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pricetagged · 2 days

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that death is a very stable job

''Cause I love my baby, tall, dark Hades. Lord of death is down on his knees for me.'' Poor little Dormouse, with her cruel father and labourer's hands. You find an unexpected guard dog in one of the passing Knights.

Enjoy 4.8k words of half inaccurate-medieval, half poorly-built-fantasy AU. Inspired by a few existing historical AUs (like @bi-writes 1600s au, 391780's 'the rus') and a scene from 'The Serpent Queen'. Also, I stan 'old grizzled dog with a heart Ghost' so here you go.

Warnings/content: implied domestic abuse/sex work (not Ghost), very mild suicidal ideation, violence, power imbalance (social hierarchy ew), kissing & intimacy (no smut. yet.). Reader is described as a young woman, generally body-neutral (one reference to being 'plump').

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What makes betrayal so potent is that, by its very nature, it can only come from someone you trust. Of course, as a child you knew little of the abstracts and intricacies of trust. You knew the warmth of your mother's bosom. You knew the sharp, lingering smell of lye that slung to her chapped hands. You knew that you were not hungry or hurt for those blissful early years, at least.

You did not know that you had a father.

He spent those blissful, early years of yours fighting for a King and cause that meant far less to him than the pocketful of coins he earned and promptly spent on pleasures. But a soldier cannot earn coin in times of peace, not if he weren't a member of the standing army, so with treaties signed he shipped back to neglected wife and babe.

You did not know that fathers could be cruel.

Your mother protected you as best as she could, but slippery riverbanks and lixivium fumes were hardly safe for a little girl. So you learned to scurry about, eyes wide and feet soft as a dormouse. When your mother's whimpers and father's shouts split the silence of dusk you crouched and covered your mouth lest his attention switched to you. On the rare times your father called for you, you remembered your mother's hushed advice - be quiet, be meek, be sweet - and bobbed along to the waves of his fickle moods. When your stomach growled and gnawed you stifled it with a look at your mother's wan face, her fingers worked to the bone for mere pennies that were no longer spent on peat and produce. You lived in a cold house, an empty house. A strained house.

'Look at the size o'her, running wild, eating me out of house and home!' Lies. Your father hunched over your mother's shaking form, three meager brass farthings spilled across the crooked kitchen bench. 'You put her to work, or I will.'

The lye stung your skin. Sometimes you imagined yourself floating off, down in the frigid waters, your funeral clothes being salvinia and your shroud made of pennywort. Those thoughts rose like lily pads, big and blooming and plentiful, the autumn your mother passed.

'You've really got to work now, girl,' your Father sneered. 'Got to earn your keep now that your mother can't cry on your behalf.'

The glint in his eye pricked at your neck, made your spine stiffen and eyes shift away. Be quiet, be meek, be sweet. You wondered if your mother's advice would save you from his basest assertions, or encourage them. You would soon find out.

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Ordinarily the Mid-Autumn festival was a slight reprieve, allowing a few days for your aching, numb fingers to warm and stretch as you enjoyed the city turned to colour. Ordinarily.

This year, you found yourself hauled down to the drinking district, your Father's blunt, filthy fingers digging into the soft meat of your upper arm. It was still daylight, thankfully, but you already felt exposed as he had you linger in the square near the public houses. You could already hear the hoots and laughter of raucous men enlivened by drink and company. The smell of stale ale and piss was not enough to cover the scent of fresh baking and roasted game drifting on the breeze. You shivered, your burned, you hungered.

Meek little dormouse, scurrying around the greasy ferret who held her tail under his claws.

Your Father's chance came as the sun was setting, candlelight just now visible through the slats and windows of taverns. Far from cozy, it reminded you of the lidded eyes of some lazy predator about to watch your ruination.

'I don't care if you are crusader to the gods themselves! Knight of the Realm or not, you can't come into my pub and throw furniture around like you're at the Solstice games!'

The snarling Madame looked comically small next to the absolute beast of a man currently ducking under the doorframe. Watching her chuck the splintered leg of a chair after him you thought her lucky that he didn't want more of a fuss. You had never seen a man so big, so broad, seeming bigger whilst dressed still in his mail and wearing the colours of the King. He merely grunted as he made his way to the tethering post, letting her threats and screeches fizzle into the cool, twilight air. Leather-gloved hands worked at the harness of the dappled stallion you had been admiring earlier, easily more than 18 hands tall and capable of carrying this brute. You had imagined earlier slicing that very harness and riding hard across the cobblestones away from your father. Away anywhere.

'Good sir, are you in need of lodgings?' The words dripped from your Father's lips like ichor. You could smell the sickly underlying rot.

The Knight's hands stilled, head still lowered. His voice rumbled out, deep and rough as gravel.

'You offerin', then? 'ow much will that cost me?'

'Well, it's busy in the Festival. The guest houses are full but my home is open to weary travelers-'

A barked laugh cut him off. The Knight raised his head, pinning your father in place like a moth in a hobbybook. You quickly looked away, pretending to busy yourself with a nearby fruit cart. His face was covered, a dark black slash across his lower face like an empty maw. But his eyes. You could have drowned in those eyes, dark as they were. They pulled you in more than the call of the river on your bad days. If you stared too long you'd never wade out.

'Ain't you charitable,' you couldn’t see his mouth but you were sure that he sneered.

