”

Ariel took a step towards the woman, then another, “What I think, Cordelia, is that you are your mother’s daughter, who I knew fairly well. You may come with a kinder facade, but deep down, you’re nothing more than a weak, frightened woman… just like Fiona.”

He watched as Cordelia’s eyes betrayed her fear, her insecurity. Ariel had hit the pressure point, the Achilles heel. Cordelia’s sad eyes hardened, her own rage boiling in her belly.

“With a flick of my finger, I could crush your larynx and tear it from your throat.” Cordelia warned, “Do not think for one second I am weak. I have humored you men, and coddled your fragile egos, but in no way does that mean you actually have a say.”

The woman took a step towards the man, forcing him to step back in turn. “I outrank you. I can destroy you. So, I suggest you fall in line because I am still your Supreme.”

A creaking interrupted them, their eyes trailing to the door which now stood open. Michael stood, doors moving without his touch. His hands sat behind his back with a solemn and resolute expression.

He locked gazes with Cordelia. There was something about his eyes that made her hair stand on end. He looked human, but his eyes seemed off and his presence made her stomach churn.

“It’s okay,” he said, “I’ll get your friend back.”

***

The warlocks and witches had divided themselves in opposite corners of the room, leaving Emily to stand aimlessly in front of the fire. Their whispering was a roaring sea in her ears, an annoying buzz to a mosquito she couldn’t squash. She found her head quirking just to free her ears from the sound.

Sparing a glance at the warlocks, she was met with narrowed and sharp glances. Baldwin spared a look in her direction before turning back to Behold to whisper something. They turned their backs so she wouldn’t read their lips.

The gaze of her fellow witches was less than reassuring, themselves whispering about the circumstances just as the warlocks. Zoe looked up and the younger witch quickly averted her gaze. Cordelia’s announcement blind-sided them all. Emily had always said she was going to go to hell… she just never expected it to come this soon.

“Cordelia’s sending her to her death!” She heard Madison hiss.

“Keep your voice down, bitch!” Queenie responded, slapping the girl’s arm before they also turned to keep Emily from hearing their conversation.

With a sigh, the brunette turned her gaze back to the fire. Curling her arms around herself, she stared into the flickering flames. Fire had always comforted her, its warmth and snapping flames. She could stare at it for hours, trying to make meaning out of the chaos.

Higher, she commanded in her mind, watching a single flame sputter higher before returning to its place. When she was small, she’d amuse herself for hours with the instances of coincidence, commanding waves to rise or wind to howl and pretending she had any control over it.

It was the silence Emily noticed first. It pulled her from her mulling like ice water poured over her head. Slowly she turned to find Michael standing behind her. He watched her eyes dilate at his sudden presence before returning back to normal, allowing him to watch the colors of her hazel eyes switch ever slightly. The girl practically vibrated with anxiety.

“Cordelia says you are a catalyst.”

“Try a charger hit with lightning,” Emily noted with a scoff. Michael’s head turned slightly to the side, analyzing her response. The gusto behind her words quickly faded, hand moving to fret with her bracelet. “Or… at least, I’ve been told.”

Holding out a hand, he watched it as she regarded it. Eyes once wide in doe-like fear narrowed into calculating pinpricks. Blue eyes stared at her, judging which piece in the puzzle she was. She didn’t look him in the eyes for very long.

“Shall we?” Michael asked.

Hesitantly, her hand rose from her side and her eyes flickered to his face. She was searching for something. Neither of them knew what, but whatever she saw was satisfactory enough for her to place her hand in his own.

Emily had never been one for physical contact. Her high-school years had been spent perfecting the art of walking down a crowded hall without brushing a single arm. Michael’s hand was warm, somewhere between natural and unnatural. It was as if the boy had a fever.

Her hand, in contrast, was unnaturally cold. Her fingers were like ice against his flesh and twitched slightly at the contact.

“Tell me what I need to do.”

“Just focus on my words,” He told her, true meaning lingering in the air.

And don’t mess up.

***

Emily’s nose itched and her head buzzed, but she did her best to ignore it. It was as if there were a hundred bees in her body, all batting their wings at once. She had yet to get used to the infrequent thrumming of her bones.

