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tokoyamisstuff · 3 years

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Scandal Ch. 1 - Loki x Reader

Summary: After your child is born a Frost Giant, your husband accuses you of infidelitiy, unaware about his own heritage...

Warnings: Pregnancy, Childbirth, Angst, Mild Cussing

Noteable: Takes place before Thor 1, Asgardian Fem! Reader

Words: ~1800

I Story Masterlist I General Masterlist I

It was as if your anchestors wanted to deliver a warning, for Asgard had never faced a storm matching this fateful afternoon.

The thunder swallowed all of your screams and cries, every curse you spoke with each contraction as the baby made it’s way into this world. All this time, your precious husband would never leave your side, letting you squeeze his hand as much as you needed.

“Only a little bit more, my Lady!” the midwife shoutet from between your legs, her tone calm yet cheerful. “I can already see the head!”

“I’m right here. You’re doing wonderful, my petal.” Loki was softly petting your hair, pressing a wet kiss into your forehead. “You are incredibly strong, Y/N. And I love you so much!”

Remaining collected was using up all of his energy at that very moment, you knew that much. Yet not even the God of Lies could hide all the helplessness and excitement stirring in his head at that very moment.

Being with the Prince of Asgard was just like in a dream.

Once you get to know him, that troublesome arrogant lone wolf turned into a smart, caring - and especially charming - prince. And hel, Loki treated you like a Queen.

All this pain you were experiencing right now would ultimately lead to the greatest bliss imagineable - just like it was with Loki.

Oh, how dearly you had fought, suffered, yearned for him, only to be rewarded with heartbreak and frustration. In between his feverishly chase for the throne and his rivalry with Thor, there was just no room for a loving relationship to grow.

The crushing weight of thinking himself unworthy for affection had made him cold and bitter over the millenias, telling himself the comforting lie that he was above all, born for a glorious purpose.

For the God of Mischief, whose kinsmen had always made him feel out of place or under-appreciated, the process of trusting had always been one step forward, three steps back.

But through your compassion, and with a great deal of patience and understanding, you slowly but steadily melted the ice around the prince’s heart.

Because deep inside, you always knew that it was worth it.

And today would be the peak of your romance: Your child would forever remind the Odinson that he belonged somewhere - right here, with you.

“It’s a boy!”

“A heir?!” Loki exclaimed, smothering your face in kisses. “Well done!”

You smiled weakly at his excitement, in between choked sobs. All that your exhausted self was able to process was the fact that your child is born - and you already loved him beyond reason.

“Where is he?!” you whimpered, unable to realize how the air in the room had shifted - for when the midwife touched the infant, she began to scream in agony.

“What’s wrong?!” Loki’s eyes were narrowing at the midwife that almost dropped his newborn, detecting some sort of burn wound on her palm. Quickly, she had covered the boy in a towel, aware that if any harm came over that baby, she was to die at the God of Mischief’s hands.

A flash of lightning was brightening the whole room, which had only been flooded by dim candle light until now.

Another one of the midwife’s screeched in terror, almost stumbling as she frantically erscaped your bedchamber. The adrenaline from birth and worry about your child sharpened your senses, yet concentration was almost impossible.

Still, the words she was yelling as she ran down the hall send a shiver down your spine:

“It’s a monster.”

Your head was spinning as you rushed into an upright position, with two nurses pressing you onto the bed again. “Milady, you need to rest! It’s still too early!”

“What is wrong with my child?!?” you desperately screamed, kicking with your legs to free yourself from their hold. “Give it to me!”

Their expressions were too much to bear. Your head was spinning, seeing pity mixing up with disgust and anger in their eyes.

“Enough!” Loki finally broke his own silence, his mind having been occupied with all the horror scenarios one could think about.

Walking up to the midwife carrying the infant, he demanded seeing it. “Your highness, don’t-” yet the midwife’s beg was for naught.

Yes, everything will be alright. Loki will take care of it, like he always does. After all, he’s your savior, your hero, the love of your life...

Gently and insecure, your husband cradled the newborn in his arms - a sight to behold. And the baby’s strong cries assured you that it was at least alive.

However, as soon as he dared to unwrap the towel, revealing it’s face, Loki’s heartbeat completely stopped for a second. His trembling lip began to shake, mouth widely agape as he took in the child’s form.

For a brief moment, his mind was completely blank. All emotion dropped from his face before taking in a complete different demeanour.

“Wha-” you wouldn’t dare ending that sentence when your husband’s furious eyes met yours.

The air was so thick, you thought not even Thor’s hammer could break it. Clearly ritten on Loki’s usual unreadable face were so many emotions at once:

Aversion, fury, incredible sorrow...all directed towards you? The child?

Impossible.

Loki Odinson loved you more than anything in this world, this was the only thing you had always been sure he wasn’t lying about.

“From all the people I expected to betray me...” His voice was hoarse, as if the ache in his heart was wrapping around his throat. “Why did it have to be you?”

You could feel the horrendous aura, a wave of sadness and despair coming from your husband. Seeing him like this was like torture.

“What- what do you mean, darling-”

“Don’t fucking call me that, you harlot!” That was surely not the first time your lover had raised your voice against you - he could be a bit difficult at times, obviously.

But this time was different somehow. It sounded so...ultimate.

And the Loki you knew would never use such harsh words against you!

“Please, I beg of you...just let me see my baby!” Everything was just too much for you, almost to the point of passing out.

And the man did as you pleaded, almost shoving the child into your arms. “There, have your bastard! And make sure to never show your filthy faces to me ever again!”

With that, he stormed out of the room, leaving you with those strange nurses looking at you like you’ve just commited an unforgiveable crime.

There was no use in overthinking this. He’ll come back like he always did. You can work this out, whatever it is - even if you are gonna be mad for a very long time, making such a fuss and then disappearing instead of taking care of you, the mother of his child.

Out of a whim, you decided to finally observe the little being you’ve been waiting for all those months.

A loud gasp escaped your mouth as you realized just why everyone was so worked up about that little boy. Yet the sound you made was solely surprised - not a hint of fear or rejection laced your voice.

It was a beautiful baby boy, little fists balled to the air as if he was searching for the warmth of his parents - though his skin was in the shade of a dark blue. When you dared running your hand over the deep lines and ridges on his body, the stinging pain of frostbite immediately stung your fingertips. His eyes snapped open, looking at you with black irises through red scleras.

You knew the meaning of this, even though you didn’t understand how this was possible: This child was a biological Frost Giant. A small one, but nonetheless.

A curse? Was someone trying to play your family dirty? No. If that was the case, the child wouldn’t also have actual powers together with the appearance.

Just how long have those tears been running down your cheeks in thick streams already? You wouldn’t know.

Only one thing came as clear as daylight to you: You loved this baby, more than anything in this world. And no matter the hardships that came along with it - you would protect him, no matter what!

“He’s magnificent...” you sniffled, pecking some quick kisses onto his small body before the cold could hurt you. “I love you so, so much...!”

Not minding the judging looks of the nurses, let alone wondering about the consequences, resolve was starting to give you new strenght.

The boy got a grasp on your finger, and instead of your skin freezing off as expected, your magic allowed him to the boy to finally disguise itself as one of you. How was this even possible? Well, this is probably the first time something like this ever happened, so no one could prepare you for what to expect with this child.

They all say that birth was an impactful event - but nothing could’ve prepared you for everything that you had to endure on this day.

Yet nothing could’ve stopped you from believing that this child was the greatest blessing that ever came over you.

Now you only had to convince your husband of that very fact...

“Y/N Y/L/N!” the guard wouldn’t even bother adressing you with your full title as his harsh voice woke you up. When had you drifted away into slumber anyway? You were probably way more worn out than you wanted to admit...

Your eyes immediately snapped open, heart skipping a beat until you saw that your son was still sleeping soundly right next to you. Stroking his cheek as he smiled up to you, it almost made you forget about that burdensome situation.

“Hey!” Protectingly, you were holding onto your child for dear life as the guard approached both of you. “I have an important message to deliver!”

You scowled, almost like an animal mother protecting their offsprings with baring teeth, even though you knew in that state you would be completely and utterly helpless. “Why now? What could be more important than the well-being of my child?”

The answer let your blood run cold:

“I am here to announce that Lady Y/N Y/L/N has to face a trial in front of the Allfather. The following crimes she is being accused of: Infidelity, collaboration with the enemy and trying to sneak one of them into our glorious kingdom.”

#Loki #Loki Odinson #Loki x Reader #Loki x You #Loki / Reader #Loki Laufeyson #Loki Friggason #Marvel #Self Ship #Writing #Fanfiction

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talasarchive · 2 years

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—talasArchivesx —

All the stories I have ever written placed together in one place, from latest to oldest. Any works with bold “Archive” means they are Archived and no longer available for reading.

📌Orchids

Fiction Posts | Larry | m/m | 7.1K | Mature | NAWA | 28-02-2022

“Do you find me sensible yet?” Twenty-two letters and six words, yet it lingers on Louis’ mind like an old song playing from a worn cassette. Such a memory holds so much significance it visits Louis’ mind every unsuspecting moment. The words are a dreamy reminder of such precious seconds of his life.

A story about losing against the drifting tide, and finally coming home; featuring a cabin, winter blizzard and “one bed”.

📌Delightfully Wrapped

“Harry, I swear to god, this is your last and only

“Shh, you’re alright, love. Deep breaths.”

“Shut up, if you even think of bringing your knot near me I am going to cut it off and feed it to you!”

A second part of fluff from Perfect Delight where Louis was making a nest, but this time Paris, their pup, are in the photo.

📌Finally Home

Fiction Posts | Larry| M/M | 930 | NAWA | Teen and Up Audiences | 02-02-2022

“I still cannot believe I get to do this, Haz.”

“You deserve the world, love.”

Pre-show fluff for you.

📌Perfect Delight

Fiction Posts | 1.6k | NAWA| Teen and Up Audiences | 01-02-2022

Louis waited until his husband had left the room. He had been vigilant and wary all night. His consciousness is aware of every movement Harry makes. A few sleepless nights that brought out some heavy eye-bags in his eyes. Just to make sure Harry does not open or even as much as go near the closet.The closet that hides his little secret, his pride and joy. His nest.

Self indulgent fluff of Omega Louis making a nest.

Monday at the Office Collections /Archived/

Fiction Posts

I, II,

📌Purest Form of Melody

There on the screen is a simple, “Sir, my pretty little hole is ready for your massive cock to split it open.” and attached with it is a close up photo of his baby’s pink hole enveloping a massive butt plug.

Shower sex indulge by Harry when he comes home from work.

📌You served yourself in a Golden Platter

“Please fuck me.” He panted whilst letting out the prettiest whine. Harry smirked when he heard the request.

“Yeah? So desperate for your little slutty hole to be filled that you came in here in your little skirts and croptops just to be fucked?” At that Louis’ moaned loudly whilst moving his ass against Harry’s hands before leaning in for more kisses. His fingers both gripping roughly on Harry’s curls.

“Of course, you are. That’s what little sluts do, isn't it baby?”

“Yes, yes. I’m a slut.

Sex at the Office.

📌Drowning in my own form of Ecstasy

Twelve insights into Louis Tomlinson’s self-destructive habits disguised as praises and rewards to himself in the form of food. Also the days where his life has been turned around by an enigma named Harry Styles.

📌Inconsequential

Harry’s cabin out of nowhere has been discovered by a pretty boy. What is he going to do now?

📌Soft Goods

He can feel himself getting calmer from the memory of all the sweet smiles and fruity and soft pheromones that Louis has been blessed with for many years now.

Or an Au where Louis surprises Harry on tour.

📌All that was once

We bid goodnight for a promise of tomorrow, but today, we bid goodbye to what we once had.

Or an AU of Louis drinking tea and freeing himself.

📌 Wild Love

“Oh, you will be, considering your names are already trending number one worldwide on social media and a hashtag Larry Stylinson is getting back together.”

Or an AU where Harry did something drastic months after he and Louis have broken up.

📌Clowns for Pleasure

Louis’ grin fell off his face upon seeing Harry’s costume. “Are you mocking your fans, Harry?”. His voice quickly turned firm and authoritative.

Or an Au where Harry wore a clown costume and needed a release before a show and Louis is there to help him.

📌Feeling good in my skin.

“Enjoying it curly?” Harry quickly realizes the compromising position they’re in and how this must’ve looked on the people walking around them.

Of course, if Harry thought it could not get more embarrassing, their crotch rubbed on each other whilst Harry hurried to get up immediately making both of their members hard on the friction.

“Fuck.”

“Yeah fuck. Now, get off your clumsy arse off me. I’ve got places to go and I’m sure as hell already late, Princess.”

Or an AU where there's a halloween party and Harry dressed up as Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz and things just went from there.

📌Jail be damned.

Just Louis stealing clothes and potentially be on the edge of dying.

📌Chances were taken.

Maybe meeting and knowing you was a chance gifted by fate or maybe we are already written in history as one. Whichever it is, we are what matters and we’re here now.

Or an AU about our Grim Reaper who fell in love to the sweetest and most beautiful creature.

📜 Chapter 1,📜Chapter 2, 📜 Chapter 3 , 📜Chapter 4

📌Pining my way through life.

“Louis is pathetic. No other words in the dictionary that could describe how pathetic he is, he’s dumb, and a coward, that much he can say about himself. You see, Louis has a crush, a fascination, or an obsession as his asshole of a best friend Zayn calls it.”

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knifewieldingenby · 3 years

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bottle your voice (love at the glory hole)

Y’all I told you to STOP me from naming it this, not dare me xD Anyway here it is, the fic no one asked for that I am surprisingly unashamed of.

Summary: Jaskier convinces Lambert to go to a glory hole house to rid him of his dry spell. Lambert isn’t sure about it and it about to leave when he spots Aiden. Pairing: Lambden Rating: EEEEEE

Content warnings: glory holes, public sex, anal fingering, rough sex, explicit consent, sex worker Aiden, pro sex work, modern au, a coffee shop au in disguise, shameless flirting, Lambert has a big dick (and is a gentleman about it)

AO3

This was stupid, and Lambert said as much out loud. Not that anyone was listening; all the horny men wandering into the building weren’t exactly stopping to smell the flowers. They all had something much more pressing on their minds. Lambert should have, too, but this was a big first for him and he wasn’t even sure he’d like it. Jaskier, the adorable little slut he was, had recommended this place to “cure Lambert’s dry spell”, as if he hadn’t had longer dry spells in the past and gotten by just fine on his own. And why this?! PDA wasn’t exactly his thing. But now he was expected to just...go into a place full of half-naked dumbasses and fuck a random stranger through a glory hole? It didn’t feel right.

He was forced to admit, however, as he pulled open the door and entered, that if he were really so against it he wouldn’t have come in the first place. Nobody was holding a gun to his head after all. He was only blushing a little bit as the bored woman at the check-in took his money, directed him to a bowl of condoms and a very large sign that read “condoms must be worn at all times”, and pointed him to the entrance to the room. Heavy wooden doors separated the nice, tidy reception area from the dimmer staged room. As he pushed passed them, closing the door quickly behind him, his senses were overloaded by the sights and sounds around him.

The first thing he noticed, with a sigh of relief, was that the weird gym bros were actually in the minority. In fact, men appeared to be in the minority in general. Sure, there were plenty of cocks to go around, but half of them were made of silicone and another quarter appeared to belong to people of rather ambiguous gender. Lambert felt himself relax. Queer people. His people. The next thing he noticed was the various sounds of skin of skin, the moans of the people behind the walls. And then, finally, the people themselves, some on their stomach with just their ass sticking out, others on their backs with legs bound in the air, some higher up for the express purpose of oral, and a few holes meant for people to stick their dicks into and get sucked off. Lambert shuttered; he would be avoiding those, thank you very much. No point in getting pleasure if you weren’t also dishing it out, that was his motto.

Each person had a picture next to their body of a headshot. Lambert walked slowly around the room, a dim, rectangular space that felt strangely warm and inviting, and looked from picture to picture. He wasn’t exactly sure what he was looking for; he didn’t give a damn what anyone looked like. They were all beautiful in his eyes and providing a service he was very grateful for. He felt antsy thinking about fucking so publicly. Why couldn’t he just book a session with Melody, the fiery Domme that pegged him within an inch of his life? Why this? What the fuck was he doing here? Just as he turned to book it out the door someone on his right caught his eye.

He was...fuck, he was beautiful. Long dark curls fell off his shoulders, framing a face that looked like it was sculpted by the gods. Stubble grazed his jawline and eyes so green he was sure they had to be contacts beckoned him forward. Barely anyone was on this side of the room so he slinked toward the man. It was his face that drew his eye, but Lambert would be lying if he said he wasn’t also entranced by the long expanse of thick thighs and a toned ass, the man obviously on his stomach. Lambert reached out slowly, hesitated, then kept going until he rested his hand gently on warm skin. He was only now aware of how warm the room was, as he itched to take off his shirt, or pants, or both.

“Hi,” he said softly. He wasn’t sure if he was even supposed to talk to the workers - what the hell were the rules of this place? - but it didn’t feel right not to. The few gross gym bros in the room had simply walked right up to the people and stuck their dicks in without a word and it pissed Lambert off.

“Hello, darling,” came a voice so silky that Lambert felt his head spin.

“I- I don’t know what I’m doing,” he admitted. The man laughed and wiggled his ass a little.

“Whatever you’d like. Just make sure you have that condom on, or I’ll be forced to come out and kick your ass.”

Lambert chuckled and relaxed a little. This wasn’t so much different than the full service workers he’d been with in the past. Public, sure, but it was still a witty person behind the wall who knew what they were doing, and that made it seem real, seem okay.

“If I do something you don’t like, you’ll tell me, right?”

“Of course. Believe me, I’m not shy. Now, no more talking. Do what feels right.”

Lambert nodded as if the man could see him. Slowly, he brought both hands to those strong hips and stroked over them. His thumbs dug into the meat of the man’s ass, causing him to shiver, and Lambert gulped. What he wouldn’t do to make this beautiful man quiver under him. He looked around the room quickly - no one was paying any attention to anyone but the person in front of them. This was fine. He stroked his hands down the man’s thighs and back up, fingers spreading his legs apart. He heard a soft sigh from the other side of the wall.

On a small ledge of the wall next to him sat a bottle of lube. He took advantage of it, slicking up a few fingers, before bringing his hand back down. He spread the man’s cheeks, eyes locked on his hole. He looked so small, so tight, even as Lambert registered the faint glisten of residual lube from another cock. He was sure the man was plenty loose despite appearances, but Lambert was not a small man. He gently pushed a finger against the man’s hole and watched, eyes wide, as his body sucked him in with no resistance. He pushed a second one in alongside it, knowing the first would do nothing for either of them. The second, however, had the man pushing his hips back for more. Lambert grinned slightly and crooked his fingers. The response was beautiful, the man’s back arching as a broken moan escaped from his lips. Lambert pumped his fingers a few times for good measure, getting him used to the initial stretch, before he pressed a third in.

“You don’t...fuck, you don’t have to prep me, I’m good,” the man said, voice shaking slightly.

“Oh no, I think I do,” was all Lambert said as he pressed his fingers in and out. His head was spinning at how tight the man was wrapped around the digits, the thought of how tight he would be around his cock making his mouth water. Just one more, and he would feel good sliding in. If the man couldn’t take four fingers he would definitely not be able to take Lambert; he had no problem simply stroking his cock while fingering this beautiful creature to orgasm. “One more?” He stroked a fourth finger along the man’s rim for clarification.

“Fuck, yes,” the man whined. Lambert pressed in slowly, surprised that yes, this man actually didn’t need too much prep. He was loose enough to take four fingers well. Lambert curled them again and was met with a more guttural moan. He pulled his fingers out slowly, hungrily taking in the stretched hole before him, before he stepped back to open the front of his pants. The sounds around him were nothing but white noise at this point. He slipped a condom on his cock and coated himself liberally with lube.

“Okay…” Lambert said more to himself, then raised his voice. “Ready?”

“Fuck me already,” the man whined, hips wiggling. Lambert did as he was told; he moved closer, pressing the tip against the tight bundle of muscles, and pushed in slowly. He watched as the man stretched to accommodate him, ate up the groan that vibrated from the other side of the wall when his head popped in. He rubbed his hands up and down the man’s ass and lower back, easing him into the pressure as he pushed forward, a few more inches slipping in. It was definitely a tight fit now; the man’s thighs shook as he pressed back, trying to get more inside him. Lambert was all too willing to give him what he wanted. He pumped in and out, each time getting another inch of his large cock in the man. By the time he was fully seated sweat had pooled on his forehead.

“Oh my god,” the man gasped, almost too low for Lambert to hear. He smirked as he pulled out all the way and pushed back in, groaning at the tight heat wrapped perfectly around his cock. It earned him another broken moan, this time higher in pitch.

“Are you okay?” he had to ask. People didn’t usually take him with ease.

“Fuck y-yes, fuck me hard…” he emphasized his request by pushing back against Lambert, the full length of his cock splitting the man open. Lambert decided to do just that, gripping the man’s hips tight and starting up a steady rhythm. Slow at first, but he was urged on by the soft, repetitive ‘ah’s of his companion. He started to fuck him in earnest, cock swallowed by his tight hole, a groan caught in his throat. Lambert did not make noise during sex as a general rule. It made him feel too vulnerable, but fuck, did he want to make noise for this man. His eyes locked on the picture, trying to imagine what the face looked like on the other side of the wall. What that pretty mouth looked like dropped open, a steady stream of moans he couldn’t hold back, the way his eyes were probably fluttering with each thrust. Sweat coating copper skin, throat bare and begging to be bitten and sucked. The image drove him wild, and soon his hips were snapping into the man hard. He closed his eyes and savored every sound he was making, blocking all the others out.

“Oh my- fuck, fuck, harder!”

Oh, how Lambert wanted to bottle that sound and bring it with him when he left, listen to it in his bed at night as he stripped his cock and remembered exactly how it felt to fuck such a beautiful creation. His thrusts picked up - he brought his hand around the man’s body to wrap around his cock, and jumped a little in surprise. What a cock it was, big and heavy in his palm. He was briefly distracted thinking about what it would feel like to have the man fuck him instead. He growled despite himself and set up a slow, building rhythm, smearing his cock with lube in a tight, clenched fist.

“Fuck fuck fuck- ah!” His back arched and hips jumped forward, grinding into Lambert’s fist.

“Are you close?” Lambert certainly was, but he refused to come first.

“Y-yes, don’t stop…”

As his hips thrust hard he rubbed his thumb over the head of the man’s cock before sliding down, twisting and rubbing at thick veins. He could tell now how close he was; his ass tightened around Lambert, causing him to see stars. A moment later the man stilled and, with a bone-rattling scream, came hard. His cock pulsed as he painted the wall below him with his spend, his whole body shaking with the force of his orgasm, and Lambert couldn’t hold back anymore. He bit back a moan of his own as he came inside the man, condom bulging with the weight of his cum.

His hips settled down and he took a few deep breaths. He could hear the ragged breathing coming from the other side of the wall.

“Are-are you okay?” He ran his hands soothingly along the man’s back as he pulled out slowly.

“Fuck, are you kidding?” He sounded like he’d just run a mile. “Please tell me you’ll be back again.”

“I hadn’t thought about it yet. I want to, but…”

The man was quiet for a moment, and Lambert was certain he’d offended him. Or hurt his feelings. Or worse, both. Then he spoke, and his words caught Lambert by surprise.

“My name’s Aiden. I work at the Cat Café on Main street. Come visit me sometime.”

“Okay, I will,” he said shakily. Would he? Would he even have the courage to look in the too-beautiful eyes of a stranger he’d just fucked the daylights out of? “I’m Lambert. Thank you for this.” He patted the man’s ass gently before he discarded the condom in a small garbage, pulled his pants up, and left.

Yeah, there was no way he’d have the courage to see Aiden in person. He left, wondering what could have been if he’d been a different person.

Ah, fuck. Lambert once more stood outside of a business that made his skin crawl, wondering why the fuck he was here. This time it was something much less intimidating than a glory hole house. He stared at the black cat on the window of the Cat Cafe; he swore it was mocking him. This was stupid, but this time he couldn’t bring himself to say it out loud. He’d been to the Café once before (‘been to’ meaning he stood outside and tried to look inconspicuous as he peeked through the window like a creep, checking to see who was working). This time was worse though, because very faintly he could make out the back of a man he was almost certain was Aiden. His dark hair was pulled up into a high bun. Lambert itched to go in, but his heart was racing. He worried that Aiden would perhaps regret telling him his name and place of employment. It was barely after he’d come, after all, emotions were still high and he was probably still hovering in the after-bliss. Lambert wouldn’t fault him for changing his mind.

It occurred to him that Aiden probably wouldn’t even remember his name, so he could probably get a feel for the situation before he had to put himself out there. The thought was enough to get him to go inside. The café, which had been bustling the last time he was here, was relatively quiet now. He supposed most people weren’t going to get their coffee fix at 7 pm. It looked like Aiden and one other employee were the only ones working tonight. He walked up to the counter and stopped right in his tracks as Aiden turned to face him.

Fuck. fuck fuck fuck, he couldn’t do this. Aiden was every bit as gorgeous as he remembered and then some, those sparkling eyes appearing even greener in person. He wore a bright smile, head tilted.

“Hello darling! What can I get for you today?”

Lambert felt like a spooked cat, jumping at the sound of his voice. He tried to push away the thoughts of the last time he’d heard that voice, the things he was saying, the sounds he was making.

“Um, can I have...What’s sweet but will still get me wired?”

Aiden laughed. “Want my personal favorite?” Lambert nodded, eyes wide. “Caramel macchiato with an extra shot of espresso. It’s sure to get you going.”

Lambert was pretty sure he was already going, but he wasn’t about to say that out loud.

“Um, sure, one of those thingies.” Aiden grinned and started writing things on the cup.

“Name for the order?”

Welp, now or never. “Lambert?”

It came out like a question, and maybe that was why Aiden faltered. Then his lips stretched slowly into a smirk as he wrote the name out.

“I’ll have that right up for you, Lambert.”

