#the highs and lows of this book ripped my heart to shreds

[xo-arcie]

I finished book 6 and I am fine she lied.

[rainee-da]

Hello how's your day!! I wanna request fluff for the Walkis (the six critters) if that's okay... Thank you very much!!!!

URGRHRH I JUST RLLY LIKE YOUR WRITINGS HUEGSGSJAJKAK

🍀 Lay Down in Their Lap [2]

CHARACTER ❥ Lévis Rosequartz 🧲 / Charles Contini 📞 / Galuf Gargaron 👅 / Kenny Clark 🧊 / Malcolm Curtis 🪲 / Lovie Rosequartz ⚡

W A R N I N G ⚠️ R-15 for suggestive themes on some / BIG SPOILER for anime watchers!!!! / might be too OOC for you.

L É V I S R O S E Q U A R T Z 🧲

Scarlet red creeped from his neck up to his face. He stares at you with a bewildered look, unable to comprehend your 'ridiculous' request.

"H-huh?! Y-you want t-to... s-sleep... my l-lap... are you insane?! Stop acting like an idiot!" he shrieked as he scooted back to the edge of the bench.

He tried. He swears to the mightiest God or Goddess up there that he tried his absolute best to stay firm. He tried to kept a stern posture while you're looking at him like a kicked puppy.

After all, laying on people's lap in broad daylight on school ground is too lovey-dovey! too scandalous!

What would everyone think?! What would his FATHER think?!

But his resolution dwindling as rapidly as it could when you asked him again. This time fully utilizing those puppy-eyes to its maximum capacity.

"F-Fine! Just do whatever you want!" he snapped with an angry tone as he finally scooted closer and slumped his back against the bench, grabbing his abandoned book and flipping it to random page.

His mind is gearing at a rapid pace as he tried to calm his nerves, his damaged eyes now started to feel itchy. That's fine though, just act as if you didn't care and all would be fine, right?

The rumble in his mind shatters when he finally felt that soft pressure against thighs. He, embarrassingly, lets out a high-pitched low screech and he almost bang his nape to the bench.

"I-Idiot! Stop moving around so much!" he barked weakly as he squirmed in his seat, while you simply nuzzle onto his thighs. Uncaring of his outward misery.

He swears to God you'll make him die from heart attack one of these days…

He gulped, face scarlet red and teeth gritting as he stares down at your peaceful expression. His brain fixated onto your facial features, silently making it his new fixation.

His hand moves to move the strand that is in the way of your face. And his index finger accidentally brush against your lips...

Why is it moist? Can he try it-

Your face will ended up being littered with a bunch of tiny shred of paper. Because the man above you is apparently too nervous and ending up grinding down on his book with his teeth.

C H A R L E S C O N T I N I 📞

"Y-yes? Sure, sure... of course, Mama... W-what? My voice? O-oh, I'm just cold... It's winter a-after all.. Yes, yes, of course I'm using the b-blank...kkket.... you gave me... Really, I'm fine!"

The one and only Charles Contini is, in fact, not fine. His face is currently match that of a boiling hot kettle.

His body trembles, hand almost dropping his phone as he attempts (but failed) to gave you his meanest death-glare.

But you didn't care. You just swing your head on his thigh mischievously then get your head back inside his shirt, doing whatever you want.

His other hand desperately yanked the fabric of your clothes, teeth gritting and in the break of speaking to his mother on the phone he mouthed to you a word 'please', his lips is now visibly trembling.

You, somehow had managed to make him hate talking to his mother right at this moment.

"Y-yeah yeah... Mama, I reallly think I gotta-Hhhah... Y-yeah really, I'm fine... I swear I'm fine! N-now Igottagobyeeee-" click, finally the torture is over.

He exhales loudly as he plopped his body on the bed. He rolled his body to the side, forcefully ripping you out of his lap. He mumbles, "You're unbelieveable," as he rubbed his face with his palm.

You though, didn't care. You simply take a peek to his face with a smug look on your face, clearly satisfied. Fueling his irritation more.

Out of nowhere though, the tables has turned. He startling you by moving so fast and now you're pinned down on the bed, with him on top of you.

He smirked at you, tilting his head to the side. He looks so menacing... and hot.

"Mama said that I shouldn't play rough with others... but," he purrs quietly as his hand roamed to your sides, and his other hands pick up the strand of your hair and brings it to his mouth, giving it a peck.

His head leans closer, breath brushing againts the skin of your neck and he let out a low chuckle. Your reaction is simply too adorable.

"... I think a punishment is due, don't you think?"

Don't be weird lol he just tickled your sides lmaoooo of course I'm not insinuating anything hahahahhahaa-

G A L U F G A R G A R O N 👅

"I-is this okay? Are you comfortable?" he stutters nervously, both of his hand hovers awkwardly over your relaxes figure on his lap, not knowing where to put it.

On your hair? What if he accidentally yank it? On your stomach? What if he pushed on it too hard? On your chest? Uh-

He snapped out of his turmoil when you mentioned that his shaking hand is currently sweating a river, and it's dripping down on you.

"Huh?! I'm sorry! I didn't mean to please don't hate me-" please guide this poor lad. He never done this with anyone ever before. He's seriously gonna combust into acid mess!

His jitter and stutter earning him a few sore spot in his tongue due to him accidentally biting into it when trying to talk or move. It's a wonder that he managed to NOT bite it off.

His breath hitches when you grabbed his hand gently and guide it to rest flat on your hair, telling him to try playing with it as a start. THIS IS THE START?!

He swears if he accidentally hurt you he'll yank his limb off.

As the time passed by though, he started to calmed down as his mind focused on each strand of your hair. A faint blush tinted his cheek and by the time you realized it, he's in the middle of braiding your hair into a tiny parts. All the time checking your facial expression for any sign of discomfort.

His eyes rounded into what seemed like a doe-eye and his face relaxed, the corner of his mouth is quirked upwards into a small smile. He seems happy... until-

"WHAT'CHA LOOKING AT?!" He suddenly barked with eyes glaring to the side. Panicked, your head follows his direction and you saw his gang standing over there with face full of variation of expression.

Before you managed to speak your mind, your boyfriend's voice boomed across the place as he barked the word "SCRAM", making those group of teens scramble away into obscurity, almost stumbling onto each other.

"They're so noisy, I swear to God..." he mumble quietly, his eyes trailing back to meet your surprised expression. He avert his eyes shyly and he's back to his previous mode, stumbling over his word.

"I-I'm sorry, you must be surprised right?" he stated meekly as his hand silently encouraging you to lay back on his lap. "It's just my friends, they're being noisy as per usual. I hope I didn't scare you..."

Honestly, the duality of this man is mind-boggling.

K E N N Y C L A R K 🧊

"Calm down, no one's gonna now," he said nonchalantly, patting your hair without looking at you as his hand flipped through the pages of his module.

The both of you are in the library right now, and as it should be; nobody should be flirting in the library. Getting caught holding hands in itself will earn the culprit an one-day ban from accessing the library.

But did your boyfriend care? Of course not.

Because if he cares you wouldn't be in this situation right now; head pressed down onto his lap with one hand while he busying himself, studying for finals.

He reasoned that your love is his 'battery', therefore you should be 'charging him'. Whatever that means.

Sometimes he'll look down on his lap to check on you. He'll pinch on your cheek to make you look at him and he'll blow you a kiss. With a face devoid of any emotions.

Though his face seems stoic, he's actually secretly gushing inside his mind. He swears that that your misery flustered face is so adorable! That blushing cheek, wavering eyes... it brings warm to his chest.

All of that gushy-mushy inside his mind, while you're nervously checking around the room. Afraid to find the librarian striding in without any time for you to react.

The both of you have been banned from the library for far too many times. And finals week is not the ideal time for that to happen.

Noticing your distress, he closed his eyes and sighed softly. His hand relaxed and he stopped putting pressure onto your head. Giving you a chance to finally scrambled out of his lap and act normal!

But that's too boring for him.

That's why now he wrapped his hand around your shoulder and pulling you closer. Effectively making you lean on his shoulder.

But that's not enough for him, no! so he uses his hand to tilted your head upwards, making you face him while he leans closer to rubbed the tip of his nose to yours. Enjoying the reaction he earned from you.

"Rest assured, my angel," he mumbled quietly, intentionally breathing through his mouth so it would brush onto your lips. "After all, our love is always stealthy, it will flies under the radar." yikes

You might be hallucinating but you swear that you saw a glimpes of his lips quirked upwards slightly as he leans closer slowly, tilting his head, almost touching your lips...

"MR. CLARK WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING IN MY LIBRARY?!"

On a positive note, if you get a bad grades for final, you're free to blame him now! Yay!

M A L C O L M C U R T I S 🪲

"Are you bored, my dear?" his voice is calm and soothing as he push the strand of hair that is in your face to the side, his other hand is brushing through the back of your hair gently.

He look to the side and stares at his fishing equipment that he put up by the edge of the river. It's been an hour and no fish has taken the bait yet.

He's not surprised though. Fishing is a long, waiting game after all. Especially if one decides to not use a lure. For him though, that's what makes it even more satisfying if he managed to catch one.

You lay on the grass with your head on his lap. Moaning and groaning about 'stupid fish not knowing what a fine cuisine is'. A low chuckles escapes his mouth, muffled by the tube in his mouth.

"Well, it's indeed taking longer than usual for fish to take my bait. I'm experimenting with the new bug after all," and that made you pouted. Something that he adores the most.

He's always hesitant to bring you with him fishing, knowing that you'll not be entertained. But for some reasons you always insisting on coming along, and every time his lap always ended up as your pillow.

Not that he minded though. You seemed relaxed and content as you nuzzle onto his thigh. And that's all he wanted, for you to be comfortable around him.

Not many people can bear to look at his... face. People often stated that 'it's the face that can only be loved by his mother'.

Not you though... you seems to think that his face is ethereal, as if he's one of Michelangelo's masterpiece. He never knew why you seems to think that way... but it warms his heart.

You suddenly shrieked, almost making him jump to defensive position and activate his magic. He frantically look to the side and his eyes widened when his fishing rod had finally started to twitch.

He moves away as you woke up from his lap and quickly keep a hold to the fishing rod, slowly reeling it in and strategically stopped to not startle anything that is currently taking his bait.

Meanwhile his heart thump against his chest, hearing you yelling encouragements to him as if you're a cheerleader.

And... voila! It's a baby catfish.

He stares at the wiggling little fish at the end of of his rod with a deadpanned expression, while you currently laughing your ass off.

He looks towards your direction, and he was stunned in silence as he stares at your amused face. It was simply... beautiful.

He knew his hobby is boring for you. But if it can make you laugh like this... he hopes you'll never get bored coming along with him.

He feels serene, at peace, all because of you.

L O V I E R O S E Q U A R T Z ⚡

"Oh, Hi... sorry, but Lévis is not here" he greets you with a soft voice as you come to his room, closing the book he's been reading and giving you his full attention as you walked to his bed.

His eyes widened in surprised when you, as usual, told him that you're here to hang out with him. A faint blushes painted his cheek as he let out a sweet laugh, "Oh, of course! please, come sit by me. I was starting to get bored myself."

He never gets used to you visiting him for some reasons. Even after a year of him being sick and losing his magic, he never did.

After being bedridden, it's rare for him to met people other than Lévis. His father never even consider him exist anymore, deeming him to be a defective product.

Maybe the last time he met his father was more than half a year ago? when he dragged him to this room?

All of that didn't surprised him though, he was just happy that his brother didn't meet the same fate as him. He believes all of this happen as a karma for never tried to stand up for his brother.

For you to stick around and visiting him every other weekend though, just to hang out with him and nothing else, is never failed to surprised him. I mean, why? he was weak now, everybody leaves, why won't you?

He giggles as he scoots a bit to give you space. As per usual, you'll get on his bed and put your head on his lap. Hugging his thin thigh in a koala grip as if it's your lifeline.

The pressure was a bit too tight, but it was fully welcomed. The extra warmth from your body is radiating and creeping to his heart, warming the negative thoughts away.

"How was school? anything interesting?" he questioned while brushing his hand to your hair, and his sweet smile never fades as he listens to your story. His eyes radiating with adoration as he stares down at you.

For him, your story was always interesting. Even if all you gonna talk in your entire visit is only about the shitty new cafeteria menu you had on school, it was all very interesting for him.

If you mentioned about his smile towards you, he'll giggle and cup your cheeks before giving your lips a small peck, "It's because I love you so much. You're so cute!"

Any reactions you gave him after that will earned you more peck for him. Don't scoot away from his lap though, he'll be sad! and he'll use his entire energy if he should to drag you back to his lap.

In his weakened state, all whom stay by his side other than Lévis is only you. For him, you're the breathe of fresh air in this cramped, lavish space.

Your existence stuck in his mind, and it's what keeps him going through the day as he dealt with the illness in his body.

As he pressed his forehead on top of yours, he mutters a soft 'thank you' before sighing, enjoying your presence by his side.

He'll trade everything in the world, for you to stay by his side... forever.

By the way, Lévis is currently outside of his room the entire time, holding a tray of food, wondering if he should go in and become a cockblock or not.

I'm currently as good as a constipated bull right now And THANK YOUUUUU SM BOO I'M HAPPY THAT YOU LIKE MY WRITING! 😭😭😭 UEEEEEEEEEEEE-

Since you didn't specify what type of scenario you would want me to write, I used this prompt to write for them. If this is not what you mean, feel free to send another request!!!

I put Lovie in as a curve ball because I'm curious on how I myself would interpret a character that only appeared in the few panels. But unexpectedly Malcolm ended up being the hardest one. I paused writing for a day just because of him lol.

Anyway, thank you @doughnuts-eater for your request! Sorry it takes too long for me to write! I hope you and everyone else will enjoy this one too! 🍀

[queen-scribbles]

🍒 you know I love to enable you, plz gush about m&m 😛

Claire, I love you, thank you for enabling me <3

I think the bedrock of their friendship is the fact they both have a) a borderline nonexistent tolerance for bullshit, and b) a very high appreciation for the quiet. What really makes it flourish, and what the two them would probably point to as the reason they're friends, is that Mason doesn't coddle and Mallory doesn't ask to be.

Right from the start, no matter how nicely(or bluntly) they phrase it, the rest of the team is trying to protect her. Keeping her in the dark about Murphy, trying to keep her out of fighting, they're coddling her (is how she sees it). Doesn't matter that, y'know, supernaturals ARE way more powerful than humans and that they're doing it for good reason. Mallory's been underestimated her entire life for a variety of reasons and there's only so often you can hear variations of "not doubting your skills BUT sit this one out" before all you hear is the second part. Nothing hits her buttons faster than people(or vampires) thinking she can't handle something. So Mason being all "okay, fine, you wanna be part of this world? I'm not gonna lie to make you feel better, I'm not gonna hold back in combat training, I'm not gonna pretend you can do anything you can't, but you have our backs and I'll have yours" was bigtime friendship points from Mallory. She can do that, ofc she'll have their backs. And Mallory being so stubbornly determined to keep up, to throw herself at everything, to (more than) pull her weight as part of the team got her bigtime Mason friend points.

They also both enjoy a good fight, so having him help with sparring/combat training is a good--but very dangerous--call. xD She will run herself ragged trying to beat him, even if she knows, technically, for now, she can't. (She may desperately want a no-holds-barred sparring match with Adam when/if she goes vampire, but the same with Mason isn't far behind. would be hilarious if she can beat Adam but can't beat Mason bc Adam gets *cough* distracted😂) Mason doesn't pull his punches, verbally or physically, but also knows when to stop her so she doesn't hurt herself. (See Late Night Worry) I'm really sad that since she's romancing Adam I didn't get to see her and Mason teamed up for the Trapper fight in book 2 ngl. (Might be one of my favorite things about the Natemance AU for her; she got to kick ass with her bff. Not the actual romance or anything. She gets more Mason time in the AU bc of how Mishka splits up Bravo. 🤣🤣)

SPEAKING OF ROMANCE. Mason basically telling Adam "If you break her heart by being an idiot/ass I'm gonna take her side, you know that, right?" and Adam's response being "As you should" was PERFECTION. They've platonically bonded so hard he'd side with her over Adam, his friend/commanding officer for something like a century after less than a year. Truly peak brotp. I am fully prepared for Mallory to want to rip whoever's responsible for Mason's, uh. Mirror Backstory Stuff to absolute ribbons, even if she didn't see the mirror vision. Just SHRED them. Nothing left. (she might even be more vicious about it than Kasey? Just bc she's always 110% ready to throw hands--esp for people she cares about--and combat is a v low stat for Kasey xD)

And then you flip it in the Natemance AU and Mallory's the one dragging her feet and doing stupid shit like not admit she loves him even after she figures it out(Bobby was charming too. Doesn't matter that Nate's way sweeter and keep his promises, there's part off her that's terrified of getting hurt again), Mason calls her out on that. It may involve threatening to beat some sense into her and he's only half-joking. Hearing him be so no-nonsense about how dumb she's acting is part of her push to actually confess at the end of book 3 (Nate saving her from Anwir also killed any lingering doubts pretty dead).

My absolute favorite things about them, though, is they are 100% Grade A platonic love. Way back when I first thought about the Wayhaven RO Swap(best. decision. ever), I thought about just putting each of them with their respective bff(Kasey/Adam LMAO. The sarcasm would kill people. I might still try that ngl). Mallory/Mason is what killed that idea. They DO NOT work romantically. There's no romantic or sexual tension between them, which is impressive with Mason involved. xD Like, he'll definitely enjoy the view if she's in a crop top + leggings for training, and she is not immune to Arms™ if he's shirtless, but it's more... admiration/appreciation than attraction. They're just platonic soulmates and I love them so much.

[redd956]

My Suggestions for Military/History Related Media to Consume (1/?)

Band of Brothers:

Band of Brothers is an 8 long episode series, depicting the stories of American E Company during WW2. Although there are some noticeable inaccuracies in their stories, the overall performances and cinematography is wonderful. Some of the original E company veterans were also consulted in the creation. It is a brutal watch, and the first episode can be quite the slow burn. Overall the story is intriguing, historical, and brews food for thought.

Long, Long Holiday

Long, Long Holiday is a children's French cartoon about a family that lived on a town near Normandy beach during WW2. The story is incredibly sweet, but has is realistic unexpected turns. It follows the two main young characters, their group, and their journey as French patriots. It was incredibly adorable to watch, but the show takes itself quite seriously, and can easily be watched by all ages. It's not based off a true story, but instead the accounts of the French civilians who had to endure through the war.

All Quiet on the Western Front (1930, 1979, 2022)

All Quiet on the Western Front was originally an anti-war novel written in 1929. Everyone involved was quick to make a movie, and it took the world by storm. Quickly everything about was declared propaganda, unpatriotic, and dangerous thinking. It was banned in the country it was written in, Germany, as well as notably in Australia, United States, Italy, and Austria.

The film, it's two remasters, and the book itself are all great additions. It can easily be a hard brutal watch. The movie itself holds major historical influence. It's about German soldiers in WW1, the brutality of the war, and the propaganda that spread around. Both during the writing of the original book, and the first movie veterans on all sides, but especially the Germans and French were consulted. Americans also played a major role in creating the production. Many small graphic and heartbreaking details in the productions, come from these references. It is a great watch, especially if you are advocates for anti-war.

Grave of the Fireflies (1988)

If the previous three didn't rip your heart to shreds, this one will, and will do so efficiently, brutally, and without mercy. I am not kidding this is an incredibly difficult watch. It will likely be the most difficult watch on this list. It is an anti-war Ghibli movie about low income Japanese children trying to survive after the atomic bombs dropped in WW2. It is counted as a tragedy, will make you cry, and doesn't hold back any punches. Incredibly graphic.

Girls und Panzer

For something far more light hearted, and less about actual history I suggest Girls und Panzer for our local military tank nerds. It's a competitive sports anime, but instead of being about an actual sport, it's about the worldbuilding of the Girls und Panzer world. Tanking is a symbol of feminine power, and the anime follows the adventures of an ex-tanker getting back into the sport in an attempt to save her school. It's very light hearted, fun, and the stakes are surprisingly high. The accuracy for the tanks is amazing too, which makes it just as fun. There's two seasons, and a movie.

[cdroloisms]

hey pspsps i found this thing n twitter and i cant get it out of my head,, so dreams escape right? and sapnap said that he'd be the one who'd take dreams last life rgiht? so imagine if he gets ant, bad and george and tells them "its the final manhunt" (:

im ngl the name of this on my document was “the final manhunt *offkey kazoo*” 

with that, have some good ol’ post-prison c!dream angst! probably not exactly what you asked for, but i hope you like it anyway :D 

tw: implied torture, abuse, dark portrayals of c!sam and c!quackity, suicide/suicide implications, panic attacks, emotional distress, emotional instability, death threats, violence, flashbacks, pandora’s vault/prison arc

When Dream escapes the prison, he is a frothing thing of spite and rage, one part human and ninety-nine parts determination simmered and condensed over high heat; there is anger and then there’s this, the fire that leaps to his eyes and the shaking shreds of a battered heart he holds close to his chest and refuses to let anyone close enough to see. He moves and the server moves with him, tugged along by his iron will and sweat-slick desperation, joining in the brilliant blue whirl of a diamond axe swung recklessly and slammed into the dirt, an aimless fury following each formless drive of the blade into grass and gravel. The air sings danger and the air sings wrong and every step closer brings a ringing scream of away away go away that dances like static electricity against their skin.

Puffy follows, cutlass strapped to her hip and hair tucked messily beneath the rim of her cornet as the group advances - someone had alerted over comms about seeing the escaped prisoner in this direction, and they’d all jumped forward in the hopes that the weeks-long manhunt could finally be ended. Sapnap leads the way, headband whipping behind him as he strides forward, jaw clenched in fierce determination; George brings up the rear, bow in hand, a full quiver of arrows strapped to his back. Puffy’s running alongside Sam, who has been strangely tight-lipped the entire time Dream has been gone, firm in his insistence that the prisoner be detained but saying little else - it’s something that she would pry at, usually, but her head is filled with half-formed regrets and fears and a bubbling undercurrent of anger she’s afraid will come loose if she opens her mouth, so she stays silent as they run ever forward.

Sapnap yells, and her head snaps up - there, in the tall grass of a plains biome lies a flash of orange that must be Dream. The hunters around her speed up and she strains to follow; the other three are clearly experienced, easily falling into step with each other as she scrambles to keep up. Dream’s head snaps over towards them and he begins to sprint, cutting a line through the yellow field as they race to follow. She’s not seen him since the prison break, has only heard the whispers- an orange clothed monster, all bones and skin and uncaged fury, a diamond axe heaved in his arms slamming against anything that comes too close. It’s hard to rationalize this untamed, unrefined dash to the unwavering calm that she had always associated with his style of fighting, his movements much more like the life-or-death escape of a hunted rabbit than any hunter’s dog. It’s hard to rationalize this Dream with the one she knows- but well, she’s gotten used to that.

It took her far too long to admit, but she’s come to realize that she doesn’t quite know Dream at all.

He leads them forward to the shorter grass and harsher dips and planes of a savannah, the sun beating down in slanting heat against the backs of their necks. The ground they’re standing on begins to shatter into steep cliffs and jagged mountains, rough edges of stone climbing into the sky all around them. Sapnap curses, shading his eyes against the sun.

“He’s going up there,” he says, and George sends arrows flying towards the orange dot blurring across the steep face of a nearby mountain. Sam grumbles as Puffy strains to catch sight of him, watching his scrambling movements up the cliff face to the top.

“Then we follow,” he says, pulling a stack of ender pearls from his inventory. “Each person take a few. We’re too close to lose him now.”

The climb is anything but pleasant, the sun right overhead and making sweat gather at her hairline and drip down her face. Even as a sheep hybrid, she struggles to keep pace with the other hunters as they race over thin paths of granite and clamber up near-vertical faces of stone with little problem, clearly practiced as they follow Dream without breaking their sprint. The rock gives way to dirt and tufts of short-shorn grass and Sapnap’s eyes flash.

“Be careful,” he says, looking straight at her. “He’s cornered - that’s when he does risky shit without thinking about the consequences. He knows you’re the least experienced here and there’s a good chance that he’s going to charge you. If that happens, hold your shield and just block. We’ll handle him from there.”

She swallows back the spark of indignation that rises at his words, a bitter scream that they only see her as a liability dying out as she reminds herself that these three had hunted Dream professionally before, had struggled even with two more at their sides. The caution is far from unwarranted.

“I understand.”

Sapnap nods tersely and looks to the other two with a hand movement that she doesn’t understand. The other two immediately start moving, Sam moving to the front, George nocking an arrow as he takes his place at the rear - they’re still shielding her, she realizes with a small spike of annoyance again, shaking her head and drawing her own cutlass as Sapnap leads the way for them to swing up onto the top of the mountain.

It takes her a moment to adjust; the wind, unhindered by the cliffs that had been shielding them seconds before, whips at her face and draws tears to her eyes, makes her hair fly wildly into her face. Through narrowed eyes, she watches as the figure on the other side of the mountaintop scrambles backwards, diamond axe braced in front of him as he backs to the opposite edge.

“Dream,” Sapnap calls, voice deadly calm. “You’re cornered. Stand down.”