The silence was oppressive, sounds of breathing and footsteps more akin to howling wing and roaring thunder. Cordelia knelt beside them, muttering spells as she slowly wound a ribbon to connect Emily’s hands with Michael’s.

When she looked up to the warlocks, they were whispering one another. As before, they shielded their faces from view, glancing back at Cordelia every few seconds.

Emily found herself speaking before she could think, the monotonous silence far too overwhelming, “So which underworld do you have to conquer?”

Michael’s voice was somewhere between bored and annoyed.

“Does it really matter?”

“I mean… different religions have different tales — Greek, Christian, Egyptian — it changes based upon the culture.”

“I wouldn’t worry too much about that, dear,” Myrtle spoke with a small chuckle. She did not even try to mask her contempt of the boy. “it’s all semantics.”

“Until you have to have Anubis weigh your heart,” Emily muttered to herself. A smile flickered to Michael’s face and left just as quickly.

The boy-wonder laid on the floor, his head in Emily’s lap. Her hands were placed on his chest where his arms crossed like he was buried in a casket. His golden hair tickled her arm. She could feel his eyes on her, but she refused to look at him.

What did Cordelia expect her to do? Even if she was a catalyst, she couldn’t control that power. Emily’s hands felt clammy in boy-wonder’s. Suddenly the ribbon felt itchy and his hands too warm.

Apparently, the binding was supposed to channel her magic into his own. Emily just thought it made her look stupid. Cordelia gave her a reassuring smile as she finished tying off the brunette’s right hand. Touching the girl’s cheek, the Supreme pretended Emily’s jaw wasn’t tense beneath her fingers.

The coven gathered, standing around the pair. They were like giants, looming over them. Emily was less than pleased about having someone at her back. Michael felt her fingers twitch against his own.

“Ready?” Michael asked the girl, forcing her to finally meet her gaze. Emily nodded and his eyes looked past her and towards the ceiling.

“Repeat after me,” He told her, “and focus on the words.”

“Got it,” Emily said, voice barely louder than a whisper.

“Deduce me in tenebris vita ad extremum,” He began to chant, “ut salutaret inferi.”

“Dedice me in tenebris,” she repeated, doing her best to put weight behind every word, “vita ad extremum…”

“Decensum.” They spoke in unison.

Myrtle stood by Cordelia, a hand on the woman’s shoulder as the blonde fretted at her necklace. Emily would alright, she reasoned. The transfer of power did not mean she would be lost to the underworld forever.

The rest of the witches looked towards their fellow sisters. Eyes shifted between their companions and the girl on the floor, gaging their reaction to what was occurring before them.

“Deduce me in tenebris vita ad extremum,” Emily continued to mutter, Michael’s voice already falling silent as he descended. Her brows were furrowed in concentration, hands squeezing the boy’s. “ut salutaret—”

Her breath left her like a sigh. With a dull thump, Emily fell limp to the floor. Her body curled around Michael’s head; hands still outstretched towards his. The rope that bound them together burned until it was ash. Their hands were still connected, holding onto each other as if their lives depended upon it.

Zoe lurched forward instinctively, a spell already on her lips. Cordelia’s hand shot out, her arm keeping the other woman from taking another step.

“No,” she said, voice betraying her concern, “we must not interfere.”

“She’s not ready for this!” Madison said, rounding the group so Cordelia was forced to look her in the eye. The ex-movie star gestured towards the sleeping girl. “She can’t even make a flower change colors and you expect her to find her way out of hell?”

Cordelia was less than impressed with her student’s reaction.

“You underestimate her power.”

“And what would that be?” Ariel demanded, voice raised and hands clenched to fists at his sides. The Supreme could feel his eyes boring into the side of her face.

Slowly, Cordelia turned to regard him.

“Emily’s power is entangled between this dimensions and the next,” she said, trying to convey her urgency with every word. It was getting hard to keep her anger from overflowing. “A rare gift. There is no one more suited to this task than her.”

Brown eyes flickered to the slumbering girl, her body lacking its previous tensions. It was the calmest Cordelia had ever seen her. A small, proud smile claiming her lips.