He got right to making Lambert’s coffee, movement fast and coordinated like a dance. In what felt like too short a time, he placed the cup on the counter away from Lambert.

“Letho, get your ass out here, I’m taking my break!” He threw down his apron, grabbed the cup, and jerked his head at Lambert as if to say ‘follow me’. And Lambert followed like a puppy in love. Aiden took them to the back of the cafe and sat them in a booth half-concealed by a wall of fake ivy. He took a sip of Lambert’s drink before pushing it across the table to him.

“So, you finally came,” he purred. Lambert felt his ears grow hot.

“S’not the first time…”

Aiden threw his head back with a deep laugh and Lambert felt his heart swell.

“No it isn’t.” His eyes roamed over Lambert’s face and the parts of his body that weren’t obscured by the table. Lambert had dressed for the occasion: tight black jeans, a more casual, sleeveless dress shirt in a French tuck, the front unbuttoned practically down to his tits. He considered slicking back his hair but Jaskier stole his hair gel and refused to give it back, yelling about how Lambert should let his ginger curls be free. Overall, he thought he looked pretty good, but as Aiden’s eyes took him in he was growing anxious. What if Aiden didn’t like what he actually looked like? What if Lambert was better off a fantasy of his?

“Care to make it a second time?”

Lambert blushed but smiled despite himself. “I wouldn’t be opposed to it. What...ah, what made you want to work there? If that’s not too personal.”

Aiden shrugged. “It pays well and I’m a ridiculously horny person. It was clearly worth it.” He smirked at Lambert. “Though I should be chastising you.”

“Why?”

“You ruined me for anyone else, you ass.”

Lambert grinned. “I’m not gonna apologize for that.” He watched closely as Aiden reached out, elegant fingers playing with the bottom of Lambert’s cup where his own fingers were wrapped around. “Look, I don’t really know what this is. I don’t know what we are.”

“What do you want us to be,” Aiden said, eyes dark and searching.

“I...I want to take you out on a date.” Aiden immediately perked up. He reached a finger out and caressed Lambert’s hand.

“I want that, too. Any man who makes me scream like that is a man I want to get to know better,” he said, voice low. “Besides, you’re fucking beautiful.”

“So are you,” Lambert said softly. He hesitantly threaded his fingers with Aiden’s. “And the next time I make you scream I want to see your face.”

Aiden shivered and gripped his hand tight. “My shift ends in two hours. Care to come back to my place and make that happen?”

Lambert tried to ignore the sudden tightness in his pants. He nodded - he couldn’t wait for later, but he couldn’t wait for their date either. Sure, maybe they were doing things a bit out of order, but who the fuck cared? Not him.

#witcher fanfic #lambden #lambden fanfic #lambert x aiden #my writing #nsft #18+ only

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hufflepuffhermione · 3 years

Note

43 for the prompts? Thanks :)

Prompt: “I feel like I can’t breathe.”

Am I overly emotion about the parallels between Rosslyn and Gaza? Absolutely. So what can I do but make everyone else partake in my suffering?

You never really realize the things you take for granted until suddenly they’re stolen from you.

Breath, for one.

Josh wonders if he’d ever given his breathing a second thought before all of this. Maybe during all those meetings with Hoynes jogging along the Potomac, but even his gasps for air were unconsciously displaced by his mind going a million miles a minute on policy or strategy. Maybe, further back, when he had played the trumpet in his high school band for all of three weeks, until he realized that it reminded him too much of Joanie and quit without a word in hopes that he might remember less. They had told him to be consciously aware of his breathing back then, in the hot, windowless band room filled with kids who didn’t appreciate the music the way Joanie did. Maybe the last time he consciously considered his breathing was even before then, when he had been all of eight and his lungs had been filled with smoke and he hadn’t been able to stop coughing. But even then, it hadn’t been something he thought about; he had been too consumed with watching everything he knew in life go down in flames and trying to find Joanie within the chaos. He had failed her, but he could still breathe, so how could he complain about his own shortness of breath when there was no longer air in Joanie’s lungs?

But now? Breathing is about all he can think about.

His pain medication has worn off just enough to allow him to drift into consciousness, so the pain is not awful, at least not compared to how it was when he drifted off however many hours ago. The medication, however, is not at all effective in disgusting the tightness in his chest, or the shallowness of his breath, or the lightheadedness he feels because he’s definitely not getting enough oxygen.

It takes him a minute to realize why everything feels so off, but when he focuses enough to realize just how difficult it is to breathe, he begins to panic. His breaths grow even faster and shallower, and one of the many monitors begins to beep incessantly, and his mind is too addled by drugs to notice Donna until she comes to stand over him and clutches the hand that doesn’t have IV tubes coming out of it. “What’s wrong?” she asks.

He blinks back tears. Where did those come from? In the two days since he woke up from his surgery, he hasn’t cried at all. If he had the capacity to be embarrassed or frustrated, he would have been, but he can’t think about anything else than his struggle to get air into his lungs.

“I feel like I can’t breathe,” he whispers. His voice is still raspy from the ventilator that he was on during surgery; this is probably the longest sentence he’s spoken since he woke up.

“I know,” Donna says. “Your lung collapsed and they had to repair it, that’s why.” She squeezes his hand.

He looks up at her with panicked desperation.

“I called the nurse,” Donna continues. Josh is reassured by the sounds of her voice; if she keeps talking, maybe the panic of breathlessness will go away. “They said they might need to switch you to an oxygen mask for a little while. But that’s okay, it’ll help you breathe better. Just breathe with me if you can.”

Josh still can’t do anything but stare at her. He’s not sure that she’s gone home since he was shot; his memory is still fuzzy, but he thinks the clothes she is wearing are the same that he saw when he first woke. He wonders how long it’s been. She has bags under her eyes and her hair is pulled back in a ponytail, a tell-tale sign that she hasn’t washed it in a while, but in his drugged mind, she’s never been more beautiful. Her chest rises and falls steadily, and unconsciously, he tries to match her breathing. He can’t exactly, since something in his chest keeps hitching and he keeps beginning to hyperventilate, but as long as he keeps focused on watching her breathe, it suddenly doesn’t seem so hard to get air into his lungs.

A nurse comes in and checks his oxygen levels, frowning as she moves around her bed. “Mr. Lyman, are you having trouble breathing?”

Josh summons all the energy he can to nod.

“He woke up and started to panic and I think that’s making it worse,” Donna explains, still not letting go of Josh’s hand.

The nurse nods and moves around the bed. “Your O2 levels are low, so I’m going to switch you to an oxygen mask, okay?”

He feels like he’s about to drift off again, too tired to fight against his breathlessness, when the removal of his cannula suddenly makes it even harder to fight for oxygen. The difficulty is relieved quickly after by the placement of an oxygen mask covering his nose and mouth, but this induces a sense of claustrophobia that seems to increase the panic rather than relieve it.

“Josh,” he hears, and he thinks it’s coming from Donna but his brain is so fuzzy he can’t quite be sure. “I know it’s hard, but can you keep breathing with me?” She takes in a loud, deep breath and exhales slowly. “Just try to breathe with me.”

It’s a little easier now that he has more oxygen, and as he focuses on matching Donna’s breathing, he can begin to feel the panic melt away.

She reaches out to stroke his sweat-beaded forehead. “It’s going to get easier,” she says. “I promise. We’re just going to breathe through it.”

Donna blinks against the light steaming in through the blinds. God, she aches everywhere, although her leg throbs with a vengeance unmatched by the rest of her body. But worse than any of that is the tightness in her chest, the difficulty of getting air into her lungs.

She reaches for the morphine clicker and presses the button; she’s not sure how long she’s been out, but surely it’s been long enough for her to have another dose.

That won’t help with the breathing, though.

She looks to the figure in the chair by her bed. He’s asleep in a position which cannot possibly be comfortable, but he’s here. How is he here, all the way in Germany? He shouldn’t be here, he should be in DC. Surely the President needs him.

But Josh is here.

It takes a minute for her to remember that he had been here before, too, the minute she had first woken up. How had he managed that? Why did he bother?

She tries to take in another breath, but starts coughing instead, a painful, sharp cough that seems to tear at her insides.

Josh is up in an instant, on his feet, his eyes meeting hers. “Donna,” he says, and she’s certain she’s never heard her name spoken so softly, so reverently. “Donna, do you need something?”

“I feel…” she stars, and it strikes her just how difficult it is to get the words out when she doesn’t have enough breath, “I feel like I can’t breathe.”

Josh’s face falls, but he tries to disguise it as best he can. “Yeah. They said you’ve got a collapsed lung, that’s why it’s so hard to breathe,” he said. “It’s not too bad, though; you didn’t need surgery for it and it’ll reinflate in the next few days.” He cracks a smile at her, although she can tell it’s taking everything in him. “If your goal was to outdo me, Donnatella, I think I’ve got you beat since they had to go in and patch up my lung when it collapsed.”

Donna manages a ghost of a smile, but it disappears when she tries to take in another breath and feels like she can’t get any air.

Noting the distress on her face, Josh takes her hand. “Hey, it’s going to be okay, alright? I know better than anyone how much this sucks. It’ll suck for a few days or weeks, and it might even feel worse when they bring in a respiratory therapist to torture you, but I’m not going to let you slack off on your breathing exercises because you never let me.”

Josh settles himself on the side of the bed, deciding the chair is not nearly close enough. He still hasn’t shaved and his pallor might best be described as ‘gray’, and Donna wonders if she looked that bad after spending days without leaving the hospital when their roles were reversed. Her thoughts are interrupted again by the panic rising up in her when she tries to take a deep breath.

“Hey, I know you don’t think I remember this,” Josh continues, “but when I woke up and couldn’t breathe, you did it for me. Not literally, but you told me to breathe with you and that kept me calm enough to avoid completely panicking. So I’m going to breathe in and out slowly, and try your best to do it with me. It might hurt and you might not be able to do it, and that’s okay, but here.” He takes a sharp, loud inhale, and follows it with a slow exhale. “Breathe through it, Donna. It’s going to be okay.”

Having a private office to change in is really quite a step up from changing in the dingy West Wing bathrooms. She’s wearing a new dress, one Josh gave her at Christmas (although she suspects he might have asked CJ for some help picking it out). She notices, with a tug of her heart, that the slit goes up the left side of the dress, and it is otherwise not short enough to reveal her scars. That, she’s sure, was something that Josh thought of.

The first state dinner of the Santos administration is upon them, with the Prime Minister of Germany as the guest of honor. She knows Josh is a little nervous about the event—he had a run-in with the Prime Minister back when he was Deputy Chief of Staff that did not go so well—but he’s matured and she hopes that all will be forgotten.

She pulls on her heels, takes a minute to steady herself, and heads towards Josh’s office. One of these days, she’ll make him come over to her office so she doesn’t have to make this trek in heels, but she knows that he’s barely got time to breathe, let alone walk across the building.

Donna knocks on the door to his office and enters, grinning as she does.

He holds up a finger without even looking up to see who it is. “Sorry, just gotta finish reading this,” he mutters.

She rolls her eyes, but allows an indulgent smile that he won’t see. He works so hard, but he really is trying to make time for her. He’s already dressed in his tuxedo, although his jacket is lying on the couch in the corner, and his bowtie is, unsurprisingly, hanging undone around his neck.

Finally, he stands up from his desk and really begins to take her in. “Donna, you look…” He shakes his head, and clutches his hands to his chest dramatically, collapsing back into the chair. “God, Donna, I feel like I can’t breathe?”

“What? What’s wrong?” Donna asks immediately, her mind running through all of the horrific possibilities before she can manage to notice that he has a smile on his face. “Is it your lungs? Your heart? Josh…” She realizes she’s standing right next to him, clutching his hand, and he’s grinning up at her.

“I was going to say, I feel like I can’t breathe because you take my breath away, but you didn’t let me get that far,” Josh replies, chuckling.

Donna frowns. “You were so dramatic about it, I thought…”

“What can I say? I enjoy being a little dramatic from time to time.”

“It’s just… Josh, don’t do that to me again. You scared me?”

His face softens. “I scared you?”

“I don’t know, it’s just… the last time you said that was after you’d been shot, and I thought…” she shakes her head as if the memory will dissipate. “And then you were clutching your chest…” She doesn’t want to think about it anymore, but there’s a part of her that will never not be worried about him.

Josh stands up and wraps his arms around her. “I’m sorry, I really wasn’t trying to scare you.”

“I know,” Donna says.

“The compliment still stands, though. You look incredible in that dress,” he says. “I mean, I think you’d look even better out of it, but I’m not sure the Prime Minister of Germany would agree with me.”

Donna reaches to his shoulders and takes the ends of his bowtie in her hands. “Need me to do this?”

“Always,” Josh replies.

She steps back and takes a look at her handiwork. “You know, once in a while, you look good enough to take my breath away too. In the best way possible.”

“I can think of another way to take your breath away,” Josh says, reaching forward to take her face in his hands and kiss her until they both have to come up for air. “Was that good?”

“All of a sudden, I think I like feeling like I can’t breathe,” Donna teases, before going back for more.

#josh x donna #josh lyman #donna moss #the west wing #tww fic #anonymous #alli's writings #look the rosslyn/gaza parallels GET ME #i have like two other fic ideas in my head about the parallels but those might have to wait until i get to gaza on my rewatch #but anyway so many feelings

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thinkingisadangerouspastime · 4 years

Text

sigh no more

The crowd whistled its approval before gradually dispersing, and Mai sent him a lethal glare as she approached him. Zuko expected her to storm past, but instead she paused at his side, closing her eyes as her face became expressionless once more. “You always leave before it’s over,” she murmured. Their shoulders were almost touching. “I know you of old.”

And then she was gone.

Much Ado About Nothing AU, which coincidentally fell in line with Day 3: AU of @maikoweek! Hurray for a lovely happenstance. I did twist around a few aspects of the play to fit it better for Maiko/ATLA, but BxB was too good of a Maiko dynamic to pass up, even if Zuko is nowhere near as suave as Benedict, lmao. I really think Mai is a lot a like Beatrice, albeit with more deadpan, monotone sarcasm rather than high energy banter. I hope you enjoy these four Much Ado excerpts that I have Maiko-fied. :)

Read here on AO3! (Rated T; length is just under 5k.)

N.B. You don’t need to know anything about Much Ado About Nothing to read this fic! Bonus points if you’re familiar with the play, though. ;)

I.i.114-143

“I wonder why you’re still talking, Prince Zuko. No one is listening.”

Zuko’s shoulders stiffened at the familiar, dry tone. He wasn’t sure if his heart skipped a beat from irritation or excitement. Attraction, too, was undoubtedly involved. Not that he’d admit it aloud. “Lady Disdain,” he said, recalling the barb he’d practiced in the mirror back at the palace. He turned around to see none other than the Lady Mai - as expected - with her arms crossed over her chest. “I… didn’t know you were still alive.”

Ugh. The perfect set-up with a pathetic follow. How embarrassing.

Mai raised an eyebrow at him, perhaps as surprised at his weak retort as he was. “How can disdain ever die when all you do is add fuel to her fire, Prince Zuko?” She smoothed the front of her dress. “Surely you, heir to the royal throne and a firebender, would understand that.”

Zuko rolled his eyes, keenly aware they now had the attention of a crowd of Fire Nation citizens. Azula’s calculating stare behind him dug into his spine. “Lady Mai. You know as well as I do that the Fire Nation once again welcomes me with open arms.” He sent her a sideways glance. “Including your parents, for that matter.” He didn’t miss how she flinched at his words.

This month at her house would be… the longest of his life.

“I am certain Prince Zuko is loved by all in the Fire Nation, Lady Mai,” Azula teased, filling the tense silence. His sister never had been able to remain out of his relationship - former relationship - with Mai. “Except for you, of course.” She laughed, a bit louder than necessary. “Why, he’s turned down a dozen proposals in the past two hours since we arrived! And yet…” She sent Mai a casual, seemingly-innocent glance. “Zuko loves none.”

Why Azula alway felt the need to lie, Zuko didn’t know. What he did know was that her interruptions were not helping. And he didn’t appreciate the reminder of Mai’s hatr-

No. She didn’t - couldn’t -

No.

Zuko didn’t appreciate the reminder of Mai’s dislike for him. The loss of which he could only blame himself for.

Mai snorted. “And every woman in the Fire Nation is better off with his rejection.”

Zuko stiffened at the blow as the crowd snickered around them.

“But, I suppose I understand his desire to be alone, never falling in love,” Mai mused, a small smirk sliding onto her lips. It was the closest expression to a smile Zuko had seen on her face in a long time. “I’d rather hear a platypus-bear roar at a turtleduck than a man swear he loves me.”

Zuko glared at her, the memory of himself swearing his love to her before… before their separation bubbling hotly to the forefront of his mind. Anger soon overwhelmed any appreciation he’d had of her almost-smile. “And the Fire Nation is grateful for that, too, that way no man suffers from some” - what had Azula said to the jackass guard on their way in? - “some predestinate scratched face!” He paused. “Er, from being with you.”

Despite his faltering response, Mai returned his heated glare with an icy one of her own. “Scratching couldn’t make it worse, if the man had a face like yours.”

The crowd collectively winced at her words, and Zuko’s left hand crept up to brush his scar. Meanwhile, Azula’s eyes bore a hole into the back of his head - waiting. She was waiting for him to respond.

The flicker of guilt that flashed across Mai’s face disappeared as soon as it had come, her expression returning to its typical, unimpressed facade.

She hadn’t meant it like that. Zuko wasn’t sure how he knew, but he did. He could just - tell, when it came to Mai. And before he’d - he’d left, she’d never… No. Zuko knew her well enough. Better than he deserved to know her. And Mai would never use his scar against him.

But, as crown prince and as her guest for the next month, he still had to save face. Not to mention Azula’s intense stare from behind him was yet to lessen.

“You talk more than a parrot-snake,” he snapped, which wasn’t really true, but the crowd delighted in the petty insult nonetheless.

“A bird of my tongue is better than a beast of yours,” was Mai’s cool response.

Zuko barked a laugh. “I wish my ostrich-horse ran as fast as your mouth.” He held up his hand to stop her before she could respond. “But you’re free to tell yourself whatever you want, Lady Mai. I’m done here.”

And then she was gone.

Zuko exhaled slowly before returning to his sister’s side, not missing the amused expression on her face.

“I see you’re still engaged in your ‘skirmish of wits’ with Mai,” Azula noted, examining her gold-tipped fingernails. “A merry war that you would certainly lose without my help.”

Zuko glared at her. “I’ve told you, Azula. I don’t need you involved in my business with Mai. It’s not your responsibility to oversee us.”

Azula rolled her eyes. “Please. Zuzu. You should accept any help you’re offered regarding Mai, what with how your previous relationship with her ended in a dumpster fire. A fire you lit.”

Zuko grimaced at the reminder. He hadn’t wanted to leave Mai behind. But he’d had no other choice. And even if there had been a different option… Mai deserved more than him. Always. “I’d still appreciate it if you stayed out of my business.”

Azula raised an eyebrow at him. “For the time being, Zuko, your business is my business. This trip to Lady Mai’s is not only to reassess the good standing of her family, but also for Father to make sure you are trustworthy.” She gave him a knowing, almost wicked smile. “So you have a double reason to be grateful for my help. Because you wouldn’t make it without me.”

Zuko hadn’t realized his fists were clenched until his nails began digging into his palms. He forced himself to relax, nodding. But little tension left his body. “Fine.”

“That’s my brother.” Azula adjusted the golden hairpiece pinned into her bun. “Now. Mai’s parents are hosting a masquerade tonight to welcome us. Be your chipper self, and when the time is right, put on a mask and dance with Mai so she doesn’t know it’s you. Use that time to properly talk to her.” She chuckled. “And until then, do figure out what you’re going to say.”

The masquerade… Zuko had almost forgotten. And as much as he hated taking advice from Azula, his sister had a point. Maybe the best way to be honest with Mai was behind a mask. So he nodded once more, and Azula appeared satisfied.

Zuko didn’t deserve a second chance. Not from Mai, of all people. But… She was worth trying for one.

Mai was worth everything. She always had been. And he’d never forgive himself for not letting her know.

II.i.123-152

Finding Mai at the masquerade had been easy enough, even considering that Zuko had briefly left after the introductory festivities to find a mask. Mai herself was not wearing a mask, for one, but she was also…

Stunning. There was no other word.

Mai always had worn red better than anyone else in the Fire Nation, much to the envy of Azula. She radiated power and grace as she effortlessly floated between partners - Agni, it was a miracle Zuko didn’t chicken out of asking her to dance. At least his mask hid how much he was blushing.

“So you won’t tell me who you are?” Mai asked as they gently swayed to the airy tune.

“I’m… the Blue Spirit,” Zuko said after a pause, not wanting to deny her an answer but unable to tell her the truth, either. He deepened his voice as he spoke, though he wasn’t sure how aptly that disguised it.

Mai laughed - quickly, but a smile tugged at the corners of her lips just long enough for him to revel in it. He hadn’t seen a real smile on her face in years. “You know, Blue Spirit, I had an interesting run-in today,” she said, changing the topic from his identity, for which he was silently grateful. “With none other than Prince Zuko.” Her eyes flickered across his mask. “Perhaps you’ve heard of him?”

Zuko stiffened at his own name, relieved that the panic written all over his face was at least hidden. He cleared his throat. “Is that so?”

She nodded. “Yes. He told me that I was disdainful, and that he could hardly believe I was still alive.” Bitterness flashed across her expression. “Maybe he has been gone for so long. Long enough to forget everything.” The grip of her hand that rested on his shoulder tightened, but soon slackened. “Sometimes it felt that way to me.”

“I’m afraid I’ve never” - he coughed - “er, I don’t know of Prince Zuko.”

Mai gave him a skeptical look. “You can’t expect me to believe that.”

A statement, not a question.

Zuko was sweating too much. His palms had to be as slick as a fish - spirits, he couldn’t believe she was still dancing with him. The time to switch partners had already passed. Did she know who he was? What he was doing? “Not I, Lady Mai.”

There was a long pause before she spoke again. The only sounds were the music and the idle, lighthearted chatter around them. “Did Zuko never make you laugh?”

Zuko blinked at the sudden subject change. “What?”

Out of nowhere, Mai took the lead in their dance, walking the steps that men typically followed as her hand on his shoulder dropped to his waist. He instinctively fell back, allowing her full control. “Well, Zuko may masquerade as a prince,” she said sharply, “but he’s much more the prince’s jester. A very dull fool, whose only talent is lying to and leaving the people who care about him.” Mai dropped him into a dip, and Zuko grimaced behind his mask as his heel ground into her toes. “He works too hard to please those that will only bring him pain.” She then pulled him upright before letting go of his hand. “I’m sure he’s still at this dance. I could have sworn he stepped on my feet already.”

The blood drained from Zuko’s face. Did she know…? “If I run into him, I will give him your message,” he managed to say.

Mai snorted. “Go ahead. I’m sure he’ll get a kick out of complaining about me.” She shook her head. “Maybe my words will dissuade him from coming to dinner. I don’t want to see him tonight.” She clutched the red fabric at her sides. “Or ever again.”

Zuko nodded. He didn’t know whether to succumb to the anger bubbling in his chest or the guilt rising in the back of his throat. “You put the prince down, Lady Mai.”

Mai laughed. It was harsher, sharper than before. “It is well-deserved.” She leveled her gaze with the eyes of his mask. “I lent Zuko my heart for a while, Blue Spirit. Longer than he ever did me. I was always there for him, even when my parents told me I should walk away. I would have done anything for him.” She took a slow breath. “And what did I get in return?”

Zuko swallowed. “I - I don’t know, Lady Mai.”

“Nothing.” Her voice had dropped close to a whisper. “Not even a goodbye.” Mai’s fists unclenched, the fabric of her dress slowly falling loose. “Do you understand, Blue Spirit?”

Zuko hesitated, but nodded. “Yes. I do.”

“Good.” Mai turned away. “Enjoy the party.”

Zuko watched her figure disappear into the crowd. It wasn’t until she’d vanished from his sight that he realized… Oh, Agni.

He hadn’t said goodbye.

IV.i.269-350

Nausea lined every inch of Zuko’s stomach, bile threatening to rise into his throat and spill out at any second.

What… What had he just watched?

“Well, her father was right to reprimand her,” Azula said coolly. “Mai has no power. It’s time she learned that.”

Zuko stared at his sister in a mixture of shock and horror. “What? How can you say that? All Mai did was stand up for herself -”

Azula sent him a pitying look that silenced him in seconds. “Zuzu. She has nothing to defend. Mai is a lady, belonging neither with royalty nor with the peasants. She must learn to be silent, and to be satisfied with her station. It is the only way she’ll survive. Besides, her parents were probably just having a bad day and took it out on her -”

“Her father accused her of ingratitude and her mother stayed quiet the entire time he shouted at her,” Zuko interrupted, his fists clenching so tightly that his fingernails cut into his palms. He’d be amazed if there was no blood. “It’s obvious they’ve been through this before, Azula. Mai shouldn’t be treated like a prisoner in her own home because of one question! She shouldn’t be ignored or - or denied her voice! All she wanted was…” Oh.

To get away.

Maybe… she’d wanted to go with him. All those years ago.

“Mai knows as well as anyone else what her place is,” Azula snapped. “Second to the son. Behind the heir.” She shook her head. “I thought you’d learned your place, too, Zuzu, but now…” She glared at him. “I’m not so sure. Don’t make me tell Father that you have some foolish fantasy prancing around your head about abolishing the nobility just so your ex-girlfriend will feel better.”

Zuko’s jaw tightened. His scar ached at the reminder of his father. But he knew his sister’s words were merely a distraction. “I’m going to check on her,” was his final response before he followed the path Mai had silently taken out of the house.

He found her in the garden, sitting beneath a weeping willow. Her eyes widened when she saw him, and she dropped her head, but not before he noticed the tearstains tracing her cheeks.

“Lady Mai,” he said slowly, lowering himself to sit beside her, “have… have you been crying the whole time?”

Mai wiped her eyes. “No.”

“Mai…”

She huffed. “Fine.” Her voice cracked, and she grimaced. “But I’m allowed to cry. It’s the one thing I have a right to do.” She shook her head. “At least in private.”

