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#it’s very rare that this view isn’t just grey and dull.. so i had to take advantage 😌
calumrose · 3 years
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Being rural has it’s perks sometimes 🥰🌅
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lesetoilesfous · 3 years
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For DWC: "These chains never leave me, I keep dragging them around" from the Florence prompt list for Anders/Fenris?
Ah I had so much fun with this, thank you! I hope I did it justice!!
(If you’d like me to write you a dragon age fic, send me a prompt from here!)
@dadrunkwriting​
Pairing: Fenders
Characters: Fenris, Anders
Tags: hurt/comfort, angst, canon-typical graphic depictions of violence, Anders was right, anti-chantry, graphic reference to infanticide, Tevinter is awful, graphic reference to abortion, oblique reference to sexual assault, self-hatred, mention of self-harm, suicidal ideation. Basically post-Danarius, and all that entails. Characters dealing with trauma, PTSD and survivor’s guilt.
Rating: Mature
It’s been one week, two days and three hours since Fenris killed Danarius. He is sitting with Hawke and her friends in her mansion, because he had not been able to conceal his discomfort when they’d visited The Hanged Man, unable to remove from his recent memory the stain of blood on the floorboards and the sting of his sister’s betrayal. Corff had, at least, worked a miracle with the former. As far as the latter was concerned - Fenris did not think that Isabela was the only one who’d noticed him startling in the Lowtown crowd at the sight of every redheaded elf. The trait was, blessedly, a rare one. There was that, at least.
In the beautiful marble fireplace, Hawke’s fire roars loud and red, crackling with heat that licks gold light over the sandy, muscular back of her mabari, half asleep on the wine purple rug laid over the stone. Sandal is humming somewhere in one of the rooms nearby, and occasionally, under the loud sound of Hawke’s voice and her companions’ laughter, Fenris can make out the soft sound of Bodahn talking to his son. Orana, of course, is inaudible. She knows better. 
Fenris bites the inside of his cheek, hard, and drinks deeply from his cup. The wine in it is thick and rich and velvet. Fenris can feel Marian’s eyes on him, but he can also see, from the corner of his eye, the way that her muscular arm is looped casually around Isabela’s shoulders. As he lowers his cup, he catches the way that Isabela tilts her head back, thick black hair falling over Marian’s tunic as she brushes her lips against her ear. He can see the way Marian flushes. 
Fenris gets to his feet, and by the fireplace Dog raises her great sandy head. He gives her a small, calming gesture, and next to the low table onto which they’ve scattered their cards, Marian frowns at him. “Fenris?”
Fenris motions vaguely in the direction of the kitchen. “I need some water.” He tries to ignore the eyes of his companions on him as he goes. Instead, he leaves the warm, firelit parlour and walks into the cold, empty rooms not baked gold by fireplaces. Fenris feels his shoulders lower as soon as he gets to the second room, standing in the grey and black dusty shadow of an utterly deserted music room. Through the narrow stone windows of the Amell Estate, he can see the deep black sky of Kirkwall, scattered with stars. Houses fall like broken marble down towards the sea, which crashes with a distant roar against the cliffs. At the edge of the horizon, moonlight races silver across the waves. Fenris stares at it, and thinks about being a younger man, on an island, thinking that it would be the last thing he ever saw.
“Nice view, isn’t it?”
Fenris whirls on instinct, limbs moving with muscle memory as the lyrium sewn into his skin sets his nerve endings on fire and he plunges his hand into the intruder’s chest. In the dark, Anders’ blonde hair is grey and silver. If he’s bothered by the pain about which Fenris’ victims had so often complained to him before their grisly demise, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he raises his eyebrows at Fenris over the wrist plunged into his chest. Fenris squeezes his fingers, and feels the frantic, shuddering jerk of Anders’ heart in his palm, the warm, wet sensation of it dulled by the distance of the Fade.
“Why aren’t you afraid of me?”
Anders breathes out, a long, shuddering breath that belies his calm demeanour. Fenris had not previously thought him capable of such a poker face. His heart beats in Fenris’ hand like a bird, struggling. “I don’t know.” Anders meets his eyes, and in the dark his are almost black, but his blonde eyelashes are gilded silver by the moon. “I guess I trust you.”
Fenris’ fingers uncurl around Anders’ heart, and the mage’s shoulders lower from where they’d been scraping his ears. Fenris’ gaze falls to his long, crooked fingers, but there’s no telltale spark of magic there. Slowly, Fenris withdraws his hand, watching it fade through the frayed fabric of Anders’ coat as he tries to ignore the burn of a hot, embarrassed flush pushing up into his cheeks. 
Outside the mansion, on the streets of Kirkwall, a pair of mabari start barking, great bellowing things that echo against the stone buildings. A cat yowls, and far off there’s the sound of people shouting. Fenris stares at his bare feet on the stone floor of Hawke’s mansion and hates the fact that his eyes are burning as he tries to untangle his tongue, and dispel the impression that Anders will do something awful to him for his trespass. (Hadriana’s smile flickers behind his eyelids every time he blinks. Her fingers curl, wreathed in green light. His own screams echo in his ears long before the pain hits.)
“Are you alright?”
Anders’ voice is rough and soft, and Fenris jerks his head up, falling back on the easy confidence of anger and letting it buoy him up out of his despair.
“What do you care, mage?”
As Fenris speaks he surges forward, feeling his lips curl back from his teeth in a sneer. Anders doesn’t back away, and it leaves their faces mere inches apart. Anders is looking at him oddly, and abruptly Fenris wishes for more light: knowing the man well enough by now after almost a decade to be able to read the spiderweb cracks of wrinkles in his face as the giveaway they tended to be. 
“You haven’t been yourself since -” Anders hesitates, and Fenris hates him for it, and abruptly cannot look at him. So instead he turns away, throwing his hands into the empty air as if that will satisfy his urge to hit something.
“Since what? Since I killed him. Tell me, mage, what is my ‘self’? What am I?” Fenris means it as a challenge, but his voice cracks, and when he turns back to Anders, chest heaving, he’s horrified to realise that tears are running down his cheeks. He glances at the open door, leading into the dark and deeper into the mansion. He takes a step in the direction of the doorframe.
“Brave.” Anders says the word quickly, and Fenris stops, unable to force himself to turn around but unable to leave either as some stupid, childish part of him that he had long since thought irreparably ruined rises in delight. “Funny. And you know it, though you pretend you don’t.” It’s getting hard to breathe. Fenris stares into the thick shadows of the next room, where Orana’s drawn the curtains across the window. Elsewhere in the mansion, there’s a cheer and a crow of triumph from Isabela as the rest of their friends laugh.
“Smartest man I’ve ever met, probably.” Anders goes on, but doesn’t move. “Fucking stubborn. Annoying. Terrifying, with a greatsword. And without one.” Anders hesitates, and Fenris hears the catch of his breath as clear as a bell struck at daybreak. “My friend.”
Fenris clenches his jaw so tightly his teeth hurt, and shuts his eyes. More tears fall down his cheeks, tickling his chin  as they go. 
