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vxsellie · 1 month ago

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‧₊˚┊simple living things﹗

a hunger games!au ellie williams fanfiction.⌇ 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭 𝔦

summary. reaping day. something ellie is rather indifferent towards, wanting only to return back to the warm embrace of nature. meanwhile you're the complete opposite, today being one that'll determine your fate, as well as your placement in your family. this chapter follows the alternate experiences that the two of you go through.

content warnings. depictions of dead animals, domestic abuse, implications of slavery (avoxes). if you see anything else that i missed, pls let me know!

total wc. 10,815

notes!! she's here!!! chapter one of this beauty!!! i've proofread this at least fifty times and i'm still not happy with it, but! here's the reminder that this fic is formatted and meant for ao3, not tumblr (hence why it's so goddamn long). anyway, i advise you read it there rather than here for that reason. it's updated sooner and i actually make sure that it's intelligible. the link is right here ↓

𝜗𝜚 series masterlist ⸝⸝ playlist ⸝⸝ ao3 𝜗𝜚

11:46.

DISTRICT SEVEN.

“Again?” Ellie’s groggy cavil is muffled against the crook of Cat’s neck. Her freckled face is buried into the warmth of the woman’s bare skin, chasing the comfort her proximity provides.

Cat huffs an airy laugh, her fingers absentmindedly running along an auburn scalp. “We’ve gone over this.”

“Yeah, but,” Ellie props up on her elbows to frown at her, “You went last year.”

“It’s a good thing if they’re asking me to attend again, Ellie.” Cat reminds her as she’s done at least fifty times by now. Despite her dwindling patience, Cat’s eyes are filled with naught but fondness as they clash with a pair of viridescent irises. Ellie continues to frown at her, adamant in her show of defiance. Cat continues to fiddle with her choppy hair as she speaks. “The Capitol is extremely picky with their stylists. It’s an honor to work for them, not to mention being chosen by them.”

Ellie has to swallow back the words that crawl up her throat and threaten to spill. Words of which vocalize her personal repugnance for the Capitol. She and Cat have gotten into plenty of fights regarding this topic and she refuses to cause another — especially considering the news she’s been trying to avoid facing all morning.

“I won’t see you for, like, a month.” Ellie grumbles before flopping back down onto Cat’s chest. She turns her head so her ear is pressed against her ribs, the gentle thudding of Cat’s heartbeat almost soothing enough to distract her from the world that envelops them.

Their bare bodies are pressed flush together as Ellie continues to listen to the repetition of her palpitating organ. She can feel Cat’s fingers toying with her hair, the soft caresses providing a sense of calamity. Her chest rises and falls, Ellie’s head shifting alongside each breath she takes. The intimacy it takes for to be near someone in this way — especially for Ellie — is oftentimes overlooked and seen only as crude or lustrous. However, in this case, they’re simply enjoying one another’s presence. Nothing vulgar about it.

Oh how Ellie wishes she could stay like this forever. In this little oasis of solace she’s founded for herself. Waking with Cat in her bed whilst morning sunlight filters through the window and casts golden hues over hardwood flooring. It’s nigh impossible to imagine that in only a few hours they’ll be separated for an indefinite epoch as Cat is escorted off to the Capitol while Ellie remains here.

She shuts her eyes, arms tightening around Cat’s waist as she wishes to cherish what little time she has left with her. Cat doesn’t dare cease playing with her hair, delicate fingers toying with the strands.

Comfortability, domesticity, safety. That’s what Ellie feels when she’s near Cat — like nothing in the whole world could reach her. Like they’ve left the horrors of their District and are now floating through the cosmos all alone. Just the two of them. Though she knows better than to voice that to Cat, having found out the hard way that she doesn’t feel the same.

What they have is impermanent, said Cat when Ellie questioned her on fidelity, it has to be, she’d said. Even now, Ellie is unsure what that was supposed to mean. But she didn’t pry any further, for fear of damaging the fragility of what relationship, or lack thereof, they’d formed. Ever since, Ellie has learned to keep her feelings locked away in a hidden corner of her mind, making sure they never come forth to have the dust blown away.

“Ellie!”

They both jolt to attention as the bedroom door flies open, doorknob slamming against the thick wooden wall behind it. Ellie sits up and narrows her eyes at the perpetrator, only to roll them once she comes to realize who it is.

“What do you want, Riley?” Ellie grumbles, flopping back against Cat as Riley enters the room.

“I want to know why you’re still in bed.” Riley responds, stepping over the clothes on the floor with an upturned lip. Half of them are Cat’s from the night prior. Riley seems to instantly realize this, likely because she’s known Ellie well enough to know that she doesn’t wear Capitol-made dresses. Riley puts her hands on her hips, frowning at her best friend who remains cuddled up against her– Cat. “The Reaping is today and you’re still in bed.”

“It’s in two hours.” Ellie is quick to point out.

“I don’t care if it’s in twenty hours, you’re getting out of bed.” She says, picking up Ellie’s discarded clothes from the floor and tossing them at her. They land where her legs are tangled with Cat’s underneath the thin plaid blanket that’s draped lazily atop them. Riley begins to walk out of the room with a pointed expression before calling over her shoulder, “Oh. And these are Marlene’s orders, by the way.” Then she shuts the door.

Ellie sighs heavily, not yet ready to get up. If anything, she cozies even closer against Cat’s bare chest as she once again listens to the comforting thumps of her heart.

“God, she’s so demanding.” Cat scoffs. “I don’t understand how you put up with her.”

“I barely can.” She responds, causing Cat’s eyes to widen at the unexpected concurrence. “But she’s taken care of me since I was a baby, I owe it to her.”

Cat’s initial shock instantly dissipates. “I don’t mean Marlene, Ellie. I’m talking about Riley.”

Ellie sighs once more, her lips thinning. She knows that Cat and Riley don’t exactly get along. Well. Okay, that’s a major understatement. They literally despise each other. In every aspect that Cat admires the Capitol, Riley loathes it. They butt heads all the time, only ever speaking when it’s absolutely necessary and, even then, it oftentimes ends up in fighting. Ellie tries her hardest to keep them as far apart as possible, hating when they speak ill of the other.

“I don’t want to talk about that right now.” She mutters, having to force herself to sit up. The plaid blanket falls from her shoulders, pooling around her waist. The cool air chills her and goosebumps instantly begin to adorn her fair skin. She quickly reaches to the foot of the bed to grab the clothes Riley had tossed her way. Cat remains in bed as Ellie stands to get dressed, pulling on a frayed hoodie and worn jeans. “I just don’t want to have to choose between you two, that’s all.”

As she laces her shoes, it’s hard not to take notice of Cat’s lack of response. Ellie lifts her head to see the frown that’s plastered onto her features, the sight of it causing her to sigh. She walks over to the bed, shoes lightly padding across the old wooden floor. She leans one hand on the mattress beside Cat’s head, her other coming up to lift her jaw. She presses a kiss to her lips.

“You know where I keep the key.” Ellie whispers, pulling back only slightly as her hand remains on Cat’s chin. “You can get back to sleep and leave whenever you want, yeah? You need rest.”

Cat nods, “Okay.”

With one final kiss goodbye, Ellie leaves. On her way out the door, she grabs her backpack from under her desk, swinging it over her shoulder before shutting the door gently behind her. Not yet ready to part ways with Cat, she stands in the hall for a few long minutes, using this time to straighten out her thoughts.

After the Reaping, Cat will be gone for an indefinite duration as the stylists are taken to the Training Center alongside the two tributes. Not to mention, if the opportunity is provided, she knows Cat wouldn’t hesitate to stay to live in the Capitol forever. And everyone knows how much they love her there. It’s truly a matter of time before she’s promoted to a full-time Capitolite. The mere thought sends a chill down her spine.

Ellie heaves a sigh, mentally cursing anything and everything that relates to their fucked up government before she turns to walk down the hall. Her shoes thud against the floor as she attempts to calm herself, the repetition of her stride mocking that of Cat’s heartbeat. Nigh tauntingly.

Turning a corner, she spots Riley standing in the kitchen. Her back is facing her as she peers out the window at the passerbyers that straggle down the street. District seven isn’t usually this busy, most citizens at work by now. But it’s Reaping Day and therefore one of the few days of the year that everyone gets off work. Parents cater to their kids, teens get into mischief with their friends, pets are walked through the neighborhood. Though, regardless of how one’s morning is spent, everyone will be amassed in town square by two o’clock. If not, they’re to be imprisoned.

Ellie slows her movements, footsteps now inaudible before she jumps out at Riley, causing the other girl to shriek. She nearly drops the glass in her hands as she whips around to scowl at Ellie. “You scared me!” She reprimands her, frowning.

“Yeah,” Ellie laughs, “That was the whole point?”

Riley rolls her eyes at this. “Whatever.”

She leans forward to set the glass back on the counter, a light clink sounding throughout the space as she does so. Ellie had expected it to be a glass of water or some other form of drink. Instead, it’s a vase holding an array of flowers that Ellie has built the habit of collecting on their daily outings. At first, it annoyed Riley the way Ellie would stop whatever she was doing to pick a flower and stuff it between the pages of her journal. It would interrupt the flow of their expedition. Though, with time, she’s grown used to it and even finds herself taking notice of pretty flowers in Ellie’s absence.

“Are you finally ready to go?” Riley asks, turning back around to face her friend with her eyebrows raised. Ellie gestures down to herself — dressed and obviously ready. Riley chuckles, rolling her eyes fondly before brushing past her.

The two of them exit the small wooden home and begin their journey toward the treeline. Four buildings down, they pass Riley’s house. After graduation, they’d chosen this neighborhood due to its proximity to the woods and the fact that two houses were simultaneously for sale closeby. And here they are, three years later, still fleeing to the foliage every morning.

The low hum of conversation isn’t foreign to District seven, but it’s rather uncommon way out here. To get this type of commotion, you’d usually have to be closer to town where the markets are. That’s where most people spend their time, trading supplies. The circumstances aren’t nearly as dire as in District twelve, but they’re certainly not as wealthy as the Capitol. Starving to death here is rare, but not at all impossible.

“So,” Riley speaks up after a few minutes of comfortable silence before turning to Ellie with a regaled expression, “You’re sleeping with Cat again?”

“I never stopped sleeping with her.” Ellie says pointedly.

What she doesn’t say is, It’s just grown more common as you’ve grown more distant from me.

She sighs. “I’m not gonna give you shit for it because you already know how I feel about her. But I want to know, is she going to be a stylist again in this year's Games?”

“Ugh,” Ellie groans, “You know I’m not allowed to go around telling people. She’s technically not even supposed to tell me. We could be arrested for disclosing information about the Games prior to their airing. We could be made into Avox for it. And, I don’t know about you, but I quite like my tongue.”

“Yeah, so does Cat.” Riley adds with a disgusted expression.

Ellie laughs, slapping her in the arm. “Gross!”

“What’s gross is walking in on your best friend naked on top of some Capitolite.” She grumbles.

“We weren’t even doing anything!”

“Yeah, luckily!” She replies with a laugh before another repulsive thought dawns on her. “Oh, and you didn’t even lock the door!”

To that, Ellie has no excuse. “Well– Okay yeah, fine. That’s definitely on me.”

Riley grins at her victoriously as they continue down the sidewalk. The air is practically buzzing with activity. With naught else to occupy their time, the people of the lumber District naturally swarm toward the woods. It’s in their blood. Even more so for Ellie and Riley, who spend their mornings in the woods even when they should technically be applying for jobs.

Yeah, the two of them have received that lecture from Marlene more times than anyone could count — that they’re adults and should therefore be forming some sort of a career path before they’re rendered undesirably old to any future employers. But, unbeknownst to Marlene, the two of them do have a job. Perhaps not a formal one, but it’s enough to keep the bills paid and water running. And, to a pair of girls in their early twenties, that’s more than they could ask for.

See, Riley and Ellie have built a routine. One where they awake at dawn, meet up at Ellie’s house for breakfast, then walk to the woods and spend the following few hours there. They cut trees, chop wood, hunt animals, etc. Then, at noon, they head toward what’s known as the Hob — basically a black market for those desperate enough to trade their hard earned quarry for a bit of cash. It’s located inside an abandoned paper mill, packed full with hundreds of buyers meandering about the derelict space. Every District has their own version of a Hob, well, perhaps not the richer Districts, but twelve is sure to have a huge one that would make seven’s dull in comparison. That thought alone is enough to ease Ellie’s conscience whenever she feels guilty for the illegality behind her line of work. If any of the Peacekeepers in her District found out about the Hob, all participants are sure to be hanged or, at bare minimum, given a whipping — both of which would be public as to make an example of the persecutors. To imagine Ellie hanging from a noose or tied to a pole whilst everyone else watched, while Marlene watched? It makes her stomach churn. So, habitually, she simply ignores the lack of validity to her actions. Plus, there's no malice to her intentions. She’s just a young woman who wants to put food on the table. Is that so much to ask for? She thinks not.

Anyway. Riley and Ellie basically run that place. Everyone knows them there, recognizing the two women the instant they enter the mill. They always have the good shit — perfectly chopped wood alongside undamaged game — and are willing to be paid less than others because they tend to have a higher quantity and manage to amass a large sum in spite of their lowered payment. However, seeing as everyone is off work today, it’s rather awkward to see the people of the Hob out on the streets. Because they all know better than to acknowledge the illegal trading they participate in religiously.

Ellie walks silently beside Riley, the unspoken tension in the air doubling in size whenever they recognize someone. The Peacekeepers are large in aggregate today as well, managing to make this impossibly more nerve wracking. The town square is packed full with Capitolites who are setting up for the Reaping, hence everyone now on this side of the District as they look for something to busy themselves with. And, as said before, the woods are evidently everyone’s collective first choice.

“You nervous?” Riley asks as they enter the woods, the familiar scent of pine and dirt wafting toward them. The air is chilly, yet not unbearably so. It’s a nice medium that Ellie finds herself enjoying. She turns, raising a brow in inquiry. Riley digresses, “For the Reaping.”

She shrugs, “Not really. The Hunger Games are morbid, yeah, but they’re a fact of life. If I get Reaped, what good will it do to have worried about it that morning? I feel that fate is predetermined. Whatever happens, you can’t change it so you might as well live regularly until it’s foisted upon you.”

“Um, wow?” Riley gives her a peculiar look. “Since when did you get all philosophical?”

Ellie huffs a laugh, “I’m just saying.”

“I agree that the Games are morbid.” Riley shakes her head with a sigh, dry leaves crunching under their feet as they trek further into the woods. “But why should we have to live in fear while those in the Capitol live in ignorant bliss? It’s immoral and dehumanizing.”

Ellie agrees with her, of course, though she finds herself glancing over their shoulder fretfully before turning to frown at her friend. “Be quiet, Riley. Peacekeepers are fucking everywhere today.”

“Yeah, yeah.” She huffs. “But I mean it.”

“Yes, I know you mean it.” Ellie rolls her eyes. “And I mean it when I say I don’t want to see you punished for your brutal honesty. Truly, it’ll be the death of you.”

Riley laughs before they fall into another comfortable silence.

Despite the wordlessness being one of easement, it’s foreign to them both. As of late, Riley has been progressively growing more and more distant, causing an awkward rift between the pair. They still go about their usual routines each day and share moments of fond laughter, but it’s different. Only a few months ago, there’d not be a single second of silence as the two would oftentimes end up talking over the other in a coveted rush to share random information. Even after a day’s work had finished, they’d frequently wind up at one of their houses for the night — watching television, feasting on game, or just sharing the space. It got to the point where it was more rare to be without the other than with them.

But now, Ellie feels as though they spend more time in silence than in conversation. Take present for example. Had this happened in July, one of them would undoubtedly be rambling on about something. Though, as it turns out, that’s not currently the case.

Ellie has yet to bring it up to Riley, fearing she’ll say something she’s not ready to hear. She hasn’t even a guess in her mind what could have brought this upon them, but whatever it is, it’s drastic. Hence why she’s recently been hanging around Cat more often, using the woman to both distract herself from her childlike friendship issues as well as make herself feel better. Because Cat always knows how to comfort Ellie, even when she’s not entirely aware of what the problem is.

They continue to walk through the woods, their footsteps nigh inaudible as they’ve grown skilled at adapting to nature. After a few minutes of trekking through the foliage, Riley stops and turns around expectantly. Ellie instantly removes her backpack and crouches to the ground as she sifts through it. She pulls out an axe — which barely even fits inside the bag — and passes it to Riley, who takes it gratefully. Ellie then hands the bag to Riley, who positions it on her back with a few shoulder shrugs.

Where they stopped wasn’t randomized, though. Not entirely. Because, a few yards away is a fallen tree, hollowed out in the center to create a tunnel-like log. They walk over to it, Riley tossing the axe back and forth between her hands. Ellie crouches down and reaches into the log, feeling around the dampened bark until her fingers brush against the coveted items. She pulls out a bow and quiver, adding them to her newly emptied shoulders.

See, they can’t exactly be caught carrying weapons through the District or the Peacekeepers will know they’re hunting illegally. So, as an alternative, they hide the weapons deep in the woods where nobody else would think to look. Fairly smart on their part, Ellie thinks.

“So,” Ellie muses as they begin walking through the woods once more, “This morning, you said you woke me under Marlene’s orders. What exactly did she say?”

“I talked to her last night.” She explains, swinging the axe back and forth. Had Ellie not done this with her a million times before, she’d likely be fearing for her life. But that axe is quite literally an extension of Riley’s arm, moving as though it’s a part of her. It's, admittedly, rather impressive. “She told me to make sure you’re awake at least an hour prior to the Reaping.”

“Ugh, she doesn’t trust me to do anything.”

“Can you blame her?” She laughs. “You were nearly late to the Reaping last year. Had you arrived less than five minutes after you had, the Peacekeepers would have placed you under arrest.”

“I think my timing was impeccable.” Ellie argues, pointing her chin up in an act of superiority.

As she does, something in the trees catches her eye and she suddenly stops in her tracks, Riley quick to do the same. She nocks an arrow, the head instantly pointed in the direction of the movement. After a few seconds of tense silence, a squirrel chitters before ignorantly traipsing across the branch. She releases the arrow and it lands right in its eye, so as not to damage the meat. It hits the ground with a thud. Ellie grins widely as she walks to retrieve the corpse as well as the arrow.

“Talk about timing.” Riley whistles, following close behind.

“What did I say?” She responds, positioning the squirrel to hang from her belt. “Impeccable.”

“Yeah, maybe in terms of your aim, but not in your vigilance.” Riley points out.

“Whatever.” Ellie waves her hand to dismiss the accusation. “Shut up and go chop your wood.”

Riley laughs but obliges, turning to leave the scene. Ellie can’t even listen to her footsteps depart, as she’s rather adept at masking their boistry. But she can tell when she’s gone, though, because the atmosphere alters — shifting from one shared between lifelong friends to one of solitude in the middle of nowhere. And yet, despite the latter being far less preferred by many, Ellie relishes in it. The lack of eyes on her is comforting rather than eerie.

She treks through the trees until she finds a slightly elevated patch of land, allowing her to look down on the forest below her — though, only by a couple feet. But any altitude is better than nothing. She crouches behind a bush and nocks a second arrow, waiting for something to pass by.

Ellie manages to shoot a few more squirrels and a couple of rabbits throughout the following hour they spend in the woods. She then lets out a three-note whistle as she stands to her feet. She’s brushing off her jeans when the same whistles tune is repeated back to her a few hundred yards to the East. Riley.

They’d come up with this tactic a few years back, where once one of them had finished up for the day, they let out a whistle to let the other know of their completion. Then, if the sound reaches the other, they’ll return it.

They split up like this because Ellie requires quiet in order to hunt whereas Riley tends to make quite a bit of ruckus during her wood-chopping. Ellie’s still gathering her things when a twig snaps a few feet away. She doesn't need to look up to know who it is.

“What’d you catch?” Riley asks as she approaches her from behind.

“Nothing good.” She admits. “Just squirrels and rabbits.”

“That’s not bad, though.”

“Yeah, animals are so scarce today due to all the people’s proximity to the treeline. I could sometimes catch the sound of their talking. Even from way out here.” Ellie says as she finishes packing up and turns to face Riley, who’s holding an armful of chopped wood. “Here, turn around.”

Without question, Riley does. Ellie unzips the bag and holds out a hand for a piece of wood. Riley passes it back to her and she loads the wood one-by-one into the pack. She then adds the axe and zips it — well, partially. A few inches of the handle remains sticking out, though it’s doubtful anyone will question the contents of the bag. Not when so much is going on today.

They head back to the mouth of the woods, making sure to return the bow and quiver into the hollowed log on their way by. In minutes, they’re emerging from the trees and walking back through the streets, which appear to have grown even busier in their absence. They’d walked in silence the entire way.

“Welp.” Riley says once they’ve reached Ellie’s porch and she’s returned the bag — which has tripled in weight with the addition of the axe and wood. “See you at the Reaping?”

She sighs dramatically, “I guess so. Not like I want to go anyway.”

“Marlene would fucking kill you.” Riley laughs and Ellie joins in, imagining the enraged expression on Marlene’s face had she not shown up. She couldn't get away with it regardless, though. Riley was right when she said the Peacekeepers would either imprison or hang her. It’s happened to someone before — an old man ripped from his home and put in an icy cold cell for the rest of his short life. He’d apparently used the excuse of saying he was in a wheelchair, but that wasn't enough for the District’s law enforcement as they claimed he could easily be wheeled to the square. So, yeah, maybe the jokes of Ellie not showing up shouldn’t be pondered on but so much.

Once Riley has left, Ellie grabs her key from the top of a nearby windowsill. She notices that it’d moved a few inches to the left. Cat. She unlocks the door and enters her home, almost screaming to see the silhouette of a woman standing in her kitchen. Though she quickly regains normalcy when she recognizes the person’s frame.

“Fuck, Marlene.” She curses, putting a hand to her chest as she — as subtly as possible — slips the bag from her shoulders and places it on the floor next to the door. “You scared me.”

Marlene is wearing a dress, a nice one. The neck is in a deep V shape that shows off her collarbones and shoulders. The sleeves come to her elbows, the skirt to her mid-calves. It’s a soft maroon color, complimenting her dark skin and brown eyes beautifully. Ellie would accolade her for it had she not known it was for the Reaping and thereby the Capitol. However, being aware of that fact rather mars the beauty of her accentuated appearance.

Marlene turns to face her with a frown, “What were you two doing?”

“Seriously?” Ellie groans, walking over to grab a glass cup from the cabinet over Marlene’s head, having to shift around her to do so. “I was hanging out with my best friend before we witness two people being shipped off to die. Do I truly have to walk you step-by-step through everything I do?”

“Yes.” She begins filling the cup with faucet water, Marlene looming like a shadow over her shoulder. When Ellie doesn’t respond, she frowns. “Whatever. I don’t even care what you guys were doing, I just seek the consolation of knowing it was safe.”

“I’m an adult, Marlene. When will you–”

“Was it safe, Ellie?” She repeats, tone growing more agitated.

“Yes.” She replies, the lie coming easy to her now. After all this time of being untruthful, it’s nearly second nature to withhold the truth from her mother-figure whenever she’s pestered on this recurring topic. She has a great poker face, too.

She raises her brows as she takes a sip from her glass, peering at her from over the rim.

“Was it legal?” She questions and Ellie nearly spits out her water. Marlene scoffs at her reaction. “Okay, so I got my answer.”

“I didn’t even say anything!”

“You didn’t need to!” She crosses her arms and gives Ellie that disapproving mom expression that could make anybody feel remorse. Ellie places her glass on the counter and holds her gaze, trying her hardest not to falter under it. “I assume you saw how many Peacekeepers are here, Ellie.”

“I’d be an idiot to not notice them.” She grumbles defiantly, sounding far more childlike than she’d care to admit. Marlene always manages to bring this side out of her — a scorned child who has no choice but to agree with everything she says. Despite how hard she tries to be mature and release herself from Marlene’s iron fist, it’s so far been proven impossible.

“So what were you thinking? I don’t care for the details of what you guys go out doing everyday so long as it’s legal.” She says. “You know that. It’s one of my only rules for you.”

The acknowledgement of their daily repetition is enough for Ellie to stiffen, not having realised Marlene even noticed their outings. However, now that she’s thinking of it, it makes sense. They've been doing this same routine for three years now. You’d have to be a fool to not notice. And Marlene is no fool.

“I know, I just–”

She pinches the bridge of her nose, cutting Ellie off with a sigh. “Just go wash up. I don’t want you smelling like a dead animal for the Reaping.”

The closeness in her comparison of the miasma to a corpse is nigh to laughable. Except it’s not. Because Marlene is unnerving. She cares for Ellie more than anything, yes, but she’s absolutely terrifying in her vehement need to protect her.

But Ellie is an adult now. She doesn’t need protection.

Despite this, she follows her orders and trudges off to the bathroom, making sure to scoop up her backpack on her way down the hall.

She discards the bag of wood and lays the dead squirrel and rabbit corpses out on her bedroom floor. Normally, she’d place them in the kitchen to ready them for gutting but that’s, clearly, not a viable option. If Marlene were to see the quarry from their expedition, she’d absolutely lose her head. First, she’d force Ellie and Riley to get a job, and likely a boring one. She’d forbid them from using the forest for income. And, in those two short acts of discipline, Ellie’s life would be over. The woods are her home; her place of solace. Without it, who is she?

