valiantlytransparentwhispers

[valiantlytransparentwhispers]

I AM ABSOLUTELY LOSING MY MIND AFTER READING THIS PLEASE READ IT

[valiantlytransparentwhispers]

Static's Girl

This is a Secret Santa Snippet for @esperosisdoeswriting!! Merry Christmas, Esper, I hope you like it!!! Her prompt was villain dad who' loves his small child and is not afraid to kill ppl over it!

TW: Blood, violence, mention of needles

“Our target is a child?” The horror in Blythe’s voice seemed loud, even past the pound of blood pulsing in her ears. 

Fellow members of the hero’s team poured into the back of the van, one strong-arming a terrified little girl. Her wrists were bound, mouth covered and tears streaking her cheeks. The child kicked and thrashed with pink-booted feet, legs dangling helplessly above the floor of the car where the hero’s sidekick kept her firmly hoisted in the air.

She looked barely older than 7.

Blythe’s protest was suitably ignored as the team shouted instructions at one another. The back doors slammed shut and the van lurched into action. Passengers plunged themselves into their seats.

“Are you crazy?” Blythe hissed. She stood only to stagger into the side window as the vehicle made a sharp turn. “This is crazy! Why are we kidnapping a child?!”

“Bosses orders,” another said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. 

Mockingbird said “Jump” and they said, “How high?” That was just the way of things, wasn’t it? It had never concerned Blythe before–their leader was a just one.

But now…

The child’s knees were muddied and scuffed. As if she'd fallen. As if she'd run. She squealed panicked cries against the sidekick's palm.

Blythe's stomach bottomed out and pooled again with a honey-slick dread. “Who is she?”

“Static's kid,” the driver called back. Blythe caught a shiver skating through them in the corner of her eye. 

“Static's ki- I must be missing something, are you crazy?” She rounded on Mockingbird's sidekick once more. “You said we were retrieving a powered weapon that could bring Static down!”

He blinked at her as if she were exceptionally slow. “That's what she is.”

Blythe shook her head, feeling an angry tremor seize her bones. “She's a little girl, is what she is.”

Blythe startled as the radio station crackled to life, flipping noisily through channels. The driver cursed and mashed at a button. Clicking on his coms device, he spoke aloud as his free hand yanked the wheel into another screechy turn. 

“On our way back with the package in hand, Boss.”

Mockingbird's sidekick yelped and dropped the girl, a red welt forming on their palm where it had pressed against her mouth. The child hit the floor and scrambled on her knees to an empty corner.

The driver's eyes lit the rearview mirror. “What's–” He hissed and ripped his earpiece away from his head as it fizzled with blaring static loud enough for the rest of the van to hear. “Hey- She's interfering with our coms!”

“Probably trying to reach her father,” another in the front seat agreed. She pointedly shut the radio off as it flitted through stations of chatter and music once more.

The child’s nose was bleeding. Had it been doing that before? 

“Somebody knock her out already!”

The sidekick sighed and lifted a hand. All-consuming shadows danced at his fingertips seeming to choke the air around it.

“Don't.” Blythe hurled herself in front of Static's daughter. Her eyes tingled with a familiar heat that told her they were glowing, power teeming just beneath the surface. 

They stared at each other in a terse stalemate.

The sidekick’s teeth clenched.

“Listen, rookie–”

“We do not threaten children, and we certainly do not hurt them.” Blythe was proud of how steady she managed to keep her voice–firm and leaving no room for argument.

She still wanted to cry a little. How had this become her life?

Little hands grabbed at her from behind and a warm face pressed into her back. Then, a tiny sob. Blythe softened. 

“You're okay, sweetpea, it's alright,” she crooned. Blythe turned to take the child gently in her arms, gathering her close in her lap. “Shh, it's alright. I won't let anyone hurt you. I promise.”

The sidekick's seething was palpable, gaze cleaving cleanly through her, but he finally sat back down.

An eternity later, they were back at the base. Blythe had smacked away any hands reaching to grab the child away from her, carrying the girl inside herself. The little one’s legs wound around her waist like a koala, bound hands clutching fistfuls of Blythe’s shirt fabric.

Blythe’s thoughts felt scattered as TV static. She moved on autopilot, only coming back to herself when the sterile-white lights of the laboratory hummed over them.

Mockingbird was there, black curls cascading freely over her shoulders and contrasting with the icy gray of her eyes. They were not particularly kind eyes, but Blythe had always thought the hero to be good, at least.

“Boss,” Blythe heard herself speak. She cleared her throat. “What exactly are we doing here? Why did we take this kid?”

Mockingbird gestured toward the lab table. “Put her there. We need her blood.”

Blythe’s eyes widened. “Her blood?”

“We are going to use her cells to create a power inhibitor for her father and a power replicator to dose myself with. When he comes to retrieve her, we inject him with it. He won’t act out when he knows we have his daughter. And with his own powers used against him, he’ll never escape again.”

Blythe’s voice came out croaky. “I think you’re putting an awful lot of faith in the self-control of the most powerful supervillain we’ve ever encountered. When we’ve taken his only child. And stabbed her with needles.”

Static’s daughter tightened around her. Blythe glanced down and murmured a soft apology against her ear.

“I don’t care,” Mockingbird snapped. It was clipped with a danger Blythe had never felt aimed at her before. It now felt like a knife against her soft underbelly, as silver and glinting as the superhero’s eyes. “We’re close. Too close to lose now. If you plan to stand in the way of that…”

She stepped closer and plucked the child out of Blythe’s arms with her own super-strength-enhanced, bionic ones. The child knew better than to thrash that time.

Blythe wondered now, nausea climbing her throat, whose blood she’d stolen to replicate that particular gift. The metal prosthetics weren’t just technology, now, were they? Blythe had never thought much of it before… 

“Then you’ll have to take a time out,” the superhero finished. “Somewhere quiet where you can re-evaluate. Understand?” Her voice was a fake-chipper, then. Something Barbie-coded but full of invisible teeth.

Blythe’s powers hummed low beneath her skin, a tamed beast waiting for permission to lash out. Her fists clenched. “I really don’t think this is wise.”

“No?” Mockingbird sounded bored as she set Static’s daughter down on the table, tying a strip of elastic around the child’s forearm.

The little one jumped, blue static zapping Mockingbird’s fingers where they touched.

The superhero jerked back. “You little–”

“She’s just scared,” Blythe said, stepping between them. “I’ll do it. She’ll let me do it. Please.”

Mockingbird’s metal hand clanged into a fist. She took a long-suffering breath, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Get it done.” She pointed at the tray of tools on the counter. “Strap her down if you have to.”

Blythe’s hands went numb as she picked up the syringe. “Mocking–”

Their attentions snapped away as the speakers throughout the building crackled and spat. A wave of clammy dizziness flooded the room. Did the superhero feel the same sick lurch in her belly as Blythe did? The two clutched opposite ends of the counter to steady themselves.

Mockingbird whirled on the little girl. “Stop it, right now!”

Wide, terrified eyes stared back at her, but no blood oozed from her nose.

Blythe swallowed, choking down a roiling wave of nausea. She felt unsteady on her feet, light-headed and woozy. “It’s not her.”

A deep voice sounded over the intercom. “I’m coming to skin alive everyone who laid a finger on Verity. Those who merely stood by–don’t worry, I’ll fill your head with radiation so quickly you won’t even be able to choke out an apology.”

Oh no. Oh, they were so dead.

Blythe grabbed the child–Verity–and took a step toward the door.

Mockingbird blocked her. “No.”

“He’s going to kill everyone if he doesn’t get her back safely!” 

Blythe tried to push her way past and Mockingbird grabbed her by the throat, cogs whirring in her bionic arm. She shoved, Blythe and Verity hurtling back into the wall.

“I said no!”

Blythe’s breath collapsed out of her lungs as her back hit the wall with a sickening crunch, drywall cracking and littering the floor around them.

Mockingbird turned to the monitor screen, making furious selections on the keyboard. Security footage of the whole base blipped to life.

They watched as Static strode into a room with the terrifying grace of an apex predator, tearing down anyone in his way. Radiation flooded his fists in a green glow as he punched through the receptionist’s chest, shifting to easily grab the next closest person and brace his hands on either side of their skull. The poor soul thrashed as blood leaked from their eyes, nose, and ears. When they were no longer moving, Static let them crumple to the floor.

The next group ran and Static bowled them down with infinitely multiplied radiowaves, hurling them from open palms as if it were nothing. The speakers filled with screams, the feedback whine behind the sound forcing Blythe to cover her ears.

Her blood iced over as in the top right frame, the supervillain looked up at the camera. His head tilted, making chilling eye contact with the lens until the screen cracked and went blank with buzzing stripes of radio static. 

Verity was the only one in the compound who didn’t look afraid. She looked relieved.

Mockingbird moved for the door just as it burst open. She swung at Static with her bionic fists, missing and punching straight through the steel door instead.

Static stood on a platform of squiggling waves that lifted him off of the ground. He looked god-like. Untouchable. The impulse to run coursed through Blythe, but she stayed rooted to her spot, clutching the child to her chest. Static’s hands glowed green again as he lifted Blythe’s boss into the air. Those same up-and-down scribbles seized her, wrapping her prosthetic limbs and ripping them from her shoulders.

Mockingbird screamed.

“What did you do to my daughter?”

“Daddy!” 

The villain’s attention shifted immediately. Verity wiggled free of Blythe’s arms, running to her father.

Static dropped his target as if she were a ragdoll, scooping up his daughter instead. “Verity,” he breathed. His eyes fell closed, stroking her hair, whispering tender praises and apologies into her shoulder. 

The child clung to him. “Daddy.”

He pulled back to search her for injuries. “Are you hurt, darling? Tell me what they did to you.”

Though his voice was gentle for her, there was still a sharp undercurrent to it, as penetrating as the radiowaves that still leaked through the air. His eyes narrowed on her bloodied knees and the stained skin between her lip and nostril. 

“I’m okay, Daddy,” Verity said, looking back at Blythe.

Her vision swam as the supervillain’s focus shifted, once more, to skewer her to her spot. A calm sort of rage stretched his posture taut as he stepped closer.

Blythe, embarrassingly, may have whimpered. Her hair stood on end, floating above her head.

Verity squirmed out of her father’s hold, jumping between them. Just as Blythe had done for her. 

She held her breath.

“No, Daddy! She protected me.” Verity’s eyes took on a determined sort of gleam; valorant and unwavering. 

The air around them fizzled quietly as another wave of illness rolled over Blythe. 

Radiation poisoning. She wasn’t going to last much longer like this.

Static’s head tilted, looking from his daughter to the broken super behind her.

“She kept me safe,” Verity insisted, turning her head to look back at Blythe. Blythe couldn’t seem to speak. “She’s hurt. Can we take her home?”

“Verity.”

“Please?” Verity moved to Blythe’s side, taking her hand.

Despite her swimming vision, Blythe couldn’t help but smile softly at her. A powerful weapon indeed. Blythe believed she could move mountains.

Seconds passed and Blythe thought she may have passed out. Her vision stretched fuzzy and dim at the edges. Then she was being lifted from the floor, broken bones screaming their protest.

Blythe whimpered again, unable to help burying her face in the supervillain’s shirt.

His voice buzzed in her ear where it pressed against his chest.

“Stay close to me, Ver. Take my hand. We’re going home.”

[valiantlytransparentwhispers]

I got a laptop with Windows 11 for an IT course so I can get certified, and doing the first time device set-up for it made me want to commit unspeakable violence

Windows 11 should not exist, no one should use it for any reason, it puts ads in the file explorer and has made it so file searches are also web searches and this cannot be turned off except through registry editing. Whoever is responsible for those decisions should be killed, full stop.

Switch to linux, it's free and it's good.

[valiantlytransparentwhispers]

White Moves First, Part 8 ~ Edmund Pevensie

In another life, y'all, I get to stay at home and drink tea and nibble on snacks while I furiously type my stories like there's no tomorrow. In this life, sadly, I am a student who must spend her time writing chemistry lab reports, giving immunology presentations, and settling the occasional choir drama. Sorry for the three-month-long wait, I hope you guys enjoy!

Summary: Despite the distance between their two lands, Y/N, princess of Archenland, is close friends with King Edmund the Just. But when push comes to shove, will friendship turn to more?

Warnings: none, other than Mr. Rabbitdash being his creepy prince self

Word count: 5.8k

White Moves First masterlist | Main masterlist

Who knew wedding feasts were so overwhelming?

Moments after Edmund and I entered the candlelit hall, my father grabbed my arm, tugging me away from Edmund before I realized what was happening. “There is Lord Dalor, you must greet him and thank him for his attendance.” 

And so it began. 

Everywhere I turned, there was another courtier I’d never seen before congratulating me. I politely listened, trying to keep my eyes on the speaking courtiers instead of Queen Susan’s decorations. She’d done a wonderful job, placing the lavender arrangements I’d chosen in beautiful places, along with pale green and purple ribbons flowing in every direction like a spiderweb. 

I thanked everyone until I was blue in the face. Pretending to be an elated bride got steadily more difficult, and the buzzing of the nobles talking all around me was slowly driving me mad. 

Lord Bote held his goblet aloft, allowing him to place his other hand on his chest in genuine gladness.  “Truly, I was so honored by your invitation to your nuptials.”

Forcing a smile, I nodded. “My father insisted on it personally.” A good reply. Flattering, succinct, and upholding of the impression that I’d been the one to invite any of these people to my wedding. 

Lord Bote beamed. “I do suppose that your–” The rest of his words were drowned out as my father—all the way at the end of the hall, standing at the king’s seat of honor—stood up and called for everyone’s attention. 

My heart sank. What could the king possibly have in mind now?

“Friends, we are so honored by your presence here!” King Loon’s voice boomed. A large cheer rang through the room as goblets were lifted in the air. The king beamed at all his guests, basking in all the attention. “Today is the day of love’s celebration!” A second cheer rose, louder than the first.

“He means his celebration,” muttered a familiar voice beside me, and I slid an arm around Edmund’s back, grateful to have something to hold onto. Edmund wrapped his arm around me in kind, and I squashed the urge to lean into the comfort which was rare on this day. 

“But now is a time of great honor for the couple, an auspicious moment that Archenland has the privilege of witnessing.” My father held out his hand to us. “King Edmund, take your bride onto the dance floor.”

I looked up into Edmund’s face, my high strung heart loosening a bit at the sight I knew so well. 

Edmund’s lips hovered beside my ear. “Shall we?”

I nodded, taking the hand he offered to me as he led me into the center of the dance floor. The music began, sending Edmund into a low bow. I curtsied.

Edmund’s hand slid across my side, centering on my low back to push me closer to him than I’d ever been during a dance. My first impulse was to pull away, as a lifetime of instruction on deportment had instilled in me. But Edmund and I weren’t merely friends anymore. Marriage changed the little courtesies forming the perimeter of our friendship. I tipped my head back to look at Edmund’s face, trying not to blush at how close it was to my own. 

“Finally,” I said quietly as we began the slow steps of a waltz. “I can take a breath.”

I could see the exhaustion tugging at Edmund’s eyes. “Won’t be long now,” he said softly. “Once they’ve all had their fill of ogling the new couple, we can leave.” 

Oh, how I couldn’t wait to do so. All the staring, the comments, the festivity that filled the room. All these courtiers were celebrating because their princess wed, none of whom knew Edmund well and none of whom knew of the narrow escape Edmund was for me. I knew no one in this room would be celebrating as grandly if it were a Calormen prince currently dancing with me for the first time as my husband, just as I knew none of them would’ve outright protested the arrangement. 

I shook my head.

Thirty minutes. For the rest of my life, I would never underestimate the importance of a half-hour.

The cause of my marriage predicament caught my eye, the Calormen prince lingering at the entrance to the hall, watching us with the posture of indifference, but the eyes of a hunter. 

I gulped. “Rabadash is by the door.”

When we were younger, Edmund pursed his lips whenever he held back words he wanted to say. As he got older, he outgrew the habit, but occasionally, I could see the slightest twitch in the muscles of his cheek. If one didn’t know him, they might think he was fighting a smile instead of the urge to speak. Edmund spun us, his eyes lifting for a moment as he confirmed what I’d just told him, and his cheek muscles twitched.

I longed to know what it was he wasn’t saying. 

Edmund spun us again so that he was once more in between the Calormen prince and I, as if to shield me from any possible harm from that predatory stare. 

“Will he never leave us alone?” I said in despair. 

Edmund’s eyes were fixated on me, his freckles standing out even in the low candlelight of the hall. “When the song ends,” he whispered, “I’m going to dip you.”

I glanced at the prince again, trying to ignore the fear worming in my gut. “And kiss me.”

Edmund grinned, and for a moment, I believed it was the idea of kissing me that made him look so eager and lively. “Adding to my strategies again?” he asked, with fondness that was even better than the eagerness. 

“I can hardly help it,” I replied. “If there’s room for improvement, I should speak up, should I not?”

“You should indeed.” Edmund twirled me and then brought me back to him, even closer than before, making me crane my neck to keep eye contact. “Since you’re the expert, what kind of kiss would you recommend?”

My heart stuttered as I lowered my gaze to the ruffles of Edmund’s doublet, suddenly bashful. “I’m hardly an expert,” I hedged. “After all, my first was only a few hours ago.”

Did I imagine the tremble in the hand at my back? “But you are the lady,” Edmund replied. “Ladies should dictate what kisses they want…so they’re expecting them.”

“But a wife expects any and all kisses from her husband, does she not?”

Edmund’s lips parted for a moment, his chest rising and falling in a quick breath. “I don’t know, I’d have to ask mine.”

I maintained eye contact, trying to uncover the unspoken words. What was he trying to say? Was he asking permission? Or was there something deeper?

Eyes never leaving mine, Edmund gently braced his hands on my hips before lifting me into the air. With his hands holding me up and my feet apart from the floor, my lungs couldn’t quite draw breath. Even once he set me down to stand on my own merit, the breathlessness didn’t subside. 

Edmund’s Adam’s apple bobbed, clueing me into the nerves he felt. My friend and husband was someone who sought out knowledge, who liked to know what to expect, who preferred a foundation of things he could understand. Perhaps, in asking my opinion on what kiss he should give, the man was looking for that same foundation. 

I didn’t know what kind of kiss was most likely to discourage Rabadash. I had a sinking feeling that if Rabadash wanted to be encouraged, anything could fuel his fire. But how did I want Edmund to kiss me? Well, I wanted him to kiss me the way he had earlier. Like he meant it. Like there was no one else in the world he’d rather kiss, even if a roomful of people watched. 

“I want you–” My voice was hoarse, so I cleared it, trying not to lose my nerve. “I want you to kiss me slowly.” Edmund met my gaze, and my heart jumped in my throat. His gaze had no right being that intense, it scrambled the words in my brain. “If…if you really wanted to kiss me,” I stammered, “i-if we really want Rabadash to think we’re in love, then you should take your time. Like there’s nowhere else you want to be.”

The only answer I got at first was a slow nod. Had I overdone it? Was he uncomfortable? 

But when Edmund finally spoke, it wasn’t a change of the subject or a rejection. “What else?”

I squeezed the steady, calloused hand in mine. “Put your hand on the back of my head as you dip me…like I’m precious to you.”

“You are,” Edmund said immediately, then blinked as if surprised by his own words. He seemed to waver on taking it back before quietly repeating himself, sounding more sure now. “You are.”

I smiled warmly, to ease the striking caution I saw on his face. I knew what he meant. Edmund was precious to me too, especially when I could tell that his mind was attempting to untangle his uncertainty in this unfamiliar situation. “Don’t open your eyes right away afterwards, no matter how everyone reacts. Just…stay in the moment with me.” I waited for Edmund’s response, too terrified to keep talking. 

The corners of his mouth turned up, and underneath my hand, his shoulder relaxed. “It’s easy to stay in this moment. With you.”

Suddenly, looking up at Edmund's almost-smiling face, I wanted the song to end. 

In the way my father was basking in attention, I’d been basking in the proximity with Edmund, dreading the moment the song would end and separate us again to face the sycophantic crowd. And now I wanted the music to trail off, to lean backwards and know that Edmund’s arms would be there to catch me and his lips to greet me.

By Aslan, what was happening to me?

Now I was more nervous than before. This wedding was confusing, in every possible way, and also not anything close to what I expected. 

As a princess, as a spare for the throne, I’d never held the power of choice, but even if that luxury had been mine, I never would’ve dared to presume my groom would be a king, and King Edmund at that.

I also never expected a wedding to happen so quickly. Royals were sometimes engaged as children, having almost a decade to get used to the idea of marriage. Even if engagements were sudden, royal weddings didn’t come together almost overnight as this one had. 

And my mother wasn’t here.

She’d been gone for years, taken from me so long ago that the idea of an alive mother seemed more foreign than having a dead one. This was an event where she would’ve been hosting. She would’ve been the one picking the decorations, ensuring the food was prepared, standing at my father’s side as they celebrated their daughter’s good fortune. Perhaps that was why my father kept moving amongst the crowd, never staying in one place for too long lest the grief could catch up with him. Perhaps he was right by having me try on my mother’s dress. All he wanted was for her to be here tonight. 

Or was that too generous an assessment? 

“What’s wrong?”

Shaken from my reverie, I came back to the present moment, blushing a bit when I realized I’d just done the opposite of what I told Edmund to do. “I was just thinking about my mom.” I poked my tongue against the inside of my cheek, trying to figure out whether or not to continue.

“Thinking what?”

“Thinking…about how my dad must feel.” I gave a half-hearted smile. “If your daughter is getting married…it’d make sense that you’d miss your wife, right?”

Edmund didn’t answer, looking characteristically thoughtful. But when he replied, it wasn’t an affirmation or denial. “Do you think she would’ve liked me?” 

“I…” My cheeks flushed. I didn’t remember her well enough to know. “I hope so.”

The responding expression wasn’t confused or pitying. It was discerning. All my life, I’d been a transparent princess—I existed. Ignored as easily as I was made a show of. Unreachable by rank. Mysterious by design. 

But when Edmund was in the room, I did more than exist.

I was corporeal. I had feelings. I carried importance. 

The music grew softer. Edmund let go of my hand to brace his at the base of my neck, guiding me backwards. Resting my hands on his shoulders, I allowed him to hold my weight. 

He kissed me, not moving from the dip position. 

At first, my mind raced. Were my lips too tense? Did I need to relax? Or was I supposed to move my lips? Edmund was moving his lips a little. I tried to match the movement, but it was peculiar. My hands tightened on his neck, my body starting to panic a bit at still being held above the floor. Would Edmund’s arms get tired? Would he drop me? 

And then Edmund’s tongue brushed my bottom lip, and I stopped thinking. My body loosened, like I was silver softening in a smith’s flame, and, by Aslan, Edmund held me like I was something precious. 

Slowly, without breaking the kiss, Edmund lifted me up again, setting me on my feet just as the warmth of his face disappeared from mine. I opened my eyes, too curious to help myself.

Edmund’s eyes stayed closed, just as I’d instructed, and his brow was furrowed as though he were in pain. I gazed at his pale complexion, drinking in the noble bridge of his nose and the dark locks of hair resting on his forehead. Then I noticed his lips looked pinker than normal. Was that from our kiss? 

Applause broke my trance, and Edmund’s eyes opened, a warm smile crossing his face. 

“We survived,” I said lightly, biting my lip to keep from grinning in too undignified a way for a princess. 

Someone in the crowd let out a particularly loud cheer, and Edmund’s cheek muscles twitched again. “Twenty more minutes,” he said quietly, “and I’m tying the tablecloths together to get us out of here through the window.”

I laughed, marveling at Edmund’s ability to put me at ease. “I happen to be an excellent knotter.”

“One of the many perks of marrying you,” Edmund said before stepping away to hold out his hand. I took it, allowing him to guide me off the dance floor. We were not among the courtiers for a moment before my father came and whisked Edmund away, leaving me behind. 

I frowned at my father’s rush to separate us but quickly had to rearrange my face into a gracious smile as Lord Mor appeared out of nowhere. With no polite way to extricate myself from the situation, I had no choice but to listen to his inane chatter while searching the crowd to see where my husband had gone. 

“Excuse me, Lord Mor,” Cor said politely, appearing at my side. “May I speak with my sister for a moment?”

Lord Mor bowed cheerfully and left. 

“Thanks for the save,” I mumbled, turning to face my oldest brother. 

“What are brothers for?” Cor smiled. 

An arm slung around my waist in a casual move only the other twin would do. “Next time you dance with your husband,” Corin said, lifting his goblet, “tell him to save the kiss for later.” 

I blushed furiously. Funny, I’d only been thinking of Rabadash seeing our kiss, not the hall full of others and certainly not my brothers. What would a happily married woman say to her brothers after comments like that? When the women of court were married, they seemed to laud their status and knowledge as married women over all the unmarried ones. “When the two of you fall in love, you’ll understand.” I tried to say it as loftily as the other women did, but my brothers just gave me strange looks. 