“A good man. That’s what you are, Fenris.” Anders delivers the proclamation with the same certainty with which he insists on his desperate, hopeless, flawed revolution.
Fenris whirls on him. “And what do you know of good men?” Fenris means it cruelly, and he tries to take satisfaction in the way that Anders flinches. But then the stupid, stubborn, ridiculous man lifts his chin.
“Enough to know one when I see one. And know when he’s being an ass.”
“You know nothing of me!” Fenris almost bellows, and cowers when the words echo. For a moment, both he and Anders hold their breath as they wait for one of Hawke’s servants - or worse - their friends, to come and investigate. But a minute passes, tense as a knife edge, and no one does. Fenris goes on, and tries to ignore the prickling in his sweating hands. “You don’t know what I am. You don’t know what I’ve done.”
Dust motes dance silver in the starlight as they fall onto the piano. Anders purses his lips. “Alright, I don’t. But I know that you dress up as Fen’harel for the kids in the alienage every Wintersend. I know you win more often at cards than you say you do, and that you let Merrill win. I know you’re a little bit in love with Isabela, and a little bit in love with Hawke, and it kills you that they chose each other because it kills me too. I know that you have more reason than any bastard I’ve ever met to hurt me until I forget how to breathe and you’re one of very few people who never has. I know that I’ve known you for a decade and you haven’t killed me yet.”
“I might.” It’s not a threat. Fenris doesn’t look at Anders when he says it, staring dully instead at the painting on the wall: some rainy Fereldan landscape, the details of which he can’t make out in the dark. 
“But you haven’t.” Anders steps forward, and Fenris steps back, and feels dizzily as if they’re dancing. The moonlight catches on Anders’ chin, and Fenris can make out the faint tooth of a scar just below his bottom lip, hair thin in his stubble. Anders swallows, and breaks Fenris’ gaze, eyes tracing over a lute hanging on the wall. “You know mages don’t get to keep their kids.”
The subject change is so abrupt that Fenris feels as if he’s been physically thrown off kilter. “What?” He’s been standing here long enough to feel the cold, now, and taste the wood polish in the air. Anders goes on, still not looking at him, massaging one hand with the other as his fingers flex. 
“They take them away. Can’t abort them, not under Chantry law. I’m a Spirit Healer.” 
Fenris’ frown deepens, the back of his head already aching with the dull constant stress of the last fortnight and the sleeplessness that came with it. “I know.” He tries not to make his frustration obvious. Judging by the small grin Anders gives him, he doesn’t succeed.
“I started working with the Circle Healer when I was 17. Day after I was Harrowed. First day wasn’t so bad. A couple lashings. Attempted suicide. Self-harmer. Some kid who said he walked into a wall.” Anders rolls his eyes, huffing a laugh as his hands move to massage his wrists. Fenris watches him carefully. “Second day. There was this girl. Fifteen, Templar father, obviously. I helped deliver that baby.” Anders’ expression shutters. “She wasn’t allowed to see it. I did. I got to hold it, give it to some lieutenant who held it like it was contagious. I don’t even know if it made out of Kinloch. But she begged me to let her hold it and all I could say was that it was already gone.”
“That -” Fenris picks his words as carefully as he would navigate a floor covered in broken glass. “I do not think that you were the one at fault, there.”
“I know.” Anders says the words simply, and reaches up into his hair to pull the tie loose, scratching the tangled waves that fall around his head as he does so. “My point is, when you’re a prisoner, most of the time, the burden is on your gaolor. And you aren’t Danarius’ crimes.”
“It is not the same.” Fenris grinds the words between his teeth as his fingers tighten into fists hard enough to hurt. “I was - the things I did - I did not take babies. I killed them. I broke their skulls on his altars. I aborted them from their mothers before I killed them, too. I cannot - there are not words for the marks that what I have done, what I did, has left on my soul, and I do not know if I will do them again, and I fear them and I fear him, and I fear myself, and I hate them and I hate him and I hate myself, and every hour of every day I live with these cursed chains on my body that I cannot shake no matter how far I run and I do not know how to make it stop.” Once Fenris starts speaking, he can’t slow down, the words falling from his tongue with the tears that run thick and fast down his cheeks as he tears at his arms hard enough to make them bleed. Anders startles forward, and Fenris jerks backward, thrusting his burning hands into the air between them. “I would tear it from my skin. I would rip myself apart piece by piece if I did not know that killing myself would only be a mercy that I have never deserved.” Fenris breathes, and it splinters in his chest. He finishes in a hoarse whisper. “You know nothing of what I am, or what I have been, or what I have suffered, or what I have done. You never have.”
Behind Fenris, through the window, the sound of the ocean beats incessantly against the land. Elsewhere in the mansion, their companions are quiet, and the sound of Sandal’s singing has ceased. Fenris can feel his blood roaring in his ears, and doesn’t bother to brush the tears from his cheeks. Standing in the middle of the room, Anders stares at him, his tall thin figure swaying like a sapling in a breeze. 
Then he says, “You’re right. There’s a lot about you that I don’t know or understand and, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry. I’m kind of an asshole sometimes. But, Fenris? I need you to know this.” Anders steps forward and gets, stiffly, to his knees, one leg bending more slowly than the other. Fenris stares at him, bewildered, and steps backward until his head bumps softly against the wall. “Forgive the melodrama but uh, I don’t get on my knees for just anyone.” Fenris doesn’t think he has ever seen Anders on his knees, and he realises abruptly that he had never wanted to. Anders gives him a small, nervous smile, and takes a deep breath, swallowing before he speaks. “Fenris. From a mage, on his knees, asking you to listen to him. You deserve to live.”
The sob that works its way out of Fenris’ chest is a living thing, and Fenris chokes on it, sliding down the wall as he begins to cry in earnest. Anders, mercifully, doesn’t move. Fenris doesn’t know how long he cries, only that at the end of it his throat aches and his eyes burn and his head is pounding. But when he opens his eyes, Anders is still there, silver in the dark on his knees next to the piano. Fenris stares at him, and tries to clear his throat.
“You’re a very strange man.”
Anders shrugs, and moves with a visible wince to take the weight off his left knee, leaning against the piano stool as he gingerly unfolds his leg. “I’ve been called worse.”
Slowly, he reaches out into the space between them, scarred, crooked, calloused hand palm upwards, fingers outstretched. Anders looks at him, and his brown eyes are almost black in the dark. Slowly, fighting the sensation that this must be some kind of trap, Fenris reaches out and takes it. Anders’ fingers are cool against his, and his knuckles are bumpy and uneven. But he squeezes Fenris’ hand so hard it’s almost painful, and Fenris feels more tears stinging at the back of his eyes.
For a moment, they sit like that, peaceful in the quiet. Then there’s a soft knock on the doorframe, and Bodahn ducks his head in, face lit by a candle in a brass dish. “Sorry to interrupt messeres, but Mistress Hawke wanted to know if you’d like some libation to keep you company?”