Zuko hesitated. “I don’t want to see you cry, Mai.”

“Then shut your eyes.”

Zuko chewed his bottom lip. He wanted nothing more than to pull Mai into a tight embrace, promising her that everything would work out and her parents would come to their senses. Even if those words might be - would be - a lie.

But it was no longer his place to do so. Not anymore.

“Your father was wrong to speak to you like that,” he decided to say. “And your mother was wrong to not step in and help you, either.”

“I’m well aware,” she said bitterly. “And I’d owe everything to the person who dared to actually tell them that.”

“Is there a way to show such friendship?” Zuko asked after a pause.

She laughed. It was harsh, scratching her throat. “Of course there’s a way. But I have no friends here.” She glanced at him before dropping her gaze back to the grass beneath her palms. “Not anymore.”

Zuko placed his hand on top of hers, scarcely managing to bite back a relieved exhale when she didn’t pull away. “Ty Lee is gone. Azula doesn’t count. But…” He took a deep breath. “Can a man do it?”

Mai scoffed. “Right. Because I’m sure the world considers it a man’s office to defend a woman.” She sighed, and he could feel her clench the grass beneath her hand. “Maybe it is. But it’s not yours, Zuko.”

Zuko knew it was now or never. He’d hurt her before. Maybe irreparably. But he had to try. She - Mai needed someone to be there for her, he knew she did. And he loved her. He - He wanted to be there for her in all the ways he hadn’t been before.

So maybe it was selfish, but…

“Mai.” He reached out, tucking her hair that had fallen loose from her buns behind her ear. “I… I love nothing in the world as much as you.” He gave her a weak, maybe too-timid smile. “Isn’t that strange?”

Mai froze at his words, and all hope bled out of Zuko’s body. He silently cursed himself. Why had he spoken? Why hadn’t he just accepted that he’d ruined things permanently between them when he’d abandoned her alone three years ago?

“It’s… not strange,” she quietly admitted, and Zuko’s heart skipped a beat. “I could say that I loved nothing as much as you, but” - she shook her head, frustration glimmering in her eyes - “you shouldn’t believe me when I say it, even if I’m not lying -”

Mai cut herself off again with a sharp inhale, pulling her hand out from under Zuko’s to wipe her eyes a second time. “I admit nothing.” She looked up at him, and the hurt in her expression was soon drowned out by a fragile, hopeful hesitation. “But I won’t deny anything, either.” She sighed in frustration, running her hands through her hair. “Agni, I’m so sick of feeling sorry for myself!”

Zuko’s heart was beating out of his chest. “You love me.”

Mai scoffed. “Don’t sound so surprised.”

Zuko shook his head. “I didn’t think - after what I did - I don’t deserve -”

“It’s not about ‘deserve,’ Zuko!” She sighed again. “It’s never been about ‘deserve.’ Because you always loved me. The real me.” Mai closed her eyes, pain flickering across her face. “Yes. You screwed up. For a long time, Zuko, I thought I hated you. And I didn’t want to - I - I couldn’t forgive you. Not at first.” Her gaze hardened. “And I’m still angry at you.” She clenched her fists. “But…”

Zuko’s breath hitched in his throat. “But what?”

Mai groaned. “Agni forgive me.”

Zuko frowned. Where was this going?

She exhaled slowly, lacing her fingers through his. “Zuko… I don’t think I ever stopped loving you. Even I told myself I had.” She laughed - still quiet, but without the harshness of before. “Maybe, if the time was right, I’d even act like Ty Lee and protest that I loved you.”

Zuko’s grip on her hand tightened. “What’s stopping you? Do it with all your heart.” He remembered Uncle saying that to his wife, eons ago. And he wanted to hear the response from Mai. All three words.

Mai laughed again, light and open for the first time since he’d arrived at her home. She turned towards him, cupping his face with her free hand. “I think I love you with so much of my heart that none of it is left to protest.”

Zuko stared at her, drowning in her presence.

And then he was kissing Mai, his hand resting at the curve of her neck atop her collarbone as he pressed her back against the trunk of the tree. She wrapped her arms around his waist in response, pulling him into her body to deepen the kiss before one of her hands rose up to entangle itself in his hair. Zuko regretted nothing more than when he had to pull away to breathe.

“Don’t think this means you’re off the hook,” Mai whispered, her chest rising and falling with a rapid speed that told Zuko she’d enjoyed the moment as much as he had. She touched their foreheads together. “Just because we’re on kissing terms again doesn’t mean my expectations have lowered.”

Zuko was simply grateful she was willing to give him another chance. He pressed a gentle kiss to her jaw. “Ask me to do anything for you.”

There was a long pause. The air seemed to grow heavier in the silence.

“Kill my parents.”

Zuko eyes widened in horror. The social consequences, the punishment from his father, the possibility of another lifetime of exile… It was impossible. “I can’t.”

Mai jerked away from him as if she’d been burned. “You kill me to deny it. Goodbye.”

“Mai!”

She pulled her arm away as he grabbed it, pushing herself to her feet. “I am gone, though I am here. There is no love in you.”

Zuko reached after her a second time, his hand closing on her wrist. “Mai, please -”

“Don’t touch me!”

The force of her words shocked him, and he let go. “Can we at least be friends again?” he finally asked, slowly getting to his feet.

She stared at him incredulously. The amount of emotion she was expressing in such a short span of time was almost foreign to Zuko, and yet he couldn’t help but feel a hint of satisfaction that she was only willing to be so expressive around him. “You’d rather be friends with me than fight with my enemy?”

“Are your parents your enemy?” he pleaded.

“Agni, you of all people should understand that, Zuko!”

He winced at her words, hand creeping up to touch his scar. He… Yes. He understood. Not that he’d ever wanted to think of Ozai, his father, as his enemy.

But just because Mai’s parents had never burned her didn’t… It didn’t mean they’d ever loved her.

“Have they not proved themselves in the height of villainy?” Mai hissed. “Treating me like our family is better off when I’m out of the house? When I’m in a different room? When I am silent?” She clenched her fists. “Showing every damn day that our name, our reputation will always be more important than what I want? Telling me that my little brother means more to them than I ever could? Making no move to help me when - when you left -” She choked on her words and shook her head, blinking back tears. “Spirits, if I was a man - if I was allowed control over my own life -” Mai dug her heel into the dirt, her hands slowly uncurling. “I would eat their hearts in the marketplace.”

Zuko inhaled sharply. That was near treason. “Mai, you can’t -”

“Don’t you dare tell me what I can’t do!” Her voice broke, and Zuko’s heart shattered at the same time. “I’m tired of hearing those words! Every day! Do this, don’t do that, look, don’t touch, see without being seen!” She pushed her hair out of her face. “What good is being a prince, Zuko, if - if you can’t help people with that power? If you can’t take them with you?”

He heard what went unspoken.

Why did you leave me behind?

“I can’t escape this hell with wishing, so I’ll die here with grieving,” she finished bitterly, turning to leave the garden.

Zuko hastily stepped in front of her, taking her hands in his. “Mai, I swear -”

“I don’t need another broken promise from you, Zuko,” she said coldly, though she made no move to walk away.

Zuko flinched at her words. “Okay. You’re right.” He released her hands, exhaling slowly. “I can’t kill your parents, Mai. But” - he met her gaze directly to stop her from interrupting - “I can get you out of here. I - I don’t know how, yet, but we’re leaving. Soon. And this time, we’re going together.” He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Mai. I never meant to hurt you.”

Mai didn’t respond. And when she fell forward into his arms after her knees buckled beneath her, Zuko held her close, willing to stay as long as she needed.

He was never leaving her again.

V.ii.42-103

Everything was in place.

That night, while everyone - including the servants - was attending a performance by the Ember Island Players, he and Mai would have the perfect chance to sneak out. Zuko wasn’t sure where they’d go. Maybe Ba Sing Se. Eventually, of course, they’d have to return to the capital. He had duties to fulfill as crown prince. And Mai…

Well, she’d be Fire Lady one day. Probably the best in history. If he had to, he would make them respect that.

“You asked for me?”

Zuko stood from the bench he was sitting on as Mai entered the garden, dressed in more relaxed attire than he knew she’d worn in a long while. He enjoyed seeing her comfortable. “Yes.” He moved forward to kiss her, but she sidestepped, giving him a teasing smile.

“I’m here for an update, Prince Zuko. If what you say satisfies me, then maybe - maybe - neither of us will depart unkissed.”

Zuko laughed. Seeing her in perpetual good spirits was his new favorite thing. Well, his new, old favorite thing. Mai was - she was beautiful all the time, no doubt, but there was a special twinkle in her eyes when she hated the world.

He’d rather die than ever again see her believe the world hated her.

“I have good news. Our plan is a go.” He laced his fingers with hers. “I’ll meet you at your bedroom tonight when it’s time to leave.”

Zuko saw tension ease out of Mai’s body at his words, her shoulders dropping in relief. “Waiting for these next few hours to pass will take years,” she admitted.

Zuko chuckled. “Then let me distract you.” He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her onto his lap as he sat back down on the bench. He’d half-expected her to stop him, and was silently overjoyed when she simply rolled her eyes before leaning back into his chest.

“Give it your best shot, future Fire Lord.”

“Hmm…” Zuko had to contemplate what best to say. “Okay. Tell me this - which of my bad parts did you fall for first?”

He could feel Mai laugh. The sound vibrated into his chest, even if he couldn’t see her entire smile. “All of them at once. But if anyone asks, none, and never.”

He kissed the nape of her neck, relishing in the shiver that ran down her spine. “As long as you’re honest around me.”

Mai hummed contentedly. “I could ask the same of you.”

“Which of your bad parts I fell in love with first?”

Mai laughed. “No. I mean I could ask you to always be honest with me, too. That said…” She turned in his lap to better face him, an edge of mirth to her smile. “Tell me - which of my good parts did you suffer love for first?”

Zuko found himself laughing, too. “‘Suffer love’?” He pressed a kiss to the tip of her nose. “I guess I do suffer, since I love you against my will.”

“Oh, in spite of your heart, I’m sure,” Mai mused, a teasing glint now shimmering in her eyes. “Poor heart.”

Zuko chuckled. “Azula always said we didn’t know how to flirt like normal people.” Mai accepting him back into her life had made dealing with Azula’s temperament far easier the past few days.

“She might have a point.” Mai shrugged. “But who cares what Azula says? We found our way back to each other.”

Zuko closed his eyes, pressing his forehead against hers. “We did. And I’m never leaving you again.”

There was a pause before Mai responded. “Will you…” She took a shuddering breath, placing one of her hands on his chest. “Are you really going with me tonight?”

Zuko leaned back slightly, removing one of his arms from around her waist to cup her face in his hand. “Lady Mai, I will live in your heart, die in your lap, and be buried in your eyes. Most importantly…” He pressed a chaste kiss to her lips. “I will go with you wherever you travel.”

Mai leaned into a second kiss. “Good,” she whispered. “Because I’m never letting you say goodbye to me again.”

“You won’t have to,” Zuko promised. His grip tightened on her waist. “I know I’ve said it before, but I - I never wanted to leave you, Mai. And I know I hurt you.” He shook his head, gently running his thumb just beneath her eye. “I could apologize a million times and that wouldn’t make up for it -”

“Zuko.” Mai gave him a gentle smile. “You came back. That’s what matters.”

Zuko raised an eyebrow at her. “So… Does this mean you don’t hate me anymore?”

Mai rolled her eyes, but her smile didn’t leave. “I think we’re well past that point, Zuko.”

And when she crashed her lips onto his for the umpteenth time, well… That answered any other questions Zuko may have had.

Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more,

Men were deceivers ever,

One foot in sea and one on shore,

To one thing constant never.

Then sigh not so, but let them go,

And be you blithe and bonny,

Converting all your sounds of woe

Into hey, nonny nonny.

Sing no more ditties, sing no mo

Of dumps so dull and heavy.

The fraud of men was ever so,

Since summer first was leavy.

Then sigh not so, but let them go

And be you blithe and bonny,

Converting all your sounds of woe

Into hey, nonny nonny.

#fallmaikoweek2020 #maiko #mai #zuko #atla #avatar the last airbender #atla fanfic #atla fanfiction #atla mai #atla zuko #atla maiko #azula #much ado about nothing #much ado about nothing au #amy writes #maiko au #maiko fanfic

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andorerso · 4 years

Note

Oh boy, there's so many good ones in that prompt list! I'll limit myself to three: #1 with Jyn and Cassian (trying to) have a lazy weekend; #28 and then Jyn proceeds to beat the crap out of her captor herself; or #127.

Hey! I went with #28 “Take one more step and I snap her pretty little neck.” Prepare for some angst :)

Cassian steps into the seedy motel room cautiously, his eyes trained on the man holding a blaster to Jyn’s face. He’s a human in his forties, his hair short and spiky, his clothes worn and tattered. There’s something unsavory in his eyes that would have set Cassian on edge even if he wasn’t holding his partner hostage. This is not a man to play around with, Cassian decides, because he will shoot.

“There you are,” the man says, his voice delighted as if they were old friends meeting again. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

This is about him, then. A bounty hunter? Someone out for revenge?

Cassian’s eyes sweep the room, looking for opportunities, but he doesn’t make any hasty movements, much too aware of the blaster pressed against Jyn’s temple. Stay calm, stay collected, stay professional. He’s always been good at compartmentalizing, and now all he focuses on is the stranger watching him with a greedy grin. There’s a syringe on the table but Cassian ignores that for now. Could they escape through the window?

“Drop your weapons,” the man tells him, and Cassian obeys, slowly putting down his blaster and removing two vibroblades from his breast pocket and his pants. He kicks them in the man’s direction.

“All of them,” the man says, and Cassian gets rid of another two blades from his boots.

“That’s all of them,” he speaks at last, even though he does have one more vibro-shiv tucked inside his right sleeve.

“Good. Now stand up. Careful. Take one more step and I snap her pretty little neck.”

Cassian keeps himself from grimacing, unwilling to give this man an ounce of leverage. It was only a small step forward, disguised as him straightening up, but the man is clearly not a rookie who wouldn’t pick up on it. He had to be careful here.

“Let her go,” Cassian says, his voice even. It’s a long shot but he has to try.

Jyn hasn’t said a thing yet and he tries not to look at her face. He thinks if he did look, she’d be more pissed than scared. Of course she would be, his fearless Jyn. But he couldn’t look at her – he had to be in control.

“Yeah, sure. As soon as I have you.” A nasty grin lights up his face; Cassian could see his yellowing teeth. “You’re gonna make me rich, rebel scum.”

A bounty hunter then. It isn’t Cassian’s first time dealing with one – but it’s the first time they try to use someone else against him. It’s the first time he cares about anyone enough that it might work.

“There’s a syringe on the table, it’ll knock you out for a few hours,” the man tells him, nodding with his head. “Go and inject yourself with it. No sudden movements,” he emphasizes, pressing the blaster harder against Jyn’s temple. His eyes catch hers for a second, – she looks murderous – and then he’s looking away.

He hesitates. Even if he does what the guy wants, there’s no guarantee he’d keep Jyn alive afterward. In fact, the chances of him not wanting to risk Jyn coming after them – and she would, Cassian knows this as he knows his own name – are rather high. He’s going to shoot her anyway.

He has to get her out of this somehow.

“Let her go first, and I swear I’ll go willingly.”

“Cassian,” Jyn speaks up for the first time, her voice a warning and a plea at the same time. She’s begging him not to do it, but he can’t risk her life.

“Do you think I’m dumb?” the guy asks, and unfortunately no, Cassian doesn’t. It would be easier if he was.

“Do you think I am? You’ll kill her as soon as I’m unconscious.”

“Just fucking do it or I blow out her brains now,” the man growls, his grip on Jyn’s arm tightening. Cassian wants to tear his arm off for even daring to touch her, but instead, he clenches his jaw and steps towards the table.

He eyes the syringe. Injecting yourself with an unknown substance is the most idiotic mistake he could think of. No sane person would even consider it. But the alternative is Jyn dying and that… is not acceptable.

“Cassian, don’t,” Jyn begs him again, her voice holding a hint of desperation now, and he’s sorry, so fucking sorry, but he presses the needle to his arm and pushes it into his vein anyway.

It could be poison, he muses, but he doubts it. An intelligence officer is useless dead. They’d want to question him first. It’s most likely just a sedative that’ll knock him out for a few hours while the bounty hunter hands him over to the authorities.

Briefly, he thinks about the small pill hidden in his breast pocket. Not yet. He isn’t ready to give up yet, not with Jyn watching.

As soon as the syringe is empty, Cassian feels his limbs becoming heavier. Jyn. Force. I’m so sorry. He stumbles a bit, grabbing the edge of the table for support before falling to his knees. His eyes find Jyn’s at last, and she’s watching him in fear, her face filled with sorrow. Please let her go.

“Jyn,” he gasps, voice weak, and it seems to trigger her anger as she turns her head towards her captor, hissing in his face.

“I’ll find you, you hear me? I won’t stop until I find you no matter what you do, no matter where you go – you won’t have a moment of peace! I’ll hunt you down!”

Stop it, he thinks, his brain fuzzy and his vision blurring. Don’t make him kill you.

He can see the man’s eyes clouding with anger, his grip loosening on her arm as he takes a step closer and waves the blaster in her face, and that’s all it takes.

Jyn takes a wild chance by slamming her elbow into his stomach, but it works – he doubles over and she catches his blaster. Her fingers are on the trigger in a millisecond, and she aims for the head. The man falls to the floor with a thud, and Cassian can see blood splatter on Jyn’s face through his blurry vision.

She runs to him without stopping to wipe it off, gathering him up in her arms. He thinks he’s going to pass out soon but he gathers up enough energy to breathe out her name as she checks his pulse and strokes his hair.

“We have to go. There could be others,” she murmurs to him, voice gentle and still so terrified.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, then everything goes black.

Cassian wakes up lying on his cot in hyperspace, long gone from that cursed planet they left behind. He doesn’t question how Jyn managed to get him back to the ship by herself; she was nothing if not determined and resourceful. She would have carried him back herself is she had to.

Cassian stands up slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. Whatever was in his system, it leaves him still weak in the legs, his head pounding like a hammer. The mission is a bust – it might have been from the start if his informant is the one who sold him out to that bounty hunter – but he strangely doesn’t care about that right now. There’ll be time to care later when they’re back on base. Now he just wants to find Jyn.

On unsteady legs, he makes his way to the cockpit where Jyn is sitting, idly watching the stars outside. She’s not the greatest pilot in the world but he taught her just enough to be able to get herself back to base, if he was ever not with her or otherwise incapacitated. With their luck, he knew it would come in handy someday, and now it has.

She turns to look at him when she hears his footsteps, clumsier than usual, and he gives her a soft smile. “Hey.”

She stares in silence, then looks away.

“Hey. We’re still four hours away from base. You’ve been out for ten. Are you okay?” She says all this in a monotone tone that almost reminds him of himself. He watches her face before answering, noting the taut line of her jaw, the tension in her shoulders, the straight line of her lips.

“My head is pounding,” he answers honestly. They have a deal about being honest with injuries. “And my legs feel a little shaky. I think I’m fine otherwise.”

She nods once, her voice still very even. “Good.”

He sits down next to her, watching her face as she watches the stars. He can’t get a feel of why she’s angry yet. At him for injecting himself? At the bounty hunter who outplayed them both? At herself for – in her mind – failing him? He decides to prod her a bit.

“Are you okay?”

“Fine.”

He’s silent for a moment, deciding his best approach. “What happened?” he asks in the end, choosing not to push her just yet.

Her eyes close briefly and her mouth twists – a small sign of anger.

“He was waiting in the room. Caught me off-guard. He was lucky, nothing more.”

So she is angry at herself. He could hear it in her voice; the frustration and contempt. She believes it was her mistake, that she shouldn’t have been overpowered like that. But they’re all just human and they all make mistakes.

“Somehow, he knew he could use me against you,” she adds after a second, her voice quieter and… sorrowful. Cassian frowns. “And you let him.”

There it is. Her words are an accusation, and he’s not too surprised. She’s angry at him too. He takes a deep breath, looking out the window for a second. Trying to compose himself and his thoughts.

“We’re fine now,” he says simply. Jyn’s head snaps towards him and he turns back to her. She’s furious, a fire in her eyes as she glares at him. He looks back at her calmly, unintimidated.

“You injected yourself with something we don’t even know and then you weren’t waking up –”

“There was a bigger chance of him letting you go if I complied –”

“So I’m your weakness now?” she cuts in, her voice rising in indignation and disbelief. “I don’t want to be used against you, ever.”

She looks upset but clearly still holding back from feeling her true emotions – which was not anger but fear. Cassian fights the urge to take her into his arms and soothe all her worries with touch alone; he needs to say this, she needs to hear it.

“Jyn,” he begins slowly, his tone serious, “loving you is not a weakness. It never could be.”

“It was today,” she breathes out, her shoulders sagging as a cloudy expression overtakes her face. Cassian can’t help himself anymore. He pulls her into his arms and she goes willingly. She buries her face in his shoulder, her breathing shaky as she finally lets herself go. A few minutes pass in silence, Cassian gently rubbing her back just to let her know that he’s here.

“I was scared,” she admits once she gets her breathing under control, her voice barely audible. “I didn’t want to be the reason you were captured.”

“He had a blaster to your head,” Cassian says, the memory of it seared into his brain. He didn’t want to dwell on it too much then, but now that it’s over, he knows the sight will haunt him for a while to come. “I’m always gonna choose you.”

He pulls away to look at her, carding his fingers through her hair as she stares up at him with sad green eyes.

“Maybe that’s a weakness in a way.” He strokes a finger down her cheek, flicking her chin with a gentle smile. It earns him a tiny quirk of her lips and he’ll take that as a win. “But it’s also my strength.”

She looks at him for a while, contemplating, her big green eyes seeing right through his soul. Eventually, she puts her head back on his chest, her arms wrapping around his waist as she clings to him like a loth-cat. He holds her just as tightly, his chin falling on her shoulder.

“You’ll always be my strength, Jyn.”

#rebelcaptain #dailyrebelcaptain #therebelcaptainnetwork #my fics #me pretending to have sw world knowledge pt. 13234343 #i honestly wasn't sure how to finish this as i'm not sure their dilemma can have a true resolution #but i did my best #pancakesandfanficforbreakfast #replies

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bcdrawsandwrites · 4 years

Photo

Fandom: Coco

Rating: K+

Genre: Drama, Angst

Characters: Héctor, Ernesto

Warnings: [Spoilers??? But nothing we don’t see in the movie...]

Description: Twenty one years after his death, Héctor finds that his photo has finally been placed on an ofrenda. Ecstatic, he hurries across the marigold bridge... and finds himself in a hauntingly familiar city that is not Santa Cecilia, in a place that is not a home.

Something strange is going on.

Beta Readers: @jaywings, @tomato-bitch, and @uncuentofriki

Notes: Here’s a fic I started like... two years ago, and finally brushed the dust off of and finished. Hope you guys enjoy!

—

It was going to work this time. It hadn’t worked last year, when he’d worn a skirt, or the year before, when he’d worn a blouse, but it would work this year—he was certain. This year, he wore a wig, and a dress, and had Tía Yolanda help him out with some makeup.

He had to look like somebody.

Surely.

But as Héctor got closer and closer to the check-in gate, he felt a nervous fluttering where his stomach used to be. He’d waited all year for this. What if it didn’t work, again? What if he had to go another year without seeing his Imelda? His Coco? She was an adult now, older than he’d been when he’d married Imelda. Was she married now? Engaged? He didn’t know—he had no way of knowing.

It had been twenty-one years since he’d died.

Twenty-one years since he’d last seen his family.

He couldn’t bear going another year without catching so much as a glimpse of them.

“Next!”

Héctor gave a start, then shook himself bodily. Basta, that was enough of that. As Ernesto would say, it was showtime.

Putting on a calm expression, Héctor strode up to the counter and smoothed out his dress. “¡Hola, señor!” he said, using the same falsetto voice he’d learned to fake in previous years. “You don’t have to worry about my photo. My family always—”

“Er, wait—Héctor? Héctor Rivera?”

Immediately his non-existent stomach gave a jolt. The border agent, who had been shuffling through a massive stack of files containing names, copies of photos, and who-knows-what-else, was now adjusting his glasses as he stared at him.

“You are Señor Rivera, sí?” the agent repeated.

Quickly feigning outrage, Héctor put a hand to his chest and reared back. “Ex-cuse-me, señor! I am the very honorable Señorita—ah—” And immediately he faltered, blanking on the false name he’d chosen earlier.

But the agent only waved him off. “You can drop the act now, Señor Rivera. Listen—”

“No, you are mistaken!” Héctor cried, hoping the way his voice shook passed for outrage rather than desperation. “My name is not—”

“Señor, please, we have people waiting—”

No, no, he’d waited too long for this, he wasn’t going to back down now! “So why won’t you let me—”

“SEÑOR! You have a photo at another gate!”

Héctor opened his mouth to reply, only to freeze as the words sank in. “...¿Qué?” he managed to squeak.

The agent, while clearly relieved he’d gotten through to Héctor, still looked annoyed. “You’re lucky I’m used to dealing with you, or you may have been thrown out of line.” He shook his head, rubbing his face. “But I’ve been informed that you have a photo on an ofrenda in another city. So, por favor, take that disguise off and get to the gate!”

Héctor could barely hear him. “Another… city? My photo?” he murmured, dropping the fake voice. “I-I had wondered if they’d moved, or lost my photo, but I’d never thought—!”

“There will be more information when you get there. We have an alebrije ready to take you to the proper destination. Now por favor, Héctor, get going!”

While Héctor was still in a dazed fog, something blunt struck him from behind, and he found himself falling onto the back of a bat-winged, purple-and-red goat alebrije. It bleated as it carried him away from the gate, and flew him off the nearby ledge.

“Feliz Dia de los Muertos, Héctor!” the agent called after him, and it finally sunk in.

Whipping off his dress and swapping his wigs in record speed, Héctor sat up as straight as he could, throwing his arms out and belting out the loudest, most triumphant grito he’d called out in years.