'Well, a former soldier should be willing to support the Crown. Although, with a mouth to feed a few coins wouldn't go amiss..' his hand swept back and you tried not to cringe away.

'Former solider, eh?' Your Father clearly had the Knight's attention now. As did you. Though you continued to look away you felt his gaze like you felt touch. Like he was grasping you, keeping you still. Your head felt heavy as you raised it towards them, now a part of this bargain whether you wanted to be or not.

'I know what it's like to seek the comfort of a warm hearth and soft bed. I would not see you ride off into the cold night.'

The Knight huffed; you could almost mistake it for a laugh. Though quiet, the voices and laughter of the nearby inns seemed quieter, like all sound and light was absorbed by this armoured beast. Once, just after your mother died, you headed to the riverbank as always for work. It was barley daybreak, some of the older more experienced women already beginning their washing, but you walked on. And on. Until the river led you to its mouth, rushing and rocky and dangerous. You wanted to jump in. You felt the same now, gazing at this man.

'How much for the girl, then?' He looked right at you as he said it, catching your wide, staring eyes. You didn't blink, couldn't look away.

'She is my daughter! Sir, I-' that same rot, spewing out of his mouth.

'I didn't ask who she is, I asked 'ow much?'

Your Father took a step towards him, faltering under the weight of his gaze. He leaned, then, trying to seem ashamed. Trying to seem like a father should.

'Sir, she is my daughter. I can do nothing but take offence at what you are suggesting.'

The Knight pulled out a small velvet purse, heavy and distended with coins. They clinked as they smacked into the cobbles at your Father's feet. All pretenses dropped, then, as he scrambled to pick it up with greedily shaking fingers. Prize in hand, he found his courage as he sidled closer to him, thick neck open and exposed as he leaned in to whisper his betrayal. His filicide.

'She's a bit older, yes, but unused to the ways of men, mind. With a firm hand I'm sure she cou-' a gloved fist at his throat turned perfidy to gasps. You watched red bloom instantly under those fingers, and marveled at the strength. The violence.

'Your own daughter,' he sneered. 'What kind of man, soldier at that, would sell his daughter to a man like me?'

Your Father was bigger than you, yes, but looked like a poppet in the hands of this beast, so easily dragged towards him ready to be shaken in his maw.

'I'd love to think that she isn't yours, that she's some whore you peddle out to drunken leches in the alley. But you're slimier than an eel in birdshit, aren't ya?'

You didn't move, didn't speak as you saw his fingernails scrabbling uselessly against the unforgiving strength. You, for a small moment, felt the claw release your tail. Run, you thought. A look at this behemoth and his horse had you thinking again. Run where?

Be quiet, be meek, be sweet.

'Please!' The plea bubbled up your throat like acid.

He said nothing, did not loosen his grasp, as he tilted his head like a dog.

'It is as he says. He is my father,' you continued.

A scoff stilled your words.

'Some father, look at the state of ya.'

You looked down at your chapped, scarred hands. Your patched, slightly-too-short shirts. You felt the throb of the bruises on your upper arms, the beginnings of hollowness eating away at your usually plump cheeks.

'You mistake me, Sir,' You could barely hear your voice over the blood rushing in your ears. 'I am not asking for his life. I am asking you to take me with you. Please.'

Silence. His eyes flickered over you anew, contemplating. Your hummingbird heart fluttered in your chest.

'Close y'r eyes, girl. Until I say.' Your shocked hesitance made him growl. 'Now!'

The imprints of tavern candlelight burned behind your lids. You let the corners of your mouth flick up.

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Your Knight's name was Simon. The Ghost, it was rumoured. You weren't seasoned on the field so you knew not of his reputation, but the reaction of those you encountered gave it away. Even without the blood staining his hands he was imposing. Tall, broad, intense. You still hadn't seen under the kerchief he kept around his face, but you spent many nights imagining. Was his nose crooked, or was it a trick of the light on fabric? Did he have stubble across his jaw that matched the fine, blond strands that decorated the top of his head? Did he smile? Scowl? Was he handsome?

He was gruff, certainly. You spent the first few days obeying your mantra - be quiet, be meek, be sweet -but it didn't provoke anything in him at all. Neither praise nor censure. It seemed, rather, that he was determined that your presence would be nothing more than a fact of circumstance. Not worth much fuss.

'She needs winter clothes. A nice dress. A travelling cloak. And some boots.'

That was how you found yourself perfectly still, getting prodded and pinned in the parlour of a tailor shop in the city's mid-tier. The seamstress' cheeks burned red as she turned her disapproving eyes between her task and the Knight who refused to leave the dressing area. He dwarfed the chaise, leather and chains indenting delicate brocade. After a grunted 'She's my Charge. If you want my coin, then 'm not leavin'' he sat silent. Just kept his eyes on your face. As always.

You couldn't find it in you to feel embarrassed. He'd done no more than see you in your petticoats, even at the guesthouses where you lodged for the night. An altogether better set up that you could've envisioned for yourself. You had thought your Father like a sly weasel, thought any future husband like a carrion crow ready to pick over whatever your Father left. But you thought Simon like a grizzled old guard dog. A dormouse held no interest when bigger prey was to be had. When you didn't pose a threat.

He clothed you. Fed you. Ordered hot bathwater for your room - a luxury you had never experienced - and otherwise left you alone. All he touched you with was his gaze, steady and unashamed. Strange how you now saw your silence -quiet, meek- as a barrier.