“Gross,” Cor said, his face pinched. 

“Heads up,” Corin said, his tone more serious than I knew to expect from him. He gestured with his goblet, and the three of us looked over to see Edmund deep in discussion with my father. King Loon looked more relaxed than I’d ever seen him, and I momentarily wondered how many goblets of wine he’d drunk. Or perhaps it was the court’s undivided attention he was drunk on. 

Edmund, on the other hand, stood rigidly; the only part of him moving was his fist at his side, which clenched and unclenched repeatedly. 

Immediately, the three of us whisked across the room to join the kings. “Father, you haven’t spoken to Lord Mor,” Cor quickly said as I slid my hand across Edmund’s middle, trying to comfort my friend. 

The king grinned, clapped Edmund on the shoulder, and loudly said, “we’ll discuss it tomorrow, my boy!” And with that, my father allowed Cor to lead him away with Corin on the other side. 

“What was that about?” I asked Edmund, twisting around so that I stood in front of him.

Edmund worked his jaw, staring the way my father had gone. “I’ll tell you later.” The tense set of his face made my chest ache a little. He’d given so much to me and my father and my people. All day, he’d done what was expected of him, with no complaint. 

All of it was too much, and more than enough for tonight. 

Winding my hand through his, I tugged him gently into a walk beside me. 

“Where are we going?” Edmund asked. 

“Bed,” was all I answered. 

-

It was customary for a husband to bring his wife to his own bedchamber, but Edmund was glad when Y/N instead brought him to a different guest chamber. It was almost identical to his, but minus the possessions strewn about the furniture and carpet. He’d have to pack those in the morning before they left for Narnia. 

“I have never been so tired in my life,” Edmund groaned, falling onto the bed. “Are weddings always like this?”

“I wouldn’t know.” Y/N fell onto the bed beside him. “Ours is the first I’ve ever been to.”

“I would be satisfied if it was the only one I’d ever have to go to.”

Y/N huffed in agreement. 

Oh, it was a relief to lay down. It was as if Edmund’s body exhaled out the tension of the day, finally allowing him to relax. Before dancing together, King Loon had directed Edmund through an endless stream of sycophantic men and women. It wouldn’t have been so terrible, if only King Loon had allowed Edmund and Y/N to discourse with the guests together, but it almost seemed as if the king were trying to keep Edmund away from his daughter.

Edmund shook his head. No, it was far more likely that King Loon intended to take advantage of having Y/N and Edmund around while he still could.

Then the dancing.

Dancing with Y/N was much more pleasant than talking with people he didn’t know, but then again, doing anything with Y/N was much more pleasant than most anything else. 

Including foiling a certain prince.

Yes, that was very pleasant. 

It’s too bad there were no teams in chess. Edmund had no doubt that he and Y/N would decimate any opponents. He sat up, looking at his wife. 

“Are you alright?” he asked, for what felt like the tenth time that day. He could hardly help it if their wedding warranted constant check-ins with his friend’s wellbeing. If the wedding had truly been an event born of ‘love’s celebration’, he’d be able to read into Y/N’s smiles and expressions of excitement. But with the pretenses they were holding up, Edmund couldn’t assume anything. 

But when Y/N smiled at him just now, it wasn’t like the smiles of the day. Her lips spread into a soft smile, setting Edmund at ease in the way only Y/N could. “I’m good. Are you?”

“Better now,” Edmund answered honestly. Here, in the privacy of their temporary chamber, they didn’t have to force anything. They could just be who they were. 

Too soon, the happy moment ended as Y/N squeezed Edmund’s shoulder and got to her feet. “Time to get ready for bed.” Edmund groaned, too comfortable to move. Astonishing, really, how exhaustion reordered one’s priorities. 

Y/N stood, unclasping her necklace and pulling out her earrings before placing the jewelry on the bedside table. Edmund watched her slide his old signet ring off her ring finger and back onto her pointer finger. Perhaps he should’ve felt slighted by the action, but really, she was right, it looked much better on that finger. 

“Um…” Y/N shifted, fiddling with the laces on the back of her dress. “Do you mind?” 

Edmund stared at her reddening cheeks, confused at first by what she meant. Then realization dawned, and his own flared. “Ah, of course.” He quickly jumped off the bed, walking around to meet her. 

Y/N turned around, presenting the laces to him. Edmund nervously wiped his hands on his pants, staring at the neat knot at the bottom of the bodice, right where his hand had been while dancing. Funny, he hadn’t remembered feeling the knot there. 

Taking a quick breath, he started on the knot. The little cords were tinier than Edmund was accustomed to working with. On a ship, the knots of a rope were much thicker and easier to undo, even if they did cause ropeburn. His fingers felt awkwardly large as he tried to undo it, but the knot held firm. “You’re too good a knotter,” he grumbled. 

Y/N’s delicate shoulders shook, from shivers or laughter, Edmund couldn’t tell until she spoke with great mirth. “Having a spot of trouble?”

“Blast,” Edmund muttered, and her shoulders shook a little again. “How secure does a dress need to be?” he groused, suddenly thankful that men’s fashion didn’t require a helper to get in and out of. No wonder Y/N had a designated lady’s maid, she had to do this every day, sometimes multiple times.

He tried to use his thumbnail to get some leverage on the knot, but it continued to make him look inadequate in front of his wife. Another minute, and he’d rip the damn dress apart out of pure frustration.

As soon as he thought the thought, his fingers slipped on the laces. Calm down, he told himself sternly. You’re a king, for crying out loud. Act like it. 

“You never told me what the problem with your dress was,” Edmund said. 

With his hands fidgeting with the knot at her back, he felt her spine stiffen. “It was nothing.”

“Y/N. Honesty.”

The princess let out a heavy sigh. Edmund could imagine her face, slightly irritated and anxious, weighing her words as he knew her to do. He wanted to know if he was right, if his mind could predict what she looked like, but he had a hunch this conversation would be easier for her without being face-to-face.

 “My father…wanted me to wear my mother’s dress.” Edmund’s fingers froze, the stubborn knot still in his grasp, as he waited for her to go on and attempted to control his anger with more CHARACTER than King Loon attempted to control Y/N. Y/N shifted her weight. “He said I was always meant to wear it.” 

“Did you like it?” Edmund asked with extreme care. “The dress?”

“It was pretty,” was her only answer.

“So you didn’t like it.”

Y/N’s hands slid down her skirt, her fingers sweeping across the fabric. “Not the way I like this one.”

Edmund nodded, satisfied. Finally, the knot gave, and he made quick work of the loops, freeing his wife at last. He turned away from her to face the wall, silently allowing her the privacy to step out of the dress. Then he looked down at his own clothes. Normally he slept in only a pair of sleep breeches, but doing that tonight felt indecent. So he simply took off his boots and fancy doublet, leaving his trousers and undershirt. Anything more could wait until they had a space of their own to solidify their nightly routine. 

He could still hear Y/N rustling about, so he stayed where he was, stifling a large yawn with his hand. The rustling continued. 

“I’m done,” Y/N finally announced, and Edmund turned to see her already sliding in between the covers of the bed. She fought a large yawn as she ran her fingers through her unbound hair.

Had her hair always been that long? It tumbled over halfway down her back, a few short pieces in the front to softly frame her face. Suddenly, the Archenland hairstyles peeved Edmund. Y/N should’ve always been wearing her hair this way. 

He reprimanded himself again. Not appropriate thoughts to have about his friend. 

He got into bed beside her, feeling glad he’d sent a note ahead to Cair Paravel to Peter to prepare the bedchamber where they would sleep. He couldn’t imagine bringing Y/N into the chamber he’d had for years in Cair Paravel. Literally. His mind couldn’t conjure the image of her walking in and staring at the organized chaos of Edmund’s things. 

The maids at Cair Paravel long ago learned not to disturb Edmund’s chambers for something as disruptive as cleaning. Once, they’d rearranged all of Edmund’s books from his ordered yet overflowing stacks onto his bookshelves, and Edmund nearly had an aneurysm. Sure, it looked messy to the outsider, but really it was an intricate system of information in the forms of books, parchment, and broken quills. An outsider would never be able to appreciate all the little marks on Edmund’s bedpost from Edmund’s attempts to master knife throwing just for the sake of knowing how to do it. 

The idea of bringing some mysterious wife into that space troubled Edmund, but he had a feeling that Y/N, his friend, would gladly stand next to him and learn knife-throwing. 

And grow more accomplished at it than he.

Nonetheless, Edmund requested Peter move all his parchment and books to a new study while having the furniture replaced and the chambers thoroughly cleaned. The only thing that Edmund had asked to remain was his solid gold chess set, a gift from a foreign dignitary whose name Edmund had forgotten. Y/N had never seen his chess set. Considering she always teased him for choosing to play black, he could already imagine the two of them chuckling over the black pieces being gold instead. 

“I can’t wait to see Narnia,” Y/N said suddenly, as if she’d been thinking similar thoughts. 

Edmund grinned up at the ceiling. “I can’t wait to show it to you.” What fun the two of them could have. He could show her the library and point out the best armchair by the window with just enough light in the evenings to read by. Oh, and she’d adore the sweet pastries he sometimes nicked from the kitchens while all the staff pretended not to see. And the best place to go in the castle to see the stars at night. The constellations would be the same as Y/N had grown up with. Maybe it’d make her a little less homesick on nights when she missed her homeland. 

They laid side-by-side in silence, and Edmund felt his eyes getting heavier and heavier. 

“What were you and my father talking about?” Y/N asked, as quiet and light as a flame. 

A flash of anger doused Edmund’s insides, waking him up immediately. He rolled to his side, propping his head up on his fist so that he could look down into her face. “Your father was asking when your coronation will be. He wanted to plan it for the day after tomorrow.” In Archenland. King Loon wanted to crown a Narnian monarch in Archenland’s hall. On a day’s notice. Nevermind the concern of crowning a queen in what wasn’t to be her new country, Y/N deserved more than a rushed and disorganized coronation. 

Y/N seemed to shrink into the comfort of her pillow, as if she wanted to be swallowed up by the soft down and feathers. “Oh.”

“Y/N?” He waited until Y/N looked at him with curious eyes. “Do you want to be a queen?”

Y/N’s expression was marble smooth, giving him no clues as to her thoughts. Finally, she said, “Narnia already has two queens.”

Edmund narrowed his eyes, trying to analyze her tone. “If you wished it, a coronation could easily be arranged. But…should you not wish it…remaining a princess would be…satisfactory.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow, bestowing Edmund with her sudden humorous twinkle. “Satisfactory?”

“You know what I mean,” Edmund grunted, falling flat on his back, preferring the sight of the ceiling for his sanity.

But instead of leaving him to privately stave off embarrassment, Y/N turned onto her side, her thankfully serious face appearing in his view. “Shouldn’t this be a conversation between you and your siblings?”

“It will be. But I want to know what you want before I talk with them.” 

The princess seemed to digest this, her eyes drifting off to the side as she thought. She had this habit of puckering up her lips when she was deep in thought, Edmund saw it often when they played chess. Her mind was the most appealing part of her, so it was unfair that whenever she was lost in it, her lips furrowed together as if begging to be kissed. 

Edmund shook his head. Really? Was he coming down with a fever or something? 

“Is it even wise to have a foreign queen if there are already two?” Y/N asked. 

Edmund shrugged. “Susan and Lucy weren’t born in Narnia any more than you were.” Y/N glanced down at the bedding, her hair falling into her face. Without missing a beat, Edmund reached up to tuck the traitorous locks behind her ear. 

Y/N’s eyes fluttered as his fingers brushed the shell of her ear. “Do my duties change based on my title?” she asked. 

“Officially? Perhaps.” Edmund withdrew his hand. “Practically? Likely not.”

Y/N nodded once, meeting his eyes again. “Then I think I would like to remain a princess. Coronations sound scary.” 

Edmund sat up, and Y/N leaned back so they didn’t collide. He intended to ask her if she was sure, but the sight of her contented expression in front of her unbound hair across the pillow told him all he needed to know. Maybe later she would change her mind, and they would organize a coronation then, but for now? She didn’t want that, and Edmund wasn’t about to give her something she didn’t want. “Okay,” he said softly.

She smirked. “Though I still hope the Narnians might grant me a nickname like they have you and your siblings.”

“Oh, certainly,” Edmund replied. “Especially if they see your fear of coronations.” He gestured grandly. “Princess Y/N the cowardly.”

His friend snorted, running her hands through her unbound hair. “More like Princess Y/N the prudent.”

“Y/N the theatrical.”

“Y/N the eloquent.”

“Y/N the laughable.”

Y/N held up a finger. “Y/N the modest.”

“Y/N the loquacious.”

She burst into giggles at that one, a sound that was impossible not to love. Edmund chuckled, unable to help himself. 

Their laughter quieted as both settled into their pillows. “Blow the candles out?” Edmund asked. 

Y/N hummed, and both of them blew out the candles on their bedside tables. 

They didn’t talk anymore. The only sound in the darkness was the occasional rustle as Edmund or Y/N changed position. 

Edmund had never shared a bed before. Was Y/N a light sleeper? Would adjusting his position wake her up? Edmund’d never been able to fall asleep quickly; his mind was too active. What if Y/N didn’t feel comfortable falling asleep until he was asleep?

Oh, Aslan, what if Edmund snored? He didn’t think he could ever live it down if he snored and she couldn’t sleep because of it. If he did snore, they’d have to sleep in different bedrooms. Maybe they needed to do that anyways. Would Y/N prefer her own room at Cair Paravel? Would she tell him if she did, or would she simply follow his lead? Maybe Edmund needed to just assume she would prefer a different room. But what if she found it insulting? In the morning, he could ask her, she had promised him honesty if he asked for it. 

There, it was settled. He’d ask in the morning.

Oh, he was an unthinking moron. He should’ve asked her before they settled in to sleep tonight. But then again, he didn’t doubt that the Archenland court and staff would gossip wildly if they knew Y/N and Edmund slept in different rooms on their wedding night. The staff at Cair Paravel would be much more understanding, so maybe they needed to wait at least until they were in Narnia. 

“Edmund?” Y/N said tentatively into the darkness. 

“Yes?” 

“Remember when you promised to do whatever I requested?”

“Yes.” Oh no, was she about to ask for a different room? Edmund decided he would be the one to leave. He didn’t want her walking around the halls on her wedding night, people were much more likely to question her than him. 

“Will you…will you hug me?” 

Edmund blinked. “Of course.” He shuffled over to her, and Y/N shuffled into his arms before he could decide on the logistics of hugging while horizontal. 

His right arm acted as a pillow for Y/N’s head while his left curled around her back, holding her close. His fingers unintentionally tangled up in her hair, and it felt exactly as he’d expected. Y/N tucked her head just underneath his chin, the tip of her nose brushing the hollow of his throat. He rubbed her back gently, wanting to reassure her. 

This was…surprisingly nice. Sure, maybe Edmund’s arm would fall asleep with Y/N laying on it, but until it fell asleep, it was very comforting. Y/N seemed to agree. He felt rather than heard the long exhale from Y/N’s body as she nestled into his embrace.

When he sleepily laid back a little so he wasn’t directly on his side, somehow Y/N’s head ended up in the crook of his neck. The last thing he remembered before falling asleep was Y/N’s hand slowly coming to rest on his chest.

-

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White Moves First tag list:

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[valiantlytransparentwhispers]

The Max - Part 2

Part 1

When Eloise closed the book and set it aside, her heart jumped to find Artisan staring.

She watched the super’s mind tick, his attention picking her apart to expose the soft and squishy pieces of her. High school lab pig dissection came to mind: pliable flesh carved open to be poked at and scrutinized against a cold table.

She’d cried in that class. It had felt cruel to play at scavenger, pecking and probing for a once-living thing's deep and hidden parts as if she were entitled to its most vulnerable insides.

Though she felt more like the pig at that moment, it felt invasive, too, to track the inner workings of Artisan’s terrifying brain.

Eloise couldn’t seem to look away.

Artisan sat up from his resting position on the bed, grabbing at the inhibitor cuff on her wrist. A startled sound choked in her throat, managing not to jerk back on pure prey instinct. Her arm twitched, cagey, in his hold even as the rest of her froze. 

Her bones ached as if aware of how fragile they were.

Then her arm went numb altogether, turning jellied and moldable. Her palm folded in on itself, pliable bones bending grotesque and wrong and– painless.., as Artisan slid the cool curve of metal over her fingers and tossed it away.

Her bones settled back into their original positions and Eloise snatched her hand away as sensation returned, pins and needles tickling her fingertips.

She stared, horrified.

She stared, impressed.

Artisan smiled and leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees. “It’s an interesting story. Though Dracula is a bit simple as an antagonist, don’t you think?”

Eloise blinked. Had the past minute really happened? She glanced at the abandoned cuff on the floor. Her brain floundered to catch up.

“Um. He is singular in his goals and motives,” she managed. “He isn’t portrayed as misunderstood or sympathetic in the original text, just hungry. And spiteful. He wants food, he wants control, and he wants revenge. He is evil, not for solely being different, but for abandoning all human instinct like love and care, even though human emotions–boredom, anger, hunger–are what drive him through the story… He chooses to turn his back on his humanity, to fulfill the role of monster, even though he is capable of more. It would not be evil if he had no soul. His soul humanizes him, but the force of his will strips it away. He is a villain of his own making. I'm not sure that can be simple.”

Artisan hummed. “Do you fancy me that sort of villain?”

Eloise shook her head. Her skin still itched with the phantom touch of his power.

“Dracula wouldn't have helped me.” Her voice sounded very small in her ears. 

“Will you help me with something?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“There are always choices, Eloise. Dracula chose one straight path. I can be more…” He wet his lips. “Flexible. Helps stave off the boredom. I love a good unexpected twist.”

Eloise swallowed. “You think I’m useful. Is that why you’re protecting me? Do you plan to bleed me empty until you're full? Or…to fill me with your own blood until I become what you are? Dracula didn’t turn Mina to keep her safe… He did it to damn her.”

Artisan straightened out his spine to his full seated height. “What would you like me to do with you?”

“It doesn't matter what I want when I can't stop you.”

“I'm asking.”

Eloise tensed as a shout and bang echoed too close for comfort. She snatched a fistful of the supervillain’s sleeve and scrambled instinctively closer. 

When the noise finally subsided, Eloise looked at him. He was watching, letting her cling to him like a frightened puppy. She was practically in his lap.

Eloise let go as if burned. Heat flooded her cheeks. “S-Sorry-”

Artisan was smiling, a sharp curl of lips that sent her stomach swooping. “So which is it? You think me the monster that will bleed you dry or the scary guard dog that will protect you from the rest of them?”

She eyed him, then looked at the floor. “I think you're kinder than you let on.”

Artisan snorted. “I've never been accused of that before.”

“You asked what I want… I want to live. I want out of here, away from the violence and death. I just want to stay safe. I want to take a shower and scrub the blood out of my hair.”

Artisan leaned in. “If you help me escape, I’ll keep you alive.”

Her gaze jumped to him. “Me? How do you think I can help you?”

“Your power,” he replied, the ugly fluorescents catching the blood spots on his collar, “as you so subtly demonstrated, is to blend in. Raise no alarm bells. You can walk right past the firing squad. We can walk right past the firing squad.”

Eloise was already shaking her head. “I told you, it doesn’t always work. I can’t do it reliably on command. Besides–I can’t help a deadly supervillain escape The Max! I’d get thrown straight in here for life! I’m not even a supervillain! I’m barely super!”

Artisan’s eyes glittered, lowering his voice conspiratorily “Hm. You’d rather stay here? Unprotected? Okay. Should I just call the others over, or…?”

He stood from the creaking mattress, taking two steps toward the gaping hole where the door used to be with a teasing eyebrow quirked in her direction.

Eloise leapt to her feet. She skidded on blood-slicked shoes in her panic to grab at Artisan once more. “No-! No. Please.”

Their eyes met. That time, Eloise didn’t let go of the super’s arm.

Which would be worse? Angering Artisan and letting him break her into splintering pieces? Or being thrown to a pack of super-powered wolves? Angry, restless, nothing-to-lose, wolves…

She swallowed. “Please?”

For a moment, the cell fell into a familiar quiet, terse but not particularly uncomfortable.

Artisan turned to face her properly.

“I get you to the exit. You get me past the gunfire. The cameras are down, they’ll have no idea that you helped me. The two of us will slip free with no one the wiser. When they eventually notice us gone, after killing the other idiots who dart out into open fire, they will assume we slipped through the cracks separately. Deal?”

Eloise watched him, nerves buzzing through her body. “I didn’t know you could talk so much,” she said dumbly.

To some, that would be an insult.

Artisan snorted a laugh, clearly caught off guard. “Eloise.”

“What will you do when you’re out?” she asked, more quietly.

If she helped him escape and he went on to keep hurting people, wouldn’t their blood be on her hands?

It wasn’t fair. That would be far too much responsibility to ask of a girl who’d done nothing but do her best to stay on the sidelines, not step on any toes, and serve her time as quickly as possible. She couldn’t truly be expected to sacrifice herself in the name of altruism, could she? She wasn’t a hero. She wanted to go back to being a no-one, someone without the attention of supervillains and regulators of the Powered Peoples Registry.

And yet… she didn’t want people to die because of her choices. She didn’t want any more carnage.

Belatedly, gently, Eloise let go of his arm. Artisan tracked the movement.

“When I’m out..,” he mused, voice returned to the softer, low tone he normally used in the rare moments that he decided to speak, “I will never let them catch me again.”

Eloise’s mouth felt dry. “Business as usual?”

He shrugged. “Until I’ve regrouped. Then, I’ll come back for each and every person who trapped me in this hell hole. Every hero responsible for catching me. Every trigger-happy member of that execution squad outside. And–if any are even left alive–every guard, every staff member here, who ever locked me in this room. Ever kicked my plate of food just out of reach and laughed. Each of them who mocked me and treated me like- like cattle. And every little boot-licking coward here ‘just doing their job’; ‘just here for their paycheck.’ Their excuses for torturing us won’t matter anymore when they’re all broken and bleeding in the same mangled pile, will they?”

Eloise shivered. That sounded like a very, very dire outcome, no matter how much she agreed that the something needed to change.

“And… And me?” Her voice shrank impossibly small and fragile. “I’m staff.”

She imagined herself, a crumple of slimy sinew and shattered bones, piled with the rest of them. 

She picked at the dry skin of her lips–a nervous tic kicked into overdrive–and only stopped when the supervillain pulled her hand away from her mouth where it it began to taste of copper.

Artisan studied her, his expression giving nothing away. The thumb of his free hand smeared the bead of blood away. “No.”

“No?”

“Not you.”

Eloise’s heart squeezed. “Why?”

“Because I don’t want to. And I do whatever I want,” he said simply. “Besides. Who will read to me when you’re gone? My right-hand’s voice doesn’t have quite the same effect. His has much more of a droning quality… If he attempts to replace you, I may need earplugs.”

Eloise’s sore lips twitched into a small smile. “If we help each other get out… What happens then? What if they come after me; after us?”

He grinned and it was a sharp thing of silver cutlery and broken glass; of moonlit, gritty alleyways. “We run.”

As a reminder, this story comes from a prompt that was given both to me and to @the-modern-typewriter! She made her series on it first and it is AMAZING! Go check it out on her patreon, it's The Supermax Prison Blues! I'm not in any way trying to copy her (though naturally, some influences might creep in from obsessing over her work!) or compare our work, as she is an absolutely magical writer, and her series is completely her own!

General Taglist: @pinned-to-the-wahl , @valiantlytransparentwhispers , @distance-does-not-matter @redbircl , @lilaccatholic , @crazytwentythrees-deactivated @thelazywitchphotographer @chibicelloking , @lolafaiy , @thinkwrite5 , @putridghost @tobeornottobeateacher @sunflower1000 , @bouncyartist , @feyriddle , @yet-another-heathen , @silverwhisperer1 , @distractedlydistracted @pensivespacepirate , @appleejuicee , @deflated-bouncingball @maybe-a-cat42, @m0chik0furan , @mercurymomentum , @fairysprinkles , @vuvulia , @amongtheonedaisy , @rose-pinkie, @trappedgoose-in-a-writblr-room , @scorpio-smiles , @inkygemuwu , @wolfeyedwitch , @thewhumpmeisterx3000, @ikiiryo , @lem-hhn , @fanastywhump , @smallangryfish , @ladybookworm @freefallingup13 , @acaiaforrest , @a-blue-comedy , @puppyaddict , @talkingsperm , @qualitychaoslover , @deckofaces ,@7eselt, @annablogsposts , @lunatic-moss-studio , @medusas-hairband

[valiantlytransparentwhispers]

Sloth Brains and Spine of Lionfish ~ George Weasley

This is a continuation of my ongoing George Weasley fanfic, so make sure you read the other parts first (here's part 1). I need to figure out what the overall fic name should be, so if anyone has ideas, let me know XD

Warnings: none

Word count: 5.2k

“And we’ve inquired about renting a place in Diagon Alley.” George easily skipped the vanishing step, turning around to offer his hand. I ignored it, jumping the step on my own and nearly losing hold of my books for my trouble. Unbothered, George gestured grandly with the untaken hand. “Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, we’ve called it.”