The alebrije, to Héctor’s delight, took him to the very front of the line at an enormous gate with an equally enormous bridge—even bigger than the one to Santa Cecilia. At first the people in line were quite angry to see him cutting in front of them, but the crossing agent was quick to let them know that this was supposed to happen.

Wiping away the remains of his makeup, Héctor stepped off the alebrije, which trotted up to a blanket off to the side of the counter and curled up. “Gracias,” he said to it, adjusting his goatee and faded neckcloth as he stepped up to the counter. “I-I believe you were expecting me?”

For the briefest of moments his breath caught in his chest—what if this had just been a fluke? What if this was just a big mistake, and Imelda or Coco hadn’t really found his photo? What if this was just another rotten twist of fate, like that rotten chorizo—

“Héctor Rivera, yes?” the agent said, glancing quickly between him and the folder in front of her. She then did a double-take, her tired eyes widening in shock as she stared at something in the file that Héctor could not see. Terror rattled in his ribs before the agent breathed out, “Oh, wow.”

“Is—is there a problem?” he asked, tugging at the tattered pink sleeve of his charro suit.

“No, señor, I just had no idea you had a connection with—” She shook her head, clearing her throat. “Well, you’re clear to go. Your photo is on your… friend’s ofrenda.”

Héctor’s stomach dropped. Not “your wife’s ofrenda” or “your daughter’s ofrenda.”

“Wait, wait, wait, my friend’s—?”

“Sí,” the agent affirmed, stacking the papers together and setting the folder onto a teetering stack to her right. “The ofrenda of Señor Ernesto de la Cruz.”

Immediately the people behind him began to murmur: “Ernesto?” “That singer?” “The famous songwriter? But how?” “This guy’s clothes are so ragged, it can’t be—”

Before Héctor could respond, the agent ushered him forward, and he stumbled out to the platform before the bridge.

This was a lot to take in.

Not Imelda, not Coco. Ernesto had put him on his ofrenda. Why now, though? Why in a totally different place from Santa Cecilia? Was he traveling still? Did he move? Why was Ernesto putting his photo on an ofrenda before his family did?

Another skeleton nearly bumped into him, and he placed a hand to his head, idly letting his legs carry himself forward as he tried to piece this together.

Had something… happened to Imelda and Coco? No—no, that couldn't be right. He would know if that was the case—he’d be alerted right away. Had they moved? He supposed that was possible—it was strange to imagine Imelda going anywhere else, but perhaps she had moved the zapateria she’d mentioned in her letters to another town. A larger city, with better business. She did have to take care of the family on her own, so… yes, that made sense.

But still, why was Ernesto the one putting up the photo? Sure, he was his friend—his hermano, even—but…

Wait, what if Imelda and Coco had moved in with Ernesto? Wait, wait, no, that was ridiculous. While Imelda never hated Ernesto, the two hadn’t exactly gotten along perfectly. So perhaps Ernesto was visiting Imelda and Coco? Maybe he’d somehow found the photo he’d thought he’d lost, and brought it over to their house, and set up an ofrenda?

Héctor’s non-existent heart leapt at the thought. Yes, yes! That had to be it! He’d find his way to Imelda’s house, and finally get to see her, and Coco, and Ernesto!

But then the murmurs he’d heard behind him came back to him.

Ernesto… he’d been singing Héctor’s songs for all these years—become a household name by this point. All the newly-dead were talking about him, and his music had spread like wildfire across the Land of the Dead. It hurt to hear those songs played everywhere, especially that one, but… Imelda had to know, didn’t she? Ernesto had to have told her that he’d died—she’d let him play his songs, for some reason…

Ay, it was too much to take in. He’d have to sort through it when he got there.

Speaking of—where was he now?

Shaking his head to bring himself back to the present, Héctor glanced around, and gave a start at seeing himself standing atop a floor of cempasúchil petals, with an enormous drop off to his right side. With a yelp he jumped to his left, bumping into a young woman. “¡Lo siento!” he cried, holding up his hands defensively and glancing warily back at the edge of the bridge. Right, watch where you’re going.

As he continued to move forward, he looked down at his bare feet (he’d lost his left shoe back in February, and there was no point in wearing just one), amazed to see the petals easily supporting them. He looked up at the people around him, and back down at the bridge, and at the border in the distance behind him, and—

Dios, he was crossing the bridge!

The joy of it hit him even harder than the initial excitement had, and he didn’t realize until his vision began to swim that he was crying. Frantically he wiped at his eye sockets, scrubbing at them with a frayed sleeve, trying in vain to steady his breathing. He was aware that people were probably staring at him, but he still gave a stuttering gasp when someone placed a hand on his shoulder.

“You okay, amigo?” one man asked, looking at him in concern.

For a moment Héctor couldn’t quite remember how to talk, but even if he could, the joy seemed to be drowning him. After taking a few deep breaths, he finally managed to gasp out: “I—I’m going to see my wife.”

Immediately the man smiled in understanding. “Aaaah. First time crossing, eh?”

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak again.

“It’s always a hard wait, but you’ll get to see her now, and every year from now on.” Giving his shoulder a friendly shake, the man stepped away. “Have a good time!”

Swallowing, he nodded again and scrubbed at his eye sockets. Briefly he thought that he should be careful to look nice for Imelda and Coco, but they probably wouldn’t be able to see him, would they? No, of course not, idiota. You didn’t see the dead come to life every Dia de Muertos, did you?

The thought made him laugh, which made him nearly start crying again. Ay, he was a mess. A very, very happy mess.

As he reached the highest point of the bridge, he could see an enormous graveyard stretched out before him, and a huge city beyond that. It seemed vaguely familiar, but then, he’d traveled so much before he died, every place felt familiar to him. Every place felt the same.

He felt a pang in his chest as he realized he wouldn’t get to see Santa Cecilia, but then, that was a small sacrifice to make to get to see his family again.

Looking out over the graveyard, which was bathed in a welcoming orange light, he had to wonder what city he’d been led to. The crossing agent had neglected to say—he probably should have, but maybe Héctor had thrown him off with his antics. (He supposed he probably deserved that one.) Regardless, he was going to have a time finding Imelda, Coco, and Ernesto in a place like this.

...How was he supposed to find them?

It struck him with a burst of anxiety and fear. How on earth was he supposed to find his family in a city this huge?

All around him, people were confidently walking one way or another as they reached the end of the bridge—had they lived here? Was he going to have to ask around?

Looking around him frantically, he scrubbed his face of the remaining tears and tried to focus. “D-disculpe, anyone, I—h-how do I—how am I supposed to—”

A man turned back toward him, and he recognized him as the man who had been friendly to him a few minutes ago. “How are you supposed to find your family?” he asked, and Héctor responded with a nod and a hopeful smile. “Easy, amigo, just follow the petals.”

“Petals?” Héctor looked down at the petals beneath his feet, but the man shook his head.

“No, no, at the end of the bridge.” He pointed to where the bridge met the ground. “Do you see a trail of petals?”

Sure enough, there was a narrow trail of petals starting at the foot of the bridge and leading through the graveyard. “Sí, I do, but—”

“You can only see the petals that lead you home. Follow them, and you’ll be fine.”

Héctor heaved a sigh of relief. “Gracias. I was worried for a moment there.”

“It’s all right, amigo. Everyone’s new to death at some point.” With that, the man hurried ahead before Héctor could correct him.

It bothered him for a moment, but he shook himself. What did it matter if he’d been dead for twenty years or a hundred? He was going home!

As he approached the foot of the bridge, he stopped when he saw what appeared to be a barrier of some sort. Yet other skeletons were walking right on through as though it hadn’t been there at all. Watching in curiosity, he found that as people stepped off the bridge, they became vaguely translucent and tinted an orange shade—the same shade as the cempasúchil petals he’d been walking on.

Héctor looked back at the barrier, feeling a familiar twist in his gut. Even though he’d passed the border, even though he’d crossed the bridge, a part of him still wondered if there had still been some mistake—if he wouldn’t be able to pass through this barrier. But, taking a deep and completely unnecessary breath, he stepped through it, blinking as an orange glow enveloped him.

He’d… he’d made it!

Letting out a wild cheer that startled several people around him, he bolted down the narrow marigold path as fast as his feet would allow. Unfortunately the graveyard was exceedingly crowded, and he had to force himself to slow down before he bumped into anyone or anything.

All around him were families, both living and dead, gathering around graves, talking, laughing, and carrying offerings. Not long ago, Héctor would listen to the Remembered with barely-concealed envy as they talked about how wonderful it was to catch up with their families. But now things were different—tomorrow, he’d be right there with them, sharing new stories about his daughter and his wife, for once.

But he had to focus on the petals. Keeping his eyes to the ground, he continued following the narrow trail as it finally took him out of the cramped graveyard and into the city.

The city was big. He’d seen it from a distance, but now that he was actually walking down its streets, it felt even more enormous.

And familiar.

He'd traveled to many cities during his last fateful tour with Ernesto, though. Perhaps this was just one of them, and he couldn’t fully recognize it because it had been two decades. A lot could change in that amount of time. But not too much. He knew this place. He knew it—!

As he continued following the petals down the street, he barely noticed the sound of something loud and rumbling until some massive vehicle was barreling toward him. With a frantic yell, Héctor dove out of the street, breathing heavily as he watched the thing swerve down the road and turn a corner. Right, cars. Hadn’t seen one of those in a while.

If he’d still had a heart, it would have been hammering in his chest, but any residual fear was quickly washed out by annoyance at the sound of laughter. A few skeletons stood nearby, giggling at him, and he gave them a frown as he stood up and brushed himself off. “I’m fine, I know what I’m doing,” he muttered, and looked back for the petal trail, which was, fortunately, unaffected by the passing vehicle.

“Newly dead?” one woman said with a laugh, and he looked away from her. “You know those things can’t hurt you, right?”

“They go right through you!” the other woman called out.

Well… that would’ve been good to know before. Héctor gave a tight nod. “Gracias,” he said, only to pause, turning to face them fully. They were both dressed in fancy clothing, carrying baskets full of bottles and pan dulce. “Perdoname, señoras—could you tell me what city this is?”

That only caused them to break out into another fit of giggles, and briefly he wondered how much of the contents of those bottles they’d already consumed. “This is Mexico City!”

The name hit him like a bolt of lightning.

But the women took no notice, stumbling down the street in the opposite direction, and leaving Héctor standing there in horror.

It took him a moment to realize he was reaching for something in an inner coat pocket—one of the two things he’d had on him when he died, and that he fought to protect from the elements at all times. One was his photo.

The other was a train ticket out of Mexico City.

Forcing himself to draw his hand back to his side, he shook himself bodily. No, he didn’t need to look at that again. He knew where he was. He knew the ticket was still in his pocket. He knew the train station was somewhere in this hellishly massive city with too many people and fondas that sold rotten food—

Basta—STOP IT!

Héctor ignored the phantom pains that were building in his nonexistent abdomen, swallowing as he forced his legs to move forward, continuing to follow the petals.

Of course, Ernesto would wind up moving here. He’d always talked about how much he loved this city. Héctor just… wished it hadn’t been the city that he’d wound up… where he…

Drawing in as deep a breath as he could, he held it until his ribs hurt, then breathed out slowly. You’ll have to get used to it, then, amigo, he thought, focusing on the petals again. If you want to see Imelda and Coco and Ernesto again, you’ll have to get used to coming here.

Or hope they move elsewhere.

It didn’t matter, anyway—he was already dead. Wishing he’d died elsewhere, or that his familia had moved elsewhere, wouldn’t change anything. What mattered was that he’d be seeing them again. That was all that mattered.

Even so, he wished these awful petals would lead him out of these terrible streets soon.

—-~~~—-

“There, Héctor, do you see it?!”

“No, Ernesto, I can’t see the building we’re standing directly in front of.” The comment earned him a playful shove, and he grinned. “Is that where we’ll be performing?”

“Of course! ...Eventually.”

“Eventually?”

“Sí. Tonight we’re performing at the cantina next to our hotel on the other side of town.”

Héctor sputtered, resting his guitar and suitcase on the street. “Wh—?! Then—then what was the point of dragging our stuff out here?!”

Ernesto smiled, wrapping an arm around Héctor’s shoulders. “Because one day, hermanito—one day we’ll be so famous this theater will be begging—begging!—for us to play there! Can’t you see it? Ernesto y Héctor, performing for one night only—”

“Okay, okay, hermano.” Héctor returned the gesture, wrapping his arm around Ernesto’s shoulders with a half-smile. “But let’s save the daydreaming for after we’ve dropped our luggage off at the hotel.”

“These are not daydreams, Héctor.” And Ernesto gave him a look—one Héctor could never forget. It was a look of such determination, it was vaguely frightening. “Soon, very soon now, they will be reality.”

“...Sí, Ernesto. I’m sure they will be.”

Héctor absently rubbed his shoulder as he stared up at the theater, then down at the thin trail of cempasúchil leading up to its doors.

“You were right, hermano,” he breathed. “It wasn’t all daydreams… You did it.”

With my music, a bitter part of him added, but he swallowed it down.

It really shouldn’t have come as such a surprise, given how he’d heard of Ernesto’s success even in the Land of the Dead. But standing where he’d stood all those years ago and looking up at the theater they’d only dreamed of performing in—that Ernesto was now actually performing in—was something else entirely. It left him with a pang of nostalgia in his chest, not to mention no small amount of confusion.

The petals were supposed to lead him home. These led to the theater.

A strange place for an ofrenda.

Perhaps Ernesto was celebrating the holiday in private here with Imelda and Coco, in some back room. Knowing Ernesto, his schedule was probably packed, and he’d be performing even on the holiday, so this was probably the only place where he was able to celebrate without being late for a performance.

So long as Imelda and Coco were there as well, Héctor didn’t care.

Ignoring the oddity of the situation, ignoring the increasingly likely idea that his family may not actually be here, ignoring the feeling in his gut that told him that something was very strange about setting up an ofrenda in a theater, he stepped through the doors.

Quite literally—his translucent body phased through them as though they weren’t there at all, leaving him with an oddly cold feeling in his bones.

The theater was massive, luxurious, and already crowded; there were people everywhere in the foyer, excitedly chattering about Ernesto de la Cruz and his special Dia de los Muertos concert. So that much was true—he had a performance today, and was probably having a quiet celebration to himself in a private room in the back beforehand.

Part of him wanted to stay in the foyer for a moment, to look to see if Imelda and Coco were there (what did Coco look like? How tall had she gotten? Would there be a man by her side, now?), but something within him told him that he needed to follow the petal trail, and quickly.

The petals led around the foyer and through a door marked no entry. On the other side of the door was a long, curved hallway, built to wrap around the main part of the theater. The trail led him further and further down, past frantic stagehands that were shouting to each other about last minute adjustments to the set. Héctor paid them no mind, barely noticing when he phased through a performer that suddenly stepped out of a nearby door. His eyes were on the trail of petals, his mind already at the end of it and trying to picture what he would find.

Just as he was starting to wonder if the hallway was endless, the trail of petals curved to the left, and under a door emblazoned with a star, and a sign reading “de la Cruz.”

Well, this was it.

Drawing in a deep breath, Héctor stepped through the door.

To his confusion, there was no ofrenda immediately in sight. Instead, he was greeted with a large vanity, a mirror that did not show his reflection, a rack of flashy, beautiful outfits that would have probably cost him several months’ wages each, a table covered in letters and gifts, a guitar case, and, finally, a curtain that blocked off a corner of the room.

Had there been a mistake? Could this really have been some cruel joke the universe was playing on him, letting him through security, across the bridge, back into the Land of the Living, and all across a far-too-large city, only to lead him to an empty dressing room?

Looking back toward the door, he gave a start—no, the petals were still leading further inside… and behind the curtain.

Héctor crept forward, holding in his breath as he stepped through the curtain to find…

...a pitifully small table, upon which sat a bottle of tequila, two shot glasses, a single candle, half a dozen orange petals, and, in the center, a simple photo lying flat on the table.

The breath held in his chest cavity burst out of him in the form of unexpected laughter. All of that agony waiting in line, fearing he’d have to go another year without seeing his family, worrying that the fact that he’d gotten through was a mistake, following an endless petal trail halfway across an enormous city, and this was what he got?

Ernesto was famous—the most famous singer in all of Mexico, and had more wealth than Héctor had ever known in his life and death—and all he had to give Héctor was this pitiful excuse of an ofrenda, set up two decades after his death? To top it off, Ernesto wasn’t even here.

And neither were Imelda and Coco.

It wasn’t until the makeshift ofrenda in front of him began to blur that he realized his laughter had turned to tears.

Dios, what kind of cruel joke was this? Was this his punishment for not trying to return home sooner—for leaving home at all? For dying away from his family? For trying to run off on Ernesto? To finally give him a scrap of hope that maybe something—something would go right for once in his miserable, lonely afterlife, and then—?!

Basta, ungrateful cabrón, he thought, scrubbing his face with his sleeve. This is better than what you’ve gotten every other year. Your tíos and primos don’t even get to have this. At least you can bring something to share with them.

But… ay, he would trade the finest wine, the sweetest pan dulce, the most extravagant offering just for a glimpse of his family again. Or even if Ernesto would just—

The door swung open.

Abruptly Héctor stopped crying, spinning around as a familiar voice snarled at someone in the hallway: “I don’t care! I don’t care, señor, so long as it’s set up before I walk out on stage! And don’t you dare step foot into this room again unless it’s a real emergency!”

SLAM.

“...Neto?” Héctor breathed, shakily stepping past the curtain.

The charro suit was such a clean, bright, glittery blue it nearly blinded him. Ernesto’s head dipped as he ran his hand over his hair and heaved a sigh. “Sorry, old friend,” he said, and turned around to face him. “I hope you’ll forgive that rude interruption.”

Héctor staggered backward, clutching at his chest in shock. Could Ernesto actually—?!

And Ernesto immediately stepped through Héctor and up to his vanity.

Héctor shuddered at the feeling of wrongness that rushed through his bones at the—well, not touch, but the sensation of being passed through. Well, that answered that question.

Given he was intangible, he had to wonder what it was, then, that made Ernesto pause and look over his shoulder. Whatever it was seemed to pass, however, and Ernesto plucked up a comb.

Taking a few steps closer to Ernesto, Héctor watched as he fixed himself up. He’d lost the more youthful look Héctor had known when they were still alive, but was still very much in his prime. If his face bore any wrinkles or blemishes, they were likely covered with some of the makeup that was scattered about the vanity. He did, however, have gray hairs gracing his sideburns.

Héctor ran a skeletal hand through his own youthful wig.

“Now that that’s taken care of…”

Ernesto stepped behind the curtain, stood before the little ofrenda, and stared at the photo.

Curious and mildly numb, Héctor watched as Ernesto then picked up the bottle of tequila, stared at it for a long moment, then filled the two shot glasses sitting on the table. When Ernesto picked up one glass, Héctor reached out to pick up the other, finding it solid beneath his phalanges. When he lifted it off the table, the original glass did not move, but a spirit copy of it appeared in his hand, and he stared at it, turning it this way and that. Huh. He'd always wondered how that worked.

It was a moment before he realized Ernesto was completely silent, staring down at Héctor's photo on the table. He took the time to examine it: a faded photograph of... himself, of course, as well as Ernesto, the two of them side-by-side and posing with their guitars. In a flash the memory returned of when they'd had the photo taken—it had been done so they could use it for promotional posters in the future, for when they became famous.

Heh. When they became famous.

"We... would have made such a team, hermanito," Ernesto said, and Héctor gave a start, facing him again. Ernesto reached down to pick up the photo, and only now did it strike Héctor that he was being mourned, even as he stood beside his friend.

It was a bizarre disconnect, unlike anything he'd ever felt before.

"You could have been here beside me, you know, on that stage."

The pang of nostalgia hit his chest, and he swallowed. While he missed his Imelda and Coco most of all, a smaller part of him did miss performing alongside his best friend... albeit, more in the days when they still played in Santa Cecilia, not the tour. Compared to everything else, the tour felt like a long, repetitive haze.

"If you only hadn't..." Ernesto trailed off, his voice choked.

"...hadn't eaten that rotten chorizo," Héctor finished, and barely resisted the urge to knock back his shot. He would wait, though; he may as well, until Ernesto offered the toast.

As he watched Ernesto, waiting for him to continue, he couldn't help but wonder what was going through his friend's mind. He was standing rigidly still, and if Héctor hadn't known better, he would have thought he was just nervous about the upcoming performance. But Ernesto had never feared those... no, he was still staring into that photo, and... his face was growing pale, his hands shaking.

Taking a step back, Héctor glanced around the room again—they were standing in a corner, blocked off from the rest of the room by a curtain. He could understand the need for a private moment, but...

The thick curtain, the hastily-assembled ofrenda, the look on Ernesto's face...

Something was wrong.

Ernesto wasn't choked up out of grief, Héctor realized, a strange emotion welling up within his chest.

He was working up the will to confess something.

Knock knock knock.

Both Héctor and Ernesto jumped, nearly dropping their respective glasses as the door creaked open. "Señor?" a voice called urgently. "You have five minutes until showtime." The speaker then ducked back out of the room, and the door closed again.

All at once Ernesto seemed to regain his composure, even as Héctor felt his phantom heart still pounding, and for a moment he worried that Ernesto would step out without saying... whatever he'd meant to say. The man set the photo down and sighed, smoothing a hand through his hair, banishing all traces of his anxiety from before.

"Well, you heard the man," he said, holding up the glass. "I suppose I'll make it quick."

Ernesto faced to the side, and it almost seemed as though he could see Héctor standing before him. Yet Héctor could see that his friend's gaze was unfocused—he was clearly imagining Héctor being there, not truly aware of his presence.

Sighing, Héctor copied Ernesto and held out his glass. No harm in pretending as well, though he couldn't hide his disappointment that this meeting with his friend was already being cut short.

"To our friendship," Ernesto murmured. "I truly would have moved heaven and earth for you, mi amigo. Salud."

They moved their glasses forward in time, though there was no satisfying clink. Instead, the spirit copy briefly clipped through the physical glass before they both knocked back their shots.

Héctor was taken aback by the strength of the flavor, like nothing the Land of the Dead had to offer him. His eyes watered, and he coughed, choking down the tequila and striking his sternum. The last time he'd tasted something this strong was when he'd been alive, and he'd had that final toast with that awful, bitter tequila Ernesto had offered him. He was so distracted by the taste and burn of the alcohol that he nearly missed what Ernesto said next.

"Heh. Not to worry, there's... no poison this time, my friend."

Rolling his eyes, Héctor wiped at his mouth. It may as well have been poison, for how...

He ran through the words in his mind again, suddenly feeling strangely hollow.

What did he mean, this time?

Héctor looked up, hoping to see a familiar smile creasing Ernesto's face—the same he would get whenever he told a really terrible or offensive joke—but instead he was staring down at the glass seriously, intensely, his chest heaving, hands trembling.

The shot glass slipped out of Héctor's hand, shattering against the floor, but all he could hear was the argument they'd had that night—one of many, when the homesickness gripped him so strongly that he couldn't stand it, but Ernesto's grip on "their" dream had been stronger. Except that night, Héctor's will had finally won over, and Ernesto had been so angry... until he wasn't.

He'd been angry before. Even violent, once. Yet it had never struck Héctor as strange that suddenly Ernesto was neither—suddenly perfectly happy to let him leave, to end with a toast (with terrible, bitter tequila, so much more bitter than normal), to walk him to the train station. He'd been too happy that their friendship had not ended to notice.

Too happy, until his stomach wrenched in agony, the blood filled his throat, the darkness engulfed him.

A sharp shatter of glass cut through his numb shock, and he was back in the dressing room, Ernesto glaring down at the glass he'd smashed against the floor, his teeth bared, eyes wide.

"You brought it on yourself," he snarled, and stepped through the curtain. There he drew in a deep breath, let it out, lifted up the guitar case, and walked calmly out the door as though nothing had happened.

As though he hadn't just admitted to...

Héctor's mind spun, trying to reconcile it, but suddenly it made sense, it all made sense, why Ernesto had sung his songs, why he'd never given him credit, why Imelda and Coco never put up his photo, why he'd never gotten to see his wife or his daughter because of course Ernesto would never tell them that he'd... that he'd...!

He found a glowing bottle of tequila in his hand, and smashed it against the table with a wild yell.

Yet even the sight of the shattered glass, the dripping alcohol drenching the spirit copy of the photo, couldn't calm the agonized rage that engulfed his soul, that filled him from the inside out, overflowing in the form of a blazing heat and agonized tears.

Before he realized it he was charging through the curtain, the door, and down the curved hallway that Ernesto was calmly walking down, not a trace of shame in his posture. Without another thought, Héctor let loose a wild snarl and lunged at him, his hands aiming for his throat and grasping nothing, phasing through Ernesto's pristine collar as Héctor crashed to the ground. Every vile curse he could think of came spilling out of his mouth, his voice both shrill and hoarse with anger as he tried desperately to grasp at some part of him, only clawing at the carpet and punching the floor.

"YOU POISONED ME!" he shrieked, praying with all he had that his voice would carry through to the living world. "I TRUSTED YOU! YOU WERE MY FRIEND!"

While his hands never reached Ernesto, while the living could not hear the dead... Ernesto stopped in the hallway, suddenly looking back, his eyes wide. Yet his fearful gaze never met Héctor's narrowed, reddened one, and he resumed walking ahead, toward the backstage. But the confidence had gone from his posture, instead replaced with a prickling paranoia.

If that's how it would be, Héctor would take what he could get.

Scrambling back up to his feet, he bolted in front of Ernesto, walking backwards to keep ahead of him, reaching out as though to clutch his friend's collar. "How could you do this to me?! I just wanted to go home! I just wanted to see my family! I would have written you all the songs in the world! All of them, Ernesto, hermano—" His voice cracked, and Ernesto pushed ahead, ducking through the doors as he was surrounded by people, one man handing him a hat, one woman making a last-minute adjustment to his outfit, another asking him if he was feeling well.