'Where are we going?' You worked up the courage to ask as you rode behind him up to the next tier of the city, seeing wooden roofs change to tile.

'The Palace.'

'The Palace? What, but what about me?'

'You asked me to take you wiv me, didn' ya?' you felt the rumble of his words all the way from his chest to your arms.

'Yes, but.. What, what will I do there? How will you explain this?'

You realised now your lack of foresight. You foolishly assumed that someone high-ranking wouldn't be starting brawls in lower-tier taverns. Or magistrating over scoundrels due to the sale of their daughters. You thought, perhaps, of an impoverished country knight who came to the city only for the festivities. You could bargain your way (or slip away) if he turned out to be just as bad as your progenitor, and make a living in one of the towns or hamlets that stretched along the woodlands of the Kingdom. Foolish girl.

'No one will ask questions. No one will bother ya,' You believed him, felt the threat in his words.

'But they'll think. They'll wonder.' I wonder, you thought to yourself.

'Can't stop that,' He snorted. 'Why don't you ask me what you really want to ask?' He pulled sharply on the reigns, causing you to clutch hard around his waist and whisper your words pressed into his back.

'What are you going to do with me?'

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"Ho, Simon! Hard to drag ye from yer hermitage in Northmire,' you stared as a smiling Isleman slapped your Knight hard on the back, hooking his arm and dragging him down into the booth. 'And ye've brought a wee Bonnie thing with y-'

'That'll do, Johnny,' Simon growled. Still, he let himself be handled onto the bench. He looked at you, standing still, staring at the other side of the table. 'Well? You sitting down or wot?'

You scrambled down beside him, too timid to sit next to the laughing stranger. Too wary to put your back to the rest of the tavern. Past Simon's profile, you snuck a peek at the man - Johnny - and found him looking back at you. He looked friendly, sure, but you were reminded of the harriers that plucked young hens from the woods. His eyes were too sharp, too bright. His smile was a little wicked, too. Too intense to be without danger.

'Well, the King'll be happy. He'll finally have a real reason to say naw to all the harpy mothers pecking at him about their single daughters. Cannae say I expected it, but congratulations,' You blinked. 'Cannae believe you beat Garrick to it an' all, thought fer sure he'd be the dutiful one. Well, first that is.'

Simon ignored him as he flagged down the serving girl. He ordered for you, as always.

'Bit bold of ye, though, plastering her in your colours. Scared o' a challenge to her? Like anyone would chance their arm seeing her wi' you, Your Grace,' Johnny laughed again, blue eyes shining as he watched Simon's jaw tick under the scarf. 'Go oan then, introduce us.'

'Dormouse, meet Johnny.'

'Aw, come oan!' Johnny leaned over, then. 'He's forgotten his manners all the way oot in Northmire. I'm John MacTavish, of the Northern Isles. I've known this one fer a while, but never knew him tae settle.'

You squeaked out your own name in return, quickly taking a sip of the weak ale Simon pushed in front of you. Gave yourself more time to take stock. He too had the King's colours in a sash across his chest. Unlike Simon, he wasn't wearing full mail or a face covering. A heavy shirt of forest green, a red tartan kilt, and thick knitted socks were his attire of choice. Blue warpaint swirled from his temples down to his jaw, and he'd shaved his hair only on the sides. Not commonly seen in the Tiered City, but you knew the islanders to the North of the mountain wore similar garb. You let your eyes catch the glint of a dagger in his socks, as well as the hefty broadsword hooked by the table. The warpaint on his face was not just for decoration.

You stayed quiet, munching on thick slices of bread dipped in broth as they talked, Low, rumbling voices and warmth from the hearth lulled you to a wakeful sleep, eyes still open but mind calm. MacTavish had called Simon 'Your Grace'. You were wearing his colours. You were going to the Palace. Something about that niggled at you, deep at the base of your skull.

You woke to Simon gently sliding you along the bench. Big hands and stained fingers so soft, like you were an overripe damson he wanted to preserve.

'Time for bed. C'mon, mouse.'

'Why do you call me that?' You murmured, still feeling his arm around you as he led you to your rooms. 'I never told you that was my Mother's nickname for me. Dormouse.'

You felt him huff out a laugh, pressed close against you.

'Didn't need ya to. It's obvious.' he answered after a pause. He leaned down, bracing you against the room door. Only his scarf separated you from his flesh, close as you were. Wide eyes meeting dark. You shared the same breath.

'You're quiet like one. Seem sweet. But I saw you'd be willing to chew y'r own leg off to escape a trap,' he whispered that horrible truth so tenderly. His blunt, calloused fingers left firetrails on your cheek. 'My mouse. My survivor.'

His thick forearm braced your back as he opened the door, stopping your from tumbling into the emptiness behind. He needn't have bothered; you'd already fallen into him.

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'How many more days' to the Palace?'

'Two, if we don't loiter. Johnny'll meet us at the gates to the Citadel.'

You looked up, seeing the Palace fortress taller and more intimidating than it had ever seemed down at the city's lowest levels. You were awed by the mason and marble buildings up here, the clean streets and cleaner people. Everything seemed to gleam this high-up. This close to the sun. Close to the Palace. Your skin had started to heal, after a week or so without labour and with good meals and rest, but you could see the discolouration that would never fade. It made you pick at your sleeves. Dormice didn't gleam. They hid.

