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oh-for-fic-sake · 4 years

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A Witcher's Pack Chapter One

Masterlist

Chapter Two

Warning: Adult situations +18 SMUT, Breeding Kink, A/B/O

A/n This is the brainchild of me and @havenoffandoms who helped me a lot with suggestions that I hadn't even thought of xx this will be a short chaptered fic hope you enjoy

Geralt finds his omega and Jaskier helps.

A Witcher's Pack Chapter One

You sighed watching the younger children running playing, weaving in and out of the sparse stalls in the village market. You sighed wistfully as they played chase, not a care in to world. You was jealous. You had that at some point, a reason to laugh, smile and play. You hand tightened on the basket as you were spotted by one of the mothers she was glaring at you. A beta. Most people here were betas there was only two alphas in the village. One an old waif of a man long past his prime and the other a young teen who had only just presented now that puberty had hit him and it had hit him like a brick wall, you smirked as you recalled the mouthy little shits wails as his senses were overloaded and had caused him to erupted in the most unsightly of ways.

You smiled as you remember him kicking, screaming and groaning, how he could be an alpha was beyond you ,he was a well known mamas boy even now at eighteen he hid behind her skirts. Your bet was on black magic Alphas presented at puberty he was eighteen summers old. But of course his presentation was a good omen and there was a celebration over it. You sneered 'yes it was fine for them'. You hissed in your mind as you strode across the market picking up vegetables for the week. Quickly taking your share you turned leaving the market without a second glance heading through the gates, the village didn't need a wall but apparently you was a threat. you almost felt honored they had been so wary of you they built a wall to keep you out. How thoughtful. You quickly walked to the old granary shack it was tiny but you'd been condemned to on the outside of the village. We wouldn't want the omega to seduce the villagers with her evil sinful ways now would we?.

You cringed remembering that day. You was eleven. Playing with the other children much like the ones in the market today and you began to feel unwell. The bakers son sven who you was sweet on, walked you home. That night you got the shivers your mother tried to help but the fever persisted and got progressively worse. By dawn you was moved to the healers cottage. You remembered how every breath was agony, the air was freezing in your heated lungs you truly thought you was dying as each breath was a struggle. Sitting by the fire you could still feel the pain, reliving it your bones ached and your head felt fuzzy then it happened it felt like you had been drowning your whole life everything muted and suddenly you was above the water hearing, smelling, seeing for the very first time. Terrified the village was convinced at first it was a curse, or maybe they hoped it was. You never really found out all you knew was that after the awakening came the cramps and your first bleed. The pain that sealed your fate was agonizing and nothing soothed it. You was an omega, it was a daunting realization. Omegas are a commodity around these parts either sold to an alpha to produce more alphas or sent to whore houses, but our village didn't have either and you had presented young a whore house probably wouldn't pay much, you didn't have tits yet.

The next option was killing you, an honor killing they said before you could disgrace your family with your depraved instincts. Your mother was against it, she was torn an omega was a bad omen believed to only present just before a disaster that would kill many the thought being the omega would repopulate and replace those lost and on the other hand you was her little girl, her youngest, miracle child who was born without breath yet somehow managed a cry after being declared dead. So at her insistence you was banished from the village, you could enter for commerce but nothing else, they couldn't risk you tainting them anymore then you had. you cringed as a cold wind swept through the shack planks were missing from the side and your hearth consisted of a small pit in the center of the space with rocks haphazardly strewn in a circle to try and avoid the place burning to the ground, a rug was your bed with a thread bare blanket for comfort. you survived on vegetables and berries, no one in town would sell you weapons for hunting they refused to waste the meat on you that was for there own.

Not you.

Luckily you had managed to dig through the soil with your hands and plant some of the seeds you had carefully picked from the food you was allowed to have. you watched as the sun began to fall below the walls casting a red glow above them. You wanted them to burn. It may be bad but you didnt care. Three days was all it took for you to become an animal to them. A child they had watched grow and flourish, was cast out without a second thought. You sighed poking at the fire adding a some tinder and curled up before the fire trying to preserve as much body heat as you could.

"Geralt are you sure this is the place? it looks to- well its not exactly high brow is it? i though witches like fancy places not back water villages" for once Jaskier wasn't spouting nonsense.

Geralt sighed looking up to the sky. it'd be snowing soon, he really should turn around and make his way back to Kaer Morhen for the winter. He glanced down from roach at the bard who was still trailing behind him. he found himself doing that more and more recently, checking the beta making sure he was still there. looking forward again as he contemplated what exactly that meant, witchers didn't have packs. Or at least they weren't supposed to but Geralt had found himself classing Jaskier as pack and now couldn't help but look out for the weaker male wanting him to remain close. he shook his head irritated tho he was a witcher he was also an alpha and that was something the mutations couldn't take. But it wasn't all bad he summarized, he didn't endure ruts and didn't fall prey to heats like other alphas that's not to say he didn't find omegas appealing, they were a good fuck responsive and fed his ego, called him alpha and let him do as he pleased well until they realized he couldn't knot them then things changed very quickly. They went from wanton bitches to spitting hellcats so fast that even he couldn't keep up. He glanced forward sitting straighter seeing their destination peak over the long stretch of tundra.

A village that had rumors off a witch casting dark magic across the village or that's what he had been told when he was asked to come, normally witches struck places that held valuable artifacts or rarities. The meager defenses of wooden stake walls and simple slat gate that he could probably scale with roach didn't suggest there was anything here of value.

"I'm sure bard, lets get this over. Its probably just a widow and nasty break out of fever" he grunted already thinking this as a waste. But the coin was good and if it meant he just had to place some protection runes to give them piece of mind he'd be a fool to pass it up. He began feeling funny as he closed in on the village noticing something off as small barely standing shack sat outside of the makeshift walls. A scent it was pleasant, very pleasant it didn't burn his nose like most did now. Rosemary, mint and something else he couldn't put a name to. It wasn't thick like most. Many scents felt thick and muggy to Geralt's witcher senses but this was free and wafting. He took a deep breath enjoying the scent more and more as he approached the shack wary it was different, too different from anything he had ever smelt ,even Jaskier seem to be inhaling deeper.

"What is that? oh it smells divine" he said without thinking the bard followed the scent. Geralt swore getting down from roach following the beta that was probably about to be caught up in some form of trouble. They both followed the scent until arriving at the door to the shack. He peered in. His heart stopped as the scent washed over him making him growl low. he took a dominant pose squaring his shoulders. Omega. But what the fuck was she doing out here?! she should be inside the walls not sleeping out her almost freezing to death!. He wasn't sure just where this immediate protectiveness came from but he was ready to slit the throats of who ever had allowed or forced the young female out here.

"Oh an omega." Jaskier said sadly almost sympathetically, he wasn't angry . Why wasn't he angry?. He should be omegas were rare. Rarer now then ever as attitudes had changed. But that was just it attitudes had changed. Omegas were no longer cherished as they should be, as they had been when Geralt was younger. the reality was that She was most likely abandoned. Geralt felt his rage shaking him to the core as he peered over the tiny malnourished omega she shivered in her sleep pulling her knees to her chest. His gaze took in the room. This was not a nest. No comforts for her, Nothing soft for her to sink into. Nothing to defend herself in her heats. Not even a proper fucking hearth. 'I will make her a nest. She will be safe'. He was disturbed by just how his thoughts turned he had never had this reaction to an omega before even when they were in the depths of heat pining fora male. Jaskier moved to her side about to stroke her face. With no control over it Geralt snarled and snapped at him fangs dropping.

"No!! OFF!MINE!" Jaskier slipped back nearly toppling over unprepared for the out burst as Geralt lunged forward at him. His .His omega. He heaved deep breaths watching Jaskier with predatory eyes. He was challenging him for the female. Jaskier shaking and completely frazzled only just managed to present his throat to the feral witcher, surrendering to his alpha. That seemed to pacify him as Geralt swung his cloak off draping it across the female smiling as she snuggled into it and her shivers ceased. he sat down heavy beside her casting axi on the dying fire bring new life and a burst of heat. after a few moments Jaskier slowly made his way to him and sat cautiously.

"G-Geralt what was that? is- you called her yours... I thought witchers didn't you know?" he was hesitant with his question. Geralt cast him a fleeting glance.

"We don't... Well not normally... Honestly we aren't taught about it just told that we are impotent and wont have ruts... But I suppose it could be like all mutations, they are all expected to do certain things but all mutations have varying results and mine are different anyway." he looked down at the content female by his side. His omega. Thats what his lesser had called her. And it wasn't a lack of judgment either. Once the words left him it had clicked , A soulmate just for him, A scent tailored to for him. That would be why she didn't smell like any other. A mate. A pack. He lifted a finger to her slowly running a knuckle across her slim cheek. She would never go hungry or cold again. Now that he found her he wouldn't let her go.

"Bed down for the night we will talk to the master of the village tomorrow." Jaskier nodded uneasy going to roach to retrieve the bed rolls.

You whimpered coming to you was warm. Oh my god yes. You groaned melting into the warmth that encased you feeling a large heavy fabric like a huge warm hug. And the fire before you was roaring hot on your face and the scent of meat filled the space. You wiggled a little pressing your face into the hot firm cushion below , must be a dream. You flinched as other scents followed two. Male. Both intoxicating one of herbs and something tangy and addictive the other was musky and sandalwood-no oak like an aged whisky barrel deep masculine and alpha. You tensed as you came to then frowned warm? no that's not right and the fire? that dies every night something was seriously wrong, you squeezed your eyes tight whimpering dreading opening your eyes in case you found yourself sold to a whore house. You fears grew when you felt a huge hand scratch your scalp lightly

"sshh its ok don't worry I've got you now" you opened your eyes there was a male in front of you sleeping soundly on a bed roll he was a beta you- you just knew soft kind features he looked healthy and you bet he had a glow when awake he was resting peacefully. So the one stroking your hair must have been the alpha. You gulped taking in your surroundings you was in your home still. They had broke in. You shivered getting hot ,sweat beaded across you as the scents swirled around you in a delicious overwhelming mix. Effecting you like a sorceress potion. You panted panicking lifting your hands to the hand in your hair pulling expecting resistance but instead he let you remove his hand.

He sighed shushing you again a deep voice that vibrated through you. A large warm hand landed on your shoulder rolling you to your back. It was then you realized that he was sitting cross legged you'd been using his thigh as a pillow. You looked up gasping as you met two amber irises long silver hair fell framing his angular face slight stubble donned his face making him even more handsome. You wanted to panic. Should have panicked but you instead had this overwhelming urge to bury yourself into his chest. To drink in as much of his scent as you could. You whined crying softly as the heat that had begun to race through your body became a scorching fire. Torrents of boiling and uncontrollable lust flooded your body leaking onto your skirts. This mus be it. The disgusting shameful desires of omegas you was spat at for. You'd had heats but never this way. It was coming fast and merciless, you watched as the alphas nostrils flared he released a slow breath.

"No wh-what hahahah i cant - What have you done!?" you panicked as your body was bending to his will and you didnt understand why. had the village done this? sent him to seduce you? or have they done what they always threatened and sold you to an alpha?. you cried out thrashing hitting him.

"no wh-what hahahah I cant Wha-what have you done!?" you panicked as your body was bending to his will and you didn't understand why. Had the village done this? sent him to seduce you? or have they done what they always threatened and sold you to an alpha?. You cried out thrashing hitting him.

He wouldn't allow you of his lap instead lifting you into it. Your bottom on the floor knees bent over one leg back resting on the other.

"Its ok.....Its ok omega... I'm your mate, your true alpha your body is responding it want's to mate... wants to bond" your cries must have woke the other male as you both looked to a new voice.

"Ge-GERALT! What are you doing to the poor thing?!?" he called moving to remove you from him. The alpha, Grealt growled as he went to touch you.

"Fuck off Jaskier I'm trying to help her, I've sent her into a proper heat!" Jaskier stopped scenting the air before going pink embarrassed.

"Well she looks terrified! you should explain to her, i doubt they teach omegas here especially considering she is out here not in there" Jaskier gave a small smile.

"Do you know what you are love? Whats happening?" you nodded then shook your head sobbing yelping as another cramp, worse this time longer tighter and lower.

"I'm a harlot, bad" was all you could get out as you fell into your more basic state not capable of coherent thought. Geralt growled at that then crowded you holding you close wanting to sooth you.

"No...No your not bad.... Your good such a goood girl... It hurts I can make it stop...Please let me make it stop it will keep getting worse until I do please..." he kissed your face cradling you into him his need to help his mate was almost to much but he would not touch you if you refused him. Unlike other males he did not use instincts as an excuse for such things. Jaskier watched unsure of what to do, he didn't doubt his alpha for a second but this female was young uninformed she was fragile and frightened and he suspected that she didn't know much about what she was or what was to come. She cried grasping at Geralt

"H-how?... I-help please make it stop its bad..... Really bad" you pleaded weakly with him. unable to move as your body quivered in pain as it felt like one continuous cramp. The alpha called his beta over ordering him to help rid of her clothes, he would stay and help. Jaskier gaped, alpha's generally didn't let anyone else near omegas in heat but it would seem his alpha was different on many levels. Quickly recovering you felt hands pulling and tugging the sticky dress from your body discarding it quickly you created as your slick made your cooled your heated skin you felt dirty, shameful. Wailing trying to cover yourself from them as Geralt quickly striped himself cock relieved as it sprung up tall and proud. He wont waste time pushing Jaskier before her as he moved her into position she was to far gone to try and protest as she was bent over on hands and knees then GeraLt pressed between her shoulders angling her for him. He wont bite not today. No he would get her threw this and then when she was back down to earth he would talk to her. Or at least that is the plan.

"Jaskier help her stay calm and still." he ground out watching with bright eyes as Jaskier crouched by you head letting you reach out to him clutching as his hands scared not sure what was happening as Geralt poised himself then quickly drove forward sheathing enough to quickly break threw the barrier that he knew was just inside wanting it out of the way as soon as possible.

"AAAHH! NO I-STOP!" you scrambled tying to dislodge him constricting your walls to push him out whimpering as he held firm holding the same position, his hot calloused hands cupped your waist holding you still not allowing you to move an inch from him when you bucked forward and he followed. You leaned so far that your knee slipped and Geralt had to catch it before you fell ripping him out of you. He growled

"Jaskier fucking help her!" he grunted still tucking his chin to his chest trying desperately to refrain from moving for your sake the worst was over. The beta quickly cupped your face wiping the tears away reassuring your quaking form.

"shh shh its ok the worst is over now... good girl I know he's a grump isn't he but its fine...... so good" he winced as you cried pitifully he knew you would be soothed in a moment but it was gut wrenching for him to endure try and temper your cries. Slowly Geralt began pushing forward dragging you back on him impaling you as gently as he could. You keened as you stretched to accommodate his lust, so full and taught almost felt as if you was tearing apart at the seams. Grunting lightly as your passage rippled across him he groaned moving a hand across your back rubbing soothingly.

"Yes that's it relax...... OH FUCK.. Yes that's it so precious..... See it feels better now doesn't it? all that fuss you made" you tried nodding it did feel better almost as if you'd applied a healing balm to your insides. You moaned digging your nails into Jaskier's hands. panting as Geralt's hips finally pressed into yours his balls resting on your little bud making you squeak and try to rub back against him trying to grind up into the light taps they delivered.

"Ha-oh is that it?... You like that?.......All you needed?.... Good girl all there now" his praise made you glow he rocked slowly , just enough to reward you with soft pats from his balls against your clit. You gasped trying to buck against him.

"AH! Please-Alpha PLease I want!" you panted forcing the words

"Oh I know what you want... you want to be bred like the good little bitch you are" his words were filthy derogatory and perfect, Jaskier watched wide eyed as Geralt placed a hand below you rolling the pad his finger against your erect bud . Gulping Jaskeir closed his eyes, face on the rug beside you drinking in your moans and pants that went straight to his own cock, he moaned softly a hand sneaking to his bottoms cupping and rubbing, smoothing his digits around the engorged flesh. His eyes popped open glazed and hazy as you moved a hand to his crotch slim and dainty holding him through the fabric. You cried out as Geralt withdrew and pushed back forcing your body to give way to him.

"Don't you .....omega you want to be bred? full and round..... your so fucking ready for pups aren't you?" he grunted as his pace quickly escalated as he lost himself faster than he ever had. His own words revealing his own darkest desire. A pup of his own. Watching his mate swell with proof of there coupling. Yes. He closed his eyes relishing in the impossible image. You screeched holding Jaskier's thigh moaning and crying your pleasure all the way. Your walls fought him at every plunge of his hard flesh, resisting his punishing deep thrusts as he kissed at your cervix yet at the same time clutching at him trying to take as much as it could, muscles trying to capture him properly as nature intended but at the same time clenching to push him out. It was cruel and delicious Jaskier couldn't help it you look to appetizing he leaned down licking into your open mouth coaxing your hand down into his bottoms you clutched him underneath his palm as he began making you stroke him in fast even strokes he groaned loud a beautiful high sound that, to Geralt was much better then his singing. Grunting, Geralt's fingers pried and pinched your clit and flicked the tip of the swollen bud that peaked from between his tight fingers you screamed squeezing Jaskier he faltered as your hand was ripped off him. Geralt was powerless as his fantasy became to much of a temptation making a snap decision, as he saw Jaskier on the floor beside you crying and panting himself trying to fuck into your hand faster and harder.

"Jaskier here now!" Geralt couldn't stop he needed it. Needed to see it, to feel the kick of pups in the telltale bump of his omega. He longed for the soft heart beat's he had heard enviously in the past. He relished in the glow that all omegas had when full with a litter. He wanted that happiness for his omega. He would give that to her one way or another. Jaskier was confused but obey rounding the rutting couple unsteady. He was caught off guard as Geralt pulled him to rest his forehead to his still pulling and pushing into the small wailing female. The alpha kissed him not deep or lewd a chaste kiss and pulled back holding the smaller male's gaze.

"wh-what? I cant do that?" Geralt growled as he felt his end coming trying to fight it until this was sorted.

"YOU! have a cock don't you?!? do it bard SHE needs it!" you moaned not hearing much of anything as you tucked your hands beneath yourself rocking quicker and quicker chasing something needing more.

"PLEAASE! please pleaspleas I-I dont know wha-I need please alpha!!" you brawled scratching and digging at the rug. Jaskier looked between you and his alpha the desperation that you both leaked was to much, he bit his lip then nodded. Relieved Geralt finally let loose roaring his release spraying his useless load into you the force hitting your cervix grunting low as you came at the sensation, howling into the floor below. panting Geralt sat back on his heels grabbing Jaskier by the scruff sitting his ass on his thighs ignoring the bards protests as he shucked his trousers down and gripped his cock using his scruff to raise him into position

"I-I cant do it-ger-GERALT!" he shouted gasping as geralt lined him up with your entrance the witcher thrust his pelvis forward forcing the beta into your quivering heat. You squealed as your sensitive walls caressed a new cock, although not as large it was still an addictive feeling you lowered back down pressing your chest to your makeshift bed pebbled nipples rubbing skimming the rough fabric as they swayed with each rock of your body.

"AH-OOHH! please yesyesyes... please fill me!" you withered below the new male as Geralt was on his knees behind Jaskier still holding the bard by his neck.

"Don't worry love..... You'll be full soon enough...Well you better be..." Geralt threatened as Jaskier took over holding you and rocked into you grunting quietly trying so hard not to think of the alpha watching as his cock disappeared into you. You cried as you felt a familiar hand return to play with your tender clit your body spasmed violently finding a second release with a loud high pitched cry. Geralt held Jaskier up not allowing him the chance to bite a mark into you at the same time he ground his pelvis to the his ass pining him still and deep as your twitching passage milked him with a loud series of grunts he came into you not as powerfully as Geralt but still spurting pleasantly tickling your insides.

"Jaskier deeper- I want her bred" Geralt stated noticing that as the bard finished he had arched removing an inch of so as he did. Sighing as Jaskier was to lost moaning and rocking he rolled his eyes at the beta. Omegas were the best fucks and this was most likely the last time he would fuck you he would want to make the most on of it. Geralt hooked an arm below your hips tugging you back you cried as you was forced still and tight against them. Jaskier still leaking small streams of cum this time you felt it at your true opening wetting and burning as his seed trickled past it. you cried.

"oh-OH fuck its- done yes fuck I-hot its hot" you babbled trying to raise up stopping as you heard a growl

"No stay there let it keep going... Good girl.... I'm so proud.... Cant wait to see you round with them....Fuck yes you'll be so good" Jaskier stayed still awkwardly clamped between the tow of you. Amazingly enough feeling like the third wheel even if it was him pumping you full. geralt slid back patting jaskiers rump

"Stay... I'll be back" then left Jaskier blinked smoothing his hand across your back.

"you ok down there?" you nodded sleepy folding your hands below your head content and ready for sleep. Geralt returned carrying a pack then dragged the bard off you dropping to the floor legs spread placing you between them his inner thigh against your pussy pressing tight trapping everything inside you leaning you back cradling you he tugged a black shirt of his from the pack sliding it across your arms and buttoning it up. Jaskier sighed pulling up his trousers

"dont bother with them you'll need to give her another load soon." Jaskier sputtered

"I'm sorry? what?"

"Beta or not if your going to breed my omega you'll breed her like an alpha, now drop em" Geralt said seriously as he reached over to the almost forgotton meat tearing small chunks bringing it to your lips. You took the bites happily still lost in your haze.

"I'm sorry Geralt I'm not an alpha I cant just pop one off on demand"

"Not with that attitude you wont, sit eat your going to need it breeding is serious business" the bard was speechless then huffed throwing the trousers to the floor he wasn't going to win so whats the use, taking a seat by you both helping himself to the meat deciding that he should fuel up if this was going to last for a whole heat. Secretly excited about the prospects of the new addition to the small pack and pups.

You sat there thrilled some primal part of you understanding that your alpha was tending to you, Feeding and providing for you and had called the other pack member to eat with you. You took several bites before turning away from his hand. He tutted.

"No you need your strength, come on open up we need you big and strong for the pups." you contemplated the words agreeing as you let him continue to feed you. Jaskier just stared watching Geralt drop all walls for the first time. He looked happy. Truely happy. There was a slight worry for the future but he brushed it away choosing to bask in the glow of the newly formed couple.