We reached the bottom of the staircase, making our way down the nearly empty corridor. I liked to walk to my classes before the castle walkways were clogged up with bodies and sounds, and most of the other students were still at lunch. Funny, George never seemed to mind the crowds before, yet now he walked with me in the empty hallways between every class.

George hopped up on the bench against the wall, walking along the wood with his arms stretched out for balance. “We should have a response before we all go home for Christmas, and possibly have the place rented before school lets out.”

I dodged the ghost of Erling the Great that had just appeared through the wall, hoping he didn’t see me. I did not want to get trapped into one of his onerous and endless stories again. “So you’ll be selling all those prototypes the two of you’ve been testing on the first years?”

“Yup." George hopped down to walk beside me again. "Plus a few more we’ve got up our sleeves. We’re testing another one tonight, and if it’s finally ready, it’ll be one of our staples in the shop.” The light in George’s eyes as he spoke about his dream was unlike his normal errant sparkle. The shine wasn’t born of mischief, it was born of passion, and it seemed to lift George’s very heels as he bounced excitedly forward. 

“Well, I’m certain it’ll be brilliant.” Distracted, I hadn’t even thought about the words before they came flying out of my mouth. I pressed my fingertips to my lips, unsure if I were more horrified or embarrassed. 

George’s bouncing paused, and he turned the full weight of his vexingly self-possessed smirk on me. “Is that so?”

Embarrassed. Definitely embarrassed. 

My cheeks blazing, I scowled at him. “Don’t crow, it’s unbecoming.”

The redhead absentmindedly knocked the railing at the top of the next flight of stairs, causing the stairs to ripple a bit and then resolidify. “I’m just revelling in the compliment.”

“It’s hardly a compliment, more a statement of fact.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Oh?”

“Don’t look at me like that.” I forged past him down the stairs, ignoring the slight tremble I felt underneath my feet. The staircase—objectively the most sensitive staircase in the castle—was just pouting over George’s knock. “The two of you are persuasive, which is objectively a good skill to have for retail, not to mention the shrewdness required for the strategy of business and the creativity and intelligence to make new products. I’d wager you’ve already made a fair bit of coin here at Hogwarts, so with a centralised location that can be open full-time, you’ll make a fortune, and likely–” I closed my mouth, pressing my lips together.

Too much. I’d said too much. 

The faint, impossibly warm chuckle from behind me made me shiver. “Well, when I have a fortune, I can perhaps afford to buy you a Christmas present.”

I stopped, rooted to the step. George passed me, continuing down a few more steps before seeming to notice I wasn’t beside him and turning to face me with a puzzled expression. "What?"

“Don’t buy me anything.” From my position three stairs higher than him, I had a tactical advantage were this to become a situation where my wand was necessary. Any offensive attack I unleashed would be that much harder to defend against. 

But George stuck his hands in his pockets, seemingly unconcerned. “With trying to go into business and all, I couldn’t rustle up enough Galleons if my life depended on it.”

“Don’t spend anything on me,” I repeated, easily masking my sudden nausea as distaste. Gifts were pointless at best, painful at worst.

The incessantly inquisitive and contrary Gryffindor tilted his head, his eyes giving me a strangely sharp assessment that made me wonder if I wasn’t masking as well as I thought. “Why not?”

I forced myself to woodenly descend the steps and then turn the corner towards the Potions classroom. “There’s nothing I need.” 

“But surely there’s something nice you want?”

“There’s nothing I want either.”

“Now you’re just joshing. Everyone wants something.”

“What do you want?” I shot back.

“I told you.” George opened the door to the Potions classroom. “To buy you a Christmas gift.” 

I didn’t walk through the doorway. “Well, I want you to not buy me a Christmas gift.”

“Nah, that doesn’t work.”

“Why not?”

“Your wanting can’t just cancel someone else’s wanting. That’s like asking for it to drizzle when you don’t even like drizzles and only because I like the sunshine.” His tone was perplexingly even and carefree, despite the venom of my words. And he still held the door open. 

I gripped my books tight to my chest. “Christmas gifts are like sunshine?”

“No, you are like sunshine,” George replied, the corner of his mouth curling in an infuriatingly charming smirk. He had no right to look like that when being sarcastic. “With all your suspicion and compliments and enthusiastic statements of fact, why, you just make me feel warm all over.”

“Then go step out in the snow,” I said crossly, finally walking under his arm into the classroom. 

A cauldron bubbled merrily up by Professor Snape’s desk, just in front of the blank chalkboard. Reaching my potions station off to the left, I dropped my books down, the resulting thud much too loud but ultimately satisfying. I waited for the dungeon door to close, signalling that George had left and allowing the pit in my stomach to dissolve. But when it did close, I couldn’t help feeling a bit disappointed. 

“Anyone sit here?” 

I looked up in time to see George gently set a copy of Advanced Potion-Making on the station next to me. 

“What are you doing?” 

He flipped through the pages, his eyes trailing down the text. “Sitting in class with you.”

A fledgling of panic rustled its wings in my stomach. “You’re not in this class.” George hadn’t achieved the Outstanding required on his O.W.L.s to continue Potions at the N.E.W.T. level. 

“Well, I see no harm in sitting in. Hogwarts rewards those who seek knowledge, you know.”

There was harm. There was much harm indeed. “George, class is going to start soon.”

George calmly met my gaze. “Lucky for us, I don’t have anywhere else to be.”

“Are you insane?” I hissed. “They’ll eat you alive.”

“Better me than you.” His light tone couldn’t disguise the weight of his words. 

I paused, studying his freckled face. “Is that what this is about? You’re trying to rescue me again?”

“Prevent the need for rescuing, actually.” George pulled out his seat, sitting down and pulling out his potion-making kit, which clearly hadn’t been used in a while. “And be careful, or I’ll think you don’t want me to sit next to you.”

“I don’t.” Especially not when our peers were about to walk in, including Warrington. Not to mention Snape. George's misguided attempts would only succeed in making us both targets.

Unconcerned, George pulled a quill, an ink pot, and parchment out of his bag. “I promise I’ll be a model pupil.”

How did he do it? How did he brush it all off like the words meant nothing? Like consequences didn't exist? He just sat there, easily relaxing against the back of his chair like he had the ultimate conviction that it would hold him up as long as he needed. 

The classroom door opened, and I immediately but subtly slid into my seat, hoping against hope that somehow our peers wouldn’t notice us. 

But hoping George Weasley was unnoticeable was as useful as asking a kappa not to eat you. Warrington’s wicked eyes settled on George before sliding to me. I ducked my head. Maybe Warrington’s similarity to hippogriffs didn’t end with his looks and the sign of reverence would make him less dangerous. 

But even as Warrington finally sat down, directly in front of Snape’s desk, I could still feel stares.

My peers didn’t often remember I existed, as I intended. I didn’t answer questions in class, I stayed out of trouble, I took care not to offend anyone who mattered and not overly involve myself in anything. It protected me, and it protected Clem. And yet as everyone, Gryffindor and Slytherin alike, stared at me with shock and disapproval, I knew they remembered me now. And that remembrance was going to bite me where it hurt. 

I shrunk down in my seat, holding my elbows tightly. George leaned over to me. “Relax,” he said softly. “No one is going to curse you in the middle of class.”

“It’s not the middle of class I’m worried about,” I muttered, more to myself than to him. 

His lips pursed, but before he could reply, the dungeon door banged open, and Professor Snape strode to the front, his cloak billowing behind him like shadows of prejudice and loathing. I could see the moment the potions master noticed George. His beady eyes narrowed, sending my trepidation through the roof. It was hard to know which house was more despised by the other in the Gryffindor-Slytherin rivalry, but Professor Snape did not have the same amount of integrity within the rivalry as Professor McGonagall. 

“A new student today,” Professor Snape mused, the slow delivery of every word promising trouble. I sat so stiffly, my shoulder muscles were beginning to hurt, but George stayed calm and seemingly unaffected. “Is there a reason for this…change?”

“Yes, sir, I just really wanted to hear today’s lecture,” George said politely. 

“How studious of you.” Professor Snape crossed his arms, warning of the incoming confrontation. “I suppose, Mr. Weasley,” he said in his characteristically flat tone, “that you’re also studious enough to tell me what sloth brains are used for.”

George didn’t move from his laid-back yet attentive position. “Sir, that would be dragon dung fertiliser.”

The curl of Professor Snape’s mouth made me tense. “Of course. I would expect someone of your,” he paused as he rested a hand next to George’s worn textbook, “inclinations to misguidedly name dung as being the correct answer.”

A few snickers rang through the classroom, the Slytherins ready for the millionth round of Gryffindor mistreatment. “Daft Weasley,” said Warrington’s unmistakable voice, loud enough to echo through the whole classroom yet remarkably and predictably soft enough that Professor Snape didn’t seem to hear.

But I knew he had, judging by the hateful glitter in his eyes. The professor leaned in closer to George, who still hadn’t moved from his position. “Ten points from–”

“He’s not daft.”

I barely realised the words had come out of my mouth until everyone in the classroom turned to look at me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw George straighten in his chair.

“Excuse me?” Professor Snape finally asked. If the potions master could manage a sincere expression, he’d be aghast. As it was, he looked at me with the same chronically detached countenance he always wore.

Underneath the table, a hand brushed my leg, but I ignored it.

“Sloth brain mucus is used in the creation of dragon dung fertiliser, which Professor Sprout names as the superior fertiliser for magical plants. If you wanted him to answer what sloth brains are used for in this class, you should’ve specified, at which point he would’ve clearly said the Draught of Living Death.” I stared resolutely back at Professor Snape as the classroom fell silent aside from the bubbling of the example potion beside Professor Snape’s desk. “Sir,” I added belatedly. 

The only sign of the professor’s surprise and uncertainty was the rapid blinks. “He would’ve clearly said it?” Professor Snape asked finally. “Then I suppose Mr. Weasley would also be able to tell me what colour sloth brains turns the Draught of Living Death, hmmm?” 

“Cyan.” George’s posture, straight as an arrow, revealed the strain he was now apparently—and tardily—feeling. “It turns the potion from pink to cyan.”

See? I thought victoriously as I watched Professor Snape’s jaw move in a suspiciously gnashing way. I was right. He’s not daft. 

“Detention,” the professor finally said. 

“Yes, sir,” George responded, lowering his eyes.

“Not you, Weasley.” The dark eyes turned on me. “You, Miss Y/L/N.” George’s hand balled into a fist. “For speaking out of turn.”

I met the head of my house’s eyes without flinching. “Yes, sir.” 

As Professor Snape continued the lesson, I noticed with slight triumph that he’d completely forgotten to take ten points from Gryffindor or give George detention for showing up. 

But the triumph shrank as the class continued and George’s posture remained stiff. 

-

After brewing a nearly perfect Antidote to Veritaserum and being assigned a 42-inch essay on exactly how the antidote combatted compulsory truth-telling, class ended. Instead of waiting for Warrington and the others to leave, I shoved everything into my bag and was the first one to the door. But nowhere could I go at no possible speed to avoid the fiery anger burning behind me. 

“What were you thinking?” George hissed as I walked towards my common room. 

“Snape doesn’t get to treat you that way,” I replied with equal fervour, wondering at how completely my compliance had disappeared. “And neither does Warrington, the prat.”

A hand closed around my elbow, turning me around. “Beg Snape’s forgiveness,” George demanded. “Maybe you can beg off spending the night in the dungeons.”

“I won’t,” I snapped, wrenching my arm out of his admittedly gentle grip. “Because they were wrong; you’re not stupid. It was a stupid question. He just wanted to mock you–”

“I’ve been mocked nearly every day of my life!” The response was so impassioned that George’s cheeks were going red. “I can handle it.”

“Well, I can’t!” I said sharply. “It’s not fair.”

“Oh, like you serving detention on behalf of your brother?”

I glanced around quickly, noticing the few seventh years loitering in the corridor. Were they gathering more evidence about the sudden and unorthodox alliance between George and I? Would any of them report back to Warrington? Or Snape? Or Merlin forbid, Umbridge? 

Seizing George’s wrist, I dragged him off into an alcove, pulling so roughly that he nearly bonked his head into the sloped decorative wood carving of the tiny space. “How is what I did any different than what you’ve done for me?” The snarling tone of my words made me think of my lioness Patronus. Perhaps a lioness was more apt than I’d originally thought. 

George, however, looked nothing like his mischievous and light-hearted magpie. “Because you disrespected a professor!”

"So did you! If you hadn't sat in the class, the whole thing could've been avoided!"

"Snape already hates me! But he's your head of house, and now you've insulted him!"

I glared at him. “And if McGonagall treated me like that, would you just sit there and not say anything?” He wouldn’t, we both knew it.

George scoffed deep in his throat. “That doesn’t matter, she would never do something like that.”

“Come off it, George!” I impatiently readjusted my heavy books, resisting the urge to toss them at him. “You would stand up for me!” He had stood up for me, many times over.

George pressed his lips together so tightly, they started to whiten, stubbornly refusing to say what we both knew was true. “You shouldn’t have done it.”

I scowled. “You don’t get to tell me what I should and shouldn’t do.”

“Someone has to, since you clearly weren’t born with basic self-preservation!”

Livid, I tossed my head and stormed out of the alcove towards my common room where the foolhardy twin couldn’t follow me.

“What happened to not lifting a finger to help or hurt anyone?” George called after me, so loudly that the other noises in the hallway hushed.

I lifted a finger over my shoulder in an obscene gesture as my only reply.

-

My footsteps echoed through the dungeons as I neared the potions classroom. Somewhere above my head was the Great Hall, lit up with enchanted candles and everlasting torches. In the dungeons, however, the torches were so sparse, it was easy to grow convinced that there was something lying in wait in every shadow.

“I received a new Spine of Lionfish shipment this morning,” Snape was saying, gesturing towards my potions station where a stack of boxes lay before returning to the parchment he was writing on. “You will crush them all into powder without using magic. When you are finished, and only then, are you allowed to leave.”

Spine of Lionfish. Capable of causing pain and paralysis. I licked my lips. “Sir, am I allowed to wear my gloves?”

The potions master paused in his writing, making my heart sink as I tried to guess how great a punishment Professor Snape meant to inflict on me. “Yes,” he said finally.

Worried my relief would make him change his mind, I concealed it before nodding and sitting down at the desk, pulling out my dragonskin gloves and getting started.

It would’ve been meditative to pulverise the white and red spines if I wasn’t constantly aware of how long it would take to grind three boxes of spines when my mortar could only hold five spines at a time. I glanced over at the desk to see Professor Snape hunched over, his nose inches from the parchment he wrote on, as if he was struggling to see it. 

I popped open a vial, holding my breath so that I wouldn’t accidentally inhale any of the powder as I poured it inside the vial and labelled it. 

Each vial could hold the powder of about fifty spines, and I’d filled four vials when Professor Snape suddenly rose from his desk. He pulled at his cloak, untangling it from his legs as best as he could while holding a letter. Whatever the letter was, it was either important or elicited some sentiment to make him clench it so tightly. Without saying a word, Professor Snape left.

I poured the powder into the half-full vial before dropping new spines inside the mortar. It might take me all night to finish my detention, but finish it I would. Once punished, my defiance would hopefully fade in memory.

Detention would ease Snape’s ire, but my classmates would likely look to retaliate in their own ways. I took a deep breath. As long as they stayed away from Clem, I would accept whatever punishment they doled out. 

A soft rasp sounded behind me, making me freeze. And in that stillness, the unmistakable sound of a footstep sounded from behind me.

Would they interfere with the completion of my detention? Would Warrington, Parkinson, and Goyle really try to subject me to further wrath from our head of house?

Keeping the rest of my body still, I slyly slipped my hand off my pestle and into my pocket, gripping my wand. After a moment’s pause, I whirled around, thrusting my wand out. “Immobulus!” The blue spell shot from my wand tip.

“Protego.” My attacker’s wand arced, my blue projectile dissolving upon contact with the invisible shield.

Lifting my wand, another spell was about to leap from my lips when I finally recognized the face in the shadows. “What are you doing here?” I hissed.

George pocketed his wand before flinging himself down on the nearest seat as if it were a fainting couch. “I came to help my knight in shining armour. After defending my honour, I could hardly leave my dainty yet plucky princess to toil away in the dungeons.”

I clenched my wand, my heart beating at a pace I would fiercely deny if it were brought up. “I thought you said I was a knight.” 

“Maybe you’re both.”

“Maybe I’m neither.” I glanced at him. “You’re a lot more dainty than me anyhow.” And a lot more chivalrous, though he didn’t need to know that. 

George sighed like the weight of the world rested on his shoulders. “Can’t help it if I have easily bruisable skin, can I?” How strange. He seemed to have completely recovered from our fight earlier.

“Seriously, Weasley, what are you doing here?”

“Ooh, she brings out the last name.” George grinned. “That’s how I know I’ve got your stylish knickers in a twist.” I raised an eyebrow, and his smile fell. “Not that I’m making assumptions about your…knicker…preferences.” His cheeks were red again, but instead of accompanying the flush with a glare like earlier, he averted his eyes over towards the window where darkness was quickly falling.

“I’ll repeat my question,” I said, sparing him from acknowledging his obvious embarrassment. “What are you doing here?”

I definitely imagined the relief on his face as he dropped into the chair beside me. “Serving your detention with you.”

I returned to my mortar and pestle, grinding the spines with more aggression than before. “I know you have better things to do, perhaps some testing to do on first-years?”

“Fred can test the Canary Creams without me.”

“He’ll rename your business ‘Fred’s Wizard Wheezes’.”

George gave a short laugh, crossing his legs. “Naw, FWW doesn’t have the same ring as WWW.” 

“If Snape finds out you helped me with the work, he’ll get angry.” I didn’t want the professor getting any angrier at either of us.

“Then I won’t touch anything. I’ll just help you pass the time.” 

“By regaling me with more business plans?” My words were coming out all wrong, sharp and heated. George was being thoughtful, and yet I couldn’t seem to check my prickliness. 

“If you like. I also have some fabulous stories to tell about pranks or family or even the sausage rolls I ate for breakfast.”

My pestle scraped a little too hard against the mortar. “Maybe your knight prefers silence.” I glared down at the lovely pink powder. Without the proper knowledge, someone might mistake the powder for something innocuous, like fairy dust or rose sugar. But the seductive material could cause serious damage.

“I think I know my knight better than that.” His voice had no right to be that gentle. 

“Don’t flatter yourself.” He wasn’t being flattering, he was right on, but I wasn’t going to tell him that. “Maybe you don’t know her at all,” I said lightly, pouring the powder into the vial before dropping the next five spines into the mortar. 

A hand found my waist, and I stopped grinding the chalky spines. My eyes fluttered shut at the sparks flying beneath my skin. I turned around, resting my gloved hands on his shoulder to push him away, but my muscles wouldn't do it.

I felt as though the warmth in George’s brown eyes was somehow pouring into me, chasing away the chill of the dungeon and shadows. 

“Trust me,” I warned, “you don’t want to get close.”

“That’s just like you,” George said softly, his eyes fixed on some point beneath my nose, “just like you to tell me what I do and don’t want.” 

“George, I’m serious.”

“So am I.” He licked his lips. “Uncommonly so.”

Fear flooded my body, tangling with the warmth to make a strange buzzing sensation. “Is this your plan?” I asked shakily. “The Gryffindor gets close to the Slytherin and then makes fun of her to all his friends because she fell for it?” I pressed my hand over the wand in my robes, prepared to pull it out again. “I won’t fall for it.”

George's hand brushed against mine. I wanted to pretend that he was trying to keep me from drawing it, but the gesture was too tender, too comforting to believe it. He stepped closer. “Maybe the Gryffindor is the one falling for it.”

“Sounds more accurate.” My voice was embarrassingly high-pitched and breathy. I cleared my throat. “Gryffindors are more gullible than Slytherins.”

“Can this gullible Gryffindor ask a question?”

He was too close. I needed to step away, to put some space in between us, but one step away was my potion station with venomous powdered Spine of Lionfish. “No,” I managed to say. “No questions.”

George lifted a hand to tuck my hair behind my ear. “Can I kiss you?”

My hands shook. If I needed to draw my wand, I wasn’t sure I would be able to hold it. “I said no questions.” Especially no questions that I didn’t know how to answer. 

His face came closer to mine until all I could see was the expanse of fair skin beneath freckles. “I’d rather drink the Draught of Living Death than be like Warrington…and yet I’m trying not to read into the fact that you seemed more ready to kiss his boot than kiss me.”

I couldn’t respond or think when he was this close. When his lips were so close that I could feel his breath on my face. He couldn’t even do me the favour of having halitosis or even just onions and garlic for lunch?

“That’s…it’s…I mean,” I stammered. Why was it impossible to form anything coherent? I would’ve been happy with a snarky comment or a quick denial. 

George tilted his head back slightly, looking me in the eye. “Say no. Say no, and I’ll sit back down and tell you about the recipe for Canary Creams.”

The refusal was prepared on my tongue, ready to launch and return both of us to the refuge of platonic banter with sporadic sincerity. Things were already too dangerous for the two of us, and the true threats of the castle and beyond hadn’t even started yet. It was better for both of us if I said no. I needed to say no. 

But I couldn’t do it. 

I never before had trouble doing what would keep myself and my brother safe, but being with George Weasley flew in the very face of safety, and I couldn't bring myself to back away.

His nose brushed against mine, and I marvelled at how smooth his skin was. I’d half-expected to feel bumps on the skin from his freckles. “Say no,” he whispered.

“I can’t,” I whispered. I wasn’t sure if the words referred to saying no or to kissing him, but George seemed to know.

Arms encircled my waist, secure and unavoidable. Lips pressed against mine, warm and soft and utterly, completely George. He was everywhere, even where he wasn’t touching me because all my body could do was sigh and all my mind could conjure were red locks and brown eyes.

He pulled back. “Do you–”

I rose to my tiptoes, kissing him before he could finish. George, apparently, didn’t mind, giving up on his words immediately to kiss me back. His fingers brushed back my hair, a gesture so comforting that I melted into him.

I pulled my gloves off, desperate to feel his face with my hands. The dragon scales let out a loud noise as they hit the stone floor, but I didn’t care, finally able to caress his face.

Without breaking the kiss, George stepped forward, moving me back on my tiptoes. I didn’t know where he was taking me, and I didn’t care enough to stop what we were doing and look. 

George took another step forward when there was a clunking sound. 

The latch of the door, I realised in horror. Instantly, George’s warmth disappeared, and I whirled around, frantically grinding at the spines while sweeping my gloves underneath the potion station with my toe.

Heart hammering, I heard the door open. The torches in the hallway casting momentary shadows before the door closed again.

Act natural, I thought frantically. Act like you've just been here the whole time, serving detention. But my inability to take a full breath undermined the nonchalance I was attempting. My lips burned, as if by kissing George, I’d kissed pure flames. 

“Miss Y/L/N.” Somehow, Snape’s voice was more chilling than before. 

Slowly, I swivelled to face the potions master. He didn’t look any more suspicious than he normally did, but he was never the type to emote.

There was a flash of movement over his shoulder, and I looked to see George with his back pressed to the wall of the dungeon, perfectly in between two torches where the shadows could partially conceal him. Quickly, I looked back to Snape, noting for the first time in my life with relief that the professor’s beady eyes were trained on me. 

“You are free to go.” 

I blinked, trying to ignore George creeping over to the dungeon door. “Sir, I haven’t finished–”

Professor Snape waved his wand, enchanting the mortar and pestle sets against the wall to soar over to the boxes and start grinding spines of their own accord. “You’ve been here for long enough.”

George reached the door, lifting the latch silently and sliding through a tiny crack in the door.

I nearly crumpled with relief, turning my attention back to Snape. “Sir, are you sure–”

“I’ve already taken points off Gryffindor.”

I frowned before quickly making my face blank. George lost points, regardless of my outburst. My actions today in class accomplished nothing. 

“As for you, I won’t take any house points.” 

Predictable. 

“But I’ve written to your parents.”

I froze.

My parents—who represented just a blip in the long history the Y/L/N family of pureblooded Slytherins and yet championed the legacy with every movement—would soon know. As I looked into Snape’s glittering eyes, I knew he’d told them everything and knew the magnitude of punishment I’d be receiving. His grin widened as I remained still as a statue. Not only did he know, he relished it. “You’re dismissed.”

Snape lowered himself into the chair behind his desk, taking his time as he folded his long, bony fingers. 

So thoroughly unable to move, I wondered if some of the dangerous pink powder had somehow made it into my body.