“When she is finally able to pull that power into the waking world,” Cordelia noted, eyes boring into Ariel’s like a knife, “she will be a force to be reckoned with.”

#michael langdon #michael langdon x reader #michael langdon x oc

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charlotte-sloane-writes · 5 years ago

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1 - A Wicked Little Thing

It’s finally here! Chapter 1 of this Zatanna Zatara x John Constantine fic has killed me for nearly a year. If you love it as much as I do, please reblog and comment. If you want to be added to the tags then send me a message, reblog, comment, just let me know! The chapter is under the cut, the taglist at the very end. Much love, Charlie.

“Anna,” Buddy called over to the young woman dressed in yesterday’s work uniform.

“Hm?” Anna turned her head and brushed out the earbud nestled to the side of her head, flicking a few strands of her black hair behind her to size up her boss who decided whatever he was about to say was more important than ‘We Will Rock You’ on its 3rd consecutive play.

Buddy recentered his balance on one hip and tilted his chin up, an unkempt not-quite salt-and-pepper eyebrow raised as he asked, “That thing ever run out of battery?”

“Trust me, Buddy, you’d know if it did.” Anna flashed him a saccharine smile and shoved the earbud back into her brain, moving on to the next room that needed cleaning, her cleaning cart’s loose wheel squeaking for mercy unheard over Anna’s playlist.

Buddy scoffed behind her back, another attempt to connect with the twenty-something-year-old failed rather spectacularly on his end. He shoved the tickets to the local college’s ‘Battle of the Bands’ show back into his pocket and whistled to make himself feel like the exchange was done in total nonchalance with zero premeditation. Lifting his ‘Lagheur’ watch to his chest, he noticed the ticking needles of the ripoff luxury watch in a slight delay, taking maybe a half time longer than an actual second. Buddy once saw a movie where this happened to show time slowing down. He couldn’t place the actual scene anywhere, but it seemed funny enough to him that the science fiction promises of his childhood were echoed through the cheap realities of his adulthood.

“Regina,” Buddy threw over his shoulder an aging rainjacket, once clear now yellowing around folds and stitches. Regina at the counter, a recent retiree with all the looks to take to Boca Raton but none of the self-awareness to stop working looked up at her boss from the dusty concierge seat.

“Boss?”

“I’m out for a smoke, I’ll be back in ten. Anyone calls for me, take a message.”

“Sure, sure, if anyone calls.” Regina looked down at the answering machine behind her counter, fixing her coke-bottle glasses back up on the ridge of her boney nose. It was new twenty years ago when she last checked in at the hotel, sleepy and dazed children in tow, asking where their mother was. She’d never seen the light even flicker on that machine.

Buddy walked across the populated lounge, tourists, and locals alike crowding the hotel to get out of the rain and have a drink. Some of them might get rooms by the look of it, though none seemed too eager to book one. Unlit cigarette stuck between his teeth, Buddy pulled his cap up over his head and walked out onto the back terrace. On stiller nights, the courtyard was a beautiful display of soft city nature and twinkling lights. Hopefully, he thought to himself, Anna will have remembered to cover up the sound system speakers hidden in some of the bushes. He wasn’t ready to shell out another grand to replace them.

The lighter Buddy took out from his jacket pocket should’ve been replaced a week and a half ago. Swishing lighter fluid gradually making a crack in the plastic casing just a little wider didn’t bode well for Buddy’s innate flammability. The wrong swipe of a finger while lighting his cigarette opened up his thumb and Buddy- as he took the first draw of his cigarette- watched blood prick up from the fat pad of his digit, little globes of red sprouting along a visceral ley line down to the crux of the first joint. He’ll have to remind himself to throw this lighter out and get a new one when he gets the chance again.

“You know,” He spoke to himself, more than aware he was alone on the creaky back patio “this place used to be the gem of Palo Alto, before Jobs and Wozniak, Amazon and Google. This place...I sound like my great grandfather. How did that happen?” Buddy scoffed and took a step forward, leaning against a beam at the top of the small stairs giving way to the waterlogged marsh of a luncheon garden. Before he could even take notice, the roaring gutter above his head flipped on itself, bringing forth a cascade of rainwater and grime down onto Buddy’s head. He didn’t even have it in him to curse. He just shook his head, bit the inside of his lip raw and flicked his dead cigarette into the rain.