She then heads into the bathroom and takes a bath, scrubbing all the dirt and grime from her skin before redressing into something a bit more fancy — though it’s definitely not Capitol material as everyone else typically aims for. She’s simply wearing a nicer pair of jeans and a flannel. The collar and buttons make it fancy. Kinda.

When she returns to the kitchen, she’s still drying her hair with the towel. Marlene looks her up and down and frowns, though she says nothing.

See, if one is Reaped today, they’re taken to the Capitol. As such, they’re traditionally expected to wear their nicest clothes to the Reaping, just in case their name is drawn. But Ellie cares naught to make any lasting impressions on the Capitol, so she doesn’t give a shit what she wears. The sole reason she’s wearing even a button up is to please Marlene enough so she’s not forced into something else.

Because, when she was fourteen, she tried to wear a t-shirt to the Reaping and was instantly reprimanded. As punishment, she had to wear something Marlene picked out. Needless to say, never again will she do that. Even now Riley laughs at her for the outfit, though Marlene insists it was the most distinguished Ellie had ever looked. She begs to differ.

“Okay, you ready?” Marlene asks.

Ellie shrugs, “Yeah.”

They head down to the square, the entirety of District seven doing the same. The waves of people grow larger and larger the closer they get to the square until it’s practically a tsunami of them. Once they reach their destination, they pause and turn to each other. Marlene looks down at Ellie, a glint of something unreadable behind her gaze, almost as though she wishes to say something to her prior to parting ways. But instead of voicing whatever it is that’s weighing on her, she just pats her shoulder and walks away.

The crowd is sorted by generation. Everyone between the ages of twelve and fifty are required to be within the crowd as their names are among those able to be Reaped. The younger kids are positioned closest to the stage whilst the older crowd is near the back. Ellie stands with her age group, picking at the peeling skin around her nails as she awaits the ceremony’s exordium.

The stage before them has been added purely for the Reaping, as it’s not usually present. Atop it resides a podium, a table with a bowl of tiny slips of papers, and three chairs at the back of the stage — one for the District’s mayor, one for the escort, and one for the mentor of this year’s tributes. Camera crews are perched like buzzards atop the neighboring buildings, readying themselves to document the coming show. Each District is going through the exact same procedure. Tonight, each footage will be broadcasted across all televisions in the country.

About twenty more minutes pass, the square growing supplementarily crowded with each passing second. When the clock strikes twelve, three people are in their corresponding chairs. Ellie hadn’t even noticed their arrival.

The mayor, whose name she doesn’t know despite having heard it repeated throughout her entire life, sits in the far right chair, his jaw set as he overlooks the citizens. The District escort resides in the center chair, a Capitol woman with bright blue hair and a smile that’s so pearly white that it’s almost inhuman — Ellie doesn’t know her name either. The only person whose name she’s sure of is the man sitting in the left chair. That’s Joel Miller. The victor of the 56th Games. Word is, he’s not a pleasant man. Though, Ellie supposes no sane victor would be. Returning from a murderous arena after all other twenty-three tributes have fallen must be the emptiest feeling known to man. She has a deep respect for Joel, despite never having properly met him.

The mayor steps up to the podium and begins reading off his script. The story of how their country came to be. Ellie tunes it out, instead glancing around the crowd for Cat. It takes her an embarrassingly long time before she remembers that she’s absent from the ceremony due to her being the District seven stylist this year. Ellie turns back to the stage just as the escort steps up to the podium.

“Happy Hunger Games!” Says she. “And may the odds be ever in your favor!”

The slogan has grown old and worn out by now, everyone having heard it an indefinite quantity of times. Ellie wouldn’t be surprised if she mumbles it in her sleep.

Once more, she finds herself tuning out the rest of the woman’s speech. Despite her lack of listening not resulting in anything beneficial, it makes her feel better. Like she’s showing the Capitol that they don’t control her. Not like the Capitol gives a fuck if one measley twenty-one year old is tuning out the speeches. But whatever. It makes her feel ameliorated and that’s all that matters.

“Here we go.” The escort says before diving her hand into the bowl of names. The glass sphere is packed full with slips of paper, each one reading a citizen’s name. The entire square is holding their breath as they await the name. The entire country is — as every District is being Reaped at the same time. The woman pulls a slip of paper from the bowl and reads it aloud with a grin. “Riley Abel.”

Ellie’s heart drops to her stomach, body frozen in place as the name is spoken. The world feels far away as she watches Riley walk up the stage and stand beside the escort. Riley’s chin is held high, her eyes dullened; they lack the vibrancy that Ellie adores so much. She’s the epitome of strength, standing on that stage as she’s set to be broadcasted across the entire country.

Ellie knows that expression though. Riley isn’t sad or mourning. She’s pissed.

Fuck. She should have done something. But it all happened so fast. And now the escort’s hand is diving right back into the bowl for a second tribute.

“Aaaand,” She sing-songs before lifting her head joyously, “Ellie Williams.”

11:46.

DISTRICT 4.

“Again.” Your mother’s tone is sharp as a dagger as she thumps the end of her cane against tiled flooring, demanding more, more, more from you. Her voice is tinny, filed through an intercom overhead. To your left is a one-way mirror that scales the entire 20ft wall, through which she pedantically watches your every movement. Though you’re unable to see her, she sees you. And that fact in itself is enough to make you vigilent.

Sweat coats your skin as you reposition yourself, squaring your shoulders and planting your feet in preparation. Your expression is hardened, purposefully so under your mother’s gaze. Her scrupulousness is nigh to tangible, made palpable by the heavy weight on your shoulders, the stiffness in your muscles, the tell-tale feel of her eyes scanning you.

Then, in a flash of flickering blue, holographic opponents begin to charge at you. These humanoid figures are translucent in visibility, but their hits land just as genuinely in spite of their pellucidity. You’ve been fighting them all morning — another cause of the fatigue in your bones.

A few sessions prior, you’d been permitted the use of weapons. Your mother had instructed you to train with each one interchangeably. She wished to see which you were best and worst at — which ended up being throwing daggers and a trident, respectively. The daggers allow you close-combat, which you’re rather skilled at, as a product of these training sessions, whereas the trident’s weight is off balanced and leaves you fumbling with it for a few seconds prior to use. She soon grew bored with the weapons, though, and instructed you to fight bare handedly. Just to be sure you can.

There are currently three holograms presented to you — one with a burly build, one with a dainty build, and one that resides between the two.

The muscular opponent is the first to strike, swinging a right hook toward your jaw. You dodge it, ducking easily under its arm. Whilst straightening back up, the smaller figure grabs you by the hair. Your head is yanked backward. You whip around, snatching the figure by the wrist and throwing its body over your head onto the floor. It lands with a hard thud before you bring the heel of your boot down onto its throat. With a light puff of air, the hologram disintegrates.

One down, two left.

Without a moment’s pause, you spin around to face the other two diaphanous forms. The intermediate combatant surges forward, arm reeled back in preparation for a punch. You swerve out of its way, the figure staggering forward as it misses you by a mere three inches. You kick it in the back of the legs, sending the hologram on its knees. You’re positioned behind it, pulling it into a headlock.

The sounds it makes is eerily human as it coughs and sputters, blue fingers grasping with desperation at your forearm. You’re used to this though, the cruel personification behind these lifeless things. You snap its neck with a deafening crack. It disappears.

Two down, one left.

When you turn around, the burly one is already behind you. It’s at least three times your size, but you’re undeterred. You stand upright and ready your fists.

With a grunt, it charges toward you. You sidestep, but it anticipates this and turns in unison. You back away, putting yourself out of reach, your arms coming up to block your face. It swings and you duck subsequently. While crouched, you grab its left calf and pull, lifting the leg uncomfortably high. The oversized figure hops awkwardly on its right limb. You then hook your foot behind the ankle of the remaining leg it’s balancing on, sending it plummeting toward the ground.

You’re quick to position yourself atop it, straddling the hologram’s chest. It thrashes beneath you, squirming around like a trapped insect. It’s only a matter of time before it throws you aside due to uneven weight advantages. But you had surprised it and therefore withhold the ascendancy. So, while you still have the upper hand, you lift your leg and drive your knees into its neck. With a gag, the hologram vanishes.

Done.

Your chest aches with exertion, lungs fighting for air as you pant. As such, you remain with your knees on the black matted floor in an attempt to catch your breath. You’ve been killing these things on repeat for the past three hours, your mother having woken you at seven in the morning to train.

Frayed hair clings to dampened skin as sweat traces lines down your face. It drips from your chin onto the floor beneath you. Your pants and tank top are soaked, causing you to feel gross and sticky. You yearn for a shower.

You oftentimes have to remind yourself that your mother means well, that she’s pushing you so hard because she cares. But, at times like these — where your body is on the verge of collapse — you find yourself questioning her morality.

“You’re getting slow.” Comes her voice through the speaker system, as though on cue with your thoughts. A tap of her cane against the floor is heard prior to that singular word you dread so vehemently.

“Again.”

It's truly no shock that you’re growing amble considering how long you’ve been at it. But to protest your mother’s orders would be a death wish. You’re still catching your breath as you push yourself to your feet, fully expecting another hoard of holograms to appear.

Though, in their stead, a spear materializes before you. It’s equally as holographic as the figures you’re fighting, blue and crackling, but it kills them just as viable as you would.

As you lean over to pick it up, something kicks you hard in the base of your back. The force of impact sends you to the floor. Your elbows take the brunt of your fall, causing you to feel rather grateful for the mat. Still in a heap, you whip to face the perpetrator. A hologram; a singular female figure with a lean build.

You should’ve known better than to let your guard down.

You glance at the spear concurrently, the weapon lying at a perfect distance between you two. Without vacillation, you hurriedly crawl toward it. The figure notices and kicks you hard in the face, its shoe slamming into the bridge of your nose. You land hard on your back as a wave of pain shoots through you, warm liquid tracing down your face.

By the time you regain your sense, the hologram is thrusting the stolen weapon toward you. You roll out of its way, though the blade manages to slice your bicep. With a reverberated thud, the spearhead burrows into the mat where your head had just been.

You push to your feet, tugging the spear out of the cushioned floor. Now armed, you turn to the hologram. It doesn’t have a face but if it did, you’re sure it’d be glaring at you. The two of you circle one another like vultures, the hologram waiting for you to attack whilst you wait for the perfect angle. Then, once you’re positioned to your liking, you strike. You throw the spear at the diaphanous form.

The blade whizzes through the air too fast for it to dodge, too fast for anyone to dodge. Your aim is undeniably precise as the point wedges right between your opponents eyes. With that, it disintegrates alongside the spear.

Even once the combatant has elapsed, you remain in that position — chest heaving, brows furrows, fists balled. A metallic taste fills your mouth as your nose continues to bleed down your face, getting past your lips. Your bicep mocks it, crimson tracing down your arm.

You await your mother’s reprimand via the intercom. Instead, you hear the door click open and her cane tap against the floor with every other step. She remains in the doorway, not wishing to enter the abhorrent room. She stands expectantly until you walk up to her.

“Your fatigue impairs your ability to fight.” She tuts, wrinkled lip upturned in distaste. You don’t respond, lowering your head as you wordlessly accept her criticism. “Had you been in the arena and those figures sentient, you’d likely have been long gone. Debility is no excuse for inadequacy. L/ns don’t lose.”

You nod, knowing better than to defend yourself.

She goes through each of your performances, telling you how every one was worse than the last. A few times, she mentions your brother, comparing the two of you in a way that makes your chest cave. Ruben wouldn’t have gotten his arm cut, Ruben wouldn’t have had his hair pulled, Ruben wouldn’t have hesitated when she added a child hologram into the mix.

Once she’s had her fill of castigation, she waves a hand to dismiss you.

Your first course of action is to shower. Since your mother woke you so early, you were unable to change or eat prior to training. You enter the bathroom, peeling your sweaty clothes from your skin before stepping into the cool water. Your presence tints the liquid pink with blood as your arm and face stain its cleanliness.

You stand in the shower for a long time, relishing in the feel of the water as you allow your mind to roam. Though, despite how hard you try not to think of it, your thoughts continuously lapse back to your mother’s ceaseless mentions of your brother, her favored child.

See, Ruben won the 67th Hunger Games when he was only thirteen years old, becoming a legend in the Capitol and the light of your parents’ lives. He is the Capitol’s favorite victor, deemed the most attractive man in the country. Anyone would die to get a moment of his time, of his attention. People who the Capitol favor, idolize, and center their entire lives around are known as a ‘Capitol Diamond’. And Ruben is the shiniest of them all.

Your father won his Games two years prior to Ruben when you were only six, so you never knew him all that well. The memories you do have of him are rather bitter, invoking flashes of flailing fists and deafening shouts. Though, acting as a warm blanket to the chill of your father’s acerbity, Ruben appears in your memories like a deity. He’d cover your ears when your parents’ shouting bounced off the marble walls; he’d argue with your father whenever he’d hit you for breaking something trivial; he’d always take your side, even if you did technically break that vase. As a child, Ruben was an angel sent from above. But, now that you’re older, you know better than to deem him as such.

Anyway. Ruben and your father’s triumphs earned them both irrevocable places in the Capitol as diamonds as well as homes in District four’s Victor’s Village — leaving you and your mother to live alone in the house of which you were raised. In fact, your entire lineage is among the victors, aunts and uncles and cousins all diamonds of the Capitol and residents of the village. Well, most of them. Some of your relatives moved to higher Districts after their Games, seeking as much proximity to the Capitol as possible.

A L/n has never lost the Games, not in the entire seventy-three years they’ve been running. The mere thought of someone in your family failing to prevail is something unprecedented.

You step out of the shower and wrap yourself into a towel, grabbing a suture kit from the cabinet under the sink. You pop it open and sit on the closed toilet seat before threading the needle. You’ve stitched yourself up plenty of times, the damned holograms annoyingly good at what they’re made to do — challenge you.

By the time you’ve finished and your bicep is newly adorned in neat stitching, it’s one o’clock. You only have a short bit of time before the Reaping. As you put the kit back into the cabinet, a second thought dawns on you.

Fuck! You think, eyes widening almost comically. Mister Alden will be here in ten minutes.

You tighten your towel around your body before padding down the hall to your bedroom. It’s overlarge, making you feel small. The walls are white with golden mouldings, the floors are made of marble tiles. To some, your family’s mansion would be a dream come true. Though, to you, it feels more like a prison than a home. It has ever since your brother left.

Your mother had an Avox lay your Reaping outfit out on your bed. It’s blue — as most clothing made for District Four is. It’s made of a deep navy satin, jewels embedded into the fabric. It’s absolutely gorgeous and you hate it.

Though, your personal thoughts on clothing matter naught. You once tried arguing with your mother on how extravagant your clothes were, saying it was ridiculous when people in lower Districts struggle for food. That comment earned you a week with minimal food. She said that if you pitied the peasants so greatly, she’d gladly treat you like one, claiming empathy to be far more valuable than sympathy. You’d never made another comment on your clothes again after that.

Though, you both knew her anger was rooted far deeper than your mere clothing preference. It was rooted in the underlying criticism you’d made in regards to the governing of your country — the unfair hierarchy of Districts. You never made a political comment after that, either. Not aloud anyway.

You pull the dress on, something symbolic always laced within the act of holding your tongue.

Each curve and stitch is made specifically for your body, fitting perfectly. Trading fish in this gown will make for an odd sight, but you haven’t a choice. Mister Alden should be here any minute and the Reaping begins in less than an hour; multitasking is your only option.

The halls are just as pristine as your bedroom, walls decorated with fine art and the tile floor kept sparkling. Thanks to the unpaid Avoxes — which are former criminals whose punishments are to be made into servants for the Capitol. You live in the Districts, but your family is so cherished by Capitolites that you’re permitted to have an abundance of your own servants. Despite the fact that your mansion is tended to by over twenty Avoxes, you’ve never spoken to a single one. Not due to your own ignorance, but because their tongues are removed and they’re unable to speak.

One of them holds the door open for you on your journey out to the docks. You thank him shortly, though he doesn’t respond.

Your house is beachfront, back porch providing a wooden path down to your own private piling dock. It’s unnecessarily fancy for your mother to inherit — who just happened to marry into a wealthy family — and you, who hasn’t even become a victor yet. And, if you’re never Reaped, you’ll have never deserved an ounce of what’s been given to you.

The path to the dock is a downward slope. Your house is built on a rocky cliff, hence the path’s existence. You hike your dress up as you rush down the wooden trail, though as soon as you do, you hear your mother’s past lectures ring through your head. “Never above the ankles!” She’d once said, slapping your hand with a stick to force you to drop the dress. Instinctively, you lower it.

You walk down to the dock, happy to see that it’s empty, Mister Alden not having yet arrived. Though, once you’ve reached the end of it, you hear the low hum of his boat’s motor putting through the salty water. He coasts up to the wooden structure. You reach out to catch him as the motor comes to a halt.

His boat is small, just big enough for one man to fit in. It’s made of metal with only one seat at the helm, situated beside the tilling outboard.

Your family has bought from mister Alden all your life. When you were a kid and it was Ruben’s job to retrieve the fish, you would traipse behind him. You’d hobble behind him, small legs having to run in order to keep up with your elder brother's long gait. Then, once at the dock, you were rendered useless. You’d peer over mister Alden’s boat, nosily searching his belongings. You watched as Ruben would speak to mister Alden shortly, pay him graciously, hoist the net of seafood over his shoulder, then head back inside. Due to this, mister Alden watched you grow more than your own father had. And even though his presence is short and biweekly, you know the old man rather well.

Well enough to know that he has three grandkids and the oldest of them is a twelve year old girl whose first ever Reaping is today.

“Oh, what a lovely outfit.” He smiles, crows feet creasing. He remains seated as you moor the boat to the cleats. The metal is so hot from endless days spent in the sun that it burns your hands at the touch. You don’t dare wince, knowing how fast mister Alden would rush to your aid. You’re sure he has enough on his plate what with his granddaughter. “I can carry the fish inside, if you’d like. Wouldn’t want you staining such a stunning dress.”

“It’s okay.” You’re quick to assure him, offering your hand to help him out of the boat once it’s tied off. He takes it, the man nigh senile in his old age. His hand shakes slightly as he steps onto the dock. “I can get the fish, mister Alden, I don’t mind.”

He smiles kindly, “You remind me so much of your brother.”

You don’t respond. You know he’s only saying that out of kindness, he has to be. Your mother ceaselessly reminds you of how different the two of you are. You try to ignore the comment as you lean over the boat to pull the huge net of fish from the creased hull. They’re blue in color, almost mimicking that of your dress, though their scales shine silver in the sunlight.

“Did you ever hear the story of Ruben’s first Reaping?” Mister Alden asks as you drop the net onto the dock, pausing to converse with him for a while despite knowing it’s a bad idea with your lack of time. “He only attended two Reapings, that poor boy. But his first one, I’ll never forget. It was the first time I met your mother, too, the nasty woman. He was out here retrieving fish, as our exchanges always seem to fall on Reaping Day. He was only twelve, but so determined to carry the fish all on his own. I offered my help at least a hundred times, to which he refused each one. He was strong, though, for his size. He managed to carry them all the way to the porch before the net caught on a twig and the fish fell all the way back down the pathway. Every single one.”

Your eyes widen. You recall this, though the memory is rather blurry to you as you were only seven at the time. That, and also because most of your memories with Ruben are tainted, not to be trusted in your bias.

“What’d my mother do?” You ask, unable to help your childlike curiosity from rearing its head.

“Well,” He chuckles, though it lacks any sense of humor. “She wasn't happy, that’s for sure. Ruben instantly began to cry when he saw the effects of his mistake. I tried to assure him that it was okay and I could always deliver more fish, but he said that’s not why he was sad. He wasn’t mourning the loss of the fish. Instead, he was terrified of what your mother would do to him.” Mister Alden shakes his head, grey brows turned in an expression of dispirit. “No child that small should fear his own parent so vehemently.”

You frown. In every aspect where your mother lacks morality, mister Alden has a myriad of it. The old man is practically overflowing with sympathy at all times. He’d always treated you and Ruben as his own, offering comfort whenever you seek it and kind words whenever you forget they even exist.

Just as he’s about to continue his story, your mother’s voice is heard. It’s shrill as she shouts your name. Chills trace down your spine at the sound. Mister Alden gives you a pitying expression before you pass him a small pouch of coins for payment, lift the net over your shoulder, and begin the trek back up to your porch. The sound of his motor starting up carries through the air as you approach your mother.

She’s wearing a baby blue dress, just as fancy as yours — if not more. Her usual wooden cane has been swapped out for a fancier golden one. Her hair is done up in a neat braid, gold heeled shoes adorning her wrinkled feet.

She shoots you a scowl before entering the house, dropping the door on you despite knowing you’re carrying a huge weight of seafood. It slams into your side, the corner of it landing on your stitched bicep. You wince, struggling for only a moment before an Avox rushes to your aid and holds it wide for you. You don’t dare thank her in front of your mother.

You enter the kitchen, placing the bag of fish onto the marble counter.

“We have less than twenty minutes before the Reaping!” She spits, rage evident in her tone as she watches you set it down. “Your feet are dirty and bare, your hair is matted, and you reek of fish!”

“I didn’t—” You begin, though you’re quick to stop yourself, remembering her order of not speaking unless asked to do so.

A sharp pain shoots through your cheek as she slaps you across the face for having spoken out of turn. You lower your head, mouth now sealed shut. She turns to give orders to the Avoxes — instructing two of them to put your hair up, one to put your shoes on, and three to gut and clean the fish prior to your return from the Reaping.

They’re quick to do so, rushing around to oblige.

You’re directed to a stool, two servants doing your hair into some intricate design whilst another crouches in front of you to slip on your shoes. They’re a pair of silver heels that match the jewels on your dress. In record time, the other two complete the updo, holding out a hand mirror for you to examine the design. Two thin braids wrap around the crown of your head, a neat bun resting at the nape of your neck. It’s beautiful considering how little time they had.

“I love it.” You whisper, quiet enough only they can hear it.

Your mother approaches you, thankfully not having heard your words of thanks. She circles around you, looking at the hairdo before she tuts, “It’ll do.”

The journey to the town square is only a few minutes. Though, as you walk beside your mother in deafening silence, it feels like an eternity. Everyone knows who the two of you are, the entirety of the Capitol fond of your family lineage. Their eyes are wide as they watch you and your mother pass through the streets. See, due to your partnership with mister Alden and your large quantity of Avoxes, neither of you ever leave the house unless it’s mandatory, which only adds to the peoples’ astonishment. Not to mention your unnecessarily extravagant clothing. Most people are only wearing plain gowns or linen shirts whereas you two look like you’re about to meet a monarch. It’s humiliating.

Your mother loves the attention, basking in it. You, on the other hand, feel as though it’s rather embarrassing.

You reach the square and part ways with her, wordlessly joining your respective age groups.

Your shoulders are set and your chin is raised as you know everyone is staring. Their gazes feel like spiders crawling all over your body. You fucking hate it, the prestige. Especially since you didn’t do anything to deserve it. You were just born into the family. To you, nothing makes you any different from the people living in the hovels of your District. Even in other Districts. The only thing that separates you from a starving child in Twelve is chance.

Mayor Marriott steps up to the podium and she tells the story of your country’s origin. You already know it by heart, having been taught by your father to memorize it at a young age. Her hair is platinum blonde, younger than most District mayors, though she’s just as strict. Her father was the mayor before her, causing her to take over the career. You oftentimes wonder if she hates lineage inheritance just as much as you do. You doubt it.

Following her speech comes the District escort. You know her by name, you know everyone in the Capitol by name. That’s Alice Reymond. Her hair is bigger than her head, her eyes adorned by lashes longer than her fingers. Capitolites are fucking weird, looking more like disfigured abstract pieces than human beings.

“Happy Hunger Games!” Exclaims Alice Reymond. “And may the odds be ever in your favor!”

She goes on to tell a speech on how much of an honor it is to serve as this District’s escort. Though every escort says that, you’re sure she means it more so than any others. Escorts are paid based on how many victors their District is able to produce. And, what with your family’s abundance of them, you’re sure she’s swimming in more cash than even District One’s escort is. However, more importantly, the bragging rights must be immeasurable.

Behind the podium of which she stands, mayor Marriott watches with a piercing gaze. Her blue eyes are intimidatingly sharp as she overlooks the crown. Though, the man sitting in the mentor’s chair has a gaze even sharper than she.

Ruben. Your brother.

He’s tasked with training and keeping the tributes alive each year. He’s rather good at it. And, even when he fails, nobody blames him. How could they when he’s so perfect? You tune out Alice Reymond’s speech, taking in the sight of your brother after having not seen him in years. The closest you’ve gotten to talking to him is watching interviews on the television.

His features are almost a perfect copy of yours — the same nose shape, same hair and eye color, same lips. But he’s got a certain look to him that erases any sort of similarities you two happen to share. A certain Capitolistic look. His eyes are highlighted with golden eyeliner, all the wrinkles in his face surgically removed. The brother you’d cherished all those years ago no longer exists. In his place sits the shell of a man. A Capitolite and thereby not your brother.

“Here we go!” Alice Reymond grins, yanking your thoughts back to the Reaping. She then begins digging her inhumanly long fingers through the bowl of names. She pulls out a slip of paper and smiles widely before calling it out. “Remy Wilson!”