“Did you hear me?” The displeasure in Snape’s voice sounded like the cracking of a whip, and like a frightened mare, I stirred into action. 

“Yes, sir, goodnight, sir.” I swiftly knelt to grab my gloves and put them on before dumping the spines in my mortar into the box again. 

It wasn’t until I was pulling the dungeon door open that I remembered George, my fear only increasing. 

But instead of George awaiting me, it was the cantankerous caretaker, Mr. Filch. “Out of bed, are we?” he snarled, looking quite pleased. 

“I w-was finishing detention!” I burst out. “I’m on my way to bed, I swear!”

“You’d better hurry then.” Chapped lips curved upwards to show yellow teeth.

I fled from the teeth, from the spines, and from the consequences of the kiss. I ran as fast as my legs could carry me, horror nipping at my heels. 

“Advantage,” I said quickly, and the door to the Slytherin Common Room opened. I ducked inside and ran as fast as I could towards my dormitory, not stopping until I flung myself down on my bed, burying my face in my pillow. 

Merlin, what had I done?

-

Overall tag list:

@thelastpyle @valiantlytransparentwhispers

Series tag list:

@onelemonoat @goldfishinpainttubes

[valiantlytransparentwhispers]

White Moves First, Part 7 ~ Edmund Pevensie

Summary: Despite the distance between their two lands, Y/N, princess of Archenland, is close friends with King Edmund the Just. But when push comes to shove, will friendship turn to more?

Warnings: an unhealthy paternal relationship and a deviation from canon as I don't think Narnia ever had chapels in the Golden Age. But we can't have a royal wedding without a chapel!!

Word count: 5.6k

White Moves First Masterlist

Edmund ran down the corridor, the absurd frills of his blue and silver wedding doublet scratching at his neck. He should’ve known better than to trust Susan to give him something wilace, but that was not what he cared about now. Edmund tried to get the attention of the manservant walking past him, but the man didn’t notice him until Edmund grabbed his shoulder. “Where’s the king?” he asked.

“In his study, Your Majesty.”

Edmund took off down the hallway again. Of all days for the silversmith to go on a trip to visit his brother, why did it have to be today? The ceremony was going to start in less than an hour, and Edmund still didn’t have Y/N’s proper ring. It was supposed to arrive by courier this morning, and there was no sign of any courier, and the silversmith was gone. 

Was it Edmund’s fault? Had Edmund designed too complicated a ring for too short a time? He’d wanted the ring to be special and completely unique, something that Y/N could be proud to wear. Now, because he was so particular, she wasn’t going to have a ring for the wedding.

Which was unacceptable and entirely his fault. Two of his least favorite things. 

Edmund burst into the study. “Your Majesty–” He stopped in the doorway, seeing the desk empty. He scowled. Why would the manservant have said that King Loon was in the study when–

“Well, if it isn’t the groom himself.”

Edmund’s spine stiffened as he slowly turned to see the foreign prince who sat on an armchair, legs crossed and fingers swirling a glass definitely not holding water. Rabadash’s fashionable ensemble was neat and lacked any of the stifling ruffles of Edmund’s as well as any sweat stains like the ones Edmund could feel underneath his arms that he hoped were discreet. 

Rabadash rose from his armchair with smooth ease. “Does the Just King need directions to the stables for a quick getaway?” 

Edmund took a deep breath. 

It was not worth it. 

Not today.

He wheeled around and left. At first he thought only his heart was beating in his ears, until the sound of footsteps grew loud. “Don’t fret, Your Majesty, I assure you the princess will not be lonely in your absence.” 

Don’t answer, Edmund commanded himself. There are bigger things to worry about. Like Y/N’s ring. 

“Of course, my company would not be able to ease the pain in your heart.”

Edmund whirled around. “What in blazes are you going on about?”

“Do you love her?”

“I wouldn’t be marrying her if I didn’t,” Edmund snapped before he even had a chance to think about it. 

Rabadash chuckled, his eyes flicking to the ceiling like it would start laughing along with him if it could. “You don’t even understand how true that statement is.”

“Do you have anything of substance to say,” Edmund’s hands curled into fists, “or will you continue to prattle? Because I’m needed in the chapel shortly.”

Rabadash lifted his hand, showing off his much too long, yet perfectly manicured nails on fingers that had never done a hard or honest day’s work in their life. “You and your precious princess should know: I love a good challenge. Marrying her simply because of you would be too easy.”

Edmund started to turn away before Rabadash’s words fully registered, and he hovered. He wanted to keep walking, to pay Rabadash as much attention as the prince deserved, which was far less than he’d already gotten. But this concerned Y/N.

“What do you mean?” Edmund demanded.

“Oh, did Y/N not tell you?” 

Edmund kept his anger in check, knowing that a bland expression was far more antagonizing than an angry one. This crooked-nosed knave was trying to divide the two of them. Well, it wouldn’t work. Y/N would never keep information from him.

Would she? 

“Tell me what?” 

Rabadash leaned against the wall, clearly relishing Edmund’s attention despite the casual airs he was trying to put on. “I only wanted her because of you. If she was in Tashbaan as my wife, you would never allow Narnia to attack, because no matter how upset you were about your barbarian sister, risking Y/N’s life would be unthinkable. A lifelong hostage to secure my country’s well being.”

Edmund didn’t realize he was holding his breath until pressure started building in his chest. Rabadash had set his claims on Y/N because of him?

“The stoic,” Rabadash stepped closer, “level-headed,” another step, “mighty King Edmund.” He spread his hands, showing off for an imaginary audience. “The man capable of winning any negotiation leapt onto a dance floor to save one woman from a Calormen prince.” Rabadash lowered his arms, his smile somehow becoming more sinister. “And it wasn’t his sister.”

Edmund thought back to the ball, trying to recall when Rabadash had danced with Susan, but while he could list off every one of the nine dances Rabadash had partnered with Y/N for, he didn’t even have a memory of Susan on the dance floor at all.

“You showed your cards, King Edmund. All of this would’ve been easier if you’d just let me have her, but no.” The prince’s voice lowered to a whisper: “The Tisroc, may he live forever, has agents in the Narnian court.”

Edmund’s blood turned icy in his veins as the prince’s face darkened, hinting at the void of evil resting in this one man. 

“It wouldn’t take much, you know. An unlocked bedchamber door…a sleight of hand over a wine goblet…an unaccompanied walk in the gardens…and a marriage is over almost before it began.”

Edmund reeled away, putting as much distance between himself and Rabadash as he could. The faster he moved, the less likely it was that his fist would become enthusiastically acquainted with the prince’s nose. 

Y/N.

He had to find her. 

Not caring what the prince thought, Edmund broke into a run. 

-

I stared out of my drawing room window at the Northern mountains as I had many times before. Except now, I knew with certainty I would pass through those mountains to see the beautiful country on the other side. 

Narnia. 

Nerves fluttered in my stomach, reminding me that I hadn’t been able to force down my breakfast this morning, nor my dinner last night. When night fell, I’d lain in bed, worrying about whether or not my dress would be completed in time. 

As I gently ran my fingers along the soft taffeta of my bodice, I knew I needn’t have worried, and yet I was quite sure I would’ve found something else to worry about, like forgetting the vows that my father had written for the ceremony. Memorizing them had rankled every part of me, but I was grateful enough to Edmund for convincing my father to let me say vows that I couldn’t complain. Not when I was about to leave this castle. The vows would be the last time my father spoke for me. 

I heard the latch of the drawing room door lift. “It’s not even ten o’clock yet, Rona,” I sighed. “We still have another half hour to wait at least.” There was no answer, but I was quite content to draw comfort from the mountain line in silence. I might never see them again from this side. 

“Princess.”

The familiar voice so dear to me had me turning in an instant.

My fiance hovered just inside the doorway, his chest rising and falling as if he’d been running. “Edmund? What are you doing here?” Even as I asked, I laughed a little at the idea of Lord Trane’s face if he were to know that Edmund had seen me in my wedding dress before the wedding.

Edmund looked at the dress, looking more and more like he’d swallowed a frog.

“Do I look very nice?” I asked mischievously, referencing our conversation in the gardens after the ball. But my teasing didn’t make Edmund relax or smile.

“Y-you look…I mean…it’s…” 

“Edmund?” I stepped forward, concerned about his shallow, rapid breathing. Something wasn’t right. 

“I’m sorry,” he blurted. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I know this isn’t what you wanted, but Rabadash is here–everyone is here, and they’re all gonna stare at us as we get married and they’ll be watching us for the rest of our lives–and your ring–a-and your father–”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, Edmund!” He buried his face in his hands, and I ran to him, placing my hands on his elbows, trying to coax his hands away from his face, but his stance was rock-solid. “How can I make this better?” I asked, feeling so helpless. 

“I don’t know.” His muffled words were so stressed, it made me feel sick. 

I lifted my hands to his head, taking off his crown and setting it on my chessboard right next to me before soothingly brushing his hair back like Rona did once when I was sick. “It’s not too late,” I whispered. “We can still call off the wedding.”

“Absolutely not,” Edmund croaked, pulling his hands away from his face, allowing me to see the deep distress written there. “I won’t leave you vulnerable to Rabadash.” He looked off to the side. Three times he opened his mouth, and three times, I was greeted only by silence. 

My anxiety rose. “What is it?”

Edmund lifted his troubled eyes to mine. “I have uncovered Rabadash’s motives for pursuing you. His observations led him to discover my affection for you and…he believed if he possessed you as his wife, I would never allow war between Narnia and Calormen.” He paused, as if waiting for a reaction. “I’m the reason he was trying to marry you.”

Rabadash’s words from my confrontation with him came floating back. A look is all it takes to know when a man is in love. But Edmund’s panicked expression looked nothing like what I imagined love to look like. Combining his panic with the sudden epiphany he seemed to be having, I knew. “You talked with Rabadash.”

“I tried not to. I tried to walk away, but then he came after me, spouting nonsense about me backing out and how he would,” Edmund’s mouth contorted with repulsion, “comfort you in my absence, and he said that you knew his true motives and didn’t tell me.” 

My gaze fell to the floor, and distantly I realized Edmund was wearing new shoes. 

“You did know.” The disappointment in his voice ripped at me. “Y/N, why in the world wouldn’t you tell me?”

“I should have, especially before you proposed. I-I just didn’t want you to feel…responsible.”

Edmund raked his hands through his hair, making it stick up in comically asymmetrical directions. “But I am responsible. I’m the reason you were ever in danger of marrying him, my treatment and attention put you at risk, not to mention it’s my country he’s trying to overcome. That makes it my solemn duty to do whatever it takes to make sure you’re safe.” 

Duty.

“Edmund, I…” I didn’t know what to say. It was just like him to do the right thing at the expense of himself. “You didn’t want a marriage. You shouldn’t change that just for some perceived injustice.”

“On the contrary,” he replied, “protecting you is one of the only things that could persuade me to marry at all.” 

A fleeting warmth filled my chest, but it was quickly snuffed out by guilt. “We shouldn’t do this, I cannot ever repay the debt I would owe you if we married, not even–”

“Y/N,” Edmund interrupted. “You do not owe me any debt. If anything, I owe you–”

“No,” I insisted, “how could you possibly–”

Abruptly, we both stopped talking long enough to meet each other’s eyes before laughing. “This is not the future either of us imagined,” I ventured when our laughter stopped.

Edmund’s mirth faded to obvious unease. “Soon we’ll be standing in front of the world, publicly declaring our…”

Love.

“Fidelity.”

My lips twisted at the choice of words, but I couldn’t hold any grudge against Edmund for it. Not with what he was about to do for me. If only we could marry without the onlookers, without all the ceremony. To start a marriage with a performance isn’t something I ever hoped for or something that the sweet, honorous king in front of me deserved. 

Then, an idea started to take shape. 

I licked my lips nervously. “What if…we make our promises here?” 

Edmund blinked. “Huh?” 

I had to withhold a laugh. Whether it bubbled forth from his somewhat adorable confusion or from a bit of hysterics, it wouldn’t be helpful. “We make our true vows now, without anyone watching and without any pretenses.” I gazed at the door. “When we walk out there, we’re a king and a princess, but here, we’re…us. And when we’re talking about the rest of our lives, it’ll be us. Not Rabadash, not my father, not even Archenland and Narnia. Us.” 

I almost could feel the king’s mind racing as it molded itself into an understanding of my words. The suspicion of his expression didn’t lift, but I knew him well enough to know his suspicion often ran alongside his intrigue. “So what would we promise?”

“Ummm.” I wracked my brain, trying to think of the right thing to say. Should I promise loyalty? To bring honor and prosperity to his kingdom? To maintain a happy home for him? But then I looked at my friend, taking in his freckles and soulful brown eyes, and my frenzied thinking slowed. I didn’t want the flowery and unrealistic promises that my father had penned for us, and nor did he. The grand gestures were for the chapel, not this room. My eyes fell upon my beloved chessboard, and the words came to me. “I promise to keep beating you in chess.”

My flippancy was rewarded with a smile and a snort. “You can promise to try.”

Together, we giggled, and I felt my heart lighten enough for my next statement. “I promise to keep believing in you. Whatever plans you set your heart on, I will encourage you and never let you forget your strengths.”

“Or my weaknesses?” Edmund’s mouth curved into a wry smile. 

I smiled back at him. “Oh, we can let those slide.”

“Not entirely, I hope,” he hurried to say. “I wouldn’t want my head to grow too big for my crown.” 

“Your siblings are too similar to mine for them to ever allow that.” 

The room was silent for a moment as Edmund’s gaze locked on mine. “I promise to keep you safe. I will protect you from any threat, whether in the form of a contemptuous prince from Tashbaan or otherwise.”

I tilted my head at the unexpected energy behind his words. “You can promise to try,” I echoed. “But if something happens to me, you don’t get to punish yourself.” 

Edmund shook his head slowly, and I knew there was no way to budge the determination in his eyes. There was no doubt that he would defend me strenuously, though I wasn’t sure what threats possibly awaited me at Cair Paravel.

My turn again. 

With the guilt of withholding Rabadash’s motives from Edmund, I knew what to say next. “I promise to always tell you the truth. If or when you ask for my opinion, I promise to give it as I mean it.”

The change on Edmund’s face was subtle: the ever so slight widening of his eyes and the parting of his lips. I knew the wheels of his mind spun as he processed the words I’d just uttered. 

For a split second, I wavered. Was that the wrong thing to say? I was certain that my mother had never uttered such a promise to my father, and if she had, my father would’ve been insulted, perhaps even angered by such audacity.

Then the corners of Edmund’s mouth turned up, a breathy laugh escaping. “You are sensational, you know that?”

I chuckled, feeling simultaneously self-conscious and relieved. “I am not sure of that.”

“Then I promise to never let you forget. That is what spouses are to do, right?” Edmund took both my hands, his thumb fiddling with the silver signet ring resting on my pointer finger. “Hearten and inspire?”

“I guess so.” I kept my eyes lowered. “I vow to look the other way if you take a lover.”

Edmund sucked in a breath, jerking his hands away from me. “Don’t–”

“It needs to be said,” I whispered. Edmund shook his head violently from side to side, rejecting my promise as vigorously as he could without words.  “Edmund, I know you. Someday, there will be a woman, a very lucky woman, and you will love her with all of your heart. And I won’t stand in the way of that.”

“Y/N–”

“I mean it.”

“That’s not how it’s supposed to be.”

“Nothing about this is how it’s supposed to be.” Edmund’s face fell, and I bit down on the inside of my cheek. I’d insulted him, and I hadn’t meant to. “I don’t want this to be suffocating,” I said slowly. “I don’t want to be someone that holds you down, I want to be someone that lifts you up.”

Edmund finally looked at me, his posture more burdened than before. “I will look the other way too,” he said finally. I wanted to argue, to assure him I would not—could not be with any other man—but this was him fighting to give me something he’d always fought to give me. 

Equality. 

“Very well,” I conceded. 

“I promise to do what you ask of me,” Edmund said slowly. “If you make a request that is within my power, I shall grant it.” Such a promise shouldn’t be made lightly, and I knew by my friend’s face that he’d thought it through and meant every word. 

I picked up Edmund’s crown from my chessboard and smoothed his hair down. “You seem calmer.”

“I feel calmer.” Edmund bent down slightly to allow me a better vantage point to properly set his crown on his head. “Are you ready?”

“There’s…something else.” I took a steadying breath, letting my hands fall away from him. “Children.” Edmund immediately ducked his head, red sweeping across his cheeks. His face likely felt as hot as mine, but I plowed forward. “I know it’s uncomfortable, but if we’re going to go through with this, we must talk about it first.”

“Alright.” Edmund rolled his shoulders. “Children aren’t…necessary. I am only one of four monarchs. I do not have to…produce an heir.”

I chewed on that for a moment. “But are they…wanted?” I didn’t receive an answer. “I know you didn’t want a wife, so it’d be fair to assume you don’t want children either.”

Nervous hands adjusted the ruffles at his neck. “I haven’t desired children.” He looked up warily. “Do you want them?” I gnawed on my lip. Edmund didn’t want children, so was there any point in bringing up–

“Y/N,” Edmund said softly. “You promised me honesty if I asked for it.” 

I forcefully pushed my breath out of my mouth in a long sigh. “Yes. I want them. Not right away, but…eventually.”

Edmund bobbed his head nervously, nodding along to my sentiment. “Then…I promise we’ll figure out a way to make it happen.”

My knowledge was admittedly limited, but based on an admittedly awkward conversation I’d overheard between my brothers, I was pretty sure there was only one way to make children happen.

Edmund scratched his neck. “I, uh, I designed a ring for you, but it hasn’t arrived, so…we may have to use the signet ring again today.”

He designed it? My curiosity rose, though I was careful to remain reassuring. “That’s alright.” I flashed him what I hoped was a warm smile as I wiggled his signet ring off my pointer finger and dropped it into his palm. “I quite like–”

The bells rang, startling both of us. As they tolled, I felt the weight of every ring. The signal of the ending of our lives up to this point and the beginning of a new life neither one of us had expected. 

“We have to go,” I said, dizzied by the rushing return of my nerves. 

“Yes.” Edmund lifted his head, looking much calmer and nearly resolute. “There is more for us to decide upon, I know, but for now, we’ve made a good start.” He nodded to himself. “We will work everything out.”

The door burst open, and there stood Rona, breathing heavily. “There you are, my lady.” Then her eyes fell on Edmund. “Oh dear,” she said quietly. 

Edmund merely held a hand up to his lips and slid past her. 

She watched him go, her expression filling with dismay. “Bad luck, milady!” she exclaimed once he was gone.

I grinned. “The king and I are making our own luck today, Rona.” I gazed out at the mountains again. “And it’s already quite a serendipitous day.”

-

Rona ushered me in front of the closed chapel doors. “Your father will be waiting at the altar for you, so you will be walking by yourself. When the doors open, that’s your cue!” With that, she scurried off, perhaps to reach her seat before I started my procession. 

My first time inside the chapel’s tall, imposing walls was when I was christened as a baby, but the first time I could remember was the ceremony for my mother’s death. My father had warned me not to fuss, to stand straight, and ‘for heaven’s sake not to cry’. 

Since then, the chapel had proved to be the prime hideout to shed the tears and speak the words I wasn’t allowed to elsewhere. The stained glass windows, the pews, and the great, golden statue of the lion were all great listeners. But there would be no tears today and every spoken word had been chosen for me.

I looked down at my dress, at the long sleeves that hugged my arms and the flowing skirt that ended just before it met the floor, committing the moment in memory. 

The telltale creak of the doors as they opened made me look up, and I froze at the sheer number of people standing at the pews, staring back at me. Blinking at them, I tried counting, but there were too many faces. For every face I recognized, there were five I didn’t. There weren’t even seats for them all, some of the less fortunate having to stand beside the walls. Why had my father invited so many? 

A gradation of harp notes played a sweet tune, spurring me to step into the chapel. 

My father beamed at me from his place at the top of the dias at the end of the aisle, just in front of the statue of Aslan. Edmund waited for me at the foot of the three stairs, looking so regal and composed that I didn’t know whether to envy him or worry that my nerves and dread made us an unequal match. 

As I reached the halfway point, I finally noticed Edmund’s sisters sitting on the right side—the groom’s side—and my brothers sitting on the left. While Queen Lucy lifted a quick hand to her already teary eyes, my brothers’ eyes were sharp. Following their gaze, I noticed Prince Rabadash leaning against the wall beside Queen Susan’s pew. 

When he saw me looking, he inclined his head. 

I quickly averted my eyes, trying to push the Calormen prince out of my mind. He may have been the reason for this wedding, but he would not be the center of it. 

It felt like an eternity before I reached Edmund. “I forgot to say,” he whispered as I took his hand, “you do look very nice.”

Instantly more at ease, I grinned at him as I held up my skirts to step up on the dias. As we faced my father, the king, my smile softened. Weddings were special days for fathers and daughters. For all that led up to this moment, it would still be a special day. 

“I think some part of me always knew this day would come,” my father began, looking at me with something so similar to pride, it nearly made my throat close. “King Edmund and my daughter have always had such a special bond, it seems this day was inevitable.” He placed his hands over his heart, looking over at the man holding my hand. “But to call King Edmund my son-in-law is a privilege I feel unworthy of.”

My smile slipped, and I lowered my eyes, trying to get my feelings under control before the guests could notice. 

“Putting feelings aside, this day will go down in history as the day Narnia,” my father gestured towards Edmund, “and Archenland,” and then gestured to himself, “swear loyalty to each other for many years to come.”

I reached down to grab Edmund’s hand, only to find that it was already waiting for me. He held on tight enough to keep me steady as I stared at my father. Look at me, I pleaded. Look at your daughter as she’s getting married. 

But my father’s attention was wholly claimed by the crowd. The pride emanating from him was directed at them, proving that this wedding was not a celebration, but an opportunity for my father to show off. 

Raising my eyes, I noticed that at least the lion statue’s eyes seemed to look upon me. 

“Now the groom shall take the bride’s hands.” 

I stiffly turned to face Edmund, thankful for the anchor that was having his warm hands holding mine. 

“King Edmund, your vows,” my father prompted.

Edmund looked at me, and though his face was placid, I could sense his reluctance to recite whatever pompous and overdone words my father had chosen. 

"Today, in front of these witnesses, I, King Edmund of Narnia, take you, Princess Y/N of Archenland, as my wife.” Here Edmund paused, the small muscle above the right side of his top lip twitching. “I pledge to thee my unwavering love, my unfailing sword, and my undying service from this day forth. I will be thine companion, in great wealth or want, in much joy or sorrow, until death us do part." His voice rang out clearly, and my ears caught the sound of multiple sighs from the more sentimental guests. 

Apparently, they didn’t think my father’s expectations for ‘unfailing sword’ and ‘great wealth’ were as obvious as I did. Nor would they see the way my father’s nostrils flared for a moment as our eyes met. “Princess Y/N.” He glanced at the guests. “Your vows?”

In the resulting silence, I knew those sitting amongst the chapel pews were exercising much restraint in not immediately leaning into each other and whispering. 

I squared my shoulders, meeting Edmund’s eyes, which urged me to just spit out the vows and get it over with. We’d already made the vows that mattered. My words were just part of the show, not part of my marriage. 

“Today, in front of these witnesses, I, Princess Y/N of Archenland, take you, King Edmund of Narnia, as my husband.” I took a deep breath. “With…nothing else to give but my heart, I pledge to thee my unwavering faithfulness. As the great lion binds wisdom, so do I bind my life to thee, in love and honor, until the very last of my days.”

It was humiliating. Absolutely humiliating. 

My father’s vows focused on Edmund’s ‘unfailing sword’ and ‘great wealth’, yet I had ‘nothing else to give but my heart’? And why had my father written Edmund’s vows to end when death parted us, yet mine lasted until the end of my life? 

I blinked away frustrated tears. My friends—the windows, the pews, and the statue—were not the only observers today, and I would not have my father twist my bitterness into tears of joy for all those watching. Edmund squeezed my hand, and I knew from the same twitching above his lip that he regarded my father’s words with a distaste rivaling mine. 

“Now the groom will place his ring on the bride.” Edmund slid his old signet ring on my ring finger. It felt wrong on that finger, and not just because it was too large. “And the bride shall place her ring on the groom.” Again, I could feel the astonishment of all the guests, but Edmund held out his hand, smiling at me as I slid the plain silver ring onto his finger. The sight of it there was strangely gratifying. 

“Now, with the authority vested in me by the great lion, I now pronounce you, husband and wife!” My father clapped his hands. “King Edmund, you may kiss your bride!”

I stared dumbfounded at Edmund who stared back.

Kiss.

We hadn’t talked about the kiss.

I’d forgotten. 

How could I have forgotten?

A kiss was a staple in every wedding ceremony. 

My heart tumbled into a furious pace. I’d never kissed anyone before, and the fears started flooding in. Did people’s noses bump together when they kissed? Could you taste what someone ate for breakfast? Was it possible to run out of air? Would it hurt?