__________

John Constantine wasn’t often seen in the kitchen for actual food, an old tome tucked under his arm with blue lettering of an ancient language only slightly obscured by the wrinkled sleeve of his dress shirt.

“Woah, careful, Johnny. You need help?” A young and dashing mop of black hair named Behrad Tomaz bounded into the kitchen with open arms.

John slightly wavered, eyes darting around as his cheeks reddened. He cleared his throat “I’m fine-,”

“-Dude,” Behrad took the wine bottle Constantine had been balancing on a multi-sectioned plate of what looked like saltine crackers, a hard-boiled egg, some fresh smelling garnishes, a small cup of applesauce, a mug of brothy soup with something bobbing in it, and a jar with pieces of fish floating around it. “I’m impressed you got this far with all this stuff.” Behrad looked at the wine label, wanting to discern a year but couldn’t read the letters on the label. He shook it off, blaming his dyslexia for the mess of shapes on the label “You heading to your room with this stuff?”

“Yeah.” John nodded, quieter than usual as he gave Behrad the gefilte fish jar and placed the plastic cup he had taken upside down on to the neck of the wine bottle.

“This stuff looks good.” Behrad looked over at John’s plate as they walked down the austere corridors of the Waverider, immune to the shock of the odd clicks and clangs.

“You don’t have to lie.” John scoffed a laugh, biting his top lip.

“Is it for a spell?” “Not really.”

“Munchies?” John turned to face Behrad, those innocent puppy dog eyes peering over John’s exclusively hard stare. “Thanks for helping me, mate. Cheers.” He managed to balance everything back into his arms and moved into his room, locking the door behind him.

Behrad stood there, perhaps a little too perplexed for his own good “Have a good time!” He called out, making his way back to the kitchen.

Sara Lance wasn’t expecting to have to get into John Constantine’s business again, but the idea of the mage acting shifty didn’t sit very well with The Captain. “What was that?” She asked Behrad, intercepting him before he reached the kitchen.

“What was what?” Behrad shrugged, crossing his arms with a dopey smile “I was just helping John get his food to his room.” “Uh huh.” Sara’s light blue eyes narrowed, nodding along with Behrad “What was he carrying?”

“I don’t know. Some fish, crackers, wine. Had this old book under his arm. You know John, can’t read if it’s not totally silent. He must’ve gotten hungry.”

“Yeah.” Sara nodded, the truth dawning on her with a small, easy smile “Okay, let’s make sure to leave him alone today. He’s clearly got something important to do.”

John took his time lighting every candle he had in his room, turning the lights off and letting the little flickering flames set just the right reverential mood he was feeling. There was stirring between his ribs. He got the feeling every time he took out the Haggadah. Opening the musty book brought back memories, ones he kept reenacting every Pessach. As beautiful as the book was, ancient binding and intricate hand-printed text, it would never replace the one he found when he was twelve in his father’s attic. He remembered climbing up the cobwebbed ladder, his older sister whispering a word of caution behind him. Cheryl never really understood it, why he climbed that ladder. She never understood why he would intentionally lock himself up there for hours among the beetles and dead pigeons. Among that pestilence and dust was a box marked ‘Mary Anne - Beth-Tikvah, LON’ in big block letters. When John’s father, a big burly man whose accent was the only thing thicker than his eyebrows, found him wearing his great uncle’s kippah with the edges clumsily touching his brow while he read his mother’s old ‘Elementary Hebrew’ workbook, tracing the lines of his mother’s juvenile scripture, Thomas left welts on the young boy’s thighs that didn’t abate until the next month.

Thomas had thought he’d burned everything in that box that very day. He didn’t suspect or know to look for a pocketbook the size of a theater playbook, with flimsy blue binding and doubled text in every page. One side in English, the other in Hebrew. The one thing John managed to keep from that little book was the page-marker. A picture of his mother at her younger brother’s Bar Mitzvah. She looked to be about 16 years-old with boundless ringlets in her hair and a face-splitting grin. John felt it in his throat every time he looked down at that picture. He’d sob repeatedly, from the chest out, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” He’d bang his fists, palm-upwards, towards his head as he let the remorse of a stolen childhood shudder his lungs with a force only a soul in desperate need of rest could offer.