The crowd murmurs lowly, looking around for the owner of the name. A pause. Nobody steps forward. Then, two Peacekeepers suddenly storm into the crowd and rip a little boy from his parents. The boy, Remy, is frozen in place, unmoving. The Peacekeepers pull him up to the stage. He’s crying, as he stands on the elevated space, trembling under the gazes of the District. Of the country.

He can’t be older than twelve. His cheeks are rounded, his big brown eyes even rounder. His skin is pale with a rosy nose, his wavy hair is an ashy brown that forms a messy crown of innocence around his head. Ruben is watching the boy closely, likely examining whether or not he’ll survive the arena. The answer is obvious, though. This child won’t be making it out.

“And for our second tribute,” Continues Alice Reymond. She pulls another paper from the bowl, her eyes widening slightly as she reads it. A great, pearly smile splits across her face before her spider-like eyes land on you. Your heart sinks.

You already know what she’s going to say when she calls out your name.

[post] notes!! While dual POV will be in this story, this is the only time I'll be showing two perspectives of the same event. This chapter followed Ellie and the reader both experiencing the reaping. It was needed for the plot but grew repetitive at the end, I promise this is the only time that'll happen 🤞 Also, this was a shit ton of exposition & I apologize for that, but the backstory of both characters are very needed. You def needed to see Ellie's relationship w everyone around her as well as have explanatory bg with the reader's family and everything. Also x2, I hope the amount of dialogue in Ellie's pov made up for the lack thereof in the reader's pov. I hate reading huge paragraphs of straight monologue so I try to refrain from writing it, but sometimes it's unavoidable (bc reader literally has nobody to talk to) Anyway, hope you enjoyed!!

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penvisions · 2 months ago

Text

gone to the dogs {chapter 7}

Pairing: Boston QZ! Joel Miller x F! Reader

Summary: Tensions run high as you can't seem to recover from your bout of sickness even though Tess is back on her feet and helping the newest member of your pack sort out some things. Neither of you had told Joel yet, bidding your time until some things are taken care of but you have a feeling it's more than just that if Tess's determined silence is anything to go by...

Word Count:

Warnings: canon typical violence, canon typical language, canon typical gore, outbreak fic, mean joel miller, degrading language, violence, heated interactions, adult language, fighting, references to injuries, blood, sexual content, rough sex, p in v, smut, unprotected p in v (it's the end of the world, y'all), sexual propositions, oral (f receiving), talk of pregnancy, angst, reference to off screen assault, medical jargon, mentions of nausea, mentions of past trauma, mentions of canon death, mentions of past childloss, i think that's it for this one!

Fic notes: we are officially 10 years into the apocalypse! joel is 46 at this point and cane is early 30's, but please imagine her to look anyway you want! these are just rough estimates and descriptions that are not set in stone as per the x reader tradition. simply a way for me to get the story fleshed out a bit c:

A/N: this fic really just got so big and it can't possibly be contained to the original ten chapters when i first started it. these two have really taken the reigns and i am all for letting them develop and flourish as they wish ♡♡

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Joel scrubs a hard hand over his face, brushing away as much of the ash and dirt as he can as he lowers the bandana wrapped around his head as a mask. It’s not much, but it eases his mind enough for him to keep using it.

He’s been pulling more shifts, as many as they could give him. You and Tess both being sick was something that worried him, stressed him out. The dangers of the end of the world were rampant, too many to count and keep track of. A weakened immune system brought on by fever and sickness was something from Before that he had completely lost the notion of.

Seeing you beaten up and bruised from fights or shows of power, from hard days working whatever shitty physical labor the zone needed done or from crawling your way through the rubble of the fallen city around them in search of things to trade and sell- it was different. Different than seeing you wrapped up in all the thin blankets in the shared apartment, that he could get his hands on only to still see the shivers that rack your body and chitter your teeth together. It was different than seeing you barely manage to keep water down to take the pills he paid far too much for only for you to gag on the weight of it settling in your empty stomach.

The scraps of chicken and bone he managed to trade for had cost so many ration cards. But the medicine, the stock he was able to pull from the bone- all of it was worth it for you and Tess to start to get better.

Well, Tess was better. You were…you were…are still sick. No longer plagued by fevers, cold spells, and heat flashes. But your stomach was unsettled, and your appetite was borderline gone, the weight you dropped a little concerning and the color drained from your skin.

He’s been playing caretaker to whatever extent you’ll allow him when he’s in the privacy of your shared apartment. Even if it’s as simple as refilling your mug with hot water for a second cup of tea, of collecting the bowl you had used to try and eat something with before he got home. He’s willing to do it, to do more. But you won’t let him. Determined to hold onto your independence in a way that both makes him proud and feel a little useless.

So he works. To provide. To make it easier. To give you space. Doing the long standing trades, showing his face more on that side of things while you’re unable to do so. Tess now, too, is back at it and it seems like you’ve given her clear orders on who to trade with and who not to as the weather grows colder.

But right now all he can focus on is the sprawled out form of you on the bed. Sheets and blankets tossed and kicked to the end of the bed and nearly crumpled on the floor as you pant heavy breaths while trying to find a comfortable position to fall back asleep.

The baser instincts in him rise at the smell of sweat and the sounds your making, the slight groan of the mattress beneath your wiggling form. it’s not that he wants it for himself, well, not just that he wants it for himself. But your body is stressed, it’s fighting, mind and nervous system out of whack. He’s on you the second he steps over the threshold into the room, determined to give you some sort of relief. To give you something else other than seemingly endless days of sickness and being unwilling to leave the building.

“Joel, ‘m still sick.” You mumble halfheartedly, that tug in your navel letting you know that despite everything, your body still sings for him- because of him. And it’s intoxicating, the immediate reaction as you feel plush lips against your skin, feel the weight of his body so close.

“Don’t matter, want you.”

His kisses are like fire, trailing down from your chin where he nips hard to your neck and chest. Tank top pulled up as carefully as he could manage, ridding you of the thin fabric. His lips close around hardened peaks to pull out desperate sounds from you, so sensitive to the soothing swipe of his tongue after biting teeth. His nose skims across your skin, the sharpness of it driving you wild as his hands make quick work of removing the pants you had fallen asleep in.

His teeth nip gently at the swollen lips of your cunt through the fabric of your underwear before he breaths in deep. “Gonna get you outta your head for a bit.”

And like a switch, your mind and body only focus on him.

The drag of his nose over the same place, the tug of his fingers pulling the now damp fabric down. The hot, thick line of his cock against your legs as he pulls them up to bend into your chest. His tongue swipes flat over your folds, delving between them after, shockwaves of pleasure so intense after experiencing nothing but aches and pains for the last couple of weeks. It pulls a moan deep from your chest, the responsive chuckle earning him another as you feel the vibrations of it skitter across your skin.

He's pulling pleasure from you like he was made for it, his knowledge of your body all he committed to memory and you’re crying out within minutes. His fingers grip the backs of your thighs, spreading them to make room for his body to line of with yours and then he’s pushing in slowly. Through a crack of your eyelid, you see his focus on where the two of you connect, brown eyes dark and hair slicked back save for one stray curl folded over his temple. Teeth gritted and breath hissing as he fills you, slowly, taking in the sight for what it is, feeling it for what it is, living up to his promise to get you out of your head as he bottoms out and your mouth goes slack.

“Theeeere we go, huh, darlin’?” One of his hands snake up to grip your chin gently, pulling your thrown back head toward him. Thick fingers caress the too hot skin there and his eyes soften as your own fly open when he leans forward to press a kiss to the tip of your nose, the obscene sound of him pushing in deeper and your walls clenching around him. “Look at those pretty eyes, starin’ up at me with nothing behind them, that’s exactly what we wanted, wasn’t it?”

All you can do it try to nod, his hand so large cradling the side of your face, his lips so tantalizingly close but your body is frozen, the breath caught in your throat as you pulse around him, pleasure rippling through your body as he throbs deep inside you. He must see the way they tremble and he closes his mouth around yours, giving you exactly what you wanted without you needing to ask. When he pulls back, his teeth glint in the faint light seeping in through the window.

“Don’t gotta think about nothin’ else but how full you feel. Deserve to turn your thoughts off and just focus on gettin’ fucked.”

He’s pulling back a bit, his knees caging you in as they squeeze around your hips.

You can barely take a breath before he’s slamming back in and it’s pushed from your lungs.

Over and over again.

The day starts off normally, a plan in motion to tell Joel once he returns from one of his shifts. Tess spends the day helping to move most of Jean’s stuff out of the shitty apartment she had been given alongside two other single girls. Not enough room for her to even have her own space. But Tess was willing to give up her bedroom and move into the living room to provide some semblance of privacy and control for the young girl. You had taken her to the clinic, as well. Dropped her off and were due to pick her up any moment now, but you’re kneeled down in front of the toilet.

Your own sickness seems to linger while Tess is back in good health. Her color coming back while yours remains pallor, hot flashes and cold spells waring underneath your skin and making you nauseous. You were doing your best to hide the worst of the symptoms from Joel, not wanting him to feel like he needed to use the stock of goods and cards for more medicine that only worked at first. You’re just grateful that awful cough that rattled your brain and hurt your throat was gone, the phlegm that seemed to either clog up your sinuses or run far too freely gone as well. It had been a bad chest cold, same as Tess and you didn’t understand why you were better, but you weren’t…better.

You had given blood at the clinic, just to be cautious.

Because you were beginning to get worried. Between the new responsibility of caring for and protecting Jean, the rather startling reach out from Bill concerning new habits from Frankie he’s developed and the increasing scarcity of things to find in the city, you were feeling a slow simmering panic begin to form in the back of your mind and weigh down your mental and physical resolve.

The cold chill settling in the air wasn’t helping, telling you that it was about to get a while lot worse as the temperature dropped and winter weather became a daily struggle on top of it all. Snow and ice in Boston was normal this time of year, to begin falling from the sky and form on the ground.

Picking Jean up from the clinic was supposed to be a simple task. But you honestly don’t remember much of it. The ringing in your ears had started once the doctor had turned to you and read the results of your own testing. Effectively pulling the entire god damn earth’s crust from beneath your feet. You don’t remember the trek back to the apartment, nor the way that Jean was glancing at you out of the corner of her eye. Bottom lip between teeth as she contemplated commenting on same diagnosis that was read to you.

Shock. You were in shock. Mind reeling from the fact that now there wasn’t just one pregnancy to navigate, but two.

All you know is the startling cold of porcelain seeping through the towel you had placed over the top of the lid as you knelt in the bathroom once again. Stomach heaving and throat burning, heart beating far too fast as you struggled to regain your breath. Tears prickled at the corners of your eyes, a sharp contrast in how hot they were compared to the tile that surrounded you.

Just as you managed to stand up from your rather humbling position in front of the toilet again, you hear it.

The boom of Joel’s voice through the thin walls.

He was home early.

And Tess must’ve just told him what you two have been handling the past few days.

Keeping as silent on your feet as possible, not wanting to sound the creaks of your aged flooring, you inch into the living room and move into the kitchen. His voice is clear as a bell and angry.

“It’s just another fucking human being that’s going to be subjected to a shitty life and even shittier people. How do you think that kid is gonna feel when they learn about how they were conceived? You think she’s gonna be able to sit her kid down and explain to them the shit she had to endure? That she was raped and it was either go through with the birth or risk her life ending the pregnancy? You think that’s any kind of thing to put on child in this god forsaken world?”

“Joel, she’s scared. She said you told her to come to you for help. And Cane and I are an extension of that-“ Tess’s voice is raised, an attempt to wrangle in Joel’s own but its fruitless. You’ve only heard him sound like this when he deals with less than savory trade partners. You’ve only heard him when it was that first year of knowing him. When he didn’t trust you or share your bed. Before the shadow of a life you two slowly and carefully curated together.

“Just cause y’all are women doesn’t mean you know better about this than me. Don’t you try to pull that sexist bullshit with me, Tess. You know just as well as I do that bringing a new life into this world is a mistake. The risks of pregnancy before were deadly, with the help of machines and medicine. But now?”

He scoffs loud enough for you to hear it through the walls. You don’t flinch, though you know you would’ve once upon a time. There’s truth in his words, no matter how he’s weaponizing it to prove his point. To deny getting involved in the situation.

“Now she’s as good as dead if she goes through with it. And what if she does manage to give birth to a healthy baby and she’s the one stuck paying the price? Bleeds out or needs to be cut open, then there’s just another orphan the system is gonna abuse and use for their twisted sense of righteousness.”

“Joel-“

“She’s gonna be stuck with a kid, do you realize how much time and effort and work is gonna go into that and it’s all gonna fall on us. On me. And I am too fucking old for this shit.” You can hear silence that greets his harsh words, the raw and unfiltered emotions he feels on the matter. You knew Tess had a kid before all this and it must be hard for her to grapple with the reality of the situation. Especially as it brings up memories and her own past emotions. “There is no way in hell this is going to work out.”

“She came to us for help, Joel. You instilled in her that you would look after her, no matter what. And guess what? This is something big! She can live here with me, I can…I can help her through the rough patches, I know what it’s like to have a less than smooth time of it.”

“Tess…”

“I’m going to help her, Joel. From one mother to a prospective one. As a parent, I would think you feel at least a little connected to the issue at hand.” That gave you as much pause as it seemed to Joel. The silence that permeated the air was heavy, crackling tension palpable even through the walls.

“This is dangerous, this is stupid and reckless. Children aren’t a blessing, they’re a curse.” His even but thudding steps could be heard as he makes his way to the door. You’re still in shock a few moments later when it doesn’t slam shut, it doesn’t even open. He must’ve turned around and you can almost picture him looking over his shoulder. All broad and brooding, angry. “This is a mistake.”

With no other outlet for what you’re feeling, you shove your hands into the sleeves of your jacket and grab your keys from the nails they hang on beside the door. Glancing on the sleeping form of Jean on the couch, you’re relieved that she’s in a deep enough sleep to not hear the harsh words of the man who she had sought out for help.

You don’t even dare glance at the end of the hallway, not knowing what you would do if you glimpsed Joel at this moment.

And that scared you.

That you didn’t know if you would curl up into his chest, wrap your arms around his neck or waist and burrow your face into him. Inhale his scent and be comforted by the way he holds you back. Or if you would scold him for his choice of words, for the way he’s backtracking suddenly as the situation turns now to something he doesn’t have the patience and energy to deal with.

That you didn’t know if the words would immediately fall from your lips or stay lodged in your throat and suffocate you.

He had given Jean his attention, his protection, his word that he would look out for her. And he’s standing there determining the course of her future that would best benefit him. That would work in his favor, to not have to deal with something so monumentally important. The news isn’t the best, it isn’t born of a decision between two consenting adults who are determined to nurture and love. Hell, you aren’t even sure if Jean had ever admitted to wanting to be a mother beyond not feeling right with doing away with her condition. But it was something, it was someone.

Hope. It was hope you were feeling as you sped down the hallway and away from the harsh words that hang in the air.

Hope for a future that isn’t the same damn thing day in and day out. Fighting and hustling for supplies, for food, for water, for space in a crowded zone. That isn’t protecting your territory and your smuggled items, that isn’t holding fast to your going rates as people challenge them and clamor for them because even if you did want to provide things that were hard to find or considered contraband, you still needed to benefit from the effort and skills that go into supplying them.

The news Jean brought to you, born of devastation and immoral means, could be the universe’s push of urging you toward something else. Your own news born of a moment of passion under the influence with someone who you found rare solace and genuine companionship with. The naïve notion of taking it in stride and shifting everything for the better, for the hope of making something of the situation you’ve landed yourself in is a painful one. Cultivating and nurturing goodness back into the world where you could, back into your life that had become so violent and overwhelming in its eat or be eaten nature.

You’ve been violent for so long, have had to be violent for so long. The world demanding it of you if you wanted to survive, to breath, to live to see another tortured day. And all those days that it seemed like too monumental a task, too hard a thing to commit to once again. A flicker of your old, weaker self rising up and arguing that there was no point, that it was useless to survive a hard day and the only reward was another string of them. But now you know why it was imperative that you stuck with it, defending yourself, protected yourself, used teeth and nails and haunting violence to make sure you saw the sun rise each morning and set each night over a world that was decimated beyond help.

And that reason was a phantom weight low in your belly. The new reason you would fight even harder from this point on until the moment you drew your last breath. Your child would know better than you were thrust into, would know better than this broken world and mockery of what was once city life.

You would bite and claw and fight, shoot or slash anything that threatened the life you were determined to give to your child, to give back to her. That younger version of yourself lost piece by piece as things quickly fell, as people gave into temptation and damnation the second civilization crumbled.

You don’t realize the heavy words in your mind are coming out as snarled sounds every time your boots hit the ground with your fast pace. The man Jean had described was walking home, you on his tail and none the wiser about what fate was about to deliver. What you were about to deliver.

Crazy bitch. Depraved dog. Ruthless.

His insults don’t mean anything, as you stalk him through the streets and down the hallway that leads to his apartment. His pained groans and stuttered breaths mean nothing to you as you land hit after hit, they don’t give insight to anything but satisfaction that curls your lips up at the corners.

His words, Joel’s words, ring in your ears as you feel the impact of your knuckles on the man’s face. Each punch, each hit landing as the echo inside your head gets louder and louder. Those are the only ones that mean anything, the only thing that fuels your violence. The man crumpled beneath your knees deserving of every last bit even more so and you’re convinced he would feel the exact same way. He would see his own actions as righteous, taking what was his, what was deserved- the consequences not on his mind nor something he would feel like needs his attention. An afterthought, the result of an assault he forced on someone.

All of it, everything in the entire world was just- mistake, mistake, mistake. After goddamn mistake.

But this? Delivering retribution on the man who is weaker than you ever were, it feels right. It feels like something you’re meant to do. Despite the depravity and brutality of the sentence you’ve given him, it’s a step in the right direction. It’s a step toward a better future.

Please. Stop. I’ll do anything you want. Take anything you want. Please- no…no!

And then he’s no longer breathing the air he doesn’t deserve.

With bruised hands, swollen knuckles and aching fingers you gather everything in his apartment into his own duffle bags hidden beneath the bed.

You leave the apartment, ignoring the cracked doorways as people peek through them to see what the scuffle was about, who had been target this time- the only thing left inside besides dirty linens and dishes is his body with a note stabbed into his chest with his pocket knife.

Don’t mess with my people.

Signed off with a stamp of ink in the shape of a paw.

And though it’s far too early to feel the weight in your belly, something settles there and you feel it the entire walk back to the apartment building, even as you stand at the sink and wash the blood from your hands. The stain of it lingers even with the aid of soap and cold water.

His figure used to be refreshing, a comforting thing to see at the end of every tumultuous day. But now, your eyes track him, take him in as if he posed a threat. As if he had done anything other than simply walk into the room, his muscles rippling with the action of removing his jacket. His scruff a dark shadow in the low light that glitters when the gray there catches the light. He’s so broad, the entire doorway filled by the width of his shoulders, the breadth of his chest. The same body you found comfort in when it curled around you or pressed down upon you. But now, it’s as if a stranger has strutted into your home for all that had happened recently.

Large, calloused hands reach for his belt, remove with a simple pull through the fabric holding it in place and you feel nausea rise at the spike of desire that pools between your legs. Feelings and urges war with each other in your mind and heart, body reacting to his as he approaches. Your head tilting into the cradle of his palm even as your mind screams at you that he doesn’t care. This is the same man who had declared loudly and determinedly that he wanted no part in the situation at hand. The one that involved a child. He hadn’t known his words were not only for another woman but for you too.

“You okay, darlin’? You look a little waxy there. The meds workin’ alright or do I need to go and get some more from the infirmary?”

“Fine, Joel.”

“Hey,” His eyes search yours as he tips your chin up, locking onto them and trying to find out what you’re not voicing. But he can’t seem to, because his brow furrows and the corners of his lips pull down. “You sure?”

“Had to take someone out, is all. Muscles weren’t used to being used like that.” The admittance doesn’t lift any of the weight in your chest, but the words are out. No longer caged between your ribs with the other secrets you now carry.

“Tell me you didn’t.” He takes a step back, and he’s not upset…but he’s- something. How were you supposed to know it was fear, when you swallowed yours down so long ago?

“I’ll tell you I did, because it needed to be done. He didn’t deserve to breath anymore. He forced her, Joel. He manipulated her long before that and then when she was finally free from him, he goes and-“

“You shoulda let me handle it.”

“Why? Because I’m too weak?” The snarl in your words has him removing his hand from you, giving you space. He lets out a heavy breath as he realizes the way you had taken his worry, his fear.

The room is crackling, the energy flowing from you having built up for days, weeks now. It hadn’t bothered you at first, it hadn’t bothered you at all. Until someone had made a comment that you had been made to heel, fucked into your rightful place. Just as you had been leaving the clinic earlier that day. You had been preoccupied, yes that’s true, but that didn’t mean you had taken a step to the side and allowed for authority to shift. You had simply begun to focus more on finding things that would not only benefit the anticipated needs of the zone’s occupants, but of Bill and Frank as well. Then you had gotten sick, all of that paired with the reality you were facing alongside Jean and no one could blame you for the whirlwind that had replaced your heart.

“You’re just tired, is all. Not weak, I could’ve been there for backup.” He tries to keep calm, but you can see the way the muscle in his jaw twitches. He looks from the collection of items on the dining table, to where you had made up a nest of sorts on the couch as you had tried to get some time out of the bed you really should be swathed in to recover. “Let’s get you another dose of meds and maybe a shower.”

And you know he isn’t trying to belittle your emotions or step around them. He’s seeing them for what they are, as least as best he can. He knows you’re overwhelmed, that small things grow into big things over time, and this is one of those moments where you realize that they have and it’s completely out of your control.

“‘M fine.” You can’t help the snap of your teeth as you clench your teeth, head pounding and stomach turning. You hadn’t left for days but you had heard the rumors going around as you and Tess all but disappeared from the scene when you both fell sick. Determined to get out and reclaim some semblance of control, you reach for your coat. The clack of plastic makes you freeze, worried that the object got shoved from the depths of the inside pocket it’s hidden in.

Joel takes the moment to come up behind you, his arms wrapping around your middle. Grounding himself and attempting to ground you too, knowing there was no stopping you if you wanted to get some space. You know he wouldn’t take that from you, try to control that part of you. He needed space sometimes too, even on the good days. But this wasn’t one of them, this was a bad day. A monumentally bad one. And it’s made even heartbreakingly worse by the confession he breathes into the back of your neck, his forehead pressed to back of your head as he inhales your scent. Don’t go. Love you. Need you safe while you’re sick.

You freeze, processing.

Love you. Love you. Love you.

It echoes in your mind, his voice caressing and soothing despite everything. It calms you enough to take a deep breath, to try and center yourself for the barest of moments.

And it sounds so good, his voice quietly voicing the warmth and affection that had developed, that had been carefully cultivated between you two over the years. But as good as they sound, they don’t bring you the comfort you know he hopes that they will. Because he’s already undermined the sentiment, he’s already crumbled the very foundation of what you two stand on. It breaks your heart a little to not return the words, even as you feel them harden and catch in the middle of your throat.

“You gotta know that, by now.” He fills the silence as your body tenses in his hold.

But the timing of it, the words he had spoken so devoutly just the previous day are like shrapnel stuck in your skin, burning and stinging. No amount of picking at them will take away the damage they’ve done, clear the burns and the irritation, the pain.

“Didn’t know you were the type of man who cast aside a pregnant woman who came to you for help. A woman who you’ve done nothing but try and watch out for until this point.” Your voice is a whisper, anger bubbling up, heartbreak spilling your chest open, body almost numb from the way everything was so poetically fucked.

“You’re right, I’ve done nothing but try and watch out for her. And guess what? She still got hurt, she still got assaulted, she’s still in this goddamn situation that has no good outcomes!” He’s pulling away, you turn to face him. The darkness that had fallen as night settled is not longer comforting against the onslaught of photophobia you had been experiencing all day. Now it feels suppressive, it feels like you’re in a cage that you can’t escape from. The words Joel had said and is now saying are like locks, connecting together in a twisted way to make you feel the weight of how they can’t possibly be coming from the same person.

“Is it really that bad of a situation?”

“Is it- for fuck’s sake, Cane.” He scrubs a wide palm over his face, the scruff of his neck bristling at the action and causing goosebumps to sprout all along your arms. “I think I get a decent read on you and then you go and ask somethin’ like that. Do you not see how this will affect us? Affect everything we try to do to survive?”

His voice has shifted from anger to something that rings warning bells in your head, it’s not desperation and its not beseeching. But there’s something in the deep timbre that alights your nerves and makes you feel as if everything between you will be determined in the next choice of words. Despite how you feel, despite the way things have been going, the groove you’ve found with him and Tess. Despite the smuggling getting harder but still holding a majority of the supplies and power, and how Joel returns to you every night. Despite it all, the phantom weight you feel low in your middle compels the words that leave your lips next.

“I’m not even sure if I know what love truly is but if it’s not what I feel for you then I have no clue. It’s never simple and perhaps it just speaks to how I’m meant to be alone.”

“What’s more simple than telling me how you feel?” His eyes are narrowed, though you see the way his irises are blown out. You wouldn’t go so far as to say he’s panicking, but he’s not…he’s hadn’t expected anything other than reciprocation. And it breaks your heart, the chasm in your chest deepening as you realize you can’t gift them to him as easily as you would’ve been able to just twenty-four hours prior.

