#Spent drilling mud

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Rigor Mortis (part 7)

College roommate!Miguel O'Hara x reader

(AO3 Mirror) (Wattpad) Series Masterlist, Main Masterlist,

Part 6, Part 8

summary: You spend some time with Miguel.

warnings: smut. f receiving oral, fingering, grinding, switchy behaviour from both sides, angst. 18+ Minors DNI

a/n: this chapter beat my ass icl

Thank you to my beta readers, @tianyhi and @urgonnaneedabiggership (they also write Miguel fics, I highly recommend! my favourite is this series), I couldn't have done it without you guys <3

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wc: 6.3k

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all-consuming grief,

It’s going to be a warm night. It's ushered in by the kind of dawn that bleeds red and gold, tawny and autumnal in the waning light. Like the washy colours of a Renoir, and he doesn’t even notice that he’s doing the thing he swore black-and-blue he wouldn’t. Reminiscing and romanticising; for the first time in a while, Miguel is able to see the sun set, legs splayed on the brick of his front steps. 

Sitting by worn metal railing, he’s still in his work clothes. He chucked his rucksack on the step above, leaning long legs onto the ones below. They don’t ache as much as they used to, well-trained by a couple months of running and spending more time in the gym. There’s a shake in the fridge, labelled ‘Tuesday, PM’ that he’ll gulp down before bed, and one labelled ‘Wednesday, AM’ that he’ll take before setting off in the morning. In the morning, with cloudy skies and street cars to keep him company. There’s too much pollution, light or otherwise, for him to see some stars. He hasn’t seen stars in a while, now.

Long days seem to have turned into just days somewhere along the way. He can’t quite pinpoint when, and doesn’t really care to, but he thinks his brother would call it “progress”. There’s a grimace on his face as he thinks about it; a word that tastes like mud and feels like swirling cement in his mouth. It’s all bullshit, really. Gabi’s paltry attempt at therapising him, one which he would usually nip in the bud - taking metaphorical shears to slash at weeds and dense conversation. Catch-up calls about how he feels, how he’s doing – when he’s fine, he always is – as if Gabi is waiting for a shoe to drop. 

He’s waiting for Miguel to have an epiphany, a breakdown the size of a collapsing star. It’s not coming, he keeps telling his brother, and the sooner the younger O’Hara realises – without the wide eyes and the pity – the better for the both of them. After all, Gabriel is his baby brother, and he’s spent his whole life worrying on his behalf: playing hide-and-seek in little closets and putting back together broken toys. Trying to drown out the sound of shouting and broken plates. They’re too old for all that, the worrying and gulping back tears, walking its well-travelled paths – and it doesn’t feel right that Gabi should do the same for him.

He sighs, deep and heavy and rolling down that quiet street. After what feels like forever, he’s tempted to lie down, to rest his head on the stone, close his eyes and think of something else. Of someone else - lots of someones, at this point in the day. He’s not the weepy type, but he is tired; shaking off the wear and tear, and fighting off sleep. 

Then he sees it; a figure walking towards him, all sandals and khaki shorts and smiles. Mr Estevez, donned in his year-round attire of a polo shirt, a little tight around the middle, and cargos cut off below the knee – finally appropriate, considering the weather. He’s strolling closer like he’s got all the time in the world. If Miguel wasn’t so exhausted; the bone-deep kind, the kind that seeps into skin and lines a casket; he would’ve been annoyed. Instead, he hisses, furrows quickly deepening. 

“Buenas, Miguelito!” Mr Estevez beams, scratching at scraggly facial hair. 

Miguel frowns, but greets him nonetheless: that politeness drilled into him during childhood rearing its head.

“Buenas tardes, tío.” He grits his teeth as he gets up from his seat, creaky joints and all.

His landlord, the building’s handyman, owner of half a dozen shops all over the city, and Miguel’s uncle-that’s-not-really-his-uncle; Mr Estevez wears many hats, staying bright and informal regardless. He’s known the older man since he was 6, so he can’t be too disappointed; his tío has been late for weddings, funerals, and his little boy’s birth – it’s not much of a surprise that he’d be late now, too. Miguel stretches out a rough palm, and the man stops just shy of his hand, completely ignoring it. Before he knows it, Miguelito is engulfed in a great big bear hug, with wet kisses pressed to the apples of his cheeks. He doesn’t know where to put his hands, as usual, so they hang limply; arms flailing to his sides like a t-rex.

They separate, and he coughs at the great big hand that slaps his back. Grumbling, he walks up to the door, bag over his back, and stands expectantly. Mr Estevez doesn’t follow, instead dusting himself down to sit on the steps.

“I just need to get into the building.” Miguel starts. “Forgot my keys, and I've been here for hours. M’tired, and I–”

“Let’s sit, Miguel.” He scoots over, making space. “Look at the stars.”

It’s clear the older man isn’t moving. Begrudgingly, he obliges.  “We’re in the middle of the city. You only see “stars” in the river – beer bottles and tinned crap reflecting the lights.” 

“Language.” He gets a sharp nudge to his ribs.

“Discúlpame, tío.”

They stew for a moment, bathing in the silence that follows. The man besides him is the first to speak.

“I spoke to your mother.”

He’s scoffing and moving to get up, before feeling a firm hand on his shoulder.

“She’s worried, Miguel. Says you haven’t called in a while.”

“She hasn’t called me either."

“She’s stubborn.” The man besides him chuckles, bringing gentle eyes to meet his own. "Pig-headed. Remind you of someone?"

Miguel rolls his eyes, he just can't help it. 

"She’s also the one that moved back home, so either way–”

"You know it's all been hard on her." 

" –on her? It's been hard for her, surrounded by family, after she abandoned me? A-After…" His voice gets dangerously hoarse, threatening to crack under the weight of those words. 

He can't stand the pitiful look sent his way: brows drawn, lips pressed into a thin line.

"Sorry. It's… It's nothing. I'm fine. Just fine."

"I didn't ask if you were fine, Miguel."

–even though you're definitely not okay. That part is left unsaid, spat onto the pavement like bitter backwash. 

Mr Estévez sighs, ruffling a hand through Miguel's hair. It makes him hiss and dart away from the hand, pouting like he's a little kid again. He doesn't like it; the way he feels like all this life he's lived has been for naught. Trials and tribulations, and yet he doesn't feel that ache of growth; still stuck in the shoes of an awkward teenager. 

"You think too much, Miguelito. Always have." He smiles, the kind that deepens the wrinkles around his mouth. It twists Miguel into knots, mouth dry as he tries to untangle himself from that feeling. "I'm worried about you, kid."

He sniffs, eyes trained towards the pavement. There it is again, worry; complicating and unravelling what was meant to be just another day. 

"It's today, isn't it?" 

All Miguel does is nod, shakily. It's been 2 years since his heart was ripped out of his chest. It heaves now, an erratic rise and fall he’s doing his best to control. Breathe, deeply and calmly; try not to think about his little girl in that hospital bed, and those blank eyes staring back. 

“M’fine.” It comes out more desperate than he intends it, and he curses under his breath. If Mr Estevez hears the crude language, he doesn’t react.

Miguel is tense, hunched over the bag on his lap and curled into himself like prey – spitting and prickly and clearly uncomfortable. He’s never been the weepy kind, but the older man can’t help but think it’s a shame; so much love, and nowhere to keep it but inside. Miguel's bottled it up; the memories of precious Gabriella, all that warmth she brought out in her father; and he's turned them to poison pills to keep himself sick. 

Miguel would never admit it, of course. He’s too stubborn. Pig-headed.

His tío sighs, moving to get up. He groans, in that dramatic sort of way he knows Miguel can’t stand, but still, there's a rush to help him up. Producing the door keys with a flourish, he pulls from the depths of cargo pockets, and unlocks the main door. Ushering in the younger man, who has grown so tall he needs to duck as he climbs the narrow stairs, there’s a finger prodded into the back of that cotton button-up.

“Miguel?” He starts, revving up a conversation he’s been meaning to have for a while now.

“Hmm?” 

They both wait by the entrance of the apartment. The keys jingle in Mr Estevez’s hand.

“If I open the door, will I find out that you’ve driven away another one of my tenants?”

Conveniently, there seems to be a rather interesting spot in the hardwood that Miguel pokes with a dress shoe. 

“...depends on your definition of 'driven out', tío.”

“That’s the third one this year! Not even 2 months– I knew there was something up. Not a single one of those little smiley faces to my messages, and–"

“I’ll make up for his side of the rent, you know I will.”

“I don’t like it. You should be saving up, to go get a house and settle down somewhere."

“I like living here, and I’ve said multiple times I’d pay the extra to live alone–”

“And then what? You rot in your room for the rest of your life?”

“I don’t– rot feels a little–”

“Nonsense. You’re lonely, Miguelito. If you don’t like it, you move out.”

They both know he won’t. It’s not really an option; the apartment is affordable and he likes living so close to his old neighbourhood, his old haunts. It’s like he’s tethered to that place with a bungee cord wrapped under his ribs, always snapping back.

“No promises, tío.”

“Doesn’t matter, Miguelito.” He sighs, scratching at stubble. “It’s been hard to find other tenants, with half the neighbourhood drying up. But as soon as I do–”

He points an accusatory finger at Miguel, and the sentence is finished for him.

“...best behaviour, I know.”

“Best behaviour.” Mr Estevez repeats, and starts to fumble with the keys. He throws a little comment over his shoulder. “I liked your lady friend, ages ago… the scary one, with the blue hair. She was–”

“Xina’s not scary, when you get to know her.”

“She was funny. Very pretty. Always paid rent on time, gave me food when I came to fix the heating…”

“It's out again, by the way.” Miguel chews his lip, with a strange expression. “And yeah, she was.”

The door swings open. Mr Estevez doesn’t let him off the hook, though, engulfing him in a warm hug. This time, in the doorway of his apartment, eyes screwed shut; he doesn’t try to wriggle out of it, melting into his tío’s arms. It feels different now that he’s not a kid: angry and hurting with a different sort of ache, but he leans into it, all the same.

~~~

There's a pressure released from the apartment, lately. Miguel feels… well, first of all, he feels ; thinks with his heart and not his head, sometimes. It's lighter, coming home with that weight on his shoulders and with someone there to distract him from it. Living life, he thinks, for the first time in a while. Vivid and vibrant and awake ; relishing the autumnal weather. It's always been his favourite season, despite how childish he thinks having a favourite season is; something you had asked him on a whim one morning. 

Normally, he wouldn't entertain it, and with all the shit Pete spews, sometimes, he's had plenty of practice ignoring it. A well-timed dirty look, and then he'd get his head down and work; occupy himself with something less frivolous. But when you say it, with half a piece of toast sticking out of your mouth, it doesn't feel like a chore to answer. It doesn't feel like a stupid question, and he finds his face growing warm at the thought of you caring about these little things – wanting to know him , however that comes. 

And so, his answer is Autumn. It's a little stilted; but catching him off guard after a run will do that to him. It's purely practical , he says, eyes tracing the slopes of your body in that shirt and shorts that stops at your thighs; high enough that he feels like a perv for looking. Autumn has temperate, even weather. Perfect for sweaters and hoodies. Warm enough that you don't need a jacket. Just right. You snort, nudging him. Bullshit, Mig. You flutter your eyelashes mockingly, your tone light. You just think it's the prettiest. 

And he hums, catching you off guard. You're both drawn towards that little window over the sink, the one that overlooks a fire escape and the street. He's had that view for three years, now. Sleeves always rolled to his elbows as he does his washing up, but never quite looking. The street just below is framed in its windowpane, quite the pretty picture. Crisp leaves scattered on the sidewalk, carpeted in red and honeyed amber. And he can feel it from the other side of the glass; smell it, touch it, taste it. Autumn: hot chocolate and giggles, the crunch of leaves underfoot, and cupping tiny palms to warm them up. Sunsets seen for the first time, watched through bus windows on the way back from school – he misses those the most. 

"You don't think it's beautiful?" You say, leaning your head towards the half-open window. 

You don't notice, but he looks over to you, swallowing roughly. He says it with a small voice.

"I…I do."

You're darting to the bathroom not too long after, breaking the spell. Frustrated, he resists the urge to curl up into a ball and scream into his palms. He's got what he wanted; a good fuck, a pretty face, a warm smile. Friends, at the most, who happen to get the other off after a long day. A welcome distraction, at the least. He's got what his body has been telling him he needs for the past few months. It makes him feel weird, so oddly settled; but, all things considered… 

Miguel is doing okay.

“...and I wouldn’t normally ask, but I swear , I left him…o-on read and he won’t stop texting me.”

Really, actually; he’s doing fine.

“It feels weird– mmffuck– but I can’t ignore him any longer.”

Maybe even… good. Better than okay.

“I still have a bunch of my stuff over there. At least half of it is clothes and books, a-and I’ve put it off for as long as I can…”

He hums in response, pulling quiet curses from you, above. Pressing the flat of his tongue onto your clit, your hips jump up and he purrs ; rearing up to dive even deeper into your pussy. Too quick for him, you catch on, hand in his hair to pull him up.

Sitting up on your haunches, he rests his head on your bare thigh – licking the taste of you off of his lips.

You tilt your head, looking at him with those eyes he can’t help but marvel at. A beat passes. 

“...so?” You start, expectantly. “Will you help me or not?”

His response comes in the form of teeth nipping at pillowy skin. You yelp, and swat him away whilst he chuckles.

“I’m serious , Mig. It’s too much to pick up by myself. And you’re the only person I know with a car…”

“ Ouch, hermosa. ” He frowns as you peter off. “Is that the only reason you’re fucking me? For my car?”

“If I say it’s because of your sparkling personality, will you help me?”

For a moment, it seems like he’s got his brows pressed together like he’s seriously considering it, but it ends up being just smoke and mirrors. He’s pretending , biding his time to hook a hand under your legs and force you to lie down onto the bed. Your head hits the covers with a gentle thump as he hikes up the lip of that big tee even further; squeezing your thighs around his head like earmuffs. 

It’s when he makes eye-contact, tongue circling your hole, that you realised you’re fucked. Up until now, he’s been toying with you – playing with his food, so to speak – lazily swirling his tongue around your clit and pressing buttons to see exactly where to push. And you'd welcomed it, a hand in his hair as you talked about your day – which he'd asked for, of course. 

Now, he's insatiable, eating you out like a man starved; all tongue and wet kisses to your swollen bud. You're slightly raised up on his shoulders, clamping around his tongue as he fucks into you fervently. Big palms spread you wider, and he hums into it, content.

"So pretty ," He sets you down, pupils blown as he studies the way your back arches and the way your legs shudder in the sheets. He slides upwards, sitting next to you, tracing a hand across the gentle curve of stomach that peeks out from your big t-shirt. 

Still coming down from your high, you're only just able to register it: he looks mesmerised, a dopey smile plastered on his face. 

"What?" You scoff when a moment passes, and his hand inches closer towards your lower lips. 

"M'just looking." He shrugs, with a little smile on his face. "I'm not allowed to look?" 

You scoff, but you're still shaky so it comes out a little more pathetic than you intend. Nevertheless, you start to sit up but he stops you with a gentle hand at your chest. 

"Call him." He says, pressing two fingers to your clit and then down to your gushing slit. 

Maybe it's the way he hunches over you, eyes flicking towards your lips, or the way he slips those fingers in; but your eyes go wide, and you're choking on your next words. 

"Call… Call who?" Playing dumb, dancing on a razor's edge, and Miguel only quirks up an eyebrow at the stupid question. 

"You know who." He says it low, smooth and dulcet as he curls his fingers at that sweet spot, experimenting. "I'll help you, fine. But I want you to call your ex, too. Let him know when to expect us. Is that okay, sweetheart ?" 

That last word comes with a twang, the lilting tone of what sounds like mockery. He twists the knife, nudging the flat of his palm onto your clit – still tender and throbbing from your last orgasm. 

Before you change your mind, you pick up the phone laid face down on the bedside table, pressing shaky fingers to its screen. You don't dare to look up, knowing Miguel is watching; dark eyes studying your every move. 

Flicking his wrist this way and that, he swallows roughly as your fingers stutter on the screen. Not completely satisfied, he still has the time to look smug, settling into a comfortable pace. Finally, your phone rings with a tell-tale dial tone. It rings once. It rings twice, and–

"Hello? " The voice is muffled as it says your name. Put it on speaker, Miguel mouths and you oblige.

"Hey, J-Jamie." The phone is shaky in your hands, so you lay it out next to you on the bed. 

"It's late, baby." You don't have time to be annoyed at his tone – or the unwarranted pet name – because Miguel speeds up, pumping in and out of you with a little more force. 

"I… I know. S-Sorry." You clamp down the moans that threaten to erupt, rocking your hips in time with the thrusts. 

Head lolling back into the sheets, you spend a good ten seconds in oblivious bliss, until Jamie breaks the silence. 

"You've been ignoring me for ages, baby… and then you call out of the blue. What is it?" He's tired, it sounds like. Irritated for sure. 

"Just w-wanted to–" Miguel presses his thumb to your clit and you jump. Once back down to earth he has to prompt you to answer. "-my stuff! Fuck , I just want to pick up my stuff."

"...now?" 

Tomorrow. Miguel mouths. 

"Tomorrow. " You repeat, wrapping a hand around his forearm to slow him down. It's too much, too fast; and he has the audacity to add another finger, scissoring out to stretch your cunt. 

"O-kay. " He clicks his tongue, with some things rustling in the background. "Okay. You're acting weird, but..."

You're conflicted. His tone makes you melt, reaching for your phone to answer when Miguel snakes a hand under your shirt, palming your tits. To your surprise, he presses shaky kisses to the skin, rolling around your nipple with the flat of his tongue. You keen, clamping a hand around your mouth to stop the noises that spill out. 

"...we still need to talk about what happened. About how we left things." 

Anger flares up at your chest; hot at the sheer gall. He wants to talk? Now, when you had been met with a brick wall of silence; begging and begging for even a simple explanation? 

What made it sting even more was that even after the breakup, everything happened on Jamie's terms. He broke up with you, providing little warning. He completely ghosted you, refusing to answer countless calls and messages. And now, he wants to talk; to make himself feel better and wank off his own ego, no doubt. It's not bitterness that makes you press Miguel closer, to revel in the pleasure that he gives you, you convince yourself. It's for you ; finally, unabashedly, just for you. 

You don't bother to answer, hanging up the call with a click. Tugging at his hair, you pull him off with a wet pop; slick-soaked fingers slipping out of your cunt.

He cradles your chin, angling you upwards. 

"You okay? Too much?" It barely registers; you're too focused on the tangle of curls framing his face, and the rosy pout of messy lips. 

You shake your head, writhing against the sheets. 

"More." You move his hand over to rest between your legs. "Please, Miguel."

His eyes flutter, tongue darting out to wet his lips. 

“Eyes on me, baby.” 

He says it with sobering clarity, bolstered by just how precisely he slots against your bare pussy. You can feel it, the full length of his cock; pressed up against you as he slips it out of his sweats. Head spinning, it slaps onto your stomach. Your eyes practically bulge out of their sockets. Oh fuck. He's big. 

"Just like that." He coos, spitting into his palm and pumping his cock. “Wanna see how pretty you look when I make you cum.”

~~~

When tomorrow comes, you’re still sore from the litany of bruises and hickeys littered. It’s a Saturday, and you’re up bright and early. Well, Miguel is up bright and early, clattering around in the kitchen as you wake up. 

He seems energised, mug of coffee in hand whilst you rub the sleep from your eyes.  You waltz into the kitchen through the open doorway, morning breath and all. 