#geralt smut #geralt imagine #geralt of rivia #geralt of rivia imagine #geralt x jaskier x reader #witcher fanfiction #witcher smut #geralt x reader

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artificialqueens · 3 years

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Drabble Compilation (Trixya, Biadore) - Candy Cane

A/N: a bunch of drabbles ive written over on my side blog @sillylittlecandycane !! im accepting prompts over there if you are interested uwu here’s the list of everything in here: 1.) Trixya, half drag dance challenge 2.) Trixya, pregnant!Katya 3.) Biadore, “If I puke, will you hold my hair back?" 4.) Trixya, pregnant!Katya sequel 5.) Trixya, "You’ve been crying, I can tell." 6.) Biadore, Adore visiting Bianca in Palm Springs

1.) Trixya, half drag dance challenge For a split second there Katya was ecstatic about being Trixie’s partner for this challenge, then she remembered she has a huge fucking crush and is definitely going to wind up making a fool out of herself. Trixie’s clearly excited though, so Katya decides she’ll try to swallow down those feelings, and focus on keeping that smile on Trixie’s face.

Neither of them are really dancers, but Trixie definitely is a country girl, so she’s somewhat more familiar with it than Katya. The older is still nervous, she’s not used to this kind of thing, not by any stretch of the imagination. She’s done choreo before, any given drag queen has, she just hasn’t had to learn it in such a short amount of time before.

After learning what they could with the instructor and are back in the workroom to practice, Trixie turns to Katya and grabs her hands. Katya stares down at them with wide eyes, just now registering she’s been dancing with Trixie.

Cute, sexy, funny fucking Trixie.

“We have so got this,” Trixie says, all the confidence in the world embodied in that tone.

Katya looks into Trixie’s eyes and smiles back, “Okay, yeah. We’ve got this.”

It’s exhilarating to have so much confidence in herself, and then to have some in her partner as well. It’s so different from what she’s used to. They’ve still got work to do to make sure they nail this thing all the way to the core of the earth, it’s just not so terrifying anymore. It feels good, it really does.

2.) Trixya, pregnant!Katya Katya’s at the point where she is seriously regretting being pregnant. At the end of the day, it was her choice, but sometimes she thinks it was a bad one. Everything fucking hurts, she’s constantly hungry, she can’t sleep right anymore, and she is always horny. This is just the worst thing ever.

What doesn’t suck is how sweet and loving Trixie, her fucking wife, has been. Katya doesn’t think she’ll ever get over the fact that Trixie is her wife. It’s so surreal! She’s like the best wife ever. Always getting her whatever she wants or needs, even if it’s 2 am and she’s being absolutely ridiculous, Trixie is there to help her and make the best out of a sucky situation.

Katya cuddles closer to Trixie, listening to the soothing sound of the younger’s heartbeat. She’s going to have a baby with this girl. They’re growing their family and it’s just… it’s perfect.

Trixie gently tugs her fingers through Katy’s messy blonde hair as they watch some stupid Lifetime movie. The domesticity of it all is wonderfully stupid. But it’s still stupid. She feels restless, she’s unable to go out and at least dance, she wants to do something.

“I’m bored,” Katya says, frowning slightly.

Trixie giggles a little, and it’s so fucking cute it hurts, “Okay, what do you wanna do?”

“We should go bungee jumping,” Katya says, keeping a straight face.

“Yeah, and then we’ll eat live bugs,” Trixie replies with an eye roll.

Their eyes meet and they erupt into laughter, holding onto each other and enjoying the moment. Katya sighs, and lays her head back down to Trixie’s chest, frowning.

“I’m seven months preggers, there’s like nothing I can do,” Katya groans.

Trixie combs her fingers through Katya’s hair again, “That’s not true. We can still play like uh, board games? We can go back to thinking of baby names, too. Can’t do any worse than my parents.”

Katya looks up at Trixie, a content smile on her lips. At least Trixie is trying for her, which is so much better than she feels she could’ve ever hoped for. The Russian pushes herself up to kiss her wife deeply.

“Or we could…” Katya mumbles against her, a sly offer.

Trixie giggles again, like music to Katya’s ears, “Yeah. Let’s do that.”

3.) Biadore, "If I puke, will you hold my hair back?"

Adore has drunk herself stupid, or stupid-er, again. She needed a night of insane drinking, and boy did she get it. Everyone is looking at her like she should be at rehab, but she doesn’t fucking care. A broken heart can’t be mended with alcohol, but it can be forgotten, at least for a little while.

She downs another shot, and out of the corner of her eyes she sees Detox and Willam laughing at her, while Bianca looks incredibly exasperated. Adore groans and lays her head against the counter, she feels awful and it definitely isn’t just her broken heart.

“B…” she mumbles, lifting a heavy arm to poke her friend.

Bianca rolls her eyes but looks down at her anyways, “What?”

“I don’ feel so good…” she whines, her words slurred.

“Well that’s what happens when you drink more in three hours than Willam does in one night,” Bianca snaps back, the disapproval in her voice strong.

“I’d be offended but you make a good point,” Willam says, giggling.

Adore huffs and stares at her bright red wig and the way it’s sprawled out in front of her. It’s one of her favorites, but it was also her ex’s favorite… God, she misses him so much it hurts like a bitch. Maybe she should throw out the wig, if it’s going to hurt her so much. It’s still a favorite though, and she refuses to allow that dickhead to take more from her than necessary.

Adore realizes she’s been zoning out, and reaches her hand out for Bianca. Her hand finds Bianca’s, and she squeezes it tightly. Bianca’s eyes meet hers, and Adore is overwhelmed with how wonderful and amazing this person is. Bianca’s is basically the definition of perfect, and Adore knows she’s lucky to even be her friend. Though that doesn’t really stop her from pining after Bianca.

“Bia…” Adore whines again.

“What?” Bianca sighs.

“Can we leave?” she asks, quiet and sad.

Bianca looks down at her, and must take some kind of pity, “Yeah, we can go.”

Ten minutes later they’re climbing into the back of an Uber, and Adore is quick to lay her head down in Bianca’s lap. Bianca rubs the back of her neck, and it feels really good because she’s starting to feel really ill.

Adore moans pathetically, “Yanks…”

“Yeah?” Bianca answers her.

“If I puke will you hold my hair back?”

“Sure, but then I’ll beat you up for puking all over me and this fucking car.”

Adore giggles, feeling slightly better with their usual banter, “Love you, Bia.”

“Love you too,” Bianca smiles softly.

4.) Trixya, pregnant!Katya sequel

For almost a year now, Katya’s life has been totally changed. Deciding to actually go through with physically having a child was big enough, but when she was actually pregnant? Everything changed.

Every decision she made impacted the baby. What she ate, what she wore, what she did… Every little thing impacted not just her anymore, but her child too. And she wouldn’t give it up for anything, because sitting here, holding that child in her arms, she knows it was all worth it.

Sitting here in the hospital bed, Katya is mesmerized by her baby. Her eyes are so startling blue, like Trixie’s, and her smile is so vibrant, like Trixie. Katya thinks her baby will be just like Trixie in so many ways. Katya hopes her daughter gets all her good traits, and none of her bad ones. This child helped to save her from addiction, Katya doesn’t want her to fall into it.

“What are you thinking about?” Trixie whispers, leaning over her shoulder to look into their baby’s eyes.

“How we still haven’t named her,” Katya says, cupping her pretty face.

Trixie rolls her eyes, “Well, we would’ve had that one figured out by now if-” “Really? In front of the baby?” Katya says, trying to play all serious at first, then bursts into laughter at Trxiei’s surprised expression.

“You bitch,” Trixie laughs, lightly slapping Katya’s shoulder.

“But seriously, the kid needs a name,” Katya frowns, “We can’t keep calling her ‘the baby’ forever.”

“It’s only been a day,” Trixie shrugs, “But you’re right.” “I should give her a really complicated Russian name you can’t pronounce,” Katya teases.

“Do you hate me? Is that it?” Trixie plays along.

Katya kisses her though, and the way Trixie turns bright red gets her all emotional all over again.

“I’ve been in love with you since we met,” Katya reminds her once they break apart.

“We should name her Barbara,” Trixie giggles.

“Nevermind, you’re right, I do hate you.”

Trixie cackles, and the baby starts to fuss in response. Both immediately try to calm her down, and luckily do so with minimal effort.

“Maybe… Cherry?” Trixie suggests.

Katya looks at her, then realizes she;s being serious, “Really? Cherry?”

“We could put down like, Cheryl or something on paper, but Cherry is like red, and sweet, and cute…” Trixie explains, blushing some.

Katya purses her lips, looks down at her baby, and grins widely.

“Cherry suits her.”

5.) Trixya, "You’ve been crying, I can tell." There’s tear tracks down Trixie’s cheeks, her eyes are bright red, and she’s even sniffling. It makes Katy’s heart hurt. She doesn’t like to see Trixie upset, that girl is the last person on this earth who should ever cry.

“Katya-” Trixie says, jerking back when she sees the older, clearly having thought she was alone.

“What happened?” Katya asks, stepping forward instinctively. She wants nothing more than to hug her.

“Nothing, it’s nothing,” Trixie says, unable to meet Katya’s eyes.

Katya frowns, “You’ve been crying, I can tell.”

Trixie looks shocked, but still persists, “I’m fine.”

“I’m never going to believe that,” Katya says, crossing her arms over her chest.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Trixie finally admits.

“Okay, that I can understand,” Katya says, reaching forward to take Trixie’s hand in her own, “But… that doesn’t mean you have to be alone. We don’t have to talk, but let me be here for you. Please?”

Trixie looks up at Katya’s kind, worried eyes, completely taken aback by how genuine her friend is being. Trixie nods, unable to actually form any words, and is almost instantly wrapped up in a strong hug.

The younger places her head in the crook of Katya’s neck, and starts to cry all over again. She doesn’t feel so empty and alone now, though. She feels like maybe if she just stays in Katya’s arms, listening to her reassurances and absorbing her love, for a little while longer then everything will be okay.

6.) Biadore, Adore visiting Bianca in Palm Springs

The sun is shining brightly, the palm trees surrounding the pool sway in the breeze, and Danny feels more relaxed than they have in many, many months. They’re on their back in the center of the pool, letting themself drift and be one with the water. Usually they prefer to go straight to the source, they are a mermaid after all, but there’s something to be said about getting to be alone in the water with their boyfriend.

There’s no one else around, just the two of them, alone and having sexy, fun, romance together. Said boyfriend pops up out of the water next to Danny, and peers over them, a smirk on his lips. Danny sits up so they’re not on their back anymore, and presses a little closer to Roy.

“Hi,” Roy chuckles, leaning in close to Danny’s lips.

Danny grins, “Hello yourself.”

Roy laughs, but kisses Danny anyways. The kiss is chaste, but still full of love and joy. Danny wraps their arms around Roy’s neck and goes in for another kiss, this one full and sloppy. Roy pushes Danny forward as they soak each other in, until Roy had Danny pinned to the concrete edge, his large hands spanning across Danny’s, currently tiny, hips.

The younger is bad at the whole self-care thing during work, which is one of the many reasons he’s happy to have them here. Now he has an excuse to get real food into Danny, and help them relax.

The two pull away from each other, breathless and smiling, and it’s perfect. The sun on their skin, the clear water around them, and neither would have it any other way.

“We should go annoy the neighbors with your golf cart this afternoon,” Danny suggests, smiling and close to laughter.

“Yeah,” Roy says, close to laughing himself, “We should.”

#rpdr fanfiction #trixie mattel #katya zamolodchikova #adore delano #bianca del rio #trixya #biadore #angst #fluff #romance #hurt/comfort #implied smut #pregnancy au #canon compliant #lesbian au #drabble compilation #candy cane #concrit welcome #tw vomit mention

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a-secondhand-sorrow · 4 years

Text

when things start changing (we'll be changing with them)

(read on ao3)

The night of her graduation, Zoe steps into her backyard and is greeted with the sight of her boyfriend sitting at the base of a tree, eagerly demonstrating to her little cousin how to fold the dandelions sprouting around the base of the tree into a proper flower crown.

She can’t help the smile that comes to her face at the sight of him, sprawled out onto the grass as though he were designed to be there. Zoe has seen Evan Hansen in almost any scenario: folded into chairs, cross-legged on harsh tile, standing in a crowd and by himself and tucked neatly by her side. She considers herself well-versed in the many ways he can occupy a space. It’s something she prides herself on, her general knowledge of him and how he may look in any given scenario. There’s something so beautiful about the way he exists - even though it can be cramped, contained, and achingly hopeful that he’ll just be ignored, she can see the beauty even in those moments. And when he unfolds it’s even better. When he sits up a little straighter, lets his legs rest unlocked, and his hands - moving even when completely relaxed - make slower, more confident journeys around their surroundings, she’s reminded of just how far he’s come from the anxious senior tripping over his own thoughts every time he opened his mouth in the course of two school years.

From where he lays sprawled on the grass, he looks almost relaxed. The grass doesn’t seem to bother him, and his legs are crossed gently with one foot under his right knee while he leans over, his always-moving hands quick and gentle over the stems of the dandelions. She can hear snippets of his words, quick and defined but still somehow low and soothing. He’s actually a very good storyteller, especially around little kids. By the sharp giggles that float over her mom’s gardenias and the stone patio pavement to greet her, he’s pulled out his skills to wax poetic on the method.

In one fluid motion (and wow, she never thought she’d be using the word fluid to describe any movement Evan Hansen made) he twists off the crown and drops it onto the little boy’s head. For a moment, the light caught by the dandelions seems to radiate through the kid, and she can only stare while he hops up and runs off to boast to the other kids, who are playing on the old, creaky swing set. Evan watches him run, the amusement and gentleness on his face fading so slowly a person less versed in Evan Hansen wouldn’t have even noticed. His eyebrows furrowed, meeting to deepen the crease in his forehead, and her stomach dropped with his hand’s descent to trail at his shirt hem, twisting and pulling in his constant, quiet gesture of anxiety. Before she tells her legs to move, she’s already across the patio and halfway to where Evan sits. Her footsteps are nearly silent in the cushioned grass, but Evan’s eyes turn to her before she can fully reach him anyway as though he could feel her nearby. Automatically, she feels her lips curl into a grin, one that his gaze lingers on for a moment; she’d applied a new, slightly darker lipstick for the occasion, redder for spring and for graduating and for the yellow sundress she also donned, and she knows that he thoroughly enjoys the novelty of it just as he seems to enjoy her in all forms.

She sinks to sit next to him, indifferent to her dress, letting her legs cross at the ankle stretched out in front of her. “That’s cute,” she says, by way of greeting.

The responding shrug is felt against her shoulder, where the fabrics of their respective tops snag a little with Evan’s movement. “It’s easy. Little kids are cute, so whatever you give them is cute too.”

“Tarantulas? Scissors? Stomach flu?”

“I...yeah,” he mutters, and she laughs. “I guess those aren’t so cute.”

“You’re right, though. Mostly. They are cute.” She turns her head away from her cousins and looks to his face in profile. The summer sun seems to soak into the smooth brown skin stretched over his cheeks, and he blinks quickly. “I didn’t know you could make flower crowns.”

“I am a man of many talents.”

“Hidden depths, as they say.”

“Like an onion,” Evan lets his head drop so his cheek rests on the top of her head.

“An apt metaphor. All of those onions lying around with their depth, no layers to be found. Point to the writer for the fantastic metaphor.”

He laughs, but it’s a little weak. When he responds, his voice is low. “Shrek has me mixing up my metaphors.”

“Well, that’s obvious,” she murmurs back. She drops a hand to his thigh, warm even through his jeans. “What’s up?”

He shrugs again. “Parties just - they aren’t really my crowd.” And then, as though realizing a possible situation in which anyone could take a bit of offense, he rushes to neutralize it. “I mean, I didn’t mean to, like, take off, I just. It was kind of a lot and it sucks because it’s your party and I want to celebrate you but, you know.”

Zoe is just thankful he’s not apologizing - even a few months before, that would’ve been riddled with apologies that he didn’t need to give. “No, I get it. It’s a lot of people, and they’re not even nice, they’re just - my family. There. Being a lot. I’m glad you left when it was too much.” But he doesn’t un-tense, and his fidgeting persists, so she does, too. “I’ve barely had a chance to talk to you today.”

“Well, it’s been busy.”

“I know, but I still feel bad.”

“Don’t,” he says immediately, with a sudden ferocity in the tone she never would’ve expected. His hands still, and he lifts his head from hers to pull back and look her in the eye. “Zoe, please don’t - don’t feel bad for living your life and accomplishing things, okay? Because I’m here even when none of that is happening.”

She blinks once, slowly, and nods a top-to-bottom nod. “Okay,” she says, her eyes flicking over his expression. His lips thin into a line, and it’s then and there that she decides for blunt honesty over anything else. “I don’t - I don’t feel bad for that. I don’t...that wasn’t the right word to use. I just meant that I...I miss you. And it’s stupid because I’ve seen you all day, it’s not like we’re long separated and pining or…” She thinks of the acceptance letter sitting on her desk, the train tickets already booked for mid-July, the textbooks and purple-and-gold paraphernalia she’s yet to buy, and she wonders if the trove of emotion she’s just struck in her own chest is the same one that Evan is feeling. “I’m proud of myself and I’m happy to graduate, but that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t rather be sitting here and making flower crowns with you.”

Evan shakes his head, a quick, uncertain thing. “I don’t - you can’t mean that.”

“What?” she responds, trying to duck her head to catch his eye, but he won’t look at her. “I mean it. I mean it wholeheartedly. We only have...we only have so much time left. I don’t want to miss it.”

He swallows harshly, and Zoe realizes that this is what was really on his mind. Her departure date for NYU is scheduled for a little over a month later. She reaches for his hand.

“I know things are changing,” Evan says finally. “And that’s...that’s okay.”

“‘Change is okay,’ said Evan Hansen, never,” Zoe says, only half-joking.

“No, I...I mean it.”

She raises an eyebrow.

“I’m okay with it,” he says more firmly. “I know it has to happen. I know it’s good. NYU is your dream, Zoe. I’d never dream of not wanting you there. We’re changing along with everything else.”

This time, she’s the one who swallows harshly. “I know we are. I wish that…I wish that you could come with me. I want NYU, but I don’t know if I’ll make it through without you.”

“You will,” he says. “You’re the strongest person I know, Zoe.”

“But-”

“You can - please don’t let me hold you back.”

She stills. “What?”

“I-” Evan looks so different than he did before, so much more uncertain. His hands are fidgeting again, and she reaches over to rub circles into the back of his hand. “I can only think that I could be holding you back. I mean, I’m working at Pottery Barn, the most boring of all stores. Community college is the best I’ll ever do. I don’t know if I, I’m not certain when I’m gonna leave this town. So don’t - I would absolutely hate it if I thought you were waiting for me. It’s the other way around. I’m waiting for you, okay? Because I want you to - to go to NYU, and have the time of your goddamn life. And I just want you to know that I’m always here, no matter how long it is, no matter how much you change. I’ll change with you. I’ll learn. I’ll-”

“Hey,” Zoe says gently to cut him off. She reaches forward to him, and he reaches for her like a little kid clutching a stuffed animal, like someone coming home after years away, like he’s afraid she might disappear. As he buries his face in her neck and her arms tighten around him, she realizes that this is not Evan panic. This is - this is Evan sadness and Evan worry. About her.

After stroking his hair for a moment, she speaks. “I promise you, I won’t stop doing things on your account. You have my word. But I’m not going to get up there and forget about you, Evan. I’m going to think about you - probably too many times to be healthy, to be honest, and I’ll force you to Facetime with me at all hours when I’m procrastinating and you’re trying to convince me to just do the damn work, and I’m going to keep loving you and I’m not once going to doubt that you’re still here.”

Evan nods against her shoulder, and she continues. “You’re my North Star, Evan,” she whispers. “I could pick you out from anywhere, and you’ll always be the brightest light I see.”

“You’re the same for me,” he whispers, his breath hot against her skin.

“I mean it. I’m coming back to you no matter what,” she says, her words low but her tone sharp. “Nothing could stop me from coming home to you.”

He pulls away after another moment and sighs. “We should probably get back in. I know your mother spent weeks planning this.”

“More like planning since I was in elementary school,” she says with a sigh to match Evan’s. As he moves to stand, she reaches out to grab his hand and halt his progress. “Not so fast, though,” she says, tugging him back down towards her. She’s not quite ready to give up this, his skin on hers under the June sun.

When he just raises an eyebrow, she raises one to match it. “Don’t I get a flower crown?”

His laugh is sudden and bright, an explosion of color against a grey conversation. “Of course,” he says around a wide smile. “It’s your day, after all.”

“Along with the other two-hundred students.”

“Yours and yours alone.”

“Oh, well, if you insist.”

As Evan sits down again and his fingers find purchase with the many small flowers popping up around them, Zoe allows herself to just look at him and be okay. There’s no pressure in their little haven around the tree, and in that comfort she thinks of her words from before. I’ll come home to you.

She can’t help but think that the boy across from her is more of a home than the house they sit outside of, and when he presents her with her flower crown and presses a kiss to her cheek, she’s only more certain of it.

#deh #dear evan hansen #bandtrees #zoevan #evan / zoe #evan hansen #zoe murphy #mine #dear evan hansen fanfiction #dear evan hansen fanfic #my work #so will i #inspired by #ben platt

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bellatrixobsessed1 · 5 years

Text

The Trail (Part 2)

Chapter Cryptid/Folklore Creature: Stick Indians.

This chapter is dedicated to my grandmother who is really interested in Native American lore and has been begging me to tell her 'a stick indian' story. I hope that I do justice to the Salish culture and their story.

Pacific silver fir and western white pine tower over them, creating what looked like an impenetrable wall of woodland. As if the forest isn’t dense enough already, black cottonwood and mountain hemlock fill the spaces between. It is a wonder to Zuko that they have managed to get here at all.

His mood had already been dreary before, with Zhao officially recruited and having rambled for hours, during their flight, about life on the Scottish highlands. Zuko stands before a large and crystal clear lake, littered with massive boulders and small stepping stones. Normally this may have lifted his spirits, but a light and billowing snowfall steals that away.

He shivers, cursing his sister for renting a tent instead of booking a hotel. “I thought that you like to plan ahead.” He finally snaps.

Azula looks up from her work. “Zhao, prove your worth to this team and finish setting up camp.” And she turns to Zuko, “yes, this is part of the plan. Don’t you think that it will be easier to hunt down forest dwelling beasts if we are in the forest?” She shrugs. “Besides, I figured that we could save a little money this way.”

“I think that it’s easier to hunt when I’m not freezing my ass off.” He grumbled.

“When Ah was a lad…” Zhao starts and Zuko groans loudly, sorry that he had spoken at all.

“Try to relax a little.” Azula comments.