“Because I heard you, Joel!” Your words leave you in a shout, an angry frustrated cry that bursts from your chest. Unable to quell the spike of emotions, this wasn’t just about Jean anymore. “I heard you talking about how that girl you’ve taken under your wing suddenly means nothing to you the second you can’t handle the situation. The things you said, the fucking vitriol in your voice when you talked about an innocent, a baby.”

“That’s what changed your mind? Affected everything I’ve done in the past four years, we’ve done in the past four years.”

“Yes! Because you- it- because it was so hateful. Like, I get it, Joel, really. You’re a big scary man, you’ve got the brooding scowl down and the razor sharp glare, but she needs our help with this. I don’t like it anymore than you do, but I’m not about to tell her what to do with her own body. You cannot be so daft to not think that that’s not going to alter the way I think about you at least a little.”

He doesn’t seem to know how to respond, his full lips pull down into a deep frown and his brow furrows, but he doesn’t say anything else. His eyes hard, sharp on you as he watches the way you shrug your jacket on and stand in front of the door. With a hand on the knob, you look back over your shoulder with a set expression, not willing for him to see any glimpse of what’s going on in your head.

“I’m going to take Jean to Lincoln. It’ll be safer for her there, better place to raise her mistake.”

The instinct to run, to protect, to build for not one but two mistakes settles deep in your bones as you realize the notion was a solitary one. Joel’s own instincts clashing with yours. Preservation and protection flare up and make you defensive, make you willing to walk away from the life you created with someone you love, to deny them the last true thing that makes life worth living- of loving and being loved in return, they allow you push through the heartache of leaving it all behind.

“I’ll be staying there to help her through everything.”

You don’t hear the whispered plea to not leave that falls from his lips, eclipsed by the sound of the slamming door. Or you do, and it push it from your memory for all the pain it brings to recall it.

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morganski-19 · 3 months ago

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Chills Right to the Marrow Part 49

ao3 link| part 1 . . . part 46, part 47, part 48

Wayne’s so tired when he gets back from work, he just wants to fall on his bed and sleep for a day. But he can’t, not yet. Because Steve’s telling him the phone’s for him, and he should take it.

Finally, after months of saving and looking, Wayne put in an offer at a place. Nice little house with two bedrooms, even one with an en suite bathroom. Nice kitchen, good sizes living room, an actual driveway. Even a basement. Everything Wayne’s always wanted but never thought he could have.

His offer was exactly asking price, he couldn’t think of parting with anything more. The phone call was probably from the realtor Mrs. Henderson gave him, telling him that they rejected it. Wanted him to go higher. Like every other house he’s looked at. Just people trying to get more money to start their lives out of the town they ran from within days.

Wayne nods at Steve while he takes the phone. “Wayne Munson,” he sighs into the phone. Already ready for impact.

“Mr. Munson,” the realtor’s cheery voice comes in through the line. Way too early for nine in the morning. “I have some great news, they accepted your offer.”

“What?” he blurts out. Needing to know that his half-asleep mind just didn’t make that up.

“The house, they accepted your offer. You can get the keys as soon as the payment goes through, and everything gets signed.”

It was real. He got the house. A dream he’s long given up on, now a reality. Wayne doesn’t know how he’s supposed to act. The sleep keeps dragging him to the floor, but he almost feels like floating.

“Mr. Munson, are you still there?”

“Yes, sorry. I just got back from a shift, but can I come in this afternoon to get everything settled?”

“Let me look.” There is rustling of some papers over the line. “It looks like I can meet with you at three thirty to get everything signed, how does that sound?”

Somehow Wayne musters up the energy to smile. “That works, thank you.”

“Alright, I’ll see you then.”

Wayne hangs up the phone on the receiver, not sure how or what he’s feeling. The tiredness still pulling at his bones, but excitement pumping through his heart. He feels like a kid again, too excited to fall asleep.

It’s weird, having a dream that was so long forgotten it became impossible. What was he supposed to do know that it was not only probable but completed?

There’s so much he has to do. Pack away their things there, get some new furniture. Maybe he can go to that thrift store and find some stuff. Just little things to get them through. They need new everything.

Maybe they should stay here for a few more weeks and slowly build up the house. Get things as the pay checks come in, starting with beds and building to a couch. They could get some of those stupid things in houses that always seemed pointless. Like two end tables, or stupid decorations. Something that no one with a soul buys but get anyway because it’s a statement piece.

Wayne finds himself walking toward the living room. Needing to tell someone. Physical exhaustion in each step, but he feels like flying.

“We got the house,” he says with pure disbelief.

Eddie sits up. “What?”

“We got the house,” he says again. Certainty coming through his voice.

“Holy shit.” Eddie motions for Steve’s hand. “Help me up.”

Steve holds out his hand and holds it steady as Eddie uses it to push himself up. Eddie stumbles over to Wayne and collapses in a hug.

“We got a house.”

“We got a house,” Wayne repeats. Tears finding their way to his eyes.

“Congratulations,” Steve says forcefully. Wayne looks at him, seeing the slump of his shoulders. “I’m happy for you guys.”

He knew this would happen when they agreed to live here. When Steve decided to open up, not only his home, but his heart. Show them how an empty house could feel full again. Just to be left empty once more.

But Steve has to move, too. Sometime soon. Maybe he can find a nice apartment with one of his friends. That way it won’t feel so bad leaving him here. And it’s not like they’ll go far. How could they, with everything that’s happened. Eddie will still need help some days, and Steve could come over any time. And there was the elephant in the room he’s been avoiding, that will keep them close.

Wayne can say that he’ll miss living with him. A few months ago, he wouldn’t have believed those words were true. But it was nice living with Steve. Having another person to help out with Eddie, help out with the house. Having little meals left for him when he comes back from his shifts.

But, as much as that hurts, Wayne’s overjoyed. They finally have a house. It’s more than he’s ever asked for.

Little bit of a shorter part to start off the final Wayne pov chapter, can't believe it's already here tbh.

tag list (closed): @the-they-who-nerded, @insteviewetrust, @croatoan-like-its-hot, @jettestar,

@tinyplanet95, @steddie-as-they-go, @slv-333, @littlecelestialmoth, @thatonebadideapanda,

@fandomsanddeath, @marismorar, @wonderland-girl143-blog, @glass-bottle03, @gutterflower77,

@here4thetrama, @goodolefashionedloverboi, @jaytriesstuff, @cryptid-system, @manda-panda-monium,

@resident-gay-bitch, @anaibis, @xxsutherlandxx, @forevermineliv, @mugloversonly,

@gregre369, @n0-1-important, @different-tale-student, @spectrum-spectre, @tartarusknight,

@devondespresso, @swimmingbirdrunningrock, @cheertain, @anti-ozzie, @autumncrocusandladybug,

@greeniebean911, @cr0w-culture, @stillfullofshit, @connected-dots, @daisynotquake,

@morgannotlefay, @a-little-unsteddie, @dolphincliffs, @maskofmirrors, @me-and-my-sloth,

@papergrenade, @waelkyring, @sweetheartprincess28, @katouasobj, @astercomoasflores

#chills right to the marrow fic #stranger things #stranger things fanfic #wayne munson #wayne pov #eddie munson #steve harrington #steddie #steddie fic

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raccoonfallsharder · 1 month ago

Text

2024 in review ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

well, it's been a long and difficult year lol. i got less writing done than i wanted ~ but still managed to meet most some of my writing goals for the year!

fandom moves so fast these days. i feel like i've watched so many people come and go since summer 2023! and i've been so lucky to connect with the folks that have stuck around as well. for those of you wondering, please rest assured that as long as i can keep my writing motivation up, i'll still be here in the rocket raccoon fandom (i already have plans for all of 2025 loosely lined up)!~

altogether, we have:

46 WORKS in my ao3 library ✮ | ✩ | ❤︎‬ | ❤︎‬❤︎ ~ 20+ since Jan 2024

20+ HEADCANONS & 20+ IMAGINES on tumblr ✮ | ✩ ~ 10+ headcanons since Jan 2024 ~ 10+ imagines since Jan 2024

19 "TAKE WHAT YOU NEED" ONESHOTS, written at your request. ✮ ~ 11 since Jan 2024

a new separation of the main masterlist into SFW , NSFW, and collections masterlists, and the addition of the art masterlist.

here's the highlight-reel!~

The Finished Longform (February 2024): i completed Window Across the Galaxy at twenty-seven chapters and 235,940 words. so far it continues to be my favorite thing i've ever written. (i recently made a lil moodboard for it, too!) ♡

Window Across the Galaxy. ❤︎‬❤︎ 18+ only MDNI | rocket x f!oc | 27/27 chapters | word count: 235,940. girl falls first; raccoon falls harder. rocket is captured by a ravager crew hoping to get rich off the excessively large bounty on his head. throwing a wrench in everyone’s plans is the terran girl they hired to do some freelance assessing on a recent haul of goods they’ve seized from a xandaran luxury liner. oops. see post for warnings & context.

Everyone's Fave Oneshot (August 2024): i was threatening to write overheard on the bowie for like a hundred years before it finally came out. in terms of kudos, it's right up there with adorations and Outer Space Safety & Spaceship Maintenance Training.

overheard on the bowie ❤︎‬❤︎ 18+ only MDNI | f!reader | word count: 12,973. rocket laments building the bowie with such thin walls between bunks. ie, you haven’t been able to get off in a while, and your neighbor knows it. see post for warnings.

Everyone's Fave Midlengths (July and October 2024): triple-shots are always the hardest, but it was SO much fun to write both of these.

windfall. (a meetgroot) ❤︎‬❤︎ 18+ only MDNI | f!reader | 3/3 parts | word count: 44,521. semi-shy ultrafeminine touch-deprived reader tries to avoid meeting knowhere’s intimidating captain. is profoundly unsuccessful. see post for warnings & context. sunshine. ❤︎‬❤︎ 18+ only | no use of y/n | f!reader | 4/4 parts | word count: 37,320. you take a stranger home for a night of celebration. why not? after all, it’s not like there will be any longterm ramifications. see post for warnings & context.

My Personal Fave (November 2024): i had this idea rattling around in my head for like a year and kinktober seemed like the right time to write it!

you are cordially invited. ❤︎‬❤︎18+ only | no use of y/n | f!reader | 2/2 parts | word count: 38,775. you'd do anything for enough money to care for your ailing mother — including agreeing to a night working for the collector. too bad you weren't more prepared to be part of the entertainment.

other notables from 2024~

Fave Smut Scenes (From Longer Works): Chapter 5/6 Year Four: Formation of florescence❀ ❤︎‬❤︎ (September 2024)

everything blossoms. WARNINGS: dirty talk, seduction, striptease, fellatio, praise to the nth power, body worship, nervous rocket, implied dom rocket, dirty talk, mentions of sex toys and anal play and tit-fucking and The Tail, (accidental?) sensation play/marking with claws, use of "slut" (affectionate), mentions of creative positions, aftercare, outdoor sex, lots of feelings. a near break-up.

chapter sixteen. craxis. of cicatrix. ❤︎‬❤︎ (July 2024)

pearl considers the problem of sovereign. WARNINGS: smutty-smut while rocket wears his cute lil goggles. cockwarming. dirty-talk. praise. mentions of gagging and one light spank. use of “slut”/”whore” (affectionate). aftercare.

chapter twenty-two. falesia. of cicatrix. ❤︎‬❤︎ (September 2024)

pearl is punished. WARNINGS: continued trauma-related anxiety & general insecurity. smutty-smut with a safeword discussion, d/s vibes, “punishment” (affectionate), nipple play (discussion of clamps), and orgasm control/delay. followed by soft romantic sex with a tiny bit of overstim, && tons of dirty talk as per frickin’ usual.

Fave One-Shots:

cold hands, warm thighs. ✩ (November 2024) spice | gn reader | word count: 5,122. the best thing about landing on cold planets is the warming-up part afterward.for @/leresq. see post for warnings. bite. ✩ (March 2024) low-grade spice & fluff | gn reader | word count: 2,266. you run into a familiar stranger at your place of work and end up flirting madly. or, a raccoon walks into a bar. machinery. ✩ (March 2024) semi-romantic angst & fluff | gn reader | word count: 1,946. rocket manipulates you into stealing something for him. what wouldn't you do for a pair of pretty almandine eyes? see post for warnings.

evasive maneuvers ❤︎‬❤︎ (October 2024) ~ ok, ok, this one is a double-shot! 18+ only | no use of y/n | f!reader | 2/2 parts | word count: 15,595. rocket promises you an abundance of rewards in return for your assistance brushing up on some of his old résumé skills. an expansion on day 9 of kinktober 2023.

Most Words Written (March 2023 - ongoing): i don't know if this one will live up to Window Across the Galaxy in terms of quality (though i am really loving it so far) but we have already exceeded window's wordcount. also, please check out the masterlist for the amazing, beautiful fan art that this fic has been gifted. the generous creativity of people reading this story has truly been one of the highlights of my 2024.

cicatrix.❤︎‬❤︎ 18+ only MDNI | rocket x f!oc | 26/40+ | word count: 272,062+. [WIP] a story about scars. two survivors learn about themselves, each other, hope, and the universe. a freakish little monster visits the high evolutionary’s bride on her wedding night. an adventure of intergalactic proportions ensues. aka raccoons make plans; the universe laughs. see post for warnings & context.

what's next?~

You can find all of my 2025 aspirations described with a little more detail in the longterm projects posts, but here's the rundown!

january

borealis: year two. kiss me at midnight. ❤︎❤︎

take what you need. 20 & 21. ✮

borealis: year two. abominable. ❤︎❤︎

february

take what you need. 22. ✮

florescence❀. chapter six year five: dispersal. ❤︎❤︎ FINALE.

cicatrix. chapter twenty-seven. la gaudière. ✩

march

defiance. oneshot. ✮✩

cicatrix . chapter twenty-eight & twenty-nine.

Domestic Scenes in Space Travel. Untitled. FINALE. ❤︎❤︎

april

cicatrix. chapter thirty & thirty-one.

love is blind: andromeda [1/5]. ✩ ❤︎‬ ❤︎‬❤︎

may

cicatrix. chapter thirty-two & thirty-three.

hot local dads in your spaceport. oneshot. ✩ ❤︎‬ ❤︎‬❤︎

june

cicatrix. chapter thirty-four & thirty-five.

possible spring one-shot [sex-pollen!]. could get moved to kinktober. ❤︎‬❤︎

july

cicatrix. chapter thirty-six & thirty-seven.

love is blind: andromeda [2/5]. ✩ ❤︎‬ ❤︎‬❤︎

untitled expansive maneuvers expansion. chapter one. ✩ ❤︎‬ ❤︎‬❤︎

august

cicatrix. chapter thirty-eight & thirty-nine.

possible summer one-shot. rating tbd.

untitled evasive maneuvers expansion. chapter two. ✩ ❤︎‬ ❤︎‬❤︎

september

cicatrix. chapter forty.

universe killer [1/4]. ✩ ❤︎‬ ❤︎‬❤︎

untitled evasive maneuvers expansion. chapter three & four. ✩ ❤︎‬ ❤︎‬❤︎

october

kinktober 2025. 3-4 parts. ❤︎‬❤︎

love is blind: andromeda [3/5]. ✩ ❤︎‬ ❤︎‬❤︎

november

autumn cozy collection. 4 parts. ✮ ✩ ❤︎‬ ❤︎‬❤︎

universe killer [2/4]. ✩ ❤︎‬ ❤︎‬❤︎

december:

borealis: year three. 4 parts. ✮ ✩ ❤︎‬ ❤︎‬❤︎

#2024 in review #year in review #aspirations #rocket raccoon fanfiction #rocket raccoon #gotg fanfiction #guardians of the galaxy #rocket raccoon x oc #rocket raccoon x you #rocket racoon x reader #gotg rocket #rocket raccoon x reader #rfh masterlist

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roseonne · 11 months ago

Text

next time

Mephistopheles attempts to ask you out on White Day.

a mephisto x mc / reader for white day ! ( ao3 link )

︶︶︶︶︶︶︶༉‧₊˚

"Alright. Class dismissed."

Finally.

Mephistopheles lets out the mental groan he's been holding onto since the beginning of class, around three eons ago. (He's exaggerating, obviously, but three hours did feel an awful lot longer today, for some reason.) Normally, being stuck to his chair with his ears almost hurting from hearing the significance of magical potions and their hazards, not only to humans but to angels and demons as well, over and over again, is a tolerable occurrence for him. So now, seeing that he's seemingly over everything that's had happened to him within the span of just one day, irritates the life out of him.

Hastily, and with a hint of recklessness, the RAD Newspaper Club (former) president wastes not a moment in gathering up his things and taking his leave.

Oh, thus he realizes, whilst on his way out.

Maybe that's what's keeping him so preoccupied? The piled-up articles he still has to proofread and publish; the photos in his camera that he's to edit first, then upload to the official RAD Website; and a terrifyingly long list of all the other deadlines he ought to catch up to, academic and personal matters combined.

A sigh of distress escapes the noble demon's lips. Without much thought, he fetches his D.D.D. out of his pocket and the screen immediately comes to life.

03/14/XXXX 4:46 P.M. Today's Daily Reminder: "Don't forget to celebrate White Day in your own, special way!" -Lord Diavolo

Well. That explains it.

Troubled, Mephistopheles runs his fingers through his hair, tousling the locks he made sure to keep as neat and tidy as possible. As much as he desires to fulfill Lord Diavolo's honorable (although sometimes questionable) requests, just how in the Devildom is he to juggle all his tasks and duties at once? He has his work cut out for him today, and for the rest of the week. Such a poor demon he's become. And to make things even more complicated on his end, apparently, he isn't getting any of his listed items done right on schedule. Unfortunately so.

For as if in response to his already-raging psychological turmoil, the universe provides him with the biggest, most troublesome distraction he's yet to learn to ignore and conquer...

Mephistopheles sees you.

"MC!" he calls out from the top of his lungs suddenly, surprising both you and himself as his voice appears to have acted against his will. And the fact that he rushes to your side upon instinct truly isn't helping him in the slightest. "Fancy bumping into you now of all times."

"Mephisto!" You greet him with a smile, and right away, he feels the warmth of you emanating from the center of his chest. "Good work today!"

"Likewise." Mephistopheles places a hand over his heart and bows at you slightly. "Are you heading home now?"

Your polite nod in confirmation to his query earns a rather sharp click of the demon's tongue.

"Isn't it too early for that?" Mephistopheles raises an eyebrow. "Why don't I do you the honor of inviting you out with me for dinner, perhaps? Of course, on behalf of Lord Diavolo and the rest of RAD, we're grateful for your efforts in keeping the exchange program alive!"

The noble demon senses you feeling a little taken aback; and he understands. He figures you're probably aware of how busy he is, considering how tedious it is being the main individual manning the RAD Newspaper Club. Again, even he is growing more and more perplexed at how his body's acting. Doesn't he have so many things to do? How is he able to make it seem like he's got so much time to spare while keeping a straight face? Oh, Diavolo. He no longer recognizes himself at all.

"Uhm..." you find yourself stuttering, evidently unsure as to the kind of answer you'll provide your current pursuer.

"If you're wondering how we'll meet, I'll pick you up at the House of Lamentation by seven." But Mephistopheles is more than ready to hush each and every one of your possible concerns.

Shifting a little of your weight over to your other foot, you hum quite a playful, "Well..."

Crossing his arms, but raising his index finger in the air, the demon proudly declares, "It'll be my treat, MC. Don't worry. I got you."

And you've made up your mind; Mephistopheles recognizes the familiar light in your eyes the moment your gazes briefly met and locked.

"MC, there you are!"

But what perfect timing. In the midst of his persuasion, here comes the residents of Purgatory Hall. And the brothers of the House of Lamentation. And well, basically everyone else you hold very close to your heart.

Clearing his throat in a slight panic, Mephistopheles tries to regain your attention, "MC, please. If you would justー"

He's too late.

"I'm so sorry, Mephisto." It's the sincerest, most bittersweet apology he's been told so far. "Maybe next time!" you add quickly, as you at last get dragged farther and farther away from him.

Down the drain, goes his infrequent chance with you, yet again. Mephistopheles squeezes his eyes closed and chews on his lower lip; his mind all blank, save for the resentfulness looming heavily over him. Forget about his deadlines; his tasks; his duties; his role in the future of Devildom. Is it too much for him to ask a mere moment of your time? Is he never really going to learn more about you at this point?

Mephistopheles doesn't see it as a fair game anymore. He's one of the first few demons who's heard of your name the very day you arrived at the Devildom; and yet at least a minute of decent, proper conversation between the two of you, alone, still remains beyond his reach.

Seeing you share the smile that he is able to somehow find comfort in with everyone else, except him... He admits, it causes a twinge of pain to swell across his chest.

How many next time's have you promised him by now, anyway? He bets you won't remember, either.

But since he isn't the type to just sit in a corner and cry; maybe he just has to keep trying, then? Like the lessons in class, over and over. He must push forward, until hopefully one day, you'll learn to look at him from a perspective different from the one you have of him at present.

...Great.

Looks like he's added yet another questionable thing up his list; which he normally would've called a pain in the rear, but it's you he's thinking of so... You're the exception. His exception. You always are, and always have been.

Guess I'll have to try something harder than initiating conversations, Mephistopheles brings his eyes to the sky and promises; to you and to himself. Next time.

And once he succeeds in this mission of forever, only then can he say...

That he's indeed made the progress he so longs for. With you.

#obey me #obey me shall we date #mephistopheles #mephistopheles x mc #mephistopheles x reader #gender neutral reader #white day #this is a coming out post #for being a mephisto enjoyer #T_T #i cri girls boys and in betweens he so fine #inside seonne's head

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applepiesupreme · 1 month ago

Text

American Apple Pie

Pairing: Low/Mid Honor Arthur Morgan and female OC.

Rating: Explicit

Summary: Savigne Ricci is a temporary guest at the Van der Linde camp. Her path crosses with the enforcer of the gang, Arthur Morgan, and despite their differences, a relationship develops between them. Whole lot of smut and fluff, slow burn-ish.

Chapter 46

AO3 link:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/54945853/chapters/157264255

Sunday she woke up grouchy and tired. She declined to join his ride to the church, saying she didn’t feel up to it. He didn't press, reminded her ten times to call on Marston if she needs something, then left. She crawled back into bed and promptly fell asleep again, dreaming dark, wet, weird dreams. Sometime later the door banged open, there was a ruckus of things being carried in and she woke up, more groggy than she had been before sleep.

“Didn’t they have doors where you come from?” she growled from under the pile of covers.

“Actually no,” was his sheepish answer as he gently closed it. “Sorry.” A softer addition of “Come look.”

She begrudgingly heaved herself up, turned around and found him standing by the bed. Next to him, an elevated crib. He took off his hat and sank on the bed and she shifted to sit next to him, feet dangling. They stared at the crib for a long while, both with a mixture of anxiety and fascination. Savigne had been going to regular doctor appointments. She had felt the baby kicking and moving. And yet, seeing this simple piece of furniture gave it a realness, a gravity nothing else had until then. Tentatively he reached out a hand and poked it and it swung ever so gently.

“Looks kinda small,” was his hushed statement.

She felt exactly the opposite. How was she going to push something out of her that would fit into this thing? Her breath hitched at the notion. “Everything is small next to you,” she said quietly.

His eyes dropped to his large hands, then he gave the crib another narrow eyed look. “Fair.”

Fear burrowed into her again. Most of the time she felt removed from the fact that she was about to be a mother. But every now and then the idea would crystallize, rise and slap her in the face and then she felt a sense of blind panic; a compulsion to say 'Wait! Hang on! Can I slow it down a little? Can I put it on hold for a while?'

From the corner of her eye she saw him watching her profile. “Gonna be fine.”

“I know,” she lied.

These days, more and more she felt like a kite that was at the mercy of bouts of emotions that randomly rolled through her with alarming speed. She found herself flapping helplessly in storms before suddenly gliding through a warm summer breeze, then diving with the advent of a cold gust before soaring up with the lift of a spring gale.

Right about then, the kite dipped.

Talk to me when you have to push a melon out of yourself, she thought sourly. It was silly to feel like she got the short end of the stick, but here she was, feeling it anyway. She was blowing up like a balloon and according to Polleux, she wasn't even close to the size she would be and he looked fucking perfect. In fact, the day before the baby and the day after, he would look exactly the same. Maybe even better. But she was going to go through monumental changes, none of them pretty. Then there was the birth itself. She struggled with the bloody pictures she was painting in her head. Then there was the aftermath...

His hand enveloped hers. “This Polio guy know what he doin’.”

“But I don’t,” she wiped the hair off her face. She felt the ghost of sweat on her brow.

“You just do as he says,” he shrugged. The simplicity of Arthur's worldview! If only she could borrow it from time to time.

She ran her palms over her face, rattled.

“Baygal guy's wife has seven kids,” he offered. “Luther said he had eight siblings...”

“When did he say that?” she asked, surprised.

“When we was chattin’,” was his evasive answer. “Point bein’, you can do this."

She nodded, but with lack of conviction.

“Know what ‘m thinkin’?” A palm drew circles on her lower back. She hummed, her gaze still locked to the crib. “We should go to Valentine. Bath and laundry.”

She turned to him, eyebrows raised. “We can afford that?”

“Sure,” he waved the question away.

Being clean always made her happy, but her work days had been slashed and she didn't know how much Arthur had saved up, so she played down her enthusiasm. “I don’t know…it’s not exactly necessary...”