You looked at the wide streets and their sun-bleached stones. Nowhere to hide here.

'And when we get there? What will happen?'

'We'll greet the Court. I have news for the King. They'll be a Ball f' the Festival. And you,' Simon stilled your steps, 'You will be good. You'll do as I tell ya. Not everyone is a friend. And I won't always be wiv ya.'

Perhaps you imagined it but you swore you could see something soft - warm - in those dark eyes of his as you nodded. You had years of experience avoiding the attentions of predators; you could do the same for Simon.

When you reached the Citadel Gates Johnny was waiting as foretold, chatting with a guardsman by the pulleys. He perked up as he spotted Simon's horse, all dappled grey with black skull harness. A proud danse macabre, carrying The Ghost.

'Here they are, the Duke and Duchess of Northmire! Let them pass, go oan. Here, raise his banner.'

It was a good thing that your blood turned to ice in your veins; it prevented you from letting go of Simon's waist. You watched as a square banneret in the same colours as your new travelling cloak - and dresses, and overskirts, and, and - rose to flutter slightly below the banner of the King. The wind lured the heavy fabric to thwack against the sky, echoing the drumbeats of your tambour heart. What were you marching towards?

Johnny had mounted his own stead, canting a light pace next to you and Simon.

'Ye should hae seen the ponces and pricks - sorry, My Lady - who came riding up here in their carriages this mornin'. I ken they think they were showing off but the guards and I were havin' a barry laugh watching the wheels get stuck in the cobbles and streets from the mid-tier all the way up-'

'Y'r point, Johnny?'

'Alright, cool yer blood. The point is, we've got tae change our travel plans. Be at the Palace tomorrow, nae a day later.' He sent Simon a significant look that you weren't so stunned as to miss. 'We've got a night hosted by Garrick's sister, then we'll be off in the morning.'

'Garrick's sister' was a comely, slender woman with sharp eyes and a kind smile. She, or rather the Garrick family, kept a townhouse in the top tier close to the Citadel as well as their estate at Thamesbury. As a close peers and allies of her brother, her doors and hospitality were open to you all. You didn't want to seem like the uncultured urchin you were, but even the entry hall surpassed any luxury you'd seen thus far. You had to suppress an instinctual flinch as her manservant stepped behind you to reach for your cloak. Or perhaps the lessons from the streets were written all over your wide eyes. You saw Johnny chew on a smile as Simon glared down at the man, massive arms crossing across his great oak chest.

'That'll do,' he growled. 'There are saddlebags to be seen to.'

The poor man scarpered with a stuttered, 'Of course, Your Grace.'

You stared after your Knight as he stomped up the stairs, heavy footfalls disturbing the frames of the Garrick ancestors across the walls. He looked back, silhouetted with a hand outstretched.

'C'mon then.'

His rough, warm hand enclosed yours and you followed him to exegesis.

Ensconced in your chambers - shared chambers, marriage chambers - you found your tongue.

'Should I be calling you 'Your Grace'?' Be meek, be sweet.

He snorted, inelegant against the filigree and flowers that bore witness to your unsettled feelings.

Be meek, be sweet. Be meek, be sweet. Be meek-

'I do not speak in jest, Simon. Sorry, 'Your Grace',' Your mouth twisted, trembling with the force of holding back. 'I asked you to take me with you, yes, and I have tried not to inconvenience you beyond…beyond the circumstances of our meeting. But I must demand, now. Tell me what is going on.'

He merely tilted his head, old grizzled dog on a velvet chaise. You could see his lips - what did they look like, what did they feel like? - move under the black of his kerchief.

'We're in a guest room, talkin'. Listenin' to you ask stupid questions.'

'If the question seems stupid it is because you have made it so!' You felt your stubby nails bite into your calloused palms. The feeling made you shake, brought tears to your eyes. Shame and fear turned saliva to acid. You flung your hands towards him. 'Look! You see these. These are not the hands of a girl addressed as 'Duchess'. If this is a joke, I ask you to stop it now. I am grateful to you, I will remain so always, but playing in this manner is lower than whatever my Father had-'

"Do not. Compare me. To that man.' His growl cut you from cutaneous to cartilage, exposing your raw, soft innards. You hoped he'd be kind. Even if he chewed on your heart, popping gristle between sharp canines, perhaps you'd be a part of him, dripping down his throat with an intimacy you longed to initiate.

Viper-quick, your hands were in his. Your lap was in his too. Too warm, too bulky, too close.

'Quit y'r squirmin'. Look at me, no. Look!' Your jaw was turned more gently than you expected from hands made for violence. You couldn't meet his eyes, but that mattered not as he brought your hand and his up to your sight. 'Look. My hands aren't delicate neither.'

You took a deep breath, feeling him pant underneath you, and reached to cup his hand in yours. Butterfly-soft, you turned it, watching candlelight catch on silver scars and pockmarks. Deep gouges and veins raised valleys between knuckles and wrist. One finger seemed slightly too short, like the top joint had been lost in some gruesome accident. When you looked at the palm, it was calloused. You had already felt its roughness, deep imprints from years of work. Of war. He flexed, closing his fingers around yours.

'I'm not 'of the blood'. I'm good at spillin' it, but the stuff inside me isn't worth much. Was a Squire. Then a Knight. Caught some eyes on the battlefield and was sent to defend the borders. Became a Margrave for it an' all. Now I'm a Duke. The titles don't mean much t'me, except I've got more coin and can tell nobles to fuck off without spending a day in the stocks.'