Héctor could have charged after him, continued to haunt him throughout that wretched performance as he sang that warped version of Coco's song, but instead the weight of it all finally dragged him down to his knees. He tugged at his hair, as though he could tear it out. He felt like he could scream, but he didn't, for fear he would never stop. Some distant part of him recalled how he felt when he'd walked down that marigold bridge, which couldn't have been more than an hour earlier, but it felt like a lifetime ago. His world had seemed so much happier, so much brighter then, and now...

He wished he'd never crossed the bridge. He should have kept trying to cross over into Santa Cecilia, never gotten on that alebrije, should have turned right around the second he realized he was in this wretched city, he should have never gone on the tour—

Thunderous applause erupted from the theater, music blared, and Héctor clamped his hands over his head.

He couldn't do this. He couldn't stay here. But he couldn't cross the bridge—he couldn't face anyone else, not yet. He was afraid of what he would do if he did. The thought of seeing other souls milling about the graveyard, laughing, collecting gifts, watching their families, while he had been saddled with the revelation that his best friend, his brother, had become the reason he hadn't seen his family in twenty years—

It crashed over him all over again, and he couldn't hold back the scream this time, only covering his mouth to muffle it. If there was another soul in the theater, they never heard him over the music and applause.

He wasn't sure how long he sat there, but it was long enough for his voice to give out, for any spirit left in him to evaporate. The emptiness in him was neither gnawing nor numbing—it was simply nothing, like he truly was a ghost drifting aimlessly in the mortal plane.

Not knowing what else he could possibly do at this point and not finding it in him to care either way, he rose to his feet, and phased through the wall, stepping into the theater. Whether he did it for a last glance at his friend, or a last chance at haunting him, he didn't know. He never got the chance to find it out.

Before he could take in the spectacle of the theater, before he could register just how truly grand the stage was, or just what song Ernesto was singing (mangling, bastardizing), there were two sounds in short succession:

Snap.

CRASH.

The theater, so thunderously loud moments before, was utterly silent save for the faint ringing from the giant bell that had crashed on the top of the stage. This silence lasted until the curtain fell, and the theater exploded into chaos.

In the cacophony of screams, shouts, and hurried conversations that followed, Héctor found himself breathing, his legs moving, carrying him up to the stage and past the dense curtain. Women in elaborate dresses were hurrying away from the wreckage while the stage crew were trying to lift the bell. Several were screaming out a name.

"Ernesto?" Héctor breathed, scrambling up the stage as the efforts of the stage crew grew more frantic. On the opposite side of the bell, some of them managed to pry part of it upward, while another man peered underneath and shone a light. Only seconds later, he cried out, his face growing pale, the flashlight clattering to the ground.

Héctor bolted up towards the bell, tempted to phase through it to see for himself, but stopped himself; if the stagehand's reaction was anything to go by, he probably shouldn't take a glance. But then... was it really...?

"Señor!" someone cried in despair. "Señor de la Cruz...!"

"He's dead, isn't he," another murmured, voice wavering. "El Señor de la Cruz is dead."

"N-no, he can't... we have to get him out—!"

Unlike the others who were losing themselves from the shocking turn of events, Héctor found himself regaining his senses. Distantly, his heart ached at the thought of what had happened—at the thought that something this horrific could happen to Ernesto—but before the grief could fully register, another thought struck him.

If Ernesto had been killed... if he was truly dead... then...

Héctor looked back toward the closed stage curtain, out in the direction of the graveyard he'd come from, then looked back to look at the bell.

Ernesto was no longer there, but Héctor knew exactly where he would be.

Before he had time to question himself, he was already bolting past the curtain, off the stage, and out of the theater, charging back down the path of petals from whence he'd come. He was no longer sure what emotion he was feeling, but one thing he knew for certain:

Ernesto had some answers to give him.

#hector rivera #ernesto de la cruz #coco #pixar coco #coco spoilers #my art #my writing #fanfic #WOOO NEW FIC #also I'm going to be including the names of my beta readers when I post here #I have no idea why I wasn't doing that all along

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morethanaprincess-a · 4 years

Text

@hcpefulmarshmallow said: "I look good in a crown." (Prince Consort Ko!!!)

Send "I look good in a crown" for my muse's reaction to yours suddenly becoming royalty (No Longer Accepting)

"You know that it is custom to ask the King for a wedding gift after a proposal has been formally announced."

"I am aware, father. I only wish for two things from you and our country."

"Oh? Why do I have the feeling that your requests are not part of the Novoselic Crown Jewels?"

"Because all I want is for Nagito to have somewhere he knows he belongs: I want for him to have a proper home and a family. That is the wedding present I desire from you and our country."

***

Perhaps she should've been more specific. That was Sonia's thought as she navigated the underground corridors of Novoselic Castle. It was quicker than being driven around the vast building to the Royal Family's private entrance and she didn't dare cross through the rooms open to the public at this hour. As gracious as she tried to be with her time, greeting visitors she happened to come across as she went about her day, the Princess of Novoselic was in no mood to slow down.

After all, they'd been delivered today. She'd been on a visit to the capital's police headquarters when Cecily had discreetly whispered the news to her: after all the planning she'd tried to do so she could be with him when they were unboxed, and it had still been brought to their wing of the Castle while she attended an official royal appearance. While it was likely the least overwhelming aspect of Nagito's life in the past seven or eight months, that wasn't saying much. The official engagement announcement had propelled both of their lives forward, in responsibilities, in public opinion, faster than any roller coaster she'd ever tried in her life. In the blink of an eye, the most romantic time in her life had turned into interview after interview, endless media coverage and speculation, and more knick-knacks featuring their likenesses and wedding date than she even knew to exist. She'd been born into this and she still found it peculiar that people were buying dish towels with their faces on it. She hadn't really known how to explain it to him in a way that made sense.

But she had more pressing matters than rationalizing why t-shirts, tote bags, and china sets emblazoned with their appearances were selling faster than shops could stock them. From the first interview, opinions ranged from her own family to the servers at the café they both loved to visit in disguise: Princess Sonia's fiancé was too thin, too pale, with strange hair and such a quiet and awkward personality. He'll never outshine his wife, that's for sure. And no real family to speak of? They met at the Princess' private school in Japan, but what makes him special enough to be the other half to the Royal Love Story? The official biographer had her work cut out for her, and a month before the wedding had embellished their courtship to be a fairy tale fit for a princess, with a dashing, brave hero who rescued Sonia's heart from loneliness. At least, her mother had said to both Sonia and the biographer, they could play up the fact he wasn't poor. If the public opinion varied, the Royal Family's opinion was even more polarizing.

Passing her favorite wine cellar and her occult room, Sonia took the spiral stone staircase two at a time, her pale hand gripping the banister. Their temporary wing of Novoselic Castle was smaller than most and rather drafty, but at least it was further away from both her mother and father's sets of rooms. Outfitted in the favored shades of light green and gold, she'd promised Nagito that it was only going to be their home for a little while, while Boudry House, the capital's official Royal Residence, was being renovated. Taking up an entire city block, that had been the first gift her father had given them: a home with ten bedrooms, fourteen bathrooms, five offices, a formal and an informal dining room, a library, a study, a sitting room, an entertainment room, a full kitchen and pantry, and more, not to mention the staff to maintain it, including their personal assistants, secretaries, and security. This was still smaller and less luxurious than Novoselic Castle itself, but at least it would be theirs to call their own. That was enough to excite her, though when she'd taken Nagito there for the first time, she was sure he'd adore the garden. The house bordered the capital's largest and busiest park, with a section of greenery fenced off with large hedges just for the house's use. They could plant what they liked, or arrange outdoor furniture into a private oasis from the hustle of royal life. It was the perfect place for their future pets, and eventually children, to appreciate and enjoy nature, quiet and tranquil.

"Nagito?" She called out softly, pushing the painting of her 16th century ancestors aside. The underground passages were supposed to be hidden, but he was family now. Her family, and Sonia had taken every opportunity she could to show him how to move about the castle with little to bother him. Stepping through, she looked across the room to him, or rather his retreating back as he seemingly stood in front of the full-length mirror, with a gentle smile. There was little doubt he was admiring, or at least in shock by, the second gift. "I returned home as fast as I could. I'm so sorry I couldn't have been by your side when they arrived."

She was probably one of the only people in the world who still called him 'Nagito.' When she'd brought him to meet her family for the first time and when they'd gotten engaged, he'd been referred to as 'Mr. Komaeda.' But now he was royal by marriage, from titles her father had warmly, kindly, bestowed upon him on their wedding day. Informally, he was 'Nagito Komaeda' but the world knew him by 'His Royal Highness' and the dukedom he now held. For all the speculation the media had made over his new titles, insisting the King of Novoselic had been too generous by giving Nagito the title of Prince, it had all been done to fulfill Sonia's request: that he would have a family where he belonged.

But the decision had been agreed upon at the very last minute, far before the official medals and insignias could be crafted for their nuptials. So while he wore the proper non-military wedding attire, complete with white tie and morning coat, the decoration he'd worn, seen across the world, had been antiques from the Novoselic National History Museum. The pieces had been selected to closely resemble the real ones he'd eventually wear for the most formal of occasions and couldn't be discernible from far away, but that hadn't mattered: up close, her family and the aristocracy still whispered that the new prince was wearing someone else's earned titles and achievements the day he married Princess Sonia. Picking over his hair, no matter how elegantly he'd tied it back, and his posture no longer was enough to amuse them.

But today would change everything. Today, the official medals and ribbons for his new titles had arrived, fashioned in a royal design that she'd insisted he help with. Something that signified he was part of her family now but still retained a design that was uniquely his. That when he looked down, he'd never forget that he was no longer alone. While her entire family hadn't completely warmed to him yet, they were coming around. He was hers, and he was here to stay.

Surely he could see her in the mirror as she crept up behind him, and yet Sonia hardly cared. Instead she moved to his side, placing a kiss upon his cheek as the gold, emeralds, and diamonds of his new accessories sparkled, reflecting the light from the chandelier. "You look beautiful," She whispered in his ear. "Welcome to the family, my love."

#more-than-a-princess answered #hcpefulmarshmallow #(royalty meme)#Non-Despair AU: The Princess of Novoselic #(Please enjoy some of my recently married Nagito/Sonia headcanons :D)

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lena-in-a-red-dress · 4 years

Note

Your Lena/Supernatural AU finally got me to watch Supernatural. I hope you’re happy. Another chapter? Pretty please?

Previously…

Kara’s attempts to disavow the revelation are met with unimpressed expressions.

“Doesn’t work that way, Supes,” Dean tells her, handing off his coffee. Lucy accepts hers with a thanks, while shooting Kara an apologetic grimace.

“Get in,” comes the gruff invite as Dean yanks the driver’s door open. “Or don’t. That’s good too.”

Faced with two strangers potentially driving away with her secret identity, Kara crawls into the backseat with Lucy, and does her best not to stare. She’s promptly ignored as soon as Dean throws the engine in gear, and then the car falls into an uncomfortable silence.

Well, uncomfortable for Kara. None of the other three seem to mind it in the least.

It takes almost twenty minutes before she screws up enough courage to offer Lucy a question. “That’s not how what works?”

“Hmm?” Lena asks around a swallow of coffee.

“Dean said it doesn’t work that way. What was he talking about?”

“Oh.” Lucy’s cheeks flush slightly. “I have this… thing. Ability. I’m not sure how to describe it without sounding crazy.”

Kara huffs in frustration. “This whole thing is crazy. If someone doesn’t start talking I’m going to pick up this car and fling it into the sun!”

“Even think about touching my car and I’ll fling you into the sun!” Dean fires back.

Lucy bites back a grin at the exchange. “I’m not trying to keep you in the dark. It’s just… a lot of things about us defy explanation.”

In spite of her words, Lucy’s features turn thoughtful. Kara waits, and is rewarded when the woman finally shrugs.

“I guess you could say disguises don’t work on me.”

Kara waits another beat, but nothing is forthcoming. “Okay…”

“I have a knack for seeing things as they are,” Lucy tries to elaborate. Her hands gesture in the air, as though to illustrate what her words are failing to convey. “In our line of work, there’s a lot of… there’s a lot of people who aren’t what they seem to be. Whatever disguise they wear, it doesn’t work on me. You’re different, though.”

“How so?”

“Normally, I don’t see any disguise. But with you… I see both. It shifts, like a mirage. I see the symbol, the cape… but also the glasses, and the cardigan. It’s unusual.”

“Maybe it’s because you’re an alien,” Sam suggests from the front. “It could mean the rules apply differently.”

Kara tries not to flinch. She’s still Kara Danvers, Supergirl still carefully tucked away. It feels like she’s been outed, despite the lack of judgement from these odd, mysterious three.

“Hey, question,” Dean calls, turning briefly to catch Lucy’s eye. “What did Ca–” he seems to catch himself at the last minute. After a stilted moment, he waves vaguely towards the sky instead. “What did you-know-who look like to you?”

Lucy snorts. “Like a drunk.”

“Huh. So, no wings, no halo, nothing?”

“Just a dirty man in a dirtier trench coat.”

The car falls quiet for a while after that. Kara is grateful for it, but also feels the head of Lucy’s gaze as the woman studies her from her slouch against the far window.

“So, Supes…” Dean says conversationally. “Is Kara Danvers your real name, or was all that just to get in the car?”

He stares at her in the rear view mirror, but when Kara responds, she looks at Lucy. “Real enough. When I’m not Supergirl, I’m Kara Danvers.”

The smile Lucy grants her is soft and warm, and sends flutters through Kara’s chest. “Nice to meet you, Kara Danvers.”

In the full light of day, Kara can see further differences to set Lucy apart from Lena. Long scars scrape the left edge of her jaw and down to dip below the collar of her shirt. It looks rugged and knotted. Recent, but not quite fresh. The slashes almost look animalistic, and Kara can’t help but notice how close it is to her carotid artery. She swallows the sudden powerful urge to ask what happened.

“And you?” she asks instead.

“Lucy.”

Kara nods. “No last name?”

Lucy shakes her head. Now it’s Kara’s turn to study her. “Last night you said something bad happened in that warehouse,” she begins gently. Lucy nods. “To you?”

At that, Lucy looks away. Kara doesn’t think she’s going to get any response whatsoever, but then… “Dean and Sam found me there, almost two years ago. That’s when my life started.”

Kara shifts in her seat. “You mean your life with them?”

“No, I mean… I have no memory before meeting them. There’s nothing there. We think this cult, whoever these people are, have something to do with it.”

Apprehension crawls up Kara’s spine. She’d hoped to learn that Lucy and the Winchesters really were related somehow, or that Lucy grew up in Rhode Island. Anything to pull her further away from Lena in Kara’s mind, and make some sense out of all of it. Now new mysteries further unsettle her.

As Lucy turns her attention to the book in her lap, Kara’s wheels start turning. Two years ago. It’s so recent, and yet feels a million years ago. Two years ago, Kara’s life was full of laughter. Full of Lena. Before she was taken. Before she came back changed.

“I think this might be a cipher of some kind,” Lucy announces. She reaches for the ragged backpack on the floor by her feet, and pulls out a pen and a marble notebook bent lengthwise down the middle.

Up front, Dean smirks. “Think you can crack it by the time we get to Bobby’s?”

“We’re about to find out.”

Sam chuckles, and fishes out a worn cassette tape from a shoe box under his seat. “Beatles it is.”

The volume goes up; the windows go down. The wind tousles Kara’s hair, and as she gazes out at the farmland flashing by, it almost feels like she’s flying.

—

Lucy doesn’t crack it by the time they reach Bobby’s. At least, Kara thinks it’s Bobby’s– it looks more like a junkyard, with old tires piled into tall hills and junkers sitting in rows across a fairly large property. The house they park in front of doesn’t do anything to disrupt the aesthetic. Still, Dean and Sam both grin as a bearded man in a truckers hat pushes out through the screen door.

“Bobby!”

“You boys kept yourselves out of trouble?”

The three trade rough hugs. Lucy exits the car more slowly, and when she hangs back, Kara realizes it’s because she hasn’t met this Bobby either. With the notebook in one hand and Kara at her side, she waits to be introduced. Bobby eyes them, not unkindly.

“Last I checked, you only had one lady tagging along.”

Dean shrugs. “Things have gotten a little more complicated.” He gives Lucy a nod of invitation. Lucy approaches, but her movements seem a little stiff even as she offers a congenial grin. “Bobby, this is Lucy.”

“Nice to meet you.” Lucy opts for a handshake. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“I’m sure you have,” Bobby agrees with a grin. “And I’ve heard quite a bit about you as well.” His gaze turns to Kara. “And you are?”

“This is Kara,” Lucy answers for her. Kara steps in to offer a handshake of her own. “She’s a friend of mine visiting from Georgia. A violinist.”

The lie is so seamless Kara almost misses it entirely. But Dean and Sam react instantly over Bobby’s shoulder, snapping to attention before exchanging a look of alarm. When their hands drop to their respective weapons, Kara realizes something is very, very wrong.

Dean looks to the Impala, but doesn’t make a move towards it. Bobby stands in their way.

“Yeah, hey, Bobby,” Dean calls. “I hate to say it, but we’re kind of on a time crunch. We just need to take a look in the armory to see if you got anything that might take out a motta.”

Bobby’s brow wrinkles in consternation as he turns to face Dean. Kara quickly sidles up to Lucy, tension thrumming against her skin as energy coils in her muscles. “A motta? What in the hell’s a motta?”

“Gee, I don’t know… what’s a motta with you?”

Dean’s grin disappears in the next instant, as his fist slams into his friend’s jaw. Kara doesn’t have time to see what happens next before Lucy fills her vision, pressing the book into Kara’s chest. “Run!”

An invisible force tears Lucy away before she can finish, slamming into the side of the Impala. Kara sees Bobby with palm outstretched, eyes black as ink.

Kara blasts into the sky just as Bobby turns his gaze on her, clutching the book to her chest. She bursts through a layer of clouds and pauses, heart pounding, waiting to see if Bobby will follow. He doesn’t.

Relief pours over her, and her grip on the book turns to a hug as she sucks in a breath.

“Wait,” she snaps back into sudden awareness. “What am I doing?”

She releases the book, allowing it to plummet. By the time she snatches it again, she’s in her suit, wind snapping at her cape. She slams down in front of Bobby and pulls back one fist for a punch.

“Don’t hurt him!” Dean shouts, making her freeze.

“What?!”

Bobby grabs her by the throat and yanks. It pulls her off her feet and shakes her enough that she can barely hear Sam’s call. “Bobby’s still in there!”

“Hold him down!” Lucy cries, hauling herself to her feet and limping to the trunk of the Impala. “Don’t let him go!”

O-kay. Kara snaps back to Bobby’s grip on her throat and puffs a lungful of ice into his face. It’s enough to loosen his grip enough she doesn’t have to break bone to twist away. With a flick of her wrist she sweeps her cape over his head to blind him and slips behind him. She cages him in, clamping her arms around him to keep him immobile. Muffled by the cape, inhuman bellows issue from her prisoner, and his strength is unexpected.

He struggles and writhes with inhuman stamina, and Kara’s grip almost slips within seconds. Instead, she lets herself fall to the ground to keep her arms around him. “I can’t hold him!”

“Shit!” Lucy curses, abandoning whatever she’d returned to the trunk for. She slides to her knees and breathlessly meets Kara’s gaze. “Give me as much time as you can.”

Before Kara has a chance to respond, Lucy plants her palm on Bobby’s growling chest, and begins to chant.

“Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus…”

Her voice hums low in her chest, her eyes shut against the distraction of Kara’s struggle to keep a grip on the monster in her arms. Dean and Sam move quickly to help– Dean tackles Bobby’s kicking legs, and Sam dashes to the trunk of the Impala and comes back with a bag labeled as rock salt. He immediately begins to pour it in a circle around all three of them.

Through it all, Lucy doesn’t falter. Her voice issues low and deep, the monotonous chant ancient and eerie.

“Ergo, draco maledicte.Ecclesiam tuam securi tibi facias libertate servire…!”

Slowly, as the man’s thrashing heightens in desperation, Lucy’s voice starts to lift in pitch and power. As Kara watches, a glow begins to emanate between Lucy’s hand and the flannel of Bobby’s shirt. From the look on Dean’s face, this isn’t a normal feature of whatever exorcism is taking place.

“Te rogamus!”

An otherworldly roar grows in Kara’s ears, shaking the man in her arms and the ground around her.

“Holy shit, it’s working,” Dean grunts, releasing his friend’s legs. “Let him go! Out of the circle, now!”

Kara obeys, carefully avoiding the circle Sam had taken precious time to create. She stands between the two men, and stares in shock as Lena opens her eyes, emitting the same unnatural glow concentrating beneath her palm.

“Audi nos!”

Lucy finishes in a bellow, the sound extending into a cry of pain as the light flares bright. It pours from her hand into Bobby, whose black eyes fill with the same glow before it suddenly snaps away from both of them, leaving a vacuum of sound and sensation in its wake.

Kara waits for the brothers’ next move, but they haven’t any more clue than she does.

It’s Bobby who speaks up first, exhaustedly propping himself up on both elbows to stare between the four of them.

“What in the sam hell just happened?” he demands.

Lucy tries to stand, but her limbs quake like the earth is still trembling. Halfway to standing, she loses her battle for consciousness, and collapses back to the ground.

“Lena!” Kara’s at her side before the others can blink, lifting Lucy’s shoulders into her arms with gentle care. The thump of a steady heartbeat in her ears soon fills her with relief. “She’s alive. Thank Rao.”

Bobby stares at her, then at Dean.

“I thought you said her name was Lucy.”

#lena and the winchesters #part 7 #hah #surprise!#betcha thought i'd forgotten all about this one #supercorp #things get curiouser

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fortune-fool02 · 4 years

Text

A Good Person

Jean Pierre Polnareff x enemy female reader

Requested by: @ crumchybunchofleaves

Warnings: angst, fluff

Please enjoy.

Sharp tapping of footsteps shattered the silence that flooded the silver coloured corridor, the sound bouncing off the walls and travelling around the area. Lights glaring down, illuminating the corridor and casting away any shadow it could.

The Frenchman made his way down the empty corridor, his body still wrapped in bandages from the brutal battle against Dio only months ago. Thin specks of pain still scraped his muscles and wounds every now and again, reminding him of his close encounter with death. He expression was steeled, aware of the seriousness of the situation and proceeding through it.

It was his decision to do this, after all.

It had taken some string pulling from Mr Joestar to get the Speedwagon Foundation to allow this, and Polnareff was grateful for it. During his time back in France, this moment had lingered in his thoughts from the moment he woke up to the last second before he fell asleep. He needed it, whatever it was he was seeking, laid with her.

At the end of the corridor was a metal door with a number printed onto it, and two guards stood beside it. Polnareff pulled the personalised ID card -a gift from the Speedwagon Foundation, as requested by Mr Joestar- from his pocket and showed it to them. They nodded,

“Alright sir,” one of them spoke, “Before you go in there, there are some things we need to run by, procedure and all.” Polnareff nodded his head,

“Bien sûr.” He slipped the ID card back into his pocket.

“Whilst you’re in there, you’ll both be monitored. Both for your safety and hers, so don’t try anything funny in there.” Polnareff would never dream of the ideas they were referring to but he understood, especially since they knew of her connections to those who killed two of his friends. “You’re allowed ten minutes in there, then you’re out. You’re free to leave earlier if you want.” Once the guard finished, he turned to the door and opened it, allowing Polnareff to enter.

The door closed behind him with a pained thud, leaving him alone with her. There, at the table, was a hunched figure; head hanging low with [Hair colour] locks falling past her face, shielding her from him. Hands resting on the metal table, bound by handcuffs. Something pricked at Polnareff, somewhere in his chest, at the sight of her. Once, she stood tall and proud, now she sat crumbled, defeated.

“[Name].” he spoke her name. So many words had built up over the months, so many things he wanted to say to her, ask her, and now they had scattered out of his reach. She rose her head at him, [Eye colour] eyes locking with his pale blue ones; there was no spark in them anymore, no life behind them. Just two empty glass orbs reflecting him in them.

“Polnareff,” Even her voice sounded tired, lacking that sense of emotion in it. “What brings you to visit a lowly traitor like me?” There was a bitterness to her words, like sand in the desert they fought in only months ago, as she used his own words against him. If he looked close enough, he could see the edges of her own bandages sticking out from under her shirt, the faint fingerprints of bruise decorated her [Skin colour] skin. He almost didn’t recognise the woman who had stolen his heart sitting before him.

Defeated. That was the only word he could describe how she looked. Defeated, worn out and tired.

“I... I needed to talk to you.” he answered, trying to ignore the nipping in his chest again when she looked at him with those eyes. “I need to know somethings.” The chains that kept her bound to her chair and the table rattled lightly as she leaned back slightly, waiting for him to speak.

“Did we mean anything to you?” Was the first question that left his lips, though it was not the most important one for him. “Our entire journey through Egypt, half way around the world, did all of that mean nothing to you?”

They had met [Name] on their trip to Singapore, where she demonstrated her abilities of her own Stand to aid them in defeating Dark Blue Moon. At the time, they believed her to be an ally, the stories she spun weaved a perfect web of lies that they all fell for, unaware of the spider closing in on them. She never gave them any reason to believe that she was anything more than a young woman searching for her friend in Egypt.

As it turned out, that “friend” was the very bastard they were hunting down. [Name] had been Dio’s little pet from the very beginning, a wolf disguised as a sheep to infiltrate the herd and inform the pack Alpha of their progress and leading them astray if possible. Polnareff wanted to kick himself so hard when they discovered this.

“Some of it.” she spoke so bluntly, no sugar coating it and leaving him to face the sting of it. “There were parts that I did enjoy and others where I wanted nothing more than to push one of you lot off the nearest cliff.” Polnareff couldn’t help but narrow his eyes at her. A burning anger bubbling inside of him but he bit back his words, keeping himself in check. He didn’t come this far just to be dragged from the room and likely refused any more access to [Name] again.

“Don’t look at me like that, Polnareff. You, too, would bicker and argue with Kakyoin.” Polnareff hand curled into a fist at the mention of that name. [Name] noticed the slight shake to it. “I am truly sorry for what happened to him.” There were traces of genuine sympathy in her voice at that. During her time there, she had grown attached to all of the crusaders in some form of way; something she, herself, had come to both regret and cherish. Some she cherished more than others.