He only folds his arms over his chest, muttering, more to himself than her, about how she always has to have things her way. How they can never do what he wants, never mind that he had chosen the final say about their destination this time around.

Azula sighs, “come over here and look at this.”

For a spiteful moment, he thinks of ignoring her, but he comes to sit next to her on the log she has perched herself upon. “Ever hear of stick indians, Zuzu?”

“No?”

“Neither have I.” She replies. “According to uncle, there have been reports of them. Apparently, they’re becoming a bother tourists and locals around here…”

“And you want to look into it?” He asks.

“We’re here.” She replies. “I don’t see why we shouldn’t.”

“Because we’re here for the wendigo.”

“I think that we can handle both.” She insists.

“Ah shite!”

Azula flinches at the sound of the tent collapsing.

“You wanted him here.” Zuko remarks.

.oOo.

The snow continues to fall, it would almost be soothing if it weren’t so like the night their mother went missing. Azula rolls onto her side, thinking of Iroh’s notes. He doesn’t have much for her to work with aside from a basic rundown of what they are dealing with. They are supposedly hairy and not unlike the better known big-foot. They have a knack for trickery and leading people astray, if Iroh has his facts right. She rolls back onto her back and watches, from the nearest window as the snow falls around them. A gust of wind rocks the tent, but not jarringly enough for her to wake the other two. It is a wonder that Zuko sleeps at all. She supposes that he had spent all of his energy on pointless rage in the daylight hours.

She ought to be sleeping herself but for some reason or another, sleep doesn’t want to come to her.

Azula tries to analyze her own emotions; she doesn’t have angry or depressive thoughts to haunt her mind. She considers for a moment that she is afraid. Yet, that isn’t it either. Her heart doesn’t race, she doesn’t feel the need to look every which way.

Perhaps it has to do with the flight and a time change.

The wind whistles outside of the tent.

With no sign that her body wants to sleep, Azula gives in and grabs her camera, she doesn’t often take nighttime photography. As quietly as she can, she unzips the tent and slips from it. She makes sure to seal the flaps once more to keep Zuko from complaining about the cold.

She hears, again, the wind whistling against the tent. She wanders away from the sound and towards the lake. Under the moonlight it is ethereal. If not for the snow she know that its surface would be smooth and undisturbed. As things are, the snow puts a certain sparkle to the water. It is perfect, she lets the camera flash. Once and then twice more before she seeks out something else to capture.

She thinks, briefly, of climbing atop one of the large boulders and taking a photo from a new vantage point. She gets a rather vivid mental image of herself slipping on the slick snow and crushing her camera as she topples into the lake.

The whistle of the wind comes again, this time, a chill shivers down her spine. At first, she can’t place why. She tries to push the feeling aside, but the snow in her hair, the deeply quite woods, she remembers the feeling.

Remembers the look Ursa exchanged with Ozai.

She creeps away from the pond and towards her tent, the only thing keeping her at bay is the absence of an abysmal odor. They always have a scent. A truly wretched scent. But the absence of woodland chatter it wakes the most primitive of her senses.

She hears the whistle of the wind again.

This time it registers.

Her hair isn’t fluttering. She doesn’t feel the gust on her bare face.

With that realization she comes to decide that the sound itself is distorted. The next time she hears it, she can swear that it is as though the sound is being played in reverse.

Azula goes tense, it is near the tent.

And tenser still when the whistling sounds from behind her and then to the side of her. There are more of them now and they create a disorienting whir. She fights down the anxiety that they’ve managed to rouse.

She hustles back into the tent. As long as she doesn’t let them lure her out there she should be fine. Her dread doesn’t waver, not even slightly. “Zuko!” She hisses. He grumbles something sleepily gargled. “Zuko!” This time she offers him a sturdy kick.

She dodges a reflexive punch. “Christ, Azula! What?” He shouts, sending her nerves skyrocketing. She clamps a hand over his mouth as Zhao bolts up with a “wha’cha fussin’ aboot?” She hushes him too.

She almost regrets having done so. She can hear, with more clarity, a scampering from outside. Zuko turns to her and mouths a soft, “what the hell.”

Azula simply points at Iroh’s notes.

“Ah’m gonna shoot ‘em.” Zhao proclaims.

“Take one shot and you’re fired.” Azula whispers harshly.

He opens his mouth for a voluminous protest. Azula throws a hand up, “one word and you’re going back to Scotland.” She threatens quietly. She has a hunch that they were going to have to wait this one out. She chances a peek out of the window, hoping to see the deep blue of approaching dawn. The sky is still inky and spotted with stars and flecks of snow.

She knows that the night will be long.

Any desire to ignore the outside chaos and sleep it off is sapped away at the sound of laughter. Its quality is uncanny, human but with an off-putting edge too it. Something that licks and plays with the most instinctual recesses of her mind.

“Ken Ah shoot it now?” Zhao asks, keeping his voice low.

Logic yearns for her to say yes, but the part of her that is off-put by the laughter speaks first, “you’ll only make it worse.”

She feels vulnerable, terribly so. More so than when she had been sinking in Loch Ness. At least then, she knew what and where her foe was. Zuko’s glower leaves her feeling worse. He had already been vexed by her choice to camp at all. She supposes that it is on her entirely if they tear through the tent and make off with one of them.

She hopes, for the sake of her conscience that they take her.

A stick hits their tent and Zuko jolts. She wants to day that she hadn’t flinched, but Zuko gripping her hand tells her that she did. She can’t remember the last time he had held her hand, but she thinks that it was when they were children.

Azula looks at her phone, it is only 3:14.

She swallows, suddenly four hours is dauntingly long.

Her eyes begin to droop at 4:00 and she fights to keep them open. Zhao snores softly, with his gun still in hand. Azula thinks that maybe he has it right. They can’t be lured out of their tents if they are asleep. Maybe she should just cave to her body’s demands. She can use the rest. Briefly she thinks of pulling out the novel she’d brought along and reading until sleep overtakes her. But she doesn’t want to attract attention with the light of her phone.

Instead she moves further from her brother and wraps herself up in her blankets, the uneasy flutters never leaving her belly. Zuko seems to follow in suit, but moves his sleeping bag closer to her. She wants to scold him for the loud shuffling noises, but there isn’t a point. The creatures already know that they are there.

Their eerie scuffling and chirping persists but the ruckus doesn’t come any closer.

It doesn’t make her feel any safer.

In fact, it only leaves her wondering why they aren’t attacking. Perhaps they are waiting for them to let their guard down. Perhaps they are toying with them. She digs through her bag for her iPod. She puts her headphones on, the noise will drive her insane if she doesn’t.

“Don’t pay them any mind, Azula.” The words play themselves back in her mind. “Some beings just like the attention.” She remembers smiling up at him and nodding as he tucked her in. She wishes that he were there. This chapter is dedicated to my grandmother who is really interested in Native American lore and has been begging me to tell her 'a stick indian' story. I hope that I do justice to the culture and their story.

#Avatar #Azula #Zuko #Zhao #Cryptid #Native American Lore #Stick Indians #Fanfiction

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eirianerisdar · 6 years

Text

Waiting in the Quiet, Part 6

General Summary: Gren and Amaya, from their first meeting until the end of the first season of The Dragon Prince. Will continue to follow canon events, but as a gremaya AU.

This chapter: Determination, a confession, chains against the dungeon wall, and a letter finally seen in full. Picks up where we left off: Episode 5, An Empty Throne. The mutual pining is strong with this one.

I reference some earlier chapters in this one, so reread those if you’d like a deeper understanding! Also, line breaks aren’t working on tumblr mobile so I put a > for every new section.

Read from chapter 1

Chapter Index

Chapter 6: The Confession

Daybreak found Amaya waiting in the throne room by one of its arched windows.

The rising sun drenched stone floors in gold and limned the scarlet of the processional carpet with gilt thread. The warmth of those rays was a living thing that soothed her exhausted heart, even though she knew it would dissipate as the sun sailed higher above the horizon.

She had found no rest that past night; no counsel except her own, taken by light of guttering candle, while Gren slept soundly in the next chamber.

There were three problems in her hands.

First, and by far the most important – her nephews, and the Moonshadow elf that had captured them. Corvus could track as silently and swiftly as a lynx; with luck, he would catch up to the boys by mid-morning.

Second, Viren. His haste in arranging Harrow’s funeral spoke volumes of his true intentions; patriot he might be, there was something in his actions that edged a little too close to treason for Amaya’s liking. It would not do to leave him unwatched.

Third, the Breach. Amaya did not doubt her soldiers’ ability to hold the fortress against the forces of Xadia; but should Xadia take the empty throne of Katolis as an opportunity to launch a combined attack, her absence there would be keenly felt. Morale was a fickle thing. It depended on the presence of a leader that every soldier could trust.

Three problems, and she could only be in one place at once.

Amaya sighed. Rested her head against the warm stone of the throne room wall for a moment. The sun was halfway visible over the horizon, now.

She had come to a decision last night, with her head bowed over the flickering light of the candle before her.

Whether the decision would come to anything would greatly depend upon Viren’s actions in the coming few hours; but should he still persist in his veiled, ulterior motives–

–Amaya would have no choice except to leave Gren here, as her eyes and ears.

And therein lay Amaya’s final and most unexpected problem; one she had not anticipated, or perhaps did not wish to admit to herself.

She did not want to leave her commander behind.

Viren remained as wily as a viper, despite their long acquaintance. Amaya had no doubt Gren was as aware of this as she, but all logic aside, should he remain, and Viren strike…

Amaya fought back the shudder that rose up from her gut; an aching, senseless thing of denial.

Gren, her commander and closest friend, and–

And what? The words flickered before her, mockingly. And what more?

Two days ago, she had found him on the battlements of the fortress at the Breach; he had skipped breakfast to write a letter; tucked it away under his bracer with haste when he spotted her.

They had stood and watched each other, as they seemed to do more often in recent months, since she had almost lost Gren on the eve of last Winter’s Turn. For a moment there, she had wondered if the words he meant to say on the battlefield were not I thank you, but rather–

Footsteps vibrated up her armoured boots from the stone floor; a tread she could not hear, but as familiar to her as her own.

The sun was well and truly risen, now; the light crept up her cheeks without warning and dazzled her vision, and she turned, blinking the spots out of her gaze, to find Gren in the shadow of a pillar, blue eyes calm and waiting. His gaze flickered over the sunlight on her cheek, and deepened with an unreadable emotion.

Seeing him there made the ache of their all-too-likely parting well up afresh.

Amaya knew Gren had a lighter tread – he could have stepped right up to her without her notice, but as always he chose to put more force into his steps than usual when he approached from behind; so that she would know he was coming.

He had never said anything.

Neither had Amaya.

But perhaps…perhaps when this was over, they should.

Talk. Of all the things they had never said.

Gren pushed himself off the pillar with a nudge of his shoulder, to free both arms to speak. “Good morning.”

And there was that smile again – a flash of gentle humour despite the earth-shattering events of the past few days.

That smile used to bring warmth like hearthfire; now it made her stomach flip in an inexplicable surge of ice and flame.

“Good morning,” Amaya echoed. Her hand – the same hand that had nearly betrayed her by reaching out for Gren’s sleeping features, beside a campfire only two nights ago – hesitated briefly as she lowered it. It clenched at her side as she fought against the urge to ask what they had no time for.

Gren’s sharp eyes caught the motion. He straightened and raised his hands to speak. There was hope in his gaze, hidden behind the thinnest veil of control.

Oh, Amaya thought numbly, as she watched his fingers slide into the bar of sunlight to form the first word. Perhaps we both wish to ask the same question.

“Amaya,” Gren began, “Do you–”

He broke off as his chin snapped towards the double doors of the throne room.

Amaya swallowed past the painful lump in her throat; quelled the urge to pull him into the shadow of an alcove and say the things they wished to say, where neither of them could miss the truth of the words they held.

Gren gestured to the opposite side of the chamber, and they hastened across the expanse of scarlet cloth, leaving the warmth of the Eastern window for a shadowed pillar. Gren’s head was still cocked to one side as he listened for what Amaya could not hear, but after a moment he nodded once, sharply, and signed, “Viren.”

Amaya watched him, still, and as he met her eyes his shoulders dropped a little out of their automatic tension, eyes softening at the corners.

There were many things that Amaya wished; but sometimes, wishing was all she had.

The heavy double doors opened and closed again, a palpable tremble from the flagstones up to Amaya’s ankles, and she straightened, shoulders back and head held high – the perfect image of a General.

Gren’s head inclined just so. Acceptance. He took a step back and turned towards the centre of the chamber: once more her interpreter.

They fell into their separate roles with familiar ease. The fact that neither of them truly wished it meant little at this moment. There were more important things to handle.

Amaya took a breath, stepped forward, and began to sign.

“Thought I might run into you here.”

Viren turned languidly in place to face them. He looked…good. As though he had the most refreshing night of sleep – as though the kingdom was not in shambles and its princes in the clutches of an Elven assassin.

Amaya clenched her teeth and stared him down, fingers flashing. Gren’s lips moved in the periphery of her vision.

“We need to talk.”

If anything, Viren’s haughtiness seemed to grow further. With one hand he indicated that he was listening, though his expression said anything but. A fox-faced smile – the smile of a man who would let her say her piece and then throw it into the dirt-pile.

It reminded Amaya of the yawning emptiness to her right – her brother-in-law’s throne, bereft of its king and rightful heir. Harrow’s body now lay with his forefathers in the Valley of Graves, a scant day after his passing.

It filled her with incandescent rage.

“How could you let it come to this?”

“You speak as if I invited these assassins,” Viren said, dropping one arm out from behind his back as though in readiness to strike.

Oh, she would like to see him try. “I had to leave our stronghold at the Breach,” she continued. “Do you have any idea,” – she emphasised the word by the set of her shoulders – “the dangerous forces gathered at our border?”

“I did everything in my power to protect King Harrow. I was willing to give my own life!” Viren countered. There was a thinned quality to the shapes of his lips that suggested his control had slipped enough to raise his voice.

“Then what went wrong?” Amaya challenged.

“He did.” Viren threw out an arm towards the empty throne, with such vehemence that Amaya could almost see the shadow of a silver dagger that would have pierced the uneven towers of the tapestry behind it.

Viren was not done. His lips were curling in what must be a true shout, now. “His own stubborn ways stopped me from helping him. You know him as well as I do. His pride was more important to him than his life!”

Your pride is your life, Amaya wanted to say. But she reined back the words.

“You wanted this outcome,” she accused instead. Gren’s presence was solid behind her shoulder; she felt him lean forward to convey her exact meaning.

Instantly, she could see she had pushed too far. Or perhaps just right, like the keen blade of a sword-thrust right past Viren’s veiled armour and directly into his heart of hearts.

Viren’s eyes flashed. “How dare you suggest–”

Something twisted in Amaya’s stomach, vicious. Got you.

Oh, she was not done, not in the slightest. She pushed on with calculated severity. “His death creates opportunity for you.”

“His death breaks my heart,” Viren said, lips bared. Anger. Offense.

To one who only knew him in passing, that anger might be taken as sheer incredulity that anyone would accuse him of exploiting his old friend’s assassination; to any who knew him well, his anger was just what it was. Rage. Pride. Hurt, but perhaps not the kind that stemmed from being wronged.

Amaya laid her trap, then; a test of candor, a trial that might determine if Viren truly was the snake she suspected.

“Then honour him. Find his children.”

His chest expanded as he sucked in a breath to fuel his next words. “They’re gone, Amaya. Captured by a Moonshadow elf.”

He looked, in that moment, almost like a grieving uncle.

Almost.

Amaya was once again reminded that it was a good thing she withheld Corvus’s mission from him.

Viren was not done. “If they’re not already dead, they will be soon.” His sceptre slammed into the floor in a jolt that ran up Amaya’s greaves. “This is a time of crisis,” he continued, turning to move up towards the dias and the throne upon it.

Amaya’s eyes narrowed. If Viren were to show even an ounce of intent to sit upon that seat…

But her thoughts were left unfounded. Viren brushed the fingers of one hand over one worn armrest, and said, “An empty throne is beacon of weakness. An invitation to destroy us.”

So are many other things, Amaya privately thought. Missing princes. A fortress without its general. The cruel ambition of a kingdom’s chief advisor and sorcerer.

“We must defend Katolis and all the human kingdoms against what’s coming.” Viren gestured at the throne. “I can help us from there.”

Amaya shook her head once.

Astoundingly, Viren was not done.

“You think I’m being an opportunist, but I couldn’t be more selfless in my motivation. I am a servant of Katolis. A servant!” He brought down his sceptre on that last word, a jarring, metallic jolt through Amaya’s ankles – like a judge with a gavel, or a king’s announcer.

Viren was neither.

But here there was something strange, in Viren’s choice of words; a twisting of his expression as he spoke those latter words, old pain and dissatisfaction and bitterness, which morphed the shape of his words into snarls.

A moment, where Amaya watched Viren breathe, as she calmly moved her hands, fluid and unyielding.

“Those are awfully nice clothes for a humble servant, Viren.” Amaya could sense Gren’s cocky grin as he finished the sentence. It comforted her, here where Katolis hung in the balance between her and Viren’s wills.

Something flashed in Viren’s gaze, still and dark and unreadable. Then he did something unexpected – he stood aside and inclined his head.

“Then you take it. Go ahead, sit down. I’ll support you as queen regent.”

For a moment there, Amaya wondered. There was no possibility of her taking the throne, of course, but to offer it like so was beyond what she had expected of Viren. Was he, misguided in his efforts as he was, truly thinking of Katolis and her people?

Viren’s next words took that possibility and threw it out the window as neatly as one of her famous front kicks.

“I’ll gather the High Council, and we’ll send word to the other crowns of the Pentarchy immediately.”

He expected her to say yes.

Because that was what Viren would have done.

Amaya sank further into her stance. Narrowed her eyes into slits. She would not take her brother-in-law’s throne, and her nephew’s by inheritance.

Sarai would have had just the thing to say; assisted Amaya, even, in heaving Viren bodily out of a window.

Oh, she missed her sister so, so much.

Anger steadied her hands as she replied, “The throne stays empty until we find the boys.”

The darkness in Viren’s eyes became less unreadable, at that. He opened his mouth in a soundless snarl and stalked down from the dias, taking care to slam the sharp edge of his sceptre head into Gren’s unarmoured chest as he shoved between them.

Amaya spared Gren a glance, and watched as Viren threw open the doors and faded down the corridor.

And then it was simply the throne room Amaya knew so well, without Viren’s polluting presence in it.

Two breaths, slow and even; Amaya closed her eyes briefly, and then reached out to splay a gentle hand on Gren’s front, where a dent in leather marked the spot where sharp silver dug into his sternum.

The steady movement of Gren’s breathing hitched as her fingers brushed his chest.

Amaya was instantly alert; if such a soft touch was enough to cause pain, then Viren must have struck him with much more force than she thought–

But Gren only reached up to grasp her hand where it was pressed into his sternum. The steady rhythm of his heart thudded against her fingers, even through reinforced leather and thick riding gloves.

“I’m fine,” he said with his lips, the shapes familiar. “It doesn’t hurt.”

There was truth in his eyes.

But standing there with her fingers against the flow of his heart, she could only remember the sheer desperation that slammed through hers when she felt nothing but still and cold leather under her touch, on the battlefield last Winter’s Turn.

She had seen him fall – the lightning strike that cleaved through him from shoulder to foot. Her mad scramble to him then and the desperate pressure of her hands against his chest to beat his heart back to life was no more than a memory; but now, even with evidence of his life pressed against her palm she remembered what it was like to feel no pulse, no warmth, and no Gren there.

And now she might have no choice but to send him to do what she could not.

Amaya fought the shudder when it came.

Gren was looking at her with that expression that he sometimes wore, that in recent times made her wonder at the depth of emotion in his quiet blue eyes.

She slipped her hand out from between his fingers and his tunic. He let her go without complaint.

Amaya looked past Gren to the window, where the morning light had settled to a pale, wintry shine; the light filtered over her hands, weightless.

“I need to speak to my sister.”

>They rode together down to the Valley of Graves, side-by-side, wordless.

Their horses were familiar enough with them to likely have continued onwards if they chose to slacken their reins, but neither did; there was a comfort and ease in their companionship that went beyond the need to speak.

Gren’s spirits lifted slightly despite the earlier clash with Viren; riding with Amaya like this reminded him of the earlier years of their friendship, riding out together through the wildlands at the border, before Queen Sarai’s passing.

And there, digging into his wrist between his bracer and long-sleeved tunic, was a letter.

The letter he had finished writing two days ago on the battlements on the fortress at the Breach; the letter that he had tucked under his bracer when Amaya sought him there, and which he had carried with him all the way here when the urgent summons from King Harrow came.

The letter that was addressed Amaya – in the event of my death.

Not that he thought there were any after his blood – but after waking on the frozen battlefield of last Winter’s Turn with Amaya’s hitching sobs at his side and his ribs aching from the press of her hands that had restarted his heart, he had thought it would do to be better prepared.

The wind picked up. Gren breathed in the fresh air and shook his head; the letter might be under his bracer, but there was no cause to give it to Amaya yet.

Their horses’ hooves trotted at a steady pace through the forest and canyon, to the edge of the small lake guarded on all sides by statues of past kings and queens. The thunder of the distant waterfall was a soothing, steady drumbeat where Katolis itself was in turmoil.

There, the final guard to the stone platform for funeral rites and the graves of kings by the shore, stood Queen Sarai’s monument. Her smiling likeness was captured forever in stone, on horseback and in full armour, one hand grasping her spear and the other extended in gentle grace.

Gren always thought it was as though she extended her love and sympathy to each mourner who chose to visit the valley – offering to take their hand and lead them through the canyon and forest to the welcoming lights of home.

Amaya’s horse snorted as she dismounted. Gren followed suit, but stood back as he did on the morning after the queen’s funeral, when they had ridden here with raw hearts and fresh grief.

Then, Amaya had spoken to her sister, and then extended a hand to Gren much like her sister above; the two of them had rested together in Sarai’s presence until grief became hope.

Now, Gren settled a few paces away as Amaya looked up into her sister’s gentle features and signed, “Hello, sister.”

Amaya’s armour shifted audibly as she knelt. Even now, at mid-morning, there were candles flickering at the foot of Sarai’s grave; the people of Katolis loved their queen as they did their king.

Gren watched as Amaya lit a fresh candle with another, bowed her head, and began to sign. His heart wrenched as she spoke; the shapes of her words had always been lovely to him, but there was a tenderness and grace to them as she spoke to her sister that turned the dance of her hands heart-achingly beautiful.