Dream shakes his head, lips curling in a wordless snarl. The sound is desperate, almost inhuman, making Puffy’s hair stand on end. As her vision clears, she stops dead in her tracks despite herself - Dream looks awful. She’d expected him to look disheveled after his escape, hadn’t expected much comfort in his stay in the Vault, but the way he looks, now, hollow eyes and gaunt cheeks and skinny, shaking limbs that only barely seem to be able to hold up his weight, bandages covering every visible inch of skin, wrapped messily around his right arm as if done by one hand - she reaches forward unconsciously and Dream flinches back.

“Don’t-” his voice rasps, cracks, falls in on itself as he wets his lips to try and speak again. “Don’t come closer.”

“Prisoner,” Sam growls, stepping forward, and he turns those wild, fever-bright eyes towards the creeper hybrid, flailing backwards and knuckles white from the grip on his axe. His breathing visibly hitches, head whipping back and forth.

“Don’t come closer,” he hisses again, stepping back, and Puffy stills.

“Sam-” she grabs his sleeve. “Sam- don’t. He’s at the edge.”

Dream’s gaze swings to her, and her heart stutters at the uncaged, obvious fear raging in his eyes. He’s backed to the very back edge of the mountain they’re standing on, left foot halfway off, sending dirt skidding over and off of the cliff down down down to the ground hundreds of feet below. The three hunters stop, muscles tensed, and Dream bares his teeth at them but doesn’t back away further.

His shoulders sag as they stand, stagnant, each huddled on their own side of the mountaintop. His gaze is venomous, green eyes burning even in the glaring light of the sun, flicking warily between their faces as he holds the axe between them.

“So you came,” his voice is tight, a slight tremble pulling at the end despite his seeming bravado. “Here to finish the job, huh?”

Sapnap pulls back his shoulders. “I made a promise, Dream.”

Dream laughs, bitter. His left hand releases on the axe handle to come to his chest, grabbing at his right, looking almost like he’s trying to hold himself. His laughter tapers off into something weak and wrecked, and the sound makes Puffy’s heart clench uncomfortably in her chest.

“Figures you’d keep that one,” his head tips up, looking Sapnap in the eye. “What- did your fiance give up? The revive book not worth the effort anymore?”

Sapnap hisses. “Don’t bring Karl into this-”

“Karl?” Dream’s eyes flash, grip tightening on his upper arm. “No- what? Why-”

“Dream.” Sam’s voice is low, something dark buzzing behind his tone, “Don’t-”

Puffy interrupts him with a hand to his shoulder, stepping forward and freezing mid-step when Dream’s head whips to her, eyes widening and foot scraping against the edge of the cliff again.

“Sapnap, Sam, let him talk,” she levels her gaze at Dream, trying to pick out the emotions warring behind those brilliant green eyes. “Not Karl- you’re talking about Quackity then, right?”

Sam hisses, “Puffy, I don’t think this is a good idea-”

Dream laughs.

The sound is grating, awful, making her hands come to her ears. It rips through skin, wraps around bone, seeps into marrow - he’s laughing, axe disappearing into his inventory so he can clutch his face with both hands, the loose sleeves of his prison uniform falling to his elbows to reveal the bandages wrapping all the way up his forearms and disappearing further under the fabric. In front of her, Sapnap falters, grip on his sword loosening; George steps back, eyebrows wrinkled, bow lowering. Dream laughs like the world is ending, and some cold, hardened thing in her chest shatters at the sound.

“You know,” his hands claw at his hair, wrapping around the strands and pulling, “You know you know you know- you have to know. How-” He shakes his head, tugging at his hair harshly and making Puffy wince at the sight, “Don’t- don’t play stupid here.”

“Know what?” George reaches forward, hands empty, palms up like he’s approaching an injured dog. From the way Dream snaps at the sound, hackles raised and teeth bared, he might as well be one. “Dream, what are you talking about?”

Sapnap looks stricken, still, face clouded in a way that Puffy can’t decipher. “Q- don’t play your mind games here, Dream,” despite his words, he sounds uncertain. Puffy hasn’t seen Quackity around for a while, had thought that he was staying at Sapnap and Karl’s new place. From the way Sapnap’s eyes have darkened, it looks like she assumed wrong. “Quackity hasn’t even been around, what does he have to do with any of this?”

Dream shakes his head again, seemingly stuck in his own head, barely even responding to their words. “You know- you know you know you know- Sam knows- you-” His breath hitches, chest heaving, and Puffy blinks. He’s having a panic attack, a clinical, much more calm part of her says as Dream seems to collapse in on himself. “You know. You have to know he wouldn’t- nobody came if you didn’t know then why didn’t you come if you didn’t know then why did Sam let him in you know you know you know-”

“Sam?” George turns to Sam, hands curling into fists and then uncurling again and again, “Do you know what he’s talking about?”

Sam’s expression is unreadable, ignoring George as he looks back at Dream. “Prisoner,” and has he called him by his name, yet? “Come with us calmly and your punishment will be lightened. There’s nowhere to run. Give up.”

Dream keens, a high-pitched whine exiting his lungs, “I won’t- I won’t tell,” his voice cracks, tears clearly running down his cheeks, “I won’t tell you Quackity I won’t-”

“Sam,” Puffy turns to the hybrid. “I think you should go.”

“Puffy-”

“He’s having a panic attack, Sam. He’s hardly going to do anything.” She levels a glare at him, sheathing her cutlass at her side. “I’m perfectly capable of defending myself, and I’ve promised to help anyone having a mental health crisis on the server.” Something dark and traitorous whispers how she’d given up on Dream before, and she pushes it down.

“He’s a danger to everyone on the server.”

“Sam- he’s not fucking breathing right now on the edge of a cliff. He’s not a danger to anyone but himself.”

“She’s right, Sam,” Puffy’s head snaps to George. He’s looking at her, expression hidden behind his glasses, lips pressed together in a small frown. “Puffy, we’ll be waiting. You or Sapnap call if you need back-up.”

She nods tersely, watches as Sam gives in and follows George down the mountain, the hybrid’s red eyes still staring at Dream as he leaves. Sapnap seems distracted, hardly acknowledging their exchange with his eyes fixed on Dream’s crumpled form, emotions clearly warring over his face, and Puffy brushes past him to get to her patient- Dream.

“Dream,” she speaks, not moving forward when his shoulders seize. “Dream, I won’t move closer unless you want me to,” she enunciates the words clearly, watching his face for any flash of recognition or understanding. He shakes his head minutely at her words, arms trembling, but he doesn’t move closer to the edge. “Can you hear me?”

He nods jerkily, and she smooths the palms of her hands on her pants, trying to calm the race of her heart in her chest.

“Good, very good,” years of training, habit, flood her head, pushing away the buzzing unease and fear and tangled knot of dark feelings that linger every time she sees Dream’s face, “I need you to breathe for me, okay? We’re going to inhale for four- there you go,” she counts, watching the shuddering movement of his chest as he struggles to replicate her movements, “Very good, hold for four, there you go- you’ve got this-”

Slowly, painfully, the rattle of his lungs in his chest becomes something quieter, more manageable, no longer rising and falling in desperate arrhythmic wheezes that make her chest hurt in sympathy. She’s still kneeling there, hands palms-up when he looks up at her, eyes wide, a degree of lucidity having returned to them, and for a moment a flash of fear stabs through her heart.

She swallows it down, pulling forward every ounce of professionalism she can muster. “Dream,” she keeps her voice low and soft, biting her lip at the way he freezes, again, at the call of his name. “Dream, can you step away from the edge?”

His hands clutch at the line of grass and dirt that make up the sod overhang, knuckles white. His eyes keep staring in hers, wide and wet and green, and she shushes him softly under her breath.

“It’s ok, take your time,” she breathes, watching as his hand inches forward bit by bit, gaze still fixed on her face, “It’s okay, Duckling.”

She blinks, and there’s a whirl of orange flying towards her chest; Sapnap shouts behind her, and panic blooms in her head too quickly for her to pick out anything but a desperate little oh god I’m going to die-

The blow never comes.

Instead, she looks down, heart in her throat, at a sobbing, shaking lump pressed against her chest, head buried in the crook over her neck as dirty, tangled hair falls in waves over her shoulder. She freezes, watching as his shoulders shake, hands tangled in her shirt sleeve, barely able to hear the words he’s saying over his wails and her heart thudding in her ears.

“Please don’t bring me back,” he pleads, voice cracking, “Please- please I don’t wanna go back please tell Sapnap to make it quick please I can’t go through another Quackity visit please Puffy don’t let them send me back-”

“Dream-”

“I’ll- I won’t fight, I pr’mise, Sapnap can keep his promise it’s okay I won’t fight anymore I’m-” he keens, high-pitched and mangled, into her shoulder, “I’m so tired Puffy.”

“Duckling,”

“Don’ make me go back, please.”

Puffy pulls him back, presses her hand on his cheek, murmuring softly. And- maybe she shouldn’t be doing this, maybe Dream’s a danger just like Sam said, maybe she’ll come to regret helping him the same way she had before - but right now he’s in pain and he’s crying and he’s closer than he’s been in so, so long and all she can see is her duckling, hurting, her duckling, home.

“Dream,” she brushes her thumb against his cheek, smooths a lock of hair behind his ear. “What happened in there?”

And he begins to speak.

[type1diabetesinfandom]

hi,

I’m sending you this, hoping it might reach someone who can answer my question of how close of an adaption “purple hearts” is — book vs movie …

bc I’ve come across a one star review (readingbookslikeaboss.com/review-purple-hearts-tess-wakefield/) that ripped the source material to shreds and that scared me off the movie a bit (sure, sofia’s a definite pull factor for me but you know, i have some standards).

lovely blog btw!! and sorry if this ask is weird but i couldn’t find a satisfying article on it 🙈

First of all thank you! Not weird at all, I appreciate you asking.

Unfortunately, I didn't even know Purple Hearts was a book until after I watched the movie, so I can't really answer. Hopefully someone else can though if they see this.

For the movie itself, standing alone?

In terms of story quality, the movie was really well written and the acting was great. In terms of t1d rep, I was really surprised and enjoyed it a lot. However this is not a story about t1d so if you don't know that going in you might feel let down?

Cassie's diabetes is definitely important; her inability to afford her insulin is what kickstarts the plot, but it pretty much stays in the background. It doesn't disappear but it's not a major part either.

Which I loved.

So many stories seem to use diabetes for the drama of a medical emergency and this treated it as just a part of her life. Even when she went low or super high it was pretty realistic given each situation.

I'm sorry I can't be of more help 😔

[angelguk]

jock!jk and secret pining!! or the one where oc is harbouring a big fat massive crush and jk is stupid and cute. set in high school. roughly 800 words. listen to crazier things by chelsea culter. 

“What?”

The abrupt silence is filled by the sound of forks scraping plates, the low hum of lunchroom chatter and an odd erratic beating of your heart in your chest. Jeongguk doesn’t know that of course, casually leaning over the table to snatch up the cup of fruit slices sticking out the edge of your tray. He pops an apple piece in his mouth before you can snatch it back, his soft brown curls swaying with the movement.

“You heard me,” Jeongguk returns, mouth full as he speaks. You kick his shin under the table, retrieving your only source of decent nutrients before he dumped them down his throat. “I need date ideas.”

“And why are you asking me?” You can’t help the heat rising to your face, a warmth that buzzes delightfully beneath your skin, bright and tepid, as if the sun was gazing right down on you. “Jeongguk you’ve been on more dates than me.”

“Well,” he starts, before sneaking in a burp. “You’re a girl. You know what girls like. Also, the only reason you don’t go on dates is because you run away from basically every guy.”

“I don’t do that,” you whine. “They don’t talk to me because of you!”

He cocks his head, a sly smile sneaking at the corner of his lip. “Maybe. But that’s not my fault. And you’re not answering my question.”

“I hate you.” You stab your plate rather hard, blocking out the low laugh that leaves his mouth. “Don’t you have better things to do, Guk?”

“You’re still not answering my question! And why wouldn’t I want to spend time with my best friend.” He grabs your hand a second later, wiggling your fingers apart until his slip in between, rough and calloused beneath your delicate palm. His hands were always wider than yours, but coupled with the fond smile he was granting you and the messy curls tumbling into his gaze, your stomach couldn’t help but twist into tight knots, a sharp longing clawing at your heart. But the title he bestows on your shreds that feeling into nothing. But you hold on for a little longer, the sounds falling away until it’s only the thump of your heart against your chest. You can pretend for a little bit, can’t you?

“Um…” you start. Jeongguk squeezes your hand and just like that, you fall. “I like casual stuff. Something we can do together like, I don’t know, bowling or going for a picnic or the arcade. Movies are fine but it’s boring if we don’t do something together afterwards, right? Like you can’t get to know someone in a dark theatre. Not really, in my opinion.” You sneak a glance at him, observing with hesitant the way he stares back at you, honey eyes holding an intent you can’t decipher.

“So… You’re low maintenance?”

“Jeongguk!” You rip your hand from his, redirecting your anger at your lunch plate because if you look at him something inside of you might crack. But his laugh slithers through regardless, striking deep despite the fondness in his tone.

“I just,” he says, “I thought you’d like the whole candle-light dinner thing. Rose bouquets and all.”

“They are nice,” you retort. “But it feels like too much pressure for me. I just want to have fun with someone I like. It doesn’t have to be extravagant. If you’re with me that’s more than enough.”

There’s another pause, but this one holds something that crawls down your spine. You can feel his eyes on you, unmoving, like he was trying to read a book upside down. Almost there but not quite.

“Noted. Thanks for the advice, bestie.” You can’t help the automatic cringe at that title, but you raise your head, shooting him a smile that takes a lot to muster up. “I have to meet Coach in a few but I’ll see you after school. We can go to Dino’s. There’s no way you’re gonna eat that crap.” He gestures to your plate and you can’t help but sigh as fork drops. He’s right, it does taste horrendous. And you can hold out for two more periods.

“You owe me for that advice by the way,” you remark as he rises from his seat.

“I know,” Jeongguk returns with a wink. “Maybe I’ll take you out. Or we can settle for lunch on me.”

“I want the date,” you answer, the sudden strike of boldness throwing you off too. Jeongguk’s laugh makes you want to shrivel up but he doesn’t realise it as he slings his backpack over his shoulder.

“Okay, I’ll take you out on that date. See you later, bunny.”

(And he does take you out on that date — a lovely picnic at the park, the spring breeze wrapping around you as tenderly as the grass beneath your skin.  But then you also find out that he takes Eunbi out for a picnic too. But theirs ends in them making out in the school hallways and her throwing you dirty looks in the middle of his games. It hurts. But what can you expect from someone as wanted as Jeongguk? You were just, as he loved to say, his best friend. A title you both loved and loathed as much as you did Jeon Jeongguk himself.)

[ulalumewitch]

A Song of Shadows and Light

Short Story inspired by “Day 6: Book Predictions” by @gwynrielweek - my prediction is that Gwynriel is end game and they are mates. This takes place an undetermined amount of time into the future after ACOSF.

Author Note/Warning: Brief mentions of past abuse. If you find these ideas triggering, please skip. I hope I addressed them with the care and sensitivity they deserve.

word count: 3,279

theme: a bit of angst, feels

please note: light adult language used.

*******

Azriel’s shadow’s did not speak to him. It remained his biggest secret. They did not whisper in his ear. They did not shout, nor did they cry, nor did moan.

His shadows sang.

He always thought people would assume the truth given the name, but they never did. Others sometimes asked, ‘What do they say? What do they sound like? Do they speak to you often? Do they speak in riddles?’ But never did they ask, ‘Do they sing?’

The first time Azriel heard their song had been while staring at young hands wrapped in bandages as he sat in the cold, damp hell of darkness. The inky black he’d learned to survive in had been no life at all but the sort of torture no creature should endure. Especially not a child.

Azriel had always been intelligent. His mind worked in patterns and puzzles. When he’d been allowed to begin an education beyond the fundamentals of reading and writing - when Rhys’ utter saint of a mother took him under a literal wing - he seemed to understand everything taught to him the moment the instruction passed her, or any teacher’s, lips. Initially, Azriel thought it a gift.

Until he realized the curse of it. He never forgot anything he read or heard, and he never forgot a face. His memory remained woefully accurate. While it made him an excellent spy, Azriel used to pray to the Mother to take his memory away, to take his ability to remember the finest minute details away. Or at the very least the bad memories away…

There were seven cracks in the stone on the floor where he used to sleep, where the damp seemed a little less chilling. Twenty stones around his lightless cell. He learned them all by feeling, touching, counting. Games to keep his mind from wondering if perhaps he’d died. If, perhaps, the Mother forgot about him …

Azriel turned his face up at the sky and let the rain fall softly against his face. His wings twitched slightly at the first contact. Warm, summer rain. Refreshing. Revitalizing. The burgeoning storm ushered in cool air and finally broke the suffocatingly hot, humid weather that had plagued Velaris the last week.

He took a deep breath. And another.

The memory of the first song his shadows sang to him was not an unpleasant one. Perhaps one of the only memories from that place that didn’t belong to a nightmare. They did not sing of freedom or of hope. They sang of light. They saved him.

Every once in a while they would sing of that light. The light of stars against darkness, the light of dawn breaking after another battle won, the light of eyes sparkling in love. They wouldn’t sing of it often, but they usually sang when he needed it most.

Or whenever Gwyneth entered the room. They sang of light around her the most. Their song became loudest when she was near him and it always complimented her words, as if providing a symphony to accompany the voice that filled his dreams with rest. Real rest. Those few precious nights they fell asleep side by side doing research in the library had been the most peaceful and restful nights of his entire existence.

Azriel had been a fool. For all of his abilities to ferret out the secrets of others, to become those shadows to learn what words were whispered in the dark, he’d lost the ability to see past his own shortcomings.

He’d searched for the love he’d missed as a child his entire life. Azriel desperately wanted it for his own, to heal those old wounds and to finally become the creature he always thought he could be.

Instead, he’d lived in delusion after delusion. First, the Truth Telling Warrior Queen, and then the Lady of Flowers and Sun.

It wasn’t their fault, nor was it totally his. He didn’t realize how wrong he’d been until the creature the Mother and Cauldron had paired him with left.

Azriel couldn’t blame Gwyneth for leaving. It was the right move for her. The fact that she healed, that she worked so damned hard to be able to start a new life went beyond admirable. And she’d did it on her own. True, she had her Valkyrie sisters, himself and Cass as her mentors, and the Priestesses … and it was because of that support system that Gwyn was able to save herself from the dark and to follow her own dreams and her own path, whole and healed and independent.

And he would never stop her from being herself. Even if it ripped his heart to shreds to see her go. Even if he fought every day not to winnow to that sanctuary on the other side of the Night Court as she and the others began helping others heal from their own nightmares.

He wasn’t sure when he’d fallen in love with her. Hell, he didn’t even know he’d been in love with her until she left without saying goodbye. Until he found that godsdamned note pinned to his door, rolled up with a teal ribbon around it.

Again, words he wished he could forget burned into his memory …

Do not let the water break you, Shadowsinger. Do not be scared of the warmth light can bring either. Let it illuminate you, every part of you, because you are a creature deserving of every happiness, Azriel, and only you can stop you from finding it. I pray, one day, you will be able to leave your fear behind you. ~G.B.

Azriel lost her because he was afraid. The thing he’d chased his entire life alluded him because he’d finally found it and was too damned cowardly to admit it to himself. To admit that the teal-eyed Priestess Valkyrie Carynthian was in fact the love of his godsdamned life.

And she’d left and he refused to be selfish and to do anything that might potentially ruin the happiness she fought for and won. If anyone deserved living in the light of happiness and peace, it was Gwyn.

Azriel closed his eyes, the rain beginning to fall a little harder. A low rumble of thunder in the distance that belonged to nature and not his High Lord, rolled through his bones. He welcomed it.

“I’m sorry I was a fool,” Azriel said out loud.

The rain fell harder, drowning out his words. But as he said them, a small weight lifted as his shadows swirled around him, keeping some of the drops off of his skin. Their touch soft and reassuring.

“I’m sorry if I hurt you in any way.”

Lightning flashed. Another crack of thunder.

‘She sings for joy and hope, her voice like a snow white dove,’ his shadows lilted, singing in his ear.

Azriel smiled through his tears as they mixed in with rain. She was happy then, she was exactly where she needed to be.

“I love you, Gwyneth,” he shouted to the storm.

Lightning and thunder and rain and his shadows sang melodies to mix with the symphony of the storm as the entire weight of the godsdamned world seemed to be lifted from him entirely. The truth and freedom of it so cathartic he let out a laugh and sob and -

A phantom pull to his middle had the Illyrian warrior stumbling forward, his hands braced and caught himself on the red wall of the training circle atop the House of Wind.

Another tug near his sternum … right over his heart …

Azriel turned as his shadows’ melody, wordless and sweet, crescendoed. A rush of breath passed through his lips as he found wide teal eyes staring at him.

He couldn’t move. For the first time in his life, Azriel forgot everything. If anyone asked him his name he likely wouldn’t remember.

All that he knew was that the beautiful creature walking towards him was no mirage. She stopped in front of him. Her beautiful copper hair somehow still shining through the dark and in the rain as it plastered to her head.

Something sparked in his chest. And Azriel, for the first time in his life, knew true happiness.

********

Gwyneth’s heart pounded as she ran through the house. It closed doors as she approached rooms as if telling her to keep going, the Shadowsinger would not be there. She had dreamed of Azriel every night since she’d been gone.

His hazel eyes, his cheekbones, his lips - those lips that she’d stare at and would forget to actually listen to what he was saying. And she’d have to ask him to repeat whatever it was and he would always quirk a smile - always the left side of his mouth - and then do as she requested. Like he knew.

But when she admitted to feeling something more than friendship. When she finally worked up the courage to broach the topic, thinking that maybe he wouldn’t because he didn’t want to push her, he gave the worst response possible.

Silence. Nothing. Not a single sound had passed those lips she’d come to love.

So, she’d left. She would have stayed. Would have carried on her work in Velaris because it was just as fulfilling as the work she now did on the other side of the Night Court. But she wouldn’t torture herself being around the Shadowsinger any longer. She’d taken his silence as a sign from the Mother that it was time for her to fly away from the nest that allowed her to grow and heal, and to live on her own.

She still had Emerie and Nesta for support as they were winnowed in a couple of times a week to help with training. The priestesses and faeries she had started to work with and train she already knew would be friends or at the very least amiable students and colleagues. Her new endeavor was exciting and scary and thrilling and all the things that she always imagined life could be.

The new compound that she, Nesta, and Emerie had dreamed up had been funded by the High Lord and High Lady, having agreed that more sanctuaries like the library should be available to others. It turned out more beautiful than she could have imagined. The Home for Wayward Stars included a temple, training centers, stables, medical building, and library. All to offer services as well as to train faeries in whatever they’d like to learn.

The compound had been built along the sea, nestled in a previously untouched basin surrounded by mountains, not unlike Velaris itself. The High Lord of Day, along with Rhysand, warded it to ensure it remained a safe haven for those seeking shelter. It was also guarded by new members of the Valkyrie so that all who sought sanctuary could begin healing in peace.

The High Lord and High Lady had been beyond kind, and even built her a small apartment that had a balcony that overlooked the sea, the waves crashing right below her and faced east. Every morning the light greeted her along with the sounds of the sea and it was perfect.

Except it really wasn’t perfect because when she woke up from her dreams of Azriel she would be alone in bed. And it infuriated her.

And so, Gwyneth decided to do something about it. The silence of his response ate away at her. She wanted a real answer. She wanted to know if he felt the same or if he didn’t. Even if the answer meant heartbreak she needed it. For closure.

But as she ascended the stairs to the training circle atop the house, her heart began to pound in her chest, and she knew he was up there. When she reached the top step she heard his voice and closed her eyes. Hearing it in her dreams was far different than the real thing.

“I’m sorry I was a fool.”

Was he talking to someone she couldn’t see?

But as she went to step out onto the roof, shadows swarmed her. Cool yet comforting, they swirled around her and gently pushed her back. She furrowed her brow but stayed put.

Gwyn loved Azriel’s shadows. When they’d researched together they’d always provide light touches to any knots in her neck and shoulders as she read, or would offer a cool breeze atop the house when training at night. Azriel always seemed to fret they would scare her but she loved them. Just like she loved him. And she just didn’t understand why -

‘Priestess of Light and Sea and Song, wait, it will not be long.’

Gwyneth’s mouth opened as she stared at the swirling shadows around her. Did they … did they just sing to her to stay put?

But Azriel’s raised voice stopped her thoughts.

“I’m sorry if I hurt you in any way.”

She began shaking. Oh gods, what if he’d found someone else? What if she’d read him all wrong. What if he really was just a supportive friend and she had been so desperate -

“I love you, Gwyneth!”

Gwyn clamped a hand over her mouth just in time to muffle the sound of a small cry born from pure relief and joy. Her hand flew to her chest as her heart pulsed in a quick beat. She furrowed her brow and looked down. No, it wasn’t her heart, but very near it. Something around her heart.

‘We sing for our Master and thee, Princess of Light and Song and Sea, we sing for the mates of darkness and light and sky and sea.’