Taking a breath to calm himself, Polnareff rose his gaze to her again. “And what of me? Did what we have... mean anything to you?” That was what he wanted to know. That question was the sole reason why he was here in the first place.

Silence. Utter silence. [Name]’s head lowered again, shame washing over her. She had never felt this... humiliated and vulnerable before. Her lack of response only made the pain in Polnareff’s chest twist more, coiling up inside of him tightly to the point he felt like he could not breathe.

“Tell me, bon sang.” [Name] blinked at the steel in his voice, Polnareff never spoke to her with such anger; he always spoke to her sweetly. Her chest ached.

“Polnareff,” she rose her head up, gazing into his eyes. “The time I spent with you, everything we did together, was the best time of my entire life.” She answered. There was a softness to her voice that struck through the pain in Polnareff’s chest, picking away the aching scrapes that latched onto his heart. Her [Eye colour] orbs mirroring the softness, a glimmer of her former self -before she was exposed and thrown into this place- and the side of her that Polnareff saw. No masks, no lies or deception; her soul.

“Then why didn’t you tell me?” she looked down again.

“Because... Dio would have killed you. If he found out that you had faltered my loyalty to him, he would not have spared you. I did it to protect you.” She knew it sounded pathetic and cliche. The whole ‘I didn’t tell you I’m a liar because I wanted to protect you’ sob story, no one believed that crap.

A light smile tugged Polnareff’s lips. He could see the regret that radiated off her body as she spoke, she was telling the truth. He knew he should hate her for being Dio’s servant but he couldn’t hate her. Not [Name]. Slowly, his hand reached across the table, resting over her smaller hand, earning a surprised look from her.

“[Name], you were willing to risk lying to Dio to protect me.” he spoke, a warmth in his voice. “I know that, somewhere inside of you, you have a pure heart, mon amour. And that is something you cannot change.”

Her eyes were wide, swirling with shock, at his words. After all the lies, all the deception and even when he drew his Stand on her, he still saw the purity in her. Even during the battle, she knew he was holding back. It was actually Jotaro who had caused her broken bones, and Polnareff was the one who stopped him from killing her.

He gave her that smile of his, his hand gently caressing her cheek. “I still love you, [Name]. And I can only hope you feel the same.” With that, he rose from his seat and turned towards the door. Her cheek cold, missing the warmth of his hand, and she reached out to him slightly.

“Polnareff,” her voice was quiet but he heard her. He stopped, his hand on the door ready to leave. “I love you.” He smiled at that, his heart swelling with that same softness he felt for her during their adventure.

Regardless of all she has done, Polnareff will always love her.

#polnareff #jean pierre polnareff #jojo bizarre adventure #polnareff x reader #jean pierre polnareff x reader #jojo bizzare adventure x reader #jojo #jojo x reader #stardust crusaders #stardust crusaders x reader #polnareff stardust crusaders #fluff #angst #female reader #reader insert

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luthienebonyx · 3 years

Note

Can I have B, K and Q for the fanfic ask meme, please?

Fanfic ask meme

B: Any of your stories inspired by personal experience?

My stories come from the characters first, but there is also stuff in them that comes from personal experience. The Aussie coffee verse is set in some very specific places that I have visited more than once in the past. The Personal Touch takes a little from my own experiences with various kinds of physical therapy (though I never had that sort of relationship with any of my therapists!). In the past I’ve written stories that included stuff like bodysurfing, which I know about from growing up by the beach. There are other little bits and pieces of personal experience littered through my fic, but they’re generally not anything particularly important.

I guess History Never Repeats has potentially the biggest part of my real life in it, because I’ve given Brienne the profession that used to be mine, a long time ago. That was inspired partly because lately I’ve been encountering fiction in various media that keeps portraying that profession as the most boring job in the world/a cover for something ‘more interesting’/something done by unhinged megalomaniacs before they go completely off the rails. And yes, while I have met the odd unhinged megalomaniac in that profession, I wanted to present it in a more true way - so we’ll see what happens as the story progresses!

K: What's the angstiest idea you've ever come up with?

In my reply to one of the other asks, I mentioned that I’d written a major character death in a HP fic, long, long ago. That was The Rain Keeps Falling. I doubt anything I’ve written since tops that in the angst stakes, though one or two things have come close. When it was originally posted on LJ, it got several pages of comments that were pretty much all variations on: Your story made me cry. Still proud...

Q: Do you have any discarded scenes/storylines/projects?

Oh, loads of them. Most are handwritten in notebooks, but just a quick look through my googledocs shows ones I may yet get to, like the rockstar/musician AU, and ones I’d forgotten all about, like “angry sex draft” - whatever the hell that was supposed to be. Here is a bit from a half-written Rivers of London story called Stripping Off, which will never be finished because the canon has now moved on from the moment in which the story is set:

Nightingale always dresses well, in a strictly first-half-of-the-twentieth-century kind of way. It was one of the first things I noticed about him, that night we met in Covent Garden, and not just because, as a police officer, I’m trained to notice distinguishing details just in case they might be needed later. I thought he was going to try to pick me up, if I’m being honest. And it turned out I was right that he had an interest in me, but not in the way I thought.

He was wearing one of his beautifully tailored suits the first time I saw him, a bespoke number courtesy of Dege & Skinner, Savile Row, established 1865 - like all of his suits and most of his shirts, as I later found out. The perfect fit of his suits draws subtle attention to the width of his shoulders before nipping in closely at the waist. His shoes are handmade, because of course they are, by Crockett & Jones in Jermyn Street, which is handily situated just a few streets away from Savile Row and has been in business nearly as long as Dege & Skinner. And he carries a silver-topped cane, which fits the whole pre-war man about town aesthetic, but its origins and uses are… well, let’s just say that those are a bit more esoteric.

Nightingale’s entire look, not forgetting his Burberry coat, was more than familiar to me by the time I’d spent a year or two at the Folly, so I’m really not sure why his new driving gloves came as any sort of surprise – but they did.

Gloves of all sorts are a necessary evil in our line of work, but of course Nightingale’s driving gloves were nothing like anything that comes as police standard issue. They were made of thin, high quality brown leather, very supple, with ventilation holes along the knuckles, and lined with some sort of soft wool fabric – probably cashmere. But the day came when the quality of the materials and workmanship couldn’t disguise how well-worn Nightingale's gloves were. Not even Molly’s careful ministrations could make them look even remotely at their best, so eventually Nightingale bit the bullet and ordered – probably from some fifth generation family business with an ampersand in its name – a new pair of driving gloves.

I didn't even know that Nightingale had finally got… I'm sorry, procured, the new gloves until the first time we took the Ferrari for a spin, the one that used to belong to the practitioner formerly known as the Faceless Man and recently revealed to be one Martin Chorley. I'd been itching to take the Ferrari for a test drive since the moment it was impounded in the garage at the Folly, awaiting 'evaluation'. Nightingale still hardly ever lets me drive his Jag by myself, though - one of these days I'll actually get to the top of the priority list for that advanced driving test, but I'm not holding my breath - so I didn't bother asking if there'd be any chance that I could take the Ferrari out without him. Fortunately, he was almost as keen as I was to find out what the Ferrari could do.

I was vaguely aware that Nightingale was wearing his new gloves when he turned the key in the ignition, but at the time most of my attention was on the way the engine effortlessly purred into life. Russell Square isn't exactly the best place to drive, well, anything, let alone a Ferrari, so I waited as patiently as I could while Nightingale negotiated the London traffic and pointed us in the general direction of Oxford.

We were on our way to visit Professor Postmartin, a typical, even stereotypical Oxford don in every way, except that he moonlights as the official archivist for the Folly. He'd phoned the day before to let us know that he'd discovered some uncatalogued volumes in a hat box in a forgotten cupboard at the top of a cobwebbed spiral staircase - or somewhere like that - and he wanted us - well, Nightingale - to take a look at them.

"There's no great rush, Thomas. You can look them over the next time something brings you up to Oxford," Postmartin said.

Nightingale and I exchanged a look at that - he had speakerphone turned on, wonder of wonders, though it's possible he'd just hit the button by mistake - and decided without a word being said that the Ferrari was the thing that would bring us to Oxford.

The thing about being a passenger in a Ferrari? It's totally different to driving one. Those cars were designed for speed before anything else, which means a stiff suspension, thin tyres, and cutting back on extraneous extras like much in the way of padding beneath the beautifully finished black nero leather upholstery. All of which is fine if you're sat behind the wheel and feeling the thing rumble into life beneath your hands, and then having it do your bidding with every tiny change of course. But when you're in the passenger seat you feel it rumble to life beneath your arse, and you feel every. single. dip and pothole.

Apparently, my idea of patience is somewhat different from Nightingale's, because we hadn't even made it as far as the M40 when he glanced at me and suggested that perhaps I could find some way of keeping myself occupied on my phone until we got out of London.

I realised I'd been drumming my fingers on the leather-lined passenger door, and hastily returned my hand to my lap, trying to look the picture of innocence. It turns out that I'm no better at that than I am at pretending to be patient, because Nightingale snorted - actually snorted! - softly before he returned his attention to the road.

I really was intending to do what Nightingale had 'suggested', and I shifted in the seat so that I could reach into my pocket for my phone, but just as I did, Nightingale's arm moved and caught my eye - and I forgot to breathe.

I honestly didn't know why. I'd seen Nightingale drive before, many times. It should have been such an ordinary movement that I didn't even consciously register it, but his hand flexed as it closed around the gear stick and I swallowed. Hard. I probably should have looked away then. Okay, I definitely should have looked away then, but instead I took my first proper look at Nightingale's new driving gloves.

The new gloves were similar to the old ones, except in every way that they weren't. They were soft, high quality leather, and covered his hands as if… well, they had been made for him, but where the old ones were a worn brown, these were midnight black. At least, they were on the part that covered the back of his hand. Underneath, on the palm, they were smooth red leather. Not the fire brick red of the Ferrari's paint job; Nightingale wouldn't be caught dead wearing such a flashy colour. No, the leather of the gloves was a few shades darker than the red of the Ferrari, but there was no denying that the new gloves fitted this car - just as the old gloves had been a perfect fit with the brown leather upholstery and wooden trim in the Jaguar, I realised.

And damn, did they fit Nightingale.

I choked on the thought in utter horror before I even got to the end of it, and quickly turned it into a coughing fit. I hadn't really… had I? About my governor? About Nightingale?

"Everything all right, Peter?" Nightingale asked in mild concern.

I nodded, my eyes watering as I croaked out a not very convincing, "Fine." I reached down into the bag of supplies at my feet to see what Molly had packed for us. Anything not to have to look Nightingale in the face right then. Suddenly, being in the Ferrari was absolutely the last place I wanted to be.

#fanfic ask meme #intoni

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marie-lamb-b · 5 years

Text

Good Night

He... really... needed a good night sleep...

Heya, @a-rae-of-sunshine!! See it didn’t took too long? ^3^ (Nope, this is Not my revenge. That will come with those things I asked you on DM)

But, I had the idea stuck, and there’s only one way to take ‘em off, so~

BTW, sorry. I have no idea how this ended as something upper than 3K words when I thought this wouldn’t take longer than 1.5K or so. I have no idea how do that happen .-.

Anyways, I still hope you enjoy this!!! ^O^

‘Alright, you can do this Bendy.’ The humanized demon thought, encouraging himself. This was it, this was the night. He couldn’t keep this hidden any longer.

Anyways, it’s not like James didn’t know. He did. He always did (much for the demon’s embarrassment), but he had never seen him like that– alright, bad analogy for the blind man. But still, the last time he was like this before him was when they were kids– or younger, for the demon’s standards; just short enough to pass like any other kid– and with a lot of cloth on him like coat, scarf, hat and rain boots to make him look like any other child around.

But now, both grown up, dating each other, deciding to take the big step and spend the night together, Bendy was becoming so nervous around him, fearing to simply doze out and return to that little demonic shape he really was all the while James would hug him, cuddle him, feeling him and that change of size, of shape, of texture... Bendy couldn’t fall asleep next to him; he hadn’t had a proper night sleep since then, and that was starting to take its toll during daytime.

He started to nod while in classes, about to fall asleep. Focus on whatever the teacher was saying became a harder task as days passed by. Somehow he was thankful of some of his classmates that would nudge him awake, but he had found himself in the end of the last class of the day, late at the evening, that he simply blacked out like a light, all alone, until at least James would appear around the door looking for him, waking him up with his sweet concerned voice– quick enough to turn back to be Ben before he could reach for him. Those accidents were turning more and more frequent, and it was a matter of time for him to be unable to react on time, giving away his façade of a normal human being in the middle of the class, in the middle of the campus.

He needed to sleep. He couldn’t keep like this any longer. Besides, it was James he was thinking about. He knew. He just had to show himself the way he already knew.

He took some more time to glance the image in front of him through the mirror, shifting back and forth between those two shapes he was known for; the average boy of pale skin and dark hair, and the one he was used to be called as ‘the little devil darling’. He was doing so, shifting back and forth, ignoring his tiredness and taking over all his differences as he hadn’t done in so long.

The height was the most notorious one; weren’t for him being stood on a stepstool he would barely see the top of his horns through the mirror. Although the upper half of his forehead was missing from view when in his human form on the stepstool.

And that place above him was another difference; where as human he had dark, soft hair that his boyfriend liked to playfully ruffle every once in a while, as a demon he had, well, demon horns; pointy, stiff, not fluffy like hair. And even though as a human he fixed it so it would resemble his natural horns, they were just not the same.

And his face, yeah, both forms resembled a pale tone proper of a paper-like skin, but the lack of ears, nose and neck, and such an unnatural wide grin were a stark contrast.

Even more, where his human face held two dark brown eyes behind some fluttering lids, as a demon he had... nothing, just two empty voids whose way to blink was by morphing what seemed to be a portion of his already flat face over those voids. It was hard to imagine James kissing him like this; what if he stuck his nose on one of his eyes? Well, at least he wouldn’t have to worry about his old friend snake to peep out of one of his sockets.

He tried to look for more differences more, but probably those were the biggest ones. His hands, he kept them four fingered and with his holes on them even as a human, and he always held hands with James, as much as to communicate with each other as for the pure pleasure of holding him. He never seemed fazed by such strange sensation. Then why was he thinking this so much?

He turned once again into his bean-shaped self, ready to go with him and... Nope, back to Ben. He couldn’t!

...Alright, maybe... maybe he’d show as Ben and then would turn into Bendy. Yeah, that... that sounded... fine. Yeah, fine...

Last glance to the human in front of the mirror. He could do it.

Out of the bathroom and into the living room, he saw James as he was sitting on the couch, listening to the radio that played soft music before the radio theater transmission would start as every Friday at night. A soft smile drew on Ben’s face as he contemplated his boyfriend, tapping his fingers, bobbing his head, swaying with the music. Though his smile quickly turned into a frown as he thought once again in what he was about to... do? No. He was going to do it. No turning back. He needed to rest.

A deep breath through his nostrils, filling what he could fill of lungs, and then a deep sigh, that gave away a slight whistle through his lips.

“Ben? Is that you?” James called for him. Dammit! He forgot how sensitive his earing was. Slightly froze in the spot, Bendy tried to calm his nerves before giving away and affirmative whistle and walk towards his boyfriend. “What took you so long? Getting ready for the night? You didn’t need to prepare so much.” The blind man said jokingly, though it wasn’t too far from the truth.

Bendy moved to turn off the radio before sitting next to him on the couch.

“Ben, you alright? Something happened?” James inquired as the demon in disguise gently held both his hands, placing them behind his own, getting ready to talk.

[ACTUALLY I NEED TO TALK WITH YOU.] He started, fixing his gaze upon the floor instead his boyfriend’s face. It was hard to admit it all, even if he mentally prepared himself over and over, but he had to before reaching his worst limit. [YOU KNOW... THESE PAST DAYS HAS BEEN REALLY AMAZING, BEING ABLE TO BE WITH YOU AND ALL. BUT...] He paused, seeing James shifting in his place, his attention entirely over his words. [GOT TO BE HONEST WITH YOU. I HAVEN’T BEEN ABLE TO SLEEP WELL LATELY.]

Silence stretched for a little longer as Bendy lowered their hands, watching the stern features of the one before him, meditative? Disappointed?

“Ben, if you felt uncomfortable you could have just told me before. We don’t have to be–”

[NO! IT’S NOT THAT! I WANT TO BE WITH YOU!] Bendy gestured maybe a bit too abruptly as he caught James a bit shaken by his interruption, to what he shied back, holding their hands together and close to his chest before continuing. [I MEAN... I WANT TO FIX THIS, BEING ABLE TO SLEEP WITH YOU AND NOT...] He froze in middle of the air, slowly lowering his hands again as he wasn’t able to think in a proper way to continue.

“...’Not’ what?” James pushed after a while, furrowing his brows.

And Bendy looked at him. Looked those soft features his face held. Looked the concern he showed, heard the softness of his voice, felt the gentle strength of his grip. He felt so safe just by being next to him, but not entirely. He needed to change that, that’s what he was preparing for.

[JAMES... YOU KNOW I’M NOT... ENTIRELY... HUMAN...]

“Yeah, you’re not human at all. What with that? I thought we already went through that.” He answered nonchalantly, and Bendy couldn’t tell if that made it easier or harder to get to the point.

[YES, I KNOW. BUT... EVERYTIME I GO TO SLEEP, I CAN’T HOLD MY... MY HUMAN FORM. AND I REALLY DON’T KNOW HOW WOULD YOU REACT IF YOU... FIND ME... AS I REALLY AM...]

Again, silence filled their space as James pondered over these words, confused though not by their meaning, yet by how that could affect him that bad.

“Ben, I don’t get you. I’ve felt you changing before, why this is different?”

[IT IS.] Bendy kept going, trying his best to go on with as much calm as possible, though James probably was aware of the tremble in his hands. [ALL THESE OTHER TIMES, I KEPT BEING HUMAN-LIKE, NEVER CHANGED TOO MUCH.] He paused, taking a deep breath as he dared to stare right into his face. A meditative flutter of his eyelids turned to take a few seconds longer than it should; sweet Lord! If he wasn’t able to say so, he’d doze out before he could explain!

“Ben? You there?” James called him; even if he tried to lighten the tension on him he wasn’t entirely able to take apart the concern in his tone.

Bendy shook vigorously his head. He had to do it! He had to...

...But how?

[DO... YOU REMEMBER... HOW I WAS WHEN... WE PLAYED IN THE PARK... AS KIDS?] He asked slowly, slumber already taking his low energies away. The sole thing that kept him aware enough was the voice of the larger man whose hands were keeping his up in their grasp; voice that he... actually didn’t quite made the words, so quicker than he could thought let out a questioning whistle.

“I said I do.” He repeated with a little exasperated laughter; it was too obvious the lack of sleep at this stage. “I remember you, but honestly it wasn’t as I had much chance to feel how you were back then, if that’s what you mean.”

Wow, pretty nice way to go for an introduction, considering he really had no comparison point as he hoped. Oh, well, it was taking too much for the official reveal; the less he wanted was to collapse before he’d get to the point.

[WELL THEN... I GUESS YOU NOW WILL FEEL ME AS I WAS BACK THEN... AS I STILL AM...] He finished his statement, releasing his hands and preparing to shift once again as the devil he really was.

The ink in, on and around himself started to morph; his face losing its remarkable features as his body reduced in size, leaving a bean-shaped frame which only worn accessories were some black boots, gloves and a bowtie resting right below his neck wasn’t anymore. All under the now blanket-like garments he was wearing as human, which he had to take off him, dropping them next to him by the floor.

And as if a heavy burden was taken off the demon’s shoulders, releasing the form he struggled so hard to maintain in public actually made him look more rested, even if was just a little.

Although during such transformation, all James could do was to gap his mouth repeatedly as he shook a little his pinkie inside his ear. Yet the size change must have been notorious– though not as Bendy expected, as the weight shift next to the blind man left him with a puzzled demeanor.

“Ben, did you... move somewhere?” He asked around, swaying his head from side to side, unsure of where to focus. Confusion that didn’t go unnoticed by the devil next to him, though the first thing he could manage to do was to shake a little his shoulders, releasing a quiet wheeze of a giggle that indeed helped the other to find his location. “There you ar–... Ben?” His regained confidence plummeted once again, for when he reached forward to sense his partner, only air was there to greet him. “Ben?” He called once again, moving his arm unknowingly above the demon, patting around with no results. “Ben, where’d you go?”

The confusion and near worriedness drawn all by the Cohen’s face was a real show for the little demon– though his tiredness didn’t allow him to react in some another way than pure amusement. But it was being too much, he didn’t really want to scare him anyhow.

Gathering his last bits of energy, he lifted his arms, grabbing in middle air his waving hand and leading it in front of his low statured body, close to his heart, helping so his other hand to find with both the back of his.

[I’M HERE.] Bendy signed, taking on the tender confusion his partner showed from feeling his signing so low and short on movements, unable to help but projecting a wholehearted yet tired smile only for him. [I’M HERE.] Repeated, as now he held securely his hands and guided them to his face, allowing him to take on all his features– or the lack of them.

And James did, with gentle hands, trace all he could find of him; hands opened like a fan, he slid up and down, feeling the flat roundness and size of his head, up to his horns and the crescent moon-like space between them, and down from his sides and head back to his neck...less chin. A questioning hum escaped from his throat, yet all Bendy could respond was a little whistle and a shaking shrug, shoulders meeting with the back of his hands in the act, and James smiled with no more questioning, just exploring more.

He reached back up, now were his thumbs turn to feel. Cautiously he traced, feeling the edges of his round smile, and then upper, meeting a slightly sharper rim with nothing inside. He abstained of manifesting his doubts, yet the feeling of something overlaying those spaces, leaving only a couple of curve lines, gave him the clue to what he was feeling. He kept tracing those lines until his thumbs met in the middle of the place, feeling nothing else in the convergence of the three found features.

Yet he descended, finding again the space where a neck should be, and carefully turning and lowering his hands, seeking for the rest of him. His wrists tickled with the texture of his bowtie, and couldn’t help but brushing it a little with his thumbs. He kept going, finding again his shoulders and sliding down from there the short track his arms made, right to his hands and lacing his fingers, even if just for a bit; they still were the same hands after all.

He returned up, though now from below his arms to get back to his body. A little shake caught him off guard, but it was accompanied by a soft wheeze, giving away the ticklish nature of the devil. A smirk crossed James face, but nothing more than a flash before continuing his course. He practically could engulf him entirely with his hands, feeling how the tip of his fingers met in his back while he sensed the proximity of his thumbs in the front.

He kept going lower, yet as with his arms, the trail was a short one; two and a quarter of what his hands entirely extended were was all it took before reaching the beginning of his legs. James laid his hands on top, and two fingers below was his knee bent. Bendy had to move a little to unfold his legs, stretching them between them and adjusting a tad back so he could fit the entire length for James to feel, and feel he did. With a light hold of his limb, so thin, so noodlely, he kept going more and more down, yet as before was a short track, finding the brim of some sort of foot garments, boots more likely.

He reached bottom, and with so, he held his hand wide open, laying his thumb at the top of Bendy’s toes and his pinkie in the middle of his leg. Holding in spot his pinkie, he reached it with his thumb before laying it where the pinkie was and taking the latter further up by his body. James repeated this a few more times, passing by the devil’s chest, mouth and until the top of his horns. And after that, he slid his hand down once again, feeling his shoulder and reaching up to his hand, cupping it between both of his.

And silence settled in. May be reflexive, may be from the shock, or simply to just let it all sink in. But silence took place on and around them both, nearly deafening the devil from the numbness and relaxation of all that caressing he received of the man next to him while he met his real form. And now, Bendy was simply too tired to really care; he felt at peace, safe even, and the warmth the man’s hands conveyed to his only made him feel more... cozy... maybe he could take a real rest now–

A slightly forceful trembling on his hand snapped the demon out of his cotton thoughts. With concern and a shot of adrenaline he darted his sockets to his boyfriend’s face, only to find it... constricted? Was he... retaining a laughter?

“Oh my god, Ben! I can’t!” James burst with a cackle, a delightful one actually, right as he yanked the little one close to him to strangle his whole body in a tight hug. “Ha ha! Oh, Ben! You’re so small!” He kept cackling, snugging the tiny frame with so much eagerness. “Ha ha ha! I’m gonna– Ha!– Eh, I’m– I’m gonna have to be careful not to step on you!”

His hyped demeanor kept for a while as the laughter receded slowly, and Bendy’s chest honestly burst with so much warmth and joy. He almost felt ashamed for overthinking it way too much earlier; he was thinking of James, after all. He felt so safe, so warm, so... cozy... so marveled by the man who decided to be with him regardless his demonic nature. No place for doubts as to why he felt that way close to him.

Yet that line of thoughts came to a halt when a chiming sound from the hall invaded the space, silencing even James’ subsiding giggles. 10 o’clock was what the chimes announced, and James shifter around with realization.

“Oh, my, it’s time!” He chirped as he stretched to reach the radio, turning it on again and finding the broadcaster introducing what was going to be the show for the night.

After making sure it was well tuned, James retook his place on the couch, fitting his back on the corner and sprawling his legs along it, as he picked up the little bean of a boyfriend, fitting him between his side and the back of the couch, wrapping his shoulders with his arm, side-hugging him so when it bent he could reach and lace the devil’s fingers with his.

And as much as James seemed expectant and ready for the night’s show, Bendy just made sure of getting as comfortable as possible. His unlaced had went across reaching for the man’s chest, right under his own head, feeling the soft rising of his chest and the warmth it emanated, even being lulled by his heartbeats. He made his way deeper in the arm’s crouch, pulling a bit his laced hand so he could blanket himself with his couple’s arm, and slowing his own breaths, he let himself drift away in the comfort of whom he dearest most.

“You ready for this Ben– Ben?” He trailed off the moment he felt some soft low whistles escaping the devil’s tongue, so quiet that couldn’t be taken as anything other than from a sleepy little bean. His initial confused appearance quickly changed by one softer and tender, reclining him a bit so he could press a kiss in the devil’s forehead, feeling him snuggle down even more in his slumber and comfort, as he tried to disturb him the less possible, lowering the radio volume before he returned to his quietest position.