"Morning," You say, soft and giggly at the way he jumps ten feet in the air, too wrapped up in himself to notice at first. 

"Morning." He breathes, melting when he sees you in the shirt he had picked out for you last night. He shakes himself out of it. "Hungry? I can make something."

"No, no. M'good." You sidle up to the counter, head clocked at the fancy machine on the heavy slab. There's a question on the tip of your tongue, one you roll between your teeth. "Could I have some coffee? I mean… could you show me how?" 

Where you expect laughter, mockery, or surprise that you've lived here for months and can't figure out the coffee machine; he nods, patient and calm. You ask him more questions; curious with every flick of a switch, and the way he lights up when talking about it. To your surprise, you want to know more – anyway that comes. 

He's talking about expensive beans, and his favourite roasts – and a place across town that sells the exact kind he likes, but it's too fucking gentrified for him to go there more than two or three times a year. That makes you giggle: his little pout, the press of brow; and he looks up in surprise before joining you in light laughter. 

You finish, pouring cream into his special mug with a flourish, and he steals a sip before you can. You elbow him away, angling for that stolen taste. When you do, it is deep and rich; sweet in a way that reminds you of Miguel, grounded and balanced and silky. In short, it's the perfect cup of coffee. More than content, you hum. 

"Is it good?" He asks because he's already making mental notes, planning to greet you with a hot flask of the stuff in the mornings – if it means he gets that smile, of course. 

"Very." Fervently you nod, lips curved to the ceramic as you blow; and Miguel is trying really hard not to stare. Maybe it's the fact that he's seen you in a way not everyone gets to; pretty and vulnerable and writhing on the tip of his cock; but it has him fending off vivid daydreams. Your lips wrapped around his length, his hand pressing you further down, feeling that warmth as you choke on his–

He blinks and you're gone, padding off to your room with that mug of coffee. You return not too long after, phone in hand and tapping away at the screen. Miguel ignores the way it makes him feel, having your attention and then losing it just as quickly. Like a kicked puppy, he resists the urge to beg for more – of your time, of your attention – turning away to clean up instead. 

"I spoke to Jamie," You start, leaning with your back to the counter as he rolls up the sleeves of a comfy sweater. "He said he'll be around later in the evening, after his shift. Around 10. Is that okay?" 

He shrugs, not caring either way. You're a friend, and he's helping you because that's what friends do. He can still taste you on his lips, but it doesn't mean anything. Not in a way you'd want, anyways. 

"Sure." He doesn't turn around, stealing glances at the open window whilst he clatters around. "I've got a session later on anyways."

He catches a flash of something on your face, and you're pushing it away; prickly and uncomfortable. In his defence, he's stopped bringing people over for faux chemistry tutoring and there's less banging coming from across the wall. Less , but not completely gone, because you've learnt he has a penchant for dropping shit and cursing like someone's Dad. 

But you can't help but think about Sarah , and Jia …. and how close he would get to Sita on the dining table. Fuck . 

You're sighing now, tracing the curve of his jaw as he settles in front of the window: jaw set, arms crossed, and distant. He does that sometimes, goes off somewhere else – all teeth and claws. Tense, brows drawn up in a way that makes you want to smooth them out.  

You put your phone down and mug away, sliding across linoleum to gently nudge his shoulder with your own. 

"Are we…" He starts, and you track his line of sight to a quiet street below. He hums, without looking away. "Are we good?" 

It makes you turn. You blink, as if out of all the nonsense you bicker about daily, that was the most ridiculous. Good? Good? Of course we are, of course we always will be. How could we be anything else? You shut it down before it spills out of your mouth, overzealous and desperate. 

He clarifies with a nervous cough. "Last night. Was it… good?" 

His frown deepens, and you wonder if it's just you that hears it in his tone. His real question, the one that makes you splinter and creak like a felled oak tree: Was I good? Am I good enough?

"Yeah. " You say it like the most obvious thing in the world – and to you, it is. For all his flaws; assholery and its trimmings aside; Miguel has never been a bad lay. You don't even think he has it in him; he couldn't half-ass it if he tried.

"It was–" Fucking amazing . The kind of thing you'll fuck yourself to for the foreseeable future. Cathartic and breath-taking and hot . All of the above. 

Miguel finishes your sentence with something a little less… horny. "It was a lot, wasn't it? I wasn't really thinking, how uncomfortable it could be for you, and–" 

Gently, you laugh and cut him off. "I've been having mediocre sex for basically the whole of my adult life, Mig. This is… exciting and new. I like it, I really do."

Exciting and new. It brings him crashing back down to earth. You're enjoying the way he makes you feel, the thrill . Not… him. Not really, anyways. That pang of disappointment feels different, for some reason. He's never liked the song and dance of flirting, but he cherishes its rewards: of being wanted, and someone wanting him . So that fiery flame of need; deep and heady; is unfamiliar under his skin. 

"We can slow down, if you'd like." You bring a hand to his arm, warm and gentle. "I don't mind. We can go back to just messing around on the couch…."

You've got a cheeky smile when you say it; a vague memory of a different time, when you had gotten a little too comfortable on the sofa, leading to hands stuffed in trousers and pressed up against one another. Quick and desperate, you had wanted to see him fall apart; like he did your first night together, and the next, and the next. 

He gets closer, sandwiching you between the counter and his body. With a gentle hand, he strokes your hip, bunching up the fabric to get a peek of thigh.

“What do you like?” He’s deadly serious, red-brown eyes searching your face for something he can’t quite place. And just like that, the air is thick with tension. All you can manage is a limp shrug. 

“I don’t know, really.” It comes out as a croak , as you’re much too occupied with the shrinking gap between you both. “I haven’t done the things you’ve done.”

You’re making assumptions, of course. Filling in the gaps of what you’ve learnt in the past few months; of alleged threesomes and a laundry list of women at his feet. He’s an asshole; pretty and gruff and sarcastic; but God , he knows how to touch you just right.

“I could show you.” He slots a knee between your thighs and your head spins. “Make you feel good. ”

Before you can think, you’re nodding; chewing at your lip to bite back moans when he rucks up your shirt. He nudges your legs apart, both hands on your waist as he slots himself between them. You can feel it; quickly hardening, loose underneath sweats. Miguel slides wide palms to your ass, kneading its globes. With one hand, he picks up your leg by the thigh, and snakes the other to your pussy. Bare, because you’re trying to kill him, of course, and he groans at the feeling of his hand at your cunt; already wet and pliant for him. 

After a few wet taps to your hole, obscene, he slips himself out and you heave; pussy fluttering at just the thought of him inside you. Gathering up your slick on his palm, Miguel pumps his weeping cock, pressing its tip to your hole. 

"Still sore, Miguel." You hiss, looking down at where you both meet with the prettiest pout he thinks he's ever seen. 

It has you clawing at his back for purchase as he finally sinks in, stretching you out in that wonderful way he did last night. Except this time, he's slow and careful; steeling himself with shaky breaths. 

"Oh, fuck. " He settles in about halfway, stopping to hike up your leg just a bit higher. "Want me to make you feel better?" 

He says it breathless and crooning, forehead comes to rest on yours. With that other hand flat on the counter, you're lifted up to only toes on the floor, and he angles himself to buck up; filling you deep, and cock sliding past that sweet spot inside. He sets a pace, grinding into you, rather than fucking. If last night was dirty ; taboo, quick and primal; then this morning feels different. Intimate and reverent, he rolls his hips perfectly ; sending flashes of that first night down your spine. 

With the moans that spill out of your mouth, it takes all of Miguel's willpower not to swallow them in a kiss. Impossibly close, he traces up your thigh with a large palm; eventually pressing into the small of your back. Arching into him, your lips barely brush together, and you're both panting into open mouths; drunk on pleasure. 

"Miguel." There's a warning somewhere in your tone; underneath the layers of lust, you remind him of your previous agreement. 

"I… I know. " He swallows, nose pressed to yours, eyes screwed shut. He thinks if he opens them, he might spill into you right then and there. 

He's trying, he really is, tracing your cheek with his nose and mouthing at your neck – light kisses against the skin. He smells like coffee, bittersweet and heady, and you groan, rocking into him in a way that rubs up against your clit – before finding an ounce of restraint and putting a hand to his neck. 

You apply a little pressure, intending to push him away, but he likes it: eyes fluttering open, and mouth curved into a little O. It's a pretty sight that has you drooling, tits pressed against him as he practically purrs . And so, you pull him closer; nails dancing underneath his shirt, whispering filth into the shell of his ear. You're close, grinding into him like the push and pull of waves, merely waiting for the crescendo of orgasm to take you out to sea. 

"I'm close, Miguel." All he can do is hum, pulling you closer. "Fuck, I feel so good. You make me feel so good."

"Yeah? " He asks, needy in a way you haven't quite seen before. 

"M'gonna cum," You nod. "...because of you, baby. You did good. So good. Shit, ohh –g-god–" 

You clamp down on him, gushing around him with shaky legs. And Miguel is good; patient as he watches you fuck yourself through the aftermath. When it finally slows, he slips out with an obscene squelch clamping a hand to the base of his cock and leaning heavily on the counter. 

"It's okay," As if on cue, you kneel in front of him as best you can, tugging down your shirt to expose collarbone and the swell of tits. 

Miguel growls, grunting as he splatters thick cum across your chest, pumping his poor cock through it. 

He wouldn't have lasted a second longer, not with that smile across your face; smug as you swipe fingers across your chest and lick up the mess he's made. 

He's sighing, tucking himself back into gray sweats and pulling you up with a hand in yours; grumbling as you absentmindedly follow him to the sofa. 

You're leaning back onto the arm of the tattered material, and he settles to sit so your legs lay in his lap. He's frowning, again, and it makes you giggle, still licking up what's left on your fingers. 

He rolls his eyes, tapping a spot on your chin. A fat glob of his cum, dripping from your jaw to your neck. You miss it on the first swipe, and he gets impatient on the second, grabbing your hands and clambering over you. He drags the flat of his tongue to your skin, licking it up for you – and your eyes go wide. That… that felt good. 

You giggle at the sensation, so attuned to your roommate that you can hear it: his eyes clattering into the back of his skull, as he rolls his eyes a second time. 

"Is that okay?" He says it into the skin, pausing over a particularly tender spot. "Not too far?" 

"Feels nice, Mig." You sigh, content. Sun streams in on a lazy morning, and you're sore in the kind of way that feels good; fucked out and blissful. 

You lean into it, and then he sucks , teeth clashing onto the skin as he gives you a hickey and the juncture of your jaw. You wriggle, and he pins you down with one big hand holding down your arm, nipping and kissing and soothing it with a flash of tongue. This time he smiles, wrapping around your middle, tugging down your shirt to decorate your chest with hickeys. You play with his hair, wrapping soft curls between your fingers. 

You spend a little too long like that; curved into him, spines moulded to the shape of each other. It feels nicer than either of you would care to admit; the pretense of sex wrapped around you both like a thin veil. Before he leaves, Miguel indulges himself just this once; head on your chest and sinking into those arms wrapped around him. You smell like coffee and sweat and Autumn, somehow. He presses kisses wherever he can reach, for a bit longer. 

Miguel is okay. He's doing just fine. 

_

_

-

Rigor Mortis Taglist: @bunnyrose01 @lavenderslemonade @tsukkie-daisuke @malxoxo @thekidscallmebosss @vvitcxen @theyoutubedork @doublevirgogirl @jnghs @taleiak @noblesavagex @cumikering @rebeccawinters @evanpetersrightbigtoe @saucypeanuttt @pix-stuff @maliarenee @truthuntolddd @honeycovered-bandaids @aiyaaayei @aeeliy @amplsblog @sikrettt @opuffmango @spear-bitch @maddielikesmoths @lemonpepsi @sweet-strawberryhoney @lacedinweb22 @bubbsby @jing5uan @ellaandorersoct @hibarbiesblog @valentxi @kittym1ka @melovetitties @yohoe-hoe @acollectionofcells1 @froggi-mushroom @thund3rthighs

@bonthebunnie @natthernandez @strawberrymiguel @twwcs @mammonispunk @um-well @renn-pumkin-head @ietherealkistar @smallishbook @sonderspider @spear-bitch @cryingintheclubdhmu @mageneire @notdyl4n @slezhara @funkyfoxx0 @smol-beb @iceclaw101 @lixhizy @errorundyne-exe @707xn @beantokki@twentysomethingwereyote

#miguel o'hara x reader #across the spiderverse #rigor mortis 😼 #miguel o'hara #miguel o hara x reader #kat_writes😼 #spiderman 2099 #miguel o'hara smut #spiderman 2099 x reader

[yourlocaltreesimp]

Covering BOTW!Link in kisses pretty please (> <)

Yeah, I can do that!

I made this surprisingly angsty (though if you’re not new around here that may be less shocking) so be warned.

𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊

For someone with such an utterly distinct lack of memory, Wild often found himself drowning within them. Fleeting snippets of vision or audio cut in and out, warped and distorted beyond anything he can truly grasp at. One second he’d be laughing alongside his brothers, but when his eyes blinked he’d be a century in the last. Oftentimes after the phantom arms of his previous life embraced him, he felt less than who he was before. his smiles dulled and heart weighed down. As if knowing more about who he was then made him less of who he was now. As if the two sentiences couldn’t coexist.

It was a quiet night, humid with the onset of summer. The fireflies —lightning bugs as Twilight called them— dancing lofty paths amidst the air. Sat side by side, the champion absorbed the fable. At first it seemed rather childish, the idea of two wolves within oneself fighting to make the forefront. But the longer he went on the more it resonated. The mental image as one sneers and snaps, barring its ugly teeth in unwavering violent truth. All while the other dodges and uses the violent’s strength against itself, all while denying its own violent nature.

Allegorically it was good versus bad, overindulgence against suppression. The idea that to overindulge, to snap, to be reckless would lead to being taken advantage of. Wild knew why Twilight thought the story relevant to him. He knew that whenever he’d turn his back on his enemies to support that it wasn’t viewed as loyalty. He knew that there was lots to lose, and they couldn’t afford another injury. He knew Twi didn’t want to see him fall into a similar circumstance. But he knew he couldn’t afford to fail again. He couldn’t fall short. He can’t lose someone close again.

Where externally he was viewed as the former, he internally found himself in the latter of cases. He fought the battle between the whispers of the others in contrast to his own thoughts of himself. Left with the residual pressure to be nothing short of perfect, to be The Hero of Time, to be worthy of the title and the land and the fate and the soul. The yearning to simply live and be without the burden of his own guilt, to be Link, to be your lover and accept the love without feeling indebted.

He didn’t realise Twilight had left.

His head swims and he feels clammy as he curls up, deciding aimlessly that it’s time to sleep. His feet lead him inside his house and he can hardly even stumble up the loft. Someone else can sort dinner.

Any sense of sensibility is muddled and mixed. Time does not matter, nor the relevancy if his mind.

He stares back at the shards of his past life, his chipped reflection in each mirror, and can’t help but wonder who he’d be if he were just Link.

Or would he be even anything at all if not a hero?

What was it that he truly was?

Mipha had written that he was a rather rowdy child, eager to take on the world with nothing more than a stick in hand. Then, he held no care for being proper. Wide grin and leaves in his hair, he was happy. Perhaps that was the most of himself he could ever be. Perhaps that was the reason he finds himself wandering aimlessly now. Perhaps that is his nature.

The records of many soldiers he fought alongside depicted him as the prime standard of the military. Those days were cold, and he just remembered how much he hurt. The ache of every muscle and bruise, every drill, every spar, every battle, every day spent alive that was spent suffering. His ability to cut down any monster or man with any weapon. His instinct and ability to hurt was primed until he now questions if that little boy who splashed around in rivers and threw handfuls of mud had retreated into the cold hands of death. The soldiers’ mirage of him is idyllic, but holds distressingly true to his own memory.

Perhaps that is why his mind is clear and quiet with weapon in hand and a body beneath his feet.

He dreams of musty stables and bare campgrounds, both places the since passed versions of himself would’ve spent a night at. The smell of dirt and dust is accompanied by the crackle of a fire as drunken men sing out of tune.

The littlest curled up as his teeth chattered, the chipped tooth whistling as he exhaled. A warm hand settles on his shoulders as his father drapes another thin blanket over him. He does not yet know this means his father will go without warmth.

The soldier tossing and turning, unable to relax even long enough to sleep. He too his tormented by the potential of falling. He does not yet know what’s to come. He does not yet know there’s nothing to be done.

The scene shifts and he is at the castle. It’s his first time and his eyes shine as he follows his father closely, following hot on his feet with a giddy grin.

It is his home. His work. His life. He follows the princess closely, just far enough to not make himself overbearing. He does not smile. He does not frown. He does not fail.

The colours fade and mix and blur, the dreamscape shifting oncemore. It’s raining. It pitters across his shoulders as he kicks up the puddles, scaring the stray cuccos from the stable not too far away. His father fusses over the sword he’d found, and he can hardly muster the strength to swing it against the base of the apple tree. He results in climbing up the twisted limbs, collecting extra ripe apples to ease his father’s worries. The wet bark gives no grip to his feet and he falls to the ground, winded next to the funny blue sword. It glints and chirps and when he catches his breath he laughs back.

It’s storming. The grass smells wet and irony. The bloody mud cakes his boots as his foot falls brace against the ground. His arms lock as he flings his shield to the side, the guardian falling to disrepair. His shield lay broken. He can see his strained face in the dirty reflection. He doesn’t like the man staring back. The rain pelts across his back and the lightning shakes the ground. His muffled ears pick up Zelda’s distress as another guardian climbs up the mound of soul. He draws his sword. He didn’t even know if it were possible to deflect a guardian laser with a blade. But he can’t fail now. Not after everything. A flash of blue light overtakes his vision as his limbs slacken.

He shoots awake with a familiar tightness in his chest, his scars itching and burning. He writhes beneath his own skin as he kicks the covers off, the cold air seizing him. His lungs struggle to draw breath as he wheezes. His vision tunnels and it feels as if he’s dying again.

Why can’t it just be over.

When will he finally be enough— if not for the sake of the world then to at least save himself?

Or maybe he doesn’t deserve to be saved. He couldn’t save all those innocent people. Castle town, Deya, Lon Lon? Who was he to demand he was worth saving?

He hacks and coughs before even trying to look at his surroundings. Through the mixed screaming within his mind he gathers a few realisations. He’s alive. He’s home. You’re curled up beside him, reaching for his warmth. His hands tremble as they reach towards his uneven hairline, grabbing a fistful and tugging. The pain stings, he feels more than awake as his heart races.

“Mm- Link?” You mumbled against his side, awoken by the cold lack of covers. Guilt fills his throat again until he can’t breathe. He’s supposed to help you, to love you, to be of use. Not be such a burden. But here he is again, making it about him. Making your life worse and demanding comfort like a child.

“Heyheyhey- It’s ok, you’re safe” Your voice was as soft and gentle as your touch as you cradled his cheek. He didn’t even realise he was crying. Why was he crying? Who’d want a hero who cries like a coward in the face of a danger that isn’t even real? You collect his hands together, loosening his grip from his hair and running your thumbs across his knuckles. His head stirs as you speak, and he can’t make out anything of what you are saying. His ears ring, more than usual, drowning out any sound.

“Breathe with me, ok?” He nods weakly after you repeat yourself for the third or fourth time. He tries his best, his ribs shuddering before he could fully breathe in, but no longer deprived of oxygen, his head stops swimming as much.