Fenris glances at Anders, half moving to pull his hand back. But Anders’ hand tightens on his, and instead, feeling strangely childish, he nods at Bodahn. “Yes, please. That would be appreciated.”
Bodahn gives him a small, kind smile and ducks his head. “Very good, messere.” He turns, and leaves, and Fenris watches Anders as he shuts his eyes and leans his head back against the barstool, hair fanning out around him like some Orlesian princess.
“I thought you didn’t drink.” It’s not an accusation, motivated more by curiosity than anything.
Anders’ lips curl, and he opens one eye to look at Fenris, fingers tightening in his. “For you? I’ll make an exception. It’s been a long week.”
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thiswasinevitableid · 3 years
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93. I hire your matchmaking services but all the people you set me up with are horrible and I’m demanding a refund and you’re asking me for one more chance??? what are you going to do? be my date?
Indruck, nsfw, please!
Here you go! I was inspired by @kriskukko's incredible art for the orc designs in this, and I highly recommend checking them out!
“Indrid? Some from Kepler House is here to speak with you.” Ned pokes his head into Indrid’s rooms.
“Drat” Indrid hisses, dressing gown whipping about him as he scrambles to put the apartment in order while also dragging his notes on the man in question to the forefront, “I didn’t forsee anyone coming by today, goodness, he had his first engagement with Lady Austens daughter last night, what on earth could they need to see me for?” He tosses his spare pens aside, landing them in his second set of house slippers.
“Well, dear boy, given the luck you’ve had with them lately-”
“It’s not luck, it’s simply very unlikely futures. Please just, just stall whoever it is a moment, Leo is usually patient and-”
“I’m afraid I cannot do that my friend.”
“Why not? I watched you once talk an entire flock of constables away from your door. Praytell, why can Ned “Silver Tongue” Chicane not get rid of a single attendant?”
“Because the attendant ain’t here this time.”
Indrid slams the drawer of his desk, looking up as an orc in a deep brown suit steps into the room, tossing his hat onto the table. He’s shorter than Indrid and Ned (stout and strong, according to the notes Indrid received), wavy black hair streaked with grey at the front. One eye is blue, the other brown, and both regard the harried matchmaker with casual annoyance.
“Mr. Newton, I, ah, I was not expecting you to visit me.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t expect to be on a date where she found me so damn dull she hailed a cab as soon as dinner was done. I was already in town on some business for Minerva, so I decided to come tell you I ain’t in need of your services anymore.”
“I beg your pardon? Your benefactor employed me to find you a suitable match and I intend to do just that. I know there have been missteps, but such things are to be expected when searching for one’s lifelong partner.”
“Uh huh. And the fact I’m Lady Minerva’s chosen heir, which means there are a bunch of folks waitin to mimic my style and choices, has got nothin to do with it.”
“I, ah, I can’t say that I’m ignorant of the potential repercussions of being the one assigned to locate a spouse for you.”
“Which is the long way of sayin you know damn well that if I decide to stop askin you for help, no one with money is ever gonna come to you again.”
There’s a determined set to his rounded jaw, and a glimpse at the future suggests Indrid will have better luck with a different tactic
“....were they really so awful?”
“Yes. They were rude, or thought I was rude, or thought I was dull, or we just had fuck-all in common.”
“Have you considered you might just be a tad more demanding than average?”
“It ain’t demandin to want the person I spend the rest of my life with to actually like me.” He sighs, “I’m sorry, Mr. Cold, but unless you got a real winner up your sleeve, I’m done.”
All responses, all timelines show Duck ending his time as Indrid’s client and walking out the door.
“You could try me!”
“Really?” Duck looks deeply unconvinced.
“I will admit it’s unorthodox, but I, I foresee us having a perfectly nice time together. It will let me prove that I am capable of choosing companions for you.”
The shorter orc looks him up and down more deliberately and Indrid fights not to draw his dressing gown tighter. He will not be intimidated by some newcomer from across the sea.
“Okay, I’ll make you a deal. I got to go to this concert tomorrow; someone from Kepler house is expected to show and Minerva is busy. You’re comin with me.” He holds Indrid’s gaze, daring him to renege on his offer.
Indrid summons his best, professional grin, “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
---------------------------------------
Indrid smooths his waistcoat and jacket as he steps from the cab, tucks a strand of his silver hair behind his ear. It’s his only concession to the nerves skittering up and down his spine.
Gatherings such as these are nothing new to him; he goes to them to gather new information and new clients, to remind the well-to-do families of London and beyond that he is the matchmaker extraordinaire. But there is always the moment between when they see him and when they recognize him, when every face in the room wonders why someone like him dares to enter their space.
Somewhere in Indrid’s ancestry is a love story between an orc and a goblin. His silver hair, very angular features, and complete lack of tusks or fangs is the proof. The red eyes don’t help--they unsettle everyone who sees them--but his mother insists they’re evidence of other orcs gifted with rare magic on her side of the family. He wears red spectacles over them just to be safe; he rather likes how the color stands out against his skin, and his glasses let him avoid prying questions.
Duck is waiting for him under the awning outside the music hall; he’s in a grey day suit this time, looking just as understatedly handsome as he did yesterday morning. Indrid must admit his desire to save his reputation is not the only reason he agreed to this; he cannot understand why Duck is having such trouble meeting his match. He’s good looking, moneyed, American--an exotic background in the eyes of the average, sheltered upper-class orc--but still has family history here in England. All Indrid’s matches showed a high probability of success. The point of failure must lie with the orc himself.
“Afternoon, Mr. Cold.” Duck smiles with everything but his eyes.
“Indrid is fine, given the reason for our meeting.”
Duck nods. Indrid wishes the ground would swallow one of them up. When the pavement fails to oblige, he offers his arm. The shorter orc takes it, both of them doffing their hats as they step inside.
“I, uh, like the earring.” Duck indicates the moth cuff on Indrid’s left ear, a stark contrast to the single gold hoop in his own.
“Thank you. A friend gave it to me. I, ah, I rather enjoy working moths into my wardrobe; I find them fascinating.”
“Y’know, back home we got moths that look like hummingbirds.”
“Really?” Indrid’s ear twitches, “how big?”
Duck holds up his hands to indicate the size. Indrid is about to demand details when they’re waylaid by their hostess and pulled into a cluster of families. Indrid breathes deep, feeling crowded in, and notices Duck routinely being cut off in conversation or given disapproving looks behind his back. Yes, Indrid supposes his manners are a bit rough, but there’s no harm in that. Too, everyone seems far more interested in the goings on at Kepler House and with Lady Minerva than with Duck himself. By the time they’re seated, their arms feel locked together from shared tension.
The violinists are quite good; Indrid enjoys strings, his recordings of them being his favorite music to listen to while drawing. But his mind is so consumed by futures and by thoughts about the orc beside him that he struggles to focus on the music. Duck is having a similar issue, though he hides it well; were they not side by side, Indrid would miss the way he fidgets with the knee of his trousers.
“Are you alright?” He whispers under the applause.
“N-ye-uh. Fuck. I, the musics real nice but I gotta say I’m gettin kinda bored. But I got no fuckin clue if leavin will piss everyone here off.”