“Hi, mum.” John now whispered, taking the bookmark out of his over-compensatory Haggadah, letting it rest against two candlestick pillars. “Thought I’d read to you out loud this time.” His voice felt raw and crackling on his tongue like those lungs on anti-smoking adverts. “Happy Passover.”

Taglist: @golden-rosezz @smol-flower-kiddo @beepbeepyabitch @angel-hunter-winchester @groovinomicon @zatara-zatannas @fandomneeds @interstellarflare @eliotsbambimargo @aliypop @themanthemyth-thelegend @superrezzy00 @fanficy-imagines @toomanystoriestoolittletime @starsscribble @addicted-to-dc @arkhamsdarkestknight @narnian-neverlander @thefastarrow @tgwltw @theliveshipparagon @deirdre-queen @writing-doesnt-discriminate @a-really-bi-girl @interstellarflare @soarocks

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pendragyn · 4 years ago

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First Line Tag

I was tagged by @gaslightgallows

Rules: Post the first lines of your last ten fics read or written and then tag others to do the same.

Tagging: @raevenlywrites @froglesbianwriting @mperialscribe @teaflint @writingamongthecoloredroses @moniquill @napoleonscat and I know I am forgetting people, please join in on the fun and tag me if you do!

So.. Er, haven’t read much of anything but my own stuff on AO3, trying to get back into writing because everything sucks rn. It’s Good Omens with a dash of Discworld all the way down, below the cut.

In The Garden; pre-fall, pre-canon fic of them in the Garden of Eden.

BEFORE THE BEGINNING...

…Was darkness. That’s what happens when the sun isn’t up, and as it was almost the middle of the night —the first night, leading into the first day in the Garden of Eden— darkness was only to be expected.

The Great Plan was being set in motion. The countdown to start the countdown to the end of the world had begun. Things were getting down to the wire and the Heavens were in a tizzy to make sure everything went off without a hitch during the official launch.

Down in the Garden of Eden, all was peaceful. This was also to be expected. The only living beings in the entire Garden were two corporeal but unconscious angels reposing among the roots of the Tree. They’d been held in stasis since their incorporation a number of days earlier and weren’t due to wake until things were officially under way. Ostensibly this was to allow them to acclimate to corporeality, but in reality it was to keep them out of everyone’s metaphorical hair.

Of course, even the best laid plans never do go quite as planned, do they?

There was no Heavenly fanfare heralding the occasion, no Celestial sign except the eternal march of the stars across the sky, nothing at all to indicate that something was being set into motion as midnight of the day in question rolled around.

But down in their resting spots, the angels awoke.

Serpents And Ladders; what happens after the end of In The Garden.

After the fall of the Garden, for the first time that any could remember, change came rapidly to Heaven in the form of the instant adoption of corporeal forms amongst most of the archangels, much to the bafflement of some of the oldest Celestials who were gently prodded to a quiet retirement out among the stars. Heaven itself shifted to accommodate their altered forms, which forced the rest of the Celestials and the Elementals who did most of the day to day operations to adopt similar seemings.

Of course, Aziraphale and Crawly knew why it caught on, not that anyone ever thought to ask them. The reasoning was simple enough, if multi-faceted. Firstly, corporeality is a surprisingly potent antidote to knurd[1], with built in buffers against the harshness of reality. Really no surprise that it was popular.

Secondly, Celestial beings come in a great many shapes and sizes and types and having them all conform to one generally accepted shape was much more convenient, especially when it came to paperwork. (No one knew where paperwork had come from, since paper was technically not a thing yet, but there you go. It’s ineffable.)

Thirdly, with the increasing tensions between certain factions within the Host, having your firmament safely ensconced inside of flesh and bone made it that much harder to be spied on, making secrets that much easier to keep, especially once they discovered how to hide their wings.