“You were my hero,” Amaya said, and Gren knew from the angle of her head and the drop in her shoulders that her grief was still there, welling up afresh. “Perfect, strong, and unbreakable. Kind and loyal. I’m sorry, older sister. I failed you. Your children were safe and I let them slip away.”

Gren closed his eyes as he raised his face to the queen. The princes’ capture was in part his fault, as well, and there was no denying it; he breathed a silent promise to Queen Sarai that he would do his part in returning her children. His heart ached for them all; the late Queen, gone so young, the King taken for his country, the princes who even now were held in the deadly grasp of Moonshadow elves.

His general, whom he loved so much, who could lose the last family she had left.

Behind him, a horse’s neigh echoed down the canyon. Gren half-turned, eyes sharp, to find a familiar figure approaching.

Lord Viren had none of the fiery discontent he had in his gaze an hour previous; he moved past Gren without meeting his eyes, focused instead on Amaya’s still-kneeling form.

Gren let him pass, the spot on his sternum where Viren’s sceptre had dug into his skin tingling. His hands loosened at his sides, though for what he did not wonder; there was no possibility of winning any fight against Viren, but that did not mean Gren could not prepare for it.

He followed Viren’s every move with wary caution. If the man showed even a subtle indication he meant ill, Gren would know.

But Viren did nothing but step forward until the impact of his sceptre against the ground reached Amaya’s knees; she raised her head and looked up at him.

His voice was soft. Remorseful. “May I light a candle?”

Gren could see the moment Amaya decided to put aside their differences. Her lips curved as her eyes softened, and she looked so much like her sister in that moment that Gren almost looked away.

Viren knelt beside her and reached for a candle, and Gren loosed a breath. His hands returned to the small of his back.

This was a moment of quiet truce, and he would not interrupt it.

When a span of time passed, Amaya got to her feet and stepped back. Viren rose after her, smiled up at the late queen with fond memory.

“Your sister made him better,” he said, and for a moment he looked as he must have as a young man, best friends with the crown prince of Katolis; for all intents and purposes almost a spare, sworn to the service of the crown. “Harrow told me he was never as strong or brave as Queen Sarai believed him to be, but he tried every day to be stronger and braver so he could live up to what she saw in him.”

A small smile tugged at Gren’s lips, despite himself. Viren’s words struck deeper than Gren expected; the praise of a loved one had a way of bringing out one’s determination to grow, to rise to that regard.

He knew because Amaya so valued his friendship. And he valued her beyond that, even.

A beautiful thing, to love.

Amaya’s hands moved in the corner of his vision, and his eyes slid to her hands like centering of his self.

“She was compassionate and patient.” Fond memory rose as he read her next words. “Unless, of course, you took the last jelly tart.”

Viren chuckled. “I only made that mistake once.”

Gren remembered the consequences of his own mistake well enough; Sarai had chased him through the halls and nearly to the castle bridge the one time he had taken the last jelly tart at breakfast, his first time visiting the royal family in his early days as Amaya’s interpreter.

They had called a truce and broken the jelly tart in half, and Amaya’s laughter, when they returned, had been reward enough for the sheer fear Gren had experienced at Sarai’s hands.

Amaya’s laughter now was a light, soft thing that eased a knot of worry in Gren’s chest.

“A sweet tooth and an iron fist.”

Viren inclined his head, contrite. “General Amaya, I am sorry for what happened in the throne room. You helped me see the truth.”

Amaya’s head tilted.

“And why was that so hard?”

Viren moved forward. “I was blinded by my abiding love for our kingdom and humanity itself.”

And well, if that wasn’t evidence for Viren’s propensity for hyperbole.

Gren raised an eyebrow, but Amaya’s fingers were already flicking with sharp wit.

“Guard, fetch a stable boy, quickly,” he interpreted, leaning eagerly into her implied tone and staring Viren down. “I’ve encountered a giant pile of bull–” Gren’s eyes widened slightly at Amaya’s last word, even as he failed to suppress a grin. “–droppings,” he amended, eyes sliding from Amaya to Viren and away again to avoid the consequences of smirking perhaps a little too obviously.

But Amaya was smirking as well, so perhaps it wasn’t too bad.

Oh, Gren loved her so much.

Viren breathed a laugh. “The princes come first,” he admitted. “Finding them is absolutely the top priority of the kingdom of Katolis.”

“Good, you see it my way,” Amaya said, and Gren noticed as he spoke for her that she seemed almost relieved. “I’ll be departing at sundown with a rescue party.”

Even as Gren finished the sentence, he became aware that the relief was not entirely for the princes. It was more obvious in the way she gestured at him to follow with a subtle flick of her fingers at her side as she turned.

But he had no time to wonder at it, for a voice sounded over his shoulder, and his hands moved automatically to translate.

“Of course,” Viren said, all ease. “But allow me to ask: What happens to the Breach?”

Amaya stopped mid-stride, eyes fixed on Gren’s hands. As she turned in place her eyes met his in a look of shared understanding.

It had been too good to be true.

Viren barely waited until Amaya faced him before continuing, the words coming fast and ruthlessly logical. “You said yourself how precarious the situation is. Without you there commanding the fortress, do you believe, in your heart, that the border will hold?”

Gren’s scrutiny slid from Viren to Amaya, and found her holding her chin high, tight-lipped.

Oh.

So she had already given the matter thought. And in this, she could not disagree.

“Make your point.”

Viren’s eyes glittered. “If the Breach falls, the enemy will surge into Katolis, and I can hardly imagine the death and destruction that will follow.”

Amaya’s face remained closed.

“Then what are you suggesting?”

Gren knew Viren’s answer even before he finished speaking.

“You return to the border, hold it fast. It’s where you’re needed most,” Viren said – and the worst thing about it was that he was right, to some extent. “A party of our best will be dispatched immediately to find the princes.”

Amaya’s jaw tightened under the sweep of her fringe past her left cheekbone.

Gren shifted into readiness as Viren approached.

“And in case you still doubt my intentions, I will task my own children, Soren and Claudia, with leading the rescue expedition,” Viren concluded.

It was an impressive offer.

Gren didn’t think it amounted to much. Amaya apparently didn’t think so either, because she stepped into Viren’s circle of space and nudged him hard in the chest with a pointed finger.

“I do doubt your intentions. I will return to the breach, but your children won’t lead the rescue.”

Gren narrowed his eyes as he spoke; Amaya’s choice of words means that she had decided on another course of action.

Amaya’s hands moved on, sure, steady.

“The mission will be assigned to…” Gren stopped, as meaning caught up with the shape of Amaya’s fingers. “Commander Gren,” he stumbled, after a pause, eyes widening in question as Amaya looked at him with an expression that said yes, you didn’t read that wrong.

What.

In his surprise, he did what he had not done in years; continued to stammer where he had learnt to shut up and finish off. “That’s– that’s me,” he spluttered. “I– I am Commander Gren.”

He probably looked a lot younger and a lot less bright than he meant to, saying that. He fought back the blush that threatened to rise in his cheeks and ears, too – it had been years since had flushed in public, for Katolis’s sake!

Viren looked askance at him as though gauging his worth and finding him lacking, but agreed to it nonetheless and headed towards the waiting horses.

In the perfect silence after his departure, Gren looked at Amaya and waited.

Surprisingly, Amaya wasn’t smiling; she was looking at him with something so much like dread that it Gren felt his stomach drop.

“Amaya?” he said, using his hands so Viren would not hear.

>It had been a long time since Amaya had felt such trepidation. Seeing her nephews in the clutches of that Moonshadow elf had been different. There had been things she could have done then.

There was nothing she could do now; she had to leave Gren here, as she had known was a possibility. It was a consequence of their vows of service to Katolis, Viren’s ulterior motives, and the fact that of all the people who remained alive in the world, there were none whom Amaya trusted more than Gren.

And none she could not bear to part with as much as he.

She tilted her head in the direction of the kings’ graves, partly to pay Harrow the respects he was due, and partly to delay the conversation and think on her words.

The King’s grave was of white marble, freshly hewn; Amaya and Gren bowed their heads as one.

When they rose, the sun had ascended to its zenith. The two of them hardly threw any shadows, now; drenched in sunlight, there was nothing Amaya could do to hide.

Halfway back to the horses, Amaya paused. Raised her head to meet Gren’s gaze.

“Be careful,” she began. “Watch him. We can’t be sure what he intends.” There. She has phrased it in such a way that it is – that is to say, it is not about–

Gren’s eyes soften at the corners. “You knew this might happen,” he said. There was nothing accusing in the angle of his chin or in the earnestness of his expression.

Amaya almost wished there was. The fact that he stood before her utterly accepting of the double task she had laid on his shoulders somehow made it worse.

“You are…” Amaya tried. Stopped.

Gren waited.

“I can’t withdraw you from this mission simply because I–” Amaya’s hands stuttered over the next word, re-formed another. “Simply because you’re you.”

Gren’s chest rose and fell. He was looking at her with an expression that held both understanding and hope.

Amaya reached out and took his hand, and he stared down at it and back up again, the hope in his eyes visibly coalescing into something like disbelief.

“Gren,” she said, releasing him momentarily to speak, “After you find the boys, and return to the Breach, I think we should talk.” She paused, weighed her next words. “I think I can guess the words you want to say. And I have something to say in return.”

She threaded her fingers through Gren’s again, her fingers incredibly sensitive even through her gloves; Amaya forced herself to look away from their clasped hands and into Gren’s face instead.

Gren was still staring down at her. Sometimes she forgot, because he stood to the side behind her so much when he interpreted, that he was taller than her.

His free hand moved.

“I’d like that,” he replied. Raw emotion hovered behind his lips; he looked very close to exuberant joy.

Amaya nodded once, and forced herself to take the first step towards the horses, pulling Gren beside her with their still-woven fingers; she knew if she stepped towards him she would never be able to stick to her decision to make him stay and be her eyes and ears.

Their hands remained clasped tight the entire ride back to the citadel; the first and the last of a familiar hold, sword-callouses against ink-stains.

In the courtyard they parted, fingers slipping over each other and reaching out again for that lost warmth even as they edged their horses further apart and dismounted.

>Dusk drew ochre veils across the citadel.

The reddish light of the setting sun on the battlements mimicked the fiery glow of the Breach; Gren spared the sky a small smile as he crossed the courtyard.

He surveyed the soldiers arrayed in the courtyard. Most were already mounted and ready for the ride back to the Breach, but two remained on foot, spears in their hands – they would ride out under Gren’s command after the others departed.

The two foot-soldiers saluted him, hands to their chests, and Gren acknowledged them with a nod.

Amaya’s distinctive armoured footsteps approached from his left, accompanied by the clip-clop of her war horse, and Gren stood back and dipped his head in greeting. They shared a single, steady look, one that edged their smiles with further warmth, before facing Gren’s soldiers to issue last orders.

Gren fell easily back into interpreting as Amaya began.

“I’ve sent word to Corvus that King Harrow has passed.”

One of the soldiers nodded and stepped forward. “Is Lord Viren aware that Corvus has been tracking the princes?”

Amaya shook her head.

“No,” she signed, and stepped closer to Gren to look at him in equal part as he spoke her words. “Do not trust Viren. It may be a month from now, it may be a year, but he will stab you in the back.”

The words were supposed to be advice to their soldiers, but there was a ferocity in the way Amaya stared into Gren’s face as she finished the sentence that belied the true target.

Amaya turned that heated gaze to the two again, and Gren knew she was giving them one more order without having Gren speak: Protect Commander Gren.

A sharp nod from both helmeted heads. They were both veterans of the Standing Battalion, these two; they understood well enough.

But there was still a tension in Amaya’s shoulders that only those who knew her best could see. So Gren leant into her peripheral vision to make only promise he could give.

“I’ll be careful,” he said.

And he would have said more, if she did not turn to him with the fluid grace of a trained warrior and press a single gloved finger to his lips.

The words stuck in Gren’s chest, somewhere around his hammering heart. He stared at the way Amaya’s lips softened into a smile, as if acknowledging his move.

He raised his eyes to meet hers, and her smile softened further.

She drew back her hand to speak. He felt the absence like an echo of warmth.

Amaya held his gaze captive as she spoke, hands close to her chest and high enough that he found himself drinking in both her face and her hands. “Gren, I trust you,” she said. “You have been my voice, and now I need you to be my will and find the boys.”

He looked at her and thought, belatedly, how miraculous it was there was still a word that could describe her now, with the setting sun edging the shapes of her words in amber and dusting her dark eyes with gold.

Amaya.

Gren pressed a hand to his chest and bowed. He could not say what he wanted to, but he hoped that this would convey even a little of it: an offering of his heart, his fealty, and even his life, should it come to that.

As he straightened she was already reaching up for his shoulders to pull him into an embrace, and he knew as he felt her bury her face in his shoulder that she understood, if only in part.

He hugged her back with as much restrained ferocity as he dared, here before so many eyes; his hands slipped behind her shield to cross against her back. There was always an element of surprise at the ease with which she fitted in his embrace – a general with unparalleled strength who was willing to acknowledge that she had to stretch to wrap both arms around him while his breaths ruffled her hair.

Gren closed his eyes against the sunset, the citadel and the fading light, and stretched out this moment as long as he could.

But all too soon her hold loosened, and he straightened the same time she did, hands loose upon his shoulders and her side.

She smiled at him – an expression of trust, and fondness, and hope – and strode away.

The ephemeral weight of her hands on his shoulders remained, and gave Gren fortitude enough to return her smile, tilting his head a little as if to say, Good luck.

She paused by her horse, eyes brushing over his face and his freckles as though committing him to memory, and swung herself into the saddle.

Two silhouettes appeared to Gren’s right. Viren and his son Soren approached, casting long shadows in the waning light.

Amaya’s face set into cool command. Her fingers rose, blade-like in precision, and Gren straightened to speak.

“I expect to be notified when the princes are found. And safe.”

Gren closed his eyes and inclined his head as Amaya nudged her horse in a turn around the three of them, to face the archway to the bridge.

“I’ll send word to the Breach immediately,” Viren was saying, but Gren, as he raised his head, only looked up at his general.

And Amaya’s gaze, though she nodded in acknowledgement, rested on her commander.

A horse’s clear cry as Amaya kneed her battle-charger into a rearing gallop, and the thunder of hooves on flagstones echoed through the archway and curved around the corner, and Amaya and her soldiers were gone.

Gren looked after them for a long moment, willing himself to center. He forced his hands to remain loose where they were clasped at his back.

“Oh, Gren?”

Soren’s voice was clear enough; Gren’s eyes slid to his right to look at the younger man – boy, really – and mused, in the split second before Soren continued, that Soren had not changed much at all in the years since Gren had first met him. A boy who worshiped his father, even if perhaps his father did not value it. Gren almost felt sorry for him in that regard.

“Bad news,” Soren said, voice dipping into a drawl. “There’s been a change of plans.”

The words crashed down onto Gren’s shoulders like battle adrenaline, diplomat as he was. He felt the sheathed dagger in his boot dig into the side of his calf as he spun to look at Viren and his son.

Viren was smirking.

“What are you talking about?” Gren said, sharply. He turned to Viren. “What is he talking about?”

Viren was the one to answer. “Oh, I’ve decided you’re off the mission,” he said, voice like silk-smoothed wine. “Soren will lead the rescue expedition.”

Gren stared at Viren’s crocodile smile and Soren’s my-father-gave-me-an-important-mission nod, and Gren’s jaw slackened.

“What? General Amaya was very specific that I was to lead this!” Somewhere in the middle of that sentence his shock had been overtaken by sheer incredulity – he felt his eyes tighten at he corners as he leant into his protest.

Viren had the expression of a mountain lynx that had caught a particularly fat prey. “Oh, perhaps there was a misunderstanding?” he said, voice liltingly, placatingly calm, like a father explaining something obvious to a small and very stupid child. “Soren, set up a meeting for Commander Gren and I to…discuss his concerns.”

Soren nodded and grinned, and Gren wondered detachedly whether the young man had any idea how his father was using him.

Viren paused halfway into the tower entrance. “Somewhere quiet,” he added. “Say, around nine?”

Only years as a diplomat kept Gren’s eyes from widening and his hands from forming fists.

That was a coded order if he ever heard one.

He let his shoulders drop. “Yes, very good,” he said, even as the fingers of his left hand curled into signals at his side. “Nine…suits my schedule.”

Every part of his head was screaming at him to turn and check whether the two members of the Standing Battalion stood a little ways away had seen his signal, but he forced himself to keep his head down, dejected, harmless.

He heard one soldier excuse herself, the sound of her armoured boots clicking casually against the flagstones. She was headed for the stables, no doubt to race after Amaya and her platoon.

Gren’s relief at that was short-lived.

Soren’s eyes flashed once – a fool for his father, people might whisper behind his back, but an idiot he was not – and his hands lanced out viper-swift for Gren’s wrist and neck.

Gren twisted away, shouting, and heard over the drumbeat of blood in his ears the clatter of a falling spear as members of Soren’s guard tackled Gren’s two soldiers to the ground. The cry of the soldier who had gone for the stables accompanied the crack of her helmet against stone.

Gren’s fingers had found the dagger in his boot, though he rebelled at the thought of using it – not against Soren, barely eighteen, and a family friend of the royal house of Katolis since his birth.

Soren looked at Gren’s dagger, smirked in an incredibly accurate imitation of his father, and drew his sword.

And Gren, for all the self-defense lessons Amaya had given him, never had a chance.

He fought like a cornered animal anyway.

The dagger was ripped from his hand. Gren took advantage of the fact that Soren meant to capture and not kill by sinking his teeth into the underside of Soren’s arm, where the bracer did not protect him. Soren howled and dropped his sword, and Gren grabbed Soren’s head of perfectly-shaped blonde hair and yanked as hard as he could.

Soren’s screech was immensely satisfying, but the blow to Gren’s solar plexus was not.

All the air in his lungs left him at once.

Soren’s hand grasped Gren’s shoulder and slammed him bodily into the ground.

Gren choked in a breath.

“Amaya,” he croaked. The sound was lost in Soren’s very vocal whoop of victory.

“Amaya,” Gren tried again. “Amaya!” he shouted, a full-throated yell that sent the birds that had returned to their roosts rising off the battlements in a cacophony of shrieking protest.

There was no way she could hear him. Not even those with her, surely out of the citadel and well across the bridge now.

Gren shouted anyway.

A hand clasped over his mouth, and no matter how Gren scratched and bit and writhed, more arms and legs pressed him down until rough hands pulled his arms behind him and fastened cold iron against his wrists.

He stopped struggling, then. To continue would risk injuring his hands.

They hauled him away – his two soldiers to the common dungeons, but Gren blindfolded, through familiar echoes and then unfamiliar, through passageways and down circle after circle of stone steps until the chains at his wrists were exchanged for different ones, heavier, thicker.

Gren winced as Soren ripped off his blindfold, revealing a windowless chamber bathed in murky blue light.

“Hey, Gren, it’s not personal,” Soren said jovially, as he tossed the blindfold over his shoulder. “No hard feelings?”

Gren stared at him.

Soren shrugged. “Eh. Your choice.” His armour clanked obnoxiously as he disappeared up the spiral stars.

Gren swallowed.

The chamber was still.

Bookshelves. Strange artifacts, fire-pokers and blacksmith’s tools lined up against the wall; luminescent blue crystals, the light of which overwhelmed what scant pools of yellow light given by thin candles. Strange objects covered with cloth, chains dangling from the ceiling, and all manner of preserved animals frozen with snarls on their faces.

The silence of the chamber was almost oppressive; not a breath of wind, a mustiness to the air that spoke of somewhere either deep underground or very much hidden.

And worse…

Gren craned his neck back to look at his hands. They swayed above him, held with manacles clasped around his wrists, where his bracers met his skin. A chain stretched up above each shackle to the wall, where the chains ran into hidden recesses.

Gren jangled the chains experimentally. They barely moved, heavy and solid.

Sound seemed to thin to his left, which suggested a doorway; Gren heaved against the chains as much as he could to twist his neck and look over his shoulder.

Darkness loomed beyond the archway, so still and silent that Gren swallowed and settle back to stand against the wall.

The chains.

The chains were going to be a problem.

For the moment, it was manageable; Gren could shift his wrists a little in the iron bonds, alternate the spread of weight on the heels of his hands. The wall was solid enough to lean upon.

The true danger would come should his feet grow tired, or if he needed to sleep. Then, the whole weight of his armour and body would strain on the join between his wrist and his hands, bruising in places and leaving others bereft of blood.

Gren’s heart kicked into a racing rhythm as he considered the very real possibility that he might lose his hands.

Amaya.

Already, his shoulders had begun to ache, and his fingers tingled from the struggle of pumping blood up to his fingertips; His wrists were icy and hot at once against the rough rust of their bindings.

Gren took a breath.

He straightened his shoulders deliberately; planted his feet even and sure on the stone floor, leant as much of his weight as he dared on the wall behind him.

And he waited.

It didn’t matter how long. He was good at it.

>Viren’s face, when he appeared, was all affability.

“Ah,” he breathed. “Five past nine. I apologise for my tardiness.”

Head lowered, one foot propped up against the wall – if he had to put up a show, he would – Gren considered his options, and decided a little sarcasm wouldn’t go amiss.

“It was only five minutes,” he stated, perfectly evenly.

Viren nodded as he approached, a pleased smile on his features. “What are your concerns?”

And there was that tone again – the one used for an insufferable lesser being one had to listen to.

“Well.” Gren cleared his throat, tamped down on the urge to growl. “You took me off the mission,” he said, conversationally.

“Hmm. Noted. Go on.”

“And,” Gren continued, with slight aggravation, “You threw me in this dungeon.”

“Ah, I see,” Viren said, looking quite contrite. “Anything else?”

Your filthy hands and your traitorous heart, Gren wanted to say.

But that would get him no information.

“Uh, no,” he said instead. “But…no. I guess those are the main two.”

Viren had the gall to press a hand to his chest and incline his head formally. “Thank you. Your feedback is a gift.”

Gren’s eyes sharpened, and he might have loosened his tongue to say more, should Viren’s daughter not have leant into the room at the far archway.

“Father, it’s about our other prisoner.”

Viren looked at Claudia a moment, and strode after her without a word.

Gren rearranged his posture to take the strain off his wrists. Mused on this new bit of information.

Other prisoner.

Intriguing.

But as the hours lengthened, Gren’s mind turned increasingly more to the pain in his shoulders and the ache in his wrists, back and legs.