“Maybe some other night.”

#BATIM #Bendy and the Ink Machine #BATDR #Bendy and the Dark Revival #Happily Ever After AU #hea au #BATIM HEA AU #Bendy #Ben D. Stein #James Cohen #I did a thing!#I wrote a thing!#Lamb's work #Lamb's inspired #a-rae-of-sunshine

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etlunainmorte · 5 years

Text

🖤 I See My Future Before Me 🖤

***

Galatea found Vergil in the library that day, and when she approached the little boy, she saw him drawing something on a cover of a hardbound book with a blue crayon.

She might have smiled at the boy's little project but, the erratic movements of his little hand as the worn down cerulean crayon chaotically glided through the book, making jarred lines and messy curves, slightly unnerved her. And as the huge letter V finally started to form on the book's cover, she realized what he's been doing.

"You know, William Blake would not appreciate what you did to his book if he sees that." She gently told the little boy as she took a seat on one of the chairs next to him.

Vergil looked up at her, letting her see the ugly bruise on his cheek ( most probably Dante's doing ), and frowned. "I want to make this book mine!"

"I know, dear. It's just,... you're going to ruin the book. And if it's ruined, you won't be able to read it properly again."

"BUT - !" The boy almost cried. "It's Dante! He always takes everything away from me! I'm putting my name on it so it can truly be mine!"

"Sshh, sshh, sshh, alright, calm down,..." Galatea hushed as she held up her hands in front of the boy. "I understand. No need to get mad."

"But,..." the boy looked down at the ruined cover of the book, his tears now steadily flowing from his eyes. "... will Mr. William Blake really get mad at me for doing this?"

The girl smiled as she took the boy into her arms and wrapped him in a very warm and gentle embrace. "I think," she explained. "... that he will be very proud of you for picking his works over others. He will say that you're a very clever boy, and that you deserve all the love and affection in the world."

"You're joking, I know,..." Vergil argued, calmly but still with a hint of disappointment.

"I'm not! Okay, if you'll let me borrow your book,..." Galatea answered as she took the book from the table. "... then, maybe I could do something with it,..."

Later that night, the girl showed up at Vergil's bedroom, both her hands behind her back and a mischievous smile on her lips. The boy left his bed and went over to her side.

"Galatea, what are you hiding?"

The girl smirked as she finally showed what she's holding. It was the same book, only that it has now a brown leather cover with a huge golden V, along with intricate lines around it, emblazoned on both the front and the back.

The little boy's eyes widened with complete wonder, gasping excitedly as he received the newly covered book from her.

"It's like,..." Vergil almost stuttered, his excitement getting the better of him. "... it's magic! How did you do it?!"

Galatea playfully rolled her eyes. "Magic."

The little boy threw himself at her, hugging her as tightly as he could. "Thank you, thank you, thank you so much!"

"Ah, it's nothing." Galatea answered as she put her arms around the boy's tiny body. "By the way, I put something in - "

"I'm so excited to read this!"

The boy ran to his bed, bouncing happily in it as he started to surround himself with the wondrous and imaginative world of Blake.

"Never mind." Galatea murmured more to herself than to the little boy. "Good night." She whispered as she quietly closed the door,...

Little Lamb who made thee,

Dost thou know who made thee,... ?

***

XXIX

***

"Sunny day sweepin' the clouds away.

On my way to where the air is sweet!

Can you tell me how to get?

How to get to - "

"V! Wake up!"

The poor poet woke up to someone shaking him on the shoulder and the sound of that sickly cheerful music on the television. He opened his eyes, letting them adjust to the bright morning light that seemed to add insult to his self - inflicted psychological and emotional injury, and saw the woman peering down at him with utter disgust.

"Eww, what happened to ya? Ya, like, cried yerself to sleep or somethin'?"

V ignored her stupid question as he sat up from the sofa ( which was mercifully soft, thank the Heavens ) and took a good long look around the now bright room.

During his awfully stressful slumber, Nico has managed to enter the premises ( of course, she has her own key ), parted the heavy curtains, and actually made something decent for breakfast.

And its smell was now actually wafting from the kitchen to V's sensitive nostrils.

"Breakfast time!" The tattooed woman announced as she went over to the television to turn it off.

"HEY!" Griffon, who was sitting on the floor beside Shadow, pointed an accusing finger at her. "WE'RE STILL WATCHING!"

"ELMO CAN WAIT! AND DON'T YA POINT AT ME JUST BECAUSE YER HUMAN NOW!"

"AARRGGHH!"

Shadow, who was eagerly watching the children's show with Griffon, flinched when the television screen went from colorful to blank, and started crying like Nico just took her candy away from her.

"SEE WHAT YE'VE DONE TO THE HOUSECAT!"

"OH, SHUT THE CRAP UP!"

"ENOUGH!"

Griffon and Nico both looked up as they heard V's intentionally loud scream and immediately stopped bickering. Shadow, on the other hand, went on crying like nobodies' business.

And it was to an awkward silence when he left the unit to clear his mind. He knew he has an obligation to take care of (Y/N) and he was fully aware that he must not leave her with Nico and Griffon ( who were both as perfectly capable as two clashing, idiotic hominids ) but, he really needed to get away for a while, to ease his anxiety and to calm his senses. He wanted so much to get rid of the throbbing pain on his head, and he needed get away from too much noise for a while.

He wanted to breathe some fresh air,...

All of a sudden, like something that could only happen in cheap novels and low - budget movies, a single piece of flyer flew from somewhere and landed on his face. He picked the piece of paper off his tired and greasy face, took a good long look at it, and almost swore out loud. Almost.

Of all the places that could lure him in,...

An hour later, he found himself face to face with the familiar wooden door with the huge neon sign right above it. The one place that old flyer advertised.

It was the same place,... that changed his fate forever. Not to mention the others he intentionally and unintentionally dragged along with him and his blunders.

He opened the door, stepped in,...

... and saw, in his utter shock, the huge interior of a grand, old cathedral. He was now standing next to one of the pews, and when he looked down to his left, he saw (Y/N) actually sitting on it, her eyes transfixed to, most probably, the choir practicing from the far right corner of the cathedral.

"Willst du ihnen beitreten?" Came the voice of an older woman who suddenly went through V ( like how Alicia did ) and placed a hand on her shoulder. It was a middle - aged nun with the most gentle features he has ever seen.

The nun must have noticed (Y/N)'s confusion upon being asked in a different language, and shook her head. "Oh, vergib mir. I mean, forgive me. I was asking if you want to join them." She asked, then gestured towards the choir.

(Y/N)'s mouth opened as she was about to say something but, then, hesitated. She just smiled sheepishly and shook her head.

"You'll love it there."

"I'm sorry, I can't,... I really can't sing like that."

"Oh, is that so? Hmm, you do seem to like music." The nun sat down next to (Y/N). "Then, what brings you here? You do seem like you came from a very far place. I may be able to help." She asked as she looked at her casual clothes that were inappropriate for such a cold weather.

The girl, who looked like she was about to burst into tears, nodded as she bowed her head. She, then, looked at the nun's eyes and spoke, "I was looking for - "

"V?" Came a familiar voice. The poet glanced at the vicinity of the choir once more and noticed Dante standing just next to the old conductor, his arms crossed. "Hey!" His younger brother went towards him, looking confused, and when he finally patted him on the shoulder, his surroundings abruptly changed from German rustic to American modern. He was back to his own reality with the familiar atmosphere of the Devil May Cry office before him. "Finally came for a visit, eh?"

"I,... guess I' am. Yes."

Dante rolled his eyes and gestured for V to follow him towards his desk. "So, what happened with the Vergil disguise?"

"It wore off." It was the truth

"Can you put it back on?" Dante mildly asked as he collapsed on his chair and placed both of his feet on his messy table. "Be my brother for a while?"

"Do you want me to?" V inquired as he threw his cane in mid air and caught it with his right hand.

The Devil Hunter in red just shook his head. "Nah. Would it make any difference, though? We'll still try to kill each other anyway."

"Was that the only memory we had? Of us at each others' throats?"

"Seems like it."

There was a moment of awkward silence, and when Dante spoke once more, V felt that there really was a reason he was led back to this place.

"That day, when I was fighting the Dreadnought's horde, some names came up my head. Something like Andromeda, Cassandra, and Galatea?" His statement made V smirk as he shook his head in disbelief. And this very unexpected gesture irked Dante. "What?"

"You heard the man, Cassandra." V spoke, much to Dante's utter confusion. "It is time you explain everything."

For a few moments, Dante only stared at V, thinking that his "brother" has completely gone insane, and lo and behold, something materialized right next to him, and it made him almost fall off his chair in shock.

"WHOAH! WHO ARE YOU?!"

"Dante, I'd like to reintroduce you to Cassandra, the Aspect Of Future, eldest of the Sisters of Fate."

Dante raised an eyebrow. "Wait a second here, reintroduce? Did I hear that right?"

V's gaze felt like daggers against Cassandra's skin. She looked down in shame, unable to speak.

"Cassandra, if you please?" V asked. No. More like ordered.

The Sister of Fate nodded and went closer to Dante. The man quickly stood and drew back in terror, uncertain why a tall and lovely woman was approaching him. "Let your sight be opened." Cassandra spoke clearly as she took hold of Dante's head, making his eyes roll back and his muscles tense. After a few moments, she let go of his head, making him stumble to the ground. And the moment he opened his eyes, he finally remembered everything.

"H - how could I forget?!" He muttered. "Cassandra, were you the one who sealed our memories?"

"Yes." The woman answered with much guilt. "I only did it to protect you from Mundus and all of Sparda's enemies. I' am very sorry."

"Ha." The man mocked as he stood up and brushed some dirt off his jacket. "And surely you've realized that your bright idea did nothing to keep us safe!"

"That is enough, Dante." V quietly interjected.

"Can you explain what this is all about?"

Which was exactly what V did for the next couple of hours. He explained everything, from the day he commissioned him to take on the Demon King Urizen, to the day the Sisters returned to him. And, of course, he told him everything about (Y/N), how he felt about her, how he fell in love with her,...

... how he hurt her,...

"To be quite frank," Dante began as he rubbed his stubble. "... you've been a total douchebag, V. No offense. Just saying the plain truth."

"I know. And I'm sorry." The poet, now settled on one of the chairs beside the desk, answered.

"Nah. What's the point in falling in love when you don't make a blunder or two? It's called, falling in love. And, damn, it hurts. Look what happened to me." Dante shook his head and stood. "Speaking of (Y/N), I just remembered something. Wait here." He stated as he made his way to the back of the office, occasionally throwing weird glances at Cassandra, who was quietly standing at the far corner of the room.

When he got back, he was carrying a pale pink fur coat and what looked like an instrument case. "(Y/N) forgot this the last time she's here. Can you give this back to her for me?"

As V was about to take the parka - like clothing from his brother, his visions returned, flinging him back to the old rustic church where he saw the same nun from before handing him the thing instead of Dante. A pair of hands went through V, taking the parka from the kind, old woman. He moved aside to see (Y/N) lovingly clutching the warm, wooly parka close to her chest.

"Thank you so much, Sister,... ah?"

"You may call me Sister Christina." The old woman smiled. "May you finally see the man you've been searching for." The nun made the sign of the cross and kissed the younger woman on the forehead. "Möge dich Gott auf deinen Reisen segnen."

"V?" Dante's voice once again brought him back to the present. "You okay?"

"Yes. Forgive me."

Dante just stared at V with a raised eyebrow as he handed the coat to him. "Oh, and, ah, her birthday is coming soon, and I couldn't think of anything else to give. I mean, I don't know what movie she hasn't already seen, and I'm sure she's not gonna appreciate Twilight. So, I got her this." He handed him the instrument case he's been holding.

V was right. It was a violin. A real one, and not a weaponized version.

Dante scratched his head in confusion. "Ah, I know she's tone deaf. But, you can teach her, right?"

"Of course." V answered. "Can I open it?"

"Sure. Open it, play something with it, whatever you want."

V carefully opened the case and saw the exquisite, wooden thing inside. He took it and appraised it like an expert.

"Guarneri? You can afford Guarneri?!" For the first time since those stressful days, V actually felt the mirth going back to his system at the thought of Dante buying an expensive instrument for the girl he loves.

"Guava?" And he clearly sounded that he had no idea what he just got himself into.

"Guarneri." V repeated dryly. He just can't accept people being ignorant about the popular Italian Luthier - the maker of Paganini's violin.

"Guava. Guanini. Whatever. Besides, I just bought it from an antique shop and had it fixed."

And apparently, it cost too much, V thought, taking note of the dark atmosphere of the room. His brother wasn't able to pay the bills again and was probably fast approaching bankruptcy.

V pushed the thoughts aside as he positioned the violin below his left jaw and raised the bow,...

"Allmächtiger Vater, Segne diesen Mann auf seinen Wegen und Reisen. Segne ihn in seinem Denken und Handeln. Segne ihn in seiner Seele und seinem Herzen. Dass dein Licht ihn stets umgibt, und ihn auf deinen erwählten Pfad sicher leite. Geleite ihn durch die Stille und Leere, auf dass er an deiner Seite die Hoffnung und das Glück entdecke. Im Namen des Vaters, des Sohnes und des heiligen Geistes

Amen."

The two brothers both looked at the other end of the room and saw (Y/N) standing there, her back turned against them.

"What the hell?!" Dante mumbled. "(Y/N)?!"

However, V was fully aware who she really was. And he knew she wasn't (Y/N).

The girl turned and finally revealed her face. It was, indeed, Galatea. "Almighty father," she went on with her prayer. "Bless this man on his roads and travels, bless him in his thoughts and actions, bless him in his soul and in his heart that your light always surrounds him and guide him safely on your chosen path. Guide him through the silence and the void so that by your side he may find hope and mirth. In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit, Amen. It's what (Y/N) always prays at night before she sleeps. It was taught to her by the nun who gave her that parka. She prays for you each night, Master."

"Galatea, is that you?!" Dante gasped, pointing at another one of the Sisters of Fate who kept materializing in his own office.

"That name was given by your father, Sparda. Before that, I was,... nothing. A shell of what truly mirrors the illusions made by him." Galatea explained.

"What do you mean by that?" V questioned.

The girl smiled. "Do you remember that night when I fixed that book of yours, Master?"

"Of course. As clear as day, dear."

The girl nodded, her expression very serious. "Then, please, take the cover off the book."

"NO!" Cassandra shrieked all of a sudden. She crossed the room and made her way to her younger sister, hugging her as tightly as she could.

Like Galatea was going to leave her,...

"You can't do this! Please! We'll lose you! I beg you, don't do this!"

The youngest sister only smiled as she embraced her sibling. "But, you've seen it?"

"Yes!" Cassandra was crying, and it unnerved both V and Dante. "So, I beg you! Don't make him do it! Please! I've lost mama and papa. I don't want to lose you!"

It's just a book. What would happen to her?

Galatea closed her eyes as a single tear rolled down her eye. She, then, looked at V. "Master, do it. And see for yourself. Do it for me."

Despite the heavy and unexplainable feeling that suddenly weighed on his chest, he placed the Guarneri and the bow back on their case, took out the William Blake anthology from his coat pocket, and opened it, noticing the part where the leather cover began. With mild curiosity, Dante inched closer to V, watching his brother tear off the brown leather cover. A few moments later, a single piece of paper fell from it to the floor, making all eyes focus on it and it alone.

And as V picked it up and noticed what it was, his eyes widened and his lips parted. It was a very old vintage photograph of a little girl holding a stuffed lamb.

It was an old photograph of (Y/N).

"I was created to mimic her image. To provide mama with a daughter. Without her, the girl in that old photograph, I' am nothing. The moment I came to life, I always dreamed of actually meeting her in person. And I found her," Galatea let go of Cassandra and went directly to V. "... and brought her to you."

All the pain in his chest went back, reminding him of every bit of mistake he has done to her. He clutched the photograph closer to his chest. "But, I don't deserve her. I,... hurt her."

"I know. So, promise me you'll find her and get her back."

"Find her? Galatea, what do you - ?" V was startled when her body was suddenly engulfed with multiple little orbs of light. "What's happening to your body?"

"I used up all of my powers. I found her, fulfilled your wish, healed her. My mission,... has ended." She answered. She was dying, and yet, there was a content look on her face.

She knew her fate all along. And she embraced it.

"Farewell, Master."

And with those final words, she vanished, leaving behind her true form: an antique porcelain doll clutching a stuffed lamb.

That image was still on his mind when he left Dante's office and made his way back to (Y/N)'s unit but, something else was bothering him.

Find her? What does that mean? It's not like (Y/N) suddenly vanished or anything. That’s impossible.

But, then, something flashed in his mind: an unknown visitor, a tear - stained note, an open door,...

V practically sprinted towards the building, his heart rate going higher and higher as the vision finally took over his mind.

It can't be! She can't do this! She can't - !

The poet flung open the door and saw the frantic look on Nico and Griffon's faces.

"Where is she?"

Nico and Griffon immediately went towards V. Something really was wrong.

"Okay, V. No need to stress yerself even more. We just went out to get some stuff and,... she's just - " Griffon began but, he was immediately cut off.

"WHERE IS SHE?"

Nico, who was the calmer of the three of them, tried to stop V as he made his way towards (Y/N)'s room. "Calm down, man! She will go back. I know she will - "

She will go back?!

He almost rudely brushed the two aside and ran to her room. He flung open the door,...

... and didn't find her there.

But, just like in his vision, there was a single note on the bed. He picked it up and saw the shaky scribbles on it.

“One of these days, and it won’t be long,

You’ll call my name and I’ll be gone,

Fare thee well, my honey, fare thee well.”

And just like in the vision, the note,...

... was tear - stained.

***

🖤 Special thanks to @la-vita for the German dialogue and translations. And for introducing us to Sister Christina. 🖤

🖤 @beyond-the-mirror , @gothghoulfiend , @vergils-daughter , @micaelagua , @ehrzeth , @ceruleanworld , @simmy-ships , @boundbysoul , @diabeticsugarush , @lessy86 , @heaven-on-a-landslide , and @krazy06 . 🖤

***

As they made their way back to their home, he saw his wife stop at an antique shop, her eyes transfixed on something in a glass case. He took a curious look at it and realized it was a beautiful vintage porcelain doll holding what looked like a stuffed lamb. And just above the doll's glass case was a photograph of a real human girl, clutching the same stuffed lamb, who must have been the inspiration of whoever made the toy.

He smiled at her. "Do you want her? I'll get her for you."

His lovely wife looked up at him, her smile slowly diminishing. She shook her head and grasped her husband's hand, leading him away from the shop with a sad look on her face.

The week after that, the husband introduced his wife to three girls. And he called one of them Galatea.

"Galatea?" She gasped in wonder as her hands glided against the girl’s smooth porcelain - like skin. Like that of a doll's.

She was,... simply perfect,...

The little girl smiled at her as she carefully touched her hands with her own, little ones. "Mama?"

Little Lamb who made thee,

Dost thou know who made thee,... ?

***

🖤 P.S. I Love You 🖤

~ A V X Reader set in a modern Alternate Universe.

~ Life goes back to normal after the fall of Urizen, the Demon King. V, one of the Demon Hunters who survived the demonic invasion, officially joins Devil May Cry and takes on small jobs to make ends meet. One day, a female client hires him to drive away an evil spirit that haunts her home. Along with Nico, who brings along her new state - of - the - art gadgets to help him on his new mission, and his familiars, Griffon, Shadow, and Nightmare, V moves to his client's home - a mansion rich with history, both happy and dark. And in that mansion, he finds a diary that once belonged to the client's great grandmother, a woman named (Y/N) (L/N), who is, somehow, connected to the hauntings of the restless spirit he must drive out.

~ To be released on the 1st week of October.

***

🖤🖤🖤

***

#devil may cry 5 #vitale sparda #i see my future before me #v x reader #v x you #chapter 29 #the little lamb #teaser #p.s. i love you

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countessogilvy · 5 years

Text

Imperatrix II: Two Truths & A Lie

|Book| A Courtesan of Rome [Post-Canon/Alternate History)

|Pairings| Cassius x MC, Marc Antony x MC

|Rating| Mature

|TW| Mentions of sexual assault and rape, slavery, child abuse and torture.

|Summary| Cassius receives an answer to his proposal. Epona asks Antony for a reward.

Chapter I: Ides of March

"How could you ask that of me, Cassius? Rome would never see me as a wife. I would be considered your whore, at best your slave." Her words came out almost a whisper, a pained expression on her face.

He'd been planning to ask for some time, biding his time until they both freed themselves from the grip of Nemesis that had her embroiled in dreams of revenge since she made her debut as a courtesan in his home, and him since receiving news of Pompey's defeat. "To hell with Rome or with what my peers will think of me marrying you!" Cassius cursed through clenched jaw. His hand smoothed down her hair, finally landing at the nape of her neck bringing his forehead against hers. "You love him, don't you?"

Cassius already had his suspicions that Epona's relationship with Antony had gone beyond her original intent, that she would find herself captivated Antony's charm despite his role as Caesar's right hand man in the conquering of Gaul. He knew that if he let her go without an answer now, she would never return to him. Epona helped him cope with his past trauma, she accepted him as flawed as he was, supporting him when he felt most insecure of himself. She was never afraid to speak her mind around him, even when it came to her more dangerous thoughts - he admired her honesty and openness in an environment that was hostile to people like her in Rome.

"I do, as I love you." She fought back the tears blurring her vision. It was a painful truth she had to admit not only to Cassius, but to herself in order to finally free herself from Antony's shackles. "Yet, unlike him, I know your heart truly lies with me. How could I not choose you?"

*****

The sun had barely risen when Epona left the villa, the streets were quiet save for a few farmers bringing in produce and grain from the countryside in carts. Walking through the marketplace, Epona noticed a young girl staggering through an alleyway. The young girl's clothes were tattered and ripped, almost falling off her small bony body. Welts covered most of her back, some still fresh and bloody, a brand above her left shoulder blade: a slave. Buying a fresh loaf of bread from a baker still setting up his stall, Epona quickly caught up with the young girl, her hand landing on her shoulder. The young girl flinched in terror, backing away from Epona, nothing but fear in her worn eyes "Please don't hurt me, domina!"

Epona offered the bread to the girl, "Eat this, girl." The slave girl hesitantly took the bread from her hands and ravished it as if her last meal had been days ago. Epona couldn't help but chuckle at how quickly the girl ate the bread, hoping it would sate her hunger until whenever her next meal came. She brushed the knotted brown hair away from the girl's face, quietly offering her a blessing, "May the Great Mother watch over you. May She give you the strength to survive the cruelty you will endure. May those who would hurt you be struck down by Her might."

The girl couldn't quite meet Epona's eyes, keeping her head bowed, "Gratitudes, domina."

The fear in the girl's eyes felt all too familiar to Epona. She was once a slave in shackles, forced out of her home, ripped away from her family and brought to an unfamiliar land. If not by the grace of Tsirona, she could have been that young girl, marked and branded, devoid of everything that made her Epona. Even though she won in her trial of vengeance, Rome remained the same. The same Rome that took her youth, her tribe, her homeland, her family, her flesh. Anger simmered in her, the same anger she felt under Aquila's shackles. The anger she felt in those woods as he and his men took her - her screams unanswered. She vowed she would survive and instead she flourished, the Romans that harmed her and her family now in the afterlife where they belonged.

It was little she could do about the treatment of Rome's slaves as a courtesan, but she would be a senator's wife soon and his ear would be open to her suggestion. She may feel some guilt about using her soon-to-be husband's position in such way, but she also knew that he would agree with her. Any slaves Cassius inherited from his father were set free and offered proper coin for their services instead, his words always backed by direct action that were met with snide remarks from his peers in the senate. Perhaps her reputation could change the minds of Romans, likely more effective than pleading to the senate which would probably fall to deaf ears. Or maybe she would take the matter into her own hands, freeing the slaves herself and let them burn Rome for its sins against the children of Tsirona.

*****

Epona made her way into Pompey's villa, oddly left empty of any guards or servants. With light steps, she walked into the dining area to find Antony seated next to a table, pouring wine from an amphora into his goblet. His movements were inaccurate, spilling wine onto the table and even overfilling his goblet before he gulps it down at once. It appeared that someone already broke the news of Caesar's assassination to Antony. She cursed herself internally, an unfortunate circumstance of her mental anguish and exhaustion from the day prior.

"A bit early to be drunk, no?" Epona questioned, closing the distance between them until she stood across from him.

He scoffs, filling the goblet again before leaning back into the chair. His eyes met hers, glazed-over and bloodshot, a strange sight for Epona unsure if it was due to the inebriation or Antony succumbing to a good cry. "His loyalty may have wavered, but Caesar was still like a father to me." A mournful look crosses his face, downing more of the wine again. "However, I doubt you're here to speak of dead men."

"Not at all, only of what is to follow." Epona moved around the table, fingers stroking the wooden surface of the table until she finally settled next to Antony. "A full pardon for myself, Cassius and Brutus on the charges of murder."

"Caesar has yet reached the underworld and you're already asking favor?"

"I am certain your beloved pater is already plotting to crucify Pluto as we speak." Epona smirked at him, almost mockingly. "You will soon be declared consul of Rome due to the actions of the Liberators. Surely such a grand prize deserves the small reward of a pardon?"

Antony watched her thoughtfully, stroking his chin as if trying to figure out her angle, "Oddly specific for you to mention only Cassius and Brutus in this...pardon."

"Do away with the others if you wish but Brutus is a valuable ally and fiercely loyal. He will be useful to you in the senate and may even sway dissenters to your side."

"And young Cassius? I can't see him being easily motivated to support me by just pardoning him." Antony cocked an eyebrow at her.

Epona carefully thought about her next words, not wanting to give away her true feelings. "Cassius would have me as his wife and I would love nothing more than enjoying the luxuries of his wealth. I can't do that if he's dead."

"Ha! Epona, Princess of Gaul, greatest courtesan in all of Rome and now wife of a senator." Antony laughed, now swirling the wine around his goblet. He tried to hide it but she noted the slight bitter expression on his face. Epona winced at the epithet of "Princess of Gaul", a name given to her by Rome to increase her value. She was no delicate royalty but a fierce warrior and chieftain of the Catauni, the title she inherited from her father despite her tribe being no more.