“Intermission is soon. When it comes, keep quiet and follow my lead.”
When the guests rise to stretch their legs and fetch refreshments, Indrid guides Duck to their hostess.
“I’m so very sorry, but I’m afraid my stomach is rather angry with me and it’s best if I go home. Duck has agreed to accompany me so I do not pass out in the street. I’m sure you understand.”
She nods, and in a matter of moments they’re out on the street, each breathing deeply.
“Thanks for that.”
“My pleasure.”
“Guess I oughta just head back to the hotel.” Duck sighs.
“You could. But, ah, we’re not far from Kew Gardens and the weather isn’t miserably cold for once. If you’d like-”
“Hell yeah. Wait, fuck, sorry, tryin to swear less in public.”
“I don’t really mind.” Indrid starts them down the street.
“Lots of them do” Duck tips his head back towards the concert hall, “I mean, at least that rule is easier to figure out. It’s not that there aren’t weird rules and class stuff back home, but I grew up learnin them. Here I always feel like I’m one move away from makin an ass of myself. No one’ll say anything because of Minerva, but I know if it weren’t for her, none of ‘em would give me the time of day. It makes every interaction so goddamn stressful.”
Indrid twinges with sympathy, “When I first started in these circles, I wrote myself notecards and had Ned test me on them.”
Duck giggles, so absurd and loud it draws stares from passersby, “why? You seem to know your stuff.”
“I didn’t come from money, and I don’t always read social situations the way others expect. It was learn or live as a penniless artist for all my days.” As the gardens come into view he adds, “I know the basics of your life in America but if you weren’t here, what would you be doing there?”
“Workin in the Yosemite valley. I was a ranger there for a few years before Minerva called me here.”
“What was that like?”
Duck tells him as they wander the first stretches of the gardens. He’s midway through a tangent about bears when he stops.
“Holy fuck, you’re really still listenin.”
“Of course I am, this is fascinating.”
His companion smiles, “Glad you think so. But it ain’t polite for me to dominate the conversation like this. Now you gotta tell me what you do when you’re not gettin fancy folks together.”
“...You promise you will finish the story about the bear and the tent later.”
“You know it.”
Indrid knows that time passes more quickly with good company, but he’s still startled when the sun sets. The Savoy, where Duck is staying, is closer than his home, so their cab stops there first.
Duck pauses halfway out the door, “Meet me here for dinner tomorrow?”
Indrid grins, “I’d like nothing more.”
--------------------------------
“I didn’t know the line even went this far.” Indrid watches the moors race by them out the window of the train.
“You and me both.” Duck rotates his map, glances at the letter he received a week ago, “okay, once we get off at Amnesty, we need someone to take us down Greenbank road. The house is at the end of it, somewhere around here.” He taps a patch of moor miles from anything else. Indrid studies his fingers and is glad that, of his more rugged habits, one he elected to keep was letting his nails stay claws rather than filing them down.
“My visions suggest that as long as we don’t ask anyone to drive us out after dark, we should have no trouble reaching it.”
Indrid tries not to be too giddy at the prospect of spending weeks and weeks more or less alone in the countryside with Duck. They’re going because an anonymous note informed him that he did indeed have a family estate and--once they determined that the house near Dartmoor did indeed legally belong to him--it was decided he would go to see how the old place was doing and perhaps take up residence.
He asked Indrid to come without even glancing up from the telegram from the solicitor. Indrid agreed without looking away from his drawing. If two months of semi-courtship in a crowded city got them close enough for that, Indrid dares to hope that being out here together will bring them closer still.
Amnesty is small, as they both expected, the air chilly and fog threatening to swallow whole buildings as they make their way to the Lodge where they’ve been told they can find a driver. When Duck asks the young woman working the counter for help getting to Greenbank Hall, she quirks her lips in a frown.
“I’m not sure there’s even a place called that around here….OH! Do you mean Beacon House?”
“Maybe?” Duck looks at Indrid, who quickly looks at the futures.
“Yes, it seems we do.”
“Okay. Since it's still light, I should be able to find someone to get you out there. If it comes down to it, I can, like, drive you out myself.”
They end up being driven by a friendly young man named Jake, who deposits them and their bags on the steps of the massive house with a friendly wave farewell.
“Agh” Indrid shivers as they step through the newly unlocked doors, “I think it’s actually warmer outside.”
“No kiddin. Damn fog means it’s already gettin too dark to see too. I’ll go get some kind of fire started, you see if you can find some lanterns or candles so we ain’t trippin all over ourselves.”
Indrid begins his search, comes to the kitchen and finds some matches and a candle. The solicitor arranged for food and other supplies to be brought in ahead of time, so in theory lanterns should be somewhere nearby. He’s just glad that the paltry light shows no signs of rodents getting into their food.
When he gets upstairs, he discovers two things; one, all the lamps are gas, so he’s able to light them easily. And two, a mother tortoiseshell cat is nesting with her kittens on a guest bed.
“Well, that explains the lack of mice.”
Footsteps behind him, “Got a fire goin in the sittin room, if you wanna pick a room for yourself I can light one th--awwwww” Duck moves past him towards the cat, who hisses at him, “now, there ain’t any need for that, missy. I ain’t gonna hurt you or your babies. But we oughta bring you somethin more’n mice to eat.”
“I saw some tinned food in the pantry.”
“Perfect, lemme go find a bowl.”
----------------------------------
Beacon House has seen better days, but Indrid discovers the houses loss is his gain. Duck decides they can do many of the repairs themselves, and sets about ordering supplies from London or bringing them in from Amnesty. The few times they need help, the cook and several others from the Lodge come to assist in the project. These gatherings are far more pleasant than any Indrid had to attend for work (well, except for the ones where he was with Duck). And they always end before dusk.
Indrid occupies himself with figuring out why. There was no mention of this house when he first researched Duck, and even using the local name turns up very little. It’s not until he finds a diary belonging to one H. Newton in the library that he understands.
October the 15th, 1805
I fear the worst is upon me. I cannot leave the house, dare not even peer out the windows for fear of what I shall see. Lucy says it is my health, that we should travel to warmer regions so it will improve. But I know it is not so simple. Were we to flee, it would merely wait for our return. It may even waylay us before we reached town. I am cursed. We are cursed. We always will be.
Beneath the words is a hastily sketched image; yellow eyes and sharp fangs peering from between the bars of the front gate.
There are no more entries.
Indrid is unsure whether to raise the matter with Duck. On the one hand, he wishes him to know of any possible dangers. On the other, his friend is so very content these days, coming in from some project or other with grime on his skin and a smile on his face. Indrid’s own desire to stay with him here, in a house he can pretend is theirs, threatens to drown out all other reasons.
Eventually, his conscience shouts it down while he and Duck are on their evening walk.
“Oh yeah, Barclay told me about that a few days ago. Some ghost apparently wanders around the moor at night; got somethin to do with a murderous ancestor.”
“That does not alarm you.”