It’s a while of sitting there, hands in your lap as you calm him down in whatever way he quietly requests. It’s so odd. Being raised to serve and to give and being taught through experience that your worth lies in your deeds… to suddenly being the one catered to. It still feels as if asking to be loved is forbidden. That his purpose comes before all requirement and survival. Somedays it still feels like death would come before he would be comfortable. But it took many long nights and longer days spent having uncomfortable conversations before he realised he still had a chance, only if he chose to make one for himself.

At some point he lets himself settle. He sinks into the now cool mattress as you stare into his eyes. He feels a flicker of shame before your hands are back on his jaw and you're pressing light kisses to his skin. Both temples, forehead, each freckle on the apple of his cheeks, crooked nose, the tip of his burn scar, the cut in his chin. You pull back for a moment to admire what you’ve made of him through the years. He smiles, lopsided and as giddy as he was in childhood. You press an eager kiss to his lips, giggling throughout.

He may be lost within the maze of his own mind, a man held hostage to himself, but despite being a failure by his own previous standards, it doesn’t matter so long as he’s enough for you.

#firreplies #linked universe #legend of zelda #linkeduniverse #link x reader #linked universe x reader #link x you #x reader #lu wildxreader #lu wild #yes i got inspo for his panic attack by my own #no i’m not ok #yes they do hurt #no i’m not in therapy #do any of you read these? #if you do you get a gold star #⭐️

[fumifooms]

With what we know of Chilchuck's daufhter's personalities; Who do you think would each daughter get along with best among their father's party members?

Alright so we got 4 options: Laios, Marcille, Senshi and Izutsumi.

Meijack

Immediately I think for Meijack it’d be Senshi. Yes yes, very ironic since she’s the only one not after his heart lol.

A lot of people consider her to be Chilchuck 2.0 but I don’t think that’s really true, she takes after her father in conscientiousness and profession yes, is the most serious and reserved of the daughters, but that’s the thing— I flip flop a bit on wether I think Chilchuck is an extrovert, introvert or just ambivert, he loves hanging out with people, but it’s distrust from past professional experiences plus boundaries due to drastic personal events that push him to avoid being open, especially since we see how cheery he used to be. With Meijack though… She’s an introvert, that’s it. She looks so so tired lmao. Chilchuck says it himself that she’s brusque/not personable. Obvi she might also have trauma that push her to be this and that way, but from what we see I think she’s just genuinely the type to stick to her business, be quiet and stick to her corner.

So why Senshi then? I think she’d gravitate towards him because he has the least overwhelming energy, Senshi can get fired up but mostly he tends to be laidback and gentle. While the others would be talking and arguing, Meijack would be sitting besides Senshi and helping him cook or tend to the fire, working in companiable silence. And if they do talk, I think they’d have nice conversations, Senshi giving life advice that affect her somewhat. Having a stable work and future is very important to Chilchuck and I’m sure he drilled that into his daughters as best as he could, so seeing Senshi thrive, the very opposite of a working responsible adult with a secure lifestyle aka an hermit hunting alone on the fringes of society, would be a wtf moment. If nothing else she’d be intrigued I think. I wasn’t even thinking of that but I do feel like she has daddy issues, if I had to write for her her arc would prob center on that, so in that way yay her getting a second, very different and uplifting father figure! 🎉 Senshi would be nothing but warm and happy to take her under his wing and chat, and much like with Chilchuck in the traps chapter would like learning a thing or two from her too.

Honorable mention to Izutsumi! I don’t think they’d hit it off which is why I didn’t pick her, but I think the people making fics about her and Izu interacting have the right idea, they’d clash at first I think especially on Izutsumi’s side since she’d see Meijack as a stick in the mud, and Meijack wouldn’t have a favorable impression either esp with how rude and irresponsible she is, but… I 100% believe that if they spent times together and got used to each other, to the point that Meijack understands Izutsumi somewhat and Izutsumi stops being prickly with her, that they’d develop an unlikely but strong companionship. Meijack’s section is already long so I’ll stop here but yes Meizu brotp

Flertom

Marcille. Next-

Ok jkjk, but also yeah I feel like this one is pretty self-evident. They share the same sort of emotive demeanor and social values, they both seemingly love gossips and romance, and most of all Flertom is very social. We see with her panel at her workplace, the tavern, that she cheerfully talks with customers, this girl is a social butterfly who loves talking and making new acquaintances. She values her family a lot as shown by her taking in her mom and sending her dad a letter alongside a gift, so they could even bond over having a broken off family or over trying to solve others’ problems hah. They’d have a grand old time getting to know each other and swapping stories (maybe even about her dad specifically) and I could totally see them starting to exchange letters even.

Honestly without reaching, the only thing I could see them arguing over is if Fler has a competitive streak, or if she’d think Marcille too uppity/academic on some occasions, but even then I think she’d appreciate Marcille’s elven princess flair and they’d both be too emotive to bottle shit up and let bad blood brew between them, althouuugh yeah they could totally give each other the silent treatment after arguing for a while hah. Chilchuck doesn’t help them reconcile, but he does tease both of them about it. They reach out to each other soon after and apologize, and laugh it off. "Haha my parents taught me what happens if you don’t communicate and aren’t willing to self-reflect and apologize haha" … Me just now realizing that maybe this is how Marcille can get the details on the wife situation and the family dynamics, tho idk at which point, on one hand I could see Flertom being pretty flippant over it but on the other I can imagine it’d be a very personal and sensitive topic. Who knows if she’s had friends to vent to about the stress of the divorce- oh pardon, "separation"— But I do think she’s the kind that it’d really help to talk it out and vent, AND YET I do think with my family hcs that Flertom tended to take it on herself to help around the house and be an emotional support glue with her sisters and would notice the strained parts about her parents’ relationship so she’d have kinda grown being able to bottle her emotions up a bit… Okok I’m done, next fr this time.

Puckpatti

Ok imo she’s the hardest to pin down, and that’s a part of why she’s my fave. Because of her being optimistic and cheerful I tend to compare her to Marcille a lot, but beyond that they aren’t all that similar, even if Puck also is interested in romance like Fler. She has a bunch of stuff that’s implied, like her working in scams, but they’re all under like, layers of interpretation. She’s shown to be cheerful and allegedly careless, happy-go-lucky, a bit of a ditzy, and although Chilchuck isn’t necessarily an accurate judge of character about it even, what we’re shown with that is that she worked selling "dragon dung" for a while and it’s implied she switches jobs regularly. What Chilchuck’s saying about her being reckless and too optimistic is probably about her not having a stable career, reliable work & income. Before the new comic from the Complete Adventurer’s Bible that was all we could glean from personality wise, but now we can see she’s also direct, and she’s emotive though not as much as Flertom, and she’s quick to scheme, not oblivious at all and sharing a conspiratorial spark with her sister. I’d describe her as laidback, here for a good time not a long time, ambtious and self-driven, and doesn’t let obstacles scare her or keep her down. She’s like….. Is she like, a cheerful Mickbell. A little scamp.

… Ok what now. Honestly Laios and Izutsumi tie with each other in my heart. I think she’d enjoy conversations with Laios and would find him fun/entertaining to be around, would like when he gets excitable and fired up. Puck seems like she might try her shot to get romantically involved with him, but maybe while doing that she sees something in him that’s worth hanging around to even if for platonic reasons, but mostly I think they’d be like friendly acquaintances. I honestly personally don’t see Puck being all that into making deep friendships, I get the sense that her life’s a lot about herself and where she wants to go next, so friendships would also be oriented towards having a fun time and not as much like, deep emotional connections. But the Izutsumi angle… Izu is the cool rebellious older sister. Izutsumi’s brutish and unruly free spirit attitude have her enraptured. She wants to hang around her because Puck thinks she’s cool and lowkey admires her, and thinks she’s fun and a good influence to have around. Finally someone who Gets It, to go on shenanigan adventures with. I think Izutsumi would also be interested by her, in a big part because unlike her party members, Puckpatti would be interested in following her as she does her thing, encouraging her in whatever she does even, unlike Chilchuck Laios and Senshi who kept trying to instill in her values and lessons and looking after her so she doesn’t do something reckless. Izutsumi notices early on that Puck’s easy to have around, nice even, and from there on Puck couldn’t get rid of the cat that took a liking to her even if she tried. Izutsumi brings her dead birds and stuff like "Hey Patti look at this isn’t it rad!" and Puck is like absolutely, you rock. Oh maybe Puck would want to run some scams together tbh, because of her ninja/stealth skills or otherwise. Anyways yes devil-may-care troublemakers duo, the bane of Chilchuck’s existence.

Yeah I think Izutsumi is Chil’s fourth daughter and she should have a bond with all the daughters <3 Flertom’s the sis you go to if you need comfort, and she accepts Izu easily into their circle.

Between worrying about maybe his oldest and most serious thinking about courting Senshi (she’s not), Flertom teaming up with the nosiest and loudest friend he has and the duo of reckless agitators about to get in all kinds of trouble, Chilchuck is truly sandwiched by horror and agony.

#Ask #dungeon meshi #chilchuck’s family #Meijack #flertom #puckpatti #mayjack fullertom packpatty #Spoilers #When I say emotive I mean that they emote a lot. I hate english sorry #I think Meijack’s more like her mother just from vibes and the portrait. She got the tism….. #Character analysis #just a wild ton of extrapolation and speculation #Fumi rambles #as always hit up my chilchuck’s family masterpost to see my basis for the daughters #Fun ask!

[council-of-beetroot]

The way Tolys carries shame is so fascinating. Ivan really did a number on him. One minute he's happy being a feral forrest pagan boy covered in mud, blood and animal hide and the next he's feeling utterly humilated and fretting bc Felix is wearing a dress. He's like if you took a wild, ring-worm filled wolf-boy and put him in an office setting and taught him nun levels of modesty. He's Ivans forever psychological experiment.

You know the way you put that it's quite relatable. I've spent so many years learning to mask myself to fit in and survive that when someone else I'm with isn't performing to the social standards that were drilled into me it is like low-key stressful it's "like hold on wait you can't do that or they won't treat you with dignity"

I made a post elaborating on this theme here. I don't know if this ask was more along the lines of this or was in response to my fanfic I reblogged

I think Tolys is after everything in a strange place where he's no longer forced to conform to Ivan's or even Feliks' standards yet he can't go back to the way he was in his youth.

I think tolys focused on trying to control as much as he could when he lived with Ivan because that way he could feel like he could predict and determine the outcomes and manage to get through. A large aspect was dedicated to making sure his brothers were safe as he could to the point where it didn't give the other two much space.

Now I think he still is an anxious mess and he still has his set of rules to survive modern day just as he did living with Ivan. This is completely opposite to a person like Feliks, who he is one to change nothing about himself to conform (in theory) and he's not confined by self imposed boxes like Tolys. He's spent so long performing a script and returning to someone who throws the script out of the window sort of speak.

Tolys feels shame strongly because he is a warrior at his core. In his mind he is meant to fight with honour and it is up to him alone to change the course of the battle. He is supposed to retain that glory to his name or die fighting. Alas, the world forces him to survive rather than die fighting and I think that leaves him with shame because he feels like he's given in.

I think it all comes back to a rather maladaptive view in Tolys' mind that's been been effectively reinforced by Ivan and remains to this day.

It's past midnight so I hope this makes sense! Thank you so much for the ask💕

#hetalia #hws lithuania #asks and replies #anon

[petrolstationflowers]

You've been all over - Lucky Palms, Strangetown, Neighborhood 1 - but have you ever headed for the bright lights of Vegas and the wasteland beyond? For those who are looking for a cheap place to live and employment that's open to anyone, the New Simfornia Republic Army might be the career for you! Based on Fallout: New Vegas' New California Republic Army faction, but with a Sims twist!

This is a branched career that splits at level five. You can choose to take the Combat or Political branch -- are you looking to become President of the New Simfornia Republic, or are you looking to be at the helm of the Rangers? The choice is yours. As always, you will need NRaas Careers for this to work!

Levels and other info under the cut!

For the initial five levels, there are a few custom tones:

Run Laps (builds Athletics), Maintain the Barracks (builds Handiness), and Tend Crops (builds Gardening).[/list]

For the Combat branch, we have:

Perform Weapons Drills (builds Athletics), Spar With Fellow Recruits (raises Martial Arts), and Write Reports (builds Writing).

The Political branch, on the other hand, has:

Prepare Talking Points (builds Charisma), Study (builds Logic), and Network With Other Politicians (builds Gambling). As this is a hidden skill that comes with Lucky Palms and the casino content, you will need that world downloaded for the skill to work correctly. Otherwise you may be able to alter this through MasterController.

I have made three opportunities that appear for Level 10 at both branches. These are to read a book, throw a party and invite a coworker, and attend a meeting. This is my first time making these so please let me know if you have any problems! There are also no carpools as thematically they wouldn't make sense1

Here are the levels and descriptions for the initial five before the branch:

[*]Wastelander - 10 simoleans p/h - M-F Description: New Simfornia is an okay place to live. Electricity runs for at least six hours a day, and the water supply is mostly clean. But there’s bills to pay and food to put on the table; scavenging pipes from the scrapyard and selling mutated wildflowers just doesn’t pay like it used to. The New Simfornia Republic Army is looking more appealing by the second… Recruit - 20 simoleans p/h - M-F Description: You’ve hiked your way out to the barracks and impressed the recruiters with your enthusiasm. Now it’s time to show them what you’re truly made of; mud, sweat, and dubious rations shipped from Strangetown. Hope you like green meatloaf and hard tack so solid you could use it as a weapon! Labourer - 25 simoleans p/h - M-F Description: Boot camp is over and done with, thank the Watcher. Now you’re stuck with menial labour; dull, but safe. You’ll spend your days planting crops, making flour, or putting together weapons on the factory line. Long hours for half decent pay, it’s not a bad life (unless you actually like scavving or fistfighting the creatures in the mine for food). Auxiliary - 30 simoleans p/h - M-F Description: An actual uniform, your own dog tags, and a waterproof pair of cowplant hide boots, it’s like every Snowflake Day come at once! At least now you’re inside most of the time, even if the most exciting thing you do is drop off letters from Sunset Valley and listen to gossip from Vegas. At least there’s free coffee. Private - 40 simoleans p/h - M-F Description: Your commanders have made a big deal about how they’re trusting you with patrols now, where you’re let loose with a basic weapon and have the tiniest bit of authority. Citizens might respect you and you’ll get to see the sights of Strangetown and Lucky Palms, but you know what they say; patrolling the Simoran almost makes you wish for…

Then for the combat branch levels:

[*]Captain - 70 simoleans p/h - M-F Description:You’ve spent your years slogging away as a cog in the machine and now the higher ups have finally recognised your efforts. You’re leading your own team, which can somewhat be like herding cats, but at least you get to go on more interesting missions now and have so say in the logistics. Even if those command meetings could have been an email. Major - 80 simoleans p/h - M-F Description:Your own office, specialised assignments, and the authority to get someone else to clean the bathrooms… the life of a major isn’t a bad one. But it does come with a price; you’ll be leading troops into battle and having to command the bigger outposts, which is a headache in itself. Solving squabbles over caravan routes and shipments of energy drinks, followed by a firefight at the New Simfornia border? All in a day’s work. Colonel - 200 simoleans p/h - M-F Description:You’ve moved somewhat away from petty disputes, but even if the pay is better, the responsibilities increase with it. You’re looking after entire regions and their platoons, making sure troops are dispatched to the right areas and civilian areas are kept safe (as much as they can be). Ranger - 500 simoleans p/h - Monday, Tuesday, Thursday Description:You’re finally the ranger with the big iron on their hip and hefty bounties to track down. You’re the one they call when the alien threat gets out of hand and the two-headed bears start rummaging through cabins on the Hidden Springs lakesides. You’ve got the chance to earn decent money on your own terms, provided the ghouls or yetis don’t take you out first. Chief - 750 simoleans p/h - Wednesday, Thursday, Friday Description:You’re out in the field less these days and spend more time dispatching the rangers under your command to get the jobs done. Still, you get a cut of the bounty that they bring back, and you don’t have to scramble through radioactive swamps to take out a target! It doesn’t get much better than that.

And the political branch levels:

Intern - 50 simoleans p/h - M-F Description:You’ve got a knack for bright ideas and saying the right things at the right time. This hasn’t gone unnoticed, and your superior has suggested working in the political branch of the New Simfornia Republic Army. At the moment it’s more running missives and making coffee of dubious quality, but everyone has to start somewhere! Law Maker - 75 simoleans p/h - M-F Description:After many, many years of dealing with the general public and your fellow squaddies, you’ve gained enough knowledge to know what needs to change – and spent plenty of time daydreaming how to do it. It might not be a seat of power, but determining which laws make it to the senate and writing detailed bills is a step in the right direction. Senator - 250 simoleans p/h - Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday Description:Finally, you’re where you deserve to be. Away from the dust and dirt of the Wasteland, your days involve a freshly cleaned suit and arguing with your fellow senators about the day’s agenda. Even if people don’t know you, they still have a healthy amount of respect for you (and maybe some fear). What you say, goes, and after all – you know best. Councillor - 500 simoleans p/h - Wednesday, Thursday, Friday Description:Unlimited power! … almost. You’re the one pulling the strings, whispering in the President’s ear and making sure they’re steered along the right track. You mostly work from the shadows now, only making appearances when needed, but your words are weighted like the finest Aqua Pura. Use them wisely. President - 1000 simoleans p/h - Wednesday, Thursday, Friday Description:The sky’s the limit; everything the light of the bomb touches is your kingdom. Whether New Simfornia flourishes or fails is entirely dependent on your whims. The army? Your personal bodyguards and playthings. The populace? Dolls to rearrange and position as you please. Watch out, Vegas; a new sheriff’s in town…

Translations: I've included the English Strings in the file; if anyone is talented enough to translate, I would be incredibly grateful, so please let me know in the comments!

With thanks: A huge thank you to all the kind people on MissyHissy's Discord server for helping me to test and troubleshoot, and to the person who requested this career and very kindly made the icon for me!

#the sims 3 #ts3 #ts3 cc #ts3cc #sims 3 custom job #sims 3 custom career #fallout new vegas #fnv

[bitchfitch]

Idk man. Imagine you spent your entire life going by a dead man's name because you were born to replace him. Imagine from the day your first memories formed every second was spent being compared to him.

He shown like the sun. You've never even seen it. He was kind and fair tempered, always dutiful and gentle. The priests call the rage you carry proof that you've already failed to be him.

His love was so divinely pure it turned a monster into a man and made the jungle and villages flourish when they heard their people's prayers.

You don't know the meaning of the word.

He's dead. His monster mourns his lost sunlight and stole away the jungles sun in retaliation for his murder.

That's why you exist. You with a dead man's face, his name, his history drilled into your skull by old codgers born long after he made himself a god.

You wear the same wedding gown he did. It makes your skin burn. The constant rain has already washed the blood from your hands. You were not their first attempt at a replacement. The others were all slaughtered the moment the beast saw them. You knew you were doomed. You were born that way and you didn't care anymore.

The sword in your hands ended the rain of the sun. You were to give it to your unwanted fiance. You've never held a sword before. You know what it felt to make a sloppy but true strike with one now. The exhilaration of your freedom being met with the knowledge that it wouldn't last a day. They'd find you. They always did.

The storm drenches you through the bone. It's rained every second since the beast took away the jungles sun. You've never felt it's warmth before. You never felt the wet mud under your bare feet or the smell of lightning burning in your throat. You were too precious a hope to be allowed a life lived outside the temple.

The sword knows the way. You feel it thrumming in your hand, eager for you to find the prey it and you both crave. Lightning strikes. Thunder over head and pounding in your chest.

He finds you.

Crashing from the sky like a bolt. The thick night black mane around his neck crackling with the storm. Tusks longer than your arm. wings wide enough to cast you in shadow. The mourning god of storms stands before you.