No. No, this was Edmund. It couldn’t hurt…could it?

-

Edmund had no clue what to do. He’d kissed a girl back in England, but not since he’d come to Narnia. Centaurs and fauns weren’t his type. And now he had to kiss his closest and dearest friend in front of a crowd? 

He wanted this—the mark of the beginning of the rest of their lives—to be good for Y/N. Or at least not horrible. Oh Aslan, what if it was horrible? What if their marriage had a horrible start? And what if she never wanted to kiss him again? 

A quick kiss. A momentary kiss. A barely-there kiss. Something so respectful that it could barely count as a kiss. Yes, that was the way to go.

With a gulp, Edmund leaned forward. He was perhaps two moments away from touching his lips to hers when he remembered: Rabadash was somewhere in this chapel. A man who could use anything as evidence and even more as motivation.

This was another chance, just like in the garden, to show that Y/N wasn’t and would never be Rabadash’s. 

Maybe Y/N would hate him for it. But maybe she would be safer. And maybe that chance was worth it. 

Edmund’s hands found Y/N’s neck, his thumbs gently tilting her chin up as he tipped his head to the side. The intent was only for the ease of reaching her lips, of guiding her to him, but then he glimpsed a flash of her scar, bringing him straight back to the drawing room and the gardens and every other time he’d been this close to kissing her. And now he was actually doing it. His mind went blank just before his lips met heaven. 

-

The brush of our lips was tentative. I hoped with every fiber of my being that Edmund couldn’t feel my shaking, nor the great grip I had on his doublet. 

Oh, I thought as Edmund pulled away. So our noses don’t collide. 

Then he pressed his lips to mine more firmly. My anxiety skyrocketed as the guests cheered, making my limbs lock tight. Was this what it was supposed to feel like? It didn’t feel like I’d expected it to feel like. Was this a dream? Was I about to wake up and find out this whole thing had been a dream?

His grip on my face tightened ever so slightly, a great tingling starting in my stomach as my heart raced. My face and neck were so warm, I was worried they might burn Edmund’s hands, certainly his thumbs as he brushed them along my jaw. Then as his lips pulled away and returned a third time, one of his hands left my neck to cradle my back, pulling me in tighter as the skin of my back beneath his hand smoldered.

This time, when Edmund pulled back, I leaned forward, winding my arms around his neck as I relaxed into his touch, the racing thoughts slipping away. Was I floating?

-

Edmund pulled away, cursing his own weakness in such an important moment. That was not a barely-there kiss, and if Edmund wasn’t already married to Y/N, he’d certainly have to wed her after a kiss like that. 

The raucous, ear-splitting cheering of the guests meant nothing to him as he anxiously searched Y/N’s face.

Her eyes were still shut. Why were they still shut? Had he hurt her? Or made her uncomfortable? The idea of doing either made Edmund shake inside. 

But when her eyes fluttered open, she gave a small giggle, almost too quiet for him to hear amongst the noise of the guests. The tension drained away from his body as he stared at her with overpowering relief that weakened his knees.

They’d done it, they’d made it through the ceremony. 

“Everyone is invited to a wedding feast in the Great Hall!” Y/N’s father proclaimed to the crowd, who cheered louder in response, who started filing out. King Loon hastened to walk around the couple, diving into the crowd, likely to try and find the influential guests before they sat down to eat. 

“You alright?” Edmund said quietly. 

“Yeah,” Y/N said, a bit breathlessly. “Are you?”Edmund looked down at his friend…his wife and swallowed hard. “Yeah.”

-

Hopefully the kiss wasn't cringy, lol. If you enjoyed this, go check out my masterlist for more fanfic and keep an eye out for the next installment of White Moves First!

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White Moves First, Part 6 ~ Edmund Pevensie

Summary: Despite the distance between their two lands, Y/N, princess of Archenland, is close friends with King Edmund the Just. But when push comes to shove, will friendship turn to more?

Warnings: none

Word count: 5k

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Edmund had never seen a castle so busy as King Loon’s castle in the days leading up to the wedding, and the castle in Anvard wasn’t even as big as Cair Paravel. 

The servants—laden with baskets and flowers and food and clothes—never seemed to walk anywhere. They ran. In fact, all their movements were at the greatest possible speed, proven by the millisecond between Edmund laying his fork down on his plate after his last bite of breakfast and the plate being whisked away.

Edmund wiped his mouth with his napkin, watching as the maid placed the plate on a tray and left the room, likely bringing it down to the kitchens.

“King Edmund, my dear boy,” said King Loon on the other end of the table, not looking away from the papers in his hand. “Today, we must arrange the proceedings for the wedding ceremony.” Edmund felt his hands start sweating, and he reached for his water, hoping to wet his suddenly dry mouth. “After all, my daughter is getting her wedding dress fitted today.”

Edmund started coughing as he inhaled, sending water down the wrong tube.

King Loon didn’t seem to notice Edmund fighting for his life. “The hall is already being decorated, and of course, Queen Susan is making the preparations for the journey back to Cair Paravel.” Edmund let out one last cough, rubbing at his burning throat. The journey. Back to Cair Paravel. With his wife. “Now, I’ve already prepared what I will say as I officiate, but is there anything in particular you would like me to add?”

Ironic. King Loon hadn’t asked Edmund’s opinion about who should officiate. Apparently that was a given.

Edmund supposed it was an honor to have a king officiate one’s wedding, but if he’d had his choice of king, he would’ve chosen his brother. Unfortunately, while Lucy was on her way through the forests and over the mountains which separated Narnia and Archenland, Peter couldn’t attend the wedding, because to do so would be to leave Cair Paravel without monarchs. Never had Edmund thought he would get married, but he certainly never could’ve imagined he would get married without all his siblings present.

“No, I trust that whatever you have prepared will suffice,” Edmund replied.

“Capital,” King Loon replied, not looking up from his paper. “I will start the ceremony, Y/N will come down the aisle, I will say a few more words, you will pledge yourself to the princess, you will give her the ring, I will pronounce you married, and then the ceremony is over!”

“Half a moment,” Edmund interjected, “Y/N won’t make a pledge?”

King Loon finally looked at Edmund and arched a quizzical brow. Edmund dimly registered that he’d used just the princess’s name instead of her title, but it was too late now to take it back. “It is customary,” King Loon said, “for the groom to say the vows and the bride to receive the ring. After all, it is the husband who leads the wife, is it not?”

What a good thing it was that Edmund had enough practice in quietly organizing his thoughts to avoid blurting them out the minute they crossed his mind, otherwise he would’ve said much to the king just then.

He’d seen many subliminal demonstrations from the king as to how little Y/N was valued in this castle, but this was a new height. Was the king really content for Y/N to have simply a visual role in her own wedding? It seemed he was, for Y/N’s only part in the ceremony was to come down the aisle. 

And if Edmund’s ring and Edmund’s pledge was all the wedding involved, how was it any different from what Edmund and Y/N had already done? Y/N already wore Edmund’s ring, and he’d already pledged himself to her by proposing. The only difference then between their engagement and their marriage was simply some ceremonious prattle from the king?

Edmund tried to brush off the unflattering line of thinking about his future father-in-law, but he couldn’t.

Perhaps this was an opportunity to see if the king still valued Edmund’s counsel. 

“What if the princess wishes to say vows and give a ring as well?” Edmund asked, his voice flatter than a pond. 

King Loon flicked his hand, almost flinging the words far away from him. “Such a promising event should not be the first to deviate from tradition.”

Edmund sat back in his chair, looking upon the king with new eyes. “Your Majesty,” he began, “this wedding marks a new alliance for Narnia and Archenland. If my knowledge of history is as diligent as I believe it to be, such an alliance has never been done before between our countries. It stands to reason that we might then have a wedding that has never been done before.”

“Mmmm.” King Loon tapped the tip of his quill thoughtfully against the parchment, leaving behind little dots of ink. 

“And furthermore,” Edmund hoped he wasn’t pushing too hard, “if only one country is making vows, our alliance starts off on unequal footing.”

King Loon did not immediately reply, which is how Edmund knew the king was actually considering his words. “It would be…highly irregular for the bride to give vows,” the king finally said.

“Your Majesty, nothing about the princess is simply regular.” Edmund’s heart kicked up a notch as King Loon’s eyebrows rose. “And neither is Archenland,” he hurried to add. 

The king frowned, but before he could summon a reply, the doors to the dining room opened. Edmund leapt to his feet to bow to Y/N, who gave a small curtsy before gliding over to her father, who rose to his feet to kiss her cheek. “My darling girl, I thought you were busy with your dress.”

“The seamstresses asked for an extra hour,” Y/N replied, “so I thought I’d come join you for breakfast.” She glanced at Edmund, meaning she missed the displeased look on her father’s face. Why was the king so unhappy? Had King Loon intentionally tried to keep his daughter away from the planning of the ceremony?

“Your betrothed,” King Loon said before Edmund could decide, “has requested that you make vows as well in the ceremony. To ensure that the alliance is…equitable.”

Y/N’s surprise may not have been visible, but Edmund swore he could almost feel it. “Well, why not?” she said easily. “I have no objection.” Her casual words were undermined by the slight tugging at the sides of her mouth. She was excited by the prospect. 

“Very well.” The king’s words were slightly rushed, as if he wanted to talk about anything else. “Both shall exchange vows, and both shall receive rings. Now, King Edmund, is there anything more?”

Edmund gave a small nod. “No, Your Majesty.”

King Loon took his daughter’s hand, not waiting for Y/N to take it back before he started leading her out of the room. “Then we shall go and see about the dress.” Just before they walked through the doors, Y/N turned her face towards Edmund, her smile warm and bright. Then they were gone. 

Edmund ducked his head, a sudden flush appearing across his face. A flush of pride or something else, he couldn’t tell, but it warmed him either way. It wasn’t until Edmund watched a servant clear King Loon’s place that he realized Y/N hadn’t gotten to eat. 

-

I stood on the little platform in front of a large mirror in my room, watching the many seamstresses bustle about behind me in my reflection. I didn’t envy their position. As every princess did, I learned embroidery at a young age, so I had some idea of how hard it would be to create a whole wedding dress in under a week. 

Perhaps any other bride would spend their wedding dress fitting entirely preoccupied with making sure their dress was perfect. I, however, was more focused on Lord Trane standing beside my father. 

Why would a political adviser be present while the princess tried on her wedding dress? In fact, why was my father here? This was a decidedly feminine activity, and if my mother were still alive, she would be the one guiding me. My father had never been a very fashionable man nor a very sentimental one, so why was he overseeing this?

“Your highness,” said Rona, drawing my attention. My lady’s maid held what seemed to be enough white fabric to dress a mountain in a funeral gown and appeared reverent enough to mourn it. “Shall we step behind the changing screen and try it on?”

I stepped off the platform, looking down at the garment she held. “This isn’t taffeta,” I mused, brushing my hand over the fabric. “It’s–”

“Cendal.” My father stepped forward to rest his hand over mine, stopping my assessment. 

I watched him closely. “I thought the seamstresses were making my dress with taffeta as I do not need a fancy weave for my gown.” Or, rather, did not want one. 

“They did make it with taffeta,” my father gently took the fabric from Rona, “but I want you to try this one first.” When I did not move, he held it out to me. “I think the cendal will make you look beautiful.” 

He’s up to something, I decided as Rona took me behind the screen and started unlacing my dress. He wouldn’t be so charming if he didn’t. I didn’t have enough information yet to guess what. 

The rich silk was too smooth against my skin as Rona helped me into it and laced me up in record time. Then, she helped lift the back of the luxuriously, troublesomely long train and accompanied me back onto the platform.

I stared at my reflection, heart sinking the longer I looked at the old-fashioned garment. I hadn’t recognized it at first because I hadn’t been able to see the red and gold embroidery around the bodice, but the ornamentation in conjunction with the puffed sleeves and square neckline was now unmistakable. This was the dress from a portrait that once hung in the main hall, but had since been moved to my father’s suite. 

Rona fluffed out the train of my mother’s wedding dress. “You look beautiful, my lady,” she praised reservedly, the aura of reverence still present.

“Well? What do you think?” my father asked in a tone that told me exactly what he thought.

“It’s very…I mean, it’s so…it’s rather…” My words kept failing me. I’d never expected this, and as such, was unprepared.

My father’s face was alight with joy and nostalgia, and the seamstresses beamed. Even my father’s advisor nodded with approval. “It’s perfect,” my father said. “Rona, doesn’t it look perfect?”

“Yes, your majesty,” my lady’s maid quickly affirmed. “With a few alterations, it should suit nicely.”

“You were always meant to wear this,” my father told me, but his eyes were fixed upon the dress. 

My breathing kicked up as I experimentally shifted from side to side. This dress was far too heavy. Already I was starting to overheat to the point of sweating, and if this dress became wet, it’d be even heavier. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to swim in it. Swimming likely wouldn’t even work because this dress would drag me down to the depths quicker than I could 

My throat closed, as if my body were already losing air.

And all of the sudden, it was too much. 

“I need Edmund,” I blurted. 

My father blinked. “What?”

I grabbed my skirts, lifting them high enough to step off the pedestal and walk for the door, sending all the seamstresses into a flutter. “I need Edmund, I can’t decide on the dress without him.”

“But it’s bad luck!” Rona spluttered, quickly getting in between me and the door as if her traditionalist values would crumble completely if I even touched the doorknob.

“She’s quite right,” Lord Trane said, swiftly moving to stand beside her, “it won’t do.” I barely withheld my frown at the advisor’s interjection into private family business. 

“Really, Y/N, you know better than that.” Somehow, my father’s reproachful tone made the dress feel tighter. 

But constraint really was the mother of desperation. “I can’t wear this for the wedding.”

The king frowned. “Why ever not?”

“I-it wouldn’t be right, Father.”

“Nonsense. Why, nothing else could be more right.”

“But–”

“No!” The king held up his hand. “I won’t hear any objections!”

I stared at my father. Pressure built up in my chest, as if I had to scream, but I knew that if I opened my mouth, no sound would come out. Just as my father wanted. 

This was my wedding, the only wedding I would ever have, along with being the exact event I was raised for. The man I was marrying, the day I was marrying him, and where we would be on that day was all being controlled by circumstance or my father. Was I really not allowed to choose my dress either?

I folded my hands to stop them from shaking, and the smooth metal of Edmund’s old signet ring made my breathing slow. 

Think like Edmund, I told myself. What would he do?

A strange calm came over me, a sudden strength in remembering my friend. “Father, King Edmund’s colors are blue and silver, not red and gold.” My father’s nostrils flared, but I plowed forward. “If I wear this, we are in danger of insulting my future husband.”

“She’s right,” Lord Trane admitted, who paled slightly when my father rounded on him with an expression of wrath. “B-begging your pardon, Your Majesty, but we cannot risk anything before this alliance is set.”

My father looked about the room, as if waiting for one of the seamstresses to pipe in with a sage defense, but they only lowered their gazes to the floor and remained silent. The king’s eyes flashed and the boom of his thunderous voice quickly followed. “Fine! The princess shall wear her taffeta.” And with that, he stalked out of the room.

As I followed, I overheard one of the seamstresses say to another: “how are we ever supposed to finish the taffeta in time?” Ignoring her and nearly tripping on my skirts, I ran. “Father!”

Instead of slowing down, my father picked up his pace, and the weight of my gown outweighed the weight of his displeasure, forcing me to slow down. I watched him round the corner, standing helplessly. 

How was it possible that I felt more connected with my mother than my father when I could kiss his cheek but couldn’t even go see her grave? Perhaps, I thought grimly, it is better for a parent to be dead and unable to ruin one’s own memory than alive and doing an incredible job of ruining their memory all on their own.

“My, my.”

I whirled around to see Prince Rabadash. He leaned casually against the wall, his glittering eyes settling on my face.

“What are you still doing here?” I snapped, stretched too thin to be polite. 

His mouth spread wide in a smile. “Well, I’ve been invited to the wedding of course. I heard it’s to be a most beautiful event.” His eyes traveled down my body, his smile shrinking. “If that’s what you’re wearing, perhaps I heard wrong.”

The insult made my face heat. “I don’t want you at my wedding,” I snapped.

Rabadash lifted off the wall to come closer, and at that moment, I was glad of the big skirt, because he was forced to stop before he was within arm's reach of me or risk trodding on the cendal. “As Tashbaan’s representative, it’s very important that I attend this auspicious event.”

“What a load of–”

“Careful,” Rabadash purred. “We wouldn’t want your fiance to hear you sound undignified, would we?” The undercurrent of his words implied he most certainly would.  He lowered his eyes to my chest, and it took everything in me not to hit him. “Might make him rethink this whole engagement of yours.” He looked back up at my face, cocking his head to the side. “You know, I can’t help but find it interesting that the Just King suddenly realized the depth of his feelings for his lifelong friend just before she was betrothed to another.”

The snake was smarter than he let on. Rabadash had figured out what my family had been unable to—that Edmund wasn’t marrying me because he loved me—and he wanted the wedding to fail. If the wedding fell through, and I was a scorned, unmarried princess, it might make my father desperate enough to marry me off to the bespawler standing in front of me.

“My father–” I began.

“–had until sundown to accept my proposal,” Rabadash said, his smug expression darkening with wrath. “And he was going to accept it before Narnia once again interfered.”

I blinked, remembering when Edmund had left my drawing room after proposing to search for my father…it’d been maybe a half hour to sunset.

Thirty minutes. The difference between my father forcing me to marry Rabadash and allowing me to marry Edmund was thirty minutes. 

Rabadash ran a finger down the edge of the long sleeves. “Hopefully he’ll still marry you in such an antiquated dress.”

I glowered at him as I shoved his hand away. The time for honey was long gone. 

The fingers of my right hand found the signet ring on my left, drawing strength from the metal. Edmund dealt with conversations like these with the unfaltering capability of his mind, and I would take a leaf out of my fiance’s book. 

Strength. Intelligence. Confidence. 

“After I wed Prince Edmund,” I leaned closer, my voice more forceful with every word, “and begin the pulchritudinous, fruitful marriage that will bring me to Narnia, you will crawl back to the squalid desert hole you came from.” I could almost see the fire of my anger reflected in the prince’s eyes as I dealt the final blow. “And if you ever step foot in either of my countries again, I will ensure it is the last thing you do.”

Without waiting for a response, I flounced past him, more resolute than ever.

Even if I wore my mother’s dress, had no flowers, and had Rabadash as the only guest, it didn’t matter. 

I couldn’t allow anything to stop this wedding. 

-

The wedding was in the morning, and Edmund couldn’t eat a bite of his dinner.

Lucy had arrived that afternoon and now sat next to the twin princes, chatting away with an unmatchable enthusiasm. The twins had always been fond of the youngest Pevensie, and Lucy was fond of everyone. Susan and King Loon were discussing the procession, the final arrangement for the wedding. They all seemed merry as they ate and talked, not a clue as to the absolute waves of anxiety threatening to drown Edmund.

Y/N’s plate was relatively untouched as well, which only increased Edmund’s trepidation. He supposed it was normal for brides not to eat much the night before their wedding, and if Edmund wasn’t immune to the pressures of being her groom, Y/N wasn’t immune to the pressures of being his bride.

“I’m only thankful that the seamstresses managed to finish the dress this afternoon,” Susan was saying to King Loon.

The corners of King Loon’s mouth turned down in a hint of distaste, which was surprising enough on its own, but then Edmund noticed Y/N’s shoulders slump slightly.

Had something happened with the dress?

Whatever was going on, Y/N looked so desperately unhappy. The whole point of their marriage was for Y/N to avoid an unhappy marriage. If she was unhappy anyways…

“Princess Y/N,” Edmund said, loud enough to draw everyone’s eyes. “Would you care to take a walk with me through the gardens?”

Y/N nearly leapt up from her chair. “Yes, King Edmund, that would be lovely.” She curtsied to her father, and joined Edmund at the head of the table. The chatter in the room did not dim, but Edmund could feel King Loon’s eyes on him as he opened the door for Y/N.

He walked side-by-side with his friend as they wordlessly traipsed through the corridors and reached the gardens lit by the setting sun. A few gardeners were collecting flowers, presumably to decorate the chapel with the next day. 

Edmund had only had fleeting glimpses of Y/N since she’d accepted his ring in the king’s study, but he had a sinking fear that it wasn’t the wedding preparations keeping her away, but the wedding itself. Things were different now, and while Edmund missed their old dynamic, he couldn’t blame things for changing. He could hardly expect their friendship to stay the same as they prepared to wed. 

Tomorrow.

Edmund would have a wife tomorrow. 

He took a long breath, trying to calm the heavy and agitated anxieties in his gut. 

“How is your dress?” Edmund asked, the only thing he could think to ask. He knew he’d said the wrong thing when Y/N’s mouth flattened into a line. “Sorry,” he said quickly with a forced laugh that was supposed to alleviate the tension in the air. “I guess the groom isn’t supposed to hear about the dress before the wedding.”

“I don’t suppose that really matters much,” Y/N said. Was Edmund imagining the unhappiness in her voice?

“Is everything–” 

Y/N suddenly reached out for Edmund’s arm, clenching it with a grip tight enough to cause worry. 

“What’s wrong?!” Was she rethinking the wedding? Was she about to faint from the stress of the occasion? Would Edmund have to catch her? Edmund was no good at catching fainting ladies.

“Don’t look now,” Y/N said out of the corner of her mouth, “but Rabadash is watching us.”

It took all of Edmund’s might not to turn around, to keep looking at her face as if he didn’t have a care in the world beyond her. “Where?” he muttered. 

Y/N stepped around him, standing in-between him and the doors to the servant’s entrance. “Behind me,” she whispered. Edmund’s eyes flicked over her shoulder to see the slimy prince himself, standing on a balcony. 

“Thirty minutes,” Y/N said softly, shaking her head. 

Edmund tilted his head, unable to ignore the troubled look on her face. “What?” 

“Nothing.” She looked distractedly around. 

Edmund glanced up again with only his eyes to see Rabadash leaning his weight on the balcony railing, settling in to watch them.

To watch her. 

Edmund bristled. Y/N was betrothed to Edmund. It was inappropriate for Rabadash to be conversing with her, looking at her, or so much as thinking of her. If he could, he would climb into Rabadash’s mind himself and wipe away all traces of Y/N.

“Has he been bothering you?” Edmund meant for the question to be comforting, but it sounded harsh to his ears, causing him to wince. 

Y/N didn’t answer, but she averted her eyes as they took on the unhappiness from earlier. 

“Give me your hand,” Edmund said lowly, holding his out. He expected Y/N to protest, but her soft hand laid on his without a moment’s hesitation. “Step a little closer,” he said, resisting the urge to glance at Rabadash to see if the prince was still watching them, and instead holding her gaze. 

Y/N shuffled closer, peering up into his face. He saw the moment in which doubt started pricking her mind. “Don’t look away,” he murmured. “Keep looking right at me.”

Y/N’s throat bobbed as she swallowed, but she followed his direction. “I think he knows,” she said, and the hand in his gave a little tremor. “I think he knows about our plan.”

“I don’t care if he knows,” Edmund said roughly. “It doesn’t change the fact that he can’t have you.” Almost as soon as the words left him, a flush of shame shot through him at the sheer possession in them. “I’m-I’m not, I mean, I didn’t mean to–”

“I know what you meant,” Y/N assured. “But he might still try something to stop our wedding.”

“I can’t do anything to stop him from trying.” Edmund took a miniature step closer, his chin nearly resting on his chest to keep sight of Y/N’s face. “But we can stop him from succeeding. Once we’re married, nothing can break that.”

Unbreakable.

His anxieties soared, leaving him scrabbling for purchase on his sanity. He was tying himself to Y/N for the rest of their lives. He hadn’t thought it possible to grow more anxious over the promises they were about to make the next day, but this visit to Archenland was full of all kinds of surprises. 

Y/N squeezed his hand, as if she knew the fear that lingered underneath his words. Of course she did. She knew him better than anyone. He knew she only meant to be encouraging, but the action also served as a reminder: some things were more important than fear. She was more important than fear.

So Edmund stood tall and pulled her even closer. He knew he was pushing what was appropriate in public, but it was better for them to do this as an engaged couple then to risk Rabadash thinking there was a weakness that could be exploited. “Now laugh as though I’ve said something funny.”

Y/N raised her eyebrows. “Well, why don’t you say something funny then?”

“Umm,” was all Edmund could think to say. Y/N waited, her lashes fluttering with every blink. Why was he suddenly so distracted by eyelashes? “What’s a raincould’s favorite battle maneuver?” he asked quickly. 

“What?”

“Storming the castle.”

Y/N’s face didn’t change as the silence drew on. Then she wrinkled her nose. “Oh, was that it?”

Edmund felt himself flush. “Yes, that was it.”

“That was the famed wit of King Edmund the Just?”

“Oh, shush.”