“You know I don’t believe in curses and destiny or anythin like that. People make up all kinds of stories when they’re alone in wild places.”
Indrid’s foresight guides his arm, gripping Duck and keeping him from moving forward.
“Does that look like a story?”
Directly ahead of them, a tor rises like a spike. Atop it, revealed by the rising moon, is a gigantic, fur-covered shape.
“See” Duck whispers, “were we back home, I’d say that was a bear.”
“And now?”
“Given there ain’t been bears in this part of the world in decades, I say we get the hell outta here.”
They take off back down the slope, the hall a collection of yellow squares of light in the darkening distance. A howl splits the air behind them and Indrid quickens his pace, keeps his eyes on the future in hopes of protecting them both.
This means he doesn’t see the burrow in the path until his ankle goes sideways in it.
“‘Drid!”
“Under no circumstances are you to try and help meAH!” He yelps as Duck swings him over his shoulder and continues his flight towards the house. As he’s bounced about, Indrid watches a glowing shape bounding closer.
“Thank fuck.” Duck crosses the gate, slams them closed, and lowers Indrid to his feet. Nothing glares at them from the path. But a growl creeps from the shadows and follows them until they shut the door.
------------------------------------------
“How’s the ankle?” Duck drops his coat on the chair opposite Indrid before tending to the fire.
“Better than yesterday. I should be up and moving tomorrow, if the futures are to be believed.”
“You know you don’t gotta rush. I’m happy to take care of you.”
Indrid picks at the ends of the blanket in his lap, “but I miss being able to aid you with work.”
“There’ll be lots of time for that. We got plenty to do to get the house to where we can live in it full time.”
“We?”
Duck goes completely still, then fails to put the fire poker back in place three separate times. When he finally meets Indrid’s eyes, he looks worried.
“‘Drid? What’s your endgame? With, uh, with me?”
“I…” Indrid grabs his teacup, intending to drink it to buy time and finds it empty, ‘I...I don’t know. I, I wanted to prove to you that I could find you a companion who made you happy, hoping you would give me another chance to locate your perfect match. But lately I, ah, I struggle to see that plan working. As I do not wish you to have any match but me.”
Duck moves across the rug, shadows on his face making it hard to read.
“I know that shows great selfishness on my part. If that is not something you wish to have in your life I, I…” he shrinks back as Duck leans down, certain this is the timeline where he accuses him of being a conniving monster.
“Funny you should say you’re bein selfish” Duck braces his arms on either side of the chair, “because I’ve been beatin myself thinkin’ I was selfish for keepin you out here so long.”
“Keep me here forever.” Indrid whispers. Duck smiles, closes the remaining space between them. His lips are still a bit chilly from working outside; Indrid does everything he can to warm them with his own.
The shorter orc straddles him and he whines so needily that Duck snickers in reply.
“What’s wrong darlin? Kissin too much for you?’
“On the contrary; it is far too little, but my injury means my ability to drag you to my bed and beg for more is greatly impeded.”
“Good thing we live alone.” Duck pulls the blanket from Indrid’s lap, nibbles his ear as the seer catches on and begins frantically undoing the buttons of Duck’s workshirt and shoving his suspenders. When at last he pushes it open he loses himself a moment, tipping forward to tongue at the golden ring in Duck’s left nipple.
“AHheh, gettin right to it. Good” Duck unbuttons his pants, “because I’ve been wantin to fuck you since before we even came out here.”
“Oh I see” Indrid purrs, “you lured me into the countryside to sully my virtue.”
Duck laughs, full throated, as his tusks catch in the firelight, “You forgettin the time we got drunk instead of goin to the opera and you told me you convinced two sailors to take you home?”
“Only if you’ve forgotten telling me about the young ranch-hand you gave several rides to” Indrid nibbles along his neck, his twitching oddly in their quest to grind against him without jostling his ankle.
“Not a chance. But I don’t care about reminiscin right now; right now, I got the best lookin fella in the world beggin for my dick.”
“I’m not begging.” Indrid tilts his head back to help Duck get his shirt open some.
“Not yet.” Duck grins, then shoves his hand down his trousers.
“Ohhhhhyes” Indrid reaches for him.
“Keep your hands on the armrests until I say you can move ‘em.”
“But, but” it’s hard to argue when he’s trying to stare a hole through Duck’s remaining clothes. His partner notices and makes a show of moaning louder.
“Only good boys get to watch the show. You gonna be good for me?”
“The best.”
Duck kisses the tip of his nose, then wiggles and kicks his pants and underwear off. Indrid can only watch, growing more envious by the moment, as he fucks himself open and rubs a thumb along his cock. Indrid tries bucking his hips, only to discover Duck is keeping himself out of reach.
“Cruel creature.” Indrid groans.
“Cruel? I’m giving you a seat to the best show in town.”
“I’d rather you take the best seat in town.”
Duck laughs, is still doing so when he bends to kiss him. Indrid whimpers, nails digging into the upholstery to keep his promise of good behavior. Duck notices.
“Good boy.”
“AHHHnnnthankyou, thankyouthankyouthankyou” Indrid moans as Duck drops his weight into his lap, grinding on his clothed cock with abandon. He flings Indrids hands up to his shoulders. The seer glides them up to his hair, burying them there where he’s now certain they’ve always belonged. Duck mirrors him, lips only leaving his to bite the tip of his ear.
“Fuck, Indrid, that’s it darlin, lemme ride you like the sleek little beast you are.”
He whines, loses his thoughts as Ducks hips quicken.
“I know ‘Drid, you like bein mine, like that I’ll bounce on this fuckin perfect dick as often as you want as long as you’re my good, sweet, ohsweetfuck, fuck, darlin’” Duck drops his forehead to Indrid’s shoulder with a groan as he cums, soaking the fabric of his pants. Before Indrid can think about stopping, Duck picks up again with as much force as before, growling in his ear to be a good little social climber and cum for his lord.
Indrid cums at that with a chirping sound he thought he’d stopped making long ago, legs spasming from the force of his climax. Unfortunately, this means his pleasure is chased by a burst of pain. He whimpers, flinches, and Duck spots the problem.
“Oh, oh darlin I’m sorry” He drops to the floor, rubbing Indrid’s thighs, “thought the position would keep you from hurtin.”
“Apparently not. I, I want you to know I don’t regret it in the slightest.”
Duck smiles, relieved, and rests his head on Indrid’s stomach, “Guess you did find me a match, huh?”
Indrid bends slowly, nuzzling his hair with a hum, “Yes, I believe so.”
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Remus feels miserable. He's also hiding under the covers. He knows it's childish and probably useless because the one person he's trying to hide from shares the flat with him, but the uselessness of his solutions has never stopped him from executing them before so why start now.
He can hear Sirius shuffling in the kitchen, the kettle whistling and the mugs tinkling. The strong, sweet spicy aroma of bergamot is slowly wafting through the open door to their bedroom.