You're not sure whether your sigh was a laugh.

'Then, what? Please, Simon. What are we doing here?'

With your face this close to him you were reminded of the night in the tavern where you first met Johnny. You felt that you were sharing the same breath then. Now, here on his lap, you felt more. The warmth of his body that leeched through your skirts. The hard press of tough leather plackart. The pounding of his heartbeat - or was it yours - as you clutched his hand with trembling strength. That same trembling strength had you meeting his eyes at last, your position allowing you to be equal in height. His pupils dilated under scarred eyebrows, deep brown melting into pitch black.

'I took you wiv' me. It was sealed in blood. You're mine.'

You cupped his jaw, feeling stubble peek through his scarf. The sensation grounded you, kept you from flying off as his words used all the world's gravity.

'Bit of a terrible dowry, blood.' You whispered, a whisker away from his lips.

'I'm not made for anything else.'

Wrong, you thought as you pressed your parted lips to his covered ones. You were made for me.

His hand trailed up your arm as yours trailed across his jaw, two bodies with one mind. With deft, strong fingers you removed the last barrier between you. Black fluttered to the floor, still flesh-warm, and your lips met again. His lips were a little thin, but hungry. He groaned, supplicant to your taste, as you sought to press him closer. You could feel stubble tickling your chin, and the firm outline of another scar close to his cupid's bow. Lightning struck across the back of your neck, making you shudder against him. All you could taste, all you could smell, all you could feel was Simon.

And he all was yours.

After his face mask fell, so too did all barriers. You feel asleep together, entwined on the same bed. You awoke to his face made soft in the morning light. Sunbeams danced in the crevices of his scars, pale and rugged like the mountain you'd looked up at as a child. You watched, sentry, as you mapped the features of his face. Golden hair, golden stubble. A crooked nose that had been broken and set several times. Tributaries of scars running down to a strong jaw. And dark, unwavering eyes that creased a little as you met his gaze.

'G'mornin'.'

'Good morning,' You murmured, still sleep-soft. You traced along his lips, laughing as he nipped softly. 'Why do you cover this up?'

'To preserve my modesty,' he smirked as his tongue flicked out to soothe your nipped fingertips.

'Simon!'

'I'll tell ya. One day. When we get back 'ome. I don't trust everyone in this city.'

'You can trust me,' you whispered as you pressed your tingling digits into his mouth, catching on blunt teeth.

You felt the heat of his gaze bring blood to your cheeks. His eyes didn't leave yours as he bit down, softly. You knew the dog wouldn't bite.

'I know, Simon. I trust you too,' You leaned your forehead against his. 'Just, wherever you go, take me with you.'

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Got a part ii drafted (palace intrigue, meet John and Gaz, Ghost and his mouse finally enjoy marital rites *wink*, conflict, etc., eventual HEA) but I'm not sure if there's an audience for it. And this is the first writing I've published in y e a r s since my cringe forays into dark videogame smut as a 19 y/o, so I'm not really confident. This is unedited/not proofread. Here ya go~

#wipes rust off hands #anyway yeah lol simon is v much of the 'i found her i keep her' mindset and i love him for it #i am very shy and nervous #can u tell i like alliteration and metaphors and commas?#????????#how do people talk and write dialogue #simon riley/reader #simon ghost riley/reader #ghost/reader #Medieval AU #Knight SImon Riley #cod fanfic #my writing

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writerofsorts · 2 days

Text

A Funeral and A Secret

(image creds: to the owner)

pairing: jason dilaurentis x female reader.

summary: 2x05 "the devil you know" episode imagine/rewrite.

warnings: death, funeral.

*read previous part here!

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The day after discovering that Ian Thomas was dead, the girls sat in the courtyard of the school, quietly chatting among themselves.

"Is this a suicide note or a confession?" Aria asked. The five girls were looking at a picture of Ian's suicide note that was found next to his body.

"It's both," answered Spencer.

"How do you have this, Em?" [Y/N] asked, confused as to how Emily had a photo of the note on her iPad.

"I sent it to her," Hanna replied. "I took a picture with my phone before we called the cops."

"It's weird," Emily said, a disturbed glint in her eyes. "Why would Ian kill himself just as he was about to skip town with Melissa?"

"Maybe he realized that he was gonna get caught," [Y/N] suggested and Spencer nodded in agreement. "Yeah, he knew he couldn't hide forever. Even with Melissa and Wren's help."

"He was probably desperate," Aria commented.

"Look, who cares why Ian did it?" Hanna spoke, a little annoyed. "The important thing is Ali's killer is dead and we are no longer people of interest."

"Why am I not feeling relieved right now?" Emily asked, still not convinced.

"Oh, Em, come on," Aria sighed. "For months, we've been about as welcome in this town as a cold sore. Now, people know that we've been telling the truth."

"And, Ian is out of our lives for good," [Y/N] added, Aria and Hanna nodding in agreement with her.

"Yes, but A isn't," Emily pressed and Spencer sighed out loud. "Can we please slay one dragon at a time?"

Spencer suddenly sat up and turned off the iPad. Her friends frowned at her behavior but soon understood when Garrett Reynolds stopped next to their table.

"Hey," he greeted simply.

"Hey, what are you doing here?" Spencer asked curiously.