“Course it is," he huffed. "Ain't no way yer doin' laundry, so we gotta go for that anyway, might as well take a nice warm bath."

"There are cheaper places for laundry in Saint Denis..."

"We got the money, Savigne," he rose to his feet. "'Sides, could get lucky with game on the way and make the money back. Go on, get dressed."

She dimly thought that letting Arthur take care of the money had been a mistake because she doubted that he was ever going to deny her anything. Nevertheless, the kite smoothly tilted upwards.

"Okay," she smiled.

After she got dressed they sifted through the big basket of clothes the church had donated and picked out the ones that seemed to fit to take over with their own dirty laundry. A lot of it wasn't exactly items she would pick off a rack, most were cheap and old, the ones meant for her too big and most donated for Arthur too small, but they found pieces they can use and Abigail could adjust and added them to the basket. The rest they left for the Marstons to go through. Her mood changed when they left the cabin and she found the donation of kitchen utensils. Several baking trays and pots and pans - a little scratched and dented and in need of some seasoning, but sturdy and usable.

"I can make dinner tonight," she grinned. "We have everything we need."

"You feelin' up for that?" was his dubious question. She nodded, enthusiastic. He chuckled and helped her up the cart. "Fine. Up you go."

The day was chilly and breezy and she huddled into her coat and blew into her hands as the horses clopped on.

"Maybe it's me but it feels colder this year."

"It's you," he smiled. "You think on what to do after?" was the more somber question a while later.

Given Arthur and John's infamy in these parts, staying was out of the question. "I know we're going to leave," she mused. "But I haven't seen enough of the country to know where. For example, I've never seen the desert."

"Desert? Ya mean like Texas?"

"I guess. Not sure what Texas looks like."

"Y'aint never seen night sky till you been in the desert," he offered. "It's quiet. Open."

"How do you pick a place to go?"

"Reckon you just pick a direction and then you stop when ya like what yer seein'."

They rode through the Heartlands as she watched the jagged mountain line on the horizon. There had always been less travelers about on Sundays, especially outside of cities where most folks still took church attendance seriously, but winter had made the crowds even sparser. She thought about the months she rode through here alone and later with Arthur and grappled with the fact that everything had happened so quickly. Beginning of this year she had been a daring and naive fledgling who thought of nothing but her career. Single and free and ambitious. Now, after a number of tumultuous events, she was finishing the year as a wife and a mother, her career suddenly not the first and foremost thing on her mind when she rose out of bed. And next year she was going to be somewhere new to start all over. As happy as she was - and she was deliriously happy at times - it also made her sad. And scared. The speed and enormity of the events brought a certain feeling of whiplash with them. In the deep folds of her gut she feared that she had made too many impulsive choices and too quickly and she had closed off certain paths of possibilities forever.

The kite dipped.

"Where yer head at?"

"I don't know..." she sighed as they drew closer to Valentine. "There's so many things I wanted to do. And now..." She left it at that.

"Ya speak as if you can't do them no more."

The kite spiraled downwards.

She shrugged. There was a shadow in her heart and she couldn't release it into the world. It felt wrong to express these feelings of disappointment to Arthur because she really wanted to be with him. But at the same time, she felt like she had been the only one who had made sacrifices. After all, he had lived a full life. He had traveled the country, free as a bird, experienced a million things and was eager to hang up his hat and do something different. She, on the other hand, had wasted years on training she would never use and would do nothing in life but plate food.

When they entered the town limits, she placed the fake ring on her finger. Arthur gave her a look. "I don't want people to look at me weird," she explained, forestalling his arguments.

They stabled the cart and the horses and when she saw a familiar face behind the reception desk, the kite turned upwards again.

Bill's eyebrows shot all the way to his hairline as they walked in. "Well I'll be!" he prompted, visibly happy to see them. She sensed the same elation in him that she felt when she had spotted him behind the counter: the joy of familiarity, of finding some things unchanged among the upheavals of life. A new century was around the corner and America was flying into it full speed. Small villages were turning into towns overnight, and a week later you found a city where that sleepy town used to be. Even outside of big cities electric power lines were being raised and cars were spotted. It was a period of dizzying change that was leaving many bewildered and forlorn.

Bill was a professional and not once did the eyes that crawled over her bump stutter. "Welcome back,” was his warm addition as he fished for the key of the room with the big tub. He took the baskets with practiced economy. "Congratulations, sir," was his tilt of the head to Arthur whose chin went up.

"Why do men congratulate each other when it's the women who are doing all the work?" she muttered when they entered the room and Arthur locked the door.

He did his 'it is what it is' hand wave. After they undressed, he guided her into the tub and pulled her on his lap, and brushed a finger over the crinkle between her brows. "Ya upset cause of that crib?"

She looked down at her bump between them; this new thing, somehow both exhilarating and terrifying at the same time. "I struggle with it..." she whispered, "...sometimes."

He kissed her, slow and long. "Gonna be fine. Everything's eventual, right?"

For no discernible reason, the kite caught an upslope flow and glided higher again.

"Right," she smiled against his lips.

Late afternoon they were back at the cabin and Savigne’s mood improved further as she cooked lasagna and pies in her new indoor oven. She hummed to herself, awash with contentment as she listened to the staccato of him chopping wood outside. When it was done, she told him to bring in the table the church had donated and place it next to theirs.

“Look over here,” she said as he was doing that. When he turned, she pointed to one tray - “This one is ours. ONLY this one.”

“Okay?” was his confused question.

She pointed to the other tray. “Do NOT touch this one.”

He gave the second tray a slanted look. “Why that one bigger?”

“It’s not.”

“Is too.”

The kite shivered with the advent of a storm.

“It’s not," she growled. "But even if it was, there’s three of them, so that would still make sense.” He mumbled something under his breath but she ignored it. “I also made two pies, don’t touch the second one.”

“What 'bout leftovers?”

She rolled her eyes, thinking 'as if'. “They can take it with them and eat it tomorrow.”

He muttered some more.

She went and minutely adjusted the napkins and cutlery. “I made just as much as I always make, so you won’t go hungry, don’t worry.”

This time when he grumbled, she lost the thread on her patience and looked up. “What’s that?”

“‘M sayin’ I was starved in Guarma. Marston wasn’.”

“Arthur we’re hosts, we have to be generous, Jesus Christ!”

“Fine, but we get the bigger tray.”

“They’re the same size!”

“They ain’t. That one bigger.”

“Fuck’s sake!” She glared at him.

“‘M bigger, need more food,” he explained, rolling his shoulders.

She turned back to the counter to clean up. “There’s three of them, Arthur!”

Suddenly he embraced her from behind, a palm on her bump.“Three of us, too,” he grinned into her ear.

The kite angled upwards and her anger fell away.

“Do not touch the second tray,” she warned, half amused. “I made it so we can sit and eat like civilized people and you don’t spoil the evening by furiously trying to outeat John.”

“Fine,” he cooed into her neck before he kissed it. “Simmer down.”

Just then a knock on the door. He sighed and walked over to answer as she wiped her hands on her apron before she untied it and took it off. The Marstons filed in and Savigne grinned when she noticed that they had dressed up in their Sunday best. The parents looked a bit shy and nervous but Jack dashed towards her and pressed primroses into her hand.

The kite soared.

"Thank you! These are so nice! Welcome,” she smiled up to them, ridiculously happy to host dinner in her own cabin for the first time, feeling absurdly proud and grown up over it. “Please! Sit!”

A few days after that Sadie and Charles stopped by and informed Arthur that they had tracked Dutch, Bill and Javier north.

"He ain't goin' north," Arthur said. "He know we gonna go for that Blackwater money, he probably circled 'round."

"Yeah, I thought so, too," Charles agreed.

"You think he means to ambush us after we get it?" was Sadie's question.

"I know it."

"So what do we do?" John asked. "If we wait too long, he's gonna find someone to get it for him."

"Dutch?" scoffed Arthur. "He ain't gonna trust nobody to do that. He never even trust me to tell. No, he gonna wait for us to take it."

"So then...?"

Arthur thought on it a while. "We wait." John twitched a little at this but didn't say anything. "We go now, he gonna be ready," was Arthur's explanation. "He know we desperate, he thinkin' we gonna fly there first thing. But in a few months, he might slack off. Get tired. Might even think we slipped by and give up..."

"That's months without money for the gang," Sadie pointed out. "They ain't gonna like it."

"I don' like it either, but if he set a trap, could be no money ever and that ain't better."

"What do you think?" Sadie asked Charles.

Savigne watched him ruminate, Sadie’s eyes glued to him. They had grown quite close, these two; there was palpable trust and affection between them now. She didn’t think there was anything more than that but she wouldn’t be surprised if there would be, in time.

"I think Arthur is right. They're probably holed up somewhere. Let them suffer through the cold a little. Maybe their camaraderie won't survive the season." Charles offered at last.

The four of them thought on this for a while as the fire crackled in the hearth and Savigne refilled their coffees.

"Okay," Sadie sighed. "Gang ain't gonna be happy, but they wanna be mad, ‘m gonna remind them they should be mad at Dutch, not us." Her eyes glided to Savigne, mirthful. "'Sides...we got a wedding to attend to."

Two weeks after that Abigail called her over and surprised her with the curtains she had measured and trimmed to fit the cabin windows. Savigne had an emotional moment and cried and assured Jack that everything was okay and cried some more before she took the curtains and hurried over to the cabin, elated. She entered and stood stunned for a moment.

“Why did you dress up?!”

He was brushing the lint off his shoulders in front of the mirror and looked immaculate in his fancy suit. Jealously flared in her at the sight of those broad shoulders that had filled back nicely again, the narrow hips and his flat stomach.

“Ya forgot what Sunday is?”

“Of course I didn’t forget!” she said and closed the door.

“Then it should be obvious.”

“You can’t wear that!” she protested as she folded the curtains on the back of a chair. “I have nothing to match it! I’m going to look like the maid marrying the lord of the manor!”

He gave her a dry side eye. “I know you got a nice dress somewhere.”

“I outgrew everything I have! No…” she crossed her arms, “…you have to wear plain clothes.”

He glared at her through the mirror. “I ain’t wearing plain clothes. ‘M gettin' married.”

“Well I’m not standing next to…that,” she waved an arm at him. “Looking like I just came from field work.”

“Guess we gonna have to go shoppin’, ain’t we?” he said stubbornly. “Why ya haven’t yet, I don’ know, but we goin' now.”

“Or you can just dress down...”

“No.” He carefully peeled off his suit. “Get yer coat.”

“Why did you go spend money on-”

“You know god damn why.”

“It’s just some priest saying stuff,” she muttered.

He gave her a look. “How many times you got married? Cause this here is the only one for me, so...” His head jabbed towards her coat. “Go on.”

Savigne huffed and put on her coat. It required some navigating these days. She hadn’t thought Arthur was going to take it so damn seriously and dress up like it was a ball. “Nothing is going to fit me anyway, I’m enormous.”

“Yer barely showing,” he said, putting on his cowboy boots.

“You should take Cricket with you and get him fitted. I’m about that size.”

“I worry ‘bout yer eyes, Savigne.”

“We can just buy a damn curtain and cut holes in it for my arms, would be cheap-” The slap on her buttocks made her jump. “Told you not to do that, god damn it!!”

He grinned and opened the door for her. “Wasn’ doin’ nothin'. Swung my arm, couldn’ avoid it.”

“It’s my belly that’s big, not my butt,” she hissed.

“Sure,” he looked away and bit his cheek, waiting for her to exit.

“You keep aggravating me, we’re going to end up at the doctors instead,” she muttered, heading towards the cart.

“Woman, waddle faster! Shop’s gonna close.”

“I fucking hate you.”

He pulled up at the dress shop and when she made to get off, held out his arm to stop her.

“‘M gonna go in first.”

“What? Why?”

“Need to see who’s doin’ the advisin’.” She gave him a confused look. “Since I can’t.”

“Why can’t you?”

“Ya grew up under a rock? Can’t see before the day of. Bad luck.”

“Since when are you so superstitious?”

“I ain’t. But a smart man takes no chances.”

“Please! It’s ridiculous.”

“Just sit here for a minute, won’ be long.”

“But…”

He pushed the reins into her hands and jumped off. “Don’ try to climb off by yerself, ya hear? You’ll roll all the way back home before me and Cricket can catch up.”

She opened her mouth to say something nasty but he disappeared through the door before she could.

He entered the shop and was relieved that there were no other customers. He walked up to the counter and the man behind it looked up, did a double take and paled so quickly, it was like someone had thrown white paint in his face. His step didn’t stutter but he cussed silently, thinking he was recognized. His mind spun off with panic, but when he spoke, his voice remained calm:

“Howdy. ‘Member me?”

The man opened and closed his mouth like a fish for a several long moments, then gave up and nodded instead.

Arthur inspected him a while. He didn’t remember this man at all so the likely theory was some old forgotten bounty poster. He scratched his beard to look nonchalant and glanced over his shoulder at Savigne who, surprisingly, for once was doing as told.

“I ain’t so sure if you do,” he drawled. “Mind provin' it?”

The man’s Adam's apple bobbed up and down. “The train,” was the late choked whimper.

“Be more specific, I ain’t got all day,” Arthur said roughly.

“I…I was there...that night.” He fumbled for his handkerchief and hastily dabbed his brow with it. “Ice box.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes to hide his relief. This must be one of the kitchen staff. ‘Thank fuck’ he thought but outwardly just nodded and gave the man a long head to toe. It wasn’t ideal to be remembered as a train robber, but it was miles better than being recognized as Arthur Morgan who was supposed to be dead.

“That’s right. What you doin’ here, you change careers?”

“I did,” was the whisper before he cleared his throat. “I thought…safer…to sell gowns.” The man exhaled a shuddering sob at the irony of it.

Arthur casually leaned on the counter. “My lucky day,” he said and smiled a toothy grin. The grin made a new wave of sweat break on the man’s brow which he hastily dabbed at.

“You got a name?”

“Lionel. Sir.”

If there ever was a name that don’t fit a man, Arthur thought. “Listen here, Lionel,” he drawled, immensely relieved at the turn of events and ready to take charge of the situation. He casually leaned back on the counter on one elbow, gesturing at Savigne with his free arm. “See that pretty lady?” The man nodded stiffly. “She with me. Gonna be my wife.” This seemed to surprise the store owner and Arthur’s gaze sharpened. “What? Ya sayin’ I can’t have a wife?”

“Absolutely not!” was the squeal. “I mean yes, yes, of course you can! Sir!” He dabbed his forehead some more. “I was just…surprised by her beauty!”

“You sayin’ she too pretty for me or somethin’?”

“No sir! I just-”

“I ain’t no god damn peg legged pirate,” Arthur growled, somewhat offended.

“Of course n-”

“Bag it! Like I said, ain’t got all day. She gonna come in here and buy a dress.”

The relief that washed over Lionel was so palpable that Arthur was momentarily tempted to glance over the counter to see if he had pissed himself. Obviously he had assumed that he was being robbed and had just now realized that Arthur was here as a customer.

“Only here’s the thing...," Arthur added, "...she delicate.” The shop owner owlishly blinked at him with incomprehension. “Cause she’s with child,” Arthur clarified.

This shocked Lionel and he nearly flinched with the surprise. “Y-your child?” Then quickly: “Sir?”

“The hell ya sayin’!?” Arthur barked and was amazed how much paler a man could get.

“N-nothing!” cried the other man, voice breaking.

“Of course my child! Ya sayin’ I can’t have a child!?”

“Absolutely you can, sir! You will sir! I was just…she barely shows was my meaning!!”

“See, that right there,” Arthur hummed, leaning closer as the man tilted back, “is exactly the attitude I want when she come in.” Lionel blinked again and Arthur sighed, exasperated. “'M gonna make this simple cause yer havin’ a slow day: she come in here and walk out upset cause ya have some dumb…opinions…” he spat the word with some venom, “… ‘bout her beein' with child but ain’t married yet, and you look at her wrong, or yer even more foolish and you say somethin’ of the sort…” he ignored the vehement head shake that Lionel was giving him, “…'m gonna come back and we gonna have us a little…reminiscin'…of our first meeting. Only this time y’ain’t gonna be a spectator. We clear?”

Lionel’s head bobbed up and down so fast, his hair lost the pomade.

“Ya sure?!” Arthur roared.

“Abso-fucking-lutely!” His severe cry was even louder than Arthur’s boom and Savigne’s head turned towards them as she shifted around to see into the store.

“Good man,” Arthur drawled, giving him another long head to toe. “Now go change yer store sign.”

“Sir?”

“Ya seem smart enough, but I don’ want a dim-witted flock of women to come in here and look at her funny and upset my wife. Seein’ as it’s yer store, you’d be responsible for that,” he explained patiently.

Lionel scrambled from behind the counter, carefully gave Arthur a wide berth and flipped the sign to “closed”. Then he just stood there, dabbing his forehead. Arthur walked up to him and ignored his flinch when he reached out to smooth his jacket. “You advise her well, ya hear? Can’t do it m’self for obvious reasons.”

“Bad luck,” breathed the other man, standing stock still as Arthur patted his shoulders.

“That’s right. So don’ insult my wife by sellin’ her somethin’ silly just cause ya didn’ wanna break out the good stuff.” A flurry of head bobs. “Also…” He glared into the man’s eyes long and deep to make his point, “…goes without saying…don’ mention the damn ice box.”

“Why, of course sir. Goes without saying.”

Arthur grunted in approval and exited the store to walk to Savigne’s side to hold up his hand.

“What were you doing in there so long? I need to go to the bathroom again, Jesus!”

“Ya damn near flooded the soil ‘round the outhouse with how much you piss, ground suckin m’boots in like it’s the Bayou.”

“Fucking liar!” she spat.

“Any day now whole thing gonna sink into the lake o’piss growing under.”

“Give me your gun, I’m going to kill you!” She grabbed his hand and ambled down.

“Would if ya could shoot straight,” he growled. Then, softer: “‘M sure Lionel in there has a bathroom.”

She jerked her arm away and stomped to the door.

Arthur sat and smoked for a long while as he waited, hat tipping low every time a lawman strolled by. Finally she walked out, looking a lot calmer.

“It needs adjusting, we have to pick it up tomorrow,” she said as he came around to help her back up. “And he wouldn’t tell me how much it is so if we end up spending too much, I’m going to be mad.”

“Woman, ‘m the man and ‘m handling the damn money.”

She gave him a severe glare. “I think this whole thing is going to your head. You’re puffing up something awful.” She rolled her shoulders, mimicking his accent “Look at me, ‘m the manly man, big, burly, hairy man!”

“That’s right,” he countered, unfazed. “Finally learning, are we?” He walked towards the store door, ignoring her scowl.

“She’s a lovely lady, sir,” Lionel said, looking much recovered now that he was convinced that he wasn’t in mortal danger.

“Sure is.”

“If you don’t mind me asking…was the ice box for her? I remember your…colleague…umm…teasing you that day.”

“Was,” Arthur said, caught a little offguard by the question. Then he surprised himself by adding: “And he ain’t my colleague no more. I’m…retired.”

Lionel nodded and drew himself up a little. “The dress will be ready tomorrow by noon.”

“Now listen here,” Arthur stepped to the counter. “‘M retired but I ain’t stupid. ‘M gonna come pick it up myself. Not that I don’ trust ya, Lionel, but ‘m gonna tell my brother where ‘m goin’. So if I walk in here and I find a buncha lawmen waiting, he can come visit you after. ‘M sure you understand why I’d be pissed to go to jail and leave my wife in her state.”

“Goes without saying. And…congratulations, sir.”

Arthur nodded and turned to leave before he paused. “I like yer shop. Yer good at this, stick with it,” he said over his shoulder before he walked out the door.

“Can we go home now? I have to use the bathroom.”

“The hell? Told ya to go in there.”

“I did.”

“Then go again.”

“No way I’m going twice,” she hissed. “That’s embarrassing.”

“Where does it all even come from?” he grumbled, clicking his tongue at Cricket. “Ya climbin’ down the well when I go to sleep?”

Savigne exploded into laughter and it quickly turned into sobs. She pulled out a handkerchief, wiping at her eyes, manically cackling and crying at the same time.

“Calm down, Christ,” he said gruffly, giving her a sidelong glance as he navigated the cart through the crowded streets. “Was just jokin’. I know ya won’ fit through the rim.”

“Just stop,” she laughed, wiping her tears. “You’re going to make me pee.”

“Think long and hard how ya gonna explain that to Bill when droppin’ off yer laundry on Sunday.”

“Oh my god!” she wailed. “Bill doesn’t go through my laundry, you sick man!”

“Ya sure ‘bout that?” he drawled.

“Of course I’m sure,” she said but the slight hesitation before she said it made him grin.

“Pretty little thing like you come in…” he shrugged, “I would wanna know what she wearin’ under them skirts.” She gave him a shocked look and crimson shot up her face.

“Jesus, yer face suckin’ up all yer blood like that, grub needs some o’that too, ya know.”

She wailed again, covering her face. “Go faster, I’m going to burst.”

“Just hold on, I know a graveyard close by if ya really gotta go.”

“I fucking hate you!” she yowled between her sobs.

When they arrived she ran to the outhouse and afterwards walked through the cabin door, sighing with relief. “God, I feel like I worked all day and all I did was sit on a horse cart and listen to your bullshit.”

“Did ya like yer dress?” he asked from behind her, helping her take her coat off and hanging it up.

“Yeah. Lionel was really nice.”

He hummed dismissively and embraced her shoulders from behind before she can walk away, hands caressing her shoulders, then gliding across her belly.

“Is it easy to peel off?”

“No.”

His hands gathered her skirts, fingers bunching them up slowly as he nipped her ear. “Is it easy to lift?”

“It’s a dress,” she shuddered. “Of couse it’s easy to lift. Why?”

His warm palms dived under the hem of her chemise and traveled over her belly, then crawled to the waistband of her bloomers.

“Might wanna drag you away for a bit if ya look too fine,” he whispered and kissed her neck.

“Don’t even think about it,” Savigne chuckled and squirmed against him.

“‘M thinking about it,” he said and kissed her jawline.

She moaned and dropped her head against his shoulder, mumbled under her breath. He could hear the shiver of lust in her voice and it hardened his cock. He marveled about the fool who had lived twenty years thinking he was living the good life, drifting around to pitch a tent in blizzards and heatwaves, eating slop and drinking his nights away, pitying folks who lived as he did now. He dimly wondered where that man was now, what sad location he was camped, if he was sitting alone on a cot and drawing in his journal. Or maybe right about now that fool was bleeding out in a desolate corner, lying in the muck, clutching at the highlights of his wasted life.

He walked her forward to brace against the counter as his hand worked on the buttons of his trousers. His breath hitched with excitement, the last vestiges of his blood circled out of his head and pooled into his gut and all thoughts of that man vanished like smoke.

Luther ambled into the dark room, lit a lantern, lit his cigarette with the same match, locked the door behind himself. He stepped to the little counter in the corner and pulled out a bowl, took out the package from his jacket pocket, cut down the slab of meat into cubes and emptied it into the bowl. Then he trudged over to the window and cracked it open and put the bowl to the low desk in front of it while he settled into his rocking chair. It creaked under his weight but held, and soon he made himself comfortable in the chair that had adjusted to all his curves over the many years he had been using it. The cool Saint Denis air wafted through the window. He didn’t have to wait long.

"Welcome, Bartholomew," he said gruffly as the dirty tabby slithered through the opening and settled on the desk to eat his dinner. "Yer fillin' up nice and proper, ain't ya?" he said. Bartholomew acknowledged him with his one eye for a moment. Then he turned around to the bowl. His ear with the tip bit off dipped in and out as he ate with silent enthusiasm.

"Was at a wedding, case yer curious," Luther drawled, watching his cigarette smoke unfurl in the small room, wavering with the breeze that licked through the opening. He loosened his tie and the top button of his shirt. "Was mighty nice, tell ya that."

The cat gave him a dismissive glance over his shoulder and went on eating.

"Fine, I'll tell ya," Luther grumbled and sat up to open the drawer of the desk to retrieve a bottle of whiskey and a shot glass. The cat, used to this ritual, didn't acknowledge it. A pair of voices argued under the window, then came a smack of laughter, then they argued on, growing fainter as they walked away.

"First off, had my pal Gregory pick me up. Ya ‘member Gregory? He the one who rents his tent for fairs and circuses. Busy man this time of year, but I tol' him 'm collectin' my favor, so he came. Drove me to the cabin, yappin' all the way there. I don' mind - Gregory and I don' run into each other much, so was fine to listen. We got there early and as we came closer, big guy came out, shoulders all hiked, gun belt on his hip. He relax when he see us and held up a hand in greetin'.” Luther’s eyes narrowed as he punctuated with his cigarette hand: “I approve of this man's suspicious nature, Bartholomew. He weathered, like youse, ain’t trustin’ and that a good thing. Too much trust is a dangerous thing. Anyhow…he came to meet us and I tol' him we gonna erect a big tent for the guests and he blinked like 'm speakin' French.”

“‘A tent?' he says.”

“‘A tent,' I says. 'Nice and cozy so guests don' freeze and run off first thing after food.'”

“‘How many guests you cobble up, old man?' he ask, wary.”

“‘Just a few,' says I. I know he worried one or two will talk to the Law after, tell 'em who he is, where he is, but I assure him everyone invited is likely to flee in the other direction of the Law if they spot’em.”