Remus exhales. Earl Grey then. That means Sirius is making tea for Remus as well as for himself. Remus doesn't drink any other but Sirius prefers green tea and yet he always makes Earl Grey for both of them whenever they're home together. He says he doesn't mind having the same as Remus but Remus knows he does it just because the water for Earl Grey needs to be heated just slightly under the boiling point whereas the water for green tea should be around 80°C. He told Sirius multiple times that he can make his green tea first and Remus can boil the kettle for his Earl Grey later but Sirius just looked at him while walking to the couch with their mugs and answered, "But then we would never get to drink the tea together," like it's the most obvious thing on the planet. Just like that, casually hitting Remus' feelings in all the right places. How dare he.
He secures the blanket over his face tighter and burrows deeper into the pillows.
Footsteps. Sirius is walking over and placing something on his nightstand.
"Love, I made us some sandwiches and tea. Marlene is coming to pick me up for the Order mission later. I thought we could eat together in bed before she arrives so you don't have to get up?"
Remus groans. He doesn't deserve this man.
Yesterday's full moon was terrible. He hasn't had a bad one like that in years. The deep exhaustion is still lingering in his bones, his joints ache and muscles feel strained, stretched on a body that looks way too old to be this young. He's normally somewhat functioning the evening after. Not today.
He fell asleep right after Sirius healed the worst wounds on his ribs and thighs and apparated them back to their flat. In times like this, he's beyond grateful Sirius chose being a healer as his career. It makes the post full moon mornings so much easier.
He slept like the dead through most of the day and if that wasn't any indication of how bad the night was, the dull pain in his entire body should have been enough. But none of that prepared him for the shock he found himself in when he stumbled to the bathroom to use the loo and saw his face in the mirror.
There, still red and not fully healed yet, was a new scar across his face.
Now, scars weren't anything new. He's used to having them all over his entire body and finding new ones after almost every full moon. But never before has a scar appeared on his face. It's strange really, that he has managed to avoid his entire head for so long. He probably didn't have this big area of smooth unblemished skin anywhere else on his body. Well, not anymore. Run out of luck, I suppose, he ponders.
Remus never thought of his own face as something exceptionally beautiful or desirable. But the fresh scar, raised and big and ugly, spanning from his right temple, going under his eye, across his nose and ending on the left side of his jaw, makes him look absolutely horrendous.
He's already self conscious and standing next to his gorgeous boyfriend makes him feel unsure at the best of times and inadequate and undeserving at worst. How much worse is it going to be now?
The bed dips under Sirius' weight as he climbs on the mattress next him. "Come on, Rem. Come out of the blanket cocoon and have some food. You haven't eaten all day," he says softly.
Remus doesn't move. Instead, he asks something he's meant to ask Sirius for a while now. Hidden from view, he allows some of the worry and fear to seep into his voice. "Why are you staying with me?"
"What do you mean?" Sirius confusedly inquires.
"Why are you dating me?"
Suddenly, hands are caressing his curls back softly and trying to take the blanket off his face. Remus just holds it tighter.
"Because I love you. What kind of question is that? What's going on?" Sirius is starting to sound worried.
Remus only grumbles in response.
"Love, take the blanket off your face and talk to me. I'm not having this conversation with you hidden under the covers."
"Well then get used to it because I'm not coming out from under them any time soon," he retorts.
"What? Why?"
"Because my face is disgusting and no one needs to see it, least of all my very attractive boyfriend."
Sirius doesn't answer. Then he shifts his body so he's laying behind Remus and hugs him completely within his cocoon to his chest.
"If this is about your new scar I already know about it. Not only because I saw you make it yourself in the forest but also because I healed the wound and carried you to bed, all the while with your face pretty much visible and I haven't combusted or turned to stone from the sight so I think I'm good. Now, as your official healer I would like to inspect my patient, please."
Hot burning shame runs through Remus' body. Sirius does so much for him - turns into a dog to run around all night every month, has to watch his lover turn into a bloodthirsty beast, he looks after him, heals his wounds and makes him tea and he even reads to him sometimes, when the full moon isn't that bad. Remus really doesn't deserve him.
What does he have to offer in return? Cynicism, snarky comments, empty bank account, and petulance. He could have at least told himself he's a good enough shag but will Sirius even be able to look at him like that when the most prominent feature of his face is forever going to remind him (and everyone else) what a monster he really is?
Tears prickle in the corners of his eyes and he sniffles.
Sirius, alarmed, takes the blanket Remus has hidden himself under and tugs at it again. It comes off easily, Remus is not clutching at it anymore, and finally uncovers his face.
Sirius puts his palm on Remus' left cheek and smiles at him tenderly.
"Here you are, love."
He starts studying the scar with a wrinkle on his forehead that appears every time he's focusing on something. "It's healing very well. The scar shouldn't be too prominent but it will probably stay. I'm sorry about that. I tried to spell it as soon as you transformed back but you know how it is with werewolf injuries. They rarely heal completely."
Remus frowns. "You take such good care of me already, Sirius. Don't you dare apologize for something you can't control."
Sirius grins. "Then there's no need to hide something YOU can't control either, is there?
Remus' frown deepens. "That's hardly the same thing."
Sirius kisses his nose. "It makes no difference to me, Remus. You're still you. I still love you. And I will continue to do so," he traces one of his fingers along the scar, "whether you have ten of these or none".
Remus gazes into Sirius' eyes and when he finds nothing but truth and honest devotion, he lets himself be gently kissed into the pillows.
When he wakes up later, he finds the bed empty but he can hear Sirius chatting with somebody behind the closed bedroom door. Marlene must be here then.
Remus gets up to greet her and groans when his limbs crackle in protest. He's almost at the door when he hears what they're talking about.
"....it was a rough night," Sirius explains.
"I hope Remus is okay." Marlene's voice sounds tired, like everyone's in the Order these days.
"He has some new scars but otherwise he'll be okay."
"Marlene," Sirius growls. She must have made a face.
"Oh no, I didn't mean it like that. Actually I think it fits him. He has this...roguish vibe and the scars just make him look edgy. Not that I would be into it even if I swung that way but I always wondered if you…"
"What are you on about?" Sirius demands, his voices still a little angry.
Marlene takes a deep breath. "So many pretty people chasing you, but it was only ever Remus for you. Why?"
Sirius sighs and stays quiet for a minute. Remus almost thinks he's not going to answer. Why should he, anyway? Maybe Marlene just made him see the truth, maybe he realized he would like to date someone else after all, maybe he finally sees the stark absurdity of someone as gorgeous as Sirius dating someone as hideous as Rem-
"You know, sometimes you meet someone so beautiful, and then you actually get to talk to them and five minutes later, they're as dull as a brick. Then there's other people and you meet them and you think, "Not bad, they're okay." And then you get to know them and… And their face just sort of… Becomes them, like their personality is written all over it. And they just… They turn into something so beautiful."
He pauses and then exhales, "Remus is the most beautiful man I've ever met."
Remus doesn't come into the living room to say hi to Marlene for another ten minutes. And if it's because he had to sit for a moment and dry some tears, who's to say?