"I just came to return some evidence that we took from the field hockey office," he answered and looked around once before lowering his voice further. "Look, I just wanted to say I'm sorry you all had to be the ones who found him."

"Melissa is the one who found him," Spencer replied.

"I'm sorry," Garrett said. "Then again, it could've been worse."

"What do you mean?" Aria asked him.

"Bodies decay. He had been dead for at least a week," he replied, making the girls freeze in their seats.

"Give my best to your family," he told Spencer and gave a nod to the other girls before walking away.

"A week?" Hanna whispered.

"That's impossible," [Y/N] said. "Wasn't he texting Melissa?"

"No, he wasn't," Emily said, realizing that her suspicions might be true after all. "I'm betting it was A."

"Why would A pretend to be Ian and then lead us to his body?" asked Aria.

"Does it matter?" Spencer asked. Although she looked stunned by Garrett's revelation about Ian's death, it was clear she wanted to move on from this topic. "The guy was scum and now, he's dead scum. Who cares if A found him first?"

"Aren't you the least bit curious as to why A would be involved?" Emily asked. "I mean, what does A want?"

"You know what I want?" Hanna asked. "I want to enjoy my life again before A finds a way to ruin it."

Hanna got up and walked inside the school with Aria and Spencer following behind. [Y/N] got up to do the same when she noticed Emily making no move from her seat.

"What is it, Em?" she asked softly.

"We now know A is involved," Emily answered. "Doesn't that make you nervous?

"Of course, it does," [Y/N] replied honestly. "Just for today, I wanna forget about A. I'm still recovering from seeing Ian's dead body last night."

Emily's previous apprehension shifted to understanding as she held [Y/N]'s hand. [Y/N] smiled and squeezed Emily's hand in hers.

"But, we'll figure this out," she said, hoping to reassure Emily. "We always do."

…

Later that night, after taking a shower, [Y/N] was dressed in her comfiest pajamas. She was settled comfortably in her bed, reading, when there was a knock on her bedroom door.

"Come in," she called out, placing the bookmark on the current page she was reading, and closed the book.

The door opened and her parents appeared in the doorway as she placed the book on her nightstand. It gave her a sense of déjà vu except for her brother's absence, who went back to his apartment.

"Hi honey," they spoke at the same time and [Y/N] smiled.

"Hello," she said back. "You guys haven't slept yet?"

"No," Leslie replied. [Y/N] moved over and Leslie sat in the space next to her while James sat next to his wife. "Your father and I just got off the phone with Veronica."

"Uh oh," [Y/N]'s response was rather automatic.

"Nothing bad, we promise," James replied instantly, holding his daughter's hand on top of the comforter. "Veronica asked if we could be there at Ian's funeral for them. For Spencer."

"Of course," [Y/N] nodded and her parents shared a look.

"Sweetheart, you don't have to go if you don't want to," Leslie told her. "No one will say anything if you don't go. Even if someone says something, it doesn't matter."

"I want to be there for Spencer," [Y/N] answered. "Besides, this feels like a closure. The closure my friends and I have been looking for since- since they found Ali."

Her parents nodded, understanding where she was coming from.

"We also wanted to apologize for not believing you and your friends about Ian," Leslie said with guilt in her eyes and [Y/N] shook her head. "It's alright. It didn't help that Ian disappeared from the church that night. We had no proof other than our words and experience."

"That should've been more than enough," James argued, angry at himself. "If that wasn't enough, we agreed with Dr. Sullivan and Veronica when they suggested you girls should spend time apart."

[Y/N] could tell her parents were extremely guilt with everything. She was grateful for their understanding; at the same time, she felt a little guilty as well for meeting with her friends behind her parents' backs.

"I have to tell you both something," she spoke, looking between them sheepishly. "My friends and I didn't stop hanging out… completely. We still met up sometimes to talk about everything that's been going on. So, I'm sorry too."

"I had a feeling you girls might your find your way," Leslie said with a playful glare, ruffling [Y/N]'s hair and the latter laughed. "Dad? Are you upset?"

"Of course not," replied James. "This just means I don't have to drown in guilt anymore."

The three of them laughed and the parents engulfed their daughter in a bear hug. According to them, the town's biggest nightmare was over and they couldn't be more relieved.

…

Next day at school, [Y/N] along with Aria, Hanna and Spencer were sitting in their class and quietly chatting before the teacher arrived.

A few minutes later, Emily entered the classroom and rushed over to her friends.

"Ian didn’t commit suicide," she stated with a finality in her tone. "The entire suicide letter is made up of A texts."

"What?" [Y/N] and Spencer exclaimed at the same time.

"How do you know that?" Aria asked.

"I read the note again and a couple of words stuck out to me," Emily explained. "I checked my old text messages. Come on."

Emily gestured the girls to follow her to the back of the classroom for privacy. She pulled out a paper from her notebook and Aria grabbed it first, reading the content.

"I killed Alison. I lost my temper, because she knew too much."

[Y/N]'s eyes widened at the last sentence. 'She knew too much' was text she and her friends had received after A tried to kill Hanna.

"But, there is only so much you can bury and it won't be that easy," Aria continued reading. "But, I know how to get rid of the pain. I can't run anymore. Come and find me. Ian."

"So, these are the parts from the texts?" Hanna asked, pointing at the parts that were printed and pasted on the paper.

"There are only five people that know about the texts," said Emily. "Us and A."