And you see a fools hope in his animal eyes as his false sun raises the blade and choses death taken in battle over being another footnote in the next attempt's history lesson.

#idk man #twohir is on the brain

[arc-misadventures]

hello again, I come with a phrase that you can use for inspiration, "revenge is a dish that is served cold, justice is an objective that takes time, and blood only flows without looking at whoever it is". This was something I paraphrased talking to some classmates

This is one is a bit darker, and has some rather mature themes in it.

You have been warned.

Do enjoy.

The Broken Hero

“My Lords, and Ladies! May I present to you, the Hero of…?! Whaa?!”

“Shut up…” I’ve long since grown tired of people screaming out my name, no not my name, they never call out my name. They call out titles, my rank, but never my name. I’ve grown tired of dealing with people announcing my presence. Besides, I have no time for this…

I descended down the stairs, and onto the floor of the ballroom. I was surrounded by dozens of nobles, they were probably about to cheer, and celebrate my arrival. Typical noble behaviour. However, after shoving aside the announcer the only sound I heard was the tapping of my mud covered boots upon the floor.

My eyes scanned the room about me, I could see the faces of dozens of nobles whose name, titles, noble ranks, and marriageable availability, were drilled into my head by my noble tutors. I didn’t care about any of those things, I never did, nor will I ever care about them. Besides, I was looking for one amongst their deplorable lot, as for the rest of them… To hell with them.

As I walked deeper, and deeper into the hall I saw more familiar faces; the King, and Queen, their two daughters, a few of my old teachers, the few teammates of mine that still remained, most having gone back to their home countries, no doubt to receive awards of some sort for their deeds in battle.

Their deeds indeed…

I could see the king, and queen, as well as their two daughters as I made my way down the hall. Looks of shock, and surprise was etched across their faces. Shocked of my sudden arrival, shocked about lack of decorum, or at my apparel? It doesn’t matter, I only paid them a passing glance as it was anyway. I was on a hunt, and they were not my prey.

“Jaune?! Where the hell have you been?!”

“A-And, is that blood on your face?”

Yang Xiao Long, First Princess of Vale, and her younger sister, Ruby Rose, Crown Princess of Vale. I spent eight years of my life growing up besides them. Eight long rechtched years…

We had trained, ate, fought, and bled together for years, because of this an air of familiarity grew from it. A sense of closeness, and friendship. One that held the potential of becoming more than just friends. A possibility that only existed in their heads. For, as I said to them all before time, and time again, and to anyone who would bring up this subject; there will only be one for me.

“I was busy…” I dismissively stated to them as I rubbed my cheek; trading dry blood for dirt. “And, as for the blood, don’t worry about it; It’s not mine.”

I unapologetically shoved my way between the duo before they could barraged me with a series of unrelenting questions. Noble decorum be damned, I didn’t have the time, nor the patience to put up the rigid, ‘stick up the ass’ noble etiquette bullshit that forced me to learn. Not now, not when I knew she was here…

Alas, one duo of royals was exchanged for another; His royal highness, King Tai Yang Xiao Long of Vale, stood in my path next to his wife, her majesty, Queen Summer Rose Xiao Long of Vale. A duo I had more mixed feelings about than anyone else in this whole retched world.

Did I hate them; No.

Did I like them; No.

Did I tolarate them; Mildly.

When I was taken away to be trained as the hero. The pair showed me compassion, and understanding as the life I knew was turned on its head. After my more violent outbursts they agreed to ease up on my rather intense training regime’s, and would give me more time to relax. However, I was still confined to the castle, and I still couldn’t see my family. But, I could rest easier now. For a time that put them on my good side. But, the moment the duo started to act like concerned parents trying to ensure my well being, while my real parents were still alive, and being kept away from me, by your decree!

Well, on deeper reflection; I do hate these people.

“Jaune, are you alright?!”

“You’re covered in blood; get me a physician here at once!”

“You need not concern yourselves with my well being, I am fine. And, if you don’t mind, I am rather busy right now…”

I sidestepped the royal bastards with ease, years of training, honed by years of combat made me very nimble on my feet. Dodging someone trying to grasp on to me was simply child’s play at this point in my life.

As I walked upon the centre circle of the dance grounds I slowly spun on the spot, scouring the crowds for her. I knew she was here, somewhere. But, all I could see was dozens of people I cared not for; old teachers, priests , knights, nobles of various ranks, my old ‘teammates.’ But, through the throngs of people assembled before me I could still not find her. So instead of me coming to her, she will come to me instead.

“Tell me… Is Miss, Cinder Fall here…?”

I said it quietly, and yet with my magic all could hear my words, funny how magic worked like that. But, as soon as my words died, I could hear a light pair of footsteps approaching me. As I turned to see a woman in her late twenties before me. A fair face, and body, brunette hair with burning amber eyes, and a smile of a viper. She bowed respectfully towards me as she stood there, and gave me her formal introduction.

“It is my deepest honour to meet you your grace. What can I, a lowly noble woman do for one such as grand as the Hero?”

Her words were just like all the words all the other nobles I had met had ever spoken to me. Flattery with a hidden desire to get on my good side. No doubt wanting to get on my good side to get something from me. Typical noble behaviour.

As I walked closer to her, I pulled out a small pouch of folded paper, holding it out before me so she could inspect it.

“Do you know what this is?”

She examined the paper in my hands for a moment before shacking her head.

“I do not my lord.”

“It’s a narcotic. A very simple one at that, unlike others that make you feel a sense of detachment, a rush of rage, or a surge of overwhelming strength. This one does something else entirely; care to guess what that is?”

She smiled at me as she looked at me. It was that vile smile once again; one of desire, and wanting for power, power that one would gain if they had control over me. That pitiful smile…

“I have no knowledge of such things you, Grace. My family runs a series of reputable businesses, we would never dare to involve ourselves in such things.”

“That wasn’t my question; I asked if could guess what this is?”

A low growl emanated from my throat as I stared down at that smug face of hers. I was in no mood for a noble’s double speech. I have more pressing matters to attend to than this.

“A… Poison, my lord?”

“In a way, too much of even a good drug can be fatal. This however is an inhibitor; It dulls the sense, and fuddles the mind. You enter this dream like state of mind, you are aware of your surroundings, but you have no control over your body. If you take too much of it, it can kill you. Care to guess where I found these?”

“I would have no idea where one would find those.”

“But, your silver haired friend does… or did…”

“D-Did?”

There is a certain game one must play when dealing with nobles. A game meant to gain the upper hand over one of your political rivals. Mostly through gaining superior knowledge, and blackmail over you foes. Once you’ve gathered all the superior information you could, then you go in for the kill.

I just go in for the kill.

“You see… after I saved the world, and all that bullshit… I went home to go see the woman I loved… only to find she wasn’t there. So, I looked around, and found out a certain noble family took her in… or should I say kidnapped. Care to guess which family that was…?”

“I have no…?! AAAHHH?!!”

Cries of alarm, and shock echoed through the hall, none stood out more than her scream as I cut her cheek with my blade, she fell to her knees as she cupped her bleeding cheek with her hand. She started to shake in fear as my sword stabbed through the ground a mere hair’s breath from her hand.

“I don’t give a damn about your pathetic noble double talk. I’m going to make this very simple for you… Your family kidnapped her, and sold her to a sex slave shop, where dozens of woman; human’s, and faunas were forcefully fed this drug where afterwards they were defiled over, and over again!”

“I have no idea what you’re…?! AHCK?!!”

A swift kick to the face sent her sprawling to the ground, her cries in pain, and the heavy step of my boots were all that was heard as I stood over her wretched form.

“No Idea…? You silver haired enforcer knew… Granted I had to chop off his legs to get him to talk, but soon enough he was singing… He lead me to the place they sold her off to. She died in my arms after taking an overdose amount of the drugs, saying she was no longer fit to be by my side after what had happened to her… The dirt on my clothes is from when I buried her. The blood, is from all of those who kept her there… Well most of it…”

As I loomed over her she tried to push away from me with her legs. Her cries of pain as I stepped down on her leg, breaking the bones was uncomfortably satisfying.

“Stay put, were not done talking…”

“But, I swear, Hero! I did nothing of the sorts to her!” She cried in terror as I loomed overhead as the harbinger of death she had turned me into.

“Really, because these books of yours says otherwise…” Her face paled as I pulled out a series of ledgers from within the magical bag at my hip. A small vindictive smile spread across my face as I watched fear slowly fill her eyes.

“H-H-How did you find those…?!” The facade of strength, pose, and control was easily shattered. This… thing was used to being in control, but seldom was she ever made powerless such as this. Thus she is shown the lie of power; it is just as easily obtained, as it is lost.

“Your mint haired maid was very forth coming after I encouraged her to tell me where they were. That’s right, I paid a visit to the fall manor… Or, what’s left of it…“

“L-L-Left…?”

“I burned it to the ground, your servants, and attendants, all dead. Just as you soon will be…”

“Y-You can’t do that! Only his Majesty the King has permission to order the death of any noble! E-Even then, I would no doubt only be stripped of my title, and sent to life in imprisonment! You can’t kill me!”

She started to laugh, thinking she had come to a clever loophole that she could crawl into to save her worthless life.

Fool.

“In the past week I executed more so than a hundred people, burn a nobles house down, and attacked a noblewoman in front of the whole kingdom to see! Do you honestly think I give a damn what another royal twat thinks?!”

I tore my sword from the ground, and raised it high above my head, giving one last cry before sending it crashing down upon her.

“This is all your fault you bitch! For only I decide whose right for me! Not some noble, some priest, not a king, and most certainly not. YOU!”

As my sword was about to fall a pair of arms caught my blade. I strained to push my blade downward, I grit my teeth as I saw the pair holding me back. Sun Wokung, and Neptune Vasilias, I fought with this two for quite some time, I found them to be rather annoying, more so at this instant than ever before.

“Let. Go!”

“Calm down, Jaune we can talk about this!”

“If the books are true she will stand trial! But, we can’t let you do this.”

“She will stand trial, Jaune!” Behind me I could hear the King call out to me, his voice reassuring, yet commanding as he tried to settle my rage. “She has been defeated. I ask of you to show her mercy, and allow her to be taken into custody.”

“MERCY?!” I barked in rage at the notion. “How many woman sent to that place begged for mercy! How many time was she defiled did she beg for mercy! How many lives died there beg to be freed from that hell, but never came! Where was their mercy! And, why should I show her mercy?!”

“Because as your king I command so! Now seath your blade!” Because a king said so…?

“ … “

“As you command…” I pulled away, sheathing my blade in its scabbard as he commanded. Taking a step away from her as she, and seemingly everyone else let loose a sigh of relief.

“Good… Guards, give Lady Fall some medical attention, then arrest her, and… JAUNE, NO!!”

“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!”

A spear of white fire was lodged in her chest, burning her from the inside out, a very painful and slow death. Such a dark perverse use of holy magic no doubt.

But, as she screamed, and writhed in pain as her body slowly burnt up, and was reduced to nothing, but a pile of ashes. All I could do was stare at her remains for a moment before turning around, and facing the king. I could feel the void fill my soul, and based upon how the, King recoiled at my face, he could no doubt see it upon my face.

I stepped towards his majesty the king, and looked him square in the face, and before he could say anything, I spoke first.

“I don’t give a damn on what some royal twat thinks…!”

And, with that I shoved past him, and made my way out of the dancehall. Not another word spoken, not another sound heard besides the echoing footsteps of my mud covered boots. And, as I left through the hall, all I could feel was an empty void in my heart at the grim satisfaction of a job well done.

Such was the price of blood spilt in the path of vengeance.

#rwby #jaune arc #yang xiao long #ruby rose #tai yang xiao long #summer rose #cinder fall #mercury black #emerald sustrai #sun wokung #neptune vasilias

[liaaacantwrite]

Sweet Dreams (Are Made Of This)

Billy Hargrove x Reader (Series)

Chapter Two: Just the Two of Us

part one! part three!

(A/N: i know billy may be slightly out of character, but this is just for fun! i think most people, especially people as young as billy was, are capable of being kind and loving if they’re shown how to do those things, and he clearly wasn’t. this is just a silly little story that i’m writing for myself, and i’m glad other people can also enjoy it! so thank you so much for all of the love on chapter one! hearing appreciation for my writing is what inspires me to create more. so thank you so much, and enjoy chapter two!!!!)

*****

It was strange. Billy usually found himself annoyed with people around 10 minutes into meeting them. Sometimes quicker, and that seemed to be happening more often in Hawkins than California.

Not with his new friends, though.

Lunch was actually fun. Jonathan had accepted him so quickly, immediately launching into a story about when he was locked in the bathroom during a fire drill. Billy felt like he could actually be himself, open up (very slightly as he didn’t really know these people) to the first people to be genuinely kind to him in years.

He’d met Robin while walking (Y/N) to her next class after lunch. Her ramblings were pretty funny and she wasn’t intimidated by the older boy. Actually, she seemed to embrace him rather quickly.

“All I’m saying is if you want my mom to like you, let her pay for the pizza. Otherwise, she’ll think you’re calling her poor.” They were discussing Saturday night, the day after Halloween.

“Can I give her some Halloween candy I stole from Mike, Lucas, Will, and Dustin?”

“Yeah, or we can just eat it.”

“Who’s that?” Billy spoke up for the first time in awhile.

“They’re these kids I babysit sometimes.” A code word for saving the world together. “Very sweet, but so annoying.”

“They come in sometimes to play with the puppies at work. Bye, dorks.” Robin added, waving goodbye as she walked off to her class.

“I never did ask where you work, by the way.” Billy double checked his schedule, trying to find the correct room. He had spent the majority of the previous day in the front office taking placement tests.

“You couldn’t see the logo on my scrubs last night?” (Y/N) teased, her tone light.

“It was obstructed by mud, doll.”

“I work at the animal shelter. You should definitely come by sometime.” She stopped walking, finally arriving at her class.

“This is your class?” Billy was grinning from ear to ear.

She nodded.

“Well, I think I won the lottery, princess. It’s mine, too.”

He followed his friend (he liked to think of her as one) inside, the bell ringing as he took a seat next to her. He took a moment to take in her side profile, the gentle slope of her nose, the curve of her lips. Her eyelashes, which stuck out straight instead of curling up, hiding their length. Her hair was braided, falling over her shoulder. She chewed on her thumbnail as she waited for the teacher to come in.

She pretended she didn’t notice him staring.

“Hello, everyone. Sorry for being late.” An elderly lady walked in quickly. “Ms. Hopper, will you take attendance?”

(Y/N) was Mrs. Thompson’s absolute favorite. She had called the police once after she fell and became enamored with Hopper, who had come to check out the scene when his patrol officers were all busy. Hopper, having a heart of gold, decided to have dinner with the lonely old woman and he brought along his only daughter (at the time.) This had been years ago, and she couldn’t believe that the sweet little girl who she had made brownies with was in her class.

“While attendance is being taken, we have a new student in our class. Mr. Hargrove, will you please come to the front?”

Now, normally, Billy would have just sat there and flipped off the teacher. But (Y/N) looked at him in such an expectant, hopeful manner that he couldn’t bring himself to disappoint her. So, he brought himself to his feet and stepped to the front of the room.

“Hi. I’m Billy.” Mrs. Thompson smiled and placed a hand on his arm.

“Where are you from?”

“California.”

She nodded, letting go of him. Looking around the class, all the girls (except the only one he actually knew) looked absolutely ravenous as they drank in his physicality. Playing with their hair, chewing gum, sitting perched in just a way to make their breasts stick out. The dudes looked intimidated, but overall curious. He walked back to his seat, feeling slightly ridiculous, but any sense of embarrassment flew out of the window when (Y/N) flashed him a toothy grin and held out her fist for a bump.

He obliged.

*****

“What’s bothering you?” Robin slid up to her best friend, placing a caring hand on her back.

“What? Who said something’s wrong with me?”

“Uh, your expression? You’ve been frowning at that inventory report for the past 10 minutes. What’s up?”

(Y/N) took a deep breath.

“My dad didn’t come home last night. Do you think you could ask your mom to drive me by the station on your way home? I can ask one of the officers for a ride if he’s not there.” She chewed her thumbnail, eyes downcast. She hated asking for help.

“Of course! He’s probably just busy, you know? Although, it’s weird he didn’t call. But don’t you live out in like the middle of the woods? Do you guys even have a phone? Maybe he was getting laid! That’s gross. Although, he probably needs it.”

Listening to Robin brought a sense of rationality to (Y/N). Hopper was probably fine, and if she couldn’t find him today, she could ask Eleven to find him. Although, if something bad did happen to him, she really didn’t want El to see that. She’d seen enough bad shit, and it always made her feel bad to see her little sister’s nose bleed.

The shift carried on pretty gracefully. A chihuahua bit Robin, but she just laughed it off, and a new cat was found in the alley behind the local church. The dog food shipment was running late, so Robin had to call their supplier and chew them out, and the cat food supplier sent the wrong brand, so (Y/N) called them and complained as well.

At around 15 minutes until the end of their shift, the one and only Billy Hargrove strolled in.

“Evening, ladies.” He smiled as soon as he spotted them.

His smile seemed extremely perfected, like he had spent a pretty good amount of time in the mirror rehearsing it. She figured he had some stupid name for it, too, like ‘the Ladykiller’, or ‘the Pantysoaker’. It was manufactured to impress girls, not to actually show joy.

“Hello, Billy. Come to clean the kennels?” She chided, not looking up from her adoption reports.

“You know me so well. I love cleaning up dog shit.” He leaned against the counter and looked down at her papers. She snatched them away from his gaze.

“Confidential.”

“Yeah, you’d be fucked if I knew who adopted Mr. Mittens, huh?”

“Royally. Now, do you wanna see some dogs?”

He nodded and started to lead him to the back area where the dogs were kept. Robin just kept reading her book.

“Do you have any old dogs?” He wasn’t sure why, but he’d always had a soft spot for geriatric animals. His mother had an old ass border collie and as a kid, Billy would fall asleep on the dog nearly every night.

“Yeah! There’s this one dog, we don’t really know her breed, but I would guess she’s part lab part pitbull? Anyway, she’s around 10 and she’s so sweet and sleepy. She’s in the green room, actually.”

She felt excited, showing him a part of her life, even if visitors weren’t allowed to see dogs this late. There was something about him that just screamed out at her, begging her to keep digging and find out what he was keeping under the surface. Maybe it was the way he glanced around nervously but immediately mustered up the confidence of 10 men as soon as he realized he was caught.

Christ, she’d known him 2 days at this point and was already feeling poetic about the whole thing.

“Hello, Peach!” She knelt next to a tan and white dog that rested in the corner of her kennel. It was actually pretty spacious, and she had multiple toys and food bowls around the area.

“Her name is Peach?” He thought it suited her pretty well as the dog slowly walked over to (Y/N), legs shaky but eyes excited.

“Thank you! I picked it.” She unlocked the kennel door and stepped inside, waving Billy to follow.

They sat on the floor with Peach and spent a good amount of time loving on her. She very much appreciated it, especially when Billy scratched that one spot behind her ears. No words were said to each other, only loving phrases toward the old dog.

“Who’s a good girl? Are you a good girl? Aw, you’ve got such pretty eyes.” Billy cooed, losing all sense of cool as the dog’s tail wagged faster than ever. He knew (Y/N) wouldn’t judge him anyway, so he moved to where he was laying on the floor, both hands petting Peach.

“I hate to break up this absolutely adorable moment, but my shift ended 5 minutes ago. I really need to clock out or I’ll get in a ton of trouble.” (Y/N) stood, holding a hand out to help Billy up. He took it, mostly using his own legs to stand but appreciably smiling at her.