She did laugh then, and suddenly Edmund’s thoughts shrank to just the crinkles by her eyes and the curve of her brilliant smile. He would not have thought orange to be such a becoming color on a lady, but the orange glow of the setting sun made her seem to fairly glow against the backdrop of the darkening blue of the sky behind her. 

Rabadash could’ve fallen headfirst from the great height, and still Edmund wouldn’t have been able to bring himself to look away.

As she laughed, Y/N tilted her head enough for his eyes to follow the smooth skin of her neck up from her collarbones to the same scar on her chin he’d noticed in her drawing room. The faint, thin line started just at the contour of her chin and extended towards where her head met her throat, in the perfect place to be hidden from everyone. 

Y/N ducked her chin, still smiling. Never had her smile been a disappointment to him, but Edmund found himself on the verge of distress as the scar was tucked away and out of sight. He flexed his fingers, fighting the urge to trace the almost perfectly straight mark. Was it possible that Edmund could be pained by not knowing where this scar’d come from? Was it caused by rock? By metal? By human?

Too late, Edmund realized the distraction that his thoughts caused as his hand lifted. Gently, he pushed her chin up again so her eyes were once again meeting his and that lovely line was in view. 

“Where did this come from?” he asked. He gave into his thoughts, brushing the knuckle of his index finger down the path. 

Y/N gave a small hiccuping sound of surprise. “Um…” She blinked a few times in quick succession. “Fencing accident. When I was five. Cor wanted to practice for real, so he tried to sharpen the end of his foil with a rock before practicing with me.” She smiled a bit. “Cor still isn’t very good at sharpening his swords.”

Edmund grinned. “Or fencing, if I remember correctly.”

She laughed again, her hand tightening its grip on his ever so slightly, as if she wanted to hold him closer in her mirth. “We can’t all be as good at fencing as you are.”

Edmund hummed at the compliment, dazedly looking at the scar still. How many people had caught a glimpse of it over the years? Against reason, Edmund hoped he was the only one that knew it was there. 

“Is, um…” Y/N licked her lips. “Is he still there?”

Edmund reluctantly lifted his eyes up to the balcony. As soon as the balcony was in view, he dropped his hand from her face. “See for yourself.”

Y/N looked over her shoulder, seeing the definite lack of Rabadash. A broad smile spread on her face. “Checkmate.” 

Edmund laughed. “Checkmate, indeed.” He couldn’t stop smiling. A shared checkmate, he mused. He quite liked the idea of the two of them banding together to defeat a common enemy. If Edmund and Y/N were on the same side, no one else stood a chance. Yes, partially because Edmund would go to World’s End to protect his friend, but also because Y/N’s charm, resolve, and intellect paired with Edmund’s own could be an unassailable combination if they wanted it to be. 

“May I accompany you back to your room?” Edmund asked. “You know…in case the marigolds launch an attack?” He’d hoped—nay, expected—his reference to their last conversation in the garden would make Y/N laugh. Instead of laughing, Y/N pursed her lips. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” she said, though her troubled expression begged to differ. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Edmund.” 

She reached out, her soft hand squeezing his for a single moment before she walked back towards the castle.

Edmund watched her go. 

Their encounters were always so brief, and yet Edmund could feel the peaceful shield Y/N provided, because every step she took away from him, the more fear stabbed at his gut.

I’ll see you tomorrow, she’d said. 

At the altar, Edmund realized. 

-

Overall tag list:

@thelastpyle @valiantlytransparentwhispers

White Moves First tag list:

@thelifeofsecretpenguins @read-just-cant @chesh-ire-cat @emotionallyattachedteen @cassini-among-the-stars @uncontainedsmiles @mastermasterlist1p1 @goldfishinpainttubes

[valiantlytransparentwhispers]

Could you do a story where a guard of a Supermax prison befriends a supervillain, because he treats him like a genuine human being instead of an animal; and later, all the power-dampeners suddenly fail; and all these villains just revolt against the guards; but supervillain makes sure he’s safe since he was always kind to him?

I understand if you don’t want to!!❤️

Hello! This has been sittin in my inbox for many months during my huge writing rut, sorry about that! I know you also gave this prompt to @the-modern-typewriter and she's been making an incredible series with it on patreon! I changed some things around because I don't want to in any way attempt some sad copy of her interpretation, but I was still inspired by the prompt itself, so I've taken some fairly big liberties to avoid any significant similarities! Hope that's okay! Also, please manage your expectations, I do not compare to the magic that is TMT's writing 😆

TW: Brief depictions of body horror. Violence.

The power blew out in sections. The lights dissolved sector by sector with a sickening whine and click–one by one–in approach.

The commotion ripped Eloise from the fictional world she was lost in, aged page corners still pinched beneath her thumb. Her spirited storytelling abruptly died behind her teeth.

Somewhere in the distance, one person shouted. Two.

Her gaze flicked behind them to the door isolating herself and the bound supervillain from the other sectors of the Maximum Security Prison for Powered Individuals or, as everyone called it, The Max. Seeing nothing but black beyond the bullet-proof glass, her attention snapped forward again to the supervillain imprisoned across from her. 

Was this the start of some elaborate escape plan on his part? Why did it have to happen on a day that she was stuck fulfilling her community service hours instead of being something she could safely gawk at in the newspaper from a distance in a few days? Her stomach did a nauseated flip. 

“What are you doing?” she blurted, voice quivering only a little. Her fingers tightened around her book.

The villain made a show of looking pointedly at his restraints. Wrists strung taut and chained to either wall, he shrugged an innocent shoulder at her as if to say “clearly, nothing.” He was perched on the edge of his bed like a bird, tilting his head with a matching sort of probing curiosity. 

For all the chaos outside of the room, Artisan had not a hair out of place. He appeared perfectly unconcerned, though as thoroughly trapped as ever: ankles shackled, arms stretched uselessly apart from each other. The power-dampening collar wrapped around his neck still blipped a faint red light, indicating it was active. 

The prisoners were rioting. Surely they couldn’t get too far? Containing the most dangerous of powered individuals was, after all, the express purpose of the facility…

The lights above them flickered, dipping the room in and out of inky darkness before settling into a dimly lit haze. Eloise’s breath stalled. The imposing dark felt like a threat, as if the lights could keep the monsters at bay. It only made a little sense, in the way that a child feels safe from the monsters under their bed as long as their nightlight is plugged in.

Except that these monsters were real. The most dangerous in the country. And she was currently feet away from the monster that made even other monsters run.

He hadn’t seemed so bad in the time that she’d known him. Quiet, impassive, yet twisting her gut with pity any time she eyed his barbaric restraints. The least she could do–while crossing off her hours–was to read the supervillain a story every few days. She couldn’t change his fate. Couldn’t make him more comfortable. What she could do was rattle off, sheepishly, about fictional worlds and impactful characters in literature and the way that a well-crafted story could transport you somewhere better.

A crash, gunshots, a scream. Tension racketed through Eloise’s shoulders. More shouts chased thundering footsteps.

Things were going very, very, wrong. And she was very much out of her depth.

Eloise jolted as something struck the door, her special-edition copy of Mary Shelly's Frankenstein falling to the ground and skidding away.

Finally, the lights cut out. With it, every noticeable piece of tech died. All of the energy felt sucked out of the room as if vacuumed. The camera’s blinking light disappeared. Alarms that should have been wailing cut silent. Speakers, keypads, and security systems, all dead. The secondary generator hadn’t sprung to life yet. That meant that this was more than a simple power outage. This was a calculated revolt.

 Eloise’s mind raced through a list of everything else that must have been failing. Coms. Sedative gas. Shock collars. Layers and layers of security locks…

Power dampeners.

Panic clamped vice-like and suffocating around her throat. Artisan’s collar was no longer blinking. 

She froze in the eerie silence of the cell, afraid of shattering the fragile calm. Her heart thumped, rabid, against her ribs.

Chains rattled and clinked to the floor.

Eloise bolted blindly for the door, smacking her palm against the DNA scanner while frantically swiping her “Volunteer Staff” badge through the card reader. When neither miraculously came to life, she resorted to banging on the door.

“Let me out, let me out! Guard!”

The door could only be opened by one person inside the cell and one outside simultaneously unlocking the security checkpoints. Even if the power were on, if the guard on the other side was gone…

The emergency floodlights kicked on, bathing the building in startling fluorescence. Eloise flinched, briefly stunned.

Hands grabbed her firmly from behind, yanking her backward.

Eloise yelped. “No, please–!”

The spot that she had been standing in exploded, steel door and concrete chunks collapsing into the room in a barrage of shrapnel. Something–no, someone–landed, bones crunching, at her feet. The guard who had last been standing on the opposite side of the door lay motionless. His blood puddled the floor, staining the soles of her Converse sneakers.

A horrified sound choked in Eloise’s throat.

Another supervillain strode in, eyes alight with hatred and something more–power. His lip curled, waving a mocking hand–engulfed in green energy–at the guard’s corpse. “God. I’ve wanted to do that for far too long. That one always got on my nerves.”

Artisan looked unimpressed. “You’re making a mess in my cell.”

Eloise’s breath caught. Hearing the supervillain’s voice was jarring. Artisan rarely spoke. Not that any of the other staff had ever actually attempted conversation with him… But even in news clips and YouTube videos, he carried himself with the kind of self-assured quiet of someone who had absolutely nothing to prove. His lethal efficiency did more for his reputation than any words could.

The other man was a villain named William Frenzy, a telekinetic with a gleeful taste for violence.

Faced with Artisan’s startling calm, Frenzy… paused. Faltering on a tight rope he had moments before been strolling across. 

“Yes, well. It won’t have to be your cell much longer, will it? They can’t stop all of us.” He smirked at the dead body on the floor. “Some of them can’t even stop one of us.”

Eloise shrank back toward the corner nearest the door, agonizingly slow, willing the ugly shadows from the artificial lighting to swallow her up while the supers focused on each other. She was the kind of person that people tended not to notice; a background character in the perimeter of a story that the protagonist would meet once and never spare a thought again. She wished, then, that invisibility really was her superpower.

Artisan said nothing, his steely gaze fixed upon Frenzy.

Frenzy floundered beneath the scrutiny. The smugness buffered on his face. Finally, he huffed, crossing his arms. “I made you a nice and easy door out. You’re welcome.” He flicked a hand toward the gaping hole in the wall.

Eloise inched further toward it.

Artisan tutted, and while it wasn’t aimed at her, it shot a cold thrill up her spine. She froze, briefly, before continuing her tantalizing escape. She listened to Artisan speak again. 

“I did not need anything from you. I’ll be getting out regardless. You on the other hand…” 

Eloise stared as Frenzy’s skin shrank taut against his bones, the frame of him creaking and groaning like an old tree in the wind. The air choked out of him, fingers grabbing at his jaw as it stretched open too wide. The corners of his lips tore, slitting his mouth into a gaping maw.

The faintest of smiles graced Artisan's lips as he continued, soft as ever. “Say sorry.”

Eloise didn’t wait to see the carnage through, slipping out into the hall and running.

The other sectors were washed in the same sterile glow as Artisan’s cell was, blue-tinged and horrible, like the lights in a dentist's office. She kept to the edge of things as best she could, clinging to the walls and dark corners.

There was brawling in every sector—guards with weapons drawn mowed to the ground by the creatures they had wardened for so long. A villain fell as shots rang out. Another grabbed the guard from behind, cracking his skull against their knee. 

The smell of blood stung Eloise’s nostrils. She couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t breathe.

She turned to flee down another hall, but two fighting inmates crashed into the doorway in front of her.

Eloise squealed, jerking backward into the belly of the room's chaos.

Don't notice me, don't notice me, don't notice me.

Everyone was so occupied by their chosen prey, maybe she could fade into the background. Maybe she could–

Her heel caught on something and she tumbled, gracelessly, to the floor. It took her several moments to register the lake of blood seeping warm and sticky into her clothing. 

Terror blurred her brain in a white flash bang.

Disappear, disappear, disappear…

“Mm. What do we have here?”

Eloise couldn’t bring herself to lift her head. She clamped her eyes shut, another child’s illusion of protection. 

The villain opposite her chuckled. He ripped her volunteer badge off of its clip against her chest. Her eyes snapped open again. She recognized him as a ringleader among superpowered thieves. They called him Volt.

“Volunteer, eh? A pretty thing like you should know better than to willingly set foot in a prison full of men with nothing left to lose. It’s been a long sentence, darling. I could make excellent use of your volunteer services. Get up.”

Numbly, ears full of static, Eloise shook her head.

Volt frowned, electricity jumping to life in his palms. “No?” He reached for her, hand nearing her throat.

“Keep your hands to yourself or I will remove them.” 

Artisan’s voice was calm. His eyes were not.

The room quieted.

Spatters of red decorated Artisan’s prison uniform. A few drops dotted his face and he brushed them away with his knuckles, smearing the crimson across his cheek. Almost lazily, he popped his neck and stretched his shoulders, no doubt sore from the strain his restraints kept him in.

The villain across from Eloise paused, sparks still dancing across his fingertips. He regarded Artisan with the same wary caution as Frenzy had.

Before he'd been… Before Artisan had…

Eloise swallowed back the nausea climbing her throat.

Finally, Volt’s hand lowered. “She's yours?”

“She's hers. Step away.”

The man hesitated a moment too long. Artisan didn't offer a second warning. 

As if puppeted, the man's fingers raised to gauge at his own eyes. He screamed, the faint evidence of Artisan’s power shimmering over him. He clawed, next, at the skin on his face, peeling it back like wet wallpaper. 

As promised, his wrists crunched and bent, wrenching all on their own at impossible angles.

Eloise covered her ears, unable to bear the screaming. She felt sick.

“Stop,” she whispered finally. “Please.”

It did. The man collapsed into a sobbing, bloodied heap.

When Eloise managed to look at Artisan, she startled to find his attention fixed on her.

They stared at each other for a stretch of silence that itched. She imagined being forced to choke on her own lungs, or her skull constricting in on itself until it squashed her brain into pulp. For being so bold as to run, he might snap her legs and reaffix them the wrong direction, or splinter her bones to poke, grotesque, out of her skin. They always did say that his victims were his personal works of art, bodies twisted into shells of monsters.

He crooked a finger, beckoning her.

The edges of her vision swooped fuzzy and vertiginous. She rose onto wobbly knees and pushed herself to her feet. When she swayed, Artisan caught her elbow, slipping an arm around her waist to lead her forward.

He did not look back at the others, with complete confidence that no one would challenge him.

No one did.

Eloise was barely aware of taking one step after another. When they arrived back in the villain’s cell, the bodies of Frenzy and the dead guard, thankfully, were gone, though the floor was streaked with the drag lines of their blood.

She wrenched her gaze away.

Artisan’s hand moved further down her arm to her wrist, gesturing that she sit on his bed. When she shifted to do so, his grip tightened, tugging her to a stop. She frozen and tried to read his face. 

His dark brows were furrowed, suspicious eyes flicking from hers down to her hand.

He pulled down her sleeve and held her wrist up between them, revealing the power-blocking cuff clamped around it. His head cocked. He waited.

Eloise swallowed. “I’m not a super. I mean- not a super-super. Just a…..no one.”

“A no-one who volunteers at The Max? With a power-dampener?”

“They’re terms of my probation,” she blurted. “A thousand hours of community service here and a power-inhibitor for a year. I think they put me here to threaten me with where I could end up if I continue on like… Um…”

“Me.”

“A villain,” she clarified, as if that was better. 

Her gaze flitted from the fingers wrapped around her wrist and up to the villain’s face again. The harsh lighting haloed him, dimly silhouetting his face. He looked haunting. He looked lovely. A beautiful house, old and creaking, wrapped in ghosts like a bride’s veil and left to rot. 

“What did you do?”

“I…” Eloise felt very small. “I lied about being powered on my documents. So that they wouldn’t put me on the registry. When they found me out, I tried to run away.”

Artisan’s scrutiny burned her cheeks. He let go of her wrist.

“...What can you do?”

“Nothing special,” she said, cradling her wrist–wholly uninjured as it was–in her other hand. “It doesn’t even work most of the time. My power is sort of…blending in. Going unnoticed. When it’s working, I could stand in a the White House and people’s attention would glide over me as if I belonged there. Not quite invisible, but… It just tricks your brain into not thinking twice.”

Artisan’s eyes narrowed.

Eloise flinched back a step, stumbling back over her fallen book onto the bed. She stared at him.

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

Some of the tension eased from her shoulders, but she still waited for the catch. “Why aren’t you out there with the rest of them? Trying to escape?”

The villain considered her for a long moment. He sat down beside her, and the hard cot creaked beneath his weight. “Mm. That’s just it. No one inside the prison could have blown the power-dampeners. They require someone with powers to turn them off or on, and the security is impenetrable. My team has tried. Besides, if this was a simple power outage, the inhibitors would still be on. But they’re not. This was premeditated–and no one imprisoned here could have done it. No one on the outside could have done it. So. Process of elimination. Who’s left?”

That was the most Eloise had ever heard Artisan speak, and she could only sit and listen intently–As he had when she’d read him stories. Her brain whirred in a jumbled jigsaw of puzzle pieces. 

“It… It could only be an inside job.” She wet her lips. “The heroes- The higher-ups- They want the prisoners to break out so that they can kill them. A clean massacre. Justified under the law. The world’s most dangerous criminals could never be allowed to escape…”

Artisan smiled and it swirled something in her insides. “A convenient way to get rid of all of the pesky criminals clogging up the system. I’d bet anything that there are 50 snipers surrounding the building, waiting to slaughter anyone who steps foot outside.”

“Oh.”

“Oh,” Artisan agreed, his smile easing into something softer; something with less feral teeth.

“Thank you for helping me,” Eloise whispered. “What do we do now?”

Artisan hummed. He bent down and swept up her book, dropping it into her lap. He laid back against his pillow and crossed his arms behind his head. The bloodspots on his skin and clothes glittered in the lowlight. 

“Keep reading. I want to know how it ends.”

[valiantlytransparentwhispers]

Speaking in Tongues, Part 2 ~ Harry Potter

Summary: Harry teaches Y/N, the wild Ravenclaw, how to speak Parseltongue. 

Warnings: none

Word count: 3.1k

Here’s part 1 if you missed it!

Native to Southeast Asia, Large-eyed Pit Vipers, also known as Green Pit Vipers, are unique for several reasons. When the viper’s fangs aren’t in use, they fold back into the roof of the viper’s mouth. The viper doesn’t use its venom every time it bites, as venom cannot be regenerated quickly and is usually reserved for prey. Even if they regulate their venom, these rare snakes are highly venomous and endangered due to their popularity in the exotic pet trade. Ironically, Large-eyed Pit Vipers are known to be moody and strike if– 

“Oi, Harry!”

Harry jerked his head up. “What?” he said breathlessly, adrenaline shooting through his body, making his heart pound. “What’s wrong?”

Ron and Hermione, sitting across the table from him, shared looks. “You’re muttering to yourself,” Hermione said. 

Harry blinked, reorienting himself away from the world of words. 

Lunch in the Great Hall was in full swing. 

Professor Sprout was trying to stop a food-fight over at the end of the Gryffindor table, and from the looks of it, she wasn’t being successful. An avid debate was taking place between one bench from the Slytherin table and one from the Ravenclaw table, about what Harry couldn’t surmise, while a pair of Slytherins were eating their food as fast as they could, perhaps racing each other. A group of Hufflepuffs were rowdily playing what looked like Go Fish in the corner while another group laughed hysterically. 

Now that Harry was aware of his surroundings, the noise was nearly deafening. 

The threads of life were all around him, and yet nowhere in this tumultuous tapestry could Harry find Y/N. He’d looked for her during dinner last night, this morning, and again now, but she wasn’t seated at any of the tables. Did she ever eat? Or in all her curiosity, had she discovered a way to bypass the need for sustenance?

A young Hufflepuff girl looked up, made eye contact with Harry, and immediately ducked her head, her cheeks flushed.

Harry rolled his eyes. Apparently, nothing said ‘eligible bachelor’ like saving the world, and the world never let him rest. Every magazine and newspaper ran stories about his love life (which was quiet), ads for glasses that were supposedly the kind he wore (when clearly they weren’t), or pictures of Harry shirtless (he still didn’t know how they got ahold of those). The only magazine that didn’t was The Quibbler, because Xenophilius Lovegood preferred to share musings about whether Harry’s cologne was derived from Bundimun secretions. 

Harry turned back to his friends to see both of their heads cranked to the side like their left ears were made of lead.

“All You Need to Know About Snakes?” Ron read off. “What are you reading that for, you haven’t had enough of snakes?”

“A class.” Harry returned to the book.

–strike if antagonized. Another distinctive trait of these vipers are the ridges on the edge of their scales, making them rough to the touch. 

“Harry.”

Harry sighed, holding his finger to the page to mark his place. “What?” 

“It’s lunchtime, mate,” Ron said slowly. “Not study hall.”

“I’m not hungry.” Harry looked down, but before he could resume, the book got tugged away from him. “Hey!”

Hermione reoriented the book, her eyes sliding down the page. Ron poked his head over her shoulder. “Large-eyed Pit Vipers?” Ron read. “They aren’t even magical creatures.” 

Harry reached out for the book. “Your point?” 

“This isn’t on our curriculum.” Hermione would know, she was taking nearly every class available to seventh years. “Why are you really reading this?”

“No reason.” Harry avoided looking anywhere in the direction of the Ravenclaw table, but a flush crept across his cheeks. The flush only deepened when Ron raised an eyebrow. 

Keep reading

[valiantlytransparentwhispers]

Hollow Victory

Here y'all, have this late on a Friday night. Thank @sassysaxxy for bullying me into posting it.

Villain took a deep breath and let it out slowly, looking around with contentment. 

It’d rained earlier in the day, evident by the pleasant smell hanging in the air as well as the puddles on the roof, reflecting the pinks and oranges thrown into the air by the setting sun. A little farther in the distance, she spied the bridge crossing the river that split their city in two.

If she leaned forward slightly, she could see the street 22 stories below, the headlights of the cars winking as the cars weaved around each other. She did so, tracing with her eyes a disjointed pattern in the lights pouring from about half of the windows of the building beneath her feet. 

From where she stood, she could see the whole city, and the fact that it was her building made the view that much sweeter. 

It was a good day.

Villain signed the deal an hour ago, the deal that would secure the future of this company, the one she built from the ground up with her bare hands all by herself. There was nothing anyone could do to screw this up for her. With this victory, Villain was one step closer to–

The sound of a shoe whispering against concrete reached her ears, and she whirled around, hands raised. 

“Hero,” she remarked. “What are you doing here?” 

Villain didn’t get an answer.

She studied her nemesis, attempting to figure out his next move. Surely he was primed and ready to…to…

Were those jeans? And sneakers? Yes, Hero himself stood in front of her wearing a black t-shirt, blue jeans, and red sneakers that looked as though they’d lived more life than Hero himself. Villain opened her mouth, ready to deliver the first verbal blow in their regularly scheduled discourse when she stopped. 

It wasn’t his clothing that gave her pause, but rather the expression on Hero’s face. 

There was no trace of his youthful dimples, nor the ever-wearying smile that was his initial offensive strike against her. His shoulders rounded inwards, bearing no similarity to the confident posture he normally sported. And his eyes. Settled on her face as they were, she had the perfect vantage point to see the severity they held.

Add that to the lack of brightly-colored spandex…

“What are you doing?” she asked suspiciously, trying to figure out his angle. 

Hero held out his hands, palm up. “Take them.”

“What–” Villain began.

“Take my powers.”

Villain blinked. And then blinked again. “What did you say?” she asked calmly, betraying none of her confusion.

“Take my powers.” Hero said it again with no hesitation whatsoever.

Villain cocked her head. “Why are you doing this?”

“Take them,” Hero growled through his teeth, giving Villain the distinct image of a collared dog. Villain fell back half a step. Hero’s face darkened. “You’ve been trying to take my powers for months. Now I’m offering them to you, and you’re hesitating?”

That made Villain rethink her life choices far more than any of his monologues about good and evil. She gaped at Hero, trying to find her words. 

“Take them.” Hero advanced, and Villain fell back another step, gripped with uncertainty. “Take them!”

Villain cringed. “Stop it!” 

 “Take them!” Hero roared, holding his hands out farther. “Take them!” 

Villain backed up, her heel running into the step serving as the only separation from the fall. “S-stay back!”

“Take them!” Hero bellowed.“JUST TAKE THEM!”

“I WON’T!”

Hero crumpled forward, so suddenly that Villain worried she’d unintentionally done something to him. But then Hero’s whole body shook with the force of the strangled sobs.

Villain stared at him as he looked up at her, tears streaming from his eyes. “Take them,” Hero croaked in between sniffs. “Please.”

If this was some kicked-puppy routine, it wasn’t necessarily working, but it was far more original than any of Hero’s other schemes. Villain lowered her hands. She’d always wanted Hero on his hands and knees before her like a peasant before a king, but not like this. This would be a hollow victory. 