And last but not least, though it took Aziraphale and Crawly a long while to fully comprehend the ramifications of it, it was because the humans began to believe, in great enough numbers, that that was how Heaven and the Host looked.

1. Being knurd is to be unintoxicated to such an extent that all comfort stories are stripped away from the mind. This makes you see the world in a way 'nobody ever should', in all its harsh reality.

Ask Not For Whom The Bell Tolls (It Tolls For They); the church in ‘41 and what happens, and doesn’t happen, after. (total tearjerker)

Crowley ran, ran and ran, heart pounding, almost blind with panic, hissing with pain as their foot hit the edge of consecrated ground, but it didn’t matter, because they were in time and like a snake shedding their skin the panic slipped away as they yanked open the door and hot-footed their way into the church under the confused eyes of a trio of nazis and an angel moments away from a fate worse than death.

A church, for fuck’s sake? Can’t the angel see it’s a setup? A trap? Dealing with nazis on holy ground, giving them holy books, even if it’s supposed to be a double-cross, a double double-cross. “Sorry, consecrated ground. Ugh, like being on the beach in bare feet.” Crowley fervently kept that thought in mind, because in reality, it was far far worse than that. Crowley was very good at imagining not being on fire, and that belief was all that was keeping them from falling to ash inside that church.

Aziraphale continued to stare at Crowley in shock, for a moment wondering if they were actually hallucinating the way humans could during moments of high stress. Because consecrated ground discorporates demons, and yet. And yet, Crowley was somehow really here. Why the he heaven is Crowley here? “What are you doing here?” Aziraphale hissed, the nazis and the gun momentarily forgotten.

“Stopping you from getting in trouble,” Crowley hissed back, dancing from foot to foot just an arm’s length away from Aziraphale. Play it cool, play it cool, play it cool, if you panic you’re both done for.

Stacking The Deck;

Harriet wanted to be asleep. She’d just had a baby a few hours earlier, and all she really wanted was sleep. They had given her something for the pain, but it didn’t stop her having to use the restroom, which was NOT FUN right now, and it took a while for things to settle back down and she just. wanted. sleep.

What she got, was voices.

A few she recognized, distant and muzzy, as the nuns who’d helped deliver the baby. There was also the one not-nun who’d shuffled in during the chaos, wrinkly as an old apple with a mischievous twinkle in her eye, who had actually delivered the baby before quickly shuffling back out again. The nuns had treated her with deep respect, whispering to each other about ‘a touch of the Old Adam’ she carried about her.

There was now a lot more raucous laughter coming from down the hallway, and some singing of what were definitely not religious hymns. Mingled in were the voices of men, which some deep part of her brain realized were from her supposed security detail, who’d abandoned her the minute the live feed with her husband had ended.

But under those voices was another voice, one that she’d learned to listen to when it whispered a little too loudly to ignore. And it was telling her to check on the baby, to check on Warlock. Right Now.

With a muffled groan Harriet slid her legs over the side of the bed and eased herself to her feet. With the dimmed lights and muddled by whatever they had given her, it took her a moment to realize that the bassinet wasn’t there. No Warlock. And no guards. And no nuns.

The coolness of the linoleum felt good against the bottoms of her feet and she shuffled dreamily out of the room into the empty hallway, too well medicated to feel panic, but the little voice was getting louder. And it was talking with an odd accent, which was weird. And it was calling her by her full name now, which was even more unusual. Find your baby, Harriet Sibyl Dowling. Find him now or lose him forever.

Nature vs Nurture; raising the antichrist

After the handshake, Crowley left in a hurry to set some of their plans into motion, with promises of talking soon and a casual ciao tossed over their shoulder before slipping out of the shop and roaring off down the road. What Aziraphale didn’t see was the demon pulled over a few blocks later, pressing their forehead against the steering wheel of the Bentley and letting out a shuddering sigh of relief that the angel had finally, finally, agreed to help them save the world. And wondered, briefly, if God hadn’t been right to kick Crowley out, because how much of a right proper bastard did you have to be to knowingly ask your best friend to do the most dangerous thing they could ever possibly do?