“I always forget how much I love dogs.” The smile didn’t leave his face as they left the green room. He waited for her she clocked out, watching her speak to Robin for a minute, seemingly arguing about something. He couldn’t help the way his ears picked up his own name.

“Just ask Billy!”

“No, he drove me yesterday.”

“You think he doesn’t want an excuse to parade that little Camaro around?!”

“You just don’t want to ask your mom to drive me.”

“I can want two things!”

Billy wondered if (Y/N)‘s dad didn’t come home again. He hadn’t even met the guy and his opinion of the police chief was starting to sour.

She walked up to him, her hands behind her back and chin up high. Her eyes were closed as if she was gathering courage and, unbeknownst to Billy, she was flipping Robin off behind her back.

“Hey, Billy. Look, I’m so sorry to ask you for this, but my dad didn’t come home again and I was just wondering if you could drop me by the police station? I can have an officer take me home, so don’t worry about that.”

Billy checked his watch. It was 7:10, and his curfew was 8 on school nights. He figured he could make it, and even if he didn’t, Neil could honestly go to hell. He’d just sleep in his car and deal with the consequences another day, hopefully on a day that Max had already fucked up.

“Sure, princess. You don’t have to look so embarrassed.” He winked and opened the passenger door for her. It took every ounce of willpower in his body not to look at her ass as she slid into the seat.

As he walked around and got into his own, she had already started hyperventilating.

“I am embarrassed because now my dad looks shitty when he’s actually wonderful, and I’m upset because I don’t know where he is, and I’m nervous because I’m just a nervous person in general, and I’m tired because I didn’t sleep last night waiting up for him, and I’m angry because he hasn’t fucking called, and this whole situation is just turning into a huge clusterfuck!” She slammed her hands on the dashboard and started crying.

“Hey, doll, it’s alright. We’re gonna head over there and check this shit out, alright?”

“I promise I’m not usually so needy.”

“I wouldn’t mind if you were.”

Billy started to drive, already mostly knowing his way around the town after spending so much time just aimlessly driving. She turned the music up and hummed as she stared out the window.

She was absolutely terrified at the thought of Hopper being missing, of the Hawkins Lab shit coming back. She was even more terrified at the thought of taking care of Eleven by herself, something she was willing to do, but not exactly excited about.

Billy, on the other hand, was confused. He’d never enjoyed doing things for other people in California. He liked to keep to himself and pretend to care just enough to get laid. Honestly, the girls didn’t mind what he said much, anyway. They were honestly just as cruel to him as he was in return. He was just a hot bad boy to them, a way to rebel against society. Eventually, they’d all marry their band nerd high school sweetheart, and Billy would probably end up in jail or dead. At least, that’s what Neil loved to point out. ‘Walking STD’ was a favorite name of Neil’s, and Billy absolutely hated it.

“Thank you, Billy. Honestly.” She unbuckled and started to open the door, but stopped when Billy opened his own. “Why are you getting out?”

“I’m coming with. You know, in case something happened?”

They stared at each other for a moment. Her eyes were glassy, still not completely finished crying. His were intense and grounding as she steeled herself to enter the police station. She took a few deep breaths, still staring intently into his baby blues and she nodded.

“Okay. Let’s go.”

They walked towards the double doors of the station and she gripped the sleeve of his denim jacket.

“Everybody knows me in here, so we should probably be able to tell what’s happening just based on their reactions.”

She took it as a good sign that no one had pulled her out of class with bad news.

“After you.” He pulled open the door for her and she stepped in.

“(Y/N)! What are you doing here?” The receptionist, Gloria, beamed at the pair.

“Hey, Gloria. Listen, my dad hasn’t been home in a few days and I was just curious if you’d seen him?”

“Oh, yes! He’s been hard at work with some infected pumpkins. It’s pretty silly if you ask me, but he’s been trying to get to the bottom of it. I think he’s actually in his office if you need him!”

“I’ll be in the car if you need me.” Billy sent (Y/N) a reassuring smile and left as she walked towards her dad’s office.

The door opened loudly, waking a sleeping Hopper at his desk.

“Are you kidding me? You don’t come home last night and when I come to find you you’re sleeping at your desk?” She was angry all over again, but still relieved he was okay.

“I told Gloria to call you at work so you could find a ride home.” He rubbed his eyes and yawned.

“Well, clearly she didn’t! We were so worried about you! And I had to walk home, until some jackass splashed me and I got a ride!” She slammed her hands against his desk.

“From who?” He looked up from whatever the hell he was doing, now getting mad himself.

“It doesn’t matter. What matters—”

“It absolutely does matter. What, because you didn’t want to walk home, you’re gonna put her in danger?” There was a rule against saying Eleven’s name public.

“I was covered in muddy water and it was 45 fucking degrees outside!”

“Language! And I don’t care how cold you were, you could have put her in danger.”

“So, freezing to death isn’t danger? Walking 10 miles alone at night isn’t danger? Having a fucking—”

“Language.”

“—panic attack because I’m thinking you’re dead isn’t danger? You’re gonna put me at risk because you’re too lazy to actually call me yourself?!”

“I was walking around 3 different pumpkin patches for 5 hours last night. I told Gloria to call you. I did my job! You can not blame me for her not doing hers.”

“Your job is to be my father. When you remember that, we’ll be glad to have you home.”

She stormed out, slamming the door as hard as she could behind her, satisfied when she heard a picture frame fall off the wall. Walking as fast as she could, she carried herself out of the station and into the parking lot to where Billy was waiting.

He looked at her frazzled state as she entered the car. He could tell from her expression that things didn’t go well.

“Drive, please.”

*****

Hopper had returned at about 2 am, completely exhausted. He used his keys, not wanting to wake the girls as he let himself in.

He set down his keys and shrugged off his jacket before looking around. The TV was still on, but the girls were nowhere in sight. He ventured deeper into the house, stopping outside Eleven’s room. As he opened the door, his heart rate quickened when he noticed she wasn’t in there.

“Oh, fuck.”

He dashed into his older daughter’s room, sighing in relief as he saw both girls cuddled together in the bed. Eleven’s arms were wrapped tightly around her sister, their faces looking so peaceful as they slept. He took a moment to just stare at them and kneeled next to the bed. He took one of their hands each and just held them for a minute. He felt extremely guilty, especially for how he treated (Y/N) in his office. She was right. He should have called her himself, but he was caught up in the case again. He felt so ashamed for making her walk alone at night. He knew how dangerous it was out there, and he knew he could never forgive himself, even if nothing bad actually happened to her. He started to cry softly and kissed each girl’s hand.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered. “I love you.”

He sat for a few more moments just reminiscing on all of the good moments he had with them. Driving (Y/N) to the zoo and seeing how absolutely batshit insane she went over all of the animals, baking a cake with Eleven, watching bad movies with the both of them way too late at night and laughing way too much. He wouldn’t ever take them for granted, and he would always come home to them.

He stood, walking towards the door.

“I love you, too.” (Y/N) spoke softly, snuggling into her sister even more as she went back to sleep.

He’d really hit the jackpot when it came to his daughters.

*****

The next day was Halloween, and no one at Hawkins High really acknowledged it besides a few parties happening that night. Billy had obviously been invited to them all, but Jonathan and (Y/N) hadn’t. Not that they cared, and even if they had been asked, they wouldn’t go. They were both planning on being with their younger siblings.

“Come on. I’ll even wear a matching costume with you.” Billy begged her.

“Where are you even going to get one? I’m pretty sure all the stores are sold out.” She took a bite of her sandwich.

“I’ll make one.” He stated matter-of-factly.

“Since when can you sew?” Jonathan laughed, finally looking up from his homework.

“You really need to do your homework at night. I’m getting sick of seeing your chicken-scratch while I’m eating.” She lightly pushed the notebook, causing Jonathan to roll his eyes.

“Look, you guys come to the party with me for 10 minutes. Then I’ll drive you both home. Deal?”

She took a second to consider. She really did want to spend the evening with El. And having a night of fun with her family would be a good way to get over the argument with Hopper. But on the other hand, she had never been to a party. Steve had offered to bring her a few times, but she always declined.

She looked at Jonathan. The perk of being friends with someone for 10 years was being able to communicate with only the eyes.

He gave an ‘it’s up to you’ glance and went back to his work.

“5 minutes.”

“Deal.” Billy grinned.

*****

Hopper was actually very open to his daughter going to a party. He figured she needed to just let off some steam and be a teenager for awhile. Plus, he really didn’t want to watch whatever horror movie she would subject them to in the spirit of the holiday.

Billy pulled up to the cabin (rather, an area about 5 minutes of walking away, as Hopper didn’t want to risk anything) and couldn’t believe his luck as his eyes landed on her.

She was wearing a knee-length black dress with a light blue sweater over the top. It wasn’t revealing in the slightest, but the way her hair fell over her shoulder, the way he could see the reflection of the moon in her eyes was absolutely maddening.

He wasn’t wearing a costume either, just some jeans and a leather jacket. He opted for no shirt, a decision that didn’t really make sense for October, but a decision nonetheless.

He really couldn’t figure out what it was about her that was so amazing to him. He’d admired her honestly and wit, sure, and she was obviously beautiful. He liked how intwined with his own life she had become, and how she wasn’t ashamed of letting him in. He liked how he knew she would accept him no matter what. But he didn’t know what compelled him to stop that night, what made him insist on taking her home. He had never done something like that before. Fate, possibly, or divine intervention had to be it.

“Let’s get going. I plan on being back within the hour.” She gave him a wicked grin as she pulled open the door and slid into the increasingly familiar seat.

“Not even gonna tell me how beautiful I look?” He teased, putting the car into drive.

“Nah. You already know it.”

They talked for a bit on the drive, mostly just teasing back and forth and giving directions to Jonathan’s house. He wanted to reach over and grab her hand, her thigh, anything.

She, however, was very anxious about the whole thing. She didn’t want to go now that she was in the car, on the way. She was thinking of every possible bad scenario, everything that could go wrong.

“You okay?” Billy asked, turning onto Jonathan’s street.

“Just anxious.” She but her thumbnail.

“About?”

“What if there’s a pool and I get pushed in?”

“Why are you even thinking about that?” He parked beside the house she pointed at.

“Because that’s how my brain works.”

Jonathan walked out, Will in tow. They were laughing as they walked to the car and as she rolled down the window.

“Hey, guys, I’m just gonna take Will to Mike’s so he can go trick or treating. I’ll meet you there!” He smiled and turned around to his own car.

“Guess it’s just us for a bit, doll.” Billy grinned and sped off, secretly excited to spend a bit more time alone with her. It’s not that he didn’t like Jonathan. He really did, more than he expected to. It’s just, he really liked her too.

“Don’t get so excited. Five minutes and then we’re leaving.”

He didn’t really think she would only stay 5 minutes. Honestly, he really wanted to see what she was like around other people. Was the special treatment (like sharing lunches and crying in the car) reserved for him? Or was she like this with everyone? He certainly treated her better than he did most people.

“Sure, princess.”

*****

taglist:

@renaroo123 @maaciimoo @ria132love @lem0ns77 @krys-orion @dgrangaa

#billy hargrove x reader #billy hargrove #billy x reader #dacre montgomery x reader #dacre montgomery #stranger things fanfic #stranger things #billy hargrove series #stranger things series

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

Regret - a Malevolent fic

Fine. The powers that be wanted this? Then he’d give them this.They should know by now that anything they asked for, he’d never say no

AO3

————

The dreams were expected. Sure, they were. He was in the Dreamlands. He was in the home of a god who specifically fucked with dreams. It all made sense.

But why did it have to be of her? And them? All of them?

Why?

#

It had to be the King in Yellow’s fault. That talk on the balcony… forcing those memories to return, things he’d shot in the head and buried decades before, things he had no desire to relive. But here they were, in his dreams.

And here they were, in his thoughts.

Faroe giggling as Hastur tickled her mid-breakfast, over nothing but general affection and closeness.

Arthur laughing in his music room, picking her up and swinging her in a circle, unaware they were visible through the open door.

Hastur rumbling with pride as Faroe stood before the Court, reciting a set of laws that had been violated, and passing judgment with a calm and wisdom far greater than her years.

And the quiet moments, at night, after dinner; moments he doubted they knew he’d overseen, just talking over nothing, or sitting together with some instrument (Faroe played the harp for Hastur, which soothed him, and brought to mind old stories of David and Saul), or just leaning on one another and reading.

It was a lot.

It was too much.

The memories wouldn’t go away.

Larson was beginning to really, really hate this place… but even if he had the chance, he wouldn’t leave.

#

Hastur, the King in Yellow, was taking over the Dreamlands.

Okay, it wasn’t that simple; there was a lot of land to conquer, and far too many powerful gods to simply take over, but Larson had been involved in wars and rumors of wars for many, many years, and knew what he was seeing.

Hastur was making peace and allies where before had been strife.

Hastur was making inroads and trade where before there had been antagonists.

Hastur was seeking out beings who wished him ill, and either calming things down… or returning in the morning covered in ichor and tatters, clearly not knowing anyone saw him, disappearing to his room and reappearing shortly after, pristine and glorious as if nothing had happened.

But it had. And so far, in all these matches, he’d come out on top.

Larson was a betting man. Filthy habit, absolutely, but he loved the thrill of that which he couldn’t control still granting such wins, as if he were meant for victory. If he had to bet right now, he’d place all he had on Hastur.

Hastur was driven. Whatever his reason was, he treated this with life-or-death determination, and that gave him an edge.

So, yes: Larson was sticking with this. He’d ride these yellow coattails as long as he could, and only jump off when the crash was imminent.

And he would get a handle on his useless, traitorous, sloppy thoughts.

#

“That’s it,” said Hastur, low, holding his daughter in his arms with her hand outstretched. He’d split the end of one of his tentacles into five and splayed them beneath her fingers. “Each digit can send part of this spell; your aim is important.”

Focused, she muttered in accursed Aklo.

The small red beam that came from each finger was barely visible, firelight in mist, but each sliced a hole neatly through the stone block Hastur had placed before them like some kind of special drill.

“Good! Good,” murmured Hastur, shifting her in his many limbs so she lay against his chest, against his hearts.

“I didn’t hit where I wanted,” she said, drooping.

“Not yet, but you will,” he rumbled. “We will try again. Precision is a matter of practice.”

And Larson flashed back.

#

A hundred years ago, it was more important to be able to fish, able to butcher, able to do the many things needed to keep oneself and one’s family fed, but that wasn’t really why he did this, took the boys, spent the day at the pond. Wasn’t really why Tristan and Lucian got mud on their overalls, and at one point overturned the boat, and everybody laughed soaking wet and glad for the cool water on this hot, buzzing day.

They only brought four fish back after all of that, but Beatrice knew damn well what shenanigans they’d get up to out there, and—

Faroe blasted the damn rock apart.

It exploded, enormous chunks hitting the marble floor with such force that Larson’s gasp was covered, and Hastur… laughed.

Laughed heartily, darkly, like some devil, but Faroe giggled and leaned in and hid her face against his yellow robe.

“Sorry!” she laughed.

“Not at all,” Hastur rumbled, and with the casual, thoughtless power of a god, repaired. Just… slid the chunks back together, erased the cracks, smoothed over the marble floor with a sweep of his tentacles. “Now, do you know what went wrong?”

Faroe considered, peering through her dark curls at the restored boulder. “I think my whole hand did it.”

“Correct. You didn’t diffuse the spell, so it was a hammer instead of needles. Shall we try again?”

“Yes,” she said, because he’d raised her to be unafraid of errors before him, because he placed his five-fingered limb under her hand again, outstretched, because—

“Sorry,” said Lucian, his hand bleeding, splinters all over, the piece of wood he’d been trying to carve as instructed having snapped.

“Not your fault,” he’d said, taking his son’s hand, removing the splinters one by one. “Made a mess here, though. Gonna have to apologize to your mother for gettin’ blood all over.”

Lucian had sniffled, and it hadn’t been real sorrow or fear or anything worse than the unpleasant pain of splinters, and they’d gotten his hand bandaged and adjusted his grip and this time, the chair rails took proper, symmetrical shape.

This had to stop.

Faroe gasped, and Larson looked up and paled. She’d done it: five perfectly spaced holes smoked, cut clean through that boulder, and it had been done so well that Larson hadn’t even heard it happen.

Fucking deadly. Deadly child. Deadly spell. Why would anyone teach a child such a—

“My precious one,” Hastur said, low, a constant rumble under his voice of pride and pleasure. “I knew you could.”

“I did it!” Faroe said unnecessarily (“I did it!” said Tristan, showing the rabbit he’d perfectly skinned and butchered, providing some dinner for all of them) and Larson had enough and went for a walk.

#

He missed Beatrice. That was… that had to be somehow forced.

He hadn’t missed her in so many years that he was shocked at the clarity of his memory. The slimness of her shoulders; her particular scent; the way her hair felt, just frizzy enough to tangle, and some evenings he’d brush it out for her in front of the fire after the kids went to bed, and some evenings that would lead to other things, wonderful things, close and slow and heated.

No. It did no good to think of this. What the hell was wrong with him?

He’d erased her over years of effort, erased these things because all they did was hurt, all they did was burn, and he couldn’t bring her back, couldn’t bring any of them back, so what the hell was the point of thinking about all this and remembering those lost days and wasted time and forgotten voices?

Damn it. Damn it.

He headed out to the water garden to walk this off.

Bored. That’s what he was, why his mind was drifting this way, and he could beat it if he just had something to do. He wasn’t trusted yet, but he understood that. It was harder to understand trust given to the others.

Lester had gotten in somehow (Larson highly suspected that girl had been traded for favor). The Saint (he sneered) had somehow wormed his yellow ass in with that yellow piece, which had to be based on some kind of pity—or maybe Yellow felt like a secondary citizen, too, given the company he was keeping.

Speaking of… they were in the garden, too—being lovey-dovey again, shameless and flagrant behavior. The Saint laughed at something Yellow said.

Ugh. No more of that, thank you. He went back inside.

#

He didn’t want to remember them. He kept remembering them.

He wanted power, had paid for power, had done everything right, but all of this was outside his control and he was being denied.

(His wife’s soft lips, tracing his collarbone, her face shadowed and warmed by the fire in their room.)

Funny thing, though, these thoughts being connected as they were, because Beatrice was the reason he had the power he did, the reason he knew what was waiting for him.

#

Tragedy took them from him, one hard and cruel winter. The croup, hand-delivered by that godsdamned neighbor McPherson, who’d sent his godsdamned son running over here to borrow flour for some stew they were making, and that little shit had been coughing, and wheezing, and making horrible noise, and it didn’t take long before Addi was, too.

She’d answered the door. She’d given him the flour. She’d always been too kind.

From her, it went to Tristan, to Lucian. From her, it went to him, then to Beatrice, who refused to rest but took care of everybody, though Beatrice was rasping air and barking coughs just like the rest.

And there wasn’t really a town, and no one to go to for help, because the mine was new and money was real but who would live out here in winter unless they had to? There was nothing to do but breathe through tight throats and wet phlegm, and wait for summer to come.

Lucian died first, and that maybe wasn’t the shock it should’ve been; he’d always been small for his age, and pale, no matter how much sun he got, and Larson tried to tell himself it was to be expected as they all wept, and coughed, and he rocked his dead boy before the fire and cried out to a God who did not care.

They had to put him in the shed behind the barn with snow on and around him. The ground was too hard to dig. That felt bad. He’d been afraid of the dark.

He wouldn’t be alone there long.