His free hand caressed her thigh, slowly moving upward, ending right at the apex before moving his hand away. Epona nearly faltered in her attempt to disguise her arousal, choosing not to look at him directly instead. Antony smirked, leaning in towards her breast, hot breath warming her bare skin. "Why just be a senator's wife when I can give you all of Rome?"

And there was the Antony she knew, bargaining with her knowing his true loyalty remained with himself. "Because any affection you may have for me will always remain secondary to your ambitions." she stated harshly.

It was a difficult truth Epona had to come to terms with despite loving him. It would only take someone more beautiful, more powerful and more ambitious before he would discard her and move on. She enjoyed their "games" against those they both hated but she knew deep down he was using her as much as she used him. She loved him but hated how small he made her feel at times, as if one misstep and he would take her life without notice. She refused to live as such, under the thumb of a man who wanted nothing but complete control.

"And you don't think Cassius would use you as he has done before?!" he spat, slamming down his goblet on the table, some wine spilling on the table and her gown.

Epona rolls her eyes, "Oh Antony, jealousy does not suit you. You wanted Rome and now you have it, I was never part of the deal." Epona silently prayed that would be enough to convince him. She finished the remainder of his wine before heading for the exit.

"You're aware the your actions may just start a civil war. What if perhaps...I happen to strike down Cassius on the battlefield?" Antony threatened.

She had enough of Antony's manipulations. She found a way to free himself from him, his puppet strings and he would even take that freedom from her. Clenching her fists in anger, she look over her shoulder, clenching her jaw "Then you will meet me on the battlefield."

#cassius x mc #marc antony x mc #acor choices #acor fic #a courtesan of rome #playchoices #imperatrix

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spootiliousrps · 5 years

Text

Suspicious Nature Part 2

[Beginning] // [Next]

King Dean hummed as he listened to Castiel’s speech. “That is all very well, Commander. But I do wish to ask, one more question, it may sound... a rather odd question, but I have my reasons. When you presented, what did you present as?” Dean asked, the last comment about replacing Castiel only made him more certain that Castiel was hiding something, something large that could end his career.

This was it, the moment Cas had dreaded his entire life. He refused to feel shame however, standing tall, shoulders back, head high as he pursed his lips at the question. Castiel prided himself in his honesty, it set him apart from everyone else. He would survive this. He would manage... even if he no longer had a title. "I presented as an Omega, Your Majesty." He stated simply. The young King was far more intuitive than his father had been that was for certain... In away it made Cas proud to see, despite the cold resolve that now filled the Knight Commander.

Dean nodded. “I thought as much. This... avoidance cannot go unpunished. But I hope to become a fair, just King. So I’ll give you a choice. Surely, there are people here that know your truth. You can either keep your job, yet throw those people in jail. Or you cease this job and your way of hiding the truth, and...” Dean paused as he looked the Omega up and down. “And you become Queen.” He finished simply.

"Of Coarse, Your Grace, I shall begin preparations for my successor imm-" He rushed before the realization of the King's words struck him. He staggered a bit at the shock that washed over him. He was reeling. He couldnt be serious... This had to be a joke. Cas never did have a very good sense of humor... He just never understood that side of people, it was beyond him. "Forgive my ignorance, Your Majesty..." He began hesitantly, trying to gauge if the man was serious. " But I do not understand."

“As I’m sure you’re aware, I don’t have a Queen. Nor am I courting. One reason is because I have not found anyone suitable to help me rule, as the Queen should. With your... astute awareness, you would do well.” King Dean hummed. “It’s either that, or throw all your family and friends in jail.”

“No. No, please, Your Grace.” Cas rushed at the mention of throwing his loved ones in a cage. “I will do as you wish, of course.” He added with another low bow, he didn’t straighten however, already worried about overstepping himself as an Omega… Which was something he hadn’t fretted about in quite a long time. “I simply worry that it may be…” He paused as he tried to find the words. “Inappropriate for a King as gracious and renown as you to take a commoner as his Queen.” He pointed out. The simple idea of marriage did not sit well in the Knight Command- No… He was no longer Knight Commander… He needed to stop addressing himself as such. Regardless of what happened next Cas would be stripped of his previous title. “Surely there is someone much more suitable for such a wise and brave King.” He knew he was going a bit overboard with the compliments… perhaps even gravitating towards groveling but… Queen?! That was no small title. .

“A wise and brave King needs a Queen equal to him, or their relationship and the Kingdom will fall to ruins. You may be brash but you are wise. And I cannot think of an Omega who is as brave as you.” King Dean hummed. “And you are but a commoner. You were a commander.” He placed two fingers under Castiel’s chin and tilted his head up. He leaned down slowly, and pressed his lips to the Omega’s own.

Cas listened to the words, clinging to each one of them. Was that really what Dean thought of him? He didn’t really consider himself in such away and yet, for once the words didn’t feel false. The Omega just barely managed to keep from flinching as the King reached out to guide his chin upwards, forcing his blue gaze to meet the emeralds before him. This man… An Alpha… Ruler of an entire kingdom saw Castiel Novak, a commoner who had to fight tooth and nail to gain what little respect he had, as an equal? His mind was still reeling as Dean moved closer his scent flooding Cas’ senses as he pressed his lips to his. It was a fairly chaste show of affection and yet… the first the Omega had received in a very very long time. The flood of emotion that accompanied it had him feeling dizzy with something akin to motion sickness. He was so taken aback by the action, however, that he didn’t respond… just stared at the Alpha in shock and awe.

Dean pulled back and frowned. “Too soon?” He asked, as he stepped back. “Tomorrow morning, I wish for a report to be placed in my office, detailing who you believe is the best to succeed you. Stop taking whatever medicine you use to disguise your scent, it’s not very becoming of an Omega Queen.” Dean hummed and turned. “That is unless you wish to join me in retiring for bed.” He smirked and winked at Castiel.

The flush that washed over Castiel’s skin was dark enough to appear burned at the words. “That would be quite inappropriate, Your Majesty.” He mumbled softly as he straightened, tugging at the tunic beneath his thin armor. “I will make the necessary preparations before morning.” He nodded, clearing his throat awkwardly. “If I may, Sire… I would like to inform the men, if it is all the same to you?” He requested almost nervously. “I fear they would not take it well from anyone else. I have lived among them for long enough that their doubt would most certainly cause some trouble.”

Dean thought for a moment. “I will go with you to inform them. Alphas can be... emotional when it comes to Omegas lying to them. I do not wish to see my Queen be injured.” He stated. “But pray tell, why do you believe it is inappropriate for an Alpha to lay with his Omega?”

“Of course, Your Majesty. Whatever you wish.” Castiel agreed, though he wasn’t too fond of the idea. The fact that Dean was already becoming protective over him was a bit… unsettling. “It has very little to do with an Alpha and Omega laying together, Sire.” He explained awkwardly. “Ignoring the age difference, and the fact that I am a commoner, and meaning no disrespect, I don’t make it a habit of laying with any Alpha who asks me to bed.” Not that any had in over a decade. “Nor would I wish to imply that your…” He took a moment to force the words out. “Future Queen would be so dishonorable to do just that.”

“There is no dishonour in sleeping with someone, Castiel.” Dean stated. “But as you so wish. Just that the report on my desk by morning.” He turned and headed back to the castle. “I would also like you to suggest what... entourage you would like to have, once you have finished in the post.” He called over his shoulder before walking over the brow of a hill and back into the Kingdom.

Castiel watched him go, giving a small nod at the command before the King disappeared from sight. The moment he was alone, the breath the Omega hadn’t realized he was holding, left him and he practically collapsed onto the soft grass. What the hell just happened?! He scrubbed a hand through his messy locks as he tried to process it all. He had known losing his command had been a possibility but… becoming Queen?! Dean Winchester was utterly insane! A mad man!!! Christ, what was he going to do?! Cas wasn’t made out to rule… not like that. Soldiers were one thing but a kingdom? As an Omega?! Who would listen to him? Not to mention the backlash that would result in his men discovering the truth. How is it just hours ago he was at peace with the idea of stepping down and now… face with the prospect of stepping /up/ was terrifying? He remained there for a while, unsure of how much time had passed, trying to gather himself, to steel himself against the world.

Marriage… Something he had never considered… Now forced into his hands. That was the power of a Monarch he supposed. Threaten to toss everyone he cared for in prison if Cas didn’t marry him… It seemed as if Dean took after his father more than the staff that worked close to him believed. How could anyone be that cruel? And yet… Cas’ hand lifted to brush his fingers against his lips. He didn’t think that was everything to the man. No… there had to be more. Dean was known to bed his fair share of Omegas through the years, everyone knew that and his rise to power probably wouldn’t change that. Could Cas handle that knowledge as his Queen? Well… He supposed that it didn’t really matter… The marriage would be for the Kingdom’s benefit not for an emotional connection. Who was he to turn down his duty? That’s exactly what it was, wasn’t it? His duty? He had taken an oath as Knight Commander to serve and protect the throne and do what was best for the Kingdom… As Queen he could do more than he ever could as Commander…

The thought seemed to settle much of his worries and he pushed to his feet. He had a lot to do before morning.

The next morning, King Dean woke early, his bed empty. He sighed, he didn’t know the last time he had fallen asleep by himself, but he had Castiel to think about. It wouldn’t do the Omega’s trust much good for his Alpha to be sleeping with anyone he chooses. He gets washed and dressed. Dressing in his finest formalwear, trying to look as handsome as possible. He even tamed his hair. He moved into his office, where his breakfast and a new stack of paperwork, almost up to his shoulders was waiting for him. He took a deep sigh as he grabbed a slice of toast and the first documents to read through.

Cas didn’t bother to sleep more than maybe an hour or two before washing and dressing. He didn’t bother trying to tame his messy dark locks. For a moment however he paused to stare at his usual uniform and armor, suddenly feeling a bit naked despite his layers of formal ware. How long had it been since he had been in public without the thin layer of metal? It didn’t really matter, he supposed. He gave a heavy sigh, pulling on his cloak and taking a glance in the mirror. He looked tired and a bit worn down but otherwise he supposed he was… passable for a noble… He still didn’t understand what the King was thinking but he supposed it was best to just accept it without question. He moved to collect his reports and headed out to meet the man in question, ignoring the strange look he received from his men at the change of attire.

Dean stayed in his office, working slowly through his paperwork. He didn’t check the time, concentrating on the piles of paper in front of him. Even though his hair was neat to start with, it slowly returned to its usual ruffled-self, as he ran his fingers through it. All through his paperwork, Dean’s mind constantly returned to Castiel. How would he react, now he had time to digest his proposal? He wondered if he had come across to forceful, he would have to rectify it once Castiel comes with even more paperwork.

The guards inside the palace allowed the Knight Commander to pass without nothing more than a respectful nod, or a slight bow while the servants seemed to hurry out of his way bowing and scraping as they always did. He really did hate that. He came from the same background as them. He gave an audible huff, ignoring them the best he could. He needed to get use to it if he were to become Queen. Still by the time that he managed to reach the Man in Waiting he was already in a foul mood, shooting the younger man a glare as he announced the King was expecting him. The beta nodded, rushing into the large office to announce the Knight Commander properly.

Dean waved his hand to dismiss the guard, not looking up from his paperwork, as he read the fine print of a subsection of a clause in a by-law. He held his finger up, as he asked for Castiel’s patience, and pointed to the plush seat opposite the desk. He hummed as he grabbed a piece of paper and scribbled a note on it, before pushing it all to one side and leaning back in his chair, rubbing his eyes. “I hate Wednesdays. They’re always the busiest day of the week.” He sighed as he finally looked up at Castiel. “How was your night, anyway?” He asked, noting the bags under the Omega’s eyes.

Cas brushed by the servant, moving into the room and remaining silent at the King’s indication. He moved towards the chair but didn’t sit, preferring to stand as he waited for the man’s attention. “Pleasant. Thank you, Sire.” Cas replied simply before offering out the stack of paperwork in his hand. “The recommendations you requested, Your Majesty.” He offered. “Along with a complete assessment of each soldier’s strengths and weakness, service records and history.” He explained. “You will also find a suggested time to address the men about the… situation.” He added. “Along with a number of soldiers for your own entourage and the list you requested for my own.”

“Castiel...” Dean said gently. “Please sit. You’re making me exhausted, just watching you. I- need to apologise about how I conducted myself last night. It was incredibly wrong to push myself onto you like that. Sometimes... I still think of myself as a Prince, and what I said would have completely different meaning. Please sit and allow us to discuss this as one human to another.” He said softly, hating to see how badly he affected Castiel.

Cas pursed his lips but complied, sinking down into the lush chair but keeping his spine straight. He was exhausted and couldn’t afford to get too comfortable. Still, the King’s words were a bit soothing; was the Omega’s discomfort that obvious. “Of course, Sire.” He nodded obediently.

“I know, nothing I say will excuse my behaviour last night. I should never have given you that ultimatum. It was wrong and abusive of me.” Dean looked to his forgotten breakfast and passed over the last slice of cold toast. “I know it’s cold and forgotten, but you seem to still need it. Have you eaten at all this morning?” He asked softly, hoping to help Castiel relax around him.

“Oh, no thank you, Your Majesty.” Castiel responded. He hadn’t bothered to eat but honestly, with everything that was going on he didn’t think he could stomach it. “Though, I wouldn’t be so hard on yourself. You /are/ an Alpha, Sire, and I an Omega. It is only nature.” He offered though he still didn’t care for it much.

“Castiel I insist. Please relax. Please eat.” Dean said softly. He pushed more papers to the side and rests his hands on the desk. “What I did to you was wrong. So how about I change it slightly, if you’d agree to it, otherwise, we can discuss another option.” Dean said softly. “Does that sound... agreeable to you?” He asked, not wanting to push the Omega.

“I really rather not, Your Grace.” He replied to the offer of food once more, as stubborn as ever. Still, he listened to the man intently, relaxing a bit at the man’s sincerity. “I am always open for discussion, Your Majesty.” Cas reassured with a nod willing to hear him out.

Dean hummed, “instead of jumping straight to marriage, or anything too intimate, how about a very quiet date.” He suggested. “You can choose the time and date. And until we decide whether you want us to be serious or not, you can keep your job as Commander. If you’d be interested.” Dean offered. “Or I can promote you to being a Royal Aide, dedicated to welfare and development of either my own personal guards, or the soldiers in general.” Dean offered, softly.

Cas considered the words for a moment, falling silent as he weighed his options. “Thank you, Sire. You are very generous… However…” He sighed. “I don’t think that I can continue as Knight Commander if this is to be the plan.” He admitted. “I fear, I cannot in good conscious remain Knight Commander if we are going to court; even discretely. Rumors among the palace staff spreads rapidly and the King with an assumed Alpha could be considered scandalous. It is best to inform my men of my status and correct the assumption once and for all; and while I trust some will remain loyal the Kingdom can not rely on a divided force. Yes, it would be best to address my men and step down. Though, I be most grateful to take the role of a Royal Aide.” He agreed, the tension in his shoulders fading slightly.

King Dean hummed and smiled. “You are wise.” He complimented. “I trust you, implicitly. You will make an excellent Royal Aide.” He smiled, he watched Castiel slowly relax, his eyes starting to droop. “Is there anything you would like to ask me, as your King, or as another person. You may ask me anything you wish, multiple anything’s.” Dean smiled, wanting Castiel to relax more.

The Knight Commander seemed to consider his options once more, always reserved. “I suppose I am curious as to why your choosing me, Your Majesty.” He admitted. “There are plenty of Omegas from neighboring kingdoms that would make a strong tie and a good Queen. They are far younger as well.” He pointed out.

“Though many don’t have reservations about it, I do not like to lay with a minor. Plus, I have met and dated each of the of-age Omegas from the nearest Kingdoms and none have what you have. None are strong and diligent like you, none are as brave and wise as you. You are unique, Castiel. If you will allow me the opportunity, I would like to show you how unique you are.” Dean explains softly, keeping his hands where Castiel could see them on top of the desk, but leaning back in his chair. “My father wouldn’t approve of myself dating... someone not of Royal Blood, but I am not my father, and I promised myself a long time ago that I would champion a Kingdom where Omegas get just as many rights as Alphas.” Dean explains, “we are all humans. There is nothing separating us, bar your ability to produce a child. An ability I admire. And as equals, the law should stand up to questioning.

The words were moving, to say the least but were they true? The Omega’s gaze narrowed as he eyed the King, considering him for a moment. Dean didn’t seem to be dishonest by any means and yet the words were still hard to believe. “If I may ask, My Lord…. What made you make such a promise?”

“Before I presented, I saw how my father treated my mother. It was... not something a child should ever see. It was not pretty, or sexy, or consensual.” Dean frowned, and looked down at his hands, before sighing and looking back up at Castiel. “So... I promised myself that if I presented Alpha and when I became King, I would do everything in my power to stop that kind of... unhealthy relationship. Allow Omegas to divorce, allow them to become soldiers or Commanders, if they so wished. And certainly give them the same education as Alphas and Betas. I wish to give them every right that an Alpha or Beta has.” Dean explains. “If you were to become my Queen, or anyone who would be my Queen, I would ask them to draw up the laws, governing the rights to Omegas. With the help of my brother, to aide in the legal jargon and clauses.” He smiled softly, hoping Castiel would see the truth in his eyes.

Castiel had seen the way the King had treated the Queen and he certainly couldn’t fault Dean’s opinion; it was quite noble actually. Perhaps, he had been too quick to judge the man. “Did you know?” He asked simply, glancing away. Dean had pressed him until he was forced to admit his status… surely he had guessed or was it just that obvious that Castiel was hiding something?

“Did I know you were an Omega?” Dean asked softly. “I had my suspicions,” Dean admitted. “It was mostly the shape of your face. You have soft cheekbones and a smaller Adam’s Apple, usually found in Omegas. Plus, you are only just regulation size, I’m not saying all Alphas are well above it, but generally Omegas are shorter.” Dean explained. “Finally, it was the way you flustered, when I tried to joke. Most Alphas would laugh it off, or politely joke back, but you turned bright red.”

Cas cleared his throat awkwardly at that. “Yes well… It isn’t everyday that the King makes such comments.” He defended gently before shrugging. “I suppose if it is that simple to discover me I should be surprised that it hasn’t happened until now.” He sighed. He fell silent once more before turning back toward a more comfortable subject. “Perhaps we should discuss my replacement?” He offered.

“The soldiers you command, won’t have seen anything. They now their heads as you pass. Their jobs are to follow orders. My... goal was to get to understand you. I was observing you.” Dean explained, “your secret is safe until you tell them.” He hummed and grabbed the files Castiel had brought in. “I wish to read through these first, form my own opinions of the men, before we discuss who is the most viable.” Dean explains, “if you have no further questions for me, then go through that door.” He says pointing to a plain side door, the room will be guarded, please don’t leave until I come collect, but in the mean time, you may do whatever you please in the room.” Dean explains. The door he pointed to, lead to his bedroom. He could see that Castiel had barely slept last night, if at all, and knew he was entirely to blame. “Do you have any more questions for me, though first?”

Cas glanced up at the door, lips pursing in a thin line once more before shaking his head. “No, Your Majesty.” He answered before pushing to his feet. He supposed it didn’t matter /where/ he was. He could send one of his servants for his second. There was still a lot of work to be done before he stepped down. No use in wasting precious day light.

Dean looked up at Castiel, as he opened the first report. “And don’t think about working. You worked throughout the night. You need rest from work, or you will make mistakes.” Dean orders.

Cas paused midstep at the order. “So much for ‘doing whatever you please’” He commented before he could stop himself. He tensed the moment the words escaped him, glancing at Dean to gauge his reaction.

“Castiel...” Dean hissed, warningly. “You are neither use nor ornament, if you do not rest. Now go before I have you punished again for insubordination.” Dean ordered.

Castiel shot him a subtle glare before giving a very formal bow. “Of course, Your Majesty. Forgive me.” He replied stiff, tone even as he turned on his heel and shouldered the door open before disappearing.

Dean shook his head and turned back to the reports that Castiel had created. He wasn’t sure if the Commander had worked out which room, he had been sent to, but nonetheless, Castiel would surely work out the significance of why he was sent there.

The door closed behind him leaving the Omega facing the large four poster bed and lavish furniture of the King’s bedchamber. The Alpha’s scent clung to air heavily making the omega flush. It took a moment to gather himself before his annoyance flared once more. Still, he couldn’t disobey a direct order… At least not obviously. He moved towards the large windows, throwing them open to allow him to breath a bit easily before sinking onto the window sill. He waited for one of the servants before ordering them to collect one of his men. He’d simply have them work for him… ‘train’ them on more aspects of the job.

A few hours, and a migraine-inducing amount of reading later, Dean has finally read through all the reports, Castiel had provided for him. He stood and stretched, going to the door Castiel had gone through a few hours before. He knocked on it and opened it a crack. “Commander, are you free?” He asked, not looking into the room.

Castiel glanced up from where he had allowed his head to lean against the frame of the window as he listened to his underling read out his report. His heart skipped a beat as he pushed to his feet quickly, motioning for the man to leave in a hurry before replying. “Of course, Your Grace.” He replied after a few seconds.

Dean opened the door further and stepped into the room. He saw Castiel sat by the open window and stopped in his tracks. “Oh, I never thought. Please forgive me, I never thought just about just how strong my scent would be in here.” Dean said softly. “Come back through into the other room. We have much to discuss.” He says softly.

The Knight Commander didn’t reply as he followed the Monarch, moving back into the office and sinking down into the chair he had taken up before. “What would you like to address first, Sire?” He asked, his exhaustion underlining his voice slightly.

“Why you did not relax when you were alone. You sound exhausted, and it’s become even more evident on your complexion.” Dean explained gently. He moved around the room slowly lighting incense candle, providing a cozy warmth and a heady smell to the room.

“Alone in an Alpha’s bed chambers… Alone with his heavy scent everywhere and none of the herbs I usually use to ignore such things; as you ordered, Sire.” He pointed out simply, too tired to worry about being rude. “With very little time before I must allow another to take over my life’s work.”

“Were you working?” Dean asked softly, his voice barely a calm whisper. If he hadn’t have had a good nights sleep the night before, Dean would be finding it incredibly hard not to fall asleep, with the warmth of the room and the heady smells produced by the incense.

It was obvious that Cas was having his own problems fighting it, eyes growing heavy before snapping open repeatedly. “No, Your Grace.” He replied honestly…. He /hadn’t/ been… He /had/ been listening to someone /else/ work.

Dean hummed, keeping his tone even and deep as he spoke. “If I find out you have been lying to me, or misspeaking the truth to me, Castiel...” Dean trailed off. “But never mind, I trust you. You are to become my Royal Aide. I know you would never give me false or misleading information in such an important role. But let’s discuss your role as a Royal Aide. You will be receiving new work attire, and as you are to stop taking your hormone blockers I am curious to see whether you choose the Alpha or Omega attire. Once in the new role, you shall either address me as King Dean, or Sire. The choice is yours, but as you speak about me to someone else, I shall always be your Majesty.” Dean rambled, hoping that his voice would send Castiel to sleep. “Once a week, I will be holding a meal with all my Aides, at this you may choose to come as my Aide or as my partner.” He added on.

“You’ll punish me for insubordination… Yeah… I know.” Cas mumbled, too tired to realize he wasn’t filtering his words properly. Still, Cas listened closely to the words, doing his best to ignore the small slight about withholding information. “Of course, Sire.” He acknowledged with a hidden yawn. “New work attire… Alpha or Omega, of my choosing…. Address King Dean or Sire… Anyone else ‘His Majesty’… Once a week… meal with Aides… Choose either Aide or partner.” He nodded the words slurred as he tried to stay focused.

Dean held back a chuckle, finding Castiel cute as he babbled back to him. “Unfortunately there are also rules of how to dress and address me when we’re together. When we’re on a date, you must wear Omega, formal attire.” Dean continued with his deep, quiet voice. “When we’re in private you may wear any clothes you see fit. Whilst on a date you may call me Dean, or a term of endearment if you wish you. Whilst in private, you may call me Dean or a term of endearment again. Unless we are speaking about work, then you will call me King Dean or Sire. If we are in public but not on a date, again I am King Dean or Sire.” Dean explained, watching Castiel. He smirked and dropped his voice even quieter. “I love you.” He added, wondering how much Castiel was taking on board.

Cas gave a grunt in response but gave a small nod, leaning on his elbow, resting his cheek in his hand. “Rules about dress…. Date, omega formal…” He began each pause between the words growing longer and longer. “Private, see fit… Dean…” He grumbled out, the word leaving his lips for the first time, gravely and low. “Work… Sire… Love you.” He acknowledged, the words barely distinguishable as chin rested on his chest and a soft snore escaped him.

Dean finally gave a low chuckle as he gently wrapped the cloak around Castiel, and laid his own cloak on top of him. “You really should have slept, Castiel, then you wouldn’t have gotten so exhausted. All I’ve been trying to do is help you.” He spoke quietly as he picked the Omega up and carried him out of the room, into the cooler corridor, he carried him down the halls and into the solider’s quarters, searching for Castiel’s room.

“You should have learned not to mess with me by now, gorgeous! Then you wouldn’t have lost all your-“ Gabriel called over his shoulder as he rushed down the hall, a wad of someone else’s clothes in his arms; a large Alpha barely covered by a sheet wrapped around his lower half rushing after him. The short Omega was so preoccupied by his prank that he almost ran into the King, pulling up just short in his haste, and taking in the sight of the Knight Commander cradled in his arm. “Gabriel! You little-“ The Alpha growled before Gabriel managed to turn and toss his clothes in his face, blinding him long enough for the small Omega to duck into a nearby room. “This way, Your Majesty.” He urged motioning for the Monarch to follow.

[Beginning] // [Next]

#Destiel #Destiel rp #dean winchester #castiel novak #roleplay #rp #dean/cas #dean winchester/castiel #Supernatural #suspicious nature #Fantasy Kingdom AU #ABo #A/b/o #ABO AU

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