“Then I go in and Savigne come hug me. She all jittery and anxious like a child. I say ‘Woman, stop jumpin' like a hare, you gonna have the child here and now!’.”

“She laugh at this like it's the funniest thing she heard and offer me coffee. She happy, Bartholomew. When you live as long as I, little things is where it’s at, so seein' her healthy and happy like that swells my heart. I known long time this man the right man for her.” The cat finished his meal and gave him another look over his shoulder before he dived back in to lick the remnants.

“Nah,” Luther waved as if Bartholomew had spoken, “Yer wrong. Sure, he an outlaw, sure he done bad things. But I been 'round and lemme tell ya, many fine men done worse. This man cut of old cloth. He ain’t gonna stray and he ain’t gonna betray her. He never gonna hurt her. That counts for somethin’.” He sipped his whiskey.

“I say ‘Call yer brother, let's set up the tent’. People roll in just ‘bout then and they help, takes us no time. Then the pastor arrive and Arthur and me walk to Marston's tent so he can change. Did I tell ya this man has a woman and a child? Woman pretty as a daisy and the boy cute as a button.” He scoffed to himself. “Lucky fool.”

“Anyhow, guests bring in food and deck that long table like a buffet. Told’em ain’t no need for gifts, but they bring a little somethin’ cause poor folk is generous folk. They bring a jar of pickles, a sweater, someone brought an old guitar, another his only other pair of shoes…I gave Savigne my mother’s cookbook. She never learned her letters, my mom, and I learned mine late, but I wrote it as I ‘member it. I ain’t gonna use it, ‘m glad she got somethin’ of mine.”

The tabby sat around to face him and began to groom itself. “I know, I know, ‘m gettin’ there. So time comes and we waitin’ with the pastor. I know this Arthur has nerves of steel, seen how he was with Ecco. But now he twitchin’ and shiftin’ like a boy, pullin’ on his jacket, fidgetin’ with his tie.” Luther rumbled a deep laugh and sipped his whiskey. “I look over at Missus Adler and she grin at me…” He sighed and gently slapped his knee and the cat watched him with that sparkly one eye. “Tell ya what - I was younger, that woman would crush my heart. Anyhow…”

He sighed and put out his cigarette and the tabby immediately jumped up into his lap and curled on the big cushion of his stomach. “Out comes my girl and lemme tell ya, she look like a cool drop of water, pure and precious.” He ran a large hand over Bartholomew as the cat purred and quietly drank his whiskey for a while. “I never had no children, but you wouldn’ known it today, all ‘m gonna say. I knew she was shy cause she was in a sea of new faces, but she didn’ stumble and didn’ freeze, she walked over all proper and made me proud. Was worried more for Arthur than her,” he chuckled to himself as he scratched behind an orange ear.

He raised a finger. “‘Cept when the ring came out, then her eyes brimmed and she twitched a little and her hand shook.” Another earthquake of a chuckle trembled through him. "She jump to kiss him 'fore the pastor was done say his bit, tell ya that!" he laughed.

His laughter wheezed into silence. He pondered on getting undressed and closing the window and going to bed, but he didn’t sleep much these days and the tabby was comfortably purring in his sleep, so he sat on and listened to the city sliding into silence little by little. He thought that in these late hours, years turned into paper walls and you could hear the past murmur through if you put your ear against them. It used to bother him when he was younger, but the older he got, the more he grew to like it.

“‘M thinkin’,” he grumbled at long last, “Might be I helped a little, ya agree, Bartholomew? Might be...I fixed it. Took a long god damn time, but think I fixed it. Maybe just a little.”

He sat there a long time as the church bells rang the hours while the tabby slept on him and Saint Denis slept around him.

#arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan smut #arthur morgan fluff #low honor arthur morgan #mid honor arthur morgan #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan #fluff #smut #fanfic #dom arthur morgan

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chillinglyadventurous · 4 months ago

Note

Taking advantage of the fact that it's Halloween month >:D

Ford with a scientist friend who is very reserved, just work and friendship.

Then Bill Cipher arrives and his main plan was to have a deal with the Scientist!Reader , but the reader is not stupid, so it ends with Bill making the deal with Ford, Bill puts Ford in a complicated situation by making the Reader give in to the deal, but deep down the reader knows he has nothing to fear.

My idea is that the reader, having knowledge of the bizarre things of Gravity Falls, will have a very disturbed head, with the worst things (like the episode that goes into Stan's head but is terrifying) but what could be so terrifying to make Bill back down 🤨

Well give me your opinion on this 😋 have a nice day

So, I’ve had a kind of similar idea before! I just didn’t know how to write it. Still don’t, if I’m being honest.

So, I’m a Chilling Adventures of Sabrina fan. I think mid season 2, I started writing a little fanfiction that happened after the season was over and before season 3 came out. I won’t get into the details because that work has since been deleted along with the AO3 account it was published under.

Anyways, the basic premise was that my OC eventually had more powers than Lucifer, stemming from a deal with God. OC was basically a god herself. Couldn’t die. Died a couple times. Came back from the dead. Super messed up stuff.

Well, I think something similar would translate well into this request. So, basically, you would be this sort of all-powerful being, but you would just want a ‘normal’ life, basically. With the same intentions Bill had lied about having, you knew Ford was a great mind. You had sought him out to teach him the mysteries of the universe. You work well with Stanford. When he eventually brings Fiddleford around, you work well with him too.

You look human. Nothing about you seems odd. Even if you did do something odd, it was Gravity Falls. No one would have noticed.

After Ford made his deal, he didn’t tell you, but you knew. You could just tell it was Bill. There had been a prophecy, the same one Ford had found and used to summon Bill. You see, either the entire zodiac could defeat Bill or you could. Ford was the six fingered hand and you, being all powerful as you were, knew that. Not that it wasn’t obvious to begin with.

The only way he could beat you, destroy the prophecy, was if you made a deal with him. If you did that, he wouldn’t need the portal or the rift to take over dimension 46’/. His deal would give him his physical form, but you were too smart for that.

However, one night after Fiddleford had gone home/was asleep, Bill would come in, dressed in Ford’s skin. He would threaten to kill Ford, your now good friend. You would panic because Bill was more than capable. You wouldn’t let that happen. So, you shake his hand, but, somehow, the deal isn’t complete.

He enters your mind. At first, once he’s in there, it’s a bit darker than he had expected. Nothing seems too off and he thought it would be easy. He shuffles through your mind only to find what he thinks he’s looking for. Behind a door covered in chains, he sees it. You had orchestrated the whole thing. You were the one who had controlled him to make him destroy his own dimension in an attempt to weaken him.

The master of mind games had been manipulated. You were too powerful for him and, unlike Ford, you couldn’t be tricked so easy. You’d kill him. It was only a matter of time.

After all of this is where it could either become some sort of AU or keep with canon. If the story verged into AU territory, that could be it. There could be some grand showdown in the mindscape. Anything is possible, obviously.

On the flip side, it could keep with canon. The journals/Book of Bill which I still haven’t read because it’s been sold out where I am said Bill left for a while. Ford wondered where he was. Bill could have backed down for a little bit, hoping to keep off your radar. Does could still get sucked into the multiverse. Maybe it’s you who shows him the truth about Bill. The possibilities are endless.

All in all, I think this is an amazing idea! Apart from what I’ve gotten into here, there’s a million ways this could go. There’s a possibility of so many twists and turns!

#gravity falls #gravity falls x reader #ford pines #stanford pines #ford pines x reader #feed the author

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castrian-amore · 1 year ago

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Bitter had the Heart

Dead Tired(Tim Drake x Danny Fenton), Tim Drake-centric, unfinished, the author is plotting, temporary character death, please check out ao3 for full tags list

3/46 Chapters | Chapter Length: 3584 words

Chapter 3: We are Not Translating Fanfiction

Tim didn’t understand why he had even picked this class for this particular credit. He technically didn’t need it. Then again it seemed more interesting than the other classes and Tim had been hoping for a challenge for once. The teacher was big on working as team and while, yeah Tim could do it. He preferred to work alone on his topics and thankfully there was an odd amount of people in his class so when he requested to do the group assignments he allowed it.

Until today.

One Daniel “Danny” Nightingale, was a late transfer into the class for unknown reason. It was also the mysterious kid in the alley. He looked a little better in person but the vote was that he was definitely sick, whether just right now or long term had yet to be determined. He leaned heavily on a cane at the moment walking with a heavy limp.

Tim could point out his handsome features though. The higher cheekbones. The stunning raven hair, his piercing blue eyes. The kid definitely wasn’t immune to the streets. The way he held himself on the verge of running. The sunken wary eyes. This kid was far too comfortable with living in fight or flight mode. If he even knew anything else it would be surprising.

The teacher pointed to Tim giving him the spot right next to him advising sitting next to the person he would be partnered with. It wasn’t required by any means but it certainly was an option, and he did.

“So, now that that’s out of the way, where was I? Oh yes the IPA. The International Phonetic Alphabet.” Professor Kaivan began his speech as Danny pulled out a piece of notebook paper and pencil sitting next to Tim.

“Uh, hi, I’m Danny,”The kid held out his hand and Tim shook it. A cold chill going up his spine from how cold he was, damn.

“Tim Drake-Wayne,”he introduced with ease, expecting the man to back away or at least move seats because of his name. The Wayne name caught most people off guard but Danny seemed unfazed by it all. In fact he didn’t even flinch or stutter or reel at who he was talking to even.

“Nice to meet you Tim,”Danny gave him a bright smile. “Apologies for having you stuck with partnering for me after I’m already a late transfer.”

“No issue. Can I ask why you had to transfer?”Tim raised an eyebrow at the man. Their words quiet as the professor droned on.

“I was in Latin, and I can fluently speak and read latin. The professor kept getting things wrong and I kept correcting them. They kept insisting because they’re the ‘professor’ but I kept insisting I was right, which I was. She didn’t like that so she kicked me out. She got so annoyed she refused to teach me. Thus leaving me with about to loose my credit I really needed this semester so I asked if I could late transfer into another language based class.”

“And here you are?”

“Here I am. Only teacher that was willing to give me a chance.”

Tim snorts a little. Tim had only almost been kicked out of a class one, and that was one of his law classes. Tim kept correcting the professor over and over and over again, and it kept pissing off the professor so bad. Tim had a sneaking suspicion he was going to like this guy. He just hoped the guy was as intelligent as he seemed.

Being fluent in a dead language was no easy task. None of the bats were fluent in a lot of dead languages but they all knew several spoken languages and a little of a few dead ones. Tim more than others. Books were always his specialty. He preferred to spend the house researching alone in his room or the bat cave. It was part of the reason the other claimed he had a coffee addiction. He did not by the way. He didn’t know what Dick was even talking about.

“Professor Kaivan is pretty relaxed about that kind of stuff. He assigns minimal homework and prefers to do the group projects over everything else.”

“Yeah his rate-my-professor score is pretty high.”

“Sounds about right,”Tim agrees, turning back to the topic at hand for the moment.

“Now, learning the International Phonetic Alphabet is not for the faint of heart. Having someone to listen and assist when learning this is vital. One of the many reasons everyone in this room has a partner. Learning it is vital for the rest of your success in this class. Breaking down specific sounds a language makes and making it easy for everyone to read any language in this format.”

Professor Kaivan was an interesting man. Until four and a half years ago he had some of the worst rate your professor scores, but it was rumored that after the death of his partner he sobered up and wanted to help people. Since then, he has been a great teacher. Using his partner method to teach people, becoming a caring professor, giving students days in class to study and work on whatever work needed to be done. He wasn’t a super hard professor to have.

His hair was graying as the man was into his late 40s going on 50s. Sideburns and his beard graying though. He dressed pretty chill too, half the time coming into class wearing a casual cardigan and a beanie. He was an accomplished guy with a full on doctorate in linguistics. Masters in Psychology and bachelors in the study of Italian. Most of his focus seemed to be on the intricacies of the Italian language but Tim was fluent in Italian and didn’t care to take any of his italian classes. Not that the man had many.

“I know the 107 letters can be difficult and if you don’t know what to listen for they can sound similar to each other, but that’s why this whole unit is just on breaking down the IPA, and making sure all of us can read, and understand it. Okay?”

Mummers of okays and yesses echoed through the lecture hall. Tim opened his phone, scrolling to Dick’s phone number and clicking on it.

Timmy Boi: Guess who just walked into my Linguistics class as a late transfer?

Dickie Bird: Who?

Timmie Boi: Alley kid

Dickie Bird: No fucking way. Is he that rude in person?

Timmie Boi: No not yet at least. We’re partnered up for the semester though, so plenty of time for me to find out heh. Dude’s got a cane.

Dickie Bird: So not our so-called mystery vigilante Jason wants us to meet?

Timmie Boi: Unlikely, He also looks sick as a mother fucker Dick. Like it’s bad.

Dickie Bird: Damn, so still no leads until Friday?

Timmie Boi: Unfortunately not. Cams still distorted as fuck with those symbols?

Dickie Bird: Just like all the others. Only copies we have are hand drawn references. No one can get a clear pic.

Timmie Boi: Anyluck on the Distortion dude? Anything on him?

Dickie Bird: Uhh, he showed up 3 years ago? Works for Jason mostly. Started as a runner, then became body guard and personal protection for a lot of the shipments going in and out of Jason’s domain. That was only after bribing over 15 inmates too.

Timmie Boi: How the fuck did Jason keep someone, a meta namely, from us for so long?

Dickie Bird: Who knows. One guy said something about protecting a child. The child is Jason’s guard dog. Brutal when he needs to be. Maybe he’s scarier than he looks? People kept quiet over fear?

Timmie Boi: You’re the people person, but even then if people are scared we would have heard something else. I just think we have something else in the picture here that we’re missing it all.

Dickie Bird: Well, any cameras he passed by that night went to static. I had Barb check it out for us.

Timmie Boi: So his gift can mess with cameras? Only mildly concerning.

Dickie Boi: Wait, why are we having this conversation right now Tim? You’re in class?!?!?! I’m leaving you alone. Pay attention, and don’t fall asleep, and DRINK WATER FOR ONE IN YOUR CAFFEINE ADDICTED LIFE.

Timmie Boi: YOU CAN’T STOP ME DICK. I’M GETTING COFFEE RIGHT AFTER THIS.

Speaking of coffee, he could probably get mystery-dude’s phone number for their homework and stuff. Maybe he could even get coffee with him and help him with his classes. And maybe find out more about that night in the alley.

“What are you doing after class?”Tim spoke up to look over at the man. Danny wasn’t even paying attention to the lecture. He was… drawing? Way better than anything Tim could draw that was for sure. Maybe he would get along with Damian? Tim liked the easier stuff, taking pictures. He could draw but he didn’t like it nearly as much as being able to get behind a camera and take some beautiful photos. Man, he should get back into that again. Dick was always pressing him to get back into a hobby outside of crime solving. He liked to stick with what he was good at though.

“Oh? Uh nothing really, just contemplating existence. Why what’s up?”Danny gave a soft shy smile. Oh no. His smile was cute. Also wait, contemplating existence?

“Well, I figured if we’re gonna be stuck together all semester we could get coffee and talk about the project and get to know each other a little better.” Tim could watch a wave of anxiety slip over the man.

“Well, I don’t know maybe,”a small shrug then a quiet moment of contemplation. “Actually, sure that’d be nice!”

“Great!”

“Wait, we already have a project?”Danny’s eyes widened looking from his doodle of something? Tim couldn’t make it out but it was pretty? Looked like a pool of swirling water sketched in a gray scale. Who knows. This guy must have been so distracted he didn’t hear the teacher’s words about their project. Rewriting a speech in a non-english language into the phonetic alphabet.

Tim couldn't help but laugh a little at him.

This caught a small look from the teacher and Tim stifled his laughter a little even as Danny began to fight his own laughter as the two looked at each other. That was so dumb. Why was he even laughing at that?

“I’ll explain after class.”

“Sounds good to me, I’m just sitting here… doodlin’.”

“I see that..” Tim gave him a smile as Danny chuckled himself turning back to his drawing. The man stretching his arms upwards turned to actually pay attention to the teacher. A small frown coming across his face noticing the thin spindly scars edging up the side of his neck across the back of his neck. What the fuck was that? He shook his head.

Tim stayed mostly alert the rest of the hour long class. Kaivan had started going through the various letters of the IPA and their origins and why they were chosen. It was interesting to say the least. He had learned a lot and the class was definitely different than what he was used too. Danny on the other hand.

Fuck Tim hoped the dopey smiles and spaced out stared was how he payed attention or their partnership was going to be a lot more strenuous than he originally thought. He swore he saw him falling asleep a couple times there before jerking himself awake. Not that Tim could blame him. He averaged only about 3 hours a night if he was lucky. Then again, Tim didn’t exactly play the whole “catch up on sleep” game.

It did take a gentle nudge from Tim to get the man away and on their way to the coffee shop. He was slow as he walked with the cane but Tim didn’t say anything about it. Everyone had their little quirks and issues. Lord knows Tim had his.

The cold autumn air in Gotham was settling around them.

“What’s your major?” It was Danny who spoke up with a quiet smile.

“Oh, business. I plan to take over my father’s company,”Tim replied.

“Wow, impressive.” Danny looked up at the sky with a small chuckle as Tim raised an eyebrow at him.

“Thanks, what’s yours?”

“Engineering, I was going to do Astronomy but we’ll the Gotham Skies aren’t exactly the clearest.” Danny chuckled softly as Tim gave a nod.

“The smog helps no one. Glad you found a major you like though.” There was a silence settling between them but it didn’t lessen the mood in fact it almost felt welcomed in a quiet way.

“Same to you!” Danny looked up at the crows stopping the duo in their tracks. There were almost 10 crows just watching them. Tim, had never seen that. All them staring at Danny. “Boo.” The man whispered and with a small chuckled, all 10 flew off the branches and into the air leaving Tim to watch and then follow. Missing how the birds simply landed up ahead.

Tim was sort of lost in thought about the revelations they could possibly have about the whole Distortion situation.

“Heyo, Timmy,”Danny’s voice dragged him from his thoughts and his slow pace holding the door open. “Don’t hurry up and you’ll be soaked.” He hadn’t even noticed a slow drizzle starting to fall from the sky. He held his hand out before running to meet the man.

Tim joined the man into the warm coffee shop. The scent of pumpkin spice filling their noses as they moved to get in line.

“Didn’t get too wet did you?”Danny asked concern surprising Tim.

“Ah, no, don’t worry about me though. I might be more concerned for when we leave here though.”

“I’m not too worried.” The man gave a nonchalant shrug. “Can’t kill me worse than I already have been.” Was that a death joke?

“Oh?”Tim gave a smirk. He wasn’t normally one for puns, those were Dick’s thing but also… Dick wasn’t here. “Did it have you rolling in your grave?” Dick could never find out about this but then Danny’s shit eating grin only widened across his face.

“Oh, for sure it was to die for after all.”

“I can’t I’m sorry,”Tim laughed with a smile. “What’re you getting? I’ll pay since I invited you out.”

“Oh, I might scare you with my order.”

“I promise you won’t. Mine is insane myself.”

“One of those extra large pumpkin spice lattes with 10 shots of espresso.”

“Extra large americano with 8 shots of espresso,”Tim quipped. “I see you’re a man just as insane as I am.”

“Oh, for sure. I’ve never met someone with an order just as bad as mine,”he admitted as he stared up at the menu. “How are the sandwiches here? Are they pretty dead-licious?”

“Oh god..”

“Or I don’t know, pretty frightful?”

“Please Danny.”

“I bet they’re boo-mbastic.”

“Who ever uses that word anymore.”

Okay Halloween was coming up admittedly. Yes there were halloween and fall decorations coming but, but god dammit Danny. It was like having another Dick around.

“You decided to fuel this.”

“I did not decide to fuel anything!”Tim complained just as they got to the counter ordering their coffees. It was a barista Tim was familiar with. A kind girl named Sarah who seemed to be all too familiar with the two of them.

“Oh! Can I also get the mac and cheese please!”Danny offered another charming smile putting some money in the tip jar. “I can pay you back Tim.”

“No worries.” Tim gave a shrug.

“Alrighty and here you are Tim.” Sarah handed him his card back with the receipt as he himself put some money in the jar.

“Damn, she knows your name?”

“I know you too Danny, Mr. 10 shots of espresso at midnight last week. You also fucking work here.”

“Love you guysssss, and I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Danny practically purred out with an innocent smile.

“You two together, scare me,”the barista motioned between the two of them. “But honestly, we were waiting for you two to meet.”

“I’m innocent,”Tim vouched.”Also wait, what?”

“I watched you order an extra large cup with only espresso shots in it for Finals last semester.” Sarrah refused to answer the apparent group that had been waiting for Tim and Danny to meet each other.

“I was busy!”

“You weren’t sleeping!”

“Anyways I’m going to go over there,”Danny pointed to an empty table by the window.

“Yeah, Tim. How about you go over there. With your little Date,”She emphasized the word as Danny was already over sitting down unpacking his backpack onto the table.

“He’s not my date! We literally just met!”

“Yet. Next in line please!”

“Sarah-- no-- I swear to--”Tim could have sworn he saw an exchanging of cash behind the counters. Were they betting on something. What the fuck were they betting on?!? He hissed and moved to join Danny in the opposite seat.

“So did you even catch what the group project is? How much have you studied of the Linguistics 101 class anyways?” Tim pulled out his laptop setting it in front of him. He logged in giving a small smile of the silly chaotic and group picture they had gotten last year at Christmas. Bruce stood on the far right and Jason on the far left Dick’s arm wrapped around his shoulder. Damian was trying to stab Tim again who was moving to dodge it. Steph chaotically cheering the gremlin on. Cass quietly wondering if she should intervene in the middle. Duke full on panicked at what was going on as it was his first Christmas with the family. Barb covering her mouth in laughter in front of Bruce. He wanted to make sure she was included. It was his favorite photo of him and his siblings.

Fuck. Danny had been talking to him.

“Earth to Timmy.” A wave of a hand in front of his face.

“Please just Tim,”he laughs. “Sorry, yes?”

“I was asking about the IPA. Are you familiar with it? I have no idea on anything about it.”

“I know like half of it? I’ll have to learn the other half,”he admits. “But yes, the project.”

“Fuck, yeah okay what’s this project?”

“It involves reading.”

“No! WHY!”

“In another language.. That neither of us speak.”

“Oh god.”

“Yeah, so we’re supposed to write down a 1,000 minimum word speech, or chapter from a book or whatever and put it into the International Phonetic Alphabet.”

“I don’t know about you but I speak a lot, like A lot of languages.”

“Yeah.. I feel the same way.”

“What do you speak?” Danny playfully pushed Tim’s computer screen down from booting up the program the professor had given them to use to type out the phonetic alphabet. It was still apparently a nightmare program, but he had decided to type it so he wouldn't be deciphering shitty handwriting.

“Mandarin, Chinese, Italian, German, French, russian, Japanese, tagalog, spanish, I think that’s all of them?”

“You speak Tagalog too!” Danny’s words switched with ease to the language.

“No fuckin’ way,” Tim had to laugh at that one. “What else do you speak?”

“Same things are you but, Esperanto, Swahili, Cantonese, javanese, Sardo(technically a dialect but you know same difference), Ukrainian, I think that’s all?”

“I thought I was the Polyglot. Oh! I also speak ASL and BSL.”

“I know bits and pieces of ASL, definitely no BSL though,”he laughs softly. “But wait what other languages does that leave?”

“Well, a lot but I mean. We could always pick an easy one we both know.”

“Italian?”

“Yeah, please. I do not want translate someone in a non-latin based alphabet. It registers funny in my brain.”

“I gotta ask though Danny… Esperanto?”

“Okay, leave me alone! I had a friend who spoke it and taught me it so we could shit about others.”

“That’s fuckin’ hilarious though,”he smirked. “But what should we translate?”

Danny looked like he was about to burst out laughing. “What if we just fucking translated the Divine Comedy.”

“Danny Nightingale, are you telling me we should rewrite one of the most famous works of Italian writing, ever. That is also notoriously translated, a lot? And is--- you know.”

“Ma Divine Commedia,”Danny laughed. Tim could not with him right now. “E la fanfiction Tim.”

“YEAH I KNOW, that’s why I can’t believe you’re suggesting it.”

“COMMEDIA.” Danny proclaimed with a snort. Fuck that was cute. Thank god his name was called to grab their stuff. He could ignore the small twinge in his chest as he brought them their coffee and the food for Danny.

“Let’s get this over with I guess.”

“YES!” Danny threw his first into the air in excitement. “This is the start a beautiful friendship Tim, I promise.”

“Are we about to be nightmares to our poor professor?”

“What? Nooooo.”

“Oh yes we fucking are,”Tim rolled his eyes and smiled as he sipped his drink pulling up the original document. They were so fucked, but at least it would be funny. If Danny was his new partner for his class maybe Friday would come sooner than he thought.

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

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a-killer-obsession · 6 months ago

Text

🔞 Minors DNI 🔞

A search for a rumored Vegapunk weapon leads the Kid Pirates to an unexpected new crewmate, with a bloodlust that rivals their own and an incredible power.

CW: Please check AO3 for all current warnings, but general warning for smut, slow burn, serious gore, and really dark themes. AFAB reader, she/her pronouns.

Masterlist || AO3 || Chapter 1

Chapter 46 - Plans and Disguises

Unsure of what to do now that you're in Wano, you make a deal to get some help.