Something was wrong, and Villain had a sinking suspicion she knew what it was. 

“Hero, who did you hurt?” The rhythm of his sobs increased, and Villain swore underneath her breath, knowing she was right. “Did you kill someone?”

Hero pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes and shook his head. 

She let out a breath. “Are they okay?”

Hero shook his head again, unable to speak in between the strangled breaths and messy crying. 

“Who was it?”

The question ripped through him. Still with his hands over his face, he pressed his face into the pavement. 

Villain watched him.

He was right; she had been trying to take his powers for months. Her victorious evening would double if she succeeded.

Villain inched forward, cautiously reaching out her hand, waiting for Hero to grab it and somehow gain the upper hand. But he remained where he was, bent over and crying. 

Tears like this couldn’t be faked. 

When she finally rested a hand on Hero’s head, Hero didn’t flinch. In fact, his slender fingers wrapped around her wrist, holding her hand in place against his head. His body slumped, as if he was relieved.

But Villain didn’t activate her powers.

She slid her hand down to his jaw, propping her finger to lift his face. His red eyes were still overflowing with water, and a small bubble of snot popped as he looked up at her with the desperation of a cornered and beaten dog. 

She shook herself. This was a ploy, it wasn’t real. He’d heard about her deal, and he came here to knock her down a peg, to humiliate her by tricking her into showing compassion. 

Her heart pulling in one direction and her mind pulling in the other, Villain followed her mind, turning away from Hero, once again facing the city, trying to focus on the view. 

But Hero’s resumed cries from behind her tugged at a deep-rooted thread, the sound echoing ones she’d heard before. Ones she’d made before. 

She glanced up at the clouds as if asking them how she’d gotten into this situation. “I was eight when my mom came up behind me and scared me.” 

Given how loud Hero’s crying was, she didn’t know if he could hear her. Somehow, that made it easier to keep talking. “She was trying to be silly, she didn’t know any better, but my powers just reacted.”

His cries subsided slightly. 

“I was scared, and…” she trailed off, shaking her head. “She was only in the hospital for a few hours, but she never looked at me the same.”

Hero’s crying stopped, aside from the occasional hiccup. 

She turned back around to see Hero had pushed himself up onto his knees. He didn’t bother to wipe away the traces of tears, nor the ones building in his eyes. He simply watched her, hanging on her every word. 

“It happens. I’m not saying it’s good or right or that it isn’t your fault. I’m saying it happens.”

At this, Hero shook his head. “I want to be able to hug people,” he whispered. “I want to be normal.”

“I used to think the same,” Villain whispered. What was she doing?! She was conversing with the enemy, she was…divulging! But the heartbreak on Hero’s face was one she’d walked around with for years. “If you still want them gone in a month…I’ll take them.”

Hero’s face grew more haggard. “A month? Why won’t you just take them now?”

“I can’t give them back, Hero. Once they’re gone, they’re gone. And you’d feel differently about it if you watched someone get hurt when you could’ve saved them.”

Hero fell silent, and she knew he was wrestling with his pesky conscience, just like she knew he’d never return home to his family tonight. He needed to work through his guilt away from them. 

“This is the reality of being a hero,” Villain said softly. “Being a hero doesn’t free you from feeling pain.”

Hero exhaled, the sound muffled and stuffy. “Does being a villain?”

“I’m afraid not.” Villain pursed her lips. “Pain is the great human affliction.”

Overall tag list:

@thelastpyle @valiantlytransparentwhispers

[valiantlytransparentwhispers]

hi, thank you so much for your wonderful writing :))

I've especially loved reading Deep Blue and I was wondering if you...do continuations? if not that's totally okay, just thought I'd ask :)

have some ice cream :) 🍦

Thank you, thank you! Sorry for taking so long to get to this request. Hope you like it!

Deep Blue - Pt. 4

siren x pirate

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

When his eyelids parted again, the midday sun split the room, haloing the sleeping siren in a honey blaze. Her hair pooled around her head in golden spires where she'd sunken against the cotton pillow during the night.

Her shoulders swam beneath the gauzy knit of the pirate's shirt, pearl-pink skin peeking free. She smelled of the ocean, all salted breezes and chalky sands.

She seemed peaceful, chest swelling with even breaths. An outsider may have labeled her harmless.

The pirate knew better.

His fingers itched to caress the delicate curls framing the siren's forehead all the same. The supernatural charm of a siren, he told himself. He caught his hand when it twitched halfway to action.

He stood up, tearing himself away from the magnetic pull of her. He turned around, shaking out the clumped waves of his hair. His clothes, too, were scratchy with the crust of dried salt. The folds of fabric creased like paper.

He stepped outside and cranked out several pumps of water from the rusted spigot, scrubbing it over his face and hair. The cool droplets streamed fissures down his neck and chest. He pumped fresh palm-fulls to spread over the rest of his exposed skin.

"If you're trying to drown yourself, I can do a much better job of it."

The pirate startled, straightening. "Golden. You're...- How are you feeling?"

Clinging to the open door, the siren stood awkwardly on foreign limbs. The hem of his shirt hung a few inches above her knees; a curtain brushing against his clumsy first aid.

Though her posture painted her a wounded damsel, her eyes were predator-sharp. It set his teeth on edge and sent something primal in his instincts jangling.

The siren's nose crinkled, scanning their surroundings. He tracked her gaze as it roamed over every rock and tree and bump of the earth. "What is that smell?"

The cabin boy snorted, cranking fresh water into his hands to dump over his head. "Dirt."

"Repugnant.”

"Yeah, well... As much as I love it, the smell of salt water and fish can get old as well."

When he glanced up again, he studied the siren more closely. Instead of itchy, irritated skin--sun-dried and chapped--she was glowing as ever. Her golden hair hung in silken waves hardly so much as mussed by his rough sheets, not gritty and salt-riddled as his own locks had been. Her skin faintly shimmered in the daylight.

The only thing about her that wasn't perfect was the red stain weeping through the muddied fabric of her bandage.

Her eyes followed the drip drops puddling beneath the spigot. She wet her lips.

The cabin boy watched her. "Are you thirsty?"

As he'd learned from his hours of curious reading, most sea creatures didn't drink water. They gained their hydration through the food they ate, or their bodies were designed to filter out the harmful sully of salt from the seas they swam in.

Though, his siren was a sea creature no more.

Her feet twitched, seemingly with the urge to take a step, but she hesitated, toeing the wooden step's treacherous edge without letting go of the door.

A small smile cracked the pirate's lips. This creature who had held his life in her hands mere hours prior, capable of capsizing ships and carving out the hearts of men, was afraid to walk. Afraid to fall.

Gravity did have an unforgiving vice above water that it didn't below, weightless and languid in all its honeyed drifting.

He found himself standing in front of her. Ever drawn to her as a moth to its fiery death.

She hissed at him when he offered his hands toward her, sounding like a startled housecat. Jerking back, her heels snagged the rim of the top stair and she fell with a yelp. "Don't touch me!"

Though the cabin boy held up his palms in surrender, the mermaid swiped at him with dull, paddy fingers for good measure.

"Easy," he said, "I was only going to help you."

"Why?"

His brow creased. "...Why?"

"Why are you trying to help me at all?" she demanded.

"You saved my life."

"I tried to drown you! You should have left me there, I would have been better off! Your 'help' is a scourge, a curse!" She pushed herself up onto wobbly feet, smacking his hand away when the pirate reached out again, reflexively, to assist her.

He heaved a sigh, stepping back. “You would have bled to death.”

“It would have been better!” There was something terribly broken in her voice. A windchime once ringing melodic lullabies now cracked and shrieking. She staggered down the remaining two steps, swaying unsteadily on her heels. Her voice softened. “It would have been better than this.”

Guilt twisted the cabin boy’s stomach. “Golden…”

“No. I am now a prisoner in this…weak, defiled body. I have been stripped of every last thread of my identity. My tail, my strength– The ocean has disowned me, I am cursed to die a fumbling human. There is no greater disgrace! I want nothing more from you.” She shoved past him, limping and teetering as she went.

“Where are you going? You’re injured, hungry, and wearing nothing more than my shirt,” the pirate protested, following after her. “You can’t venture into town like that. Many men would take that as an invitation–”

The siren rounded on him, promptly stumbling and catching herself against his shoulders. Her eyes were alight like an August day.

“I know perfectly well what your kind feels entitled to when they come upon a beautiful woman. That is the very foundation of why you are so easily captured under our sway,” she spat. “Your desires overwhelm you, and our songs coax you to believe you can have all you want if only you surrender to us. I cannot make you believe what you do not already want to. You invade our home and hunt us in our own waters, you take and take and take, then call us monsters when we do not let you have us too. As if we are sunken treasure for you to pluck from the seafloor and sell to the next hungry pirate.”

Any response he had readied died behind the cabin boy’s teeth. He wanted to protest that they ‘weren’t all like that.’ That some pirates led with honor, and that many men were decent. He was decent, wasn’t he?

And yet… He still felt homesick for his captain, his crew, his ship. The very ones who cast him to his death for the mutinous act of having a heart.

He swallowed. “I freed you.”

“And for that alone, I spared you. Yet you damned me. Spare me further humiliation and leave me alone.” The siren gave his shoulders a sharp squeeze before letting go, limping away again in the direction she had chosen.

His eyes followed her, clumsy and graceless, all the way to the start of the dirt road that led into the village.

She would certainly be a spectacle there. With shimmery skin and perfect hair of spun gold, eyes like winter fire and only half dressed, she would steal the attention of every human she passed.

She might be found out for what she was. She might be overpowered and hurt, or taken advantage of.

The possibilities burned through him.

She’d begged him to stay away…

The siren’s bare feet kicked up dust along the path that sent her coughing, batting at the air with the same fury she’d faced him with moments prior.

The sight coaxed a tentative smile from the pirate’s mouth. Cursing the sky, the earth, the gods of sea and shore and everything else, he followed after the grounded mermaid.

He would not be responsible for any more of her misfortune. Even if it cemented his own.

He’d always thought the ocean to be fair, even in all its cruelty. It did not shrink itself for the convenience of others. Its crashing swells that swallowed ships whole did not ask for any less from the creatures within it.

He had to believe that there was hope for her, his siren, creature of water and night and song. She would be whole again. He had to try.

General Taglist: @pinned-to-the-wahl , @valiantlytransparentwhispers , @distance-does-not-matter @redbircl , @lilaccatholic , @crazytwentythrees-deactivated @thelazywitchphotographer @chibicelloking , @lolafaiy , @thinkwrite5 , @putridghost @tobeornottobeateacher @sunflower1000 , @bouncyartist , @feyriddle , @yet-another-heathen , @silverwhisperer1 , @distractedlydistracted @pensivespacepirate , @appleejuicee , @deflated-bouncingball @maybe-a-cat42, @m0chik0furan , @mercurymomentum , @fairysprinkles , @vuvulia , @amongtheonedaisy , @rose-pinkie, @trappedgoose-in-a-writblr-room , @scorpio-smiles , @inkygemuwu , @wolfeyedwitch , @thewhumpmeisterx3000, @ikiiryo , @lem-hhn , @fanastywhump , @smallangryfish , @ladybookworm @freefallingup13 , @acaiaforrest , @a-blue-comedy , @puppyaddict , @talkingsperm , @qualitychaoslover , @deckofaces ,@7eselt , @annablogsposts , @lunatic-moss-studio , @medusas-hairband

[valiantlytransparentwhispers]

Survival Mechanisms ~ George Weasley

This is part three, so make sure you read Is It Still Punishment if It's Worth It? and Clumsy, Clumsy first!

Warnings: none

Word count: 4k

The N.E.W.T. preparatory witch was absolute rubbish.

With the exams looming, Umbridge had allowed for a dodgy witch from the Ministry to host an exam study session of sorts on the Patronus Charm. It was hard to believe that Umbridge could hate so many things and yet endorse a witch that wore a hat with green shamrocks and orange balloons.

A load of the Gryffindors were lounging around on the seats that had been pushed against the walls, having produced a fully corporeal Patronus. They cracked jokes and laughed with each other. Every so often, one of them would lazily sweep their gaze across the room at the students still struggling with the spell. Their palpable arrogance seemed to bounce against the stone walls, weighing down the room. 

I gripped my wand tightly enough to feel every ridge of it against my skin.

Why were they still here? If they’d successfully completed the exercise, they could take their boisterousness somewhere else, preferably over the balcony of the Astronomy Tower. 

“Expecto Patronum!” I said firmly, circling my wand. The most pathetic stream of silver yet flowed from the tip of my wand, disappearing in an instant. I grit my teeth, circling my wand again. “Expecto Patronum!”

“No, dear,” said the supervising witch, waddling over to me. “The wand movement must flow. Like this.” She demonstrated, and the silver form of a dog burst forth, running through the air in the classroom with its tongue hanging out.

I ducked my head in thanks, and she walked away to help a Hufflepuff. I glared after her, imagining transfiguring her stupid hat into a flower pot of marigolds. When I turned back to the fake dementor, it wasn’t the only dummy standing there.

George leaned an elbow on the dementor’s shoulder, looking at me with his grin reeking with complications. “All right?”

I extended my wand towards the fake dementor, waiting for George to get out of the way. But he remained squarely where he was. “What?” I asked tersely. 

“Nothing.” His tone was far too smug for that to be true. “You’re just cute when you’re frustrated.”

Just then, George Weasley should’ve thanked every star in the sky that I wasn’t born a Welsh Green, otherwise he’d be a pile of cinders. Gritting my teeth, I flicked my wand at him, trying to scare him away, but George didn’t so much as flinch. “Go away,” I finally said. “I’m busy.”

George stood up straight, his arm leaving the dummy. But instead of going to join his housemates, he ambled closer. He had such a funny and easygoing way of walking. He put one foot in front of the other like it didn’t even matter where his feet ended up, because he was content wherever he was. “Struggling, are we?”

“Expecto Patronum!”

George side-stepped the spurt of silver that left my wand, and when it faded, he looked back at me. “Do you want help?”

“George, I’m not in the mood,” I warned. 

“What’s your memory?”

I shot him a withering glare. “I’m not telling you.” 

George brought both his hands to his chest, sticking out his lower lip. “You wound me.”

“I will if you don’t get out of the way,” I seethed.

George tilted his head to the side in the way he always did when he seemed to be sizing me up. Then he bent down and leaned in, and I prepared my wand, ready to cast the Revulsion Jinx if he so much as laid a finger on me. “Meet me on the sixth floor,” he said quietly, his words tickling my ear, “by the portrait of Edgar Stroulger.” 

“So you and your Gryffindor pals can ambush me?” I bit back, turning my head to look him directly in the eye. “Absolutely not.”

“Do you never trust anybody?” George’s soft question paired with his unassuming eyes almost made me feel guilty.

“If you want trust,” I replied, “go bestow your relentless charms on a Hufflepuff.”

George straightened, looking down on me with furrowed brows. For a moment, we simply stood there, staring at each other. Had I finally gone too far? Was he going to throw in the towel? Would he take the advice I wasn’t sure I meant and go find someone easier to talk to?

Then his face split into a grin. “You think I’m charming?”

How could he do that? I’d never known someone who could receive such acidic words from someone and spin them as if they’d been given a compliment. “Why would you help me?” 

“Because we’re friends now.” 

I raised an eyebrow. “What makes you say that?”

“Well,” George’s eyes flicked over to the witch who’d just finished demonstrating how her own patronus walked on all fours, “you said you don’t snog your friends. We’ve never snogged, therefore we’re friends.”

I rolled my eyes, ignoring the flipping of my stomach. “I don’t think that’s how logic works.”

“Innit?” George straightened. “If you want help, you know where I’ll be.” And with that, he walked in his unhurried way out of the room. 

The dark eyes of the dementor dummy bored into mine as I considered my options: staying and hoping the witch somehow became more helpful or taking a chance on George. I glanced at the witch, who was leading one of the other Slytherins in what appeared to be a breathing exercise. 

Okay, clearly George could offer as much, if not more than, the witch. But the humiliation of failing in front of the witch meant nothing compared to how I would feel if George laughed at me. 

Could I take that risk for the benefit of learning this charm?

I looked out the door George had just walked out of. 

-

Stopping at the entrance of the Study of Ancient Runes classroom, I glanced around the corner, waiting for any sign of danger. Seeing none and walking slowly, I rounded the corner, coming face to face with the portrait. 

Edgar Stroulger, the inventor of the Sneakoscope, looked warily down at me as he reached into his wrinkled purple robes to pull out the Dark Detector. It didn’t light up, spin, or whistle, which meant no one was doing anything untrustworthy nearby. 

Did George pick this portrait to make sure that I wasn’t planning anything sinister? Or did he pick it so that I could be sure he wasn’t planning anything sinister? 

Suddenly, the portrait swung outward.

My wand slid into my hand in an instant, and I pointed it, ready for action. “Calm down, it’s only me,” George said lightly, stepping out and closing the portrait behind him. 

I waited a beat, just to see if George would start squirming, but he didn’t look the least bit concerned by having the tip of my wand an inch away from the tip of his freckled nose. 

“Another make-out spot?” I asked, finally lowering my arm. 

“Not yet, but there’s always time,” George replied with a cheeky grin. I waited for him to lead me somewhere, but he just stood with his hands in his pockets, looking at me. 

“What?” I finally asked.

“You came.”

Were the words born of surprise? Excitement? Disappointment? I was unnerved by the fact that I couldn’t tell. “I don’t like failing.”

“Everyone knows that,” George chuckled. He gave a grand bow, indicating the hallway I’d just come through. “Shall we?”

I eyed George. Were we going to the Ancient Runes classroom? Or did he have somewhere else in mind? Was he bringing me to a second location? Wasn’t it common knowledge that one was never supposed to let a kidnapper go to a second location?

“Well, we can’t practice charms in the hallway, can we?” he said, correctly interpreting my silence.

I sighed. “I’ll follow you then.”

George smiled and swept down the hallway, walking straight towards an empty stone wall. Was George about to walk right into it? And if so, did I have time to get snacks to watch? Just as I started to debate this, before my very eyes grew a large door, as if it’d just pooled out of the wall like melted chocolate. 

“How did you–” I started to ask, a bit breathless. “How did that door just…appear?

George looked pleased at my response. “Hogwarts is full of surprises.”

I shook my head. If anyone would know about a secret door in Hogwarts, my money was on the nosy Weasley twins, but still. 

George opened the door and made a little bow. “After you.”

My curiosity winning over my paranoia, I walked inside, glancing all about the room.

There was no furniture, only a wide-open space with a fire burning in the hearth across from the entrance. A few training dummies, similar to the ones the witch had been using, lined the walls. There lay an inherent conflict in the room between the cool, blue light from the windows which bounced off the mirrors and the yellow light of the glowing chandelier.

“Alright,” George said, rolling the sleeves of his uniform above his elbow as he brushed past me to stand in the very center of the room. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

I followed him, dutifully pulling out my wand and keeping my eyes focused on one of the training dummies and not George. “Expecto Patronum.”

“You’re spiraling too big,” George said.

I tried again.

“No, not like–here.” The next thing I knew, George was at my back, his hand moving down my arm to encase my wand hand. “Smaller, softer.” My lips parted as his warm breath skittered across my cheek. His wrist moved, guiding my wand through the motions. “It’s not meant to be harsh.”

I glanced at the mirror across from us to see that George’s eyes weren’t focused on my hand, but on my face, which was steadily turning crimson.

If bringing me to this room was some sort of romantic move, I was determined that it would fail. The portrait of Edgar Stroulger would not become another make-out spot, and neither would this room. At least not with me. I kept my eyes studiously forward, waving my wand as instructed.

“Brilliant.” He spoke in a whisper, but it felt as though he were shouting. 

"Expecto Patronum!" Silver mist flowed from my wand, more than before, and it didn’t fade as quickly. 

“Better,” George said encouragingly. “Again.”

“Expecto Patronum!” Same result. 

“Try again.”

I repeated the action, and the silver mist was gone in a moment. “Augh, this bloody charm is impossible!”

George rubbed his chin thoughtfully, and the appraising manner with which he looked at me made me nervous. “What are you picturing when you’re trying to conjure it?”

“Not–”

“Y/L/N.”

I lapsed into silence, keeping my lips stubbornly closed. Under no circumstances was I going to give him ammunition.

“I’m not trying to hurt you,” George said softly. “I’m not harboring some secret plan to humiliate you. I’m trying to help, so will you please let those walls of yours down and let me?”

I just glared back at him, folding my arms tightly.

George sighed, moving to stand between the dummy and I. “Mine is a food fight with my family.”

The admission made me blink. Why would his response to my closed doors be to open his own? In spite of myself, I was interested. “Not some prank?”

George ducked his head, and I suddenly missed his smile. “No, not some prank. We were sitting down to dinner, and my dad leaned over to give my mum a kiss and he accidentally knocked over the cauldron, spilling pea soup everywhere.” George wrinkled his nose, as if he could smell it still. “My brothers and I were covered in it, and the whole dining room was dead silent…and then Fred threw his soggy roll at Bill, and next thing you know,” George smiled broadly, “we were all throwing food, even Mum, and Mum never willingly creates a mess.” 

Even though I hadn’t been there, his memory was captivating enough that I could picture the large family laughing and slipping as they reveled in each others’ company. 

George lifted his wand, and a burst of fear shot through me. 

But before I could hurl a spell in his direction, he whispered his own: “Expecto Patronum.”

A magpie flew forth, soaring about the room with minimal flapping of its patterned wings. If patronuses could make noise, I had a feeling this one would sing the most beautiful song. Not because it was trying to compete with or impress anyone, but for itself, to represent the sheer joy that kept it aloft.

Then, it veered towards me, flying so close that I could’ve sworn I felt the brush of feathers on my leg as it began to circle. It flew higher and higher with every rotation until a silver cloud of mist surrounded me. Then, it shot away again, flying about the room. 

“The Patronus is an outpouring,” George said quietly. “It’s the happiness that can’t be contained, therefore it must leapt forward.” 

I’d never been much good at outpouring. Everything I held dear was held behind my walls, for sharing things was the fastest way to spoil them.

But I wanted to learn this charm. How could I protect Clem if there was a gap in my magical prowess? 

“What are you picturing?” George asked again. 

I folded my arms. “I’m not telling you.” 

“C’mon, Y/L/N, your wand movement’s good, you’re saying the incantation right. There’s only one thing that could be keeping you from casting it.” 

I grit my teeth. If there was anything more insufferable than George Weasley, it was George Weasley when he was right. “I was…thinking of…getting my Hogwarts acceptance letter.”

George didn’t burst into laughter or devolve into mocking like I expected. “Why’s that a powerful happy memory for you?”

I looked away, staring at the door and stifling the wish to run through it. “My parents were going to send me to Durmstrang.”

“Oh.” George rubbed his neck. “Well. That would’ve been a shame.” There was a silence before I finally nodded, not wanting to say anything else on the subject. “Maybe try a different image?” he suggested. 

“Like what?” I said hopelessly. “Hippogriffs tap dancing?”

George’s eyes gleamed, and the magpie landed on top of his head. “Now that’s a good one.”

“George,” I said warningly.

George rubbed his chin, looking thoughtful. The longer the silence extended, the more I wished I could simply use George’s memory of his family food fight. Finally, George blew out his cheeks, imitating a frog’s vocal sac extending with a croak. “Don’t curse me for asking this–”

“No promises.”

“–but why do you protect Clem so strongly?”

I stared at George, confused. Not by his actions, but by the small part of me that actually wanted to answer his question and share about the biggest love of my life. But I couldn’t shake the deep-seated fear that this information would somehow be the key to bringing me down.

“I swear to you,” George said softly as the magpie ruffled its wings, “Clem’s safer from me than my own siblings, because I won’t turn his teddy bear into a giant spider.” 

I debated inquiring about the story that clearly lingered behind his oddly specific word choice, but decided not to. Letting out a long breath, I looked away. 

“I was six when Clem was born,” I told the floor. It was much easier to speak to the stone floor than to the intently listening redhead. “I’d always wanted a sibling, but my parents struggled with having kids. Even when my mom was pregnant, the healers at St. Mungo warned her that she might lose the baby at any point, but my father…” I sighed. “He wanted a son. You know, carry on the family name and all that.”

Mercifully, George stayed silent, as if he knew one word from him would make me clam up and one joke right now would earn him a trip to the Hospital Wing with a pair of permanent elephant ears.

“They let me hold him, and he was so much heavier than I thought he was going to be.” I smiled softly. “I’d never seen a baby before. I thought babies were just…small people, but they’re not, they’re chubby and wrinkly and they’re red all over.” I glanced at the mirror and George’s unmoving reflection staring intently at mine, willing me to finish.

“I don’t think six-year-olds know much about anything. I definitely didn’t, but when I held my brother…” My courage quailed. I shook my head, raising my wand to attempt the charm again.