Tristan was a shock. Tristan had seemed in good spirits, better than the rest, able to hop up and grab things his mama needed, bringing them stew when no one had the strength to ladle it from the pot.

Then he just didn’t wake up. Was gone and cold by the morning frost, and this time, between the unrelenting coughing and the grief, Wallace cried so hard and so long that he blacked out from not breathing.

There was no one to help them. No way to ask for aid; this was before telephones, before powers, before anything. They had to put him in the shed, too, because the ground was still too hard.

Addi got better. By whatever mercy there was, she got better; but Beatrice got worse.

Losing her boys had taken something from her, some spark, and it seemed her breath got shallower every day when she wasn’t coughing. And then she wasn’t breathing much between coughs. And then she couldn’t wake up, either, though she was alive.

Wallace was better by this point; like Addi, he’d made it through, but he couldn’t help his wife.

Beatrice never woke up again. She died in his arms in the middle of the night, there one moment, struggling to breathe, and gone the next, and Wallace shouted her name until his throat fucking bled.

There were more cold bodies in the shed now than live ones in the house, and Wallace was… not okay about it.

They’d come here to make a way for their family, forever. They’d gotten this mine, done the hard work, found the right people, all for the sake of a legacy; and when Tristan, and Lucian, and Addi grew up, and made families of their own, they’d live here, too, and never want for food, or for clothes, or for any sweet thing that struck their fancy.

They weren’t supposed to be out in the shed, under snow and silent.

Addi moved as if in a daze, a dream, a drug, caring for the house as she’d been taught, staring into the fire at night and not even reading her bible. And he understood. Was there a point? Was there even a point?

He tried to help his little girl. He did; but he couldn’t fix her, couldn’t stop her heart from bleeding, couldn’t make her not think it was her fault for bringing the croup in. He tried; he held her. They cried together. He told her it wasn’t her fault, that St. Peter himself wouldn’t blame her for it.

She just kept sinking, slowly, like a boat with a leak.

Wallace… chopped wood. Cooked. And thought very dark things, very dark. He thought dark things about the neighbors who’d not meant them harm but sure as hell brought it, and about the people who moved here during the summer to dig and then just took off when it got cold. Then one night after Addi went to bed, when the full moon gleamed on the snow like the desert in day, he felt it call him.

What, he couldn’t say. Seemed it liked his dark thoughts, was the feeling he got, as he climbed the stairs to their attic room, to the space where they dragged the trunks and boxes from lives past and relatives gone, things that went with the family because that’s what you did with heirlooms.

And something up there wanted him to see it.

To this day, he doesn’t know why he went. His family, most were down south, but his mom’s side was from Appalachia, and he knew you don’t just go digging into things that call your name when you don’t already know what they are.

But he didn’t care that night. Maybe he hoped it would eat him. Maybe it was just something to think about other than how heavy Beatrice seemed when she died, as if her spirit leaving added iron to her bones.

The attic was dark and ignored his candle, but the moon was full and led the way, shadow from the single window cast along the floor as if to point with God’s finger at one, single trunk. Wallace liked that trunk; fine, fine woodwork it was, and fine, fine metalwork and leather, and you could just tell by looking at it some rich or royal person’d had it made, long in the past. It was Beatrice’s, from her family, which meant somewhere in Italy before the unification. Turin, maybe? He couldn’t recall; her great uncle (an old man with ridiculous mustache and impenetrable accent) had told some wild tales the night of their engagement celebration, but nobody else in the family ever had.

Weird, how the mind worked in moonlight and the absence of love: Wallace remembered now what that old and odd man said. About how the family was the true royal line, not going back to some Roman shit, but something to do with a land of dreams, and gods, and powers. How the things he was to be given (for Beatrice was the firstborn) must be guarded, and used only in emergency, only in dire need.

Sure, Wallace thought, and wrestled with the trunk.

It hadn’t wanted to open, and as he’d strained, boots braced, sweating in spite of the cold, crying out as he heaved those rusted hinges open, he’d known that it was a choice.

He could’ve called it a bad job and gone downstairs to make sure Addi’s stew would be ready for tomorrow, could’ve grieved like a million other widowers before him, then gone into the nearest town and found a young woman willing to marry the owner of a mine and live in the middle of nowhere, and built his family back up again.

Or he could do this, listen to whatever was calling, whatever liked his dark thoughts, and push.

He pushed. He got the trunk open. And whatever he’d thought it would hold, it wasn’t this. Books. Just books? After all that fuss, he half-expected crowns or fancy dresses or magical swords or something. Just books.

Just…

He dug out the one that called him, as if he’d known where it was all along, and the moment it was in his hands he knew it was real.

Weird symbol on the front, something that hurt his eyes to look at too closely, and the words were all in some language he did not know, but he felt the power in this thing like he could feel the rumble of distant locomotives, bringing workers to dig in his mine in the warmer days.

He took it downstairs, still listening to the book call him. He put it under his pillow, because that’s what the damn thing said to do. And in the morning, he knew where to go.

He woke in a sweat, shaking, a mess; woke and had to bathe (not always a great idea in the dead of winter) because sweat had soaked clean through everything. Woke… and then had to fucking wait.

He couldn’t travel this time of year. No one could. So he had to wait to go where the book said, and that meant months of trying to help Addi while powerless, months of heading out to ensure it was still cold enough to keep his family’s bodies preserved, months of waiting and thinking dark thoughts.

Months of weak-handed, blind-eyed, gutting-useless hell.

#

It’d been worth it. The Order of the Fallen Star had been waiting for him, had some kind of book that matched his, and when he showed up next spring (fresh from funerals in which he would not look at McPherson, no matter how kind that fucker tried to be), they helped him learn what his wife’s books said.

So there was power here. This wasn’t like the Appalachian legends of his grandfather’s day; this wasn’t just warnings and wariness, caution when you hear your name in the woods, fear of hearing screech owls at dusk or always remembering which door you came in by. This was about taking hold of the things that scared you and making them do as you say.

Wallace had been thinking violent thoughts for a long time when he took his first life. It wasn’t hard. He made sure MacPherson knew why it happened, too.

From there, it had been easy. Sacrifices. Rituals. Certain words in languages that hurt the throat until you got used to them, and all with the promise of power to get his wish.

To bring them back.

To give them back to him, whole and healthy as they were, so they could go back to life by the mine he owned and grow up and make families of their own and leave a legacy in their wake.

He could do this. He could bring them back. He would.

And nobody in the Order bothered to tell him that couldn’t happen until he was so far in that turning around wasn’t even a possibility.

#

Larson leaned on the balcony under two full moons and stared at the alien garden, filled with plants he did not know and beauty he craved as his own. It was magnificent here; the King in Yellow had good taste—which, funny enough, would’ve synced up pretty well with Beatrice’s ancestors, judging by that old trunk.

Come to think of it, he wasn’t even sure what happened to that thing. He’d managed to get it all the way to New York, to the Order’s headquarters, and then…

Funny. That thing, which had meant so much to the family, which had been for the most dire need, hadn’t been used in time, hadn’t saved anybody. In the end, he didn’t even know where it had gone.

He didn’t want to think about this. Didn’t want to remember. Damn this place. Damn the King. Damn—

Oh! It’s him.

Larson turned to find Lester there (and if Larson refocused his eyes, he could see the piece in him, see how big it was, and was amazed all over again that he’d ever thought that lickspittle Yellow was anything at all). “Evening.”

Arthur went so stiff.

Larson waited. That man was a lunatic; any day now, he was gonna snap, no question.

Arthur’s jaw worked.

Arthur? Said John.

Arthur spun on his heel and marched away.

Larson snorted. “Better run,” he muttered, and looked over the garden again. His balcony. Nobody else got to share it tonight.

Addi would’ve loved this view.

Fuck.

There it was. The thing he’d been not thinking of, the vortex he’d fought most to resist. Well, maybe that’s what this weeks-long trip down memory lane was about, after all; maybe it was part of his path to ascension, to relive it, to re-feel it, to go through that choice all over again.

Fine. The powers that be wanted this? Then he’d give them this. They should know by now that anything they asked for, he’d never say no.

#

The Order was good to him. Got him connections; welcomed him in, made him feel like someone, made him feel less like a desperate fool. Shared their stories, shared their prospects, and in time, shared their power. He’d never call them family, no; they’d have sliced each other’s dicks off without a second’s thought, but they were tight, and they taught him things he’d never even dreamed.

The town that grew around his mine would’ve made Beatrice so happy. They were flourishing; he was wealthy.

And all his hopes and dreams for his family were dashed, because they weren’t coming back.

So what’s a man to do when his one life’s goal is taken from him? Give up? Push on? Take a left and try a new road? Choices; it always came down to choices, and all of them had consequences that bit. He’d hated that summer, hated the wealth that poured in, hated the people who worked in his mine and thanked him for running a clean operation, hated his fellow members of the Order who seemed so happy and didn’t know grief.

He didn’t hate Addi. At twelve, she was the spitting image of her mother, and that hurt in a whole new way, but he didn’t hate her. He loved her. He really did.

That was why, when he was brought into the final, smallest circle of the Order, into the echelons of true power running the world, and he found out what the next step would be, it made sense that it had to be her.

#

Ascension.

Deification.

That was the goal, to rise above this muck, to become more than the flesh and blood and mud and bore humanity was bound to. To become as those things Beatrice’s great uncle had talked about, the ones who’d made these books and sewn these spells, who could create things at will, who could not die.

Who could repair boulders their careless children blew apart.

And at first, for a little while, he’d told himself the goal was to be a god so he could bring them back… but even then, he’d known that wasn’t true.

There was only one way out of grief, he knew that now. You wall up your heart, brick it good, and stop feeling shit. That was it. That was the only way, and by hell, it worked.

Maybe that was why Addi was such a good sacrifice, toward the end. He could still feel her; still loved her. Still smiled when she came in smelling of sun and gave him a daisy-chain circlet, or talked about some boy in town who teased her, or how Mrs. MacCready helped her figure out how to embroider this pretty new pattern in cloth.

It was a small town; four families and a handful of single men, working the mines and traveling away in winter because there was no income then. But it could be more. It could be so much more, and wasn’t that the goal, after all? Wasn’t that why they’d pooled all their goods, everything they’d inherited from those who came before, and made this purchase?

It could be more. It should be more. For Beatrice and the boys, for…

For Wallace. For him. Step one toward being a god was to act like one, and no god would be proud of four families and a dozen guys seven months out of the year.

#

It was a hunger, he realized, looking down at the fountain where Lester and John had sobbed like babies some nights ago. A hunger that would not be sated, and it grew and grew until it was all he could feel. He wondered, now, if that was always something in him—ambition, a marvelous thing—or if he’d caught it, like croup, from the books or his partners or who knew what else.

Did it really matter?

It did not. He knew the hunger, and he knew what the power wanted him to do, and he knew what was on offer.

And he knew what it wanted next.

The night he made the choice to make that sacrifice was… not the worst of his life. No, holding Beatrice dead had been the worst, because at least until then, he hadn’t had to go through it all alone. It’d been a we, not a him, facing whatever might come, and when she’d died, he’d been angry at her for leaving him behind, and that had made it worse.

“It wasn’t croup, anyway,” he muttered at the moonlight. “It was diphtheria.” Because that’s what happened when you became lettered, a man of the world, more educated; you could tell the difference between croup and diphtheria, and know the name that took your family away.

#

By the night of sacrifice, he knew what he was. This hunger was his own, had always been. This ambition was his own, had always been. He’d always been meant for this.

And he wept as his daughter died, he did; wept as things tore her apart, as things ripped her and shredded her and took their fucking time, and she begged for his help.

And it broke him, broke his heart, but that was the sacrifice needed, because these beings, these gods, these things so much greater than humanity, would accept nothing less.

It was sacrifice. In its purest form. And in return, they gave him power.

#

Different, the grief for Addie. Different, from the grief for the rest.

Tristan, Lucian, Beatrice; that grief was pointless, had nowhere to go, had served no master. It had just happened, meaningless, cruel, and done no one any good.

Addi’s death, now. Addi…

How many lives had been blessed by her passing? How many eyes had turned his way, impressed by the depth of his devotion? How many doors had that opened for him, now and forever, because he had proven his worth and his loyalty and his ambition in the realest way?

All of them. All the doors. All that mattered.

Addi… yes, it hurt. But it wasn’t the same. It was for something, meant something, and if he’d not done this and placed her low, she’d probably just have gone and died in childbirth or something, another useless and pointless death, not one to bless a hamlet and make it a town, not one to bless her daddy whom she loved and put him on the path to godhood, and she’d have wanted that for him if he’d brought it up first, he knew.

Besides. She missed her mama, anyway. This way, she got to see her again, and wasn’t that better for all?

#

Larson was crying. Weeping. Crouched down on that damned balcony and trying to muffle his sounds, and furious at himself, and clawing at his chest as if he could rip out his fucking heart and throw it over the side.

Just get it out, he kept telling himself. Get it over with. This is what they want, this reliving of the hard things, to prove I’m still who I say I am, prove my ambition still sings. That’s all. That’s all.

It’s all about choices, or it’s all about chaos. It’s either or, nothing between; either you let the chaos reign and it takes your family and does whatever the shit it wants and never pays you back, or you herd it, control it, be the one making the choices, and then you decide who dies, and you get the benefit.

There wasn’t another path. So. So.

No regrets.

Pain. Pain, offered like sacrifice, like a daughter’s screams. Pain, full-out, exposed and naked and bloodied.

And it would pass, and he’d move on, and take whatever next step they wanted, and prove himself worthy of more.

It was that or chaos. Chaos wasn’t having its way with him. Ever. Fucking. Again.

#

That’s an advanced spell, said John, sounding moderately awed.

Faroe looked smug. “Dad said it was.”

“She is, as always, well beyond her years,” rumbled the god-king.

“Just be careful, okay?” said Arthur, looking all worried and womanly and weary. “You’ll never forgive yourself if you accidentally hurt someone.”

“I’m careful,” she protested before taking up her great big not-at-all-breakfast-appropriate-sword and leaving the table. “Dis is waiting.”

“My daughter,” said Hastur in a fatherly tone Larson knew, remembered, hated. “You will not skip your arithmancy today.”

Oh, how that child’s face fell! “I really hate that class, dad.”

“I know,” he soothed. “Nevertheless, it is required. You must have a greater understanding of the power of numbers if you are to move on to sigils.”

She sighed as dramatically as Addi ever had. “Fine,” she said, and kissed her dad on the white mask (he leaned very far down), and kissed Arthur on his cheek (the scarred one, and she’d walked all the way around the table to do that, and Larson didn’t know why), and sort of eyed him then as though meeting John’s eyes with a nod. Then she left, running, with the boundless energy of youth and health and a body that had never known diphtheria and never, ever would.

“And what have you on your docket today, Wallace?” said Hastur out of nowhere as Arthur went stiff.

Larson froze, too, for one moment. It had been days since he’d been addressed. “I’m still lookin’ for ways to be of use to you, my lord.”

“I have had thoughts,” the god-king said (as Arthur scowled, shifting in his seat as though resisting the urge to leap over the table like a werewolf). “You are fluent in Th’balo, Aklo, Underground, and Lytha, correct?”

Larson sat up straight. “And passable in Cth’onik and Aeth’ral, as well.”

“I have no need for passable.” The tentacles moved, such impossible strength and power gracefully curling in the air like he swam through invisible sea. “But I could use some help translating. There are some books I have found other uses for, and I have had them copied, and literally translated, but they are… dense. I require a human mind to interpret them for the sake of my daughter, who will be reading both translations. It would be a good time to see how honest you can be.”

What the hell did that mean? “For you, my lord, I will always be honest.”

“What the fuck are you doing?” hissed Arthur Lester, as if he had the right to talk to god that way.

Hastur touched his back with one tentacle, and Arthur quieted. “You understand that I will be reading what you translate.”

Ah. “Of course.”

“If it is not excellent, and if it is not accurate, you will have lost your chance to be useful.”

“I understand, my lord.” Larson stood so he could bow low, bent practically acute.

“Report to the Librarian.”

Something to do! Some way to start this path again! Larson beamed, thanked him profusely in Th’balo, and then left just shy of a run.

“The fuck, Hastur?” said that disrespectful man behind him.

“He needs something to do, my own,” soothed the god, which was true, but also obviously a lie for that fragile man’s sake, because this was important, this had meaning for the god’s adopted (Stolen? Traded?) daughter, and that was about as valuable a path as he could hope for here.

Yes. He’d ride these coattails until the crashing cliff loomed, and he’d jump onto someone else’s. And by then, he’d be known, and have a reputation, and there would be places for him to go.

Grief was a lie. Power was truth. Pain was incidental and part of the cost.

He hadn’t thanked Beatrice for years, come to think of it; he used to, each night as he crouched over bloodied remains, labored over sigils he’d carved into the ground until his fingers were nearly torn to the bone. Thanked her, because without her books and her family connections, without that trunk in the attic, their deaths would mean nothing, his grief would mean nothing, and chaos would just eat them all in the end.

“Thanks, HoneyBea,” he murmured, pretty sure she couldn’t hear him (he knew more now), but who could tell, maybe she did, and he’d have to hope she would understand what he’d done. He'd taken chaos by the balls and made it his slave.

He'd made sure her death wouldn't stay pointless. That had to count for something. Right?