Word Count: ~3.5k

“Give me a hand, will you?” Law coughed, a dribble of blood running from the corner of his mouth, “they got me with a fucking seastone nail.”

“What makes you think I'm gonna help you?” You scowled, “I ain't your friend.”

“Because I know who you are, Shockwave Yin,” Law smirked, “and I know why you're in Wano. Help me out, and I can help you out.”

“You can heal yourself once I get the nail out?” You questioned. You knew a little of his devil fruit abilities, Killer made sure you were well educated on all of the Worst Generation and Emperors. Only a fool would sail the Grandline without some knowledge on the biggest players in the game.

“Yes, just fuckin’ get it out,” he grumbled, pulling the sleeve of his kimono out of the way, revealing the tattoos on his arm and the entry wound. “You don't know this place. You and your baby won't survive here unless I tell you what I know.”

You grumbled but knew you weren't in the position to refuse any information you could get. He was right, you knew shit all about this land, you didn't even know how big it was or what direction to go in to find your friends. You pulled your dagger from your thigh holster, giving him one last look of confirmation. He nodded, and you dug the blade into his skin, making the opening large enough to get your thin fingers inside; since it was seastone, you couldn't use your powers to dislodge the nail. You pushed two digits into the wound as Law groaned and grinded his teeth, fishing around for the seastone nail, a little rougher than you needed to be just out of principle. You knew you'd found it when you felt your abilities shut down, your visor now giving your vision a purple tint instead of its usual invisible filter. You pulled the nail from his wound, throwing it into the grass nearby.

Immediately, Law summoned a Room and removed the bacteria from his wound, closing it with a sigh before dismissing the blue aura. You cleaned off your knife against his already dirty clothing, much to his annoyance, reshealthing the blade and wiping your hands clean on some damp grass. You stood before him impatiently, waiting for him to hold up his side of the deal.

“Alright, alright,” Law rolled his eyes, using the tree to stand back upright, a little unstable on his feet. “I'll give you the import info. Kaido's weapon factories have poisoned this land, the water and food here, even the animals, aren't safe to consume. The only safe food comes from his farms. If you want to survive here, you need to either steal from his farms directly, or from the Flower Capital where he ships the safe food to the rich.”

“God fucking damn it,” you growled, annoyed at the extra work. You were no better off than you had been on the alliance island. How were you going to keep up with stealing enough food to sustain your milk, care for your baby, and find your crew? Law saw the way you grit your teeth in frustration, and saw an opportunity he could take advantage of.

“Your devil fruit is quite strong, yeah?” He asked. You squinted at him suspiciously, choosing not to dignify him with an answer. He rolled his eyes at your hostility. “Look, I'm guessing the baby is throwing a spanner in the works for you. Kaido took your crew, yeah? My crew have heard rumours about it, but since it doesn't concern me I haven't looked into where they're being held. I'll make you a deal though. We keep baby supplies on the ship for distributing on poorer islands, so make a deal with me. My crew will babysit, while you go look for your crew. In exchange, you lend us your power in the battle against Kaido.”

“Why should I trust you?” You growled, holding Dawn close protectively.

“Because we have a mutual enemy,” he said plainly, leaning on his long sword for support, weak from bloodloss and use of his power, “and because right now, I know you don't have any other options.”

You made an annoyed grumble, but conceded that you didn't have a better option right now. The Straw Hats trusted him, they'd already fought together several times, he seemed reliable to them at least. You trusted the Straw Hats, they'd helped you without question, and had been more than accommodating, so maybe you could extend that trust to Law, given their alliance. It was a difficult ask though, given your current experience with pirate alliances. You looked down at a sleeping Dawn nestled against your chest, not a care in the world. You couldn't keep doing this on your own, you needed to find her dads and the rest of your crew. You owed it to Kid at least, after everything he'd done for you.

“Fine, you have a deal,” you finally agreed, not seeing any better path. Law held out his hand and you made an exasperated sigh at the shit eating grin he gave you as you shook it. You felt like you'd just made a deal with the devil, but what choice did you have?

The bushes behind you rustles, and you quickly turned on your heel and drew your weapon as you sensed several people rushing at you at once. You stilled your heart and your hand though when matching branded kimono appeared through the trees. You let out a heavy breath as you resheathed your sword, you were getting really fucking sick of people jumping out of bushes today.

“Captainnnnn!” A large polar bear mink shouted in a surprisingly high pitch as he ran at Law. He scooped the tall man up like he weighed nothing, Law clearly used to this sort of treatment as the mink hugged him like a ragdoll. “You're okay!”

“Bepo, put me down,” Law complained. The bear quickly dropped him, bowing his head and apologising repeatedly. “What's your report?”

“The ruins are entirely destroyed,” a man with ginger hair sticking out from under a whale-shaped hat spoke, “but no lives were lost, thanks to Shinobu and Chopper. The group is retreating back to location B.”

“Good,” Law replied, “and Straw Hat-ya?”

“Captured,” the one with a cap with a small stuffed bird on top spoke, “unconscious, but alive we think. Looked like they were taking him to Udon.”

“Dammit,” Law growled, “five fucking minutes he's been here and he's already starting shit. Now Kaido knows our crews are here,” Law tsked. You were thankful to hear that Luffy didn't drown, but he wasn't your Monkey, and this wasn't your circus. The others looked at you questioningly, Law waving his hand nonchalantly at you as he answered their wordless questions. “This is Yin-ya, from the Kid Pirates. She'll be coming with us. Let's get moving, the Beast Pirates know I'm around now and it won't be long before they come looking to see where I went.”

“Aye aye captain!” The three subordinates spoke, giving a salute before Bepo took Law's sword for him to carry it, and the other two offered Law a shoulder each to help him walk.

You followed the four of them back through the forest to a small town, where the buildings looked run down and abandoned. There were hardly any people on the street, seemingly most of the residents had deserted the decrepit town, or perhaps died. Those left didn't look far from the grave either, hunched over in doorways, begging bowls in their hands and clothes that were practically rags at this point to cover their bodies. The town stunk of death, the air thick with it. You saw many ghosts along the way, all looking just as depressed as the living, and you had no doubt Kaido was responsible for this town's misery. ‘Location B’ turned out to be a run down looking hall that looked like it used to be used for performances. The largest building in the town by far, though the west side was entirely collapsed, and you worried about the structural integrity of the rest of the building. It had plenty of space for several small crews though, with a large foyer, a decent performance hall, and several offshoot rooms that would have been dressing rooms and the like when the building was still in use.

On the way Law explained more about Wano to you, and a little of the plans to take down Kaido. Wano was an enslaved land, with the poor being forced to work in weapon factories while Kaido built an army of artificial devil fruit users. The production of the fruit had been stopped by Law and the Straw Hats, but Kaido already had a large force, made up of strange human-animal hybrids with none of the shifting abilities of a usual zoan fruit user. The fruit had a high failure rate though, such was the risk of duplicating something as wildly difficult to replicate as devil fruits, but Kaido had accepted the risks when he shipped in crate after crate of the marred fruits. Those who the fruit successfully worked for were known as Gifters, while those who the fruit had failed for were known as Pleasures, named as such because the fruit left them with the inability to show any emotion other than joy, only ever able to laugh and smile for the rest of their life, no matter how angry or sad or scared they were. The permanent smile was also how the fake fruits received their name, known as SMILEs.

Kaido's crew, the Beast Pirates, controlled the entire island, and many residents were either dying in the factories, or starving from lack of safe food. Kaido was in league with the shogun, essentially the king of Wano, after the previous shogun had been murdered twenty years ago during a conspiracy Kaido had aided. Unbeknownst to Kaido, the son of the murdered shogun, as well as several of his retainers, had been sent to the future (or rather, the present) and the plan now was to defeat Kaido and the false shogun, and retake control with the old shogun's son back in his rightful place of power. Both the On-Air and Hawkins Pirates had joined forces with Kaido, and now patrolled alongside the Beast Pirates. Law and Luffy were part of what was know as the Ninja-Pirate-Mink-Samurai alliance, who were currently working on recruiting allies and gaining information on Kaido in the build up to a raid, planned to take place in two weeks during a local festival.

The island also had a unique climate, being a large enough landmass to split up into multiple seasonal weather patterns. Currently, you were in the summer section of the island, while the Flower Capital, where most of the Straw Hats were currently under cover, was located in the Spring area. The entire country had been cut off from the outside world for hundreds of years, with its own den-den system, newspapers, fashion, currency and culture. Hence the kimono Law's crew were wearing, and why Law's crew and the rest of the Straw Hats had been unable to contact Luffy. You could see as you entered the hall that the Straw Hats you'd travelled with also sported kimono now, ready to head off to their own undercover assignments.

Dawn had started to wake up as you arrived, and you pulled her out of the carrier so she could stretch out better and look around. She squealed excitedly as she noticed Hakugan, and Law raised a curious brow at the baby's reaction. You sighed as you struggled to contain the excited baby, “I think it's the mask,” you explained, “I think she's mistaking him for her dad.”

“Massacre Soldier is her father?” Law asked. It seemed obvious to him now, seeing the blonde hair.

“Ah, one of them,” you replied awkwardly, “it's complicated.”

“You… don't know who her father is?” He asked. He sounded a little judgmental and you tried not to take offence.

“I have two lovers, but neither is her birth father,” you replied with a scowl, expecting a pirate to be a little more open with things like sexuality, “neither am I her birth mother. She's adopted.”

“O-oh,” Law replied, “but… you're breastfeeding?”

“I lost a baby,” you sighed. Law quickly regretted this whole line of questioning, it was clear by your expression that he'd hit a sore spot. He made a mental note to himself to explain Dawn's parentage to his crew, so that nobody would ask you the same questions.

“Sorry,” he quickly said, promptly looking to change the subject after that, “Hakugan, come here.”

The masked man came jogging over, much to Dawn's delight as she reached for him. “You're on babysitting duty,” Law told him, “have someone retrieve supplies from the ship, you're going to be looking after Yin-ya's baby while she looks for her crew.”

“What?!” Hakugan groaned, “Why me?!”

“Because she's taken a liking to you,” Law said plainly, but there was a hint of amusement to his tone, “have someone help you if you must, but you're responsible for this baby while Yin-ya is busy, that's an order. We have a deal with her.”

“Fine,” Hakugan grumbled, holding his hands out for Dawn who all but jumped into his arms. You handed him the duffle bag of what supplies you had, and gave him the rundown of what she likes and needs. It wasn't a proper goodbye yet, but Law needed your attention to get you set-up so you could begin searching for your crew as soon as possible. The Straw Hats gathered here were already on their way out, along with several Heart Pirates, to find their assigned undercover posts or return to the city for more scouting, and you waved them all goodbye.

You followed Law up to what would have been the stage before this hall was abandoned, where he introduced you to the future shogun, Momonosuke, as well as his retainers. He was just a kid, you couldn't fathom how they were going to make this kid a leader, but it didn't matter to you as long as you got your crew back. One of the retainers, Kin'emon, put a leaf on your head, and with a puff of pink smoke your outfit was changed. They assured you your jacket and mask were fine, just disguised temporarily. You now wore a yellow kimono, with a gradient that shifted the base to pink at the bottom, decorated with white and periwinkle flowers. Around your waist was a sash decorated in white and teal vertical stripes, a periwinkle peek of fabric at its top edge and a pink ribbon around the centre. Under the kimono was a matching periwinkle layer, which peeked out at the neckline, and your sleeves had been conveniently tied out of the way by white threads, in a similar style to one of the retainers, Kiku. Your mask was now disguised as a headdress, the visor now a sheer purple fabric, the earpieces now large yellow chrysanthemums, a thick white braid running over your head to connect them all. By fiddling with the petals you were able to adjust the mask, the sheer fabric changing colour with the setting, and you were impressed with the way the devil fruit power adapted to the changes.

Carrying weapons was forbidden in Wano unless you were one of Kaido's subordinates, so you stashed your katana with Law's crew, keeping your hidden knife under your dress. You didn't really need your katana anyway, you just liked to have it with you in case of seastone bullets. The retainers also gave you the cover name Mienai and a backstory as a florist in the Flower Capital, in case anyone asked questions. Did you know anything about being a florist? Not a fucking lick, but you didn't plan on getting close enough to any of the locals to need your cover story. The name was useful though, Kaido's people were no doubt keeping an eye out for you, the one rogue member of Kid's crew and a valuable potential asset. If anyone got wind of a ‘Yin' in Wano, you would have a lot more travel getting around, even with your invisibility. You weren't immune to good observation haki, and if Kaido caught wind you were here, you had no doubt he would have people with good haki guarding your crew as a trap for you.

Your plan was to sneak into the capital to begin searching for holding cells, or to try and catch some whispers of where your crew might be. Being able to make yourself invisible would no doubt be your most useful ability in Wano, and now that Dawn was taken care of you would be able to travel quickly and unhindered. Though your new shoes were taking some getting used to. Gone were your usual practical boots, replaced by sandal like shoes called geta, with black lacquered bases and pink straps, worn over white socks that had a separation to account for the shoe straps. They were awkwardly heavy, with a curve at the front that meant your toes were basically hovering over nothing, and you ate shit at least five times before you got the hang of them, or at least got the hang of using your devil fruit to manipulate the air and right yourself.

You took one last chance to breastfeed Dawn for the evening, not knowing when you would be back to the base, memorising the shape of her face and the way her soft hair fluffed up at the top of her head and the way her tiny little hands reached for things. You hated having to leave her behind, but you had to remind yourself that she was too small to remember this when she's older, but she would certainly remember being raised without her dads if you didn't find them. You didn't want that for her, you wanted her to have all the love in the world, to always be surrounded by it. And you wanted that protection for her, so she would never suffer like you had.

You ate dinner with the Law's crew - he'd been stealing food from Kaido's farms, where the crops and animals weren't poisoned by his factories. Law had already informed you that the food in the capital would be safe, so you had no need to pack significant rations, you could steal what you needed once you were there. You packed enough food to tide you over though until you got there, repurposing your duffle bag which until now mostly only held things for Dawn. Law had offered you medication to dry up your milk supply to make your mission easier, but you refused it. It felt like a betrayal to Dawn's birth mother to just give up on your milk like that, when her mother had struggled so much to keep it going. She'd had no choice when her supply dried up, but you did, and hell would freeze over before you gave up on it, especially not for a little thing like convenience. Instead, you packed your hand crank manual pump. You would have no way to preserve the milk and would have to dump it, but keeping up the draining of your breasts regularly would stop your body from thinking you no longer had a baby to feed, until your mission was complete and you could go back to how things should be. You still planned to return to this base whenever possible anyway, to see Dawn and feed her yourself whenever the opportunity arose. You also packed a hand drawn map provided by the retainers, a few bottles of safe water, and one of the local den-den, which was conical in shape. You could use it to contact Law if anything happened, but you hoped you wouldn't need to use it.

The retainers told you what they could about the capital, to help you blend in once you got there. Once the sun went down you set out to begin your journey. The capital was located in the centre of the island, and you would have to pass through an area called Kibi to get there. There was a town you could stop in on the way called Okobore, where you intended to hide during the day until you could move at night again. It was safer that way, since some of the Gifters had the ability to fly, they would spot a random woman travelling through essential desert from a mile away, and you couldn't just stay invisible the whole time. By traveling at night you had the vision advantage, and would see enemies long before they saw you, allowing you to cloak yourself. Once you made it to the capital you would blend in, but until then your clothes were far to nice for those on the outskirts, you'd stick right out.

With a deep breath you took one last look at Dawn, sleeping soundly in Bepo's arms (he had taken quite a liking to her), and took the first determined step towards finding your family.

[NEXT CHAPTER]

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#one piece fanfiction #one piece smut #killer one piece #killer x reader #massacre soldier killer #heat one piece #heat x reader #kid pirates

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bupia · 1 year ago

Note

30, 46 with Copia please! 🙏🏻

SEX TOYS

“It’s not scary at all. Let me show you.” "Does it feels good?"

There's a smut under the cut, +18 only, please.

(this is about Copia with a Transmasc!reader)

Available on AO3

Day 6 | Day 8

"So, what do you say?" Copia asked, his eyes filled with warmth.

"I... I don't know," you replied nervously, uncertainty in your voice.

"I won't pressure you if you're not comfortable, amore," he reassured you with a gentle smile.

"It's not that I don't want to," you began, hesitating. "It's just that I'd rather have you instead of... a toy."

Copia chuckled softly and leaned in, placing a tender kiss on your forehead. "You're absolutely adorable. You'll have me; this is just a little... warm-up. So you can get used to it."

"I know," you pouted.

"Don't make that face, amore mio," he said, leaning in to give you a gentle peck on the lips. "So, what do you say? Are you up for it?"

You nodded, and Copia responded with a wicked grin. He reached for the toy on the bedside table next to his bed, along with a bottle of lube. He opened the bottle and poured some into his hand, applying it on the toy before reaching over to between your legs.

"I think we can get started without any more delay," he said, his voice husky with arousal. "It's not scary at all. Let me show you, amore."

You let out a soft gasp as he rubbed the slippery liquid on your entrance. "I... I think so, Papa."

He gently placed the tip of the vibrator at your entrance, and began to rub it back and forth, teasing you with its touch. You let out a soft moan as he pushed the toy inside you, and you arched your back pushing your hips toward him, but Copia pulled it out.

Copia gazed at your eyes. "How was it, caro? Troppo male o troppo bene?" he asked as he caressed your thigh gently.

"Please," you begged.

"Please what, amore?" he asked.

Copia merely smiled and he turned on the vibrator, you could hear the soft sound of it. You moaned quietly as you felt the vibrations teasing your clit.

"Please what, amore mio?" he repeated. "What do you want from your, Papa?" Copia smiled devilishly as he continued the ministrations. continuing to work the toy against your clit.

"Please put it inside," you cried out.

"Oh, now you want it inside?" Copia inquired, teasingly.

"Don't tease me, Copia," you replied. "Just fuck me."

Copia laughed, then began to push the vibrator inside of you. You moaned as he pushed it all the way into you. You could feel him moving it inside you, and you were so wet from your own arousal that the toy were sliding easily. Copia began to move the vibrator in and out of you, slowly, but soon picking up speed. It felt incredible, and you couldn't help but let out a small moan. Copia chuckled, and began to move the vibrator faster and harder, pushing it deeper and deeper inside of you.

"Oh, Satan," you moaned. "Please, C-Oh-opia, more! more!" you moaned louder, begging.

"Sì, sì, caro mio, moan for me, beg for more," he said with a grin on his lips. "Does it feels good?"

"Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Papa, more, more!" you whimpered. "Please, don't stop."

Copia lowered his face to between your legs and began to suck your clit while he pumped the vibrator inside you. You grabbed onto the sheets, your hips bucking wildly against his face.

"C-Ooh-pi-Aah!" you moaned his name in a very thin voice, arching your back. "Fuck me, Copia!"

You pushed your hips toward him, and Copia complemented, thrusting the vibrator deep inside of you and rubbing your clit with his tongue. The sensation of his tongue on your clit and the vibrator inside you were too much for you to handle, you felt your legs shaking and your body tensing up. But then, Copia stopped his ministrations, replacing the vibrator with his mouth, purring into your entrance.

"Mmm, you taste so good, caro," he whispered, lapping at your juices. "Cazzo, you taste so sweet here, mio ragazzo."

You groaned in response to his words, rolling your eyes to the back of your head. He went back to your clit with his mouth, sucking it hard into his mouth, flickering his tongue. You felt your body shudder as Copia enjoyed himself immensely between your legs. Copia released your clit from his mouth, and turned his face to your direction, locking his eyes with yours.

"Do you want me to fuck you, caro?" he whispered, darting his tongue out licking your clit, slowly. "Tell me, amore. Tell me how much you want me to fuck you."

"I- I want you to fuck me, Copia-Ah!" you cried out. "Please, fuck me."

"Say it again," Copia demanded.

"Please, fuck me! Fuck me!" you were practically screaming, begging for him.

"Not yet," he said, going back with the vibrator inside you.

"Oh-Ah!" your eyes widened. "T-That's not fair!"

Copia slid it in and out of you, you arched your back, pressing your hips against his hand. You wanted more, but at the same time it was too overwhelming, you could feel your mind going blank. You were bucking your hips, trying to get away from the vibrator, but Copia held you down and continued to thrust into you.

"You're not going anywhere until you cum," he said.

"If you keep go-Oh-ing like this, I- I might..."

"Molto bene, I want to see you satisfied. Cum for me, amore, give me the pleasure to make you cum," he said encouraging you.

You were so wet, and you could feel your juices running down your thighs. Copia continued his pace inside you, making you scream. Copia growled pounding the vibrator in and out of you, going as deep inside of you as he could. He pulled the vibrator almost completely out of you, allowing you to catch your breath before plunging it back in.

"Copia, I'm... I'm going to... Yes, yes, Ah-! Oh, Satan!" you gasped, your words filled with ecstasy as pleasure washed over you.

He went even harder and your body tensed. You came hard around the toy screaming his name. Copia removed the toy from inside you, lowering his face once again, lapping on your juice, drinking it, savoring it. You moaned softly as he did so, spasming with the sensation of his warm mouth against your entrance. You felt him move up your body, reaching for your lips, kissing you gently. He kissed you deeply and you kissed him back passionately, wrapping your arms around his neck.

"You taste even sweeter when you cum, caro," he whispered huskily against your lips, breaking the passionate kiss as his fingers traced tantalizing patterns on your skin.

"T-Thank you..."

"Prego," he replied warmly, his lust evident in his eyes.

"I have to admit, this was really good," you said, your voice tinged with a hint of shyness.

"Indeed, it was, caro," Copia replied with a smile.

Copia lowered his body, kneeling between your legs. He grabbed your thighs, spreading them wider than before, pulling you closer to him.

"W-What are you doing, Papa?"

"Did you already forget what you said? You'd rather have me than a toy, sì?" he said with a smirk. "This was just a warm-up; we're just getting started."

143 notes · View notes

writingsoftarnishedsilver · 2 months ago

Text

The Tattoo | Sebastian Sallow x OC #46

Summary: Studying for their N.E.W.Ts gets boring, and Sebastian drags Ominis and Evie along to London for an ‘outing’

Words: ~5,200

Tags: Coming of Age, Friendship, Banter, Sentimental, Not-Quite-Dating, Will They Won't They, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Mutual Pining, Unspoken Feelings, Slow Burn, Friends to Lovers

Timeline: Mid May

Read more stories about Sebastian and Evangeline

Read on AO3

The air in the Undercroft was thick with the hum of concentrated magic and the faint rustle of parchment. The three of them—Evangeline, Sebastian, and Ominis—were seated around the table, the only sounds punctuating the stillness being the occasional scrape of quill against parchment or the soft muttering of incantations. It was late, far later than they should have been awake, but the impending weight of their N.E.W.T.s left little room for indulgent rest.

Evangeline shifted in her chair, absently twirling her wand between her fingers. Her notes were sprawled out in front of her, filled with neat annotations in her precise handwriting. Despite her best efforts, the words had begun to blur together, and every spell diagram seemed to mock her dwindling focus. Across from her, Ominis sat with his wand resting lightly against a sheet of parchment, his expression impassive as he methodically worked through a series of incantations.

And then there was Sebastian.

As usual, he was the picture of restless energy, leaning back in his chair with his feet propped up on the table. His quill spun lazily between his fingers, untouched parchment resting on his lap as he gazed at the ceiling, clearly miles away from the Transfiguration notes he was supposed to be writing. He hadn’t spoken in a while, his silence unusual enough to draw Evangeline’s attention. She studied him from the corner of her eye, noting the way his brow furrowed, as though he were mulling something over.

The quiet stretched, pressing against the edges of Evangeline’s patience. Finally, she set her quill down with a sigh. “Alright, out with it,” she said, her voice cutting through the stillness. “Whatever’s got you so preoccupied, Sebastian, just spit it out.”

Ominis didn’t look up from his work, but his lips twitched in faint amusement. “Thank Merlin,” he muttered. “I was starting to wonder how long we’d have to endure his brooding.”

Sebastian’s head snapped down, a crooked grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Brooding, was I?” he drawled, his tone feigning offense. “I prefer to call it ‘pondering.’”

“Call it whatever you like,” Evangeline replied, arching an eyebrow. “Just stop making that face and tell us what’s on your mind.”

Sebastian hesitated for only a moment before his grin widened, a glint of mischief sparking in his eyes. “I think we need a break.”

“A break?” Ominis repeated flatly, finally lifting his head. “We’ve barely scratched the surface of today’s work, and you’re already suggesting we abandon it?”

“I’m not suggesting we abandon anything,” Sebastian countered, sitting up straight and tossing his quill onto the table. “I’m suggesting we take a couple measly hours to do something fun. Something that doesn’t involve spell charts or charm theory.”

Evangeline folded her arms, skeptical. “And what exactly did you have in mind?”

“A quick outing,” Sebastian said breezily. “We’ll be back before anyone even notices we’re gone.”

Ominis groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Merlin’s sake, Sebastian. It’s mid-May, our N.E.W.T.s are in less than a month. What could possibly justify a vague 'outing'?”

Sebastian’s grin turned secretive, his eyes darting between the two of them. “I have my reasons,” he said cryptically. “But I’m not telling you until we get there.”

“That’s reassuring,” Ominis deadpanned.