Suddenly, the magpie flew past me and then George was in front of me, his hand holding mine still as he looked down at me with something I couldn’t name or deny. “Finish it,” he said softly, but earnestly. “Finish the story.”

I couldn’t form the right words at first, but George didn’t say anything to break the silence as I struggled. “When I held my brother,” the image of my baby brother started almost glowing in my mind, “I knew what love was.”

George’s slight, answering smile was quite possibly the most genuine thing I’d ever laid eyes on. He released my hand but didn’t step away. “Try it now.”

I didn’t look away, not wanting to puncture the peace of the room with the incantation. I looked deeply into George’s brown eyes and whispered it. “Expecto Patronum.”

The room lit up with the silver mist that poured forth from my wand, more than before. At first the mist pooled beneath my wand, and then, rising up from the pool, rose a large but graceful four-legged creature that ran around the room.

A lioness. 

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mumbled, but there was little heat behind the words. I couldn’t be ungrateful for the creature, not when it moved so freely about the room, as if it were as glad as I was that it existed. “Don’t laugh,” I warned George as the patronus walked a circle around him. “And if you make a joke about me being in Gryffindor, I’ll turn you into a toad.” 

“Wasn’t planning on it.” George followed the lioness with his eyes as she trotted closer to me, leaving trails of mist behind her. “Makes sense though.”

I studied the markings by the lioness’s noble face. “How?”

“Strength. Ferocity.” His eyes flicked up to mine. “Beauty.” 

I blushed, and the lioness started running again, as if energized by the heat in my cheeks. The magpie swooped to join the lioness, who playfully swatted at it before leaping into the air to join it. 

“So…what other spells are you and your friends mastering in this room?”

George’s glance cut quickly towards me, and the magpie dissipated. “What?”

I allowed the lioness to dissolve as well. “There are multiple training dummies, and whatever spell you have on that door, clearly you don’t want people inside.” I tilted my head at him. “And you’re brilliant, George, but Defense Against the Dark Arts has never been your strongest subject, and considering Umbridge’s educational skills…I can't believe you're doing it on your own."

George looked scared, and as much as I enjoyed finally seeing a bit of fear on his face, I couldn’t let it remain there for long. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep your secret as long as you keep mine.” 

George furrowed his brow. “Your secret?”

I stared at him, tongue-tied with disbelief. Did he really have no idea that he held a vulnerable secret? Had he not recognized that the knowledge of how deeply I loved Clem was a valuable piece of information? A vulnerability that could be easily exploited?

Too late, it seemed to dawn on him, and the sheer delight in his demeanor made me quickly walk for the door. “Wait–” he said.

“Time to leave, isn’t it?” I said shortly, but George caught up with me, blocking my way.

“You’re trying to blackmail me?”

I groaned, hiding my face in my hands. “Can we forget about it?” George burst out laughing, doubling over. I shoved him, hard enough to make him stumble. “Stop laughing at me!”

“I’m…sorry,” George wheezed, clutching his stomach. “You’re just so cute!”

“Excuse me?” I shrieked.

“What do you think you are,” he said, gasping for air, “MI6?”

“It’s a survival mechanism,” I mumbled, and his laughter started anew. Heat rushed into my cheeks. 

George only laughed all the harder.

My goodwill evaporating, I shoved him. Hard.

The aggression in the gesture didn’t move George that far, but his laughter stopped as I stormed out the door. “I’m sorry,” he said, jogging after me, still looking amused. “I didn’t mean to upset you, I’m sorry.”

I turned to look at him and saw the door melting away again. 

“Besides,” George leaned against a pillar, “friends keep each other's secrets.” He looked so comfortable, so unbothered. I didn’t know many Gryffindors who would willingly share the same room with a Slytherin, and here was one of the most Gryffindor of Gryffindors, staring down at me without a hint of a long-suffering sigh. 

“George?” 

“Yeah?”

“Why do you want to be my friend?”

George rolled his eyes, pushing off from the pillar. “Enough with the paranoia, Y/L/N.”

“No, I’m not paranoid, I just…I’m confused.” 

George looked at me suspiciously for a moment before the suspicion dropped. “Well…why wouldn’t I?” he asked, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re smart, and I happen to think your survival mechanisms are extremely endearing.”

“I’m also a Slytherin.”

George groaned. “Not this again.”

I stepped forward, craning my neck to look up at George. “You’re goofy, but you’re not naive. And I can’t believe that you haven’t been given any grief about your interest in me.”

George pursed his lips, clearly unable to disagree and wishing he could. 

“So why are you risking it?”

His brown eyes searched my face as he seemed to gather and ponder his response. “Maybe I was curious,” he said at last. “About the terrifying, mysterious Slytherin that never lifted a finger to harm anyone.”

“I’m not compassionate, George,” I replied. “I never lift a finger to help anyone either, and that’s just as bad.”

“No, I know you’re not, that’s not what I’m saying,” he replied. 

“Well, then what are you saying?”

“It’s…it just…it seems like…” He trailed off, and while the suspense wouldn’t kill me, I was considering killing him.

“It seems like what?”

“It’s like you try not to exist.” George’s face took on an expression of deep perplexity. “You don’t make yourself smaller, not like some people do, you just…float through this castle like the ghosts, leaving no trace and only the occasional word.” 

He stepped closer, and it took everything in me to remain still and allow him close enough to easily step on my toes if he wanted to. “You’re more than just a Slytherin, Y/N. Just like I’m more than just a Gryffindor.”

“Are you sure about that?” I replied, more breathlessly than I’d anticipated in my head. 

“If I wasn’t,” he smirked, “we wouldn’t be friends.”

I blinked at him. He really was curious. And his curiosity was, in turn, making me curious as to what kind of man stood in front of me. “George?”

“Hmm?” he said. 

I gnawed on my lip. “Thank you.”

George’s face went slack. 

“For helping me,” I added, hoping confusion was the only reason he was looking at me like that. “I…appreciate it.” 

There was a beat while George stared at me like my breakfast pumpkin juice had been spiked with Ear-Grow potion and my ears were starting to resemble an elephant’s. 

Then, a bright, dazzling smile spread across his face. “Cheers, Y/N.”

I lingered for another moment before giving George a sharp nod and quickly descending the stairs, silently asking the universe why my heart felt like it was swelling.

-

Overall tag list:

@thelastpyle @valiantlytransparentwhispers

[valiantlytransparentwhispers]

This is like the 5th? time this post has come across my dash, and I have to read it and laugh every time it does.

[valiantlytransparentwhispers]

THIS IS THE BEST THING I HAVE EVER SEEN

[valiantlytransparentwhispers]

Once A Heart Is Given ~ a continuation of Sorrows Can Swim

It's definitely true that art mimics life. Thanks to certain life events, I'm feeling remarkably similar to Prince, so...I guess inspiration is my silver lining?

Warnings: none

Word count: 2.2k

Sorrows Can Swim masterlist

-

Prince was tired of meetings. He was tired of people needing him. And he was tired of this life he called his own. 

The council, fully composed of men greyer than rainclouds and wrinklier than raisins, sat at the big table. They never looked at him with anything less than expectancy, waiting for him to listen and make the big decisions that came with his duty. 

“We’ll send funds to the village, but discreetly,” Prince decided, hating that he had to be subtle with his support at the risk of offending the nobility, but unwilling to let his people flounder. 

The men leaned in towards each other, debating his decision with those calculating eyes and lowly spoken words. Prince waited for them to raise a complaint meant for his ears, but the murmuring eventually died. “Are we settled?” he asked the room at large. The men didn’t speak, to agree or disagree, which was a telltale sign they felt they were doing him a great service and humoring him. 

Prince ached for a kind word from them, but that was like waiting for fairies to come, pointless and even if it happened, only a luxury. 

“Is that all for today?” he asked the council, concealing his weariness the best he could. 

The head councilman bowed. “Yes, sire, that’s all for the day.”

“Then I will see everyone tomorrow.” The council all got up from their chairs, bowed as one, and filed out of the room, talking amongst themselves again. 

They have each other, Prince lamented. I have no one. 

Prince’s shoulders slumped as he rubbed his eyes against the harsh, bright afternoon sun streaming into the room. He got up, turning to grab a fistful of the curtain, intending to close it and shut away the light. 

But then he caught sight of the garden below and the beauty running amongst the hedges. 

Princess.

Her long, unbound hair streamed behind her, her fists pumping as she ran. She reached the fountain and spun, the pale purple fabric of her dress billowing around her as she spun a full circle and a half, allowing her to face the castle once again. Her radiant smile was aimed at the ladies that were catching up to her. 

What would it feel like to have that smile aimed at him?

Her mouth opened, and even through the glass, his ears caught her merry laughter. His heart swelled, and a pained croak fell from his lips. 

He couldn’t contain it, the way he felt for her. He ached to hear her laugh again, but with the way his heart seemed to grow every time he heard it, it might grow too big for his chest. He felt as if a piece of her was inside him, because, yes, it felt like she was interwoven in his being, and in its mighty effort to return to her, it nearly dragged him with it. He considered it a minor miracle that it wasn’t her name he said every time he opened his mouth. He couldn’t imagine what the council would think of him if that were the case. 

Princess tagged one of the ladies and ran away, shrieking from the excitement of the game. 

A sigh left him, and he allowed his forehead to rest against the glass, his eyes following her every movement. He knew he needed to look away, if not out of respect then for his own sanity. He needed to banish her from his mind or he would spend forever watching her from this window. If Princess were to look up through the window, she would catch sight of the fond smile toying at her husband’s mouth. But Princess kicked off her shoes, oblivious to her spectator as she lifted her skirts and ran. 

And he couldn’t look away. 

He’d spent most of his life either looking at or looking for her. 

Every summer since Prince turned ten and Princess turned eight, she’d spent in this castle. Prince could still remember the first day she’d arrived in a blue carriage with golden accents, the Tunican colors. Nursemaid had all but wrestled Prince into his best clothes. As they stood outside the castle, watching the carriage appear in the distance, Nursemaid lightly smacked Prince’s hand every time he reached up to scratch the itchy collar. When the carriage came to a stop and a footman opened the door, Prince expected a bratty, snooty girl to step out.

A snooty girl indeed was who took the footman’s waiting hand. Once she was out of the carriage, she stood on the ground, blinking out at all the people standing in the castle courtyard waiting for her. Prince had started to groan, not looking forward to the bowing and scraping that was about to occur. 

But before anything of the kind happened, the girl took off like a shot, running not towards the people or back into the carriage, but off to the side, towards the royal orchard. 

The footman, clearly used to this behavior, ran after her, calling her name, and a few other servants joined in the chase, including Nursemaid.

But Prince looked back at the carriage to see two dainty blue shoes, laying discarded in the dust of the path from where Princess had kicked them off. 

Never in his life had Prince known chaos like the day Princess sprinted through the courtyard and into his life. And nothing else in his life had he wished for since. 

“Sire?” 

Prince jerked away from the window, blinking as his eyes tried to adjust to the darkness of the room that had been too bright moments before. “Yes?” 

“I have done as you ask.” 

Finally, Prince’s eyes adjusted to see Maid standing in the doorway, looking a bit confused. “I’m listening.” He tried to arrange himself in a very thoughtful, serious position.

Maid swept into a deep curtsey. “Sire, she said she has no need for jewelry or clothes, sire, nor stationary or books.” 

Prince frowned. His sneaky attempts once again failed to find out what Princess wanted for her birthday—which was two days away. It would be her first birthday in Prince’s kingdom, her first birthday as his wife. He wanted her to enjoy it, and he was getting desperate. 

“What about a horse?” he asked desperately.

Maid shook her head. “She has a prize mare already, sire.”

Prince pursed his lips, deep in thought. 

With their lives similarly decadent, what riches could he offer her? The only thing he could give with value other than monetary was his heart, and he’d given it to her already. She didn’t want it, he knew that, and if it were humanly possible, he would’ve taken it back long ago. Prince wasn’t even sure that a heart could be taken back once it was given. 

“But if I may?”

Prince looked up at Maid, her fingers anxiously smoothing down her skirt, betraying her unease when her face didn’t. “Yes?” he said.

“She mentioned that she wants to go see Queen’s Veil Falls.” 

Prince turned back to look at Princess, who was much further through the garden now. The waterfall was one of Prince’s favorite places in the whole kingdom. 

As he watched Princess roll on the grass in an attempt to dodge one of the ladies, a plan started forming in Prince’s head. “Thank you, that will be all.”

“Sir, you…you don’t want to hear anything else?”

Prince furrowed his brows, spinning to see Maid’s furrowed brows. “What else is there?”

Maid glanced over her shoulder and then lowered her voice. “There’s a man–”

“No!” Prince said, so loudly, Maid flinched. “I’m sorry.” Prince rubbed his forehead, reeling back his feelings and pushing them down. “You’re dismissed.”

His outburst must’ve frightened her, for Maid curtsied and scurried away. 

What had she been about to say? It certainly would’ve involved Guard, but was it information Prince already knew? Or was there more?

Prince swallowed hard and pulled out a map, forcing himself to stare at the location of Queen’s Veil Falls. 

The waterfall was a pleasant, secluded space. Prince had never been there with more than three people, and often, he simply went by himself. But Princess wouldn’t want to spend her birthday with Prince, and he couldn’t send her ladies there without an escort, and an escort would make the group too big.

But there was a way for Princess to go to the waterfall with only one other person, someone who was very capable of protecting her, and possibly the person Princess would most enjoy going with. 

-

Prince waited until the next morning before going to the barracks.

The dimly lit room contained twenty beds, ten on each side. Nineteen of the beds were empty, only one bed was occupied: the bed in the corner, furthest away from the light. The torches had been snuffed, leaving the sunlight streaming through two tiny windows as the only source of light in the room.

Prince walked briskly to the bed, eyeing the lump underneath the blanket. Guard was on duty the night before and was now catching up on some much needed sleep. Normally, Prince would avoid waking him at all costs, for Guard was already problematic enough to deal with when he’d slept well.

But this conversation couldn’t wait with the Princess’s birthday being the next day. 

“I have work for you,” he told the lump still in bed.

The lump moved from beneath the blanket, and Guard’s groggy face appeared. Any other soldier in this castle would leap out of bed, standing at attention with poker straight posture. But Guard merely rubbed his eyes. “What?” he said, irritated. 

“Princess’s birthday is tomorrow.” 

Guard propped himself up on his elbows, blinking sleepily at Prince. “And?”

Prince stood statue still. Somewhere inside surely resided anger, but all Prince could feel was misery. Everyone deserved to be celebrated on their birthday. If Guard cared a mite for Princess, he’d commit himself to her enjoyment. But he didn’t, so he wasn’t. Over and over, Guard’s actions spoke of nothing but self-interest, and Prince only had himself to blame for being disappointed. 

He took a deep breath and blew it out as slowly as he could. “Princess wants to go to Queen’s Veil Falls. If the two of you leave after breakfast tomorrow, she can have lunch at the falls and be back before dinner. I think–”

“What’s in it for me?” Guard interrupted, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

“A picnic. The chance to see a beautiful place. Time with Princess away from the castle.” Guard raised an eyebrow, looking unimpressed, and Prince scowled. “You’ll have a day free of duties aside from keeping her safe. That must be sorely tempting.”

Guard smacked his lips, as if he were literally tasting the offer and deciding his verdict. “Very well.”

Prince stared as Guard yawned and stretched.

What would he himself give to be the one Princess wanted to celebrate her birthday with? If some witch could somehow make Princess naturally love Prince…why, Prince would give the witch his life’s purpose, his kingdom. And here Guard was, acting as though this opportunity, as though Princess were burdensome?

Guard’s eyes lazily passed over Prince, but then he froze in his position with his arms stretched towards the ceiling. Then, he lowered his arms and pushed himself up on his feet. “Does His Highness have something to say?” he asked, his mocking voice undermining the title. 

Prince turned away. “The kitchens will prepare the picnic basket, and the stables will have two horses saddled and waiting for you.”

“Look at me!” Guard shouted, and Prince looked over his shoulder to see a dangerous light flickering in Guard’s eyes. “You don’t get to dismiss me.”

“I’m not.”

Guard advanced on Prince. “You will treat me with the respect I’m owed, or I’ll–”

“Spill the beans. I’m aware.” Prince held his clasped hands behind him, looking Guard directly in the eye. If only Guard knew what the kitchen staff normally did to rats, then he’d have no doubt that Prince was already treating him much better than he deserved.

Guard’s mouth suddenly spread into a nasty smile as he made a show of dusting off the shoulder of Prince’s doublet. “No matter. Your wife treats me well enough for both of you.”

Maybe Prince should’ve punched in Guard’s nose right then and there. Ordered him out of the castle. Called for the other soldiers to throw him in prison.

He was too defeated to do anything of the kind.

Prince just tiredly blinked at Guard, waiting until the man was satisfied enough to allow him to leave without grandstanding.

Guard stepped back. And then he spat.

Prince lowered his gaze to the glob of saliva now darkening the front of his shirt.

“You’re pathetic,” Guard said in a low tone. “And your wife knows it.” 

Prince waited for the searing, poker-hot pain to shoot through his chest, but he felt nothing. Nothing at all. His heart made nary a peep. Perhaps it really was wholly and completely Princess’s, so far gone, it resided in his chest no longer. “Don’t forget about tomorrow,” he said quietly before turning away.

“Come back here!” Guard shouted, but Prince ignored him.

He had a meeting to go to, and apparently he had to change his shirt.

-

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[valiantlytransparentwhispers]

Sugar and Spice Part Two

Part One

“You’re kidding me." Villain slapped her forehead, dragging the hand slowly down her face. "Of all the thousands of henchmen I could've picked, of all the dozens of departments, I chose a culinary minion? I might as well have brought a rolling pin! Or a donut."

Villain frowned. A whole host of arguments sat on his tongue. She might have realized his department sooner if she had taken a moment to talk instead of ordering him around like a dog. Also, she'd obviously lied about Supervillain asking for him, so she only had herself to blame for this situation, and frankly, he didn't trust anything she said anymore. In fact, he was very suspicious about what she was actually doing all the way out here and why she'd tricked a henchman to come along. Not to mention she'd jeopardized his job, maybe even his life, with her selfishness.

He quickly swallowed it all down. None of it would be met well, and he didn't need to be more on Villain's bad side than he apparently already was. He could defend his power though.

"Well, maybe if let me bake you something--"

"Just shut up." Villain plopped back down on the mattress and rolled the other direction.

Henchman stared at her back for a moment. "Should I still keep watch?"

"You might as well go to bed. You’re useless to me.”

Again with the combat-superiority bias. Henchman bit his tongue. “I might not be a good fighter, but I could still wake you up if there's trouble."

"Do whatever you want."

Fine then. He threw off his shoes, kicked under the covers, and flipped toward the wall, the bed springs squeaking aggressively under his weight.

Why should he break his back helping out a villain who didn’t even appreciate it? This was just so typical villain. What a bunch of pretentious snobs flouncing around with their "special" powers and looking down on everyone else. When it came down to it, it wasn't like Villain was really any different from him. They were both pieces. She was just as much under Supervillain's thumb.

“Excuse me?” Villain snarled.

Henchman stiffened. Did he say that out loud? Which part? How much?

He wet his lips and slowly peeked toward Villain's bed but was instantly thrown down. Villain's knees dug hard into Henchman's forearms while her hands were already around his throat, squeezing just tight enough that there was room for a trickle of breath and little else, certainly not any vocals like screaming or begging. "I'm not under anyone's thumb. Got that? I'm not afraid of anyone. If I wanted, I could finish you right here."

Henchman froze. Some prey ran, some fought back, but he was of the type that went still. Like a possum playing dead or a deer in the headlights. He couldn’t move even if he wanted to. All he could really do was stare helplessly wide-eyed up at her. The ends of her hair tickled Henchman’s cheeks, and she bent close enough that he could pick out the amber specks in her molten eyes and feel the warmth of her breath across the bridge of his nose. She blinked into his gaze, and the snarl on her face softened.

She huffed. You’re just lucky I don’t have the time to clean up a body.” She unstraddled his chest and rose off the edge of the bed.

Henchman coughed a couple times and rubbing away the lingering pressure of her fingertips from his throat. "Bit of an overreaction for someone so sure of herself."

Villain whirled, red mane catching the air before floating back to her shoulders. "Do you want to die?"

Henchman smiled innocently. He was being so stupid. He knew that. But for some reason, he felt if Villain really was the sort of person who killed carelessly, she would have rid herself of him the moment he revealed the mistake. One less witness to her trip, mission, thing.

"Certainly not."

“Then shut. Up.” She flicked off the lamp on her way to her bed, blanketing them in darkness except for the sliver of street light stealing through a gap in the curtains.

“Of course, your eminence.”

Henchman curled back on his side, prey heart pounding even under the cover of freshly conjured snark. He rubbed his throat again. He was probably lucky she’d chosen a physical warning over using her powers. If there was any villain he should actually be showing respect to it was her. A primary power user. She’d been top dog of the city before Supervillain showed up and organized everything. She had the power to rearrange, but he had the power to take apart. And taking apart was so much quicker. So right hand it was.

“Villain?”

“Didn’t I tell you to shut up? I’m trying to sleep.”

“Are you running away?”

“What?” Her eyes caught the light from the street, glowing catlike. “Do you think I’m some sort of cow—”

“It’s ok if you are. I bet you could run your own city.”

She blinked.

“Supervillain’s sort of made it impossible for any sort of natural growth in the organization. He kills people for their mistakes, he pits his subordinates against each other, he doesn’t value any of tertiary power types; sometimes it feels like he doesn’t care about the strength of the organization as long as everyone else stays beneath him. It’s not like he’s at risk of being taken out by anyone. Heroes or otherwise.” Henchman caught himself, quickly shaking out his rant. “I’m just saying that it makes sense to me why you might want to leave. Do your own thing.”

"That's not any of your business." She closed her eyes again and didn't say any more.

Henchman forced his own eyes shut. Despite being tired, his thoughts were filled with Supervillain. His insides twisted into knots, raising a light bout of nausea. He couldn't go back. Henchman might be too valuable to kill, but there was no guarantee. Supervillain's decisions weren't always logical. Henchman was actually a little glad to be away from it all. There had been no hope for escape on his own--Supervillain didn't like being stolen from, and leaving was a theft of yourself--but maybe if he was on Villain's side he'd be ok.

Henchman pulled the covers closer around him. He must have fallen asleep because when he next opened his eyes, the room was lit in the dim blue-gray of early morning. The shower handle squeaked from the other side of the wall, and a few minutes later, Villain emerged in the same clothes as yesterday, hair pulled in a wet bubble braid that reached to the middle of her back. She yanked on her boots and snatched the car keys from the bedside table.

“I'll drop you off at a bus stop, but you'll have to find your own way back.”

Henchman blinked groggily at her, but as it struck he shot upright. "Back?" He gaped at her. "You want me to go back? Alone? With nothing but my own word that you forced me to come with you?"

"Well, it's not like I need you to stay. Two people are much easier to track than one."

"You screwed up my job! I missed my deadline! Supervillain could have me killed!"

"And you'll be better off begging for forgiveness than continuing on."

Henchman frowned. Was she actually looking out for him? "What if became your henchman?"

"What are you even talking about?"

"You're building your own empire, right? You'll need followers. So, I'll be the first one. I'll do everything you don't want to and prove that I'm actually useful."

Villain furrowed her brow, suspicion rearranging the pattern of her freckles. "Why?"

"What do you mean?"

"You're just a random henchman that I've never even met. Why are throwing yourself at me?"

Henchman flushed. "Ok, first of all, I don't think I'd describe it like that. Second, we have met. Last, my powers are 100% support-based. I need a boss, and I'd rather work for you than Supervillain."

"What are you going to do, make me cupcakes?"

"Sure. And pot pie. And buttermilk biscuits. And apple strudel. And--"

"How do you--"

Henchman cut the accusation short. "I know everyone of note's favorites. It was my job. Which was a pretty significant job if you ask me."

"You mildly boost powers, so what?"

"That's not..." Whatever. Henchman wasn't in the mood for convincing someone who obviously didn't want to be convinced. "Nutrition is actually a very critical part of an escape. It keeps you alert, energized, and happy. And anyway, I'm pretty sure I've spent more time being inconspicuous than you have, especially when Supervillain first took over the underbelly. I can help organize things. Give advice." He fiddled nervously with a string on his sleeve. He needed this. "Like...for example, you're going to want to trade out that car. It's nice and all but ultra-trackable. Pretty sure Supervillain has a way to hack cameras."

Villain pressed her lips together so tightly it looked painful. "Fine."

"To which part."

Villain waved her hand in the air and strode for the door. "Fine, you can come, and fine, we'll get a new car. But we're making a shopping run first. I left in a rush. So start thinking of things you need."

Henchman trotted grinning after her. “Flour, sugar, baking powder—”

"Not that. There will be no baking."

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