#Malevolent #malevolent au #surrogate series #wallace larson #andrew larson

[baylardian-1]

Post my Bluejack headcanons under da tab ‘cuz they’re longwinded and cringe. :)

About the ship: -I had a lot of inspiration as to how Blueblood would end up on the Apple Farm from the comics, specifically the alternate universe one where instead of Twilight Sparkle being sent to  Ponyville it's him -Blueblood's obviously infamous for getting on ponies' nerves and it certainly didn't leave out his auntie Celestia -I imagine Celestia losing her temper with her nephew somewhat in a "this is the last straw" kind of sense and sending him off to one of the most hardworking ponies she personally knows, Applejack -The reasoning behind the why, I haven't really worked out all the way, but considering I'm trying to maintain a theme of the Elements of Harmony within these stories, I'd like to say he told a big lie that got Equestria into more diplomatic trouble than anyone would have wished for, leaving Celestia to deal with the mess -Prior to his arrival, Celestia informs Applejack of his coming, requesting of her to knock him into shape in every sense, literal if need be, to which Applejack reluctantly agrees -Blueblood's first (second) reaction to meeting Applejack would simply be "common." -When he first reaches the Apple Farm he refuses to take another hoofstep, proclaiming the road ahead to be quite muddy which, at the time it was. Applejack responds by pushing and thereby tripping him face-first into the mud -Breakfasts would be incredibly early and sudden for Blueblood, the Apples had a hard time figuring out what to feed him. Eventually they gave up and told him he could either eat what they offered or go without it. In the beginning he threatened to starve himself from the harsh treatment, but he eventually came around to eating what they gave him. He wouldn't admit it at the time, but he quite liked their food -Blueblood would also be defiant about leaving the house each and every morning for chores, Applejack would in return tie him up and drag him outside -A significant portion of their time together early on was Applejack strapping Blueblood into a work horse collar similar to Big Mac's and having him work fields with her guiding him every step of the way. Importantly she wouldn't leave him until his work was completed. That was also the point in which he could bathe himself again as a reward. In the earlier days of their time together it would take them nearly past dusk to complete the work. Gradually over time he improved in both efficiency and effort. -The majority of their time spent together would oftentimes involve back-to-back insulting of one another -Eventually he is able to trustingly perform his tasks without the use of the work collar, something he took great pride in losing -Blueblood being under the impression that Applejack didn't know of the mistake he had made, would often times build himself up as being a very important figure for Equestria and it's many allies -At some point Applejack would slip that she knew about what he had managed to do in order to get himself sent to her farm in the first place, angrily proclaiming his foolishness in handling the situation. He would take the statement quite harshly and begin regretting some of the past things he'd said and done to so many ponies and delegates -Later that day when AJ would be on her own she'd find herself muttering and flustered about Blueblood and wonder when his opinion of himself had begun to matter so much to her -The next few days together would be worked together in silence -One morning following, Blueblood would awaken late, noticing he hadn't been woken up by Applejack which was their usual drill. Out of curiosity he'd ask Applejack's siblings if they had seen her, being completely ignored by Big Mac and Apple Bloom not knowing anything either. Choosing to take on the day of chores seemingly without her, he begins but not long after notices a strange trail of tracks leading off into the local forest near the farm. Concerned now, he chooses to follow the trail. -Blueblood ends up fending off and saving Applejack from this big monster in the forest, I'm not sure if it'd be a Timber Wolf or not. The creature would have taken her to this weird swampy place inside of the Everfree Forest, Blueblood manages to save her by knocking both him and the monster into the strange bog. Applejack recovers him from the swamp using her lasso, but is unable to save his hair later on after being in the sticky swamp, which makes Blueblood a little sad. -After Granny Smith tends to her broken leg, AJ approaches Blueblood and gives him a grateful kiss on the cheek and thank him for saving her -Applejack notices after kissing him how nice his eyes are, but brushes off the thought quickly -Blueblood feels appreciated afterwords but keeps it to himself (for once), and begins taking on a new, humble approach to his situation in aims for Applejack getting to like him more -It doesn't take long after that for the two to start hinting at having feelings for each other, oftentimes feeling the closest when they would talk about their polarizing lives at the end of their work day and laying out under the stars in a nearby apple orchard -They probably had a super private and low-key wedding in the barn -When they found out they were expecting their first foal, Blueblood would absolutely coddle Applejack, insisting on doing everything around the farm and taking over doing the majority of the chores -Applejack took up gardening flowers while pregnant -Applejack would consistently have cravings for various types of fruit pies, none of which were apple pies. Blueblood was at a loss on how to cook pies that didn't have apples in them, though he tried his best and continuously failed. Eventually he'd resort to Ponyville market goods for his wife. -Blueblood was very uncomfortable with taking care of their first son, Rome, often times merely watching Applejack care for him and helping at a distance. He'd never really dealt with any foals before in his life. Eventually Applejack would insist on him getting used to the feeling, to which he eventually did and loved taking care of their son -When their second foal was on the way, Blueblood was significantly more relaxed about the experience and absolutely cherished their daughter, Prairie Spy -The four of them manage the farm happily with the other Apple relatives General facts: -The resolution of Blueblood's "personality overhaul" where Applejack informs Celestia he can return home would never find completion, seeing as in the end he chooses to stay on the Apple Farm with her -Blueblood felt unworthy to name their firstborn son and gave full authority to Applejack to name him -When it came to naming their daughter, Applejack wanted him to name her. He always envisioned her little tuft of mane being similar to vast planes of wheat, thus naming her Prairie -Rome was a very shy colt that had to grow into some big shoes, he's an absolute momma's boy -Prairie on the other hoof is spoiled by her father as he constantly refers to her as his little princess -Blueblood and Applejack may have attended a single Grand Galloping Gala as husband and wife one time and vowed never to do it again afterwords after coming to terms with the fact that neither would fit in that crowd of ponies again -Celestia occasionally comes by and visits Blueblood and his family, she loves foals -The two of them constantly tease each other about where they'd be without one another

#My Art #MLP: FiM #My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic #Blue Blood #Applejack #Prairie Spy #Rome #OC #Earth Pony #Pony #Unicorn

[whenihaveyouromione]

When I Have You - Chapter 86

Read on Fanfiction.net or ao3 if you'd prefer.

---

Chapter 86

“Ugh… that was messy.” 

The moment Ron Apparated back into the Auror Office, he began removing the dried mud from his robes. It fell to the ground in puddles as he ran his wand over the stains. 

His whole left arm was purpled and bruised from where he had been flung into a wall, and he’d probably need some new robes because his current ones were almost torn beyond (magical) repair. He wasn’t quite sure what spells had caused the damage — he’d been hit by a lot and somehow suffered little. 

Harry was beside him, doing the same, and they now stood amongst dirt and a bunch of victorious, yet personally defeated, Aurors. 

The Black Robes were getting larger and more chaotic every time they made an appearance. They outnumbered the Aurors by a lot, but the group — whoever they were — were mostly untrained. Many of the opponents were weak and lacked knowledge in spells, making it easy for a single Auror to take on three or four at once. 

The investigations had been going on for nearly two years now, and no one was any closer to finding out who the hell they were. They were a mystery. A large, unorganised mystery that appeared at random intervals, months apart. But they were also very dangerous. They were not afraid of killing.  

At least this time the Aurors had gotten there before too many Muggles became their victims. 

A moment after Ron had begun cleaning his robes, a large group of Aurors appeared in the room with an even larger group of prisoners. They were all magically bound and their wands confiscated, some even with their own torn robes. 

Robards stepped forward between the group, looking annoyed and angry. It was the same process every time. Get the captured prisoners down to the court rooms for questioning and sit there for hours with them either pretending to, or not being able to speak. Then they’d lock them away until a trial occurred, in which most would be let out on technicalities. No one could prove which members had been the ones to kill or terrorise the Muggles, so no one was punished. 

It was a tiresome, repetitive process every few months now. 

“Alright, you know the drill,” Robards said to the Aurors in a deadpan tone. “Get them down. Thomas and Henrique, I’ll have both of you down in the rooms with me today.”

Dean straightened at the mention of his name, grinning. He’d never been given the chance to sit with one of them before and question them.

“The rest of you… start on the paperwork. It’ll be a busy few days.” Robards almost sounded bored as he followed the Aurors with the captives out of the office. 

Ron and Harry waited for the office to empty before they bothered to move. With torn and tattered robes, neither of them moved straight to their desks. Harry pointed his wand at Ron and managed to fix some aspects of his uniform, though some areas were too magically damaged for a simple Reparo. Ron did the same in return, and then they sat down at their desks, Ron for once glad to be there. 

This had been a nice one in comparison to the others. Less Black Robes and less Muggles to protect. Still, he had come out bruised anyway. He’d been tossed around, thrown against the ground and walls and hit by spells over and over. 

Ron hadn’t enjoyed a single moment of it. Sometimes he wondered why he continued to even show up.

He and Harry (and all the other Aurors) spent the morning filling out the documents of the days' events. Over the years, Ron had learnt to be thorough in his reports. He wasn't usually one for words, but this was important detailing and made the process of handing things over to Hermione and her office at the end a whole lot easier. 

Besides, Ron knew he was a good Auror. He was thorough in areas where he never had been in school. He'd given the bare minimum effort to his homework, turning in, more often than not, an essay that barely reached the minimum length requirement. He would have much preferred spending his time doing other things that interested him. 

Once he returned from a mission — as scarce as they were — he was happy to report the events in as much detail as possible. That way, when the time came to be trialled down in the courtrooms, he'd have as much evidence as needed for Hermione to do her thing. 

He'd watched her once, sitting in one of the seats as she attempted to defend a wrongly accused goblin of stealing gold from a wealthy wizard's vault. She hadn't even known he was there, but she went about the room, directing questions and responses to all the right people. She'd been so dignified, so confident of her presence in that room that it was near impossible for anyone bar the accusor to know that the goblin had not taken any gold. 

She was brilliant, and it had spurred him to be brilliant, also. They didn't work together, but their jobs aligned a lot of the time, and he felt it was important that they made it easy for one another. 

He was fifteen inches of parchment into his report when he paused, reading over the last few sentences he'd written. He frowned. 

"Was Evers with you, Harry?"

Harry looked up, thought, then shook his head. "No, I don't think so. She…" He scanned his own document. "I have no record of her actually being present today."

Ron looked up, his eyes searching out Gertrude Evers' desk. She was bent over, scribbling away also, looking as battered and beaten as every other Auror. 

She was a newish Auror, about one and a half years post training. A good, hard-working, talented witch; but quiet. Ron couldn't recall saying more than a few words to her in the eighteen months she'd been in the office.

"I can account for every other Auror," Ron said. "Except her…"

Harry scanned his own document again, frowning. "All Aurors were called. She had to be there."

"I remember her lining up in the office, then we all Disapparated and it —"

"It was insanity from the moment we landed," Harry finished.

"I still knew the location of every Auror," Ron said. "Clear as day. We're supposed to know that…" He thought for a moment. 

"We can just ask…" Harry said. "She'll know."

"Was she a Slytherin at Hogwarts?" Ron asked.

"What?" Harry said, looking stunned by the question. "What's that got to do with it?"

Ron shrugged. "Nothing… just… thinking."

There was silence, Ron once again looking over to the young woman.

"You're not suggesting she is one of them, are you?" Harry asked. "Aurors are vetted and trained thoroughly. She couldn't… and even if she was a Slytherin, that doesn’t automatically make her bad."

"Ever heard her speak?" Ron asked.

"What?"

"Well, the Black Robes, they can’t speak, can they? So —"

"She's spoken to me," Harry said. "Once or twice. Perfectly normal.”

Ron shrugged. "Alright, well, we've got to figure out where she was during the fight one way or the other. I'll go and check with Ryan." He got up from his desk, feeling uneasy by something he couldn't quite explain. He'd never gotten any negative vibes from Evers before, but he had considered her rather odd. It just wasn't something he fretted over when he came home each day. She was weird, but so were a lot of people. Wasn't Luna somewhere in South America searching for giant snails with telepathic powers? He liked Luna, she was his friend, and she certainly wasn't a bad person just for being different.

"Ryan," Ron said, coming to stand in front of the older Auror. "You got everyone accounted for in your report?"

Ryan looked up at Ron. "Not all the enemy, because they won't even tell us their names, their wands are all unidentified, but the Aurors, yes."

Ron nodded. "Great. Can you confirm the location of Gertrude Evers during the mission? Harry and I have… er… different accounts."

Ryan looked back down at the report and read through it. He was silent for a long while, a frown spreading across his brows the more he reread his writing. He picked up his quill, made to scribble something on it, but stopped himself.

"I must have missed someone," he said. "Where did you and Potter have her?"

"We didn't," Ron said plainly. 

Ryan's eyebrows shot up his forehead. "But you just said —"

"Yeah, was just checking," Ron said. "Make note of three Aurors being unable to account for her during the mission, would you?"

This statement surprised Ryan. He looked over at Evers, who didn't seem at all perturbed or on edge. She looked as she always looked — calm and collected. Great qualities in an Auror. 

"Just write what you remember," Ron amended. 

Ryan nodded, but looked uncomfortable as Ron walked away. 

"Any luck?" Harry asked.

"That's three of us who can't place her," Ron said. 

"That still doesn't mean —" 

"Yeah, I know. I guess it's just something to keep an eye on. I might deliver everyone's reports to Hermione today, once we're all done. Encourage her to read through them thoroughly. See if she notices any abnormalities."

"We could just ask her, you know. Evers, I mean," Harry said. "Sometimes Robards gives us individual orders to do something separate from the others. She could have had a separate job."

Ron shrugged. "The most likely explanation, I suppose. Still, wouldn't someone know that?"

"Robards?" Harry suggested with a raised eyebrow. "He is due back from the courtrooms soon. So we'll wait for him to write up his own account and then have Hermione compare. If there's anything amiss, she'll notice it. It all seems pretty normal to me, though."

Ron had to agree. It wasn't completely out of character for one of the Aurors to do some secret mission outside of the others. Secrecy came in their job description. But Ron's instincts were telling him that that wasn't the case this time. He had a funny feeling about Evers' whereabouts today and he couldn't shake it. 

He ensured he was thorough for the remainder of the report, making note of the presence of every Auror within the vicinity. It was probably the longest one he’d ever written, being more diligent than usual about the matter. 

It was nearing half past two when he finished. He dropped his quill, massaging his hand. 

Everyone was back in the office now, Robards, Dean and Henrique having returned about an hour before with the same news as always — none of the Black Robes spoke a single word to them.

Still holding his aching hand, Ron stood up and went to Robards’ desk in the office, dumping his report in front. “Am I the last one?” he asked.

“Not quite,” Robards said, looking up at Ron and accepting the report. “I must say, Weasley, you’re not usually one of the last to finish.”

Ron chose not to respond. He contemplated asking Robards if he gave Evers any special instructions but decided not to. There was no point in alerting him to one of his Aurors without any proof. 

Instead, he said, “When you have them all, I’ll take them down to the Personal Law office.”

Surprisingly, Robards laughed. “Not a very subtle way of asking to see your wife.”

Ron grimaced but said nothing.

Robards nodded. “I have two more to collect and then it’s all yours. That office will be busy sorting through them all, that’s for sure.”

Ron returned to his desk to contemplate all that he’d learnt. He took his time, since Evers had finished up an hour ago and was gone. Had Robards read through her report along with the others? Had he noticed a difference in them? Or was everything above board and was Ron just fantasising an answer to something that had baffled the Aurors for nearly two whole years?

He tidied his desk, sifted through some old reports, but that gave him no answers. Maybe if he got out all the others there’d be a link. 

“Weasley!”

Ron startled. 

“Over here. They’re ready.”

Ron jumped up from his chair and moved quickly over to Robards’ desk. The Head Auror indicated the rolls of parchment perched on his desk. “It’s been a busy day and so I haven’t had the chance to read through the last few myself, but get them to the Office of Personal Law. It’s their problem now.” 

Usually Robards would wave his wand and the reports would end up on Hermione’s desk to sort through. But Ron conjured a bag and tipped the reports into it. 

He then left down the corridor in the hope of catching Hermione before she finished up for the day. She was standing by a filing cabinet, her head buried in a lengthy piece of parchment alongside Maia. 

Upon seeing him, her eyes widened, and she left the conference with her junior lawyer and came over to him. 

“What happened?” she asked. 

“What?” Ron said. 

Hermione reached out a hand to his face and immediate pain coarsed over it. He’d almost forgotten about the injuries he’d obtained today. 

“Oh… yeah… another Black Robes fight. Got the reports.” He offered a grin and held up the bag. 

“Another one?” Hermione asked. “They’re getting closer together now.”

Ron shrugged. “Gives us something to do.”

Hermione looked at him worriedly. Her hand now traced his tattered robes, running down the length of his arm where spots of purple were visible beneath torn pieces of fabric. 

“Wait until you see my whole left side,” Ron told her. “Might even leave a few scars. Will be a story to tell our kid when she’s older.”

Hermione didn’t look amused. She always hated it when he showed up injured — ever since the first time and he’d landed himself in hospital. But he’d been rusty then, unused to fighting. These days, it was a little more frequent.

“Those reports,” Ron said, drawing her attention back to the matter at hand. “Just read them… carefully, alright?”

Hermione frowned, looking almost insulted. “I always read them carefully.”

“I know, but just be extra thorough, okay?”

Hermione now raised a questioning eyebrow, but rather than giving her an answer he kissed her cheek.

“I’ll see you at home, okay? Love you.”

“Please don’t get yourself hurt again, Ron,” Hermione called after him. “I’d like our daughter to meet her dad when he’s not missing an arm.”

Ron smiled to himself as he went back to the Auror Office. 

Yes, he’d like that, too.

…

That evening, Hermione didn't  mention anything about the reports. As they ate, she quizzed him about what happened that day, how he managed to get so badly beaten up, and asked time and again if he was okay. 

But then she disappeared into the study, claiming she needed to finish some work, and by the time she came to bed, it was nearing midnight. 

Usually, Ron was asleep by then, but he couldn’t. He needed to ask her. 

“Oh, God, Ron, look at you.”

Once Ron had taken his clothes off for bed, he’d been unable to lift his arms to put another shirt on. The bruising was worse than he’d thought, running all the way down his side from his armpit to his hip. His whole left arm was almost black with very little pink skin showing. 

He’d been unable to look at himself in the mirror after the first glance. 

“Pretty, isn’t it?” he said, propping his back against a pillow. “Hurts like hell.”

Hermione came over to the bed to examine him more closely. “Did you put anything on it to help?”

“Yeah, didn’t do much. I think it’s a combination of curses and physical injury. It’ll heal.”

Hermione shook her head. “I think I hate being married to an Auror,” she said after a moment.

Ron smiled. “Yeah, it’s pretty dangerous, isn’t it? But I’m alright. I can look after myself better than most.”

Hermione gave his injuries one last look and then changed into her pyjamas. A few minutes later, she was in bed beside him. 

“So, I read the reports,” she said almost instantly, also sitting up against the bed head. 

“And?” Ron asked, curiosity surging within him. 

“It’s… interesting,” Hermione said slowly. “I didn’t notice it at first. It wasn’t until I read Ryan’s version of events that it stuck out.”

“Ryan?” Ron questioned, frowning. “He’s —”

“The Auror, Evers, claimed he gave her an instruction to go around the battle and approach from the other side. But, his report doesn’t mention her at all. Doesn’t even indicate she was at the place today. He’s a pretty experienced Auror, and I doubt he’d forget giving an instruction such as that.”

Ron nodded and waited for her to continue.

“So, I then went back and reread everything. There’s not a single mention of her being there apart from her own report.

“Before I left today, I grabbed some old reports from past encounters with these people, and the only mention of her being involved is from Robards when he lists the people he called to go out. No one has ever reported her fighting alongside them before.”

She looked at Ron, her expression thoughtful. “Is that why you asked me to read through them today? Did you work that out, too?”

“It was brought to my attention,” Ron answered with a single nod. “To be honest, I was hoping for a logical explanation from you.”

“It’s so subtle,” Hermione said. “So clever. I probably wouldn’t have noticed had you not asked me to read through it carefully. I just… can’t work it —”

Hermione stopped, her eyes widening. Her hands flew to her stomach.

“What?” Ron said quickly, feeling panic rise within him. “What’s wrong?”

“The baby…” Hermione said, turning surprised eyes to him.

“What?” Ron said again, his heart pounding. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” Hermione said. “No… nothing’s wrong. I just… I felt the baby move, I think.”

“What do you mean?” Ron said, his heart rate slowing ever so slightly. 

Hermione grabbed his uninjured hand and brought it to her rounding stomach. She placed his hand on the side.

Ron waited for a moment, but nothing happened. Hermione looked at him apologetically. “I swear it was that,” she said. “I felt my tummy change shape and everything.” She smiled. “That was a weird feeling.”

Ron kept his hand where she’d placed it. He was about to give up when he felt something hard press against the palm of his hand. 

Hermione beamed at him while Ron stared at the spot where he’d just felt his daughter. A head, a foot, an arm, he didn’t care. 

“Woah,” he whispered after a moment. “That’s…”

“Amazing,” Hermione breathed. “I think she’s rolling around. She’s going again.” She moved Ron’s hand to another part of her stomach and this time Ron was certain it was a foot he could feel.

The day’s events all but left his mind. There they sat in bed, enjoying the moment of feeling their little girl move around — almost as if she really was with them. 

A lot had happened today — new injuries, new discoveries — and yet this simple moment was what he would remember for years to come. His family. 

He looked at Hermione and smiled at her. “Four months,” he said. “Just four more months and we’ll have her here.”

And as they sat in bed together, he couldn’t help but replay Hermione’s words from earlier over and over in her mind.

I’d like our daughter to meet her dad when he’s not missing an arm.