His letter to Amaya was a hard wedge of parchment across the back of his forearm, under his bracer. He focused on that to the exclusion of all else.

Don’t fall asleep, Gren told himself.

Don’t fall asleep.

Don’t fall asleep…

>The stamping of boots against stone jolted Gren to full awareness. He had not been truly asleep – his hands and wrists would have been in agony if he was – but he had been resting more weight on his bindings than he liked.

He straightened, shaking himself awake, and forced his fists to open and shut ten times in quick succession, wincing at the burn of returning blood.

Surprisingly, it was not Soren who descended the stone steps, but a young-faced guard with amber eyes and a sweep of messy hair, dressed in the plain armour of the palace guard.

Gren scrutinized the guard’s features a moment longer before recognition settled in.

One of the Home Guard’s newest recruits, graduated in the Spring. What was his name again – Marcos.

“Good morning, Marcos,” Gren said genially, and the young man jolted so badly he nearly upset the tray of gruel and water in his hands.

Marcos’s eyes snapped to Gren’s. “I’m not supposed to talk to you, sir,” he whispered, almost mouthing the words in his effort to be quiet.

Sir. That was a good sign. Gren tilted his head. “So I gather it is morning?”

Marcos did not reply, but placed the tray to the side and stepped out of Gren’s line of vision; a moment later, Gren’s chains lengthened enough that his arms, though still bound, dropped completely to his sides.

Gren half-collapsed to the floor, knees, feet, and everything from shoulder to fingertips aching.

Armoured boots slid into his field of vision again and placed a wide chamberpot in front of him.

Gren looked at it and groaned. At least Marcos looked away as he did what he needed to.

The chamberpot was pulled away, and the tray placed in front of Gren. Marcos’s hand indicated the bowl and pitcher.

Gren rubbed his wrists once more, and set to eating. The gruel was thin and watery and the water had a metallic aftertaste, but it was food and he was not about to waste it. As he ate, he stole surreptitious glances at the guard.

Marcos had moved a few paces away towards the spiral stair, as if by standing as close to it as possible he could prove to any who chose to enter that he was not speaking to the prisoner at all, oh no.

“Thanks for the food,” Gren began, conversationally. “Has any work been done to find the princes?”

Marcos startled, and his eyes slid to meet Gren’s momentarily before snapping back to the opposite wall. “Not supposed to talk to you, sir,” he repeated.

Gren paused. “Well, I’m sure a smart person like you can find a way around it.”

It took a moment, but Marcos shook his head, carefully.

“So Soren hasn’t ridden out yet.”

Marcos shook his head again, no more than a single sideways jerk of his chin.

Gren finished up his breakfast. As Marcos stepped over to him to pick up the tray, Gren’s hand darted out and clasped around the younger man’s wrist.

Gren sighed inwardly as he took in the shock and raw fear on Marcos’s face. “Calm down,” he said, quietly. “I need you see a message sent to the Breach for me.”

Marcos shook his head so vehemently that his armour plates clanked together.

Gren wondered for a moment at the young guard’s thoughts. Gren’s other hand was unoccupied, and the chain running from it was long enough to pool over the floor by their feet – and so long enough to wrap around Marcos’s neck, if he wished.

Of course, it wasn’t as if Gren would do such a thing, but the fact that Marcos hadn’t thought about it probably meant that Viren thought his life expendable.

What had Viren expected? Had he sent this young and green guard down to Gren as if saying, You can take the sword at his side if you wish to. Just kill him?

“Marcos, this is for Katolis,” Gren sighed.

Marcos’s cheeks darkened with colour, and he had the grace to look ashamed. But it seemed that shame was enough to push him to speak, at least. “I don’t have the key,” he murmured.

“I don’t need you to release me,” Gren whispered, urgently. “I need word sent to General Amaya.”

“Even if I wished–” Marcos’s eyes slid away. “Lord Viren has a chokehold on all letters in and out of the citadel,” he said. “I won’t get away, or any other rider.”

Gren released Marcos’s wrist, and the younger man stumbled back, rubbing at his left bracer.

“I’m sure you can think of something,” Gren said, as Marcos gathered the tray.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Marcos mumbled, stepping around him to tighten the chains, this time feeding them through a wooden board over his head so they were even tighter than before; Gren grimaced as the strain on his shoulders and wrists flared anew.

“Please,” Gren said, and Marcos’s eyes flashed to his and away again.

“I’m sorry, sir, orders,” Marcos repeated. “I’m sorry. I can’t talk to you.”

And then he was gone, and nothing remained except the burning in Gren’s wrists, the numbness of his fingers and the fog of exhaustion that threatened to claim him.

>Viren came and went.

Gren found it harder and harder to stand. There were short reprieves every morning and evening – or so he assumed those were the times Marcos came with food – but the guard refused to speak to him, everything in the set of his shoulders showing fear of retribution. But he let Gren nap for ten-minute stretches every meal, at least.

The only thing that took Gren’s mind off the struggle to preserve his hands was the fact that he soon figured out the other prisoner down the corridor ahead was a Moonshadow elf – and not just any one.

King Harrow had died by this elf’s hand.

But from the echoes of speech that Gren could hear whenever Viren visited the elf, Viren was less concerned that this was the murderer of his best friend and more occupied with prying for magical information – something about a mirror.

Gren frowned.

Viren’s complete apathy made sense. The rest did not.

But then the tenor of Viren’s voice changed as it filtered to him across the length of the dungeon, and Gren froze, listening.

“What a beautiful challenge you’ve given me.” Viren said, all intrigued delight and intellectual satisfaction. “I must come up with something you will fear…more than death.”

Gren closed his eyes briefly. The fact that Viren was willing so say something so chilling – even to an enemy of Katolis – spoke volumes of his true character.

The sharp, metallic sound of sceptre meeting stone grew louder, and Gren raised his head just in time to catch Viren appearing in the opposite archway. The man passed him with nary a glance, but Gren called out after him – some nonsense about the Xadian fruit in Viren’s hands, and although Viren treated him as though he were nothing more than a yapping dog, it was worth it to keep up pretense that he had no ruminations of escape.

In the silence after, Gren took a breath. Weighed his words. And when he spoke, it helped clear some of the fog of exhaustion over his eyes.

“I’m not going to ask what your name is,” he called, letting his voice ring down the stone towards the cell on the far end of the corridor. “I know well enough that you do not wish to reveal it. But I’m a prisoner like you are, and I thought you might like to talk.”

Nothing.

Well, it was only expected. Gren took another breath, shifted his aching shoulders. “Why did you kill the king?”

Silence.

Gren closed his eyes. “Ah,” he said, softly. “Because we killed yours.”

It made sense. It was even cruelly logical, in warfare: a proportionate response.

There was no answer, but Gren thought he heard the clinking of chains far ahead, as though the elf had shifted.

“I was there,” Gren said. “I was there, last Winter’s Turn.”

The chains groaned against stone, and Gren knew he had an audience.

And then, so softly that Gren almost missed it: “Did you have a hand in it?”

“The killing of Thunder?” Gren paused. “No. I am no warrior.”

A single, barking laugh, ragged from a throat completely dry. “You lie. I’ve heard them call you Commander.”

“Well, that is my rank,” Gren sighed. “But I don’t do much fighting. I’m a sign language interpreter.”

A pause, and then, in a growl so low and filled with hatred that Gren felt his hackles rise: “You’re the general’s companion. The one who bears no weapon.”

It was…strange, to hear that this was the way the Xadian forces thought of him. But it was also comforting. He would have expected them to call him her servant, her lieutenant – but to be her companion was a hidden blessing.

That tone, though, needed exploration.

“You sound as though you don’t like me very much,” Gren said, mildly.

The sound of spit against stone. “Your general killed hundreds of our people!”

“So have you, I take it,” Gren countered. “Elven assassin, aren’t you?”

“You serve a murderer,” the growl came.

“Don’t we all,” Gren sighed. He couldn’t feel his fingertips anymore, and no matter how he tried to move his hands they were sluggish to respond. His chains rang against the wall and his manacles in a maddening, useless cacophony.

Gren sighed. Stilled. Then: “What’s up with your hand?” Viren had said something about it, earlier.

The silence grew a little colder.

“I should think that as an assassin, your hands would matter,” Gren murmured. “…As mine do.”

But the elf did not respond, and Gren was left to the endless repetition of moving his hands as much as they could, systematically, pushing away the fear in his heart that with each moment he remained shackled to the wall, the damage to his hands increased.

>When Viren came again, he entered by another archway, pushing a tall, cloth-covered shape ahead of him.

Gren had taken to whistling to keep himself awake – anything to counter the sagging of his weight against his shackles – and he raised his aching head to watch as Viren disappeared into the far corridor.

There was a cryptic exchange between Viren and the elf regarding a mirror of some kind, and the clatter of metal against stone floors; and then, a chanting of a many-layered voice, louder and louder until the walls seemed to shake with it, and rising into a crescendo underneath: wild, agonised screams.

Gren strained against his bonds, leant as far forward as he could to peer into the darkened corridor.

A sickening purple glow bled out of the half-open door at the end of it; a colour Gren had seen only once before, on the battlefield of last Winter’s Turn, when a lance of fire that exact shade had struck down the King of Dragons.

The screams cut off abruptly.

Stillness.

And then a tall, lean-shouldered silhouette slipped into view. Gren’s eyes caught the familiar long coat and high collar, but his breath caught as a purple glow filled the hallway again; from a pair of glowing eyes, no less.

By Katolis, Viren. Gren stared. What have you done.

The figure approached, and the full horror of what had just been done crashed down upon the chamber as it emerged into the light.

It was a twisting of nature. There was no other word for it; where Viren’s eyes had been were now black, fathomless pits, with irises a purple so dark they were almost sable; grey-blue skin scored with darker scars covered what once was human. The colour of his hair had been leached away, leaving a metallic white that seemed more metal than hair.

Viren flicked out a coin from behind his back and examined it. “I always seem to capture the same expression,” he mused, dispassionately. “Defiance…”

Gren breathed shallowly, stiffening as Viren turned to him.

“…Giving away to absolute fear,” Viren relished.

It took a moment for Gren to realise what Viren held between his thumb and forefinger.

When he did, he could not stop the horror on his features.

Viren barked a laugh and ascended the stairs, flicking the coin into the air and catching it languidly, as though there was not an elven soul captured in it.

Gren thought he was going to be sick.

He closed his eyes, and breathed. The musty smell of the dungeon assaulted him anew. This development brought new information, yes. It also boded ill. There was now no possibility that Viren intended to let him go alive, not after what he had seen.

So.

There, a little further down his bracer than the band of numb flesh where the manacles pressed into his skin, his letter remained.

Amaya, in the event of my death.

Gren took a breath, and decided.

When Marcos came down the steps with food that night, he looked spooked. His hands were shaking ever-so-slightly where he clutched the tray.

“Marcos,” Gren said.

Marcos shook his head, tight-lipped, and placed the tray on the floor.

“Marcos,” Gren repeated, with a note of command.

The young guard looked away.

“I take it you’ve seen what he’s become,” Gren said.

Marcos looked like he almost jumped out of his skin. He went wordlessly to lengthen Gren’s chains. Gren took that as answer enough.

“I have a question for you,” he said, ignoring the food. His hands felt like they were on fire, and her rubbed them against each other as best he could. Already, his fingers were refusing to form a fist.

“I can’t,” Marcos murmured, so quietly and shamefully that Gren almost missed it.

“Yes, you can,” Gren said, and there was nothing but steel in his voice. “I saw how he turned into…that. Do you really think he’s going to let me live?”

Marcos studied his armoured boots.

“Here,” Gren said. His clumsy fingers worked under his bracer, and pulled out a folded sheet of parchment: his letter. “Send word to General Amaya. Don’t leave out a single detail of what’s happened. But keep this letter with you until you have cause to believe I’m dead.”

Marcos’s eyes met his, wavering and hazel. “How…how would I know?”

Gren’s lips twitched in dark humour. “You’ll have no more orders to bring me meals.”

The younger man still stared at the letter in Gren’s hands, but did not reach for it.

Gren sighed. “For Katolis,” he said.

Marcos’s hands were shaking, but he reached for the letter and pocketed it.

Gren found himself wishing, illogically, for it back – for the comfort of knowing it was with him.

“Send word to General Amaya, and only send this letter if you are likely to have…died,” Marcos repeated.

“Yes,” Gren confirmed. He smiled. Marcos was a soldier of Katolis after all, it seemed; brave in the face of despair.

Marcos tapped the spot in his tunic where he had tucked the letter away, and nodded. “I’ll try, sir,” he said, seemingly drawing confidence from Gren’s approval. “But I can’t promise anything.”

They spent the rest of Gren’s meal in silence as Gren struggled with the utensils in his sluggish fingers, and Marcos looked at him apologetically as he tightened his bonds.

When the thud of closing door sounded high above, Gren leant his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. Exhaustion filled every inch of him, now; he could feel the siren call of true sleep tugging at his soul.

His wrists grew so quickly numb in their chains now that the temptation to give in, to crumble and let his hands take his weight, was overwhelming.

But his part in his mission was complete.

And he had sent his letter on, though he had no idea if it would ever reach Amaya. If Marcos sends it on, it would mean that Gren would have died.

A strange thing – Gren had never had delusions of having a long life, not when he had chosen to serve at the Breach. He had thought he would die by his General’s side, willingly, but it was only now when he knew that returning to the fortress at the Breach would bring the culmination of all his hopes that he wished desperately to live, for no other reason than to see Amaya again.

He wished…

He wished he had not lied, last Winter’s Turn. He wished that when he had whispered “I love you,” into Amaya’s embrace he had repeated his true words in sign instead of signing I thank you.

He could have told her properly, so many times.

Gren’s legs trembled; he knew they would give way soon, and there would be nothing further he could do to save his hands. His voice, when it came to Amaya; so he could speak to her as she could to him.

Viren was a cruel, cruel man. He had told the elf that it was a beautiful challenge to find something that one would fear worse than death.

For Gren, it was to lose his hands; the ability to sign, and interpret. His very purpose of living.

“Amaya,” he whispered, and the name echoed into the empty dungeon without an answer, ghostly touches of her hands on his shoulders and her fingers in his, and he tried to fold his fingers around that phantom touch without success.

His letter was somewhere far above, tucked into the tunic of a young guard. Gren could recite the entire text verbatim; he had spent a sleepless night writing it not so long ago, when he had thought he could keep the letter with him for long years yet.

The words brought him comfort.

Amaya, in the event of my death:

Dearest Amaya,

I pen this letter a few months after Winter’s Turn, when the King of Dragons fell. I confess that I do not know in what circumstances this letter might come to you – I hope that I will have had the opportunity to say what I put in this letter to you in person. You deserve truth, and heartfelt conversation face-to-face. But the events of last midwinter have led me to realise that life, after all, is fragile; I would have died on that frozen ground were it not for you, and I know that knowledge has weighed heavily on your mind in the months since, as it has mine.

So, I hope that this letter may serve in my absence. To speak where I cannot.

Amaya, I love you.

It feels almost strange to write it down like so when I have been thinking it in your presence every hour and every day since it first occurred to me, years ago when you took the blow to your head that left you with the scar on your right cheek. I was younger then, and I knew that it would be best to wait. And wait I have, in quiet and in battle, in joy and in sorrow.

I suppose I should explain how I came to love you, but I do not think I could; how do I explain how beautiful your words are when you capture them in your hands, or how I stumbled over myself like a fool just to hear you laugh? I’m not sure if I ever told you, but your laugh is one of the most beautiful things I have heard.

You were my general first. In my earlier months by your side I often stood astounded at your compassion and steel-fired will; it had not occurred to me before meeting you that one could be both at once. Gentleness and ferocity, kindness and command. And it was in discovering the depth of my regard for you that I realised I wished to remain by your side for as long as I could – to aid you and to serve, and to be your trusted confidant, as long as you wished.

I suppose that if you are reading this, I am gone. I do not know what took me – battle, sickness, or cruelty – but I know that you must be grieving. I hope that you will find the same peace we did before your sister’s grave, before mine. Do not grieve too long, Amaya. Memory is precious in that with time, it grows fonder, just as each moment I spend with you now only adds to the regard I have for you. The fact I am gone does not diminish that love. And love is meant to be shared; with your nephews, with friends you may find in the future.

I will always love you, Amaya. I always have.

Ever yours,

Gren

As he recalled the final words of his letter, Gren felt his ankles give way at last. He hissed in pain as his legs collapsed under him; bereft of support, his shoulders and wrists jarred with his full weight, and he cried out despite himself.

He stared up at his slowly-whitening hands, and felt tears well up the corners of his eyes, blurring the images of his fingers until it appeared that he had no hands at all, only blurred shapes that grew number and colder by the moment.

And, like so, hanging as a puppet, he fell at last into an exhausted sleep.

Next chapter: Interludes! I’ll be writing a couple of interludes set anywhere between chapters 1 and 6. Requests are welcome, though I already have a few ideas!

Also, this will continue into season 2. It’ll probably be a very solid gremaya au by then, but I’ll try to follow canon as closely as possible. Thanks for reading this, guys! I never thought I’d write tdp fanfic but this has blossomed into quite the lengthy fic. It’s over 36,000 words total!

>Chapter 7

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drink-the-midnight-oil · 6 years

Text

Our Eternity: a flashback

TRIGGER WARNING: Miscarriage

DISCLAIMER: I am not a doctor or anyone educated in the medical field. The symptoms regarding the miscarriage have been written with the help of information from medical websites. The facts may not be completely accurate and it is purely for the intention of a fictional story.

Ten Years Ago

Betty’s hands trembled as her mind registered the two lines on the little stick she held. No. No, no, no. This wasn’t supposed to happen. They’d been so careful. But all the pieces clicked. Missing her period, the morning nausea, and now, the test. She, Betty Cooper, age sixteen, was pregnant.

Her mind shifted to how her mother would react. While Alice Cooper was not a proponent of abstinence, she did believe in what she called the “Cooper Family Curse”. According to her somewhat flawed theory, all Cooper women had been cursed with teen pregnancies. And eerily, the theory had held for three generations. Betty’s grandmother, Alice, and Betty’s sister, Polly, had all been teen mothers. And now, it appeared to be Betty’s turn.

Betty looked at her reflection in the mirror in front of her. She was a mess. There were prominent dark bags under her eyes, her hair was a rat’s mess, and a dribble of vomit was stuck to her chin. Her hand mindlessly touched her abdomen in the spot where the baby would be.

Tears pooled into the corners of Betty’s eyes. How was she going to face the town? She would be mocked and laughed at. A silly sixteen-year-old girl who had gotten herself knocked up. And worse, the father was a Southside Serpent. The child would be a stigma.

And what would Jughead say? Poor, sweet Jughead who loved her more than anyone else. How was she going to break the news to him? How would he be able to deal with this on top of everything else going on?

Questions swirled in Betty’s head, like a tornado’s calamitous winds. A wave of nausea overcame her and she stumbled to the toilet, grabbing the bowl and retching bile. Her empty stomach hurt and her hair smelled. But she had to get to school. Flushing the toilet, Betty turned on the shower and stepped in.

It was going to be a long day.

“So, what did you want to talk to me about?” Jughead asked. School had ended and he and Betty were seated in the Blue and Gold’s office.

Betty’s stomach twisted itself into knots, and she clasped her hands.

“There’s something I have to tell you,” she started.

Jughead looked at her supportively, encouraging her to go on. His innocent face tugged at Betty’s heartstrings. He was always so distressed. Something or the other was always going wrong in his life, and he had told her that she was his safe place. And now, she was about to destroy that.

Betty felt her lower lip begin to quiver. She choked up, unable to speak. Tears brimmed in her eyes, making everything look blurry.

Jughead’s expression turned alarmed.

“Betty? Are you okay?” He came and sat next to her on the plaid couch. His hand started to rub soothing circles on her back.

“Hey, it’ll be alright. What’s the matter, Betts?”

His endearing nickname for her made her cry harder, unable to stop the tears.

“Betty?” Jughead’s voice was concerned.

Come on, Betty, spit it out.

“I’m late.” Jughead’s hand stopped rubbing her back.

She peeked up at him, scared of what his reaction might be. He was frozen in place, unmoving. His blue eyes were fixated on a point on the wall.

“Jug?” she whispered, afraid.

He blinked and looked at her as if realizing that she was there too.

“Okay, well-”

“I took a pregnancy test this morning. It came out positive,” she blurted.

Jughead looked at her, silent. His blue eyes were sad. Betty’s entire body was shaking, her fears all too real.

“I- I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to-” But she couldn’t complete her sentence.

Jughead seemed to sense her anguish.

“Betty, it’s not your fault,” he said, calmly. “We used protection. We did everything right. Sometimes these things happen and you have to deal with it. I’m not going to make you go through this alone. We’ll do this together, okay?”

Betty nodded.

“Come here.” Jughead pulled her into his lap, wrapping his arms around her. She pressed her cheek against his chest. The slow sound of his heartbeat echoed in her ear. He smelled good, like peppermint and pine needles. It was a comforting scent. She felt him kiss the top of her head.

“So, we’re having a baby, huh? I always thought it was job, marriage, then family. Not all mixed up,” He joked.

Betty knew he was trying to lighten the situation and appreciated his effort. She let out something between a snort and a laugh. Now, she just had to break the news to her mother. She sighed. Alice would not take it well.

Jughead slowly pulled her back and looked straight into her eyes.

“I love you, you know that right? And I’ll always love you, no matter what.”

Betty traced the moles on his cheek.

“And I love you, Jughead. Forever.”

“I guess we should start thinking up baby names, huh? None of the Forsythe Pendleton IV nonsense. I’m not thrusting that horrendous destiny on any child of mine.”

“We still have time, Jug,” Betty giggled. They were silent.

“We have to tell our parents.” A pause.

Jughead gave her a sad smile.

“I know, baby. I know.”

He pulled her back to him and they sat there, wrapped in each other's arms. The next few months would be filled with doctor’s visits and ultrasounds but whatever it was, they’d push through it together.

3 Months Later...

Betty pushed herself up off the couch. She was 17 weeks pregnant and her baby bump was easily noticeable. Walking over to the kitchen counter, she picked up the photographs that lay there.

They were the latest ultrasound pictures that she had received. She examined the little person that was growing inside her tummy. The doctor had determined it to be a girl and Betty had been ecstatic. The baby was due on March 15th, the Ides of March. Due to Jughead’s love of Shakespearian tragedies and the coincidence of the baby’s due date, they had decided to name the child Julia, although Betty hadn’t been too happy about it at first. It was like they were dooming their daughter by naming her after a murdered Roman. However, Jughead had persisted and Betty had finally relented.