"How did you figure this out?" Aria asked.

"Please. I've been watching Wheel of Fortune with my mom since I was three," said Emily with a hint of humor.

"If A wrote this, that means Ian never actually confessed to killing Ali," Spencer said, her eyes filling with dread.

"It gets worse," Emily added, making the girls look at her in growing worry. "Logan Reed? The guy who dropped off money for Ian the night of the sting? I know where he works. We need more answers."

…

The day of Ian's funeral arrived.

[Y/N] was dressed in a simple black dress with her hair in a simple half up-half down with some strands framing her face.

She arrived at the church with her family and it didn't take long before she spotted her friends. Except for Spencer as she was already inside the church with her family.

James, Leslie, and Sid went ahead to greet the Hastings while [Y/N] joined Aria, Emily and Hanna.

The four girls walked inside the church and the bells went off.

"Who's ringing it this time?" Hanna asked quietly, sarcasm lacing her voice.

"Hey, thanks for being here," Spencer said, walking over to her friends.

"Of course," [Y/N] smiled. "How's your family holding up?"

Spencer didn't answer and turned to look at Melissa. The girls followed the direction Spencer was looking and saw Melissa standing at the back. She was staring down at the floor with no expression on her face and had one arm wrapped around her protruded stomach.

A wave of sadness washed over [Y/N] as she took in Melissa's state. The older woman's gut-wrenching scream from the night they discovered Ian's dead body still rang in her ear sometimes. Melissa didn't deserve to deal with such tragedy, especially while being pregnant.

"What are the police doing here?" Emily questioned when she noticed several police officers stationed at the entrance and scattered throughout the church.

"Uh, my parents wanted them here in case any uninvited guests showed up," Spencer replied quietly.

"I thought my no-party-crashers policy was strict," Hanna joked lightly.

"I think Spencer means angry mob with torches," said Aria.

"I should get back to my family," Spencer smiled tightly. "Thanks again."

A while later, everyone gathered at the cemetery and watched as Ian's casket was lowered to the ground. The five best friends picked up dirt and threw it on the casket, one by one.

[Y/N] was the last to throw the dirt and dusted her hands. She glanced up and she was taken aback to see Jason sitting on a bench in the distance. He resembled a lost little boy as he sat by himself, staring down at his hands, and her heart went out to him.

Soon, the service was completed and most people had left. The girls' parents stayed behind, catching up, while [Y/N] stood to the side, debating on whether she should go check up on Jason or not.

"You should go talk to him," Hanna spoke, coming to stand next to her.

"What?" [Y/N] asked.

"You should go talk to him," Hanna repeated. "I mean, you were thinking the same, right?"

"Well, I was debating on whether I should or not," [Y/N] admitted. "And, I didn't think he would be here."

"Me neither," replied Hanna.

"Waiting for your parents?" Emily asked, walking up to [Y/N] and Hanna. The girls nodded in response and it didn't take long before Emily noticed Jason's presence in the cemetery. "Who's he waiting for?"

Hanna shrugged while [Y/N] said, "Maybe, he came for the same reason we did."

"To spit on Ian's grave?" Emily scoffed, making her friends laugh a little.

"No, for closure probably," said [Y/N].

"Well, I still think he's creepy," Emily said, crossing her arms across her chest. "Even if he wasn't hiding Ian, the guy's a freak and always has been."

Hanna looked at [Y/N], who pursed her lips.

"Anyway, I should go," Emily said, facing the girls again. "Tell your families I said goodbye."

"See you later, Em," [Y/N] replied just Hanna said, "will do."

Hanna turned to [Y/N] once Emily was out of earshot, "don't take her words to heart."

"I won't," [Y/N] smiled, shaking her head. "But, yes, I'll go talk to him."

"Good," Hanna smiled back. "Talk to you later?"

"Definitely," [Y/N] nodded and Hanna gave her a hug before walking away.

After making sure her parents and brother were still chatting with the Montgomery's, [Y/N] made her way towards Jason.

"Hi Jason," she said quietly, not wanting to startle him.

He looked up at her, surprise crossing his features, "Hey [Y/N]."

"Is it okay if I--" [Y/N] pointed to the seat next to him and he moved over instantly, giving her space. "Go ahead."

"Thanks," she smiled as she sat down and clasped her palms in her lap. "I didn't think you would be here."

"I didn't think you'd be here either," he replied, looking at her.

"For Spencer and her family," she answered and he nodded in understanding. "How are you holding up?"

"He was one of my best friends," he stated solemnly. "And, he killed my sister. I- it's hard to believe it. But, I got to admit that Ian and I stopped being friends after-"

[Y/N] looked at him curiously when he paused, "after he what?"

"Doesn't matter now," he shook his head. "How are you? I heard you and your friends were with Melissa when she found him."

"It was… unexpected," she answered. "We were following Melissa and Wren, because we were afraid Ian might hurt her. But, we didn't think we would find his… corpse, instead. I could still hear Melissa's scream in my head."

"I'm sorry," he said, sympathy lacing his voice, and she smiled a little.

"I just hope Ali can finally rest now," she said and he nodded, hoping for the same.

"She was so fearless," he remarked with a small, fond smile. "She used to threaten me all the time with one thing or another."

"Sounds like Ali," [Y/N] chuckled, Jason joining in.

"She was extremely smart, even as a kid," he continued. "She was fearless when she needed to be. I was always a little jealous of that… of her.