Out of everything that had happened, even the disparities with Evers, those words stuck. Suddenly, it felt like the bruises covering his body were a message — a warning — that maybe he was only one fight away from actually losing a limb, or worse. 

And he didn’t want that. 

What he wanted was, in four months time, to be able to hold his daughter properly.

Being able to do that was more important to him than any job he could ever hold. Even if he felt a breakthrough coming right around the corner. It was more important than anything. 

Feeling her little foot press against his hand solidified that feeling. 

If he was going to come home bruised and beaten every second week from being an Auror, then he didn’t want to do it. 

No matter how good he was at it.

#romione #romione fanfiction #ron and hermione #ron and hermione fanfiction #hermione and ron #hermione and ron fanfiction #ron weasley #ron x hermione #hermione x ron #hermionegranger #fanfiction #fanfic #harry potter #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter fanfic #hp fanfic #hp fanfiction

[solidscontrolworld]

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[bakutogeorgia]

Day 3, Baku 10th May

As wealthy as Azerbaijan is the wealth doesn’t seem to get spread to the whole population as is the case in Arab countries. This was very noticeable today as we went to places away from the city. I think people are looked after but many live in very modest homes in bleak areas. Baku is a very green and lovely city but in the countryside everything is just barren, incredibly so. It would be depressing to live in such a colourless landscape all the time. The dust would be ever present, as well. I think a lot of money is spent on Azerbaijan’s relationships with other countries and their military. The country is surrounded by threatening countries such as Russia, Turkey and Iraq. The country has a large military presence as all men have to serve for 12 months if they have been to university and 18 months otherwise. Women do not have to serve. Their army is so well trained that the last confrontation with Armenia in 2020 was put down in 44 days.

Today we ventured away from the city to the south first and later to the north of the city. Azerbaijan is mostly Islamic. This mosque has destroyed by the Russians but has since been rebuilt. Everything is pretty much one colour away from the city.

Our first stop was to the Gobustan National historical reserve which was discovered in 1939. Here you find many examples of petroglyphs created by pre historic people. Azerbaijan is placed near the probable routes of migration by human ancestors from Africa into Eurasia. Their first presence in Azerbaijan is dated as 1.5- 1.3 million years ago. We visited a museum and then walked along tracks in the mountains. There were animals, boats and people clearly seen on the rocks.

The boats I found interesting as they looked like Viking boats.

A boar.

Lots of different people.

Shapes that looked like cattle. All were easy to see.

From the carvings it was a short drive to an area with mud volcanoes. We went to some small ones which you could walk right up to and touch. They were building a raised walking track so I imagine in the future you won’t be able to get so close. All around was barren landscape.

This mud is the sort you use for treatments. It’s cold even though it’s boiling from the gas under the earth’s surface.

Close by they were building a Wellness Centre which again will change the look of the area. Progress, I suppose.

We were back on the bus for a drive back to the city, for lunch. I think everyone had a snooze on the drive. After, we drove north to the Atashgah Temple or Fire temple. It is a very important monument in Azerbaijan.

Natural gas leaks from the ground which causes the so called ‘burning earth’ phenomenon. The site was sacred for ancient fire worshippers. The temple building was built at the end of the 16 th Century.

Surrounding the temple are small rooms that were used for worshippers and pilgrims as they passed through the area. Baku was on the Silk Road.

Animals were also keep inside.

The Silk Road was a network of trading routes that connected Asia to Europe. It was probably merchants that learned about the eternal fires of Surakhany first.

Since time immemorial Azerbaijan has been famous for its oil and gas deposits. At some places natural gas is so close to the surface that it seeps through the upper layers of the soil. When something ignites it the gas can continue to burn for many years. This is the situation at Yanardag or burning mountain which we visited next.

Gas is thought to have been burning here for over 4,000 years which is pretty incredible to think about. Marco Polo referred to this mountain in his journal. Some reports have put the flames burning much higher. It’s very hot to stand near.

It had been a long day but so interesting. It was back on the bus to the hotel. There are many oil drills scattered through out the north part of the city outskirts. The whole country is covered with oil and gas reserves.

We again drove through the city near the Cultural Centre. It is such an amazing building set in its location.

Tomorrow we are heading west.

[steadydrum]

three first meetings

CWs: military/war imagery, death, gun violence, dissociation/loss of identity, trauma, ableism

He was twelve, once.

Most of his time was spent at the camp, leading drills for the older men. And the older men in his battalion loved him, like they loved their own sons and little brothers. They called him “the kid,” “the boy,” “the drummer,” but that was still better than the snarled insults his mother and older siblings would throw his way. They’d sneak him extra rations when he looked hungry, but it was always more than he’d ever get back home. It was all so much more, here--more food, more attention, more safety. He didn’t know much about love, but if you had asked, he probably would have said he found it somewhere in the barracks. Some were even trying to teach him to read, although that never really went anywhere. He was much better at learning the drills and cadences that were technically his job--he started out sloppy and desperate to impress, and very quickly found so much comfort in the regular pitter-patter of his little red snare, as well as the proud, off-kilter grins of the older men when he first started getting the hang of things. 

The battlefield itself was far less loving. Shoved to the front of the line, he would shut his eyes tight every time the shots rang loud in his ears, as if that would help the echoes of gunfire stop ricocheting around his skull. That always got him a clip to the back of his head during drills, but nothing could truly stop that instinct to curl into a little hole, to run as far as he could from that piercing noise. His little red snare didn’t seem nearly loud enough to command the whole battalion, but they all marched in perfect step as he played, moving forward towards the enemy line. Soon, he learned to just put the fear aside, keep his eyes wide open, and play and play and never stop. There would always be fallen soldiers, but they would all return to the barracks at the end of the day nonetheless.

Sometimes, more than some of them fell. Sometimes, he would have no choice but to run to avoid a bullet to the head, or a knife to the back, or a fist to the face. But he still played on, even while he was running. Somehow, they could hear him all the way across the battlefield, through smoke and shouts and the thick stench of blood. They could hear his little snare pattering away, and they could find him. They would find him.

The piper parted through the smoke of gunpowder like an angel descending from heaven. 

This is what he thought, as he huddled behind a large rocky outcropping and shook with fear. He’ll play, and they’ll find him. He had dropped his sticks somewhere, or they were stolen, and his left hand was broken, limp, and bloody. He’ll play. They laid in front of him, face down in the mud he knew was wet with-- They’ll find him. He beat his bare hand against the snare weakly. He kept his eyes wide, though he couldn’t see through the smoke. He kept his ears sharp, though he couldn’t hear any motion at all on the battlefield beyond. He couldn’t look at his fallen brothers, his family, so he looked to the sky--clear and blue and beautiful--and he played his drum, and he waited to die.

And he heard something. He knew what a fife was, although their unit didn’t have one to play alongside him, and it sounded a bit like that. Trilling and birdlike and sweet. It must be some other battalion searching for survivors, he thought with a panicked hope. Even if it were the enemy, it was someone, and they were here to help. He cried out to the mystery piper, still beating on his drum until it led the other man towards him.

Dimly, the boy found it odd that he wasn’t actually holding an instrument. But music seemed to flow from the man, surrounding him and pushing them together (This is how he always remembered it, at least). He looked like every other soldier, like every other general and every other private he’s ever seen before, but the music marked him as being born of the battlefield itself. He looked down at the boy with the most agonizing pity, and he was terrifying, and he was beautiful. 

And he gave the boy a proud, crooked smile and he ruffled his hair and he told him to keep playing, and by some absolute miracle, he did.

Someone must have found him lying in the mud, half dead from starvation, exhaustion, delirium, still tapping one-handed on his drum. He was muttering something incoherent, something about a piper. Sometimes it was an angel, sometimes a demon. His words started catching in his throat. His hair went white. They sent him back home, but he ended up in the barracks again the next morning. It felt more right that way.

And days and nights and days and nights passed, and he must have been fifteen. And they probably weren’t fighting the same enemy, and he probably wasn’t marching with the same boys, since they no longer regarded him with such fondness. They gave him sideways glances across the camp, seemed to avoid him during meals and free time. That’s all the same. He didn’t know how to talk to them, anyway. He didn’t really think in words, but in marches and cadences. They had taught him long ago how to command the battalion through the voice of his drum, and he was ashamed to admit he had forgotten any other way to speak. He stared at the other boys across the field with dead black eyes that reflected an eerie, obsidian red. He tapped out orders barked by the drill sergeant, watched as they fell in line, stood at attention, spun on their heels. Sometimes, they fired their rifles, one after another, in beautiful heartbeats. He heard these heartbeats plastered over his dreams. He wondered when the heartbeats started, what battle they were trying to lead him towards. He stole their rifles and shot squirrels at the edges of the camp. It wasn’t the same.

---

Days and nights and days, and he was probably around twenty. He had to be, because he was on the front lines, and they didn’t like putting kids out there anymore. They used horns to call all the soldiers to attention now, but they all still called him the drummer. He didn’t think he introduced himself like that--can’t quite remember introducing himself as anything, really--so they must just know him by the pounding, aching heartbeats that follow behind him, like some obedient dog clipping gently at his heels. They must hear it too, because they step in time to it, even without knowing. They all reload in time to this drumbeat that drowns out his thoughts, they cry and moan and gasp for air in perfect rhythm. It’s a language, this rhythm, and he wishes they could speak it too. They would understand him, then. He thinks this every time they fall, shot through or starved or simply left behind. He could have warned them, if they understood. 

And nights, and nights, and nights. He stopped counting his age long ago, stopped counting the years that passed or the battles they won or lost. There must have been peace times, somewhere between all this. But peace wouldn’t bring him to his Piper, so that must not be important enough to live through. That’s all he thought about these days--head filled to burst with Piper, and drums, and blood. And besides, nobody spoke his language in peace. The uniforms changed, the weapons changed, but the drums in his ears never really ceased. There were certain rhythms he liked: The tapping of the tongue against the teeth during frantic recitations of the Lord’s Prayer. The click-click-click of a magazine being fumbled into a rifle by nervous hands. The off-kilter inhales of a near-dead man with a bullet in his gut, punctuated by little syncopated cries and wails. The lovely pattern of being shot dead--first the bang, then the impact, then the final inhale, then the thump of a body hitting packed earth. Then the enemy reloads, and it repeats. There was lovely music to be found on the battlefield, and the drummer liked making little rhythms of his own. If he shot one in the foot, they’d march a bit wrong, stepping down on the triplet instead of the eighth. If he crushed the barrel of their rifle in the night, it would misfire in a glorious crescendo. He should have been discharged long ago, should have been shot in his sleep, but for some reason, none of that ever really stuck. Whenever his battalion would lay slain beneath the blistering sun, the drummer would simply wait for the others to pass, and get up to find the next unit. Sometimes, he would join the enemy--no way to know which side his piper might fight for. They were all the same, anyway.

The drummer didn’t remember when or where they were, who was fighting or why, or what side he happened to be on, when he crouched in a shallow foxhole with a half-dozen others. Gunfire peppered overhead--a common song, but a pretty one nonetheless. He looked down at the other men hunkered down beside him. The one at his side was small, and grubby. He wore an unfamiliar face, with hair too long to be regulation and uniform a shabby vague sort of color he couldn’t identify. But there was something about the way he looked at the other boys, with a hungry, aching sort of pity that made the drummer pause. It was familiar. He’d seen that look once before. 

His piper. He found him.

And here he was.

And what glorious music played.

“You got tall, didn’t you?” He chuckled around a cigarette. The drummer dimly remembered warnings about smoking near gunpowder, and decided that the Piper must just know better than them. He nods, tentatively putting a hand on the other man’s shoulder, as if to prove that he’s real. “Surprised you’re still here, all this time.”

“I. Was looking for you.” He managed to form the words in time to speak them, coming out stilted and low.

The Piper looked up, an odd expression crossing his face. Some mix of shock, hope, and crushing pain. “You. You were?”

The drummer nods frantically, still in utter disbelief. “You. Saved me. I only made it out because of you.”

At this, the Piper laughed. It sounded like gunfire, a sharp rat-ta-tat that made the drummer’s heart flutter, matching its pace. “Ah, angel. You didn’t make it out. You know that, right?”

Muffled confusion washes over him. He must have shown it on his face, because the Piper shifted where he sat, still grinning.

“You really think you just lived through all of this? They didn’t even give you a gun. That’s sweet, mate. Really is.”

The drummer touches his own face with an apparent look of horror, and the Piper laughs again. He’s relieved to find flesh as always, slightly dirtied from the mud they sat in, and a beating pulse underneath. He swats at the Piper’s shoulder.

“Don’t believe me?” he asked, still sporting that same slimy grin. The drummer just looked at him, frustrated. Waited for him to explain, or give up this weird game.

“Fine. Do it my way, then.”

And before he could react, the Piper took out his revolver and aimed it at the drummer’s head. And fired.

Was his piper an officer? Was he the General? His quarters were nicer than any he’d ever seen in his time enlisted, and he’d been promoted to Lieutenant once. As soon as he thought it, he knew the answer--the Piper was an angel given human form. Or something like it, certainly. Whatever god or demon he was, he needed no rank--everyone knew him as their commander. He brushed a thumb against the sleeping man’s cheek, completely awe-struck. The Piper stirred slightly at the touch, and opened his eyes. Smiled.

And night. And day. And he woke up in a bed. The sheets were soft, and white. Not entirely, there were still some stains, probably dirt or blood that no bleach could quite manage, but they were nicer than anything the rank-and-file got. This wasn’t his bed. No, obviously not. Because the Piper slept beside him, curled gently into his arms.

“Hey, there you are. Knew you’d get up eventually.”

When he speaks, the drummer could cry. The Piper’s music, loud and chaotic and exhilarating, falls into a beautiful even lockstep with his own rhythm. Slides right into place, into a space he didn’t even know was empty. He smiles, nods.

“Ever been shot like that?”

The drummer suddenly remembers. Eyes wide, he runs his fingertips over his forehead and finds only an odd little starburst scar where the bullet went through. And it most certainly went through. He remembers the flash of light, the smell of smoke and fire, the all-consuming noise that almost drowned out the drums, filling his head as he fell. But here he was, nonetheless. In his Piper’s bed.

If he was dead, does that mean that this was heaven?

The Piper laughs, and the drummer realizes that he must have asked that out loud. He flushed with embarrassment. Words had never spilled so easily from his lips before--he’d never had to hold them back. 

“Oh, fuck no. We’re just back at the barracks. Bit of rest before we get shipped out again tomorrow.” The Piper stretched, cracking his joints with a yawn. 

“You’re leaving?” asked the drummer, sounding a bit more pathetic than he intended. To his credit, it was early, and he DID just die. The Piper didn’t seem to notice, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a battered little notebook. There was a dog tag pressed between the pages as a haphazard bookmark--Alfred. Was that his piper’s name? Should he have a name? Would Alfred find it weird that he didn’t? As the Piper--As Alfred leafed through the worn pages, the drummer fretted quietly. 

Alfred seemed to find what he was looking for, because he suddenly spoke up. “Going up to Flanders next, I think. Gonna be a good one there, I know it. You coming with?”

He asked it so casually, so easily, that the drummer nodded without thinking. Alfred grins, nods. “Good. Didn’t want to lose you again.”

“No. Never.”

Alfred gives that same weird look, of surprise and hope and fear and pain all rolled into one. “You really mean that?”

He nodded again, instantly. Of course he did. It’s the only thing he’s been wanting for this whole sorry half-life. Alfred looks like he’s about to cry as he takes the drummer by the back of the neck and pulls him into a kiss. It feels exactly like dying, except he doesn’t ever want to wake up. 

---

“Hey! What the fuck?”

The drummer looks up from unpacking his kit to see an angry-looking black-haired girl stomping towards him. Someone with a buzz-cut and a scowl lingers behind her, cleaning out the underside of their nails with a pocketknife. The drummer looks them both up and down and continues assembling the kit at the back of the stage.

“What, you fucking deaf or something?” She signs this last bit to emphasize, and the drummer has to bite back a laugh. He looks up at her, pauses, and signs back, “A bit.”

“I’m talking to you! That’s our shit, what the fuck do you think you’re doing” The girl, 5 feet of nothing but rage, grabs a fistful of his brilliantly white hair and yanks, so he’s forced to meet her eyes. He chuckles to himself. They have no idea. He swats her hand away, and goes right back to work. 

The scowl drops from her face in a second, hands immediately fumbling through her words. “Oh, er. Sorry mate. Our singer is too, I didn’t mean to be a dick.” The person behind her laughs, and she whips around, nailing them in the shoulder with a crumpled ball of paper. The drummer shrugs, not feeling the need to elaborate further. 

The girl sighs. “Look, man. Al’s gonna fucking kill you if he sees you messing with the drums, so you’ve gotta get out of here. Who even are you?”

His heart melts, hearing the nickname. Al. He must like these two, letting them call him that, so they must be alright. He pictured the other man now, smiling at them sideways or throwing an arm around their shoulders. He’d forgotten how much he missed his Piper. He’d been searching the battlefields for ages trying to find him once again, and it only now occurred to him that there might be just as much slaughter to be found in civilian life. But--Right, a question. Probably ought to answer that.

“I’m the drummer.” He says it simply, obviously. It should be obvious, after all. It usually is. One of the little toms is broken, skin split down the middle as if by a knife. He makes a face and sets that one aside.

The girl rolls her eyes. “No you’re not, we just retired her two weeks ago. And he wouldn’t just send in a replacement without us meeting them first.”

He just shrugs again. Takes out a battered little hatbox and unearths an ancient snare, in a dusty, faded red. Compares it against the broken tom, and--yeah, that would work. He carefully slices off the actual snares laced across the bottom and screws it onto the drum kit like it belongs there. A new era.

“When do we get to just kill him?” The other person finally asks, seemingly running out of patience with this charade. The girl hesitates. Why didn’t they just kill him? When had anyone else, any drunken audience member or overbearing crew at the venue, been allowed to touch one of their instruments and live? Let alone right after a retirement! They should be watching this man’s brains splatter the back wall, not letting him customize their drum kit!

And she still hesitates, silence hanging in the air as he finishes putting everything together. He leans back a bit, surveying his work. Looks up at her with a small smile, and savors their confusion, their lightly muffled fear. And starts to play.

Of course, the girl thinks, as the other caves in her skull with a nearby microphone. It really was obvious, wasn’t it? He’s the drummer.

Unconsciously, the two stand at attention. It felt like the most natural thing to do, hearing the drummer play. He was good, that much was easy. Even without other music to lead, whatever solo he was playing was compelling, catchy, and complex enough to be impressive without tipping into showing off. But more than that, it made you want to listen. Made you want to fall in line. Made you want to fight.

A moment later, the rest of the band walks in. Al’s got one arm slung around the shoulders of a twitchy-looking man who clutches the neck of a bass like he’s trying to strangle it. They both stop in their tracks as they witness the final moments of the drummer’s little warm up.

And he looks up.

And he looks up.

And their eyes meet.

“Holy fuck. Drummer.” Alfred walks towards him slowly, like any fast movements might scare this ghost of a memory away. The others are frozen in place. “I really thought you were dead this time.”

He always liked how Al said that. Drummer, with a capital D. Like it’s a name, or a title. Maybe that’s how they’ll all say it now, all these other little souls he’s decided to collect up and keep in a bottle. He’d like to be one of those souls, he thinks. He shrugs, no explanation necessary. Obviously, he’s dead. Obviously, he’s still here.

They crash together in a glorious firework of an embrace, and the music slides into place once again.

#writing #lore #oc writing #drummer #al #backstory :) #feel free to reblog this i looooove attention :)

[pattersonellison92]

Prada Girls's Baggage New Arrivals

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[chaney90bentley]

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