She stepped out onto the roof, the shadows retreating slightly but remained close to her. Out of pure magical instinct Gwyneth reached deep down into that place near her heart. The place that sparked alive whenever Azriel was near her or whenever she wished he was near her. She grabbed a hold of that place and tugged.

Gwyneth watched in equal parts wonder and amusement as the renowned Carynthian warrior stumble forward in response. He whirled and she couldn’t stop herself as she did it again.

Hazel eyes locked on hers and she knew all of the trepidation she’d felt had been for nought. He loved her. He only needed to go on his own journey to find it. And Gwyneth understood that the dreams she’d had must have been Mother sent to bring her back because Azriel was finally ready to accept the destiny that had been written for them in the stars long ago.

Azriel raised a wing out over her head to shield her from the rain. His shadows continued to swirl around them both.

“I love you too, Azriel.”

“Gwyn,” he breathed out, “What - how -“

She smiled as he sputtered slightly. Gwyn reached forward and laced her fingers through his. Her thumbs lightly running over the ridges of some of the raised bits of scars. Ridges and lines that she’d memorized during their moments alone together.

“I dreamt of you,” she whispered, “And I had to come see you. The house led me here and then your Shadows sang for me to wait while you shouted into the rain. Do you always bother storms with your confessions?”

Azriel’s mouth dropped open. His hands began to shake slightly in hers.

“They sang to you?”

Gwyneth nodded and smiled, “Would you like to venture a guess why?”

She watched, fascinated, as his shadows swirled around his ears. His eyes shuttered slightly and then began to glisten in the dark.

“Is it too soon to talk about a mating ceremony?” Azriel finally asked.

Gwyneth laughed, as tears of pure relief and joy stung her eyes. She ripped her hands from his and threw her arms around his neck. And kissed him.

Azriel’s mouth slanted over hers immediately. The kiss soft but heated as one hand dove into her hair and the other held her waist tightly to him. With the first tentative touch of his tongue to hers, fire lit her veins. She tipped her head back slightly and opened further for him.

His cedar and mist scent wrapped around her as surely as his shadows did, keeping them hidden. Gwyn held on to him, suddenly worried that maybe she dreamt again. That maybe this was nothing but dreaming.

But in that very moment of doubt Azriel pulled away from her. He ran his nose long hers and brushed his lips over hers in a way that made her consider how his lips would feel on her skin.

“This isn’t a dream,” he whispered, “And I love you and I’m sorry.”

She smiled and brought a hand up to cup his cheek. His eyes fluttered closed as she ran a thumb along his cheek bone.

“I love you, Azriel. But for your penance I must demand a couple of things for our future mating ceremony.”

His eyes opened and his lips quirked up. The left side of his mouth. Always the left side of the mouth. Her heart leapt in her chest as warmth spread through her.

“And what’s that Berdara?”

She pressed the front of her body to his, allowing her curves to mold to the hardness of him, to the cut of muscles honed over centuries of being a warrior. Her own warrior called to him, ready to take on anyone who would dare to hurt him. The instinct to protect, she mused, and they hadn’t even officially done anything. Not yet anyway. Hopefully not much longer.

“That we have our ceremony by the sea, our feet touching water and land. That we have our ceremony at dusk as day and night hedge on each other. So that sky and sea and dark and light surround us. So for that sacred moment it will seem like we teeter on the edge of the universe and its us. Just us. And that you will do your duties and live your life and I will do the same and we will carve out a life just for us by forging those parts of us together to make a whole. So that we’re both stronger.”

Azriel leaned forward and pressed his forehead to hers. He brushed his lips over hers again before placing a chaste kiss to the corner of her mouth. His lips lingered and then slowly pressed kisses to her cheek and jaw line and then … then he kissed the sensitive spot below her ear, warm and pleasant and her knees buckled.

His lips curved into a smile against her skin and she wanted to scream at him to stop - to not stop - to do it again but more.

Azriel moved his mouth to press a kiss to the pulse at her throat, and her toes curled in her boots. All of her breathing techniques forgotten as she struggled to remember how to draw breath into her lungs.

With his blessed lips still against her skin, nuzzling her, he replied, “As you wish, Princess of Light and Song and Sea. It’s a good thing I’ll be able to winnow to you every night. Tell me Rhys and Feyre made your apartment big enough for someone with wings.”

“Our apartment. And yes. Now, kiss me again, Shadowsinger,” she smiled, “And this time. Don’t stop.”

Azriel flashed a grin and before Gwyn could form another thought his lips met hers. And she fell. No matter where she landed, and no matter where her journey led her from here, she knew that she would be living that journey with the Shadowsinger, her mate, beside her.

So they fell together as his shadows sang to them a song of darkness and light, sky and sea, hope and love.

*****************

hope you enjoyed! i love all possible ships and these two give me the feels.

[writing-red]

The Onyx Ring | 6

Draco Malfoy x Reader

Summary: Chapter six of the Silver Letter series. It’s their sixth year, Draco and the reader are placed in an arranged marriage by their pureblood families, expected to follow through they navigate their feelings for each other amongst the many other social pressures at Hogwarts.

Warnings: 

Word Count: 8.2k

A/N: So, I am middle-eastern and I rarely find the opp. in fics for that to fit, and since I talk about family history in this chapter I wanted to make the reader’s ethnicity open ended. Just keep that in mind when the reader’s family history comes up. Also note that I made some changes here and in chp. 5 to incorporate titles because I can ;)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6

You spent Wednesday and Thursday holed up with Draco in his room healing. The wounds on your back pertinent and angry; the pain there to remind you of your sins against the family no matter what you did or what you took. Not only that but you knew the scars he left would last, layered atop the old. In order to gain some privacy, Draco had told Narcissa that you’d broken your leg and that you were just waiting on the potion to do its job, it usually took two to three days, so the lie served its purpose, and Narcissa left you both alone in order to allow you to heal. The entire time you virtually didn’t leave Draco’s bed, he’d go to your room if you wanted a book or a particular sweater, although admittedly, you were using the situation as an excuse to wear Draco’s. Zilsey would bring you both food and magically tend to your wounds so that Draco wouldn’t have to risk getting in trouble for using magic outside of school.

Throughout Thursday, you laid in Draco’s arms as he read your classic muggle books aloud to you, although you were keen on forcing him to read your favourite, Pride and Prejudice. Less because you wanted to read it, which you certainly did, but more because you wanted him to read it.

“‘Oh! She is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld! But there is one of her sisters sitting down just behind you, who is very pretty, and I dare say very agreeable. Do let me ask my partner to introduce you.’

‘Which do you mean?’ and turning round he looked for a moment at Elizabeth, till catching her eye, he withdrew his own and coldly said: ‘She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me; I am in no humour at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men. You had better return to your partner and enjoy her smiles, for you are wasting your time with me.’” Draco paused after reading the section aloud

“Mmm,” you breathed as you looked up at him. “Why have you stopped?”

“Well, doesn’t he know that Elizabeth can hear him? I mean, that’s quite rude,” Draco huffed, and you giggled despite the pain it caused in your ribs.

“Draco, it is just a story,” you smiled, amused by his investment so early into the novel.

“Yes, but Elizabeth is clearly too good for him,” he said, still frustrated with the fictional Mr. Darcy’s actions.

“Merlin, I wonder how she feels,” you teased him, lightly referring to your own situation.

“I wasn’t ever this mean to you,” he huffed.

“Draco, don’t challenge me on this. As you will indeed lose. Now, unless you want such a lecture, I suggest that you continue reading,” you said playfully.

“Is that all I am to you, an audible library?” Draco asked, mocking pain.

“Yes, dear, that is the only reason why I lie here so that I can use you for that deeply, handsome voice of yours.”

“Fine then,” he said as he returned his gaze to the book. “Mr. Bingley followed his advice. Mr. Darcy walked off; and Elizabeth remained with no very cordial feelings toward him.”

“Draco,” you interrupted, your voice plainly displaying that you were not paying attention.

“Yes?” he asked, looking away from the book again.

“Come here,” you muttered as you propped yourself up on your elbows in an attempt to get closer to his lips.

“Are you trying to distract me from Jane Austen with physical affection?” he asked, sounding as you had truly hurt his feelings.

“Just one?” you asked, “Then I will let my library get back to his very important duties.”

“Fine,” he huffed as he leaned down and caught your lips with his. The kiss was warm and pleasant, and it made you forget about your pain for a moment as you were happy to lose yourself in his soft lips. “Is that what you wanted?” He asked after you both pulled away.

“Precisely,” you said, an entirely satisfied smile gracing your face.

“Good,” he said, smirking, but glad to see you in such good spirits considering you spent most of Wednesday in and out of panic attacks and nightmares. It pained him to see you in such a state, yet it comforted him that he was able to be there for you through it.

You lowered yourself back down and laid your head on Draco’s thigh as he cleared his throat and continued reading. “She told the story, however, with great spirit among her friends; for she had a lively, playful disposition, which delighted in anything ridiculous.”

The two of you spent the rest of the day reading, Draco pausing anytime he had questions or a vote of confidence for Elizabeth, becoming increasingly excited by Lizzie and Mr. Darcy’s interactions. While you continuously had to remind him that you did not intend on spoiling the book for him. You found it interesting how things had shifted between the two of you since just yesterday; you didn’t know that you’d had it within you to trust him the way that you suddenly did. You were sure that you would hate him till you were on your deathbed, and you had been determined to push away any feelings for him. Somehow you now found yourself laying in his lap, essentially trusting him with your life, your secrets, and your traumas, essentially handing your heart to him on a golden platter. And you were nervous to go back to school, that the petty drama, secrets, sneaking around, and lies would return to your relationship, but you refused to dwell on that for the time being.

Friday morning, while you were still asleep, Draco snuck out of bed to find his mother, he was determined to protect you from your parents, and after what they did to you, he didn’t want them back in his house. Aside from the wedding, he didn’t want them around you at all. He was sure that if he told his mum the truth about what happened, she would feel the same way. Draco dressed and made his way downstairs to the kitchen, where he knew his mother would be. Since his dad has been in Azkaban, she had stopped eating in the dining room instead, taking her breakfasts early in the kitchen.

“Mother,” Draco greeted as he entered the kitchen.

“Draco dear, how is Y/n’s leg?” Narcissa asked, setting down her copy of the Daily Prophet when she noted her son’s entrance.

“That’s what I was hoping to speak with you about,” he said as he leaned against the kitchen island. “Leave us, elf,” he assumed the traits he was raised to bear easily around his mum, and Zilsey quickly skittered out of the kitchen.

“Is something wrong?” She asked.

“Well, she didn’t break her leg mum, Wednesday when Sir Y/l/n pulled her away from lunch, she didn’t trip and break her leg, her father beat her nearly to death, he used the splitting curse on her, she had nearly bled out by the time I found her,” Draco explained. “Now, I don’t want either of them over again except for the wedding, and even then, I don’t want them having any contact or control over her.”

“Draco, it is not our place to interfere in the way William and Layah choose to discipline their children,” Narcissa said, hiding the pain she felt for her future daughter-in-law with complete neutrality.

“Excuse me? You’ve got to be joking! You should see her back; it’s been ripped to shreds by that bastard, she’s got a bloody scar reaching from her eye to the bottom of her face, and no potion or spell has been able to get rid of it,” exclaimed Draco in anger.

“Draco,” Narcissa warned, her voice remaining low and quiet.

“Don’t do that. Just because you can’t stand up for me when father reprimands me doesn’t mean you have to let the same thing happen to her.”

“Draco,” Narcissa repeated, her voice tighter this time, rising from her seat. “If her parents have decided that she has done something that demands scolding, then they will handle that as they see fit. It is not our place to interfere. And you shall not be referring to your future father-in-law with such language.”

Draco pushed the tears that were pooling in the back of his eyes away, he refused to show such weakness in front of his mother. “How could you simply turn a blind eye to this?” He questioned. When he was met with dead silence, he nodded, “I see, mother, I will be retiring to my room then,” he said, turning to leave.

“Before you go,” she said, stopping her son in his tracks although Draco did not turn to face his mother. “I expect you to propose to Y/n using the family ring tomorrow night as is expected in our families traditions, I believe you have the ring?”

Draco simply nodded in confirmation before striding out of the kitchen.

Narcissa remained standing with her head held high, only collapsing into her seat when she was sure that Draco was half-way back to his room. She pushed all thoughts of the torture you endured at the hands of your parents, her friends, out of her head.

When Draco made his way back to his room, he found you out of bed and nowhere to be found, which he thought to be a bit worrisome.

“Y/n?” He called.

“I’m in your closet,” you called, and he let out a sigh of relief and collapsed onto his bed.

“It sounds like you’re feeling better,” he commented, although you could hear the distress in his voice.

“I am, it still hurts, but it’s nothing I haven’t felt before,” you said as you stepped out of his closet in a perfectly oversized white knit sweater of his and one of your pairs of jeans. “Although it sounds like you have something going on, does it happen to have anything to do with where you disappeared to this morning?”

“I just had a conversation with my mother,” he said as he dropped his head into his hands.

You sat next to him and put a kind hand on his shoulder, “do you want to talk about it, or do you want to go walk around the gardens?”

“Let’s get outside, the sun is out, and it’d be nice to show you around out there,” he said as he met your eyes and matched your smile, trying his best to put his conversation with his mum out of his head.

“Sounds lovely,” you said as you stood up and reached a hand out to him.

Draco took your hand and stood up, but before he really could think about anything, he pulled you into a tight embrace, only knowing that he wanted to hold you as close as he could.

The hug surprised you at first, taking you off guard, but after a moment, you felt yourself melt into his arms, your two bodies fitting perfectly with one another’s as if you were meant to hold one another. He rested his head on your shoulder and continued to hold you, you could feel his desperation, and you swore to yourself that you wouldn’t be the one to let go. Although eventually, he slowly released you, taking a moment to observe you and take in your beauty.

“Ready?” he asked, his voice now somehow lower.

You simply nodded as he took your arm in his and the two of you made your way downstairs and out onto the platform that led out into Malfoy Manor’s extensive and stunning gardens. Despite the beautiful spectacle displayed before you, again, you were affronted by a cold and unnatural thing. The gardens and mazes were filled with the darkest colours nature could serve, and overlooking them were statues of cruel-looking men whom you often found stalking around in the portraits within the manor, and each of their statues was accompanied by snakes and peacocks.

The two of you silently descended into the gardens, and Draco led you into the towering maze.

“I used to run around through here when I was little. I know it like the back of my hand,” he said as he led you down one of the forks in the maze. “I don’t think anyone else in my family knows it so well.”

“It’s intimidating,” you admitted, to which he responded with a nod. “This whole place is.”

“I think they built it like that on purpose,” he admitted, leading you down another twist in the path. “Apparently, the first Lucius of our family acquired the land, and when Queen Elizabeth I rejected his hand in marriage, he retired from court and focused on the building of the manor.”

“My great-grandfather burned any proof that our family ever fraternized with muggles, although I’m sure they were title obsessed back when they could be. However, I do know that our family didn’t come to England until 1889.”

“Our families certainly are interesting,” he said with a certain level of distaste.

Since your first year, Draco had proudly boasted that his family was better than so many others, something you had always despised about him. Therefore, it amused you to see him refer to his family in any way that didn’t display reverence. You would continue with the topic, but you were sure that the trees could hear you.

Draco continued to lead you through the maze until you found yourself in a peaceful little clearing covered in an assortment of small wildflowers, the clearing resembling a small meadow, and with the clouds gone and the sun shining, you found it to be particularly lovely. In the middle lay a blanket, a basket, and a series of foods and teas laid out.

You looked over at Draco once you registered it, “How in the world did you manage this?” You asked in disbelief of what was before you.

“House-elves are pretty crafty, Y/n,” he said, a proud smirk rising to his face, and you shook your head as you laughed.

He led you over to the blanket, where a floor pillow was situated amongst all of the treats. “Draco, this is too much,” you said as he sat down on his own cushion.

“Impossible,” he said, his smirk returning to his face. “Entirely impossible to be ‘too much’ when it comes to you, darling.”

The two of you broke into the expertly prepared food and tea as you continued talking about whatever came to mind, Draco complimenting you at any opportunity he found, about how the sun made your eyes sparkle, how he loved your laugh, and so on; and with every word he spoke to you, you found yourself falling further in love with him. His voice was a perfect melody you wished would never stop playing, his eyes twinkled when you were around, and he just had you absolutely entranced. And what was even better than watching his perfectly crafted hands pour you tea was watching him finally open up to you. For a while now, you had firmly believed that there was something more to him, that he was hiding his real self from you, and now you finally had proof. You planned on talking about it more when you got back to school as you were both afraid that the walls, the trees, and the paintings were listening in on you, but you were excited to see Draco Malfoy turn into the truly good person you knew existed within him. The person that existed out of his parents control.

As you finished eating, Draco placed all of the dishes into the basket before you, exchanging them for your still unfinished copy of Pride and Prejudice. Excited, you laid down with your head in Draco’s lap, basking in the sunlight, which you hadn’t seen since you left school, as he cracked open the book and begun to read. You only had a few chapters left, and you were quite excited for him to reach the end of the novel.

You listened attentively as he read; as always, you were able to refuse yourself the indulgence of listening to him speak, “Her father had most cruelly mortified her, by what he said of Mr. Darcy’s indifference, and she could do nothing but wonder at such a want of penetration, or fear that perhaps, instead of his seeing too little, she might have fancied too much,” Draco read, turning the page and moving on to the next chapter. You cracked a smile, knowing that he would just adore what was to come.

“‘If you will thank me,’ he replied, ‘let it be for yourself alone. That the wish of giving happiness to you might add force to the other inducements which led me on, I shall not attempt to deny. But your family owe me nothing. Much as I respect them, I believe I thought only of you.’” you were excited by the joy and intention Draco was carrying in his voice, almost as if he had read ahead and practised, but when he skipped ahead a line, you knew something was up, “‘You are too generous to trifle with me. If your feelings are still what they were last April, tell me so at once. My affections and wishes are unchanged, but one word from you will silence me on this subject forever.’” Draco read as he delicately placed a silver ring decorated with curving leaves and set with a small amber gem in the centre on the top of your hand, which was resting lazily on Draco’s calf.

In contrast with the warm sun, the cold metal shocked you as you realised that he was using Jane Austen to propose to you. Draco closed the book while keeping his thumb in between the pages as to not lose your place. He looked down at you with a smile that rivalled even the sun.

“My mother is going to make me propose in front of your parents during Christmas dinner,” he admitted as you rose into a sitting position and twisted to face him, immediately making and maintaining eye contact. “I wish we could wait, that we could have more time but, I have fallen too hard for you to allow anyone to force me to propose to you, you don’t deserve it in the least, and this is a moment that our parents shouldn’t be allowed to control.”

You placed the ring between his thumb and forefinger of his right hand and then guided it onto your ring finger on your left hand. “‘Elizabeth, feeling all the more than common awkwardness and anxiety of his situation, now forced herself to speak; and immediately, though not very fluently, gave him to understand that her sentiments had undergone so material a change, since the period to which he alluded, as to make her receive with gratitude and pleasure his present assurances.’” You quoted the passage from memory in response to Draco, and as a way to say yes to his proposal. “Thank you, Draco, and I want you to know that if the situation had been different, I still would have said yes.”

Despite his bright smile, a tear slipped from the platinum-haired boy’s eye, startling you. You really hadn’t ever expected to see Draco Malfoy cry, even a solitary tear.

“Draco, dear, what’s wrong?” you asked as you wiped the tear away with your thumb, leaving your hand to rest on his cheek.

“Y/n, you’re being forced to marry someone who could get you killed,” he said, his voice lowering and becoming melancholy.

You sat up and turned to face him, taking his hands in yours, “It’s the opposite, you’re the one saving me from my parents. I don’t know what you mean,” you said, concerned at his sudden change in demeanour.

“He knows, he knows that I love you, and he’ll kill you if I don’t do what he’s asked me to do,” Draco said, his eyes cast down.

“Who, Draco?”

“Voldemort,” Draco whispered, barely audible. “He’s demanded that I kill Dumbledore by the end of the year in order to make up for my father’s mistakes at the ministry,” he admitted. “And if I don’t do it, he’ll kill you.”

Your eyes widened in shock as you processed what Draco told you, all of Harry’s theories finally making sense. Even more so, all of Draco’s nerves and mood swings over the year finally coming to light, why he had been so hesitant to admit his feelings for you, his possessive nature finally making sense.

“Y/n, you’re so good, such a good person,” he said as another tear slid down his cheek. “You are so much braver than I am. You were able to denounce all of this while I let them turn me into one of them.” You felt the pain in his voice resonate in your chest. “While I terrorised you and your friends, and even now as I plan to murder our headmaster, you continue to find a way to show me more kindness and love than I have ever experienced.”

“Draco, I love you, and you’re wrong. You aren’t them,” you whispered as you gestured to the manor. “If you were, you would have left me to bleed under my father’s boot. You wouldn’t have tried to protect me from him,” you said as you placed your hand on his shoulder. “I know that what you’re doing comes not from a place of evil but from necessity and that all will be right in the end because we will find a way to come out on the right side of the war. I promise that as long as we have one another, things will be okay.” You promised with all sincerity. “Now, the sun is setting, and it’s about to get frigid out here. I say we head back up to your room, and I finish reading Pride and Prejudice to you.”

“I thought that was my job,” he said, the smile slowly returning to his face.

“Well, I think that it is fair of me to want to cheer up my fiancé,” you said, matching his smile.

“Admittedly, I’ve wanted to hear your Mr. Darcy interpretation,” he teased.

“I don’t think it’ll be half as good as yours,” you admitted, glancing down at the ring on your finger, which wasn’t a symbol of the life you were losing but the love you were gaining. “Thank you for this, Draco.”

“Anything for you, my darling,” he said as he reached a hand out to you, which he used to pull you up to your feet and into a kiss in which you melted into Draco. His lips were still warm from the sun and so soft on yours. When he pulled away, you sighed from the loss of touch, yet also in satisfaction.

You collected the remnants of the picnic, along with the book, which suddenly held so much more value in your eyes, and you followed Draco out of the maze and back to the Manor. You were so engrossed in your thoughts and in Draco that you completely forgot about the other residents of the mansion. Although, you were swiftly reminded as when you entered through the large, French style, doors you were affronted by a stoic-faced Narcissa occupying the centre of the room, clearly anticipating your return.

“Good evening, Narcissa,” you greeted warmly.

“Good evening,” she returned coldly. “Glad to see that your leg is better,” she said despite the terrible red scar that now obviously occupied your cheek. “Since tomorrow is Christmas, and essentially our final day together, I have the day planned to the minute. Throughout the morning, we shall be finalizing wedding plans, which require both of your thoughts. Then Draco, you will have time to complete your errand before you return to get ready for Christmas dinner with the Y/l/n’s. Sunday, the two of you will pack and prepare for your return to Hogwarts. We start our day at precisely eight.”

“We will see you at the dining table at eight then,” Draco matched her tone, clearly unfazed by his mother’s sudden coldness, which had uniquely caught you by surprise. This was a side of the woman you hadn’t seen yet.

“Good night, Narcissa,” you said, trying to push aside your shock as Draco pulled you out of the entryway and upstairs to his room.

When you made it inside, Draco closed the door behind you and looked you dead in the eyes, “tomorrow, you don’t get a second of alone time with them. No matter what, I’m by your side.”

“You don’t have to convince me,” you smiled grimly, and he sighed in relief. “Now, lay down, dear. We have a book to finish.”

The two of you cuddled up into one another’s side as you finished reading the book aloud. To your satisfaction, just as you finished the book, Draco started prompting you to softly run your hands through his perfect platinum blonde hair, which in the days without styling or care had begun to curl into soft waves. At some point, you fell asleep with the light still on and your precious copy of Pride and Prejudice open on your lap. Yet, you slept that night without a nightmare or a negative thought, your mind and body entirely at peace wrapped up in Draco’s arms.

You awoke to bright morning light flooding into the room, which startled you as you still felt Draco by your side. You slowly drew yourself up and looked over to see Alexis, your wedding planner standing by your bed, assuming it had been her who had opened the curtains.

“Alexis?” You asked groggily, confused by her presence in your fiancé’s room. “Why aren’t you home? It’s Christmas.”

“Lady Malfoy asked me here,” she said. “She also asked me to retrieve you, miss, as well as Master Malfoy.”

You nodded, “we’ll get dressed and be down shortly.”

She responded with a bow of her head, then she swept out of the room, closing the door fast behind her.

“What in the world was that about?” Draco groaned, eyes still closed.

“Your mother sent the bloody wedding planner up here to wake us,” you said, in complete disbelief of Narcissa’s decision to do so.

“Mm-alright,” he said as he sat up, kissing you on the cheek before sliding out of bed.

“I’m going to slip into my room and grab a dress,” you said as you stretched out your arms before standing.

“Alright, darling,” Draco said as he disappeared into his closet to get dressed himself.

The two of you got ready relatively quickly, donning appropriately formal clothing and descended downstairs and into the dining room together, where Narcissa and Alexis were already talking, papers, linen samples, and photographs spread out amongst tea, fruits, and other miscellaneous breakfast items.

“Good morning,” you greeted as a polite way to announce your arrival.

“Oh, good, we’ve been waiting for you two,” Narcissa said, looking up as you entered the dining room. “Sit, we have a lot to get through.” While she wasn’t as cold as she was last night, she wasn’t the same kind motherly woman who had offered you her dress for your wedding.

You and Draco assumed seats next to each other as Narcissa occupied the head of the table and Alexis sat across from you. Immediately, you were bombarded with questions, confirmations that Draco liked the choices you had made last week, ornate changes Narcissa recommended, and series more decisions you had never considered went into wedding planning. Occasionally, you would lean over to Draco and whisper some joke or terrible comment into his ear, and he would have to stifle his laughter which inherently bothered both Alexis and Narcissa as they were suddenly convinced that neither of you was taking this seriously. As afternoon approached Narcissa dismissed Draco, much to your dismay you were left alone with the two women who buckled down on you the second he was gone.

Eventually, Narcissa dismissed you and Alexis, allowing you to go and change and for Alexis to finally make her way home. Although, you were convinced that she didn’t care about that, instead sticking to her oh-so-important schedule. You made your way up to your room, Draco nowhere to be seen, you slipped into your room where you found the black gown your mother had packed for this exact occasion; it even had a note on it that read, ‘wear for Christmas dinner.’ Not in any particular mood to disobey, you donned the dress. While it did not come with a corset, it was quite tight and held your core in as if it were one. After dressing, you sat in front of the vanity to don the face that would get you through the night. Despite the time you took on your hair and makeup, hoping you would waste enough time so Draco would be ready and you wouldn’t have to face whatever was downstairs alone. However, when you made your way down, you found both the entrance hall and the few sitting rooms to be empty, leaving you to admire the decorations that had gone up in the last hour you had been spending getting ready. Classical music was drifting through the first floor, and the decorations which were already there had been accompanied by more lavish ornaments circled throughout the space, which was almost entirely lit by warm candle-light. Had the manor not been another prison for you, you may have some capacity for admiration of its beauty.

“Oh, well, hello there,” you heard the sharp and twisted voice you hadn’t heard since the battle in the Department of Mysteries.

In response, you shot around to see Draco standing next to his Aunt Bellatrix Lestrange as they were standing in the entryway before you. “Lady Lestrange,” you said, bowing your head respectfully.

“Draco, this is the girl?” she asked her nephew as she crept towards you.

“Yes, Aunt Bellatrix, this is her, Y/n Y/l/n,” he spoke formally.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, ma’am. I’ve been told that you’re a great witch,” you said, your head still bowed. To say that Lestrange intimidated you was a grand understatement.

“Enough flattery, girl, it will get you nowhere,” she said as she circled you, inspecting you.

“Bella,” Narcissa greeted warmly as she descended the stairs into the hall.

“Cissy,” Bellatrix responded, turning away from you to greet her sister.

You used the opportunity to make your way to Draco’s side, Bellatrix’s appearance at the dinner, both shocking and nerve-racking. Having to deal with your parents was one thing; Bellatrix Lestrange was a whole other beast.

“Watch your mind,” Draco muttered in your ear as he snaked an arm around your waist, pulling you into his side. “She’s a powerful Occlmens.”

You nodded in response, watching as the sisters greeted each other. “How were your errands?” You asked.

“Fine, we can talk about them later.”

“What are we waiting for?” Bellatrix asked her sister, clearly unaware of the plans for the evening.

“The Y/l/n’s, Y/n’s parents are set to arrive in a matter of moments,” Narcissa said. “Then it will just be the six of us, an intimate affair.”

Perfect timing as always, your parents popped into the room through the grand fireplace, green smoke billowing around their feet.

“Hello, Narcissa, Bellatrix,” your father greeted the two witches. “Happy Christmas.”

“Yes, Happy Christmas, William,” Narcissa greeted, her warmth and kindness suddenly flooding back.

“Bellatrix, oh, I haven’t seen you since the summer. How have you been?” Your mother greeted.

“I have been quite well, Layah,” Bellatrix said, a note of sadism to her voice. “Lovely to see you both.”

“Let us make our way to the sitting room. I know we have quite a bit to discuss,” Narcissa said as she eyed Draco, likely referring to the proposal he was meant to make.

Everyone followed Narcissa into the sitting room, sifting out to where they were meant to sit. You and Draco on a loveseat near the Christmas tree, Bellatrix and Narcissa sitting on armchairs adjacent to one another, and your mother and father on a couch together. As you all situated yourselves flutes of champagne appeared at everyone’s side.

“Now, Narcissa I know you said that we weren’t focusing on gifts,” your father spoke up. “But I was thinking, and since Draco is to be my son-in-law, I thought it would be appropriate for me to give him this.” William rose and crossed over to where the two of you were sitting to hand Draco a long, elegantly wrapped, box.

“Thank you, sir,” Draco said, accepting the box.

“Go ahead and open it,” your father said jovially as he returned to his seat.

Draco split the wrapping along the seam, leaving a black jewellery box, opening it he revealed a silver wizard’s watch, the one your father had given to William for his seventeenth birthday. You swallowed your shock, refusing to show the pain that echoed in your heart on your face. Yet, you weren’t surprised at your father using Draco as a replacement for what he killed.

“Thank you, sir. It’ll be an honour to wear this.”

William beamed, twisting his face into a nasty smile, “I’m glad you think so, boy.”

“How kind of you, William,” Narcissa piped.

“Actually,” you chimed in. “While Draco and I were out last week, I picked this up for you. It’s small, but I thought it’d be nice for you to have them for the wedding.” You made your way across the room to hand Narcissa the impeccably wrapped, tiffany blue box. “And Draco got something for you as well, mother,” you said, then walking to her to hand her the black velvet jewellery box.

“Darling, you didn’t have to do this,” Narcissa smiled kindly as she opened the box.

You returned to your spot next to Draco, taking his hand in yours.

Narcissa pulled out the drop pearl earrings, the smile remaining on her face. “Y/n, this is so sweet, thank you.”

“I’m so glad you like them,” you said, returning her smile.

Layah opened her gift, revealing a fine diamond and emerald decorated bracelet that fit into her jewellery collection well. “Draco, this was quite thoughtful of you,” she said, her lack of gratitude bothering you.

“You’re welcome, ma’am,” he said, nodding his head.

“Well, this is quite boring, isn’t it?” Bellatrix chimed in. “It’s a bit of a drag.”

“Is that because no one got you a gift, ma’am?” you asked sarcastically, quickly taking on the ‘ma’am’ as you noticed the gravity of you using such humour in that room.

Silence fell upon everyone in the room, and you could feel your parents sharp glare fall upon you instructing you that you had made a-

A shrill laugh erupted from Bellatrix’s throat, interrupting the concern that fell upon your shoulders, “Oh, maybe I underestimated you, seems you’re not so boring after all,” she said, then continued to giggle, causing Narcissa and your parents to join in with uncomfortable chuckles and false smiles.

“I’m glad you think so,” Draco said, standing up from his spot next to you. “If no one minds I would like to steal this moment to do something quite important.” Once he received looks or nods of recognition Draco turned to face you, bending down onto one knee, he looked up at you and knowing that only you could see his face he shared a bright, kind smile you had only seen when the two of you had been alone. “Y/n Y/m/n Y/l/n, throughout our years of knowing each other, growing up with one another, attending school together I only ever imagined a life with you. When my mother informed me of our arrangement I was overcome with delight at the prospect of joining hands with another great Wizarding family,” You were not surprised by the loveless and prideful nature of the proposal, this was not for you, it was for your father and for his mother. Draco pulled out a ring, something dark, ornate, and clearly ancient. “Now, it is with great admiration for you and your family that I ask you to be my wife,” he said, looking up at you expectedly.

“It would be my honour to uphold the noble name of Malfoy, and therefore the name of Y/l/n, through becoming your wife,” you said, the acceptance taught to you, forced down your throat, word for word by your mother. While you accepted, Draco slipped the engagement ring onto your bare ring finger, the one he had given you yesterday residing on the opposite hand for the time being. As he did so light, polite applause filled the room.

“The two of you do make a handsome couple,” Narcissa smiled, and you couldn’t tell whether or not the curving of her lips was genuine.

“Absolutely,” your mother hissed. “Draco, we are pleased to be inviting you into the family.”

Accolades for Draco, for you, and for the two of you as a couple continued on until dinner was announced. Dinner itself droned on for hours, and drinks afterwards droned on for hours, you felt as if you were a puddle by the time the evening was over. As usual, you spent most of the night silently observing those around you, although Bellatrix would occasionally drag you into conversation in an attempt to read you. The dinner was like the lunch before and the dinner before that, and every, single, individual, societal event you had attended in your life. You yearned to return to Draco’s room fall into his arms and shed the night, the terrible forced proposal, and the stank of society from your shoulders. Eventually and thankfully you did, both of you quick to wish ‘Happy Christmas’ and ‘Goodnight’ to your parents as well as his mother and aunt. Then, of course, swiftly retreating to Draco’s bedroom. Both of you exhausted trading the confining clothing you wore throughout the evening for sweaters and pyjama pants, then collapsing onto the mattress and into one another’s arms.

The next morning you awoke first to find Draco’s arm draped over your torso, and his face nuzzled into your neck. You smiled, happy to see him so peaceful, and terribly sad that you would have to disturb that peace. You slowly started running your hands through his wavy platinum blonde hair, taking in how handsome he looked as he slept.

“Merlin, it’s Sunday, isn’t it?” Draco asked.

“Yes, darling, it is.”

Draco emitted a pained groan and curled his arms around you to pull you tightly into him, “that means I won’t get to hold you like this ‘till June.”

You giggled at his pain, “I’m sure we will find a way, Draco.”

“You know, this is the worst thing about you being a Gryffindor,” he said with distaste. “If you were a Slytherin we wouldn’t have this issue.”

A pleasant smile rested on your face, “Draco, we wouldn’t have this issue if you were a Gryffindor,” you countered.

“As if, Y/n,” he scoffed, you laughed again, and Draco was sure that your laugh could rival the brightness of the sun. He drew away from only for a second so that he could kiss you and experience that brightness for himself. The kiss lasted for a blissful moment before he pulled away to take you in for just a moment.

“You’re beautiful, Y/n,” he said, brushing a piece of hair out of your face.

You smiled up at him, “you’re too nice, Draco.”

“I am the complete opposite,” he countered and your smile widened.

“Come now, we have to get you packed,” you said, gesturing to his closet.

“Y/n, that sounds miserable,” he lamented.

“Darling, as badly as I want to lay in bed with you all day, I also wish to return to school.”

“Fine,” he said, dramatic as ever. “But only because I love you.”

“Thank you,” you said as you planted a swift kiss on his cheek before rolling out of the bed.

It didn’t take you long to get your things together since you didn’t bring much and because most of your things were staying at the Manor considering you were essentially moving in. When you finished, you helped Draco pack his things up, and you were sure to include some of his sweaters which you had come to love so much. After you were both done, you made your way downstairs where Narcissa was waiting.

You stood in front of the fireplace, excited to finally be leaving the terribly dark home. “Narcissa thank you again for having me. I am truly excited to return for summer,” you lied through your teeth, doing your best to make the statement as believable as possible. At the end of the term, you would go to your home for a day in order to pack up whatever you wanted to bring along with you to your new life. From then on you would reside at Malfoy Manor, at the very least until the end of the war, then it would be expected for you and Draco to live alone until Lucius handed the Manor over to his son. Unless of course, the war turned against Voldemort’s favour.

“Y/n, it was lovely getting to know you. I am incredibly excited for the wedding,” she responded and you smiled. 

“So am I ma’am, and thank you for including me in so much of the planning.”

Narcissa nodded, a tight smile on her lips.

“Well, you two have a good semester, and Draco, please write,” she said as she brushed her son’s shoulder as many mother’s do.

“Of course, mother,” he said before turning to you. “Y/n, would you like to go first?”

You nodded, “thank you again, Narcissa.” And with that, you stepped into the fireplace with floo powder in hand, “Hogwarts!” You shouted clearly, disappearing in a green cloud with Draco not far behind.

To your surprise, you found yourself in Professor McGonagall’s office. You quickly became aware of your surroundings, and dusted the powder off of your jeans before stepping out of her fireplace and onto her carpet. “Hello Professor, I hope you had a happy holiday.”

“Thank you, Miss. Y/l/n, it was nice, quiet without Mr. Potter around to stir the pot,” she said as she looked up, a warm smile on her face.

“Well he is known for that, isn’t he,” you conceded, knowing you were often a part of the trouble.

“Dear, Y/n, your face, what happened?” McGonagall’s face twisting into concern as she noticed the still fresh raised red scar reaching across your face.

“Oh,” you raised a hand to touch the scar, having forgotten to come up with an excuse for the visibly wound. “Just a freak cooking accident, it seems I-I manage just as much trouble when I’m home as when I’m here,” you said, adding a fake laugh to try and convince her that all was fine, although you were sure she could read right through you.

“Y/n, if you need anything,” she said, her eyes falling on the engagement ring on your finger. “Please feel free to speak to me.”

“Thank you, Professor, I’m going to go unpack now,” you said, wanting desperately to get out of the awkward situation.

“Of course,” she said. “I’ll see you in class Tuesday.”

You nodded, and swiftly left her office, making your way to the Gryffindor common room in the hopes of finding Harry, Ron, and Hermione, knowing you had a lot to explain. When you got to the common room, you were disappointed to discover that you were the first to arrive. You sufficed yourself to grabbing some food in the Great Hall, figuring if anyone was looking for you that would be an easy place to find you. However, your journey downstairs was swiftly interrupted.

“Y/N!” You heard Harry’s voice, and you turned around, excited to see your friend.

“Bloody hell, Y/n, what happened to your face?” Ron asked as you turned to face them.

“Seriously, Ronald?” Ginny scolded her brother.

“No, it’s fine, it was just my father,” you explained. The three of them knew plenty about your parent’s abuse.

“Merlin, he’s never-” Harry started, but you cut him off.

“I know, I’d really rather not get into it, it’s not like it’s a happy memory.”

“Yeah, of course,” he said, scratching the back of his head, unsure of what to say.

“Holy shit! Y/n is that an engagement ring?!” Ginny exclaimed, rushing over to you and grabbing your left hand to examine your ring finger.

“Why don’t we go to the common room and we’ll talk about the holiday there,” you said firmly, uncomfortable having this conversation in the middle of a hallway.

“That's probably a good idea,” Harry said, and the four of you made your way back towards the common room, and for extra precaution, you went up to the boy’s dorm which was empty, and thankfully didn’t smell as it often did since the boys hadn’t had the opportunity to stink it up just yet.

“So, how was Malfoy Manor?” Ginny asked teasingly as you all found places to sit around the room, you and Ginny taking Harry’s bed; mutually refusing to trust Ron’s.

“Well to make a long story short, the scar was caused by my father finding our letters, and according to tradition, Draco had to propose to me with our families present, and with his family ring. So, they had him propose last night,” you explained. “Malfoy Manor is a terrifying place, but I have been before,” you thought, and you knew you couldn’t just say that Draco was assigned by Voldemort to murder Dumbledore which is why he had been acting so weird, but you weren’t sure otherwise how to explain to your friends why Draco acts the way he does, and that he really is a good guy.

“What did Malfoy tell your dad about the letters?” Ron scoffed.

“No, of course, he didn’t,” you bit. “My father just spies on me. Draco is actually the reason my father didn’t end up killing me, and he really isn’t such a bad guy.”

“I’m sorry, but there is no way we are talking about the same guy who terrorised us at dinner and announced to the entire school that you were snogging Harry just a few weeks ago,” Ginny countered, and Harry’s face turned beet red.

“We’re talking about Malfoy, I presume?” Hermione asked as she entered the room.

“Hermione!” you greeted her warmly, excited to see her.

“Hello everyone,” she said as she assumed a seat near you. “So, what did I miss?”

Ginny quickly summarised the conversation thus-far, "And I don’t trust Malfoy in the least,” she said, shooting you an irritated look.

“Well I do, and considering it is my life I have no control over, I think that I get to at least decide whether or not I trust him. Anyways he’s proved himself over the holiday, and that’s all that matters, eh?”

“I still think you’re marrying a Death-Eater,” Harry said, confident in his accusation, which you of course knew was correct.

“And what if I am?” you asked. “Harry I am also the child of Death-Eater’s. Not only that, but my parents made it very clear that if I don’t marry him, I’m dead. And wouldn't you rather, when this war happens you have someone on the inside with your interest at heart? Harry I would rather die fighting for a cause than fighting myself.”

Everyone paused for a moment, it was oftentimes easy to forget the gravity of the situation you were all in, but your words made your friends conscious of everything for a moment.

“You all know where I stand,” you said, your eyes were watering, but your voice was firm. “And I intend on fighting with you; I just won’t be able to do so by your side. I assume you already knew that.”

“We just always hoped it would somehow turn out differently, Y/n,” Hermione said honestly. “But of course we understand.”

“Then you’ll also understand that this is likely my last term at Hogwarts,” you said, your voice lower this time.

“Yes,” Harry said quietly.

“So you’ll understand why I want this conversation to end and why I just want to spend time with my friends?” You asked as a tear dripped down your cheek.

Ginny wrapped you in a hug, Hermione quickly joining in, and you wiped the tear from your face. “We love you,” Ginny muttered, and you squeezed her tightly in response.

“What are you two doing over there?” Hermione chided Ron and Harry, ignoring her own tears. “Get over here and join the bloody hug!”

The boys both shook their heads, trying their best to push back their own emotions and joining the three of you in the hug which was quickly turning into a dog pile.

“Anyways, Draco is on our side,” you breathed.

-

Part 7 - Coming Soon

Tags!

Everything - @sarcasticallywitty15 @fred-love-bot

Silver Letter - @hidejeon​​ @Ravenclawgurl137 @unexpectedly-slytherin @missmercurymoon @herequeerandstressed @lordfxxker@pillowjj@pointlesscoconut @lovelylangdonx @fire-in-her-veinz​ @morelovemorepeacemoretattoo-blog @oi-itsemily@lukehemmingslut831 @peachybeannn @lovebynorth@bubblesam06@voidnarnia @bethii1 @arthemis-o-negative@roseyrams@treestarrrrrrrr @streetfighterrichie @dreams-in-blxck​ @psychramt​​ @dracofeltonmalfoy @weasleydream​ @rottenhexrt@daringvixon @thatguppienamedbae @lord-byron

[elriel-oblivion]

So it's been four days so here's part two 😁 Just wanted to say a huge thanks to everyone who read/liked/commented/reblogged the last part! It was such an amazing response, especially given it was my first time posting my writing here, so thanks for all the love you shared 🥰🥰

Heads up, this part is actually part one from Elain's pov. Initially I wanted to continue from where the last part left off in Elain's pov, but as I was writing the background, I realised I'd written too much to just skip when Az gets to the estate and cut straight into a continuation of part one, so I ended up rewriting the whole thing in her view. So there's no new elriel moments, but you'll get a lot of new stuff anyway 😅 I would've said you don't have to read this part to understand part three, but when I was rereading the later parts a few hours ago, I realised there's some stuff that alludes to things in this part, so I strongly recommend you don't skip this 😅😅

Also, wow, some of my fave paragraphs I've ever written are in this part 😁 Bonus points if you can find them; there are four I'm thinking of in particular 😉

Word count: ~ 3.1K. Lemme know if you'd like to be tagged/removed 😊 Next part up in two or three days 😊

AO3

Ashes from the Deep

Part II

__

It had been a pretty uneventful day as Elain worked through her new plant textbook. Feyre and Rhysand had decided to spend the weekend away at the mountain cabin, Cassian and Nesta were away doing things she wished not to think of, and Mor was at the Winter Court.

Amren had only been round in the mornings, probably to check Elain was still alive. She'd glance round the living room, examine some of those fine crystal glasses in the display cabinet and then leave. There was no difference today, though Elain always felt Amren's scrutiny upon her even when that muted silver gaze was directed elsewhere; perusing Rhys' wine collection had become a tired ruse.

So besides preparing and taking her meals with Nuala and Cerridwen, Elain had spent her afternoon with her book, making notes and copying drawings. The twins had gone off on some errands, so she'd wandered into the garden at some point to tend to her many plants, telling them how lovely they each were. The crocuses looked particularly stunning this autumn day, their pale violet colour breathing life into the shades beneath some of the trees.

With her book, she'd identified new weeds, digging into the soil to rip some pesky ones out. Sometimes she didn't want the help of a tool; sometimes she needed to feel those roots on her bare skin.

Harvesting the carrots and beetroot was also on the agenda today, along with seeding for some spectacular displays next year. She'd been collecting the seeds from some of her summer blooms, like those soft clouds of baby's breath, saving them to replant. These she sowed directly into ground she'd prepared days before, her fingers digging into the crumbly clumps of earth.

Autumn onions she'd plant tomorrow, perhaps. Feyre always remarked on how their strong taste complimented meats well, so Elain wanted to harvest some fresh for her sister for once. It'd take a few months of waiting, but there was little else better than picking out and eating food one had grown with their bare hands and the essential ingredients of love and care.

Setting her book on the patio table, Elain surveyed the garden. It was a good day's work. Plants watered and sown, weeds uprooted, and hands sweaty and soiled, Elain was proud of what she'd achieved today. There were no distractions, nothing to take her from the one thing she always found satisfaction in.

After a long shower, she found herself back in the garden with a cup of tea and a blanket. The sunset washed the sky in a blaze of red and orange glory before it yielded to the cool tones of twilight then night. Elain sat in silence, hands wrapped around her mug. How long would it be until someone's arms were wrapped around her, until she felt the warmth her sisters finally had?

Silly, these thoughts. Immortality stretched far ahead, there would be time to develop that companionship. Months and years were but a heartbeat in the life of a High Fae. She wouldn't even notice the years pass.

Or so everybody else kept saying.

With her tea finished, she perused the book of recipes she'd borrowed from Nuala. Some recipes jumped out, ingredients for which she'd been growing for a few months now. Pumpkin pie sounded especially delightful, the gourd having almost darkened and hardened to ripe quality just a couple days ago. They should be ready for harvest tomorrow.

A chill wind sent Elain inside to prepare and have her dinner in pleasant silence. Even her mind was quiet tonight. After washing her dishes, she stood by a bay window, fingers idly tapping the windowsill.

Faelights bobbed like tiny lamps, dotted through the garden. The full moon was now high in the sky, its ghostly glow illuminating the datura flowers she'd seeded half a year ago. She pulled on her blanket and went out again for a better look at those gorgeous blooms, the petals opening only at night.

Elain couldn't be happier she'd found seeds of a triple-flowered variety. They'd grown to produce large trumpets, three layers of petals ruffled against each other. Somehow she thought of her sisters as she crouched and stared at the flowers, each layer so similar, yet fighting for space and breath as it unfurled before another. It was only when they were all fully open that they could sigh along the night breeze as one, an ethereal song of togetherness, tinged with notes of poignancy, only heard by those with the will to look deeper.

The white petals were stained with velvet violet, a true vision in her garden. While the others had given her passing compliments on the flowers, Azriel had seemed stunned the first time he saw them, citing them his favourite of all the plants Elain had grown so far. Something about their shape and contrasting colours, he'd mentioned.

She smiled fondly at the memory, where his eyes sparkled as he reached for one of the soft petals.

Her hand lashed out to grab his wrist. 'Don't touch them; the leaves and stems are highly poisonous.'

His brows rose. 'You wouldn't think that at first sight. But they're beautiful, Elain. Truly magnificent,' he said, his smooth voice so low, a voice that was night given sound. And how befitting, as even those datura flowers seemed enraptured by his presence, one shy petal finally unfurling towards him.

She beamed at him. 'They like you. Flowers like it when you talk to and compliment them - but these ones haven't given me the same reaction as they have to you. I think they really like you, Azriel.'

His answering smile was heartbreakingly tender.

A few more seconds passed before she realised she still held his wrist. She silently let go.

It was a shame she'd have to dig out the datura shrub and move it inside for the winter; it did look magnificent in the moonlight.

The sky shifted past its midnight velvet, and still Elain crouched, admiring the flowers. She shivered in the night's chill. The stars above twinkled and glistened, cold and distant as ever, yet stunning - infinitely more striking than they'd ever been when she was human. A thousand different colours sparkled in that vast expanse, the moon a phosphorescent queen in the centre of her court.

The Night Court truly lived up to its name in the wee hours of the day. Its opulence never failed to mesmerise her; the enhanced Fae eyesight was at least one thing she was grateful for from this body.

Her eyelids became heavy and she yawned. Why was she still out here? It was late into the night; she should be in bed by now. But the night was so beautiful and it was so quiet and she wanted to appreciate it all just once. Just once without the expectations of others, without having to wear that miserable smile all the time.

Of course, it didn't look miserable, which is probably why almost nobody ever bothered to look deeper into Elain. She should be used to it by now, but it still felt - wrong. That most overlooked her so long as she wore a smile. That most didn't think her capable of feeling the utter bitterness and loneliness she had once seen so plain on her sisters' faces.

And in acknowledgement of her sisters' hardships, Elain didn't fault them for not looking, for not seeing her. To see past the thick blanket of darkness in one's own mind was a trial in itself. But it had been years since the war now. And still they didn't notice.

They didn't notice that Elain was being shredded from the inside out.

It was almost laughable. But not funny enough.

No, it was not funny that people still treated Elain like a child, that people wanted to keep Elain in some weird impasse of a stage between child and adult. She'd thought finally carrying out her duty and giving her hand in marriage would show everyone that she was growing up: Elain Archeron, middle born but first married. Of course it was still on her own terms, to a man whom she'd loved. A man who'd seen her through the rubble of her family's lives. But she'd overall hoped doing what was expected of her would be enough.

Clearly not. She didn't even know who she was any more. Did she ever? Everything she'd once yearned for, gone. That fragile human life would soon be just a speck on the horizon of her past.

She sighed. Rebuilding herself was going to take a long time.

But what would she have to do for people to see her, to listen to her? Throw a rage? Fall into a drunken stupor and break a few dozen bottles?

She definitely could, but those were not her. She was Elain Archeron. And so she would wait. Patience wasn't a bad thing at all; she saw it on the shadowsinger's face all the time, that tranquility and calmness she so wished to feel inside.

Azriel. Her heart softened as he entered her mind again, and she dug her fingers into the soil, if only to occupy her fidgety hands. As sure as the chaos of her visions these days, there was a mess of butterflies related to him she wasn't willing to show. Or understand.

Elain and the spymaster? Now that was laughable. Truly laughable. He was wise and patient, while she - well, everyone already thought her a child, and though he listened like no other around her, surely even he couldn't glimpse the adult she so desperately wanted everyone to see.

No, it was foolish to entertain the idea of a relationship with him. No matter how much he saw.

No matter that he was the first to see her since Graysen.

Elain exhaled. She stifled another yawn, smoothing out the soil, then brushed her hands clean. She wrapped the blanket closer around herself and stood. Twinkling stars and velvety darkness and -

There, a knot of shadows materialising at the far edge of the garden, collecting and swirling into a larger mass before Azriel himself stepped out and sagged against a tree. His shadows whirled and obscured him, a dark fire with him burning at the core.

Elain's voice left her throat before she even thought to call him and she ran over to his figure slumped in the dimness.

She couldn't help but say his name again as she neared. 'Azriel!'

Those beautiful hands fiddled with a Siphon, but he looked even worse up close. Fatigue dragged at his body, a second weight to all the muscle and armour he already had to carry. Sweat and dirt clung to him, his hair. At least the shadows were parting, swallowing each other and misting away as they often did around her. Perhaps she should ask someday why they did that. But not today, not when his breathing was so laboured.

She raised a hand - to do what, she had no idea. She couldn't just touch him right now. 'You don't look okay.'

Something else limned his features as he huffed a light laugh and said, 'I'm fine, don't worry.' His voice was raw, so starkly different to its usual icy smoothness. It was common for him to guard his emotions, but in his state, this kind of thinking was just unhealthy. What would it take for him to be honest with her?

'You don't have to pretend with me, Azriel,' she said, lowering her hand. She studied the ground, embarrassed that she'd come up to him. What could she even offer in her pathetic childlike state when he was so clearly affected by his mission right now?

His hand rose. Her heart faltered, she had to do something, and she blurted, 'Can I wash your hair, please?'

His eyes widened, his entire composure crumbling. It wasn't often that the shadowsinger looked startled, but Elain was far too shy to show that she quite liked the effect her question had on him.

'You want to wash my hair?'

His face was so exquisite, it hurt to look at it. His eyes would be even worse; it wouldn't be the first time she was rendered speechless by their kind gaze. A myriad of colours swirled in their glistening depths - gorgeous greens and brilliant browns, all so natural and rich, if only she could look at them long enough to find their matches in the garden around her. Though, his eyes were an entire spectrum of colour in their own right. How would she ever pick out each and every shade?

And if she somehow did have the courage to meet his eyes now, what would she see of herself in their reflection?

A lovesick puppy? A doe-eyed, fearful fawn?

No, she didn't want to know.

So she swallowed and focused on his hair. Perhaps this Fae eyesight was a curse, for even his hair was shockingly fascinating. Only flat black from a distance, the faelights bobbing about the trees highlighted layer upon layer of silky raven locks up close. His hair was so dark it seemed to absorb the surrounding light. Mud stained one side of his head, and it was an effort to keep her hands from brushing it away, so she said, 'I'm positive that's mud and you shouldn't sleep with that in your hair. It'll only take a few minutes.'

He ran a hand through his hair, clumps of dirt falling out.

'You've managed to get some on your face, too.' There were light specks of mud and blood across his face, a more noticeable patch along his cheekbone, thrown into sharper relief by the faelights and his own weariness. Was that a cut beneath the patch? And another on his temple?

She leashed her arms.

What had happened? He wore the signs of a fight, but why would he come here when he knew Elain was the only one home?

His eyes bored into her face, but she refused to meet them. He seemed to lean forward then, stumbling.

Ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous that he wouldn't even acknowledge he was in need. Azriel rarely stumbled. Any fatigue Elain had felt just a while ago was now burrowing down a little longer. Her voice was firm when she spoke. 'I'm washing your hair. It'll help relax you into falling asleep.'

His brows rose, but if Elain stood there one more moment she wouldn't have the courage to do anything for him. For herself - she could take care of someone else. She could do for Azriel what she hadn't done for Feyre all those years as a human.

And for Azriel, she could tend to the male who'd provided her with comfort and safety in this world of distress and danger.

So she pulled him along, clenching her jaw and refusing to look back. Her heart hammered in her chest but she continued, hand wrapped round his armoured arm. Her hand slid down to his wrist but just as she was about to replace her grip, he grabbed her other hand and pulled her into him.

The shadows instantly began to ensconce them, dozens of those cool tendrils twining like vines. The estate loomed huge before them, and Elain gripped Azriel's hand tighter. 

'My bathroom,' she said. Beneath the low whisper of those shadows, her blood thrummed, her heart so painfully obvious against her ribs now. It would be a wonder if the spymaster wasn't aware of it. Though she did hear another flutter above, right by her ear. But as expected, the shadows made quick work of their journey and she didn't have the chance to dwell on it further.

Now out of the comfort of Azriel's hold, Elain set down her blanket and made to grab a chair from her bedroom. His dark presence was so overwhelming that she exhaled lightly as she entered the room and took the chair. She dragged it to the sink, avoiding his gaze, and pulled a towel, soap and a large jug from the cupboard by the door.

As she settled the soap and jug on the sink, she dared a glance at him. He was still clad in full armour, those black scales gleaming like obsidian over his skin, his Siphons glistening jewels across his body. 'I think you'll have to collapse your armour for this,' she said.

He inclined his head and tapped a Siphon, those scales lashing back into each other with cruel elegance. They were a mirror of their master: cold, controlled and unyielding, forged from scintillating darkness. He was a night sky riddled with stars; light existed if only one bothered to look for it.

Azriel's great wings righted themselves as he stood straight, now looking smaller in just his black tunic and trousers. Something about him seemed vulnerable without the armour, so Elain breathed, 'It's beautiful, all of it.' The hulking armour, the classic simplicity of the tunic and trousers, and the male who wore them all.

He was just so wonderful, Azriel. An enigma that could see her own. Her heart clenched.

Azriel rustled his wings, colour blossoming on his cheeks.

Elain blinked and pulled the chair out a little. 'Please sit.' As he sunk down, she rested the towel on his shoulders, hovering her fingers above his forehead. Her body tensed and her fingers remained suspended. It was like a spark of tension flickered in the space between their skin, teasing her, tempting her, taunting her.

After all, she'd offered to wash his hair, an act that would certainly require touching. But why was she so hesitant? She'd touched him before - kissed his cheek, even. Although that had been in the heat of adrenaline, a mark of her gratitude where a simple thank you wouldn't suffice, not for risking his own life for hers.

This was - what was this?

She finally lowered her fingers through that tense spark, pushing his head back against the sink. It was exhilarating, this contact, but he lowered his wings, shifting on the seat. Elain moved into the space he gave, turning on the tap as he went still. Just as her body was taut, taut as the skin of a drum.

She checked the water. Warm. It was time to start.

Azriel was looking up at her. Something like yearning swirled in his eyes.

He looked so tired. It made her heart ache.

'You can close your eyes,' Elain whispered. And he did.

___

Feedback's welcomed; thanks for reading 😊

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[antihero-writings]

The Boy with the Unspeakable Name (Ch1)

Fandom: Harry Potter (and the Chamber or Secrets)

Fic Summary: Tom Riddle may have won his battle with Harry in the Chamber of Secrets, but there were a few unforeseen consequences; loss of Tom’s memory being the most obnoxious of them. Is it possible to stop Tom’s past from becoming his future? Or is the young Tom Riddle doomed to repeat his mistakes?

Notes: I’ve actually had this idea ever since the first or second time I read Chamber of Secrets. Though Tom has never been my favorite character, I found young Tom interesting, and I always thought things would have gone differently if he had come back when he was Harry’s age. I was always curious if he could have been redeemed if things had gone this way. Now, I know JK Rowling purposely wanted to create an irredeemable villain, so she wouldn’t have redeemed him even then, but I wanted to write a fic playing with that idea myself.

Despite having had this idea for a long time, I didn’t write it because I was afraid I’d bite off more than I could chew, and wouldn’t finish. But this last time I read Chamber of Secrets, I decided I’d just go for it. I’m still afraid I won’t finish, as this is the longest premise of any of my fics posted, (and I haven’t finished any of my other, shorter, long fics…) but I didn’t want that to stop me from at least trying out the idea. Even if I don’t finish it, at least I’ll have something to show for it!

All that being said, if you like this fic and do want me to continue please consider commenting, and/or reblogging. Sometimes one comment can mean the difference between me continuing, and me leaving the fic behind. It really helps to know people are interested.

Above art from the internet. 

Chapter 1:

He didn’t know how fitting it was.

Tom Riddle didn’t know just how fitting it was that the first two things he sensed after waking up were the sound of crying, and the stench of blood.

He didn’t remember how much of his past—or perhaps one could call it his future—was comprised of tears, blood, muffled screaming, and the words avada kadavra! hissed in a cold, high voice that was surely not his own.

Right now, he didn’t remember much of anything at all.

Sixteen years or sixty, he remembered none of pain, the loss, or the victory.

All he knew in this moment was that world was damp and cold, it smelled like death, and someone was weeping.

That was the world to him; an ink spill on living canvas. A hole made in screaming pages.

The sound of weeping was the first thing he knew in this new life—(or this old life, made new)—it echoed and filled the place—whatever the place was—like the slow drip of water in an empty cave; tiny on its own, mistakable in a crowd, but sharp, vast, and overpowering when the world was hollow.

And the world did feel hollow.

He did not wake to a warm, dry hospital bed, a fire, and a heap of get-well cards. His family did not surround him, showering him with love and gratitude, asking what he did and did not remember, and what had happened to their sweet boy. No one held up pictures, pointing to the scenes and people within them fervently demanding remember?!, praying amnesia would leave him sooner rather than later.

Instead he woke to a place in which every sensation burned: cold searched for weaknesses in his damp cloak and slithered across his skin; the smell of blood bored into his nostrils, enough he could almost taste it; and the longer he heard the wailing it burned in his ears too.

Burned because it hurt his heart not just his ears? Because it was sad? Because it mattered, and he needed to know what was wrong?

Surely not.

Burned because it was annoying, and he wanted to shut it up. Burned because it wasn’t a nice sound to wake up to, and whoever they were ought to have more courtesy for orphan boys who just wanted to wake up in peace.

Everything burned because something about feeling, sensing anything at all, was…oddly unfamiliar. Not strange as in a new way; it was like something he once knew well that had been forgotten, left behind for a while, like nostalgia.

And if simply living was this foreign…how long had it been since he was last alive? How long had he been a ghost? And what brought him back to his body?

He opened his eyes.

Sight didn’t change the impression he had received from his other senses; mostly it just added ‘dark’ to the list of not-very-nice things the world was made of. And due to this fact, sight didn’t burn nearly as much as his other senses. Still, the world was crisper, more colorful, somehow, despite its drab nature…

He was in a chamber, a dungeon of sorts—probably underground. Stones and statues, turned brownish-green in the humid atmosphere, lined the walls. Snakes poked their heads out at him from the walls, their eyes glittering as if they’d come alive at any moment. And before him was a particularly large statue of a man.

But, as he sat up, his clothing—long, black robes, with a green patch on the chest—clinging to him uncomfortably, there were a few things sight showed him worth noting:

The first, most obvious, was the gigantic snake lying beneath the statue some ways down the chamber, its scaly green tail glistening in the low light. It was clearly dead; lying still, its belly up. There was blood where its lifeless eyes had been scratched blind, and a hole in the roof of in its gaping mouth, one of its front fangs missing. This was most likely the source of the foul smell. How long had it been dead? Couldn’t have been long, considering the other things around the room…

The second, what may have once been a book. This one was very close to himself. Its pages were ripped out of their bindings, in shreds, surrounding him like fresh snowfall. The leather cover had many holes and gashes in it, apparently made by the missing fang, which also lay beside the book, blackened ink on its tip—(but can words bleed?)—the book mutilated beyond repair. This was one of the strangest sights. It was almost as if someone—probably the person crying—blamed it for their problems and took their anger out on it, before that anger became the sorrow that resonated through the chamber now.

The third was a gleaming orange and red bird, long tail feathers unfurled on the floor, like a flame, its head held high, sitting quietly beside the mourner. It didn’t look like it didn’t belonged in such a grim place—like a rich person walking in a slum.

There was another glittering thing beside him: a silver sword with jewels encrusted in the hilt. This was likely the cause of the snake’s death, especially considering it had blood coating it.

A little way from it was a pile of raggedy brown fabric. …He couldn’t quite tell what it was supposed to be.

The sixth: the source of the crying, a boy. He had unruly black hair, and his black robes—(the same robes, he noted, that he himself was wearing, or very similar)—were christened with the blood and slime of beasts—(and maybe men, he couldn’t know)—and ink. He was possessed by the demon that was tragedy; his entire form shaking, heaving, whether from sadness or rage, or both, only time, and a healthy dose of good questioning would tell.

The last thing of note, and what was most likely the source of the tears: a corpse. A girl specifically, with red hair—almost as fiery as the bird’s feathers—ashen skin, and, once again, the black robes—(must be a uniform of some sort). Perhaps they were at a school? Quite a dreary school it was, if so. She was small, apparently young.

The scene was both a lot, and not much, to go on.

Three living things—one without memory, another without peace—two dead, and four inanimate, one of the inanimate things more mauled than any of the living or dead.

His mind started to provide theories about the scene,

Theory one:

The snake had killed the girl, the boy had taken up the sword and killed it in outrage.

Made sense, but that still left the diary, the bird, and himself. As well as the pile of fabric…

He didn’t see the bird having a big role in this; his best guess was that it belonged to the boy, as it seemed loyal to him, sharing his grief, and that its role was the scratch marks on the snake’s eyes, helping the boy defeat it.

Theory two: The girl had written something in her diary the boy didn’t like, perhaps something about he himself. He had torn the diary apart, and in a jealous rage sent his pet snake after her, but regretted it after the snake went too far and killed her, and decided to kill it after all.

Theory three: Reverse of roles; the diary was the boy’s, and she had found it, and he was either mad she found it and tore it, or she had after finding something she didn’t like in it, potentially about him, and the offended party let loose the snake.

Theory four: The snake belonged to neither of them, it was by accident they happened to wake it, or stumble into its home while fighting about this diary.

But why did they find an underground chamber the best place for an argument? Did they live here? Was this a normal place for them to spend time? Like some sort of secret hideaway? Were they in hiding from something?

Four(a): Or else were they on some quest to find it—was the snake guarding treasure? Did the diary hold the map to it, and they tore it simply to keep anyone else from finding it, or else falling into the same trap?

Theory five: The diary was his own; not the boy's or the girl's. He had some relationship to one or both of them that went awry.

Five(a): The snake was his own, and he had set it loose on the girl for some reason, perhaps he was the jealous and angry party here.

Theory six: The snake didn’t kill the girl.

Six(a): She was already dead or dying before the snake even arrived. Maybe the snake's venom, or something else about this chamber, was meant to cure her and failed.

Six(b): The boy killed her. Perhaps in his aforementioned jealous rage he had took the sword to her himself, and now he regretted it.

Six(c): He himself killed her.

He sat up, blinking at the dreary universe. The boy didn’t hear him, just kept on crying. It was a very tiresome noise to hear so constantly.

He reached over and, quietly as possible, drew the diary closer. What made its disfigurement all the stranger was that every page he could see appeared blank. People didn’t usually have qualms with blank diaries—it was the words that people were so touchy about.

When he lifted up the cover, he could see beneath the gashes a name: Tom Marvolo Riddle.

The sight of the name sent a curious sensation through his stomach; he didn’t remember who it belonged to, but the name set a fire boiling in his gut, a bubbling, swirling, writhing fire within him. A fire that threatened to destroy everything around it too.

He looked up at the mourner. Was that his name? Or was the girl, in fact, a very petite, long-haired boy? Did the diary belong to no one present, and it was the secrets within, not the owner, that mattered? But there were no words at all, let alone any secrets…

Or…was it perhaps his own? His own name that he didn’t even remember.

Sitting here theorizing wasn’t going to get him any closer to the truth.

It didn’t seem like a good idea to disturb the boy in his grief, but he didn’t have much choice—losing your memory is an ordeal of its own, you know.

He got to his feet—this sensation too didn’t feel completely mundane to him. Everything felt nostalgic—like in some fond childhood he walked, and smelled, and saw, and heard, but as he grew up, sense left him, and he forgot what it meant to be alive. His damp clothes clung to his body, making him shiver.

His footstep broke the atmosphere; the first new sound in the stagnant place, the pieces of peace cutting through the tears. The boy gasped—the kind of raw gasp, full of dread and despair, one takes when they realize the dragon is awake.

But the dragon in this particular chamber was slain…

His slow steps filled the chamber, an ominous repetition, the ticking of a clock.

When he got close, the boy’s hand wrapped around the hilt of the sword, the metal twinkling in the dim light, scraping and clattering on the stone as it moved.

“I’d stay back if I were you,” his voice was soft but solid, dangerous, wet with tears, shaking with rage, hoarse from screaming.

He stopped. He didn’t know what that meant, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to find out.

Hmm…What to ask? ‘Why’s that?’ ‘What happened here?’ ‘Who are you, who was she, and, while you’re at it, who am I?’

The scene was still fresh; if he touched the embers it might reignite.

“And…If you were me, what would you do?” he decided to ask. Speech, words forming on his tongue, felt odd too… but it was the sound of his voice that caught him most off guard…why? Had he been expecting to hear something different?

It was an odd question; he could tell the boy wasn’t expecting it. He paused. Then he scoffed,

“I’ll never be like you.” Then his voice grew quiet and dangerous, “But if I were in your place…I would run. As far away as I could, and as fast as I could, before I found out what the famous Harry Potter is capable of when you take something important from him.”

An even odder response.

The boy turned. One of his most defining features was the circular-rimmed, cracked glasses he wore. That, and the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead, which was red and irritated. Seeing this scar, for some reason, made ire rise in Tom’s throat too. His glasses shielded eyes of a bright green which also heralded from a distant memory.

Bright, but dark. A green that pierced the veil of shadows, yet reflected the rest of the world. He wondered if he had ever seen such hatred in someone’s eyes before, in that past he didn’t remember. They burned as bright as the bird by his side, bright as the girl’s hair. They were bright enough to set the chamber ablaze, dark enough to enact the threats in all the room’s corners. Yet his name didn’t immediately come to mind.

Harry Potter. That was what he said his name was. Once said aloud, the name was more familiar than sensation itself; a burning scar upon his mind, never quite healed. The name was rage, and humiliation itself to him…though he couldn’t place the source of these emotions; no memories came to mind.

They were enemies.

Only two names he knew so far, and both sent the same sort of mad fury through him. Curious.

He couldn’t be more than twelve years old. Twelve years old was quite the young age to be defeating monsters, watching girls die, and to hold such hatred in one’s eyes. Very young to be so hated by he himself.

He was just a kid. Did this Harry Potter really deserve all this?

Why did they hate each other so much? Was it normal for him to hate twelve-year-old boys?

Come to think of it, how old was he himself? He sounded young, not much older than him. But he didn’t feel young.

Why did he hate him so much?

It was starting to look like Theory six(c) might be the most likely.

He didn’t take his advice. He didn’t know much about himself, but he didn’t think he was one to take people’s advice, especially not that of his enemies. In ignorant defiance he took a step forward.

“Stay back!” Harry Potter barked, as vicious as a loyal guard dog.

That same hatred he felt buzzed behind his words.

Another step.

He held up the sword.

“I’m warning you.” Tom knew the threat in his voice was very real.

Yet he came closer. Close enough to see the face of the girl.

He didn’t recognize her. Predictable, but aggravating. He had hoped that perhaps seeing her would bring him to his senses. Alas, she was just a dead girl.

He leaned in closer.

“DON’T YOU DARE TOUCH HER!!” the boy’s words, along with the sword, were at his throat without a second to spare.

He simply flicked his gaze to him; no sign of shock or emotion at his outburst on his features.

The world must burn for this boy too. Burn, not because of sensation itself was strange, but because what he felt was currently was too much to bear.

Hatred, horror, heartbreak…hell. It all blazed and overflowed in his eyes.

He backed up one step, then another, and kept backing away until the sword was no longer close to his skin. Harry could have easily followed him, keeping the threat alive, but it seemed staying by the girl, protecting her lifeless body was his highest priority—Why? What could he possibly do now that she was dead? Was he prone to mutilate dead girls? Was his touch repugnant enough on its own to warrant such violence?

The anger was still white-hot, but confusion was in the boys’ eyes too now.

Yes, six(c) seemed pretty likely.

So, how had he lost his memory? He himself didn’t seem hurt in the slightest physically, he didn’t even have so much as a spitting headache to tell him he’d knocked his head hard enough to lose his memory. It didn’t appear as though he and the boy had dueled, despite the indication they were opponents, and the sword in his hand. Nothing indicated how he could lose his memory, or why…or, come to think of it, why he was still alive.

If it was true he had killed her, that they were enemies, why hadn’t Harry killed him in his sleep? He surely had the chance, in the midst of all the wailing. Why didn’t he walk up to him, send that sword through him and be done with it? Why didn’t he fight him, run him through, now? Tom was clearly unarmed, and Harry was likely the one who killed the snake, clearly he had the upper hand, the power to do so. It all made too much sense.

He could tell he wanted to.

…The diary. It must be connected to everything. Would it reveal the truth of the situation, and his lost memories? Everything seemed to trace back to it. From the looks of things, it was the source of the scene…and it was the most confusing part of the scenario. If he started with it, perhaps he could get somewhere.

He sauntered back to it, crouched down and picked up the mangled cover, staring at the name, the holes where someone—presumably Harry—had stabbed it, a few blank pages hanging limply out of the binding. But why would he hurt an inanimate diary?

“Who’s Tom Riddle?” he asked.

[slasherholic]

(psst... did someone say Mikey whump? guys I think someone said Mikey whump…) 

Frisky February Prompt: Electricity~ (yes it’s 15 days too early shush)  @slashthedice

synopsis: Michael gets served up some nasty, nasty revenge by someone who really, really has it out for him.

warnings: torture in a medical setting, sexual assault, mikey has a bad time ok

foreword: the opinions expressed here by the POV character about certain sensitive topics in no way reflect my own beliefs <3

No Faith in Medicine | Michael Myers x Reader | NSFW

The hospital corridor is long and grey and stretches onward toward a single bolted door, labeled by the rectangular sign hanging above it as Therapy Theater No. 5.

This deep within the bowels of the sanitarium, below the patient wards and the enrichment centers and the checkered courtyard, there is hardly any of the familiar clamour; so as you stride closer to the door the clack of your bootheels over the beige linoleum carries like thunder.

Smith’s Grove was never the sort of place you had pictured yourself ending up during all those sleepless nights studying for your Ph.D, and truthfully, you can’t stand it here. The deliberate blandness of the hospital, with its color palettes limited to inoffensive whites and blues and greys—meticulously designed so as not to provoke its residents—wears on you more than anything else.

You feel like you’re suffocating here; but it doesn’t matter.

This job was never about you to begin with. It was never about some commendable interest in the healing of troubled minds, either; oh-no. There are two-hundred-and-forty-nine permanent patients living inside these sound-proof walls, and while it may not be a very doctorly thing to admit, you don’t give a rat’s ass about two-hundred-and-forty-eight of them.

...and as for that last “troubled mind,” well…

The breezy summer afternoon that Michael Myers was sentenced to life imprisonment exists in your head as vividly as a snapshot picture.

Almost as vivid is your memory of the Halloween that a policeman had come knocking at your front door to inform you in a strictly-business-voice that your sister was found dead in her kitchen, her throat slit open from ear to ear.

You remember watching from your couch as the gavel came down and the judge ruled the man who had taken your sister’s life away as criminally insane—and not responsible for his actions on that fateful October night—and therefor not legally a candidate for the death penalty.

You remember the burning, frustrated tears streaming down your face, the shatter of glass as you hurled the remote at the television screen, and then sinking down in a heap on the floor and screaming until your lungs were raw and your voice was in tatters, because it wasn’t fair, wasn’t fair, wasn’t fair.

So when the news came out that Myers was to be transferred back to Smith’s Grove—hardly a forty minute commute from your own house—you had been out the door that very same day, speeding in your car down the highway, ready to accept any available position the Sanitarium would offer you for your credentials.

It had been your one shot at revenge on the sick, evil fucker who had ruined your happiness; and you were prepared to move heaven and earth just to bring Myers hell.

It had taken eight months before you even laid eyes on the man for the first time.

You’d landed yourself a patient therapy position, but only had the clearance to treat patients who fell under the “medium” and “high-risk” categories. In the entire hospital there were only two patients who fell under the third and final category: a spitting lunatic of a man, who couldn’t be safely approached without first being drugged half-asleep with antipsychotics...

...and Myers.

You had possessed the patience of a saint, climbing through promotion after promotion.

And the very minute that you were handed back a fresh copy of your I.D, now with a little red stamp at the bottom, the stamp that meant you were cleared to work with Myers, you had raced down to the front desk to file your recommendation for treatment.

Three days later, after hours of debriefing by Dr. Ashton, Myers’ new court-assigned psychiatrist, you came face to face with the worst criminal the sanitarium had ever known.

You had seen Myers’ face pictured in black and white on newspaper articles and in fuzzy low-definition on T.V. 

And absolutely none of that could have prepared you for witnessing him in the flesh.

The thing that had startled you most when you were led by Dr. Ashton into Michael’s barren, cramped room—the thing that practically had you reeling when your eyes fell on the motionless figure sitting on the cot in the corner, chained at the wrists and ankles by a metal link fastened to the floor—the thing you still despise yourself for thinking—

—is that Myers was jaw-droppingly, stunningly handsome.

His were the kind of ethereal good looks that you might expect to find in some renaissance painting, or a Grecian statue, or a fantasy book.

You had stood staring across the room at the motionless young man, drinking in all the features of his vacant, pretty face; overcome by complete and total disbelief that this was actually the person responsible for all your grief.

And the very next second, that disbelief was shattered like a dropped vase; when you looked into Myers’ stare.

It brought down the temperature in the room like a cold-snap. It was not directed at you, only at the floor, yet it had you shuddering anyway, had all the hairs on your arms standing straight up. It was not a lights-on-but-nobody-home sort of gaze, the kind you were expecting from how Myers had been described by his former psychiatrist. His face was blank, yes; that was accurate enough.

But his eyes, they were the furthest thing from it. 

Michael Myers had the eyes of a ruthless, calculating, viciously deliberate predator.

The longer you had stood there, gawking at Myers as if he were a tiger in a cage, hardly listening to Dr. Ashton’s rambling about his admiration of your interest in his patient’s treatment, the more you became aware of the charge crackling in the air; like the moment in a thunderstorm just before lightning rips through the sky. It was as if every fiber in your body could sense the danger radiating from this man; you could all but see and smell the invisible blood staining his hands.

It had turned your vision into a seething cloud of red. 

Here was a murderer—the worst kind of murderer, who was perfectly, undoubtedly aware of his crimes, a fact you could tell from just his eyes—who carried in his heart not a single shred of remorse for the lives he’d ripped away. Who, when he was unable to kill, had resigned himself to sitting and anticipating the day when he might once again have his hands around a warm throat, the day when he would pick right back up where he left off and take another life as carelessly and thoughtlessly as one snuffing out a candle.

And this man had been allowed to keep breathing.

You think of all these things as you reach the end of the corridor and swipe your I.D card on the door to Therapy Theater No.5. Hidden locking mechanisms whirr and click open.

You place your hand around the cool metal handle. For a moment, you just stand there. Feeling your pounding heart in your chest.

It pounds not because you are fearful; you don’t care if you get caught because of what you are about to do. You don’t care if you get fired, or if you get your license taken away, or even if you go to jail. Those are the most trivial, unimportant things in the world. No. Your heart does not pound for those reasons.

It pounds because, finally, there will be justice.

Finally, the evil son-of-a-bitch who slaughtered your sister is getting what he deserved all along.

And you get to be the one to flip the switch.

You turn the door handle and step into the room.

Therapy Theater No.5 is bathed in bright fluorescent light and smells strongly of antiseptic and sterilization. Three people are already in the room: two armed guards, who nod in acknowledgment at you when you enter.

And laid out at the center across a white padded table, dressed in a pale blue hospital gown, strapped tightly down at the wrists and ankles by hospital-grade cuffs, looking up at the ceiling as if utterly uncaring, motionless save for the rise and fall of his ribs—Myers.

A nurse had come in before you to prepare the room for treatment. The therapy you’re meant to be administering is simple and painless: electrodes are fixed to the patient’s body and a weak electrical current is passed through, stimulating choice muscle groups—and in more recent cases, even parts of the brain.

You had emphasized that part specifically in your pitch of the therapy to Dr. Ashton, referencing a study which showed how violent tendencies could be soothed in patients who underwent the treatment.

And no, you’d reassured him, it was nothing like electroconvulsive therapy.

The electrical current used in E.S.T is never strong enough to induce seizures. The only thing the subject feels is a mild, if not pleasant, buzz...

·…or at least that’s how it’s meant to be administered.

Tampering with the wattage of the machine had turned out to be laughably easy. A few snipped wires here, a few crunched numbers there, and now the bulky device sitting atop the roll-around table beside your “patient” can deliver a shock nastier than a taser with every throw of the switch.

It’s not strong enough to stop a human heart (god, you wish.) But it is enough to make Myers hurt.

Enough to make him writhe on that table.

Maybe even enough to make the heartless bastard feel something for a change.

You thank the guards before dismissing them. They leave the room but you know they won’t go far; no further than right outside in the hall, waiting through the entire session with their hands on their batons in case Myers gets out of hand.

Their security would be a welcome thing, if you were actually about to /treat/ Myers instead of torturing the living daylights out of him. But now, the guards are just another problem in need of a solution.

Though you are almost confident that Myers will retain his silence throughout the ordeal—that he’ll uphold his veil of distance and aloofness and total lack of care with the stubbornness of an ass—you’re not about to bet your shot at justice on it.

That’s what the ball gag in your coat pocket is for.

Reaching down to check that it is still there, excitement swells in your belly as your fingers graze the black silicone.

On the table, Myers is still motionless. He doesn’t tilt his head to regard you. He pays you no attention at all, in fact, as if you aren’t even there to begin with. Never do his steely eyes move from their fixed place on the ceiling light hanging above him.

As you walk up to the roll-around table, plucking a pair of latex gloves from a box stashed on the shelf beneath before snapping them curtly on, for a reason that you can’t put into words, you find yourself hesitating to look Myers in the face.

It doesn’t matter that he’s restrained; it doesn’t matter that there are two armed and capable guards standing watch right outside. Despite both these things, that vitriolic, charged aura you had felt in his cell still surrounds him now, polluting the room, hanging like a storm cloud over your head. 

It’s as if some submissive animal instinct has gripped your brain and now screams warnings at you: Predator. Danger. Don’t look it in the eye. Don’t provoke it.

You do your damndest to dismiss the feeling as nerves.

In a little white tray next to the E.S.T machine sits a filled syringe; a sedative. Dr. Ashton has insisted on it to better ensure your safety, as well as Myers’ cooperation. In the psychiatrist’s exact words:

“These days Michael is, ah, fussier about this kind of treatment—you know, the kind they gotta bring in the guards for, the needles, the cuffs, the whole nine-yards. 

It’s a theory of mine that, after living with the sort of power Michael did, the loss of his own control doesn’t sit as nicely anymore. He doesn’t like it. And he’s not afraid to let us know just how much he doesn’t like it.”

Fussy. That was the word Ashton had used to describe Myers. 

It had taken every shred of self-control you possessed not to scoff in the Doctor’s face at that; as if the man laid out before you now were some sort of stubborn, overgrown toddler, and not a remorseless, murderous psychopath.

You don’t spare the sedative a second glance as you unravel the bundle of wires and nodes connected to the E.S.T machine; Myers is going to be awake to feel every goddamned second of what you do to him.

Only after you’re finished with him will you finally send him under.

You can picture the conversation with Ashton now: Yes sir, the sedative worked like a charm, he was out like a light the entire time; no sir, no complications at all.

You take your time setting up the machine because you’re still hesitant to even look at Myers, let alone touch him. But when the wires are all connected, the red power button flashing idly in standby, there is nothing left to do except attach the electrodes.

You force yourself to look him in the face as you approach. You should not be afraid of this man; you should resent him, should despise him, but should not fear him. He doesn’t deserve to hold that sort of power over you, or anyone else, ever again.

So you look.

Michael is still watching the ceiling. According to his eyes, he does not acknowledge you.

But just from how the hair on your nape stands on end you know you’re being watched.

Myers is regarding you coolly in his periphery with the curiosity of a feline, feigning detachment and disinterest; but the weight and pressure of that penetrating gaze could not be more obvious if it were a ton of bricks coming right down on your head.

With a deep breath to rein in your resolve, you reach down, your fingers working to undo the first knot on Myers’ hospital gown.

Quickly, you discover that it is one thing to look at Myers; to feel for yourself his ruthless awareness, the raw intensity of his presence.

But to touch him is another thing altogether.

He draws a breath of his own as you fidget with his gown, his strong rib cage expanding beneath your fingers. You shudder at the sudden pressure of his body; whether out of disgust, or anger, or some fucked up fascination, you aren’t sure.

After undoing the ties on both sides, you lift the front of his gown up and off—

—and find that Myers is totally naked underneath.

Standard hospital procedure for a therapy like this one. Nothing new.

But it’s different when the patient looks like this.

You hate yourself for ogling him. You detest the way your eyes rove across Myers’ body, lingering on all the features that your lizard-brain decides it likes; from the stark tendons in his neck to his sharp and angular collarbones, from his broad, rounded shoulders to the beautiful definition in his abdomen, and down even further than that before you can stop yourself.

To the V of his obliques—to the trail of curly brown pubic hair on his pelvis—and all the way down to his flaccid penis.

You snatch a towel from the roll-around and drape it hurriedly over his hips. Not for the sake of his modesty; just so you don’t have to worry about your eyes straying down to the cock of the man who murdered your sister.

As far as the placement of the electrodes on his body, you honestly haven’t given it much thought. It seemed like the sort of thing that would come to you like an epiphany, as if suddenly, in the moment, you would know exactly where to hit Myers to really make him suffer.

But no such epiphany comes. Oh well; you have an hour to experiment.

Grabbing the two nodes off their holders, you run the wires across his chest and press the little round circles down flat against his pectorals.

When your gloved fingers graze Myers’ skin you nearly jerk back your hand, startled. The man is hot like a stove.

Your medical fascination is instantly piqued—Myers must have the hottest resting body temperature you’ve ever encountered. You have to force away intrusive thoughts of sticking a thermometer in his mouth to see that number for yourself.

Focus.

Tugging up on the wires, you test the integrity of the node’s suction. They don’t budge from his chest, lifting his skin with them as you pull. Perfect; It’s nearly time. 

Now for the gag.

You just have to cross your fingers and pray that you can actually get it in his mouth.

Looking Myers in the face a third time proves to be no less jarring than it had been the second or the first. You’re just relieved that even after all your poking and prodding he is still pretending not to be interested in you, or in the things you’re doing to his body.

You clear your throat before speaking to him because you don’t trust it enough not to crack.

“Open up,” you command him, mustering every authoritative bone in your body and sounding very official even to your own ears.

Removing the gag from your pocket, you hold it up as if to show him, taking care to conceal the black silicone ball with your hand.

“Mouthguard.”

You doubt that Myers has seen this sort of gag before. Or that he even knows what a gag is. Still, you’re not taking that risk. If this doesn’t work then you’re going to have to drug him just to get the damn thing in place, then wait for him to sober up again��a colossal waste of time.

For a tense second, Myers does not respond to your command. He just lays there on the table, inhaling and exhaling, looking incredibly bored with you, with his nakedness, with the electrodes strapped to his chest.

Your jaw goes tense. You nearly repeat yourself.

But then, he opens up his mouth.

Beneath the harsh overhead lighting his teeth gleam wetly. You suspect immediately that he’s going to try and bite your fingers off the second you get too close.

Game on, fucker. 

From the shelf below the roll-around you snatch up a small blotting rag. Walking around to stand at the head of the table, you gaze down at Myers again.

“The strap goes underneath.” You inform him. “I need you to lift your head up.”

He does.

And you strike. Faster than you had thought yourself capable.

You drape the rag over his eyes so that he can’t see what’s coming. Thrusting the gag hard into his open mouth, you wedge it firmly between his teeth. In the corner of the room, Myers’ heart monitor spikes suddenly, the electronic beeping speeding up momentarily—a sound that has you beaming with pride.

You’ve actually managed to startle him.

As you clip the strap into place around the back of his head, a strange sense of accomplishment floods your body—you’ve done it. You’ve actually done it. Everything is ready. 

Every sacrifice you’ve made in these past eight months, every hour spent in this godforsaken hellhole, it was all worth it just to bring about this single moment.

The moment is made only sweeter when you rip the rag away from Myers’ face.

Oh. Now you have his attention.

Those pale eyes are looking straight up at you. Considering you with the cutting gaze of a hawk. Working out the situation. 

You glare right back down at him. You stare deep into his eyes, the triumphant fire now raging in your chest burning hotter than the ice in his stare, more furiously than all the danger—and you find that you are not afraid of him anymore. Like this, Myers is nothing. He’s not a boogeyman. Not a phantom. He’s just a man—stripped of all his mysticism. Strapped to a table. Naked. Gagged.

Powerless.

Just as powerless to stop what you’re about to do to him as each and every one of the people whose lives he took away.

“Hello, Michael.” You hold his fierce eye-contact as you speak. “Ten months ago you broke into my sister’s house and murdered her.”

Myers doesn’t blink. But neither do you.

“When they tried you, you were supposed to leave that courtroom a dead man walking; you were supposed to die. That's how our justice system works—when you do the things you did, you don’t get to keep on living.”

Nothing changes on Myers’ face as you speak. Nothing changes in his eyes. Not one molecule in his body has an atom of care to give about the words you’re saying. He breathes around the gag, his heart monitor beeping slow and steady.

“I don’t give a single fuck about what that judge said,” You continue. “And I don’t care how sick in the head you really are. You knew exactly what you were doing that night. I can see it in your eyes, Myers—you loved every fucking second of it. And that’s the only thing that matters.”

You draw a long breath. One that you hold in your lungs before letting slowly out again.

“You’re the evilest son-of-a-bitch on this entire fucking planet; and you deserve to die.”

Walking over to the E.S.T machine, fighting back with tooth and claw against furious tears now threatening your eyes, you place your finger over the power switch.

Myers watches you; and you notice something flicker to life in his glacial eyes. Not an emotion. Just a realization.

Good. He understands now. He understands what you’re about to do to him.

“Someone has to make you pay. Someone has to.”

Michael just stares. Watching you. Watching your finger on the switch. His pulse on the monitor ticks as leisurely as if he were about to fall asleep.

“And guess what, you sick fuck?”

Still staring—not blinking—breaths coming slowly.

“I’m so fucking happy that it’s me.”

You throw the switch—

—the wires crackle with live electricity—

—and all of Myers’ deliberate, calculated control is shattered like a dropped glass.

His body seizes. His eyes snap shut. His fingers curl into fists that turn his knuckles whiter than the table beneath him. The tendons in his neck and forearms jump out, straining beneath his skin. His heart monitor beats erratically, the little green line on the screen spiking sharply, racing out of control.

Your eyes are glued to the grisly scene. You devour each and every involuntary reaction, relishing in the complete and utter breakdown of his control.

Fifteen gorgeous seconds pass before you remember that you were supposed to be counting to ten. Whoops. You might be frying his brain into an unfeeling stupor at this point. You flip the switch off in an instant because you need him awake, aware.

Myers’ back falls flat against the table, the current cutting off as abruptly as it began. The muscles in his chest continue to contract and seize beneath his skin long after the electricity is gone; you count the spasms as they tear through his pectorals like sets of waves.

When the spasming stops, his chest heaves up and down, winded. His breaths around the gag come heavily. His eyes are still shut; but no longer are they /squeezed/ shut.

For a moment, you really think that he’s passed out.

Then his eyes twitch beneath their lids and flutter open again. Blinking. Focusing—

—flitting right back on your face. Right back to the spot where he had left them before the current forced them shut.

Myers’ eyes are devoid of care. He is entirely unperturbed by what has just happened to him; entirely unthreatened. But now, that murderous intent—the charge which until now you’d only felt in the air around him—is written in his stare as plain as day.

I am going to kill you, says Michael’s gaze, as nonchalant as if he were stating some trivial fact about the universe, like water is wet, or the sky is blue.

It makes your blood boil.

Adding insult to injury, the speed at which Myers regains control of his body is nothing short of infuriating. You fume as you watch the way his breaths level out again, the beeping from his heart monitor falling back into the former slow, rhythmic pace.

You feel as though you should say something to him; like you should retaliate to this defiance in some way that isn’t staring, because you’ve already lost that battle; you cannot possibly hope to match the severity of Myers’ gaze.

But you don’t.

In your heart of hearts you know that your words will go right through his skull, unheard. There is only one language that Myers understands; only one language that he can comprehend down to his marrow. So you’ll speak it to him.

Without wasting another breath, your fingers find the power switch again. And those defiant eyes of his snap shut a second time.

When you shut the current off the results are the same as before; Myers is heaving on the table. But he takes back his control just as quickly, his stoicism prevailing.

By the third time however, his breaths have begun to linger in their heaviness—

—by the fourth he draws them as shallow as a winded sprinter running a race—

—by the fifth, the intervals between the violent seizing-up of his body are too brief for him to catch his breath—

—and the way he now gasps around the obstructing gag, fighting and failing to suck in air past its silicone, his nostrils flaring rapidly to compensate, is the most beautiful display of desperation that you have ever witnessed.

The sixth time you throw the switch, Myers actually does pass out.

When the current stops his body loses its tension with the abruptness of a cut wire. You wait impatiently for him to open his eyes again with your finger lingering over the switch, preparing to meet that steely gaze with another brutal jolt of electricity.

You wait; and Myers’ heart monitor chugs away like a freight train going up a hill.

Still waiting… waiting...

...and nothing happens. Myers is out cold.

The contentment now pulsing through your veins is what you imagine a shot of heroin feels like. Snapping on a fresh pair of gloves, you walk up to the side of the table to admire your work.

The first thing you notice is the sweat. Myers’ body is drenched in it. It beads up on his chest and clavicle, on his biceps and shoulders, on his brow and cheeks, the skin there flushing a shade of stark, exhausted pink. Gorgeous.

Your eyes travel down his body to continue the examination; you stop at his hands.

Myers’ hands are bloody.

Crescent-shaped cuts litter the skin of his palms, marking the place where his own blunt fingernails had dug in uncontrollably, over and over and over again. The fresh blood streaks in little rivulets down his hands and pools on the white padding of the table beneath. 

You chew the inside of your lip as you stare at the mess; these cuts might be tricky to explain away. You’ll have to gauze them and tell Dr. Ashton that his patient did it to himself; maybe recommend that he be switched to a higher Thorazine dosage to really sell the lie.

Luckily, that’s a problem for the future. As for right now, you’re rather enjoying the irony of Myers’ own blood staining his hands for a change.

The inspection continues. Further down his body, you finally notice it; the bulge beneath the towel strewn across his pelvis. 

Oh my god, he isn’t. You think, lifting the side of the towel for a peek.

And oh my god, he is.

Rather frustratingly, just like the rest of him, Myers is pretty down here, too. Pretty and big. Which is not a compliment, you reassure yourself. Just a medical observation. You let yourself stare this time, because you’re not ashamed anymore. You’re not threatened by the notion of admiring Myers’ physiology anymore.

Not when he’s so completely at your mercy.

Somehow, Myers doesn’t seem to be the masochistic type, so you highly doubt that actual arousal is responsible for this. Sheer adrenaline coupled with his frantically pumping heart are probably to blame, his brain mixing and misinterpreting the signals, resulting in this little accident.

The longer you stare down at the “accident,” the more you find yourself wondering what Myers would look like fully-erect.

You cannot rip the electrodes off his chest fast enough. Plucking the towel from waist and discarding it on the floor, you stick the two nodes down flat against his obliques, then hurry to rig up a third. That one you plant just above his penis; as close to its base as the curly dark hair will allow.

You stand with your finger ready on the go-button again, opting to let Myers’ still-racing pulse dip out of the red before you pull the trigger and plunge him back into hell. Bloodied hands you can explain away, but cardiac arrest? Not so much.

The beeping slows. The green lines on the monitor settle. You throw the switch.

Myers’ pelvis bucks uncontrollably up from the table—

—and he grunts.

The sound makes your heart sing. It is muffled by the gag, low and reverberating, not very loud to begin with. Most definitely not on purpose; just a reaction that’s managed to slip through while his barriers are down.

Myers’ groin is still quivering when you cut the current off. His cock stands upright, stiff and swollen, totally erect. A line of saliva now dribbles down the side of his mouth, trickling between the gag, collecting in a shimmering mess on his shoulder. He blinks sluggishly up at the ceiling light as if transfixed; still dazed, you would guess.

Something twisted occurs to you as you drink in the scene. Something that you can’t deny.

Seeing Myers like this—fighting for his very consciousness, struggling to retain some sliver of control—is the single most arousing thing you have ever witnessed. You want nothing more in the entire world than to climb onto this dangerous, wounded man’s hips and claim him. 

You want nothing more than to give him a taste of what true powerlessness feels like.

It’s a lovely fantasy, a beautiful temptation, and a real shame that it can’t happen. You don’t feel like getting knocked up with the child of your sister’s murderer today; or ever, for that matter. Instead, you think you’ll make a game out of guessing how many more shocks will have Myers coming on his own thighs.

Striding up to the head of the table again, you plant your arms on either side of his shoulders, leaning over him, hardly ten inches from his face.

“Looks painful Myers.” You jest. “How about I make you a deal?”

Michael looks up at you. Unfocused. Blinking slowly.

“I flip the switch,” you continue,

“—and I keep it flipped until you’re covered in your own semen, and after that I jam a needle in your arm, pump you full of drugs, and you get to live out your next eight hours as an unfeeling fucking vegetable. Fair?”

You wait for Myers to do something. For your words to register in his brain. For some flicker of a response to let you know that he’s even still in there.

To your immense disappointment, Myers does nothing. Absolutely nothing. He just...

...well, you can’t even call it staring anymore.

He doesn’t seem able to manage that sort of focus, you realize, inspecting his face closer. His eyes are alarmingly barren; there really isn’t much of anything there, now. None of the ruthlessness, none of that predatory awareness, none of the murder.

You’ve actually shocked the bastard totally, one-hundred-percent out of it.

Whoops.

Back at the roll-around, you snatch up a hand light. Returning to the table, you shine it in his eyes, assessing the damage. His functioning pupil is slow to dilate. Worryingly slow. You click the light off with a contemplative frown.

Half of your mind begs whatever force might be listening that this isn’t a passing affliction, that whatever damage that’s done is done. If the courts insist on keeping Myers alive, then maybe reducing his brains to soup is what it takes to keep him docile. To keep him from hurting another living thing ever again. You can only hope.

As much as you’d love to do so, electrocuting the living daylights out of him some more isn’t likely to bring Myers back to awareness; and the session is supposed to be over soon.

You glance at the clock on the wall—

—Shit. Very soon.

You need to find out right the fuck now if you’ve just rendered Dr. Ashton’s patient catatonic.

Walking around the side of the table, you take Myers’ swollen cock in your gloved hand—trying not to think about the fact that you’re jacking off a condemned murderer—and pump hard, stroking him all the way from the shaft to the swollen tip, squeezing the head, massaging your thumb over it, rubbing all the way back down again.

“Come on, asshole,” you spit. “That can’t be all the fight you’ve got.”

Myers’ hips jerk slightly up from the table as you touch him. Probably just an involuntary reaction. You’ll need him to do better than that. Stroking him faster, squeezing even harder, you pray that the friction of your latex glove against his cock feels just about as pleasant as a rug burn.

As you watch his vacant face like a hawk you see him begin to blink harder, his eyes squeezing shut, twitching beneath their lids, staying closed for a beat before opening up again, like he’s struggling to wake from a deep sleep. A much more deliberate motion; he’s coming back to it.

“Can you feel that? Hurts like a bitch, doesn’t it?”

He breathes hard around the gag. His knees lurch up from the table, the cuffs around his ankles straining, holding him in place.

You give his cock another hard squeeze.

“Forget where you are Myers?”

His jaw goes absolutely rigid with tension.

Ah. He heard you that time. He’s back.

How unfortunate that his brain isn’t fried after all.

You can see it all coming back now as his eyes flit down, locking on your face, rebooting within him like a program on a script; the chilling intensity, the sharpness, all the things that had made your skin crawl in the days past. Despite the torture, nothing at all about Myers’ demeanor has changed.

“Welcome back.” You state dryly. “We aren’t done yet.”

As if to make your blood boil on purpose—as if the battered state of his body means less to him than dirt, as if he hasn’t spent the better part of the hour being brutally, mercilessly tortured by you—

—Myers just watches you. Damning you with his eyes alone to the same grisly demise as before.

An odd sense of something, not quite admiration, sparks in your gut. Looking into Myers’ eyes, there is one single thing that you are willing to give this monster credit for:

What sits before you is a creature that cannot be broken. One that will never be dissuaded from its primal, violent nature. To try it is an impossible task. You suspect that you could stand in this room for days, flipping the same switch, delivering the same current, knocking him to and from consciousness, and into all the states in-between.

And the result would never change. Not ever.

He’d still be looking at you with that same deadly stare. A stare as cold and sharp as the blade of a carving knife.

And it would only get more piercing.

And what a relief it is that your goal in the first place was never to break Myers,

just to bring the gates of hell down on his pretty, curly head.

And you have. You can hear it in every breath he takes; he’s struggling. Although he draws his inhales slowly, with mechanical control, the ragged wheezing in his chest is no longer possible for him to hide. Myers is hurting—he’s hurting bad.

As much as you would love to stay and twist the knife in even deeper, it's time to wrap things up. You’re all out of time.

Pulling the electrodes from his groin and thighs with one hand, you let two of the nodes dangle freely off the side of the table.

The third you stick against his cock.

“Count your lucky fucking stars that not everyone in the world is as heartless as you are.” You tell him, walking back around to the E.S.T machine.

Myers follows you with eyes the entire way, stone-faced, impassive. Like the fact that you’ve just fastened a live wire to his dick is about as boring to him as watching paint dry.

Flick goes the switch.

His back arches off the table like a bent bow. He scrunches his eyes shut, breathing hard around the gag, tugging furiously at the cuffs, the muscles in his calves and biceps straining dangerously, pulling upwards with a brutish force that has table whining beneath him.

You’re transfixed as Michael comes. His mess shoots out in thick ropes, reaching further than you thought possible, coating the table, getting on his legs. The sheer power of his body is a stunning thing to witness. You keep the current running to milk him down to the very last drop.

When he stops coming, you power off the machine.

The node comes away from Michael’s skin in a “pop” that is all-too satisfying. Bundling all the wires and electrodes back into place on the machine you listen to the only measurable signs of the man’s distress; the tortured intake of his breaths, the elevated beeping of his heart monitor.

Then, picking up the needle from the little white tray, you cross back to Myers’ side.

The vein in his forearm is thick and pronounced and the needle slips in beautifully. You press slowly down on the plunger, grateful when he doesn’t try to yank his arm away, relieved when he accepts the drug without a struggle. He must be exhausted.

The sedative works its magic quickly. You pull up a stool and sit down beside him to watch.

The vitriol in his eyes begins to melt and soften. One by one his strained muscles are allowed to relax again, the tension ebbing away; from his jaw, his shoulders, his abdomen, his legs. The electronic beeping on the monitor slows and slows until its powerful rhythm beats steadily again.

Evidently, Michael has decided he isn’t ready to go under just yet. Though sleep pools in his eyelids he blinks it away, clinging in a death grip to his consciousness.

Just to leer at you. Just to picture in his mind the day he will have his hands around your throat; as if it is already set in stone. As if it is just a matter of when.

Then, Michael’s eyelids flutter—

—fighting to stay open, still staring—

—closing, for just a beat too long—

—lingering shut—

—staying shut.

You move to clean him up quickly. The gag comes out first. Lifting his head to unbuckle the strap, you tug out the black ball, letting his strained jaw fall shut again for the first time in an hour; then carelessly drop his head. It thunks satisfyingly as it comes down hard against the table. Glancing at the gag’s silicone, you notice the deep markings worn into it, perfect impressions of Myers’ top and bottom teeth. You almost shudder; a bite from him would have been nasty.

You blot away the drool dribbling down his chin and shoulder with a rag, and then move on.

The last thing you expect as you begin to clean Michael’s bloodied hands is the tears that spring to your eyes. Even with your fear of the man gone and buried, you wish that you didn’t have to touch these awful hands; let alone treat them, bandage them, heal them.

You wipe away the tears on your sleeve as you gather your supplies together on the roll-around.

Grabbing each of his wrists just above the restraint cuffs and turning them so that his palm is facing upward on the table, you hastily swab him down with alcohol pads, wiping up the clotting blood from his skin, squeezing out a blob of antiseptic from a tube to smear across his cuts. As you wrap Michael’s palms tightly in gauze you try your hardest to snuff out that invasive thought when it comes searing like a bullet through your skull—

—these are the hands that killed my sister.

You simply can’t afford to linger on those thoughts right now. Maybe when you’re at home tonight, alone in your bed, you will let yourself cry; but not now. Not while you still need to clean up after Myers’ unfortunate mishap.

Toweling him down from his forehead to his calves, you soak away the sweat. And the semen. Then, you fasten back up the front of his hospital gown, knotting each and every tie.

And just like that, the job is done.

You knock on the door. The guards come in and wheel Myers’ unconscious body out of the room.

The next day, you have a debriefing session with Dr. Ashton. You feed him your meticulously rehearsed lie: that the therapy went without a hiccup, that you firmly believe this treatment could be the key to alleviating Michael’s tendencies for violence.

The moron laps up your every word.

Ashton ends the session with a delightful little surprise; he’s pulled some strings to allow for Michael’s therapy to be carried out bi-weekly. He is so impressed by your drive to treat his patient that he’s offering you a position as Michael’s secondary caretaker. He only hopes that you’ll accept.

The smile you give him is bright and sincere, one that beams from ear to ear.

“Doctor, believe me when I say that nothing in the world would make me happier.”

[katymacsupernatural]

When Push Comes to Shove

Dean Winchester x Reader

3600 Words

Written For @amanda-teaches and her 2K Reader and Writer Challenge.

My prompt: “I saw you staring at each other, I just wasn’t sure if it was sexual tension or murderous rage.”

Summary: A bad fight years ago between Y/N and Dean had her running off. Now, five years later, they need her help. But when she arrives, all things left unsaid are brought out into the open.

Warnings: Lots of angst, mentions Dean with the mark, other warnings in the tags because of spoilers. 

When you had first received the phone call, you immediately hung up, your heart racing as memories from five years ago came crashing through the wall you had so carefully erected.

“No, I can’t,” you whispered, staring down at the phone laying on your bed as if it had bitten you. And truthfully, it had.

It started ringing again, Sam’s name flashing on the phone, and while you wanted to toss it into the nearest trash can, you knew he would only call in an emergency.

“Hi Sam,” you whispered, your voice shakier than you realized.

His voice crackled through the phone, the connection not the greatest. “Y/N, it’s been a while.”

“Yeah, it has,” you agreed. You had missed him. You had once considered him your closest friend. But after your disaster with his brother, well….

“Listen, I’d love to catch up, but we have quite the problem going on here,” he yelled through the phone. You could hear gunfire and yelling in the background, immediately putting your rusty hunter senses on high alert. “How fast can you get to Indiana?”

“That’s five or so hours away,” you measured in your head. “But Sam, I haven’t gone on a hunt in..well...since you know.”

Sam forgot about the phone call for a moment as he yelled in the background, the gunfire even closer. “Listen, I wouldn’t have called you if this wasn’t an all hands on deck kinda deal. So please. Get your guns and get your ass over here. Pronto.”

He hung up, and you stared down at the phone in dismay. “Hey honey, is everything okay?” Tyler called from the doorway, and you glanced up at your boyfriend, hoping your poker face was in place. “Is everything okay? Who were you talking to?”

“Just an old friend,” you answered, knowing that Tyler wouldn’t be able to handle any aspect of your old life. “Wanted to do a little get together tomorrow.”

Tyler strode forward, pulling you into his arms. It was comforting and safe, but nowhere near as exciting as...you refused to even think it. “Honey, I think you should go!” He exclaimed. “After all, I’m heading down to Vegas for the weekend with the boys. I was worried about you being here all alone, and now I won’t have to worry.”

He pressed a sweet kiss to your cheek before taking his duffle bag from the floor. “Let me know when you get there. K?”

You nodded, watching silently as he left the room, knowing that while your heart wanted you to stay here, where it was safe, you couldn’t leave Sam in Danger. Or Dean.

Even thinking his name was enough to send a pain straight through your heart, and you wondered how you would ever get through the next few days.

Everything was as you had left it. Gathering a fine layer of dust, but the guns were still in good shape. Your ammo was a little low, but that could easily be fixed. You took the entire toolbox, the heavy weight welcome in your arms as you pushed it into the back of your classic old pickup. “Ready to ride again girl?” You asked the classic 1970 Ford, patting her tailgate fondly. You had painstakingly fixed her back up until she looked and ran better than ever before. Tyler had thought it odd but had never said anything.

With one last glance back at your normal life, you climbed into your truck, pulling out of the driveway and turning it to the highway that led straight to your past.

With the radio quietly playing country music, you thought back to the last time you had seen Sam and Dean. It had been horrible, parting with anger and frustration. Tears had filled your vision as you had driven away, not only from the man that still held your heart, but away from the only life you had ever known.

But you had been given no choice. Dean had taken your heart, ripped it in shreds, without even realizing he was doing it. Later you had heard it was the Mark that had caused it, but you had been too scared to turn back.

You noticed the black Impala immediately as you pulled into the only hotel in the tiny town. It was dusty, but otherwise just exactly as you had remembered it. All the times spent in the passenger seat, listening as Dean sang along to the music. The other times in the backseat with his body covering yours.

The thoughts swirling through your mind were quickly becoming melancholy, and you forced them away, parking beside the car. “It’s just a car,” you whispered to yourself, but you still wondered how many women Dean had laid down in that back seat since you’ve been gone.

“Y/N!” Sam exclaimed as he pushed open the door to room 112. “I’m so glad you decided to come.”

“Didn’t seem like I had much of a choice,” you muttered. “But you look okay.”

“Barely made it out of there,” he muttered. “And tomorrow we try again.”

He took your duffel bag, tossing it over his shoulder. “It’s a mess in there. Demons everywhere. They ambushed us, and we almost...if it wasn’t for Cas.”

He shook his head. “But we can talk business later. I already booked you a room. It’s right next to ours. Hope that’s okay.”

You placed your hand on his arm, stopping him. “Sam, does..does he know that I’m here?”

He sighed. “Yeah, he does. I figured I’d give you two some privacy later if you want it.”

You weren’t sure if that’s what you wanted. Sure, it would help to clear the air, but you weren’t exactly ready for a confrontation. “Sam, I..,”

“Sam! Get in here!” Dean’s voice yelled through the thin walls, and you shuddered back slightly in fear, all sorts of emotions rocking your system.

“Y/N, that was years ago,” Sam offered. “He’s changed. Just give him a chance.”

He gave you his goofy, sideways smile, not realizing that you had already moved on. At least your head had, even if your heart hadn’t. Sam took your hand, pulling you into the room where Dean was sitting at the table, his head lowered as he glared at the laptop in front of him.

Your mouth went dry at the sight of him. His hair was wet and unstyled, slightly longer than you remembered. His shoulders were just as wide as you remembered, encased in a simple maroon flannel. A black t-shirt stretched across his chest, his strong thighs encased in roughed up denim. He looked good, even with the nasty gash above his eye. “Hey Dean,” you spoke softly, wincing as he glared up at you.

“Sam said he called you,” his voice rolled, even deeper than you remembered. But still cold. Oh so cold. And it hurt. “You didn’t need to come.”

“Dean, we talked about this,” Sam sighed. “Those Demons have us outnumbered. At least this way we have a fighting chance.”

Dean closed the laptop sharply. “A fighting chance? One more person against all those Demons? How is that going to help?”

“I can go,” you offered.

He ran his fingers through his hair, completely agitated.  “No. Don’t go. I’m just...we do need your help.”

You sat down across from him, offering him a small smile even though you were shaking inside. Sam took that opportunity to sneak out the door, yelling over his shoulder that he was going for dinner. “Guess it’s just you and I,” Dean mumbled.

Sitting there quietly, you stared at Dean who seemed to look anywhere but at you. And while you didn’t want to do it, you knew the air needed to be cleaned before you finished off the hunt. “Listen, Dean, we need to talk about this.”

“Talk about what? There’s nothing to talk about!” He exclaimed, pushing back from the table, pacing the small hotel room. “I was an Ass, you left like you should have. You’re here to kill some Demons, that’s it.”

“That’s not it,” you answered softly, just the memory of it enough to bring tears to your eyes. “Dean, if we don’t talk about it, then…,”

Dean sighed, tucking his hands in his jeans. “Y/N, I wanted to call you. Every day, for over a year, I typed in your number but hung up because I was too chicken. How could I call you and expect you to understand? To forgive me?”

“I wish you had,” you whispered. “After I left, I was so lost, so heartbroken. I wanted to turn around, head back, but I thought everything was too broken. I was too broken.”

“Damn it Y/N, I never meant to hurt you. You should know that. I hate to blame it on the Mark, but it changed me. In ways I never imagined.”

“Dean, it wasn’t just me,” you finally admitted. You had never spoken the words out loud. Never told anyone. You had taken the loss and buried it deep inside.

“What do you mean?” He asked, stopping in front of you.

“When we had that argument, I don’t know how much you remember.”

“I remember every little moment of that day. They haunt me in my nightmares. Every word, every time my hand connected with your skin. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget that.”

Your mouth opened, the words ready to be heard for the first time, but Sam burst through the door, the forgotten dinner bags squished in his hands. He froze, glancing between you and Dean.

“What?” Dean growled, annoyed that your intimate conversation had been interrupted.

“I saw you staring at each other, I just wasn’t sure if it was sexual tension or murderous rage,” Sam muttered. And if you hadn’t just been ready to bare your soul, you would have laughed.

“Neither, Sam,” you assured him, but the moment between you and Dean was gone. Maybe forever.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but we’ve got to move. Now!” He exclaimed, tossing the food on the table. “The Demons are getting ready to move.”

“Damn it,” Dean grumbled. “Let’s go.”

Sam filled you in as you climbed into the backseat of the Impala. “Missed you girl,” you whispered, patting her leather seats fondly. Dean glanced at you through the rearview mirror, his expression full of regret. “So these Demons have Jack.”

“Who’s Jack?” You asked, hearing the fondness as Sam said his name. Making you realize how much you’ve missed these last few years.

Sam tried to smile, but it faltered. “He’s like a son to us. But in reality, he’s the son of Lucifer.”

“What?” The word came out louder than you wanted, but what Sam had just said, it shocked you more than you cared to admit.

“I know what it sounds like,” Sam spoke quickly. “But he’s nothing like his Dad. Cas is more like his Dad than anyone. We’ve known him since the day he was born, and he’s a good kid. Needs guidance, but he’s...uh..he’s getting there.”

“So how old is he?” You asked as Dean rounded the corner, parking in a dark alley.

“Typical human age doesn’t work for Jack,” Cas said as he appeared on the seat beside you. “Y/N, it’s good to see you again.”

“Cas!” You threw your arms around his shoulders, giving the Angel a tight hug. He returned it awkwardly, before turning his attention to Sam and Dean. “I’ve been surveying the place. With Y/N’s help, we should be able to infiltrate in and save Jack.”

“What’s the plan Cas?” Dean asked as you all climbed out of the car.

“I believe Sam and I should head through the south side. There only seems to be only three Demons on that side. You and Y/N shall head through on the North Side. There are more Demons there, but if you keep them occupied, Sam and I can retrieve Jack.”

“I think we can handle that,” Dean didn’t even look your way as he made sure he had all of his weapons ready and loaded. You had the Angel Blade that Cas had given you years ago, along with a couple of Devil’s trap bullets. You were as ready as you could be.

Sam and Cas took off, rounding the corner, while you and Dean stayed to the front. Shadowed by the brick wall, Dean pulled you to the side. “Y/N, I know we ended that conversation on a cliffhanger. But you’re good for this hunt, right? How long has it been since your last hunt?”

“Five years,” you whispered. “But I will be fine.”

“Five years!” He seemed completely taken back. “But that’s when…, you mean you haven’t hunted since then?”

“No. But we need to go,” you insisted, pushing past him and rounding the corner. The house stood in front of you, dark and foreboding. Sam and Cas were just rounding the back. Pushing ahead of Dean, you led the way to the front. He wouldn’t believe your words, so you would just show him that you were still capable of hunting.

And then, maybe you could go home. Back to your normal life. With your normal boyfriend. Who, you had to admit, never created the same butterfly effect that Dean always did to you. But at least it was safe.

“Damn it Y/N, slow down,” Dean growled low as he came rushing up beside you. “Do you want to mess this whole thing up?”

You opened your mouth to reply, but the door swung open, and the fight quickly began. Three Demons greeted you at the door, no doubt ready and waiting for your arrival. They swung knives and blades, but weirdly enough didn’t use their powers. Stabbing on through the heart, you turned to see Dean grappling with two big and surly men. However, as you headed over to help, two more came down the stairs, and you were once again fighting for your life.

You were quickly overwhelmed, one holding you roughly by the shoulders, the other one laughing as he swirled the blade around his fingers. “Is this all you brought with you, Winchester? A slight girl, her fighting stale. We expected more of a fight.”

Dean had just killed one Demon, and with a growl, he stabbed the other before facing the ones holding you with murderous rage. “Let her go now!”

“Or you’ll what?” He chuckled. “You take one step towards me and I’ll have this blade so deep in her skin before you could even blink.”

You struggled against the Demon’s tight hold, your breaths short. Dean’s gaze caught yours, full of anguish and fear. His words earlier rang in your mind. You had come into this so unprepared. This was all your fault. “No. I will not let you control this,” You muttered, dropping all of your weight. Surprising the Demon, he let you fall, and it gave Dean a chance to stab the first one. As you started to stand up, the other Demon gasped in surprise, his eyes burning yellow before he slumped to the floor.

“Is everyone alright?” Cas asked, wiping his hand on his trench coat. Behind him stood a young man, a little bloody, his right eye swollen but otherwise unharmed.

“Yep. We’re good,” You answered, ignoring Dean as Cas helped you to stand up. “This must be Jack.”

“You’re...you’re Y/N,” he spoke, coming forward, his gaze almost too much with its intensity. You wanted to look away, but you were caught up in it as well. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

“Nice to meet you, Jack,” You whispered before Dean was gently grabbing you by the shoulders.

“Let’s go before any more of these black-eyed sons of bitches come back,” he insisted and led the way out the front door. Cas and Jack were not far behind you, Sam shutting the door and taking up the rear.

Once you were safely inside the Impala, you found yourself sitting next to Jack. Sam and Dean were talking softly in the front seat while Cas smiled happily as he stared at Jack. Jack’s attention was on you though. “I am glad to finally meet you,” he offered, reaching for your hand. You thought he was going to shake it, but he simply held it, his eyes widening. “Jack?” Cas noticed the strange look in his face as well.

Suddenly Jack let go of your hand. “I’ve never felt such heartbreak before,” he muttered. “Y/N, how do you keep going with all that pain in your heart? I felt pain and sadness directed at Dean. But there was something else.”

You could feel Dean’s gaze on you through the rearview mirror, and you tried to stop Jack before he said too much. But you were too late. “I’m so sorry for your loss. A miscarriage was it?”

Dean slammed on the brakes, parking in front of his motel room. “Everyone out! Now!”

You started to climb out of the car as well, but one look from Dean had you staying where you were. Sam was the first one out, smiling reassuringly to you before he disappeared with Cas and Jack into the room, leaving you alone with Dean. Alone with the big news that Jack suddenly decided to let everyone know about.

“I didn’t realize he could read people like that,” you started talking as Dean turned in his seat to face you, your hands tugging on the loose thread of your shirt. You were nervous and unready to have this conversation.

“He has a lot of powers that even he doesn’t know about,” Dean explained. “But what he said. Was it true?”

You thought back to that horrible day. You had barely left the bunker when the pain hit. Cramps that had doubled you over, making you swerve your car. You had been alone and scared in the hospital when you had lost an important part of your life. “Yes. It was.”

He ran a hand along his chin, a sure sign that he was upset and unsure. “Dean, during that fight. When..well..something happened. I didn’t blame you for that. After all, I hadn't’ even told you the news yet. I wanted to wait until things were back to normal. Our normal. To tell you that I was...pregnant. But then…,”

“We fought, and it was because of me you lost the baby,” he whispered. “Y/N, I’m so freaking sorry.”

The tears were falling down your face before you even realized you were crying. “It’s nice. Finally being able to tell someone. I’ve kept it buried inside for so long. Dean, please know this. I’ve never blamed you. You had the Mark, it changed you. You didn’t know.”

“That doesn’t excuse it!” He bellowed. “Y/N, I ruined your life, and mine with that freaking mark! I just wish that..,”

“Please don’t,” you spoke softly, wiping away the tears. “Can we just forget any of this ever happened? You can go back to hunting with your brother and his friends. I can go back to my normal life and…,”

“What’s his name?” Dean asked.

“Tyler. We’ve been dating for over a year now.”

He sighed, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “Is that what you really want? To air all of this out and then run away..to Tyler and whatever normal life you’ve made for yourself? Because I don’t know about you, but I still love you Y/N.”

“I love you too,” you admitted. “But sometimes love isn’t enough to push past all the pain.”

You reached forward, brushing your knuckles against his cheek before you slid out of the car. Dean only watched as you climbed into your truck. Tears streamed down your face as you started to pull away.

“Is this the right thing?” You cried as you pulled onto the highway. Sniffling back tears, you tried to look forward. Back to your simple job, and the fact that you and Tyler were thinking of taking a vacation next month. But all you could see was your memories of Dean.

Dean, with his cheeky smile who had captured your heart the moment you saw him in Harvelle’s bar. Dean, who would wake you up in the middle of the night to take you to some empty field to look at the stars. The man who had always kept his promise to come back to you. And yet here you were, running away.

Slamming on the brakes, you flipped the truck around, knowing you couldn’t do it. You couldn’t run from Dean again. You turned your truck into the parking lot, your tires squealing at the speed. Dean was just getting out of the Impala, walking towards the hotel room.

Turning the engine off, you jumped out. “Dean!” You screamed. “Dean, wait!”

He turned but made no move. Smiling, you raced forward, throwing your arms around him. “I can’t lose you again.”

“But what about Tyler? And that normal life?” He asked, but you could see the hope shining in his eyes.

“It was never meant for me,” you assured him, and with those words, his mouth crashed against yours, and everything was right with the world once again.

Dean/Jensen Tags: @acortez82 @acreativelydifferentlove @adoptdontshoppets @a-girl-who-loves-disney​ @akshi8278  @bebravekeeponfighting  @bi-danvers0​ @brindz30 @cap-just-said-language​ @colette2537   @deansgirl215  @flamencodiva​ @hamiltrash1411​ @its-not-a-tulpa​ @jerkbitchidjitassbutt​ @justanotherwinchester​ @just-another-winchester​ @karouwinchester​ @keikoraventeller​  @krys198478​ @librarygeekery​ @magssteenkamp​ @misspygmypie​ @mlovesstories​ @mrsambroserollinsacklesmgk​  @mrspeacem1nusone​ @nothinbuttrouble2​ @ria132love​ @ruprecht0420​     @sortaathief​ @superseejay721517​ @squirrelnotsam​ @team-free-will-you-idjiot​ @thing-you-do-with-that-thing​ @torn-and-frayed​ @tricksterdean​ @wonderfulworldofwinchester​ @woodworthti666​

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[robbyrobinson]

OWL HOUSE X CTHULHU MYTHOS FIC: THE GODS AWAKEN (PT. XIV)

“Lord Belos, the Owl Lady and her acquaintances have arrived.”  

The entrance to Belos’ throne room opened widely. The Owl Spy came in first accompanied by Eda, Lilith, and King. They wore heavy shackles on their ankles (but it proved to be more cumbersome for King due to his tiny body), and cuffs were fixed on their wrists. To add salt to the injury, Eda and Lilith’s fingers had additional bindings so they would not attempt to draw circles in the air.  

Emperor Belos was slouched in his throne, his right hand holding up his forehead. The Titan’s heart once again was beating, but now it was a more noticeable tremor to it. Belos exhaled sharply and then deeply exhaled the air from his lungs. It had become a very circulated fact that Belos had seen better days. Somewhere in his fifty-year reign of the Boiling Isles, his health declined. With no heirs known either legitimately or otherwise, Death may as well knock on his door one of these days. Belos clutched at his chest from the sudden sensation of a deathly cough violently scratch its way up his airbags. The most powerful witch of the Boiling Isles wheezed a squeaking tune. His chest convulsed a few times. The Owl Spy and the guards carrying the prisoners stood in place pondering if he would cough up a lung or two.

Kikimora stood at the left side of Belos’ throne. She was informed of her lord’s coughing fits earlier and never took her eyes off him. When she heard the spy say that the Owl Lady had been captured, that was the one time that she did direct her attention from Belos. There Eda was: rather than being cursed into her monstrous, owl-like form, Eda was back to her normal appearance from her grayish-wild hairstyle to her clothes. Kikimora was conflicted: she never denounced Belos as a liar or for being incorrect. But here was the Owl Lady back as her own treacherous self. Seeing her this way for the first time made Kikimora start to ponder her master’s claims of being the Titan’s representative. But even humoring the idea that Belos was a fraud filled her with a sudden dread that Belos could be reading her thoughts at that moment. Oh, Titan, what would he do to her for her lack of belief? There were many ways for witches and demons to die in different, creative ways.  

Belos lifted his head sluggishly in a sideways glance at the prisoners. His exposed blue eye stared at them to study them. “It is such a pleasure being in the presence of you, Owl Lady.”  

Eda scoffed. “That makes one of us.”  

Belos ignored her snark and inspected Lilith again. “The Prodigal Child returns as well?”  

“Enough with your flimsy peppering of words, what do you want from us?” Lilith demanded.

Belos sighed. “You know that only the most qualified of witches can join my coven?”  

Lilith nodded. True, twenty odd years ago, joining the Emperor’s Coven was Lilith’s ambition for a long, long time. A dream that she shared with her younger sister, at least until that awful, terrible, reprehensible day she decided to curse her sister to give herself a better chance at narrowing her way to victory. A curse that was supposed to last for a day instead made Eda’s existence miserable, and ostracized her from witch society. Lilith’s bottom lip quivered from the acknowledgment Lilith placed such a heavy load on her sister’s shoulders all for a meaningless position due to Belos lying to her. From the deepest, darkest pits, a fire was raging.  

“I made my decision to defect, Lord Belos,” Lilith announced with conviction.  

Belos was speechless at first likely to digest the words his former servant was spieling out. “And I am sure you know what becomes of witches bereft of a coven?”  

Like he alluded to her back when she captured her sister the first time, Belos lifted his staff and directed it towards the murals comprised of painted, stained glass. While Lilith anticipated this the moment she betrayed the Emperor, the thought of being on the receiving end of the most cruel and unusual of punishments in accordance to the Isles did make her step back on her confidence for a smidge.  

“If it means atoning for all the horrible things you made me do in your name, I will accept that. But please, spare Edalyn and her dog’s lives. As well as Luz’s.”  

As she spoke, two imperial guards came in holding the unconscious bodies of the two girls. The girls were being carried the guard’s stout shoulders. The girls’ arms loosely swayed back and forth behind the backs of the guards. They were placed on the ground with minimal gentleness. Belos stood from his throne and knelt down to further inspect the girls. With his staff, he tapped the limbs of the girls and then their backs. He pressed his index finger and thumb on the chin of his mask inquisitively.  

“By the Titan, these two girls actually managed to do it.”  

Eda smirked. She did have some shred of doubt that Luz may have failed and that the likelihood of her becoming braindead as a result of the brew did concern her, but she also knew that Luz could pull it off. It gave her all the more reason to be proud that she was Luz’s mentor.  

“Yeah, that’s right Belos,” she bragged, “and when she gets the book, we will do everything in our power to keep you from getting your grubby hands on that book!”  

“Ho, oh!” Emperor Belos retorted “a most charming dream, but tis be the nature.”  

Belos slammed his staff on the ground and returned to his throne. There was a side door behind the mighty throne of Belos which creaked itself open. Out from it walked Odalia Blight holding the staff she was entrusted with by Nyarlathotep. It was made of the same breed of tree most witches of the Boiling Isles own, but instead of a palisman adorned on the top, there was a gem which glittered in the light. A large, ruby gemstone accompanied with a low murmuring sound. Befitting of her social status, Odalia had a haughty grin from ear to ear. Odalia stepped aside to allow a few more of the imperial guards to exit.

“Well, what have we here? Enemies, traitors, and lowly demons.”  

Eda tilted her head. “You...one of the Blights I assume?”  

“Of course, darling,” Odalia bragged, her hand squarely on her breast. “One of the most esteemed, exquisite, and powerful of the Boiling Isles.”  

She brags a lot about her bloodline, Eda thought to herself. Sure, Eda would tend to think of herself in high regard, but Odalia was taking it leagues above. She sensed a small bit of tension in the air: the Owl Spy had disappeared from the room the instant that Odalia strolled her way in acting top class.  

“Yeah, yeah, go suck a griffin egg,” Eda groaned, “I still remember all the bragging you did back at Hexside.”  

Odalia smirked. “At the least I didn’t become a criminal.”  

Odalia tilted her head back and laughed like a noblewoman. For whatever reason, Eda felt the growing urge to punch the lady over and over until she was an unidentifiable pulp. One that not even the dark arts could ever hope to revitalize.  

“Wait, you are a part of the coven now?” Lilith asked.  

“Indeed, I am,” Odalia boasted.

“How? I could have sworn that you lost the competition of joining the coven years ago. As much as I hate the Emperor, at the least he always remained consistent on the qualifications to join the coven. I mean, that is the very reason we have the coven system.”  

“I am very aware of my lack of qualifications, but I was granted audience with Lord Belos, and he entrusted me with acting on his will.”  

Odalia towered above her daughter’s body. From the way she was fixed, Eda was unable to read any emotion on her face. Odalia then turned away from her daughter, returning her accusatory glare at the Owl Lady. “Is this the nature of being on the run; scouting people into your ranks?”  

“Amity chose of her own volition to help Luz acquire the book,” Eda clarified, “maybe you do not understand your daughter as much as you’d like to think?”  

“You and your human pest have been nothing but a thorn in the side of my family,” Odalia yelled, “perverted thoughts spreading rampant, disrupting the bloodline.”  

“That is absurd; Amity was a girl who was always tired of the way that you were restricting her freedoms. Instead, what do you want her to do? Study. Work hard. Study some more. You try to control every aspect of her life including those that she hanged out with. And yet once you get off your high horse, you do not understand why your daughter is having her rebel stage now? It’s because you are trying to mold her into being just like you. You keep on going on and on about bloodline this, bloodline that...maybe you can take one second to think about what your daughter actually wants instead of making decisions for her?”  

Odalia held the staff firmly between her eyes and loudly ground her teeth. “She is not my daughter; she made up her own mind to follow an inferior ape, so I now acknowledge that I have two older children who will listen to every word I say and continue down the right path of making our family name immortal.”  

Odalia clapped her hands and brought Edric out. The Owl House residents almost fainted from what they had seen: Edric was emaciated and skinnier than usual. His skin was now paper-thin and very suspect to bruising easily. Edric’s eyes became small, golden pupils because of their sunken position. Odalia took the liberty of dressing her son for the day in his casual clothing, but the clothes were slipping off him because of his sudden thinness. Edric’s legs lacked enough muscle to protect the bones from snapping like a pair of chopsticks. New waves of pain washed over the young witch with every step he took.  

“What have you done to him?” Eda asked horrified.

“The staff that I was given requires magic to fuel it...an excessive amount if you so please.”  

Odalia held the staff in front of Edric and activated it. A swirling cloud appeared in the gemstone and began to draw once more on Edric’s magic. Edric howled in excruciating agony the sort of pain that could rip a person inside out. Green vapor filtered through his body orifices and collected inside the gemstone. Edric dropped on his knees the surge of affliction still flowing through his veins. He looked up at his mother before a whooping cough manifested. At certain intervals, Eda and the others could catch glimpses of his stomach and chest during his fits; his rib cage was poking against the flaps of skin.

Lilith clenched her teeth. “Can’t you see that you are putting your own son in such pain and for what cost?”  

“He is making the Blight family proud immortal,” Odalia simply said with a cold flair in her explanation, “small sacrifices need to be made, and my son is more than worthy of the title.”  

“From the looks of it, your son is barely hanging on by a thread,” Eda interjected, “what if you kill him?”  

“My son will provide the way of the Blight family name becoming renowned and feared by all of creation; the powers that be – the Titan, or perhaps one of the greater gods – will greatly reward him.”  

Two guards came into the throne room and each individually held the thrashing arms of Emira Blight. She reared herself up to take a swinging kick at her kidnappers, but it was no use. Her struggles subsided upon catching sight of her twin brother. “Edric!?”  

The guards let her go at that moment. Without much prompt, Emira raced towards her brother and clutched his head in her hand. “Speak to me, please!”  

Edric weakly opened his eyes to see tears running down his twin sister’s face. She tried to fight back the treacherous tears with all her might, but her throat was growing larger from her increasing despair. “Mom, can’t you see that you are sucking him dry?!”  

The gemstone’s inherent ability of stealing magic was greater than that of the basilisk that infiltrated Hexside months ago and nearly drained all the students of their magic. Emira held her face over Edric’s her tears now falling on his. He stared into the matching eyes of his sister for a long time likely to say whatever was at the top of his head, but the agonizing pain was preventing him from performing what amounted to a simple task.  

Eda and Lilith attempted to wiggle their fingers out of their restraints. “Odalia, you have gone too far, you have to be stopped!” Lilith proclaimed.  

Odalia ignored them and looked at the staff again. It murmured the same low drone it always did. Before the prisoners, Odalia conducted a conversation with the staff. There were a few nods implicating a mutual understanding and deal-making. She studied Emira and took a few glances at the magic staff. “The staff is still unsatisfied.”  

Odalia pointed to Emira. “Once your brother had served his use, you shall be the next one that the staff consumes.”  

Emira shook violently. “Mom, you’ve become insane!!”  

Odalia flicked her hand to the guards. “Keep Emira imprisoned here; once I lead the army on the Earth realm, I will return to offer more sacrifices to it for Belos’ victory.”  

The imperial guards surrounded the green-haired teenage girl. At any time, Emira would be more than willing to administer a thorough beat down on her enemies, but she was sorely outnumbered. They came down on her in a frenzy and stole away the girl. They disappeared behind the second door her screams fading away the further they ran. Belos stood up and raised his arms.  

“Now with that settled, Miss Blight, you have the honors of enacting the Day of Unity!”  

Odalia obeyed and went to walk back to the other room. She momentarily stopped to glance at Edric, again what she was really feeling in that moment being uncertain, and exited the throne room. Eda, Lilith, and King were forcibly grabbed as well and were being walked out.  

“So, you are going to execute us?” King asked.  

“My furry friend, no, this is not the Titan’s will. After all, how else will you enjoy the experience of the Day of Unity?”  

Lilith shook her cuffs. “For years, you have told us without fail of this Day of Unity, but you never told us what it entailed. So, before you condemn me, please enlighten me.”  

“That’s the old Lilith I remember,” Belos said in a disconcerting tone.  

“Yeah, and why do you have such interest in the Earth?” Eda asked “you could have visited as many times that you wanted now that you have the portal door in your possession.”  

While Belos’ true face was always concealed behind a mask, it was relatively easy to imagine that he was smiling malevolently.

“I have a score to settle with someone that you may or may not know,” he stated, “I will leave it as a surprise.”  

Eda, Lilith, and King were marched out of the throne room to the dungeon of the coven. Alone with his thoughts, Belos cackled in ecstasy despite his wheezing cough.  

“The Day of Unity is finally upon us! Go, go my servants into the human realm! Go and slaughter all in your path!! Reduce their cities to rubble! Leave not one stone unturned! Darken their skies and poison their lands!! Reduce their world to ashes and blow those ashes into the farthest reaches of space! By the name of the Titan, the Earth will be laid to waste, never to be remembered or missed.”  

[ingridbgalatea]

ミ✭ dog-eared.

cw; death.

the quiet is sudden.

the air rids itself of forceful screams, and red cords no longer strain and break at the sound of blood spilling through pierced flesh. the otherwise hideous creak and crumple of the beast shreds against metal, reduced to the hum of a disk scratching voice pressed against fabric as snow seeps into ingrid’s ears. calm tide that the moon draws in, and out again— she breathes; her chest weighing of iron as much as her tongue, scarlet angering the bull of her heart. no longer can she hear the distant, murderous intent of the death knell’s crow. an echo repeats itself in it’s memory, but not the bell itself; dull murmur of it’s chime growing flat with every resound. 

snow falls, marble white an unwelcome contrast to the crimson that bloodied her skin; no longer warm and soft, as much as her father might’ve wanted her suitors to see. low, lulling notes of a supposedly happy hymnal play in haunting minor, both meant for the wed and dying. dying. dying. the word begins to lose meaning the more she says it, soundlessly, meant for an audience of no one besides herself. a person with no such companionship dies alone, and that was what she was, right? dying. 

despite everything the stories say, death isn’t at all what they paint it out to be.

—when it ropes you around the waist, (callous touch to bloody wounds,) you’d think you would see your life flash before your eyes. 

she thinks she would see felix, in all his perpetual scowl; once small smile contorted into something she could never understand. his face, worn with battles he both knew how to pick but didn’t anyways. she thinks she would see sylvain, with his carefully painted smile and words that were both ultimately a little reckless and quietly caring, and maybe she wouldn’t feel the need to pick up after him so much. she thinks she would see his highness, in all his polite small talk and tall standing; and she wonders what he would think about what aeschylus had called justice.

was that it? was that what he died for? so chivalry, so honour, so knighthood, so valour, so martyrdom, so justice—

                                                                                               so what? 

                                       she doesn’t see their faces. not anymore. 

eyes press softly close (though they were already shut), the softness of a cruel winter lies on her eyelashes. her flesh, or lack thereof, is tangible as the touch of another wraps around her form. blood drips without distinction between flesh and cloth; dyes the snow as red as strawberries in the summer. everything feels numb in all of her own tragic, human fragility, and fingers thrum in her head but not against the back of the one who’d begun carrying her. a loss for words, and a loss for names… even recognising who had lifted her up in that piteous state was difficult. air travels through her, trudging through the muck of blood and mucus; disquieting smell of metal filling her lungs. she is breathing, yes, yes, but only so; where the thunder of her thoughts meet her lips there is only a drop of rain, scarlet blood. 

ingrid wants to be held a little longer, blink in dream-worthy bleariness; living in the little moments between uneager steps that mark the snow. it’s a little like riding a horse, or a pegasus returning from flight; soft footfalls uneasy against the ground, lifting and falling. gentle light filters through; warmth leaves her embrace unconscientiously, as you might pry a toy from a child. holding, holding— nothing; empty air, an unraised hand closes around itself as her body is lowered to the ground. to the ground… no, deeper than that; a grave, maybe? she can’t tell. it is certainly not a bed; nor as welcoming— the cold stings where the wind bites. 

            she lies, still.

quiet returns, though not for long (but she couldn’t be sure of that fact, for time was no longer as meaningful, nor invaluable). soon(er, or later), the faint buzz of chatter resonates, velvety words against blue lips; the voice quivers in the cold but does not drone itself out in defeat. poetry, was it? the rhythm of the voice is only nervously placed; she hopes she’d gotten at least that bit right. overwrought pauses were scarce, but not absent in his recital. she manages to catch a few words from it— how was she so sure that it was a ‘his’?— but nothing so sharp as to cut through her numbed skin. grievances, promises, memories, whatever poems would say and sing, and…...

‘rest in peace.’

                                                                                                              ...oh. 

for who was that sentiment? 

                                             f o r.. wh o?

    who was r e s tin g in p  e a ce ?

                                            ……………… w  h     o ...

                                                        am   i  

            d

                                   e 

                                                                         a  

                                                                                           d ? 

                                                      -!

—i am certainly breathing and breathing and breathing and i cannot seem to stop and not unless i’ve forgotten how to see (i have) or hear (perhaps) or think (i have not) but until i have forgotten how to breathe then that is territory i will not step. but where is the line and when do i cross it and have i crossed it already? i am certainly breathing and breathing and breathing but what if it is only in my head and only there instead? what then?

see, i’ve never considered myself immune to failure and i never will, but i am only as pained as any other human and therefore i must deal with it as just. i am not immune to failure but i am not immune to not relishing in it, if that makes any sense; but i am barely making (creating, really,) anything. every new word makes me hate the last but that is untrue with stories for i cherish them all. yet, as an artist i must learn to hate my craft. so, as a martyr, must i learn to hate my death?

-and truthfully i am not so earnestly as regretful (to die) as of the thought that there would be nothing to regret but there is and there are lots and things i will never right and things i will never write and that in itself is a despairing thought. what is martyrdom without a god and what is knighthood without a king? likewise, what is idolisation without an idol and what am i without myself? 

              ..

unwound thoughts hover over the precipice; carved deep into the ravine below, indistinct words of a priest. like water that drips between the cracks of ruined earth, it eludes her— no matter how much she would try and fail to hold it in her hands. words were fickle, and they were never as right as ingrid would have hoped them to be, but if she could remember just this— it would be enough. 

( they say faces you see in dreams are only of those you know; but she doesn’t remember this one at all. perhaps it didn’t matter as much as she wanted it to. )

 he opens his mouth— crooked smile, as though the thought seemed almost entertaining. where there is a joy of knowledge and the ability to know and have faith, reflects only voided blankness. 

then, he speaks, and ingrid wonders if it was worth listening.

    “ your fate is already written. ”

                                                                    i          k      n   o     w. 

a maskless shiver lives on her skin. did this moment dictate her fate? or was it every disappointing choice she’d made until then; with the affirmation that she would fix it before… before her death? before that, even? did she have a choice to do so at all? ink stains the page but in all her efforts to wipe it away, it only smudges; leaves otherwise permanent stains on parchment and temporarily on her skin. part of her withers, like rotting paper. she wonders, momentously, if it was her own writing all along, or if it were the goddess’s authorship— that she lived a short life and died an unsatisfying death.

                ‘ unsatisfying. ’ 

                                     goddess, it was. 

ingrid doesn’t see her life flash before her eyes, no.

 it is only an open book, and she has ruined any and all chances to read it. 

               she stops at the last page before the final chapter; finger                                     hanging over the top-right corner. 

the page flips like the snuffing toss of a pegasus’s head; discontent and mild in it’s expression— but it ends only there. 

                                                     she has it dog-eared, for reference. 

 “ ... however, the reason you are here, alive at all, is the question: can you change what you believe is written as ‘fate’?”

                                              .

                                              .

                                              .

something twists inside her.                                                                                   

                                                                          had she changed anything?

her heart screams in her chest. it pounds and tears and shrieks and rips and it beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and  beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats—

                                   and then it stops. 

                                                        …

he doesn’t wait, walking away.

                                                                           ingrid doesn’t run to meet him.

                      the world turns, but she has stopped turning with it.

                                                                               …                           

   No, 

                        ( a wan, dying thought. )

                                                                   I haven’t changed anything at all.

[perriewinklenerdie]

Convincing enough (Ethan Ramsey x MC)

Open Heart, Ethan Ramsey x MC

Author’s note: Hello, hello, hello! Angst yesterday was a result of my fool mood. It's back to fluff, cause I can't stay away from it for too long :D This idea was in my head for a solid four months and I decided to finally give it a shot

AO3 link:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/21151565

Enjoy! <3

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

„Hey... you can do this” his voice is soft, as is his touch, fingers grazing her palm, calming her down. She nodded, focusing on the scalpel and scalpel only. Tuning out everything except for the touch and sound of his voice, she positioned the blade. “There you go. Nice and easy.” Seconds later the cut is made, perfectly in between the ribs. “Now the tube.”

His fingers brush against hers as they insert the chest tube. Blood begins flowing through it, spilling onto the floor as the woman takes a deep breath. The young doctor sits back on her feet, staring at the fallen patient incredulously.

“We… we did it!” she exclaimed, looking to the older man for confirmation.

“She’s stable. Get her into surgery… She’s gonna make it.” he called out to the nurses, taking a few steps away to allow them to do their work. His arm brushed against her arm and sparks shot through her body, endorphins coursing in her bloodstream.

“Doctor… that was… absolutely amazing!”

“You’re right. It’s pretty amazing you didn’t get her killed.”  He replied, crossing his arms over his chest, his tone flat.

“Wait, what?” her tone fell as she felt like she just slammed into the wall at full force.

“Your examination was slow and superficial. Your scalpel technique, amateur at best…” he trailed off, his attention seemingly at everything but her.

“Amateur? Maybe you can give me private lessons.” She smirked slightly, her eyes sparkling in the bright light of the hospital hall.

“Ha! I just might, Doctor… Herondale. But I sincerely doubt you could afford my salary.” Throwing back her ID card, he turned around and went away without so much as looking at her again.

“What an asshole…” Claire muttered under her breath before conversing with nurses briefly and running to orientation.

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

Next time she ran into Dr. Ramsey she made sure to talk to him like a normal human being. He actually seemed less annoyed this time round. He even smiled at her, his words lingering on the edge of being flirty.

Third time was horrific. If she had to choose the worst moment of her day, that would be it. Misdiagnosing a patient is one thing. Being dragged through the mud because of it, by her attending, a man she admired since she was in high school, was another. And that was almost worse. It gave her a lot to think about, pushed her into the closet and made tears fall from her eyes. Bryce tried cheering her up, but that was something she had to overcome by herself.

And she did, figuring out the cause of Annie’s illness and managing to right her ship in Ethan’s eyes. At the end of the day, she was dragged away by her new friends to the bar with celebration in mind. Ethan was there too, sitting by the bar, swirling the last drops of his drink in the glass. His gaze shifted to her, meeting her green eyes, staring at her for a long moment. Almost as though he was calling her over with his blue irises. So that’s exactly what she did. She sat down next to him, feeling and seeing him watching her.

“Something wrong, Dr. Ramsey?”

“Just noticing how… different you look out in the real world.” He responded, allowing his eyes to run over her body, not as briefly as one would think be appropriate. The bartender approached them, asking what her order was. Eyeing his glass, she asked for two scotches, neat, sliding one of them to him once they were ready. He smirked as he lifted the glass to his lips, asking why not on the rocks.

“The ice changes the flavor.” She grinned, looking at him boldly. He nodded, agreeing with her.

“You know I can’t be bribed into favoring you, right?”

“I think you already favor me” Claire blinked once, smiling so widely her cheeks would probably start hurting soon. The corners of his lips lifted, replying before downing his drink in one long gulp.

“You keep believing that.”

After that, he requested two special drinks, which prompted the conversation about leaving work where work belongs. He seemed pensive when he talked, but there was something in his eye that had her wondering if he was telling the whole story. By the time they changed the subject, their drinks were ready. She found it delicious, expressing her feelings.

“You’re either sucking up to me, or you’ve got surprisingly refined taste for an intern.” He pointed out, observing her with curious eyes.

“I’m surprising in a lot of ways.” She shrugged, grinning widely. Ethan leaned in a little, his voice dropping a few octaves, low and warm.

“You’ll have to prove it.”

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

Two hours later, Claire walked out of the bar with her friends, looking at the hospital building wistfully. The thought of going back there in just a few short hours made her feel even more tired than she already was. Sienna came up with the idea of all of them getting a place together, and everyone agreed. Everyone except for Claire.

“Sorry guys, I’m going to have to pass. I like my place, I can’t exactly move out. I’d love to spend more time with all of you, I just can’t do that with you.” she spoke quietly, not wanting to offend any of them. Sienna wrapped her arms around her shoulders, shaking her head.

“Don’t worry about it, Claire. Just know that we are definitely visiting you sometime soon. That apartment of yours must be amazing, there’s no way we’re going to miss it!”

“Yeah…” she laughed nervously, trailing off.

Her taxi ride was long as the traffic got worse. How was that possible that even in the middle of the night, the streets were full and packed with cars and people. Her phone lit up with a text message that made her grin, her hand flying to the chain around her neck for a long moment.

At long last, she found herself at home, locking the front door behind her and leaning against it with a heavy sigh. She felt a pair of eyes on her, heard the sound of the book being put down on the table and soft footsteps approaching her.

“Tough first day?” he asked, opening up his arms for her. She fell into them, burying her face in his chest, taking a deep breath, his scent calming her senses.

“You have no idea. There was this asshole that made me question myself at least three separate times. Incredibly handsome but insists on testing me, making me prove myself.” She whined, her forehead pressed against his collarbone.

“A handsome asshole has been bothering you? Maybe I should do something about it. Talk to him or something.”

“I don’t think he likes being told what to do by other people. He did mention that I may have a refined taste, but didn’t say in what. If I had to guess, I’d say…” she leaned back, trailing her hands up his neck and into his hair, pulling him closer, their lips brushing against each other as she spoke. “… that I have an excellent taste in men.”

“And in choosing husbands. I would be so lost without you.” he murmured before kissing her softly, their eyes fluttering shut.

“I agree. And I would be lost without you too.”

They went about their evening, eating and talking about her day, him listening about her patients and their diagnosis, her new friends and colleagues. When night got dark, they retired to bed, lying in each other’s arms, his hand running up and down her back soothingly.

“Do you think we were convincing enough today?” he asked, turning his head to kiss her forehead as he grinned.

“Oh, I think you did just right. The way you ripped me to shreds?” she leaned on her elbow as she looked at him with a smirk. “There is no way anyone is even thinking about us knowing each other, let alone being married, Ethan.”

He took her hand in his, their wedding bands sparkling in the dim light. Raising her palm, he pressed his lips to the warm metal ring, closing his eyes for a short moment. He then looked up at her, all the love he had for her pooling in there. Claire wrapped her hand around the back of his neck, pulling him on top of her and into the kiss. They remained tangled with each other for a long while, time barely an inconvenience, not concerning them. Tiredness took over them slowly, their kisses getting lazier and sloppier. At long last, they separated, beginning to fall asleep. Ethan wrapped his arms around Claire again, tight and warm embrace bringing the sense of peacefulness, comfort and safety to both of them.

“It’s going to be a challenge, isn’t it.” she asked, her lips brushing against the skin of his chest.

“I think we’ll do just fine. And if you ever feel the need to have your way with me, you know where to find me.” His tone revealed how smug he was with the whole situation. Her shoulders shook as she laughed softly.

“It’s a good thing one of us has an office. And a desk. I’m going to make good use of that desk of yours. And that tie…” she teased, deeply satisfied and proud of herself as she heard him groaning deeply before sleep took them both.

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