A/N: The last thing Sirius says in this is inspired by this scene in Doctor Who
Big thank you to @kattlupin for her quick betaread! <3
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merakiaes · 4 years
Text
His World - Geralt Of Rivia
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Pairing: Geralt of Rivia x reader
Requested: Yes
Prompts: None. 
Warnings/notes: This isn’t proofread so I apologize in advance for any possible mistakes. I’m gonna come back and edit it later! I hope you like it even though I was completely writer’s blocked when I wrote it xx
Wordcount: 2393
Summary: Just when you’ve given up on the neverending dream of ever finding your soulmate, fate brings you together. 
You lived in a world where you were born with words engraved into your skin; the words that would be the first spoken to you by your soulmate when you met them. If you ever met them, that is.
To some, said words were a curse, and to others, a blessing. Or well, up until the point where you actually met your soulmate, it was a curse for everyone, and not many were so lucky.
Whether you were just living in different parts of the world or if your other half was dead, you would never know. You could only sit by and stare as the words on your body faded away more and more for each passing year, until finally, only a faint, white scarring and a hole in your heart would be left behind.
The words on your arm were still very visible, although they had died down from a sharp black to a dark grey.
Like everyone else, you had once dreamt about the day when you would meet your soulmate, and woken up every day with a big smile on your lips, excited what the day would bring.
But as you grew up, you became much more aware of how dull and grey the world and the people living in it was, and you came to the realization of how truly rare it was to find your soulmate.
And you realized the chance of you doing so was even slimmer, as the words on your arm indicated that you would have to actually touch your soulmate to hear the destined words fall from his lips, and long story short, you were not a woman fond of social interaction and touching other people.
To put it simply, you didn’t think you’d ever find your soulmate. But then the day came, then that man came. That strange, peculiar man with the silvery-white hair and amber eyes, trotting into your village on the back of a big, proud stallion.
“Healer! We need a healer! Is there a healer here?”
You didn’t think you had ever heard the word ‘healer’ so many times in the same sentence before, and could only stare from your place at the outside fireplace where you were preparing the afternoon tea as the famous Witcher, drenched in blood and only God knows what, yelled at the top of his lungs after a healer with another man, much smaller in build, hanging limply under his arm.
Your uncle wasted no time in rushing over from his spot beside you, demanding to know what happened.
You left them to it briefly, missing the Witcher’s response as you put the chamomile tea back down on the table, taking your time before heading over to help in any way you could.
As you approached the trio, you noticed the rest of the villagers ogling at the Witcher from afar, keeping their distance. Your people had always been a scared one, and you guessed you should have been too, but you weren’t bothered with much these days.
You had heard the songs and tales about the mutant standing in your village. Why should you be amazed just from seeing him in the flesh when you already knew everything he had done and all he was capable of?
“I’ll take care of your friend and my niece will tend to your injuries meanwhile.” You heard your uncle tell the Witcher just as you reached him and you didn’t protest.
In fact, you said nothing as the Witcher’s amber eyes met your much duller ones, simply walking alongside him and your uncle as they carried the passed-out man to the infirmary hut.
Once in there, they placed the man down on a bed, and your uncle wasted no time in unbuttoning his shirt to get a better view of his wound.
“What’s his name?” Your uncle asked, turning to ready the herbs and bandages he would be needing for the healing process after a moment of inspecting the damage he would be working with.
“Jaskier.” The Witcher answered without missing a beat, his voice deep enough to send a rumble through your bones.
Your uncle nodded, looking up. “My niece will show you to the hut you will be staying in and help clean your wounds. I’ll make sure your friend heals alright, don’t worry.”
The Witcher, grumbled, and wordlessly, you turned on your heel and headed back out of the hut, expecting him to follow you. And he did, surprisingly without any protests, walking quietly behind you the entire time.
The only thing that could be heard was the clashing sounds of the hilt of his sword hitting his armor, his heavy footsteps and the whispers of your people as you passed them in the street.
In the corner of your eye you could see him watching them closely, but you couldn’t be bothered, your focus being solely on the obvious wound in his side that he had been clutching since he had let go of his friend, and the very reason he was currently limping his way forward.
What would have been able to damage a Witcher to the point where he could barely walk was a mystery to you, but whatever it was, it must have been big and dangerous.
After a minute of walking and taking a few left and right turns, you finally reached the hut next to yours - the one he would be staying in until his friend was ready to travel again - and walked inside.
As he let himself in and made himself comfortable in a chair in the middle of the small home, you wasted no time in going over to the shelf on which you stored the herbs and bandages, and gathered everything you would be needing for his injuries.
He groaned behind you, and by the sound of it, he was relieving himself of his weapons and clothes, getting himself ready to be tended to.
You quickly finished gathering everything you needed and turned around with the items in your hands and arms and for just a moment, you had to stop and stare at the magnificence of his muscles.
You had tended to many injured men in your life, but none of them had been half as strongly built as him, and at the end of the day, you were still simply a woman. A woman who could admit the beauty of the man in front of her.
Clearing your throat, you shook your head free of the distracted thoughts and set your feet into motion again, heading over to where he sat hunched over on the chair and putting the medical supplies down on a table beside him.
He must have been accustomed to the routine of getting taken care of by now because the second you came over to him he straightened himself up and put his wound on display for you, making it as easy for you to work as only possible.
He kept his hand on his knee for support, leaning slightly to the side to expose his bleeding side, and kept his eyes on the ground as you prepared the cleaning rag.
Once it was wet, you moved it to his side, but before you allowed the piece of fabric to make contact with the wound, you stopped yourself, glancing at him and hesitating.
“I’m sure you’re used to getting stitched up by now but if I hurt you, let me know and I’ll take it easy.” You told him softly, and the second the words left it was if he froze to ice in his seat.
You watched with confusion how his entire face turned cold, his eyes hard and his knuckles turned white where they were gripping his knee. But he said nothing, only staring into the ground and breathing heavily.
And you took the lack of protest as an okay to begin, simply letting your eyes leave his face to focus on the wound instead.
The rag made contact with his wound and he didn’t even flinch. On the contrary, he seemed to relax his entire body, and you couldn’t quite figure out how someone could relax at the feeling of a harsh rag brushing against their torn up skin.
But then again, no one had ever been able to figure out a Witcher, had they?
You took your time to clean his wound, making sure all of the dirt and dried blood disappeared with the rag before putting said rag down on the table.
The wound was now fully on display, and you couldn’t help but flinch at the sight of the depth of it, knowing you were the one who would have to stitch it up.
You prepared the needle and thread and got to work and the Witcher didn’t flinch a single time you pushed the needle through his skin. You seemed to be more uneasy than he was, despite having stitched countless wounds before.
“It will make a pretty impressive scar.” You spoke, your voice breaking through the eerily quiet air in an attempt to break the thick and awkward blanket of silence hanging over you.
But he only nodded, not saying a word.
Not so talkative, then, you thought, but still took what you could get, continuing to mend his broken skin. 
Once you were done with the stitches, you picked up a salve, taking some of the lotion on your fingers and rubbing it around in your hands before carefully tarting to rub it around his now fully stitched wound.