Aziraphale’s first course of action was to make sure the shop door was locked before retreating into the back room to think, away from the demon’s so very temping influence. It didn’t take the angel long to convince themself that it had to be the right thing to do, because otherwise it wouldn’t be hell starting the war, but heaven, and surely heaven didn’t want a war. Once that was settled, Aziraphale began to really set their mind to finding the solutions to the multitude of problems their scheme would surely entail. The second course of action was to retrieve the ancient tome of magic they kept safely secured in a secret room on the second floor of the shop and settling it reverently on to the desk to start their research.

Setting Things To Rights; Adam Young gets a visit from Agnes Nutter after the world doesn’t end.

“Come back. Please.”

Adam stared down at his best friends in the whole universe, sure his heart was breaking as they turned and ran away. He knew then he’d messed up bad, maybe beyond fixing. He tried to call them back, to beg even, but no sound would come and he closed his eyes against the sting of tears. Come back! Please! he wanted to say, pressing his hands to his tear-dampened face. I’m sorry!

You don’t need them. You can have new friends. Better friends. All you have to do is show us the way.

A low growl and a familiar waft of doggy breath as a wet tongue lapped at his cheek had Adam opening his eyes, and he hugged Dog tightly in relief. “Oh Dog! I’m so glad you’re here,” he whispered hoarsely, smiling when Dog licked him again. “I am sorry, you know that, don’t you?”

Dog whined and licked him again in answer.

“Thanks boy.” Adam let out a much heavier sigh and rubbed at his eyes when tears threatened again. The dream had been so real, too real, more memory than dream, and frightening in ways he didn’t want to think about. It hurt, knowing he’d hurt his friends so bad they’d stopped being his friends. And even though they’d forgiven him in the end, would they ever really trust him again? Especially when he could still do what he’d done? Would he trust someone who had done that to him?

In the silence there were two faint but distinct knocks that Adam heard clear as a bell. Dog’s ears perked up and Adam blinked and they both looked around the room for a source of the noise. There wasn’t much light but it was more than enough to show that nothing was out of place.

Still, Adam found himself saying, “Who’s there?”

A faint glimmering form stepped through the door. It was an old woman, dressed in really old clothes. “I have waited a long while for this meeting, Adam Young.” She bowed at him, a faint smile on her lips. “I be Agnes Nutter, witch. And ghost.”

Ineffable Bastards; the one I’m stuck on. :/

Groaning brakes pulled Crowley from their thoughts and they led Aziraphale off the bus, waiting until it had pulled away to turn towards their building. There was a sharp twinge in their stomach when they looked to the empty spot where the Bentley was usually parked. They felt another twinge when they looked at Aziraphale, who was staring up at the building with a distant blankness of expression that Crowley understood all too well. “C’mon, angel, I think we could both use a drink.”

No sound came at first, but Aziraphale managed to croak out, “Yes,” after a moment. They felt strangely distant from their feelings in the odd silence and they trailed behind the demon into the flat, which was both nothing like and exactly like what Aziraphale would expect from Crowley. The art got a few blinks but there was no energy to consider what they might mean after the day week decade they’d had.

Unlike the bare concrete walls in the other rooms, the kitchen was slick with creamy white marble and terrazzo tiles, ebony cabinets that gleamed and stainless steel appliances that had never been used or even plugged in, though they were well stocked with food and drink. Crowley grabbed a bottle at random and a couple of glasses, bringing them over to the chrome and glass table with a small collection of colorful orchids in the center. “Salute.”

The angel lifted their glass to toast before downing the drink and holding it out for a refill. Crowley obliged and they sat in silence for a while before Aziraphale asked, “Now what?”

“Eh, now I fall down and sleep for a while and you…” Crowley pulled off their glasses and gave the angel a long look. “You don’t really sleep do you? You should try it, great for getting away from your thoughts.”

“Rarely. Doesn’t seem to work that way for me, I’m afraid.” Aziraphale sighed and shook their head. “I just keep thinking about Agnes’ prophecy. Face the fire.” They shuddered a little. “You know what that means, don’t you?”

Rubbing at their tired eyes, and the sting of unsheddable tears, Crowley nodded. “You’re in big trouble, angel.”