Alice Cooper had not been too surprised when Betty had broken the news to her. She had simply sighed. It was bound to happen. Although not pleased that Jughead was a Serpent, Alice hadn’t been too hard on him. But Betty suspected that it was because Alice secretly had a soft spot for FP Jones. Nevertheless, she had willingly taken part in helping Betty through the pregnancy.

The doorbell rang and Betty went to open it. Jughead stood outside, rubbing his hands together for warmth. The fall weather had been cooler and crisper than usual this year.

“Ready to go?” he asked, grinning. His cheeks were pink in contrast to his pale face.

Betty grabbed her coat and pulled the door shut behind her.

“Let’s go.”

Jughead drove up the winding road cautiously. It was pretty narrow and one mistake could mean trouble. Trees lined either side of the road, their leaves orange and red and brown. The beauty made Betty feel happy and less moody. Her pregnancy had been her avoiding any reflecting surfaces and feeling fat and lazy and useless. Even though Jughead told her that she was beautiful, Betty still felt overly large at times. Thankfully, today was a better day. The car carefully made its way through the twisting path and emerged in a flat area at the top of the hill.

Jughead got out and helped Betty get out. He grabbed their stuff which consisted of a blue blanket, a thermos filled with hot chocolate, and two cups. They walked to a nook on the edge of the peak and sat down. Jughead unscrewed the thermos and poured them each a cup. He wrapped the blanket around them and they sipped their hot chocolate, admiring the view.

From where they sat, all of Riverdale was visible. Betty could see the high school and Pop’s and far in the distance, her house. It all looked so small and peaceful from here. Autumn was always good to the town. An array of colorful leaves blew in the wind and covered the roads. The weather was pleasant if not too chilly.

Jughead pulled off his beanie. These few moments that they had alone, in between doctor’s appointments and shopping trips, not to mention school, were precious for Betty. Jughead came to see her almost every day, but they didn’t get as much time as they used to. What with Betty’s volunteering and Jughead’s part-time job at The Register, longer visits were a rarity.

But Jughead would somehow manage to find a way to whisk her away from her hectic schedule and they would go someways private and quiet and sit. Sometimes they would talk, and at other times they would sit in silence, enjoying each other’s company.

“Only a few more weeks left,” Jughead said, turning to Betty.

“That’s right,” she replied. “I hope the baby looks like you. I hope she has dark hair and blue eyes.”

Jughead chuckled.

“I’m flattered, Betty. But it could be a little blond-haired, green-eyed boy just the same. I’m happy no matter what as long as the baby is healthy. I’m just glad that I’m having this child with you.”

“Me too,” Betty said, blissful.

They sat in a comfortable silence, Betty’s head resting on Jughead’s shoulder. The sun set in the horizon, its colors splaying over the town.

Something was wrong. Betty knew it. Spotting was normal for pregnancy, but the rate at which she had started bleeding was not normal.

She clenched her jaw as the cramps rolled in, squeezing her stomach muscles. It was horrible, the pain and Betty suddenly felt weak. She crawled into her bed, clutching her stomach. This wasn’t supposed to happen. These cramps were much worse than anything she had ever experienced.

She squeezed her eyes shut but a few tears escaped and slid down her cheeks. It hurt so badly. This was definitely not normal.

Betty stumbled into the bathroom, throwing up that’s afternoon’s lunch. Her head had started pounding and the pain was getting too much for her to bear. A sudden clenching in her abdomen nearly made her pass out.

There was blood everywhere. Her clothes were soaked in it and the metallic smell filled the tiny bathroom. Betty managed to pull off her pants and underwear and heaved herself onto the toilet, breathing hard.

Then the next cramp hit. This time Betty heard someone let out a guttural scream, only to realize that the sound was coming out of her mouth. Something fell into the toilet and Betty slipped off the seat and her head hit the cold, hard floor.

Her hair was plastered to her forehead with sweat. The cool floor felt good against her cheek. The pain was blinding her. Black spots swam before her eyes. Her breathing sounded too loud.

A vague memory of the bathroom door opening. Alice Cooper screaming. Strangers lifting her up. A woman telling her to breathe. And then, darkness.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Some sort of machinery was beeping. Betty opened her eyes. Immediately, she could tell that she was not in her room. The lights were too bright and everything was too white.

She tried to raise her hand but felt something her arm. Looking down, Betty saw a tube in her arm that went up and connected to an IV next to her bed. She was in the hospital. But how?

“Betty! She’s awake! Polly, call Jughead.” A voice next to her said.

A frightened face swam in front of her, and green eyes peered down at her.

“Mom?” Betty’s voice was hoarse.

“I’m right here, honey. You’re okay. You’re fine,” Alice took Betty’s hand.

“Is- Is everything alright? How long have I been out?”

“A little over a day. They had to keep you under for some time.”

“Wha.... Why are we here?”

“Oh, Betty. I’m so sorry,” Alice said, and that’s when Betty noticed the tears in her mother’s eyes.

“Mom.” Now Betty could feel herself panicking. “What do you mean? What’s wrong?”

The door burst open and Jughead stood in the doorway, his hair a mess, his eyes wild and sleep-deprived. There was a faint shadow of stubble across his cheeks and chin. He was wearing his shirt inside-out, Betty noticed.

“The baby’s gone, Betty. You had a miscarriage.”

Gone? Something didn’t sound right. How could a baby just be gone? Silly Mom, Betty thought to herself. She laughed.

Everyone was staring at her in horror, she realized and stopped.

“She’s in shock.” It was Polly who spoke up.

No, she wasn’t. She was perfectly fine. So was little Julie. Right?

A wave of images crashed into Betty’s mind and suddenly, she was reliving the previous day’s events. The cramps, the pain, and the blood, so much blood...

No. She couldn’t have lost the baby. She just couldn’t have. Tears filled up in her eyes and Betty’s vision went blurry. She felt as if a chunk of her had been torn away, leaving her raw and bleeding. Her Julie, her sweet Julie...

A scream built up in the back of her throat and Betty let it out, horrible and devastating. She hit away her mother’s reaching hands, thrashing and writhing. Through the tears and the crying, Betty saw Jughead still in the doorway, unmoving. Why was he so still? Why wasn’t he upset? Didn’t he care at all?!

Suddenly, nurses were pushing past him and into the room. They restrained Betty’s arms and legs but she tried to fight them off, to no use. One of the nurses plunged a syringe into Betty’s arm and a liquid flowed through her veins.

Betty’s eyelids started to feel heavy, and sleep overtook her.

The last thing she saw before her eyes closed was Jughead turning and leaving the room, not looking back.

Looks like I managed to finish the flashback after all. I know that there are still a few questions that are unanswered but don’t worry, they will be addressed in the upcoming chapters.

I hope you enjoyed this little bit. Would love to hear your feedback. The next chapter will be uploaded next week as usual so watch out for that.

Now I gotta go and study some more.

XOXO

Rhea

#bughead #bughead fanfiction #betty cooper #betty x jughead #jughead jones #bughead au #flashback #sprousehart-stan fanfics #FEEDBACK IS APPRECIATED

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silverwhisp-headcannons-blog · 6 years

Text

HAPPY RWBY THOUGHTS TO HELP WITH EATING ISSUES AND INSECURITY ABOUT ONE’S BODY

RUBY ROSE - “You can’t stop eating; you need to, or else…” she trails off, lower lip not restraining a quiver. “Come with me! Let’s go get you something to eat. Anything you want, just eat for me, please.”

WEISS SCHNEE - She scoffs, abashed, “I’m not the most talented in the kitchen, but I need you to eat for me. Just this once.”

BLAKE BELLADONNA - “I don’t want you depriving yourself like that, {Name}. If there’s someone faunus and humans have in common, it’s that we cannot survive without nourishment. Don’t make the same mistakes I have.”

YANG XIAO LONG - The firecracker isn’t amused as she forces you to sit down, as your sunken sockets roll over to encounter a plate of food. “Neither of us are leaving this spot until you’re done. Now eat.” When you complete your task, she pulls you aside and holds you as though you’re a lifeline. “Thank you, {Name}. Please, don’t do this to yourself.”

ZWEI - He tags along at your feet, offering his personal dog treats and ensures you eat enough all throughout the day

PENNY POLENDINA - “I may not be a real girl, but I am aware humans must acquire sufficient nourishment! Shall I check what is on the menu that perhaps peaks your interests?”

CIEL SOLEIL - “Did you remember to eat today? You were supposed to approximately twelve minutes prior to the present moment, Miss/Mister {Name}. You must not forget to eat.”

JAUNE ARC - The revelation is staggering; proof reading the inscription has him more perplexed than before. “Hey, hey, listen to me. We all need to eat. It’s not just something you can stop doing all of sudden. No one wants to see you get sick and eventually..no, we aren’t getting to that point. Let me see if I can make you some food, okay?”

NORA VALKYRIE - Her heart thumps, incarcerated in her throat. “You…just can’t stop eating.” She tries to play it off facetiously but doesn’t triumph. The scene of her childhood self clutching a molding piece of bread, stomach rumbling, flashes in her mind. “Please. I can ask Ren to whip up something for the two of us, and I want you to eat every last bite.”

PYRRHA NIKOS - Counting her blessings, a wisp of energy squeezes between the gaps of her fingers. “You shouldn’t…no, I won’t stand for this, {Name}. I want you to be healthy,” she tenderly links your palms, ripping open her sternum and capturing you with her finely shaped ribs. “And I know just the foods you need to reach that state of health. I’m here whenever you need me.”

LIE REN - He doesn’t say a word as he prepares a top notch cuisine tailored to your taste buds, and lightly suggests new eating arrangements and ensures you aren’t growing ill. “We all need to thrive, but this isn’t how you do it. You need to eat. I don’t want you to forget that.”

SUN WUKONG - “You got to be kidding me,” he tangles his digits in his banana cream bangs. “Listen, I understand you feel insecure, but this is not how you fix things. Taking care of yourself is looking at those flaws and wanting to make them better without hurting yourself.” His tail snatches your wrist reassuringly. “Now c'mon, I heard of a great place that has these awesome ramen noodles. It’s all on me.”

SCARLET DAVID - He shakes his head, pressing his temple to yours, “My love, you mustn’t be dragged down by this. You are much stronger than this. Don’t hesitate to ask me if you need anything at all; we all need to learn how to care for ourselves.”

SAGE AYANA - He cradles your hand in his enormous on scale fist, gritting his teeth. “Babe, stop it. You shouldn’t be thinking like this. There’s a reason I care for you. And you need to find out why you need to care about yourself, too.”

NEPTUNE VASILIAS - Lovingly running his hands along your complexly structured face, he encourages you quit the nonsense. “Hey, baby, you are absolutely fine. But what you’re doing isn’t. You can’t starve yourself and expect to keep moving on. I want you to be okay, but you need to want that, too.”

COCO ADEL - “We’ve all got our insecurities, babe. Even I suffer from a few of my own every now and then. But I don’t allow them to take control of me. And I can say with certainty they don’t make me do some of the things you have. I want you to sit here and wait while I get Yatsu to make you a little something; you’re eating regardless.”

FOX ALISTAIR - “Enough of this, {Name}. I can’t stand seeing people hurt themselves over that. You deserve much, much, much, much better. I don’t care what you say. You’re eating.”

VELVET SCARLATINA - “I don’t…understand. Why would you deprive yourself like this all for the sake of being thinner? It isn’t healthy. And I don’t want to see you hurt yourself any longer. Please, let me help you.”

YATSUHASHI DAICHI - “I’m always by your side.”

QROW BRANWEN - “You know, sometimes it puzzles me when people like yourself worry about these things. But I guess everyone’s got a problem with themselves. I know I do. That isn’t the point. Stop this. You need to know you deserve better even when someone makes you feel like garbage. Obviously, if they waste the time I silting you, they aren’t really worth it. Now eat something, please. I don’t want you getting sick.”

TAIYANG XIAO LONG “I’ll be honest, I always feared Yang or Ruby would take this route, yet I never expected you would do this. But that doesn’t change a thing. I’m here for you, you know.”

SUMMER ROSE - “Stay with me, my love. I shall remain at your side through all your trial and tribulation.”

RAVEN BRANWEN - “You are strong, not among the weak. Stand tall and keep moving forward. I won’t permit this trouble to persist for another minute.”

GLYNDA GOODWITCH - “You need to take care of yourself. Please. I don’t want to lose you like I’ve lost so many students.”

OZPIN - “I have lived longer than most, and trust me when I say I’ve made more mistakes than any man, woman or child on this planet. I don’t want you to fall victim to this, dear. Thank you for confiding with me. Would you care for some coffee? It always soothes the soul. Then we can talk about how we can help you overcome this.”

OSCAR PINES - “I’m…not the best at this, but please do know I really do care about you, and want only the best to come your way.”

WINTER SCHNEE - “This behavior does not suit someone such as yourself, {Name}. We all have our demons to ward off, and it appears you are struggling. Perhaps I can teach you to rise above them, hm?”

WHITLEY SCHNEE - “Unacceptable. Klein, please fetch {Name} the finest cuisine you can prepare. They deserve only the best and are worthy of knowing the meaning they hold.”

ILIA AMITOLA - “I want you to look me in the eyes and say you deserve so much more. You’re the reason I can finally say that about myself, and now you need to know it for yourself.”

ADAM TAURUS - “My darling, I demand you cease believing this nonsense. You’re at my hand - you are strong, and I shall keep building you up. You must know of your worth.”

SALEM - “Under my watch, this will not prevail. As my beloved, you are to be treated as the divine being you have risen to.”

CINDER FALL - “Why must you allow such trivial thoughts conquer you? Don’t you understand you are powerful? It isn’t often one can tame the flames that will burn Beacon whole, now is it?”

ROMAN TORCHWICK - “Sweetheart, you look gorgeous! There isn’t a thing I’d change about ya. Let’s say we head to a fancy new restaurant and treat ourselves, free of charge! Trust me. You are fine as you are.”

MERCURY BLACK - “Quit letting these things take control over your mind. I can’t have you getting sick on me, now can I?”

EMERALD SUSTRAI - “I want you to have everything I couldn’t have. A home, food, and somebody who loved me. Now it’s my turn to five back what you gave to me.”

TYRIAN CALLOWS - “Your Grace, have I expressed how divine you are?”

#rwby #head canon #s/o #imagines #eating disroders #submission

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gothika666faerie · 6 years

Text

Where His Happiness Was (Bertrand x Savannah)

There were two distinct sensations Bertrand felt that roused him from the best sleep he had gotten for the longest time now. Ever since the estate went into ruination, every bedtime was a constant tumult of tossing and turning. For the past two nights however, respite came without resistance of complaint. Just as he had when he came falling into her arms. The first sensation was the brushing, a shy yet persistent caress of her fingers through his thick black hair as he lay, content like a kitten snuggled on a cushion, in her breasts. The second sensation was far less pleasant. It was the continuous, almost desperate vibration on the nightstand. He had texted Maxwell the moment he reached Savannah’s doorstep that he didn’t want to be disturbed until all was fully settled. His little brother, though on the frivolous and sometimes, moronic side, thankfully took the hint and focused his attentions on keeping Lady Emilee safe and on the right path in Shanghai. Until now, that is.

Groaning, he groped blindly for the offending gadget and checked. Yup. Worst fear confirmed: it was Maxwell. Then again, it could have been Drake. He sent a little prayer of gratitude that, to avoid tracking, he never divulged his contacts to the man who still wanted to snap his neck for defiling his little sister. More times than I could count too. Smirking at the memory of Savannah clinging to him tightly as they made good use of her kitchen counter the night before, he pressed “Answer” and pulled himself up to recline against the headboard, rubbing his knuckles against his still awakening eyes.

“Hello…?”

“There you are!! I’ve been trying to reach you for over an hour now! Oh wait,” There was that sheepish tinge in his little brother’s voice that Bertrand had to admit he missed. “I may have forgotten we’re six hours ahead here in NYC. Oops…”

“Well, you still called at 8am, my time, brother…I hope it is important,” He managed out in his usual sternness though his gaze drifted down to the naked, curvaceous frame under the blankets longingly. If this was a false lead or Maxwell just wanting permission to get another dozen peacocks, he was going to hang up and spoon the woman he loved. Preferably with his phone switched off and flung in some forgotten corner of the bedroom.

“Oh, Bertrand, you have no idea! I managed to get a lead on Tariq. He’s totally in NYC! I called some of those expensive, renowned fashion stores he frequents and well, after some patented Maxwell Beaumont persuasion, they were more than happy to tell me his latest purchases and whereabouts.” This was new. Bertrand listened now, more alert and at attention. Savannah stirred next to him and he soothed her with one hand, running his fingers through her brown locks and brushing his knuckles against her smooth cheek as he hissed as quietly as he could into the phone.

“We’ll need to narrow down the search. There are far too many stores as it is, aren’t there?”

“Er yeah…that’s the bad news. I managed to narrow as far as I go but, it still adds up to 10.” He halted his caresses to reach up and pinch the bridge of his nose. He should be more grateful and perhaps proud that Maxwell was taking initiative but, this was still putting them at a disadvantage. The Parisian paradise needed to come to an end eventually. He turns once more to regard the slumbering damsel who stole his heart the day he met her as she rolls onto her side, facing him, eyes closed, eyelashes brushing her cheeks and her lips slightly parted. Her chocolate brown hair melting over the white sheets and complementing her olive skin. The world unfortunately doesn’t stop after one rediscovers true love and happiness. The estate was still in intermittent danger, Lady Emilee still needed her name cleared and to become Queen. It could have been easier. We could have had a happy life, Savannah. I can’t give you that. Not now. Maybe, oh God, maybe never.

“Bertrand? Hello? Are you still there? You didn’t break up on me, did you?” Maxwell’s voice was reaching a panicky fever pitch and he snapped out of his reverie to reply.

“Huh? Oh yes, hello. Yes. I heard you. I…I suppose I’ll need to come to NYC and aid you two in the investigation. Lord knows how you two survived without me.” He had to throw out that biting remark. It was expected of him now. Ever since all went to shit for him; the bankruptcy and the disappearance of the woman he loved, Bertrand changed for the worse. He shut himself up in Ramsford, his childhood home that was in danger of being foreclosed. The parties stopped. The warmth of the study had died off and faded away into the winds. The Cordonian Rubies seemed to acquire even more of an acerbic hit. His face hardened into iron and he erected brick walls around his heart. It became so that he forgot what it was like to be nice, to be warm and to be affectionate with his little brother. Or anyone for that matter.

Then, when he knocked the door to her apartment and she opened it. She, with her face still leaving him as breathless as it did when he saw it at the first party she attended, standing shocked and carrying the baby in her one arm. His baby. His son. Little Bartie who blinked up his eyes, his eyes, up this strange man who was more familiar than he will know and then gave a questioning “Goo?” Bertrand could only respond in the one way. He had stepped in and wrapped his arms around them both. There were tears, waterfalls of them as she clutched tightly to him, whispering how she had never entertained the thought of him finding her though she pined from dawn till dusk for him. He could not find words then. He could only rest his forehead against hers, shuddering that she was right here. She was safe and alone. Waiting for him. Bartie could, with all the innocence of a growing baby, look at them with his big puzzled eyes. Seeing however that Mommy liked the presence of this strange man, he reached out a chubby hand to him. Bertrand looked up as he felt those small, stumpy fingers curling into his sweater vest.

“This is…”

“Yes, this is your son,” She pulled away, wiping at her eyes delicately with her fingertips before readjusting Bartie in her arms and cooing. “Bartie, this is Daddy. Say Daddy.”

The baby screwed up his face in that moment into a sceptical frown and Bertrand had to laugh. Yes, this was his son alright. Sometimes, in life changing situations, you needed to see the positive side of it all. He leaned in then, seeing how Bartie had his grey eyes and the tendency to sneer, not to mention a difficulty to trust just anyone. He cautiously put a hand out to stroke the little boy’s head.

“Hi, Bartie…yes, it’s…it’s Daddy.”

“Da…da,” Bartie attempted, stretching the syllables and never breaking eye contact with Bertrand. His chubby hand went up again and seized hold of the its desired target. His father’s nose. And Bertrand had to laugh a second time, placing his own hand on the baby’s adamant fist. He was a strong one, this boy. An unpredicted swell of warm pride blossomed deep in his chest. A bubble of chuckles erupted from the cherub too and he proceeded to pull.

“Hey, hey now…alright, now you’re just hurting Daddy. Bartie, no…stop it…” Savannah had tried to pry off the little rascal’s fingers. Bartie was just chuckling away and Bertrand never envisioned himself to be in such a situation. Have his firstborn pull on his nose and the woman he loved (still loves, god damn him and everything) try to stop the little babe. Eventually, the nose was extricated much to Bartie’s dismay and Savannah formally invited him in. They centred their son as Bertrand did need to know more about him. She listed out all he loved, his dislikes and pet peeves and Bartie was discovered to be an inquisitive, relatively well behaved young boy. His only little bit of nuisance was a tendency to get grabby with things not permitted to be grabbed and a hefty appetite. However, once his hunger was sated, he fell to sleep rather easily. Bertrand dryly remarked that he probably inherited that from Maxwell and Savannah covered her mouth to stifle a giggle.

The baby asleep, however, after cuddles, carrying and bonding with this strange adult now called “Dada” led the mother and father to need to confront the many trumpeting elephants in the room. They sat on the sofa, having secured Bartie in the nursery with his hippo mobile and did what they should have done long ago. Talk properly, face to face, no distractions and laying all the cards out on the table. She was honest with him, trying not to let her emotions distort her story. How she left because she was heartbroken, fearing he didn’t love her and knowing she wouldn’t get support from the court who have taught her a slag for seducing the Duke of Ramsford, she had to get it from Maxwell. The only man she could trust to help and not judge her for it. Drake would have throttled Bertrand senseless and then ship her off back to America under the care of their too overbearing mother who, after her husband died, would just watch over Savannah and Bartie like a hawk. Paris had been her dream destination for a home and career. Yes, it was expensive, but she was trying to find a job and she had! Recently, she managed. Given her academic results from Belleview Academy in Cordonia, she, after gruelling interviews and writing tests, was about to teach a course on English language to French students and, if she could keep up with that, move on to teaching her majors in French. Once she had gotten her application accepted, she had texted Maxwell immediately to stop wiring money and the gifts. It was high time she got herself back into the real world. She was amid interviewing nannies now for taking care of Bartie and scouring for affordable childcare services. The university did tell her that there was a childcare centre on campus if she wished but it had been a bit pricey and it would entail her living on campus too. The apartment Maxwell helped her find was relatively luxurious and the hassle of moving furniture was just unnecessary. That was her story. She apologized in droves for keeping it from him, but she honestly had felt he didn’t love her or wanted anything to do with her. Hence, she thought to just move on with her life. She couldn’t bear disappointing Drake either, so he was kept in the dark too and she is so incredibly sorry that they fought because of her. She had told him to keep her secret but, her hot-headed brother was not listening to reason that night. Maxwell, Maxwell was just being Maxwell: wanting to help so badly that common sense is sometimes forgotten or brushed aside.