Surprising you, he hummed when your hands made contact with his skin, and in fright and concern, you hurriedly brought your hand away, taking a step back.
“I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?” You asked quickly, but he only hummed again, his eyes shut and his body relaxed where he sat, not moving a muscle.
“Your hands… they’re soft.” He replied simply without opening his eyes, looking as if he was in some kind of trance.
And this time it’s your turn to freeze, your hand automatically flying to your arm on which your words were tattooed, your eyes widening as realization came over you.
Oh.
Oh.
Oh no.
You took another step back, your eyes widening even further and your breath getting caught in your throat. “What-“ You took a deep breath, feeling your entire body starting to shake. “What did you say?”
He didn’t answer with words, simply standing up from the chair and looking into your eyes while bringing his hands down to the hem of his pants, pushing them down slightly to reveal his own words tattooed into the skin of his hipbone.
I’m sure you’re used to getting stitched up by now but if I hurt you, let me know and I’ll take it easy.
You stared at the black letters, barely even noticing when he brought his pants back up over them again, only snapping out of your trance when his low voice cut through the air, his body now standing right in front of you.
“Are you scared?” He asked, looking down at you with amber eyes.
You held his gaze, your breathing still heavy and ragged with shock, your entire body shaking and forcing you to lean back onto the table behind you, your hands grabbing ahold of the edge of the wood in order to keep your body upright.
But you shook your head still, answering quietly. “Of course not.” You took a shaky breath. “Everyone knows one is physically unable to hurt their soulmate.”
He nodded, taking yet another step closer to you, and you could feel your heart thumbing violently inside your chest.
“Are you... disappointed?” He asked then, his eyes searching yours.
“I- …” You hesitated, but once again shook your head. “No. No, I’m not. I’m just… surprised. Confused.” You confessed.
Swallowing, you pushed yourself off the table with a shaky breath, finally regaining the strength in your legs after the shock.
Your eyes watched him closely. “I was under the impression that Witchers were incapable of feeling human emotions.” You said, and he said nothing as you slowly approached him again.
Testing the waters, you came to a stop right before him, your chests grazing each other’s, and raised a shaky hand up to his face. You flinched back briefly when the tips of your fingers made contact with his stubbly cheek, but you quickly composed yourself and pressed your entire palm against it.
You let out a short breath at the feeling, tears slowly starting to prickle your eyes. “I never thought I’d find you…” You admitted, letting your thumb caress the corner of his lip.
He leaned into your touch, his eyes never leaving yours. He was silent for a moment before his hand slowly came up to rest on top of yours, his eyes showing nothing but utmost honesty and sincerity as he spoke, “You’re my world now.”
He hesitated, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment before looking back into yours. “You always have been but now…” He shook his head slowly, bringing your hand down from his face and squeezing it. “I’ll never let you go.”
You breathed in shakily, your heart fluttering in your chest at the feeling of his warm hand swallowing yours. You had only just met him and still, you had never felt as safe and at home as you did at that moment.
You carefully brought your hand out to grab his other one, taking another step closer to him, making you as close as you possibly could be.
Looking up at him, your eyebrows knitted together in deep thought, your eyes flickered down for a moment before looking back up into his.
“I wouldn’t dream of being anywhere else than by your side.” You confessed, squeezing his hands.
His head fell down to yours, your foreheads pressing together, and you watched his eyes falling shut in contentment as you continued. “I’ve waited my entire life to meet you and now that I have, I wouldn’t have wished for anyone else.”
You shook your head, letting go of his hands and bringing yours up to grab a hold of his face, causing his eyes to open again. “You’re my world, too.” You admitted, and then pressed your lips to his without another word.
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eatsleepfuckread · 3 years
Text
The Important Things in Life
(also posted on Literotica)
Kink: rather vanilla sex
Warning: sex?
Sentence summary: You make it up to me after messing up my newly painted nails.
Word Count: 3085
             I didn’t often paint my nails; they never lasted and would chip almost immediately. My toenails, however, were always painted. I would paint them every color under the sun, even if it no one except you saw them. They made me happy. Thus, on the few occasions that I did paint my fingernails, especially if I matched them to my toenails, I walked around as if I was in the midst of a mine field. Or as if I were a mummified zombie trying to find my stolen, and cursed, treasure shaped like brains. Given that nail polish and nail polish remover both have a distinct smell, you knew when to stay away. Sometimes, however, the shenanigans you brought me into were worth redoing my nails.
           I had just painted my nails, both sets of ten, and had just placed the top on the bottle. More than solid colors even: one finger on each appendage was a sparkly silver while the others were all a dark grey. I was waiting on my top and final coat to dry, what feels like the longest layer of all, when you sauntered in with a tell-tale gleam in your eyes.
           “No,” I stated firmly, already knowing what was coming. “Noooo, I just painted my nails. Can’t you smell the nail polish. They are perfect! Not a single smudge or missed place. Get away from me with those eyes and grabby hands.”
           I saw the pout forming, slightly dulling your eyes, before it vanished. “What if I tell you that you don’t have to use your feet or your hands and that I will preserve your nails completely?”
           It wasn’t unusual for you to find me and already be in the mood for sex. Nor did it take me very long to get on your level. Often times just telling me what got you worked up, well, worked on me too. Especially if you were teasing me, like now, by palming your length through your sweats (or boxers, or jeans, or even the one time with the suit pants), biting your lip, making bedroom eyes, and subtly flexing your arms (we both know I am a sucker for biceps and forearms). Hardly ever did it take all four tactics to rouse me, but this time I was giving you a run for your money.
           “You told me that a time or two ago about my hair. It took me twenty minutes to put it back together. We ended up not even going too,” at this point I folded my arms across my chest, over my tits, to show a point and hide your staring. If I had known, I would have worn a bra, and more than an oversized hoodie of yours. Hell, probably would have worn a parka if I could have. Painting my nails is a process that should never be interrupted. “So no, turn around and go jack one out in the living room or somewhere away from me and my nails.”
           All of the tactics somehow failing, which had never happened before, I could see your mind whirring with possibilities. Seeing how all four tactics are rarely all used without me giving in, you were having a hard time coming up with a fifth. Seriously, three of the tactics are used generally around when I start my period each month. All four have been used once and that was in the beginning of our relationship when you wanted me to finger your ass as I blew you (you didn’t even need to use them either, I just didn’t want to sound so eager to put my fingers up your butt). I knew I was in trouble when a calm certainty came about, completely sure of yourself, and my inability to deny you anything sexual.
           A quick peak at my nails and the clock next to where I was sitting on our bed proved that my nails were far from dry. Given that I use a super strong top coat in hopes of my nail polish lasting longer, it usually means that it takes three centuries to dry or it needs some special lamp. Of course, I opted for the option of time.
           “Since I’m already in our room, you don’t mind if I sit next to you, right baby girl? I won’t make any attempt to get too close to you or your nails. I will stay on my side of our bed.” With that, you took your time to get to your side, ensuring that I had a perfect view of your dick swaying under your sweats with every step. The lack of a shirt only further aided the view, the dark trail of hair