“Relax, it’ll be worth it,” he replied, leaning forward with that familiar, reckless glint in his eye—the one that always spelled trouble. “Come on, Evie. You’re not going to let Ominis talk you out of an adventure, are you?”

Evangeline hesitated, torn between the looming specter of her unfinished notes and the enticing promise of whatever scheme Sebastian was cooking up. She glanced at Ominis, who sighed heavily, clearly resigned to his role as the voice of reason.

“If I agree,” Ominis said at last, his tone begrudging, “it’s only because I know you’ll drag us along regardless.”

Sebastian clapped his hands together, triumphant. “That’s the spirit! Pack your things, then.”

Evangeline balked at him. "You want to go now?!"

Sebastian grinned as though her exclamation had been a ringing endorsement. “Of course, now! What better time than the present?”

Ominis sighed dramatically, setting his wand down with a faint clink. “Sebastian, if this is another harebrained scheme, I swear—”

“It’s not harebrained,” Sebastian interrupted, lifting a hand as though warding off the insult. “It’s well thought out. I promise. Now come on."

Sebastian turned on his heel and strode toward the exit of the Undercroft, his long strides brimming with purpose. Evangeline and Ominis exchanged a look—hers laced with resignation, his with exasperation—but neither made any move to stop him.

Evangeline sighed, shaking her head as she stood. “If this ends with us in the Hospital Wing, I'll hex you,” she called after him, her voice echoing off the walls.

“You’ll thank me later,” Sebastian shot back, his voice carrying over his shoulder. “Just trust me!”

“Famous last words,” Ominis muttered, standing reluctantly and grabbing his wand. “You realize he’s probably going to drag us halfway across the countryside for this?”

“Realize it?” Evangeline snorted, following after Sebastian. “I’m counting on it.”

The three of them emerged from the Undercroft, stepping into the cool night air of the castle’s lower corridors. The faint glow of torchlight illuminated their path, casting flickering shadows as Sebastian led them with unwavering confidence. Evangeline quickened her pace to catch up, her irritation warring with a flicker of curiosity.

Ominis followed a step behind them, his wand outstretched. “Sebastian, if this involves sneaking into the Forbidden Forest again—”

“It doesn’t,” Sebastian interrupted, waving a hand dismissively. “Have a little faith, Ominis.”

“I lost my faith in your plans somewhere around fifth year,” Ominis quipped, though there was a faint smile tugging at his lips.

Sebastian led them through the castle and out into the courtyard, the crisp May air carrying the scent of blooming flowers. The moon hung low in the sky, casting silvery light over the grounds, and the quiet of the evening was punctuated only by the soft rustling of leaves in the breeze.

Evangeline slowed as they stepped into the open courtyard, her eyes narrowing. “Wait a minute,” she said, suspicion creeping into her tone. “Are we leaving the castle entirely?”

“You catch on quick,” Sebastian said, turning to face them with a triumphant grin.

Ominis stopped abruptly, his expression pinched. “Sebastian, no. We’re not—”

“Oh, yes, we are,” Sebastian interrupted, cutting him off with a waggle of his eyebrows. “I told you, it’s a quick trip. No big deal.”

“Are you mad?” Evangeline hissed, glancing nervously over her shoulder as though expecting a professor to materialize out of thin air. “Do you know how much trouble we’ll get in if we’re caught?”

Sebastian’s grin widened, and he stepped closer, holding out his hands to them. “Alright, grab on.”

Evangeline stared at him, incredulous. “What?”

“You heard me,” he said, wiggling his fingers. “Grab on. We’re Apparating.”

Evangeline glanced at Ominis, whose expression had shifted from annoyed to downright skeptical. "Last time you apparated us we got lost."

Sebastian’s grin didn’t waver, but a flicker of mock offense crossed his face. “That was one time,” he said, holding up a finger. “And it wasn’t even my fault! The coordinates were off.”

Ominis folded his arms, his expression unimpressed. “You mean you were off.”

Sebastian sighed dramatically, looking to Evangeline for support. “Evie, back me up here. It wasn’t that bad.”

Evangeline arched a brow, recalling the harrowing ordeal of wandering through a bog after Sebastian’s “perfect shortcut” landed them somewhere decidedly not Keenbridge. “We had to fend off dugbogs for an hour, Sebastian. An hour.”

“Details,” Sebastian replied, waving her words away as though they were irrelevant. “This time will be different. I promise.”

Ominis groaned, rubbing his temples as though preparing for a migraine. “Merlin help me, I’m doing this under protest.”

“Duly noted,” Sebastian said cheerfully. He stepped closer, holding his hands out once again. “Come on.”

Evangeline sighed, her stomach tightening with nerves. “If we end up in another swamp…”

“You won’t,” Sebastian interjected quickly, flashing her an encouraging smile. “Trust me.”

She hesitated for a moment longer before finally giving in, her fingers curling around his. The warmth of his hand was steadying, even as she braced herself for whatever chaos might follow.

Ominis grudgingly did the same, his fingers tightening on Sebastian’s other hand with a grip that seemed to say, If we die, it’s your fault.

“Alright,” Sebastian said, his voice brimming with excitement. “Hold on tight. And try not to scream this time, Ominis.”

“I didn’t scream,” Ominis snapped, his cheeks flushing slightly.

Evangeline smirked, the memory of Ominis’s startled yelp during their last Apparition attempt making it difficult to suppress a laugh. Before she could tease him, the familiar, gut-twisting sensation of Apparition took hold.

The world spun violently, pulling her in every direction at once. The air compressed and stretched around them, her stomach churning as the rushing sensation built to a crescendo. Then, just as quickly as it started, it stopped.

They landed with a jarring thud, their feet hitting solid ground. Evangeline stumbled, instinctively clutching Sebastian’s arm to steady herself as the world slowly came back into focus.

They were in London.

The city buzzed with life around them, the streets lit by glowing streetlamps and shop windows. The distant rumble of a passing carriage mingled with the clatter of footsteps and the hum of conversations, creating a symphony of urban chaos.

“See?” Sebastian said, spreading his arms dramatically as if to say I told you so. “Perfect landing.”

Ominis straightened, his grip on his wand tightening as he sniffed the air. “At least it doesn’t smell like swamp this time.”

Evangeline rolled her eyes, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face as she took in their surroundings. “Alright, we’re here. Now, are you going to tell us what this is all about?”

Sebastian grinned, his excitement bubbling over as he pointed toward a small shop. “We’re going there.”

Evangeline followed his gaze, her brow furrowing as she read the sign above the entrance: Enchanted Ink—Specialists in Magical Tattoos.

Her eyes widened. “You’re joking.”

Sebastian’s grin only widened, a mischievous glint in his eye as he shook his head. “Not at all. Dead serious.”

Ominis let out a long, exasperated sigh, his hand running through his hair in a gesture of disbelief. “Of course you’re serious. Why wouldn’t you be? Mid-May, N.E.W.T.s on the horizon, and you decide now is the perfect time for a tattoo.”

“Exactly!” Sebastian replied, as if Ominis had just proven his point. “It’s symbolic. A mark of everything we’ve been through.”

Ominis let out a soft, exasperated groan, running a hand down his face. “You truly have lost your mind. What on earth possessed you to think this was a good idea?”

“Because it is a good idea,” Sebastian said confidently, turning to face them both. “Look, we’re at the end of an era here. Our time at Hogwarts is almost up. This—” he gestured to the tattoo shop, “—this is my way of leaving a mark.."

Evangeline tilted her head, her skepticism softening slightly at his earnest tone. “And you’re sure this isn’t just an excuse for you to do something reckless?”

Sebastian smirked, though his eyes held a flicker of vulnerability that made her pause. “It’s not reckless if it means something.”

For a moment, Evangeline was silent, her gaze shifting between him and the sign above the shop door. There was a sincerity in his words that she couldn’t ignore—a quiet determination that hinted at something deeper than just a spur-of-the-moment whim.

Ominis, however, was far less moved. “If you think I’m standing by while someone needles magical ink into your skin, you’re sorely mistaken.”

“You’re not standing by,” Sebastian said, rolling his eyes. “You’re coming in. Moral support and all that.”

Ominis crossed his arms, his expression unimpressed. “Absolutely not.”

Sebastian sighed dramatically, turning to Evangeline. “Evie, please tell him he’s being ridiculous.”

Evangeline bit back a smile. “He’s not wrong to be concerned. Tattoos are—well, they’re permanent, Sebastian. You’d better be sure about this.”

“I am,” Sebastian said, his voice firm. “I’ve been thinking about this for months. And I’ve already got the design in mind."

Evangeline’s skepticism wavered further, her curiosity getting the better of her. “What kind of design?”

"You'll see," Sebastian replied, grabbing her hand and pulling her towards the door. "Come on."

The bell above the door chimed softly as Sebastian pushed it open, the warm, slightly smoky interior of the tattoo shop greeting them. The walls were adorned with mesmerizing sketches of magical tattoos—designs that shimmered faintly, some enchanted to move and shift. A lion roared silently from one frame, its mane swirling like flames, while a constellation in another sketch blinked softly, stars winking in and out of existence.

Evangeline hesitated in the doorway, her eyes widening as she took in the intricate art. The air carried the faint scent of ink and something else—magic, raw and buzzing with potential. Ominis lingered behind her, his wand held lightly in one hand as though gauging the space.

“Welcome to Enchanted Ink,” a voice called out from behind the counter. A tall witch with striking auburn hair tied into a messy bun stepped forward, her arms covered in tattoos that seemed to ripple as she moved. She raised an eyebrow at the three of them, a knowing smile tugging at her lips. “What can I do for you lot? One tattoo? Two? Or are we going for a group special?”

Sebastian grinned, stepping up to the counter with the confidence of someone who had just found his true calling. “Just one for now. I’ve got a design in mind.”

The witch leaned on the counter, her gaze flicking between him, Evangeline, and Ominis with amused curiosity. “What’s the occasion?"

“It’s a… commemoration, I suppose." Sebastian replied, his tone easy but with an underlying sincerity that Evangeline couldn't miss.

The witch tilted her head, studying him for a moment before nodding approvingly. “Alright, let’s see what you’ve got in mind.”

Sebastian reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of parchment. As he handed it over, Evangeline moved closer, her curiosity outweighing her hesitation. She blinked at the design, her surprise evident as she stepped closer for a better look. It was botanical in nature, with branches gracefully intertwined, their delicate leaves drawn with careful precision. It was not at all what she had expected from Sebastian.

The witch’s eyes lit up as she examined it. “Very nice, I can definitely work with that. Where are we putting it?”

Sebastian relaxed slightly at her easy response, his confidence returning. “I was thinking along my arm and shoulder."

The witch nodded, studying him thoughtfully. “Good choice. It’ll flow nicely there,” She glanced at Ominis and Evangeline. “What about you two? Getting matching ones?”

Evangeline startled slightly, caught off guard by the question. “Oh, no, I—”

“Absolutely not,” Ominis interrupted, his tone flat. “Someone has to stay sensible.”

The witch smirked. “Suit yourselves. Alright, let’s get started.”

She gestured for Sebastian to follow her toward a reclining chair in the corner, her wand flicking to summon the necessary supplies. As Sebastian pulled off his outer robe and rolled up his sleeve, Evangeline lingered nearby, her eyes flicking back to the sketch on the counter.

“Does it hurt much?” she asked suddenly, breaking the quiet.

The witch, now preparing the ink and enchanted needle, glanced up with a grin. “It’s not painless, but it’s nothing unbearable."

Evangeline hummed thoughtfully, her eyes darting to Sebastian, who had already settled into the chair with an air of casual confidence, though she could see the faintest tension in his shoulders—the giveaway that he was bracing himself.

Ominis stood a few paces behind her, his expression a blend of disapproval and reluctant curiosity. “You do realize,” he said dryly, “that you’ll have to live with this for the rest of your life. No charms to undo it, no simple transfiguration. It’s permanent, Sebastian.”

“That’s the point,” Sebastian replied without missing a beat.

The tattoo artist waved her wand, and the her refined version of the sketch floated into the air, its enchanted lines shimmering faintly as they overlaid themselves on Sebastian’s arm. She tapped the air with her wand, adjusting the placement until Sebastian nodded in approval.

Then, the artist began her work, the enchanted needle moving deftly under her guidance. A faint, rhythmic hum filled the air, punctuated by the occasional buzz of magic as the ink bonded with Sebastian’s skin. He winced once, his jaw tightening for a moment before he relaxed again.

Evangeline leaned against the counter, watching with growing fascination. The design was taking shape, the lines and shading giving it an almost lifelike quality. Each leaf seemed to glow faintly with its own unique shimmer, the magic within it alive and shifting subtly as the branches intertwined.

“Wow,” she said softly, unable to keep the awe from her voice. “It’s beautiful.”

Sebastian glanced at her, his grin soft, touched with vulnerability. "You like it?"

Evangeline tilted her head, her gaze shifting between the intricate design and Sebastian’s face. “I do,” she said softly. “It’s… certainly not what I expected."

Sebastian chuckled, wincing slightly as the needle buzzed over a particularly sensitive spot. “What, did you think I’d get something ridiculous? A dragon breathing fire?”

“I wouldn’t put it past you,” she replied with a smirk. But her expression softened quickly as she gestured toward his arm. “What does it mean? The branches, the leaves…"

Sebastian’s grin faltered for a fraction of a second, and he glanced away, pretending to focus on the witch adjusting her tools. “It’s just… a reminder, I guess,” he said, his voice light but not quite convincing. “About roots and growth. The people who’ve kept me grounded. Who’ve helped me grow, despite everything.”

Evangeline blinked, her chest tightening unexpectedly. She looked at the leaves, her mind suddenly piecing together the meaning he was trying so hard to downplay. “Silver lime,” she murmured, tracing the delicate lines of the leaves with her eyes. “And elm.”

Sebastian nodded, his grin returning but softer now. “Yeah. Thought it was fitting.”

Her throat tightened as she processed his words, and she had to glance away for a moment to gather herself. When she looked back, her voice was quieter, more earnest. “Sebastian… that’s—”

“Don’t make a thing of it,” he interrupted, and shot her a crooked grin, his usual charm flickering back into place.

Evangeline’s lips parted, but the words she wanted to say caught in her throat. The weight of his gesture—of what it truly meant—wasn’t something she could brush off as easily as he did. Her gaze lingered on the design taking shape on his arm, the branches curling together in intricate patterns. Silver lime for her wand. Elm for Ominis's. The two people who had stayed by his side through everything. The thought made her chest ache with an almost unbearable mixture of gratitude and affection.

After some time, the tattoo artist leaned back, her wand flicking over Sebastian’s arm as she muttered a final incantation. A soft shimmer of magic passed over the fresh ink, sealing it with a protective charm. The branches and leaves gleamed faintly in the light, vibrant against the warm tones of his skin. “All done,” the artist said with a satisfied nod, stepping aside to let Sebastian admire her work. “Take a look.”

Sebastian stood, rolling his shoulder as he turned to the mirror. His arm tilted slightly, the tattoo catching the light with its intricate detailing. The branches, woven seamlessly with delicate leaves, seemed almost alive, as if swaying in an unseen breeze. The design complemented him in a way that felt undeniable, the ink enhancing rather than covering the faint freckles scattered across his skin. It was as if the tattoo had always been meant for him, a part of him waiting to be revealed.

“It’s perfect,” he said softly, the words almost an exhale as he traced the edge of the tattoo with his fingers, the awe in his voice impossible to miss.

Evangeline couldn’t take her eyes off him, her eyes lingering on the design, tracing every line, every leaf with careful reverence. “It really is,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

The tattoo was beautiful—there was no denying that. But it wasn’t just the art that caught her breath. Somehow, the sight of it on Sebastian—on him—made him impossibly more attractive. Her fingers itched to reach out, to trace the lines of the tattoo herself, to feel the warmth of his skin beneath the ink. Somehow, it felt like the tattoo had made him more himself, like the balance of strength and vulnerability in the design had drawn out the same qualities in him. Because it wasn't just a design, it was a story... his story.

Sebastian caught her reflection in the mirror, his lips curving into a faint smile. “Told you it wasn’t a bad idea.”

She hummed in agreement, though her mind was already drifting elsewhere. The thought had crept in unbidden—a flicker of curiosity, a spark of possibility. Her gaze flicked to her own wrist, bare and pale, and she wondered… what would her story look like?

Her life had been a patchwork of beginnings and endings, each one stitched together with uncertainty and change. Growing up in the orphanage, she had lived every day in a state of waiting—waiting for answers, waiting for belonging, waiting for something more.

And then, at fifteen, everything changed.

Hogwarts had been a whirlwind, sweeping her into a life she’d never imagined, a world she hadn’t known she could belong to. Magic had opened doors she hadn’t known existed, but it wasn’t the magic itself that had made her life rich. It was the people.

Sebastian and Ominis had been constants from the very beginning. They had embraced her when she was wide-eyed and overwhelmed, navigating a maze of spells and traditions she barely understood. They had been there through everything—the good, the bad, the unspeakable. They were the family she’d never had, the threads that held her patchwork life together.

Her fingers brushed over her wrist, the idea taking shape in her mind.

“What if I got one too?”

The room fell silent. Ominis, who had been leaning casually against the doorframe with a skeptical expression, straightened immediately. “You’re joking,” he said flatly, his tone caught somewhere between disbelief and exasperation.

Sebastian turned away from the mirror, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise. “Really?”

She hesitated, suddenly aware of their attention on her, but the spark of determination refused to fade. She crossed her arms, her chin tilting slightly. “Why not? If you can leave a mark for what matters, why can’t I?”

Sebastian’s surprise softened into something warmer, and he stepped closer, his curiosity clear. “What would you get?”

Evangeline bit her lip. “Would you mind if… mine matched yours? Not exactly the same, but similar. Cedar for you,” she said, her hazel eyes flicking to Sebastian, her tone soft yet meaningful. Then, turning to Ominis, who looked thoroughly unimpressed but still curious despite himself, she added, “And elm, for you.”

Sebastian blinked, momentarily caught off guard. A grin slowly spread across his face, warm and unguarded. “You’d do that?”

“Why not?” she replied, her lips curving into a small, shy smile.

Ominis, who had been standing with his arms crossed, let out a faint scoff, though the corners of his mouth twitched upward in reluctant amusement. “You’re both hopeless romantics, you realize that?”

“Hopeless?” Sebastian shot back, his grin turning sly. “Or perfectly sentimental?”

“Hopeless,” Ominis deadpanned, though the faintest hint of fondness lingered in his voice.

Evangeline laughed softly, shaking her head as she turned to the tattoo artist. “Is that alright? Something similar to his design, but... smaller, more simple. With cedar and elm?”

The artist, who had been watching the exchange with a bemused smile, nodded. “Of course. Let me sketch something out for you.”

She set to work, her wand tracing delicate lines over a fresh sheet of parchment. Meanwhile, Sebastian moved to stand beside Evangeline, his gaze flicking between her and the emerging design. “You don’t have to do this, you know,” he said softly, his tone unusually serious. “It’s... permanent.”

Evangeline turned her head to meet his eyes, a small, determined smile on her lips. “That’s the point,” she replied, echoing his earlier words with a teasing lift of her brow. “Some things are worth remembering."

Ominis let out a low groan, the kind that only came from years of being the unwilling observer of their antics. “You know,” he drawled, his voice dripping with dry humor, “if you two are so intent on making this a permanent declaration, why not just get each other’s names tattooed across your foreheads? That way, there’s never any mistaking or forgetting who the tattoos are about.”

Evangeline blinked, then let out an exasperated laugh, shaking her head. “Oh, come on. It’s not like that.”

Sebastian, smirked and gestured toward the parchment where the artist was working. "Last I checked, you were just as represented in this as I am, Ominis. Or did you forget your wand is made of elm?"

The tattoo artist cleared her throat gently, a small smile playing on her face as she set the completed sketch in front of Evangeline. “Here it is. What do you think?”

Evangeline studied the parchment closely, her fingers hovering just above its edge. The design was deceptively simple—a single branch, its offshoots bearing both elm leaves and cedar needles. The two were distinct yet harmonious, intertwined in a way that suggested unity without losing their individuality.

“It’s perfect,” she said softly. Her hazel eyes flicked up to the tattoo artist. “You captured it beautifully.”

The artist smiled warmly. “I’m glad you like it. The contrast between the leaves will stand out nicely. Ready to make it official?"

Evangeline nodded, a steady resolve in her expression as she stepped forward and settled into the chair. Meanwhile, the artist adjusted the tools, muttering a soft incantation to ensure precision. Sebastian leaned casually against the counter, his arms crossed, though his gaze was anything but indifferent. He watched her closely, the faint smile on his lips betraying his curiosity and pride.

“You’re really doing this,” he said, a touch of admiration in his voice.

Evangeline glanced at him, her smile unwavering. “I am."

Sebastian’s grin widened, though there was a warmth in his eyes that made her stomach flutter. “Well,” he said lightly, “I hope yours turns out as good as mine. Wouldn’t want you to regret it.”

“I won’t,” she said simply.

As the first cool touch of the needle against her skin, Evangeline’s breath hitched, but she quickly relaxed, letting the soft rhythm of the artist’s work settle her nerves. She focused on the weight of the moment—what this meant to her, what it represented.

Sebastian leaned forward slightly, his voice soft but teasing. “Not too painful, is it?”

She turned her head just enough to shoot him a playful glare. “I’m tougher than I look, remember?”

Sebastian chuckled, the sound warm and low. “Oh, I remember.”

Ominis, not one to miss an opportunity, chimed in with dry amusement. “Let’s see if that toughness holds when the charm wears off. No amount of sentimentality will dull the sting of regret tomorrow morning.”

Evangeline rolled her eyes, though her smile never wavered. “Thank you for your unwavering support, Ominis."

Minutes passed in easy, playful banter, but when the tattoo artist leaned back and murmured a final incantation, the room grew quieter. She smiled at her work, the protective charm shimmering briefly before fading. “All done,” she said warmly. “Take a look.”

Evangeline sat up slowly, her gaze falling to her wrist, and her breath caught. The design was everything she had imagined and more. The lines were crisp and elegant, the magic within the tattoo added an almost ethereal quality. As she turned her wrist, the leaves seemed to sway gently, bringing the design to life in a subtle, mesmerizing way.

“Wow…” she murmured, her voice filled with quiet awe. “It’s stunning. Thank you.” She glanced up at the tattoo artist, her smile wide and genuine.

The artist smiled back, clearly pleased with the reaction. “You’re welcome. It suits you."

Ominis let out a dramatic sigh, his arms still crossed but his tone tinged with reluctant amusement. “Well, congratulations, Evangeline. You’ve officially joined the ranks of the permanently sentimental.”

Sebastian snorted at Ominis’ dramatic tone, his grin widening. “Don’t be so bitter, Ominis. If anything, you should be proud.”

Ominis raised a brow, his lips twitching in the faintest hint of a smirk. Proud? I've been immortalized as a tree. Truly, my legacy knows no bounds.”

Evangeline laughed, glancing at him as she slid out of the chair. "You should just be happy you were immortalized at all."

Sebastian chuckled, reaching into his pocket to pay for both tattoos, ignoring Evangeline’s protest as she fished for her own coins. “Don’t start,” he said with a grin, holding up a hand to stop her. “Consider it my contribution to this little moment of solidarity.”

“Sebastian, you don’t have to—”

“I know I don’t,” he interrupted, his grin softening into something warmer. “But I want to.”

Evangeline hesitated, then relented with a small, grateful smile. “Thank you."

The tattoo artist handed them both a small vial of salve. “Apply this once a day for the first week,” she instructed. “It’ll keep the enchantment strong and prevent irritation. Enjoy your tattoos.”

Sebastian pocketed his vial with a nod. “Will do. Thanks again.”

As the three of them made their way out of the shop, the cool evening air greeted them. Ominis, ever the pragmatic one, let out a sigh of relief. “Now that this grand adventure is over, perhaps we can finally get back to the castle and finish studying. You know, the reason we’re still awake at this hour?”

Sebastian smirked, nudging Ominis lightly with his elbow. “Oh, come on. You can’t tell me you’re not at least a little impressed.”

Ominis tilted his head toward Sebastian, his sightless gaze sharp despite the faint smile tugging at his lips. “Impressed that you managed to sit still long enough to get a tattoo? I’ll admit, it’s an achievement.”

Sebastian rolled his eyes, but his grin didn’t falter.

They walked a few more steps before Ominis stopped, turning toward Evangeline. “Let me see it,” he said simply, extending a hand.

Evangeline blinked, surprised, but she held out her wrist. Ominis ran his thumb gently over the design, his touch deliberate and careful. The enchanted leaves shifted slightly under his touch, and his expression softened, though he quickly masked it. “Elegant but unassuming,” he said quietly, almost begrudgingly. “I suppose it’s… fitting.”

Evangeline smiled, warmth spreading in her chest at the rare, genuine compliment. “Thanks, Ominis.”

Sebastian grinned, crossing his arms. “See? He likes it. He just won’t admit it.”

Ominis straightened, his familiar exasperated expression returning. “I said it was fitting, not that I like it. Let’s not get carried away.”

Evangeline laughed softly, shaking her head as they continued walking. The warmth of the moment lingered as they reached for Sebastian's hands to apparate back to the castle. Ominis may have protested, but the way he had traced the design on her wrist said more than his words ever could.

And as Evangeline glanced at Sebastian, catching the way his grin softened when his eyes met hers, she knew this was a memory she’d carry with her—not just on her skin, but in her heart.

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