Having absorbed all this (with the aid of Savannah cracking them a very necessary bottle of red wine), Bertrand in turn unloaded his reasonings for why he told her they could not be together. He hadn’t meant to mean it in the way that he didn’t care for her. Hell, that was as far from the truth as Cordonia from Paris. He had been besotted with her since the day they met. With her half-American ways, her effortless charm, her sometimes bashfulness that put colour in her cheeks and how she held her own among the other noblewomen despite being common born. How her eyes haunted him when he closed his and how he would purposefully be the first to help her up onto a horse at the stables, so he could touch her hand. Yet, how could they have been with their class difference so wide? He strove at first to be cold to her. Ignoring her at his first few parties, not asking her to dance and pushing her onto Maxwell though it hurt him to see her laugh with his younger brother. He was always looking at her though. Following her as she meandered about the room or the gardens of Ramsford. When they were all out with Drake and the now King Liam, his gaze would wander off to see her. See her down shots even better than a man or ride a horse with such panache and skill. He knew he was screwed. The legendary party animal had fallen for the most extraordinary commoner in Cordonia; nothing common about her at all. Then, the ruination happened, and he shut everyone out. No, he would not be pitied. He refused it. She deserved better than a man with empty coffers and only his title to throw around. He should not have that night. He should not have let her soft, tender hands run along his lapels. Nor run into his thick black hair. One kiss and he had been a goner. It was innocuous enough. He found her perusing one of his many books in the studies. What proceeded was a debate on the merits of John Donne and Lord Byron. Love poetry blossomed into gentle teasing and double entendres. This intensified into heated gazes, bitten lips and, most dangerous of all, touching.

His desk witnessed the fiercest, most impassioned and heartfelt fucking he had ever experienced. How she whimpered out his name, nipping his shoulders. Her thighs slapping against his, her skin sweaty and heated against his. It had been a night that would come unbidden as he lay in bed, his left hand ably assisting him in clinging tight to the memory. He could not look at any other woman, much less fathom marry. Other than the financial aspects (he wasn’t lying when he told Emilee this albeit brusquely), he could not bear the thought of Savannah running off, eloping with another. No. She kept faithful. Single. Alone. Lonely.

“Were there…other men?” He tried to make it as harmless sounding as possible. Her head snapped up so violently, she could have gotten whiplash.

“No. None. No one at all. And…you? Other women?” He had solemnly shaken his head, his gaze focused on the crimson liquid swirling in his glass.

“There was only you.”

Then there was the silence, and with the silence came tension. She had shifted to move closer and he took in all her features, if not unchanged, were improved with the blessings of birthing a miracle. Her lips fuller, breasts larger, hips rounder and a pervading maturity eradiated from her. This was not the little party girl of long ago. She was a woman. If it weren’t for his stomach giving a rather embarrassing growl, they would have made extremely good use of that sofa Maxwell found on discount at a furniture store. He blushed and held his abdomen.

“Uh…it’s been a while since I ate and…” She had given him that glorious smile he missed for so long and went straight to the kitchens. In no time, she had whipped up a simple yet delicious meal for two. Seared duck breasts in a resonantly sweet and tangy raspberry sauce. He went the extra mile and set the table for her, lighting candles and pouring more wine before helping her wash up. Something she couldn’t stop teasing him about.

“I see the Duke of Ramsford doesn’t mind getting his hands dirty.”

“It’s rather an occupational hazard now…the servants left after a while…” She had shut up and once more, apologized but he told her no, there was nothing for her to apologize about. He was doomed to be in the poorhouse if not for Lady Emilee and seeing how Maxwell and she looked at each other, well, they truly were doomed. He couldn’t forgo his little brother’s happiness. He wasn’t that much of a curmudgeon. He’d done horrible things already like leak those bachelor party photos…something Maxwell had readily forgiven him for. He had been desperate, and Maxwell understood. Maxwell always understood. He was a fool, self-indulgent, hardly took things seriously but, his little brother was always there for him and despite everything, he was always there for Bertrand. He couldn’t forsake Maxwell finding love. The thought of his little brother heartbroken, no longer the cheerful spitfire he was. That, that cut deep into him. He knew Maxwell felt unloved, unwanted and nothing but a screw-up because of him. God, he knew nothing about how to feel and interact with people, especially under duress. While he was caving inward and becoming nastier to everyone, Maxwell bloomed like a fucking sunflower. The boy’s charm was infectious and his optimism, annoyingly indestructible. Savannah should have someone more free-spirited, more carefree, more willing to take risks. Not someone so darn old, traditional and uptight.

She had been twenty-two when they first had each other. Almost twenty-three now and he would be thirty-six. Age-gap relationships were not revolutionary. Yet, Bertrand couldn’t shake off the feeling that while Savannah would be off, scampering with Bartie in a field of lush wildflowers, he would be at the back getting winded, bones creaking and slightly dizzy from the sun. No doubt complaining about the overabundance of insects, pollen and heat.

But, she loved him. She. Loved. Him.

They sat down and ate in relish. He complimented her cooking skill. She blushed and sipped the wine he poured. They talked about indifferent matters, having laid their cards bare and reminisced about what was before. They joked, they conversed, they swapped dark secrets (Bertrand once pretended to have a stroke to get out a date. Savannah streaked across the football field on a drunken dare) and to summarize, they had fun. They enjoyed each other’s company. He was supposed to sleep on the sofa. She insisted he stayed.

He perhaps maybe should not have brushed her hair aside from her face and kissed her forehead. Her skin burned underneath his lips and his grey eyes met her brown eyes in a searing connection. Before long, he was pressing her up against the door to her bedroom, his mouth unable to be apart from hers. It wasn’t till her groping hand finally twisted the doorknob did they go crashing onto the bed and well, the rest was history. He remembers waking up the next morning, his shoulder aching from a bite mark, his back riddled with scratches and his neck raw with love bites. Oh, and that unbelievable satisfied, hot sensation between his thighs too. Savannah was equally euphoric. They could have stayed making love forever but, Bartie awoke and demanded to be the centre of attention. Unable to repress their rather addled and goofy smiles, Bertrand and Savannah started their day.

That was two days ago. Two days of touring France, trying pastries in patisseries, scaling the Eiffel Tower, snapping too many pictures and carrying Bartie on his shoulders or arms. Kissing Savannah on the cheek or lips without a care in the world. Eating at cafes and sipping champagne. Running through sprinkler fountains and chasing pigeons. Feeding the ducks and teaching Bartie how to quack. Watching the sunset. Getting home and watching a family movie, playing Twister, pretending to be a lion and chasing after Mommy Gazelle and her baby. Bartie laughed and snorted and reaching out his chubby fists. After dinner, diaper changes, bath time and rocking him to sleep, Mommy and Daddy would love each other thoroughly, remember how their bodies and souls fitted one another so impeccably perfect.

And today was today. He told Maxwell he would get the first flight back to NYC and to see him at the airport after he texted the flight details. Hanging up, he watched as Savannah yawned and fluttered her eyes open, smiling up at him.

“Bonjour, mon amour,” She purred, reaching a hand over to trail her fingers up his arm, lightly caressing the firm bicep. He smiled, put the phone down and moved over to kiss her deeply. She relented into his embrace and was more than ready for morning play when he pulled away. She arched an eyebrow, confused.

“I…I need to go to New York. Maxwell got a lead on Tariq and…I need to be there for the investigation,” He doesn’t want to meet her gaze as he gets up to head to the bathroom. Before he can step in, he feels soft, feminine arms wrapped around his waist. The most perfect breasts with her perky nipples pressing into his back relieved any tension from the phone call.

“I’ll miss you…”

“I will miss you too…”

And so here they were. At the Charles de Gaulle airport, waiting for his flight to take off. She is holding Bartie in her arms, facing him, biting her lip. His flight was due soon. They had time. A little bit of time still. He has his arm around her, pressing his face against her hair and cheek.

“I’m coming back. I promise you…I will come back and we…” He tightens his hold, kissing her cheek. “We will be together. The three of us.” Savannah shifts her head to look up at him, her eyes moist, the dam threatening to burst. Bartie, sensing the negativity in the air, was looking morose himself and playing with Bertrand’s sweater.

“I... I love you…” It came out in the smallest of stutters, broken by quavers, by the emergence of tears and as quickly as she said it, she looked away until she felt his hands cup her face and make her look at him. His grey eyes, normally so icy, so stern, were now melted through with the warmth and depth of his want, his need for her. His thumbs caress her cheeks, brushing away the rivulets of tears.

“Je, t’aime, mon amour…” He leans down and kisses her deeply just as the intercom buzzes on, announcing in crisp, clear and direct French that his flight was already for boarding and departure. They refused to part just yet. It wasn’t till the third time the announcement rang that he broke away. He bent and gave Bartie a kiss on the forehead and a squeeze too, inhaling the soft scent of his baby boy. Powder, family and a faint essence of milk and butter. The little boy whimpered and raised a hand.

“Dada….”

“Dada has to go, sweetheart,” He whispers, though it kills him. He kisses the fist his boy raises and clutches tightly to his boarding pass. Backing away from them, he looks at the two people he loves the most and needs to abandon right now, but only momentarily. “Au revoir, ma famille.”

He is on the plane. He looks out the window. He sees Bartie, a tiny white speck, wearing a white shirt, bow tie and suspenders pressed on the glass and waving. Savannah kisses his head and looks up too, her eyes speaking volumes of how much she will miss him. He waves back and keeps staring out the window till he cannot see them anymore. He takes out his phone. Maxwell had texted that he would see him at the airport promptly. He closes the message inbox and goes straight to the gallery.

With each scroll of his thumb, he saw pictures of them. His family. Smiling, laughing, making goofy faces. Happy. Together. A picture of Savannah holding Bartie in front of the Eiffel Tower. Him sharing a kiss with her on the beach. Bartie messily eating his first macaron. The three of them in front of Notre Dame Cathedral. The person who took it commented what a lovely family they looked. Yes, they were a family. Wet spots fell upon the phone screen and Bertrand wiped the tears away with his sleeve.

Yes, he will return. He will return, and he will bring them back to Cordonia and they would be happy.

Au revoir, ma famille. Daddy will be home soon.

@smartlillian @asherella-is-a-dork-3 @feisty-mary @leafnoyes

#bertrand beaumont #savannah walker #bartie beaumont #bertvannah #france #paris #family #fluff and feels #trr #the royal romance

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nachtgraves · 7 years

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Hello! If you're still taking requests could you do 49 w/ jean/nino? I love that pairing and I'd like to see how you write them!

Hey!Jean/Nino .> I have a problem. I haven’t seen any of itsince the anime ended though and rewatching it is my reward for catching up onall the shit I have on hold so I hope I did them justice for my first timewriting them (:

Title: HomeSmells of Cigarette Smoke and Bread // AO3WordCount: 3,280Warnings/Tags: G/PG. post-ep12, time skip, nino deserves all the love, pining. I have a headcannon whereLotta likes to play matchmaker.Prompt: Coming home

Jean’sbeen away for about two weeks now.

It’sone of the longest trips he’s been on, and while he’s called Lotta most nights,he’s often exhausted and barely there. Lotta sends him off to bed or to take amuch needed nap. Nino’s been privy to Lotta’s concerned complaints; he himselfhas received a few texts and calls, though most have been requests to keep theyounger Otus company and watch out for her (in her borderline obsessivelyprotective older brother’s place). But there are times where Jean’s calls andmessages are personalized for Nino, and it’s all Nino can ask that Jean spendthose few minutes of his free time on him, instead of on Lotta or resting up.

It’scoming onto day 16 of Jean’s ambiguous and lengthy business trip and Nino ishousesitting for the Otus siblings. Lotta’s gone to Dowa to see Prince Schwanand her grandfather, who’s been kicking stronger than anyone had thought, butillness is always a cause for concern. She was in a rush to leave and Nino wasmore than happy to be called last minute to take care of things in both her andher brother’s absence.

Themain reason for his employment as a house-sitter is Lotta’s new hobby. In therecent weeks she’s picked up gardening, and Nino is more than adept enough atwatering plants on a schedule. Besides, watching over things is something he’snot a stranger to. Since the attempted coup and Furawau’s secession from theDowa Kingdom, Nino’s had some time on his hands, even with his new job at asmall newspaper company. In those early weeks, up to the recent months, he hadn’tbeen too sure of his place in Bādon, or his place with the Otus siblings.

Ninolays on the couch where he and Jean have fallen asleep a few too many timesafter nights of drinking and stares up at the ceiling. He could go back to hisown small apartment, but the Otus home has a warmth and comfort and something indistinguishablethat his apartment simply lacks. It’s a vague feeling he can’t place but itmakes him quite reluctant to leave.

Thinkingback, he remembers the days when he tried to stay away, remove himself fromJean and Lotta, and how miserably that failed within days. He recalls mopingabout in his apartment trying to convince himself to get rid of his copies ofOtus family photos, and the surprise of Jean knocking on his door and takinghim to the bar they frequented. Jean pointedly getting drunk without Nino’spersuasion and needing an escort home. Lotta’s remarks of missing seeing himaround after they put Jean to bed solidified Jean’s point and soothed thegrowing ache in Nino’s chest.

He’snot sure when, but at some point between the sun sinking between buildings andthe stars shining as bright as they can through city light pollution, he fellasleep. He awakes with a familiar crick of sleeping on a couch. The Otus couchis a very comfortable couch, but it is still not a bed. He very well could haveslept through the night, but he’s a light sleeper. No one was supposed to becoming home, but Nino recognizes the sound of a rattling door handle and amuffled curse.

Gettingup from the couch, Nino tiptoes through the dark and silent apartment, guidedonly by the city light filtering in through the windows. He searches out for aweapon of some sort on his way to the front door, but only finds some ofLotta’s cooking and pastry magazines. It’s as good as anything, so he rolls oneup as tight as he can and hides against the wall that turns into the entryway.Whoever was trying to get in seems to succeed just as Nino’s in position,substitute baseball bat ready in his hands and prepped for a swing. The lightfrom outside the apartment floods the entryway and a shadow stretches out, thehead coming to just in front of where Nino’s standing. He’s about to bringglossy paper to human skull, using the shortening shadow as a reference, whenthe intruder calls out: “Lotta?”

Ninoabruptly loosens his grip on the magazine, letting it unroll in his palm. Thelights flicker on and Jean stands, hand frozen on the light switch as he seesNino.

“Uh,hey. Wasn’t expecting you to come back tonight,” Nino laughs.

Jean’seyes scan Nino from head to toe, lingering on the loosely rolled magazinebefore meeting Nino’s eyes with a questioning frown.

Ninoshrugs. “I fell asleep on the couch and woke up to you coming in – thought itwas a burglar.”

“Soyou grabbed one of Lotta’s magazines.” Jean’s mouth quirks slightly and Nino canonly smile helplessly back.

Jeanmoves from the light switch and Nino follows after him into the living room.Jean drops his travel bag by the coffee table and collapses onto the couch witha heavy sigh. Nino leans against the wall and watches. He’s so used to watchingJean. It’s habit to catalogue every twitch in the blond’s expression and heknows every detail of Jean’s routine movements. He’s familiar with the way Jeansprawls across his couch, head tilted back and arms draped along the backrest.The way he tugs his tie loose, blindly reaches for his cigarettes and lighter.The way his lips close around the stick and how smoke streams gently from hismouth in a relaxed sigh.

Jeanslides his gaze to where Nino’s standing. “Sit down, the couch doesn’t bite.”

“Lotta’sgoing to be mad at you for smoking in here,” Nino responds, but he takes a seatas told.

Jeanrolls his head so he’s got half his face smooshed against the couch but canlook at Nino easily. “Speaking of, where is she?”

Ninotilts his head in surprise. “Did you not know? Your grandfather’s sick and shewas worried so she flew over yesterday. She asked me to house and plant-sit,which is why I was here.”

Jeansits up, frown on his face. “Grandfather’s sick? He called me just a few daysago and seemed perfectly fine.”

Ninojust shrugs. “It’s what Lotta said when she called me, asking me to look overthe apartment while the both of you were gone. Wasn’t expecting you to be backso suddenly.”

“Itold Lotta I was coming back tonight or tomorrow morning though.” Jean’s lipsquirk even more downwards, perplexed. Nino’s just as confused for a momentbefore he remembers that nosiness and plotting behind peoples back for theirown perceived good is a Dowan royal family trait. He hopes his face is asimpassive as ever.

“Maybeshe forgot. In any case, I guess I’m off plant-sitting duties,” Nino says,trying to change the direction of the conversation, “I should head back, it’slate and I really didn’t mean to fall asleep here earlier.”

Jeanshakes his head. “You can spend the night. It’s not like you haven’t numeroustimes before.”

Thestatement is true, but Nino needs to remove himself from Jean’s presence. Lottaplotted to get them alone together for whatever reason but he is not about toruin something he’s already got too fragile of a hold on. He gets to his feetand waves Jean off.

“Yeah,but I have some work to do and all my material is at my apartment.”

Jeanstands as well and Nino’s halted by a firm grip around his lower arm. Nino wantsto pull away, but he also desperately wants to come closer. He settles for notmoving at all and staring at the point between Jean’s brows.

“Haveyou eaten?” Jean asks, his question abrupt and innocuous.

Ninoshakes his head. Jean smiles.

“Thenhave dinner with me. I don’t like eating alone.”

Ninoopens his mouth to refuse but he soon finds himself seated at the Otus kitchentable across from Jean with a plates of rice, pork, vegetables, and, of course,dinner rolls, laid out before them. Jean’s half-finished cigarette smotheredout in the ashtray leaving only a faint trail of smoke. He smiles. There’s norefusing an Otus.

“Whatare you smiling about?”

Jeanpoints his fork over at Nino. The blue haired man just shrugs and busieshimself with eating.

“Nino.”

Thetone and cadence almost resembles a whine and really, Nino’s never stood achance anyway.

“Justthinking,” he replies, and in an attempt to distract the vice-chairman of theinspection department, offers the last dinner roll and the tub of butter.

Jeantakes the offerings but Nino doesn’t get away scot-free.

“Careto share?”

“Howoften are you, or even Lotta, told ‘no’ in terms of getting what you want?”Nino returns.

Jeanpurses his lips in thought and Nino has to redirect his attention to the lastbits of his dinner. The blond eventually replies in slow and measured words asif he is still trying to think of a specific instance. “A fair amount,probably. No different than anyone else, I’d say.”

Ninocan’t stop the snort of amused disbelief that bubbles up his throat and out hisnose at that. He has to cover his mouth with his hand so he doesn’t spray foodeverywhere. When he looks up at Jean he has to consciously decide that theexpression on the blond’s face is categorically a frown and even though hismouth is stretched somewhat close together and forward and his bottom lip isjutting out the tiniest bit and his clear blue eyes that catch the flash of acamera like polished crystals are marginally wider—frowning. The unofficial prince is frowning.

“What?”Jean demands.

Ninoshakes his head and starts clearing up the table. If he doesn’t have to respondhe doesn’t have to attempt to deny Jean what he wants. But Jean, unusuallypersistent at the worst of times, follows after Nino with his own plate, adetermined shadow. Nino presses his lips together in a tight line to preventboth laughter and Jean’s answers.

Jeansighs in defeat and Nino lets a small smile of victory past his guard that Jeancatches, if the narrowed gaze is of any indication and pouting—frowning mouth. Nino really needs to goback to his apartment. He says as much to Jean once the last of the dishes areput away: “I should really go back to my apartment for whatever is left of thenight.”

Jean,leaning against the counter, fixes his gaze on Nino in the way that seems tofreeze all movement from the latter. The blue of his eyes and depth of hisstare fixing the object of the stare in place until the blond allows toindividual to move. Nino leans back against the counter, body twisted towardsJean and awaiting what he has to say.

“Youknow,” Jean starts, head tilting slightly. “You never call your apartment‘home’.”

Ninofrowns, confused by the way Jean has taken the conversation. He’s not sure whatthe blond’s point is and Jean can apparently tell. The blond’s mouth twitchesupwards at the corner he always gets food smeared around and has to lick atwith his tongue or dab at with a napkin. Nino finds it fortunate that Jean’snot as into creamy pastries as his sister and coworkers are.

“Younever refer to your apartment as ‘home’. It’s always ‘apartment’, ‘place’, oreven just bed.” Jean continues, andwhile Nino was distracted by Jean’s thin lips and subtle facial twitches, theblond had apparently come closer to the taller man.

“You’dalmost think that ‘home’ isn’t part of your vocabulary, but—” and now Jean isright in front of Nino, to the point Nino is teased by the warmth of Jean’sbody to the hint of tobacco and ash and smoke—“when you take me or Lotta backhere, you almost exclusively call this place home.”

Jeanstares up at him – those few centimeters Nino has above the blond seem tovanish – waiting for a response. Nino clears his throat and he would try tostep back and create more appropriate space between them, but he’s against thecounter and any movement away would be too obvious.

“Well,this is your home. What else would I call it?” he manages to respond.

Jeanseems to come even closer.

“You’reavoiding the question.”

“Younever asked one,” Nino says.

Hefeels victorious for a moment before Jean blinks and then releases a soft huh.

Jeancatches Nino’s gaze with his own. Nino can’t look away even though he knows hereally should find some sort of escape route. The situation was coming to asplit in the road where one path led onward, peaceful and uninterrupted,whereas the second path fell away into nothingness, the ground cracked andcrumbling and dead. Nino knows that this split is unavoidable in hisrelationship with the blond, that at some point in their time together this splitin the road was inevitable. He could only delay it for so long, and despite hiseffort it seems like he’s run out of back roads, scenic routes, and detours.

“Wellthen, here’s the implied question: why do you never refer to your apartment ashome?”

Withthe blond standing and staring unwaveringly in front of him, barely inchesbetween them, Nino can’t break eye-contact and any excuse or redirectiondisappears from the grasp of his heavy tongue like the wisps of smoke thatcling only as a vague olfactory presence to Jean’s clothes.