“You know full well we’re both, as they say, in for it,” Aziraphale corrected, smiling a little when Crowley gave them a look. “I’ve toed the line for a long time, but you, my dear, have danced around it to the point that I’m not sure they even know where they drew the line to begin with. If Heaven is going to ‘fire’ me, what’s Hell going to do to you?” Saying it aloud had tears burning in their eyes and they wiped at them hastily.

Wilde Card; my take on why Aziraphale had a set of Oscar Wilde’s works.

“Aziraphale?”

“Hmm?”

Crowley tried to find a subtle way to ask, but curiosity had been eating at them to the point of distraction since the former angel had let slip that humans could have preternatural ancestry. “When you said, you’d never… with a human.”

Aziraphale gave them a confused look that melted into amused understanding when they realized Crowley was blushing. “My dear, are you asking me about my experiences?”

“Uh… Just, I seem to recall you mentioning a lot of gentleman’s clubs...” Crowley let their head drop back against the couch and covered their face when Aziraphale chuckled. “Ugh, angel!”

“I won’t judge you, you know,” Aziraphale murmured, smiling tenderly when Crowley looked at them. “If you, uh, found human companionship-”

“No! Ugh, no, it’d be like… no, I can’t help but think of them as children,” Crowley admitted. “Even Nanny Ogg, which tells you something about me I suppose,” they said, making Aziraphale laugh.

“I am in complete agreement with that sentiment,” said Aziraphale. “And it wasn’t just gentleman's clubs I frequented, there were quite a few for women if you knew where to look and who to talk to. You do know a lot more went on in the clubs than just sexual intercourse, don’t you?”

“Yeah, yeah, I should’ve known better, just, uh...” Crowley reached over and took Aziraphale’s hand. “There must have been quite a few poor smitten fools vying for your attention.”

Apple Of My Eye; complete fluff I wrote because of a pic I saw on tumblr

Crowley looked up from their mobile, barely able to contain their grin. “Hey, angel-”

“No.” Aziraphale didn’t even have to look up from the book they were reading to know the former demon was up to no good.

“I haven’t even said anything yet!” Crowley protested, still grinning at seeing the amusement crinkling around the reformed angel's eyes.

Aziraphale looked over at them with a feigned put-upon sigh. One look at Crowley’s grin had them asking, “Oh somebody, do I even want to know?”

If anything, that only made Crowley’s grin grow. “So I’m thinking maybe it’s time I branch out, try some different styles of shades. Whaddya think?”

Aziraphale spluttered into startled laughter when Crowley turned the mobile around, revealing a pair of spectacles where the rose tinted lenses had been shaped into breasts. “Why in the world-”

“Ain’t humans grand?” Crowley said, grinning down at the picture before sliding a sly look at Aziraphale and raising a hand, fingers poised to snap. “I could just…”

“You would too, wouldn’t you,” Aziraphale said with a shake of their head, pretending to go back to reading but watching Crowley sidelong. “Well I would rather you didn’t but I can’t stop you from going around looking, looking like a right proper tit if you want to,” they said with feigned primness, barely hiding their smile when Crowley laughed. “I wouldn’t want you to make a spectacle of yourself.”

“Alright angel, alright, you’ve convinced me. Wouldn’t want to put you off being seen with me.” It was a joke, mostly, and Crowley was still grinning as they said it, but inwardly that age old doubt still lingered.

Aziraphale knew it was there of course, having many of the same insidious worries about their new togetherness, and gave them a fond smile. “I assure you my dear, that having adored you in spite of that dreadful hairstyle you had in Paris, I would barely blink to see you in a pair of breastacles.”

Crowley blushed at the mention of adoration, sneered at mention of the hair and burst into raucous laughter at the name. “Only you’d think up a proper sounding name for it. Breastacles. Brilliant.” They darted in and grinningly kissed them. “And here I thought you’d appreciate me seeing the world through rose-titted glasses. But, as you wish.”

Aziraphale laughed and beamed at the phrase, taking their hand and lacing their fingers together. “Thank you, dearest. For everything. And especially for sparing everyone that.”

#Good Omens #good omens fanfic #snippet #first line tag #tag game #Pendragyn writes #long post #readmore #ao3 #Ineffable Bastards

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