"I guess, that's why my parents can't even look at me anymore. They know they lost the wrong kid," he was holding back tears as he finished speaking and [Y/N]'s eyes widened at his words.

"Don't say that," she said back, grabbing his left hand with her right one on instinct. "Look, maybe you coming here today was a mistake."

"The opposite, to be honest," he replied, holding her hand, accepting the comfort she was giving him with the small gesture. "You don't know how good it feels to know it wasn't me."

"What do you mean by that?" she asked, confused.

"I don't remember much from the night Ali died," he explained. "I blacked out and woke up the next morning with a wicked hangover and-"

He paused, reaching into his coat pocket with his free hand. He pulled a piece of paper and held it out to her, "and, this."

She removed her hand from his and took the folded piece of paper. She opened it and her eyes widened as she read the words on it, 'I know what you did.'

"Jason, who gave you this?" she asked, facing him again. "What does this mean?"

"I don't know, but it almost destroyed me," he replied, facing forward.

"You thought you killed Alison?" she whispered, afraid of saying the sentence out loud.

"Like I said, I was jealous of her," he replied quietly. "And, when I got loaded, I got angry."

[Y/N] looked down at the ground, processing the last few minutes.

"But, Ian's confession changed everything," he said, relief visible in his tone. "He did it, not me."

[Y/N] remained silent as her mind was fluttering with thoughts. Not for one moment did she think that Jason killed his sister. However, she also knew that Ian's confession was fake.

So, who really killed Ali? And, who wrote that note for Jason?

She looked down at the paper one more time, her eyes scanning the words. She didn't know if she was being paranoid, but the handwriting looked similar to Ian's 'suicide note' which was actually written by A. So, she couldn't help but wonder if A had been around on the day Ali disappeared and messed with Jason for some reason.

"[Y/N]?" Jason's voice pulled her out of her thoughts. "You okay? You've been silent for a while."

"Yeah, I'm okay," she cleared her throat, before passing the note back to him. "I think you should get rid of this. You- you never know with the people in this town."

He stared at her for a couple of seconds before nodding. He took the note from her and tucked it inside his coat pocket again to take care of it later.

Before either could of them could speak more, several footsteps coming in their direction made them look up.

[Y/N] felt her heart drop to her stomach when she saw that it was her parents and brother. The three of them looked confused seeing her sitting with Jason. She stood up once they were closer and so did Jason. Leslie was the first to break the silence as she smiled at Jason kindly.

"Hi Jason, how are you?" she asked.

"I'm good, Mrs. [y/l/n] and you?" Jason replied back politely.

"Good, thank you," said Leslie.

"Are your parents here?" James asked.

"No, they're not," said Jason. "Coming back to Rosewood is not easy for them."

"Give them our best," Leslie said with sympathy and Jason nodded, "I will, thank you."

"Are you planning on staying?" Sid asked next.

[Y/N] was a silent spectator and she felt a little embarrassed with all the questions her family kept asking Jason. But, he was patiently answering them.

"I do," he replied, clearing his throat. "I've been doing some renovations around the house. They're almost complete."

"Good, good," Sid nodded. "Well, reach out if you need anything."

"Absolutely, don't be a stranger," Leslie added.

"I appreciate it, thank you," Jason said with a small smile.

"Well, we should get going now," James said. "Good to see you, Jason."

"Likewise, Mr. [y/l/n]," Jason replied.

"Bye, Jason," [Y/N] said with a small wave and he smiled at her politely, "Bye, [Y/N]."

Leslie and Sid exchanged their goodbyes with Jason as well before the family of four walked to the parking lot.

"Honey, I didn't know you spoke to Jason DiLaurentis," James broke the silence first.

"Oh, I do… occasionally," [Y/N] replied, a little anxious. She didn't think she would have to talk with her family about Jason this soon. "I mean, I just say hello when I see him around."

"So, this was not the first time?" James asked. He was trying to seem nonchalant, but he didn't like seeing his daughter around a… boy.

"No, not really," [Y/N] replied in a small voice. She didn't want to lie, because her family must've noticed the comfort with which she was speaking to Jason.

"How about we stop at the Grille for some lunch?" Leslie asked once they reached the car, trying to change the topic. Just like her husband, she was curious as to when her daughter started talking to Jason like a friend. At the same time, she knew [Y/N] would talk to them when she was ready.

James, who knew what his wife was doing, stared at her. [Y/N] and Sid watched as their parents had a silent conversation before James sighed in defeat.

"To the Grille, it is," he spoke, getting into the driver's side of the car. Leslie smiled in victory and winked playfully at [Y/N] before getting on the passenger's side.

"I'm here if you need anything," Sid told her simply and opened the backdoor of the car for her to go in first.

"Thank you," she smiled at him before getting inside the car.

Sid got in the seat next to her and closed the door. The ride to the Grille was silent but not uncomfortable.

[Y/N] was grateful that her family did not push her to share more about what's been going on with Jason and her. Not much happened for her to talk about anyway… not yet, at least.

—————

*read next part here!

ps: i gave the reader/ofc’s family names because it was getting a little difficult to keep up with the abbreviations. sorry for any inconvenience!

#jason dilaurentis x reader #jason dilaurentis x female reader #jason dilaurentis fanfiction #pretty little liars #pll fanfiction #jason dilaurentis #drew van acker

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