“Ihaven’t considered it to be a home for a while,” Nino answers, surprising himselfin the process.

Hedoesn’t know when, but it was likely after the death of his father and Jean andLotta’s parents, probably around when he realized his feelings for the olderOtus strayed from duty to friendship to more. It was a gradual thing, much likethe development of his feelings towards Jean, but also his sister. Nino first adoredher with a reverence brought on by her connection to beloved members of royalty.It was, and still is, impossible to not feel protective of and adoration forthe young princess. Nino’s feelings for the girl grew into a responsibility ofa familial, brotherly nature as his feelings for Jean grew romantic and wanting.

Jeanseems to be just as surprised with Nino’s abrupt concession. But he quicklysmiles and nods, as if he had already known the answer and was just waiting forNino to catch up. Nino wouldn’t be surprised if that was the case.

“Well,since I know you’re lying about work, there really is no reason for you to notjust spend the night. We have the guest room…” The way Jean trails off impliesthat there’s something he wants to add or suggest. His gaze flickers down thehallway towards the bedrooms and Nino watches the subtle movement of Jean’sthroat as he swallows, preps his following words with a flick of tongue across thinlips.

Ninois almost afraid to ask but he can’t help himself. “Or…?”

“Mybed is big enough for two.”

Ninoisn’t sure if he hears Jean correctly, if his brain has warped the blond’swords to something that belongs in a fantastical, fictional world far removedfrom reality.

“Huh?”Nino so eloquently asks, or rather grunts. It’s really more of a vague sound ofsurprise and disbelief that changes pitch several times within the singlesyllable.

Jeangives Nino a knowing look. “Come to bed with me. Just to sleep.” He grins alittle and adds, “For now.”

Thefact that Jean’s face tinges pink even though Nino can tell the other man istrying to play cool makes him feel better about the fact his face is likelybright red and his dropped jaw is probably very stupid looking. His cool,badass biker image is in shattered pieces at Jean’s feet. But he doesn’t reallycare about it that much right now.

WhileNino still can’t quite regain control over his mouth and ability to speak – stillstunned into silence by Jean’s very blunt flirting, teasing? He hopes it’s theformer – he can nod and follow Jean into the blond’s bedroom, led by his wristin Jean’s firm grasp. Jean only lets him go to change into his pyjamas; a soft tee-shirtand a pair of flannel pyjama pants that are much too baggy on his slender framebut endears him to Nino that much more. With a quick, pointed look, Nino stripsdown to his boxers and pulls on a shirt Jean tosses him from his closet. Ninocan’t help but subtly lift the neck and take a quick sniff, and from the wayJean smirks even with pink cheeks as he crawls into the modestly sized bed, heknows that he was caught.

Hehesitates, but slides into the bed as well. Nino doesn’t know if he should turnhis back to Jean, but when Jean settles on his side facing Nino, he reaches upa hand and grabs at the collar of Nino’s borrowed shirt and tugs him down,deciding for the photographer.

Ninoisn’t sure if he was expecting the brief kiss or not. He’s been going onautopilot since Jean cornered him in the kitchen and his brain is only justcatching up.

Thekiss is brief enough that he almost thinks it didn’t happen, but the way hetries to follow Jean’s mouth after the blond pulls away says otherwise. Jeansmiles and leans back in for another kiss. This one, Nino can close his eyesand enjoy, simple and closed-mouth. He pulls back and lies down fully on thebed facing Jean.

“Wecan talk about this later if you want,” Jean tells him. “I’m exhausted andreally just want to sleep for a few hours.”

“Goodnight,” Nino says and Jean smiles at him before settling in and closing hiseyes, his breaths evening out surprisingly quickly. Nino feels a tug of guiltat keeping the blond awake for so long when he likely had wanted to immediatelyfall into bed upon returning. He can’t quite bring himself to completely regretthe events of the night, however.

Ninodoesn’t fall asleep for a while. He can barely process what’s happened since hewoke up from his accidental nap, much less how he’s ended up in this situation,this position. In Jean’s bed, next to the man himself who is out like a light,face soft and gentle in sleep, body warm and facing Nino. He settles onto hisside, arm bent under his head and lets his eyes drift shut, relaxed. Eachinhale fills his nose with soothing scents of laundry detergent mixed with ahint of salty sweat. Nino falls asleep, more content than he thinks he’s everbeen.

Inthe morning, Nino wakes up alone but the other side of the bed has stillretained some of the warmth from his missing bed partner. He pads out of Jean’sbedroom to see the man grabbing fresh toast from the toaster, one butteredslice already in his mouth and the remains of a cigarette burning out in theashtray on the kitchen table. He’s wearing his glasses, thick rimmed and rectangular,equal parts dorky and adorable.

“Morning,”Jean says when he notices Nino, mouth full of bread but smile still wide as itcan be. “What do you want for breakfast?”

Ninocomes closer and something in him settles at the scent of cigarette smoke andbread.

#ask #ninojean #nino #jean otus #acca 13-ku kansatsu-ka #anonymous #my writing #tumblr fic

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gplusbfics · 7 years

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I haven’t shared any recs for a couple of weeks – vacation with my mom, busy, etc. – and maybe I will manage to share more before I leave for another vacation (Berlin!) tomorrow, but meanwhile sharing this SPECTACULAR novella I discovered a couple of days ago.

Inexplicably, I somehow missed it when it was posted to AO3 in early March this year, despite the fact I have the DS9 category on like speed redial on my browser. Maybe Trumpzilla headlines addled me that day or many fics posted that day and this went up all at once. I have no idea, but hot damn, this is amazing! I only noticed because there’s a sequel currently being posted, called “Impact,” and the first two chapters of that blew me away. I kept rereading them and finally noticed it was part of a series. WHAT? So I went back and sure enough… 70,000 words! And reading it made the sequel make a lot more sense, although it wasn’t as if I hadn’t been able to fill in the blanks.

Anyway, covering just about the whole way through the timeline of the series, this story follows canon, attempting to figure out, behind the scenes, what could have been going on in their rocky relationship, supposing they did (they did!) have a super thing for each other. Why didn’t it… happen? Alternating POVs. And you can’t stop reading it. You cannot. I have reread bits of it several times already in just the past couple of days.

Excerpt

(In secret agent Bashir’s Hong Kong apt. having lunch)

“Well, obviously I don’t mind inviting you here to the holosuite to join me for lunch, but I think we could find some sort of compromise that might be a little more convenient in the future. What if I proposed moving our lunches to one of our quarters once in awhile?” Garak looked across at him with a vaguely patronizing smile.

“That is a very…considerate offer—however, I hope you’ll forgive me if I confess my reluctance believing its a genuine one.”

“You’re certainly entitled to feel however you choose, Garak,” Julian replied, feeling a trifle miffed. “But I’m not in the habit of suggesting solutions I don’t intend to support.”

“No, I suppose not,” Garak conceded, still not looking quite as pacified as Julian had hoped.

“This isn’t about those few times in the past I’ve needed to cancel on you, is it?” Julian scrambled out a little desperately.

“I wouldn’t call such times ancient history.”

“Well, in case it’s slipped your mind, I do remember telling you I’ve been rather swamped in the infirmary lately since Jabara’s come down under the weather,” Julian pointed, seizing on the quickly narrowing window of opportunity to salvage this situation from spiraling into the sort of argument that might likely result in leading to some rather uncomfortable confessions. However, by the unimpressed expression on friend’s face, his odds were looking quite grim.

“Ah yes, Nurse Jabara’s mysterious illness,” Garak mused, smirking.

“I’ve been feeling a bit like a chicken running around with its head cut off,” Julian added to support his case, hoping that fishing for sympathy might prove a solid enough diversion.

“Your race certainly has some quaint expressions,” Garak blandly remarked. “Your self-assessment isn’t entirely without merit either. You have been rather preoccupied.”

Julian winced with a sinking feeling in his gut as the ex-spy steadily held his gaze, wondering if his whole little gambit hadn’t exactly sailed quite as undetected as he’d hoped over the windshield of Garak’s impressively sharp radar.

“I would think that would be a little understandable.”

“You sound defensive, Doctor,” Garak warned.

“I’m not defensive, Garak, I’m annoyed.”

“As you have every right to be,” Garak soothed. “It must be rather frustrating for you, considering your nurse’s symptoms appear to be only intermittently debilitating—she looks every bit the picture of health whenever I catch her strolling through the promenade—but what I find so interesting is the consistency of her condition—how frequently she’s bedridden only those unfortunate times her shifts happen to overlap with our lunches.”

Julian’s heart dropped to his stomach.

“Tell me, Doctor, have you had any luck diagnosing the condition yet?”

“Not really,” he reported with little bluster.

“Really? And you haven’t found anything amiss in her bloodwork? Nor anything in the diagnostic scans?” Garak pressed, feigning a look of deep concern. “Have you found any comparable precedent in the medical records on Bajor?“

Julian grit his teeth. If Garak was going to persist dragging this out—who was he to call himself out on his own bluff? “Nothing as of yet,” he rallied. “Damned funny thing, isn’t it? But I’m sure I’ll get to the bottom of it.”

“Oh, I do hope so,” Garak deadpanned.

“Perhaps, I should even cut this lunch short to check in on her, don’t you think?”

“Oh, I don’t think there’s any call to go to such extremes.”

“Well, maybe I should still bring her something to cheer her up,” Julian pretended to contemplate. “I’m sure she mentioned just the other day how lovely those Tarcanian wildflowers looked in the window of the florist’s shop.”

“How considerate a gesture,” Garak praised. “I’m sure she would be thrilled.” “It’s really the least I could do.”

Withering a bit under the ex-spy’s oppressive scrutiny, Julian bottomed down the rest of his drink, wishing it were something just a touch stronger.

“Doctor…while I hesitate to bring up anything that might spoil the mood,” Garak carefully prefaced, “Since we’re already on the subject and it’s just the two of us, may I make just one, small request?”

Julian’s shoulders sagged.

“In the future, if you’re going to have the audacity to lie to me, ‘the very least you could do’ is think up a better alibi. I’m afraid your excuses have been just a touch flimsy, Julian.”

Julian stiffened at the informal address; an intimacy his other friends took for granted, but not something Garak had ever presumed to refer to him by. Having observed the effect he’d clearly hoped to provoke, the Cardassian smiled with satisfaction. “I have no intention of arguing with you, Doctor, nor am I seeking an explanation. You don’t have to justify yourself to me.”

“Then no sense beating around the bush, Garak, what precisely are you getting at?”

Garak paused, furrowing his ridged brows. “'Beating around the bush?'” he chuckled, “I do so enjoy your peculiar colloquialisms.”

Metadata

Title: Convergence Author: sfumatosoup Year Posted: 2017 Approx. Word Count: 70,000 Chapters: 12 GB - Slash or Platonic: Slash My Rating (1-5): 5 Keywords: Angst, Pining, Self-Denial, Communications Issues, General Issues, More Angst, Episode-Related

#garashir #garashir fanfic #garashir fanfic rec #ds9 #deep space nine #elim garak #julian bashir #ds9 fanfic #ds9 fanfic rec

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chasingthecosmos · 4 years

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By Any Other Name

Fandom: Doctor Who Rating: G Pairing: The Doctor/Rose Tyler, Eleventh Doctor/Rose Tyler (The Doctor/Clara Oswald, Eleventh Doctor/Clara Oswald) Chapters: 2/26 Read on AO3 here.

“Rose Tyler was dying - or, at least, she was relatively certain that that’s what was happening …” A Season 7 AU where Rose returns to her home universe only to find that 100 years have passed and nothing is quite the way that she remembers it. She wakes up with a new body, a new life, and a new Doctor. What has the Bad Wolf gotten her into this time? Rating may go up as the story continues

That Christmas, Rose spent the entire day surrounded by warmth, good food, and her remaining family members. Tony had brought all of the children and grandchildren around, knowing that it might well be their last holiday spent together. Rose spent hours just talking, laughing, and reminiscing about Christmases gone by with her loved ones.

It was only her second Christmas without her husband, and the entire gathering still felt oddly unbalanced without him making a mess in the kitchen and telling outlandish stores to all of the grandkids. Tony did his best to brighten the mood, and for that Rose was grateful - but it just wasn't the same without the Doctor.

By the time they had exchanged gifts, cleaned up for the night, and said their final farewells, Rose was completely and utterly exhausted. In fact, she didn't even make it back to her room before she nodded off in the old wooden rocking chair that her husband had made her for her sixty-third birthday. As she slowly drifted into unconsciousness, the warm glow of the Christmas tree lights blurred in her vision, flared, and then reformed into the shape of a woman.

The Bad Wolf seemed to be vacillating between the woman Rose knew as Oswin, and Rose's own nineteen-year-old face. The creature was an amorphous, shifting mix of the two as she laid her hand on Rose's shoulder and breathed time energy over her skin. Instantly, Rose felt revitalized, and she rose to stand next to the woman, feeling as though she were suddenly seventy years younger.

"He is in pain," the Bad Wolf murmured softly. "He needs you now more than ever."

"Ditto," Rose replied wryly. "Show me."

The golden light around the Bad Wolf flared once more and a whirlwind of cool London snow swirled around her, and suddenly Rose Tyler was another woman again.

--------------------

This time, she was in the past - somehow with the same borrowed face, but now with a new name. She called herself Clara Oswald - an odd woman who shifted between barmaid and governess as easily as the Bad Wolf shifted her face.

Rose slipped easily into Clara's strange life and experienced everything through her eyes - just as she had with Oswin in the dalek asylum. This time, however, Rose was able to retain her own mind as well. The whole experience was disorienting to say the least - she felt like an outsider, somehow able to experience all that Clara was experiencing, but still not quite able to participate.

When Rose saw the man with the chin again, her heart leapt within her chest even as she addressed him as a stranger. However, she felt a lead weight settling into her stomach when he turned to look at her and Rose realized that the Bad Wolf had been right in her assessment of him. There was something horribly, terribly wrong - he was in pain, and Rose instantly felt the overwhelming desire to reach out and soothe him in whatever way she could. The darkness in his strange (yet oddly familiar) green eyes made her ache for him in a way that she hadn't felt since her husband died.

Rose feared that he might be traveling alone once more (which he should never, ever do), but those fears were quickly put to rest as she followed him and got a glimpse into the strange life that he had made for himself in late nineteenth century London. She noticed that he had certainly moved on from human companions, though - Strax and Madame Vastra and Jenny all gave Clara quite the shock, but they simply reminded Rose of the good old days when meeting new species was just a typical Thursday afternoon.

What did shock Rose was that persistent darkness that lingered behind the Doctor's eyes, no matter what sort of strange snow-themed threat they faced down. She wanted so badly to reach out for him, but trapped in Clara's mind as she was, there was nothing that she could do but quietly pine away for him.

However, she suspected that a bit of that pining might have finally broke through when Clara suddenly grabbed the Doctor's neck and forced her lips onto his. Rose felt an odd mix of offense and pleasure at the action - since it was technically not her lips that were currently kissing the Doctor, but she still got to receive all of the sensations that went along with it anyway.

While traveling with the Doctor in her home universe, Rose had had the particular misfortune of having to watch her daft old alien get kissed many times by various different characters and species. Neither of the regenerations that Rose had traveled with had ever particularly enjoyed the physical intrusion, but they usually bore it with a resigned mix of politeness and disgust (depending on said creature doing the kissing).

This new Doctor, however, was quite different - he flailed around as though he wanted to push Clara away but didn't quite know how, and then his cheeks flushed in an expression that Rose had only ever really seen on her husband. He stuttered awkwardly for a moment as soon as Clara released him and then ran off to distract himself with something new, as he was wont to do.

Still, Rose held on to the lingering sensation of that kiss like a lifeline, silently begging the universe for one more chance to be with the love of her life. She supposed that if she really were dying as the Bad Wolf had suggested, then at least she could console herself with the fact that she had gotten one last kiss from the Doctor before she went.

However, the kiss kicked off a whole new bout of flirting while fighting to survive and Rose honestly had no idea how much she had missed this until she was forced to witness it through another woman's eyes. Did the Doctor really have to be like this with every human girl who crossed his path? She wondered idly how long it had been for him since he had said goodbye to her. How long had he mourned before pushing her aside and moving on with some new, pretty companion?

Rose was about to descend into a fit of frustration and bitterness when the Doctor suddenly led Clara through a familiar pair of blue doors, and for once Rose's awe matched Clara's exactly. The desktop had been changed, but that wasn't what caught and held Rose's attention. No, what surprised her the most was the fact that she could hear the TARDIS in her head, singing her a sweet song of welcome and joy. The feel of the ship in her mind was similar to how she perceived the Bad Wolf, and Rose's thoughts glowed gold as something deep inside of her gave an automatic, heartfelt response.

Did you miss me, Old Girl? she asked, near breathless with the sensation of peace and home and rightness.

The TARDIS made a chiming noise of happiness and telepathically beckoned her in, filling Rose with the need to run deep inside of her labyrinthine hallways and never, ever leave.

Clara, though, was still too busy interrogating the Doctor. This time, when she mentioned soufflés, Rose was reminded both of Oswin the dalek and her own adventures with desserts back in the universe she was currently living in.

With her own memories fully intact, Rose remembered that soufflés had been an odd sort of running joke between her and the half-human Doctor back when he had joined her in "Pete's World". Rose had never been very good in the kitchen, after all, but she tried hard anyway. However, adding a half-Time-Lord with a short attention span into the mix hadn't exactly helped the issue. The two of them had destroyed probably three dozen different soufflés before they had finally perfected the recipe. It became a special treat that they had continued to make for one another for special occasions over the years - birthday cakes were something that Rose's family hadn't bothered with for a long time.

She was so lost in her cherished memories of her husband that Rose had lost track of the conversation going on between the Doctor and Clara until suddenly her entire attention was honed in on a single, silver key. The Doctor held it before Clara's face like a promise and Rose felt her heart lurch in her chest as she longed with every fiber of her being to reach out and claim it as her own.

The Doctor's green eyes watched her intently as he slipped the small key into her - Clara's - hand and then gently folded her fingers securely over it. Rose noticed that in addition to the concerning darkness held just behind his gaze, his eyes looked so incredibly tired as well. Perhaps he really had been through more than she had imagined during his time away from her.

"What is this?" Clara asked breathlessly. The outline of the TARDIS key pressing into the soft skin of her palm and the low keening noise of the time ship herself made Rose want to collapse with her sheer desire to be back in that ridiculous blue box where she knew she belonged.

"Me," the Doctor replied cryptically, "giving in."

Rose didn't miss the way that he looked Clara up and down as though he were sneaking a peek at the back of a new book and he was quite excited by what he saw. And oh, how Rose wanted to capture that look and preserve it somehow - just to keep it jealously bottled away for all time where no other woman could see it except for herself.

She felt hot tears running over her eyelids and streaking down her cheeks as her longing for her husband and this man combined and built within her until they overflowed. She hadn't realized that her overwhelming emotions had breached the space between her and Clara until the Doctor's face screwed up into an expression of soft discomfort and worry.

"I don't know why I'm crying," Clara muttered, laughing dismissively in an attempt to fight off the tears that were not her own.

"I do," the Doctor replied with a smile. "Remember this - remember this, right now, all of it. Because this is the day - this is the day! This is the day everything begins!"

And just like that, Rose was nineteen again and she was placing her heart in the hands of this daft old Time Lord and asking him to show her the stars. She would follow him anywhere - do anything - just to remain at his side.

She was about to open her mouth and somehow force that sentiment across the divide and out of Clara's lips when suddenly there was a cool, vice-like grip around her shoulders, and then she was being dragged forcibly out of the one place that she never wanted to leave.

When Clara tripped over the edge of the Doctor's cloud and began to fall the long, long way down towards the frozen ground below, the dream took an odd and unexpected shift. Rose's consciousness wasn't simply limited to the eyes, ears, and sensations of Clara anymore. It was more like she was herself again, only no one else could see or hear her as she followed the Doctor and witnessed his heartbreakingly desperate attempt to save the young girl's life.

On this side of things, Rose got her first good, clear look at the woman who's face she had been taking on during her strange dreams. She could see why the Doctor found it so easy to flirt with her - she was as petite and fine as a porcelain doll, with long brown ringlets and intelligent, dark eyes.

Rose watched in resigned fascination as the Doctor reassured the young girl with one hand in her hair and the other forcing Clara's fingers to close firmly around the TARDIS key once more.

"Will you come away with me?" he asked, the desperation in his eyes so heart-wrenching that it nearly took Rose's breath away.

Clara agreed, just as Rose knew that she would - how could any girl possibly say no to a request and a man like that?

Rose went with the Doctor in Clara's place as he faced off against the Great Intelligence and defeated the killer snowmen once and for all. Even though he had no idea that she was there with him, Rose hoped that her invisible presence might be some sort of strange comfort to him.

Their victory was soured, however, as the Doctor leaned over Clara one last time to say goodbye. Right before she breathed her last, Rose caught a spark of gold on the edge of her vision as Clara quietly murmured her parting words. Rose recognized the girl's command from the dalek asylum, and she could see from the expression on the Doctor's face that he had recognized them, too.

"These are the words of the Wolf," an odd, inhuman voice interrupted. "They are a decree to bring you back to the Doctor."

Rose blinked hard and suddenly the image of nineteenth century London faded from view and was replaced by the glow of the Bad Wolf. She was once again wearing Clara's face - or was it Oswin? Oswald? So many names ...

"Do you see now why you must go back?" the creature asked.

"No," Rose replied, trying and failing to not sound petulant as she did so. "Seems to me that he has everything he needs in this Clara girl. Who is she, anyway? Why do you keep putting me inside of her head?"

"She is a construct," the Bad Wolf explained. "She is a tool - a vessel."

"But ... she's a woman," Rose protested in confusion. "A real, breathing, human woman."

"No," the Wolf replied simply. "She is not."

"Well then what's the point of this exercise?" Rose demanded, still feeling lost and completely out of her depth. "Why are you showing me all of these things?"

"The next time I come for you, it will be the last," the Bad Wolf answered cryptically.

"What do you mean?" Rose asked wearily. "Is that when I'm going to die?"

"No," the creature repeated once more. "It is when you will be transported."

"Transported where?" Rose insisted.

"Home," the Bad Wolf replied simply. And then, in another flash of golden light, she disappeared once more.

#doctor who #dw #fanfiction #fanfic #dw fanfic #doctor who fanfic #dw fanfiction #doctor who fanfiction #rose tyler #the doctor #eleventh doctor #eleven/rose #eleven x rose #the doctor/rose #the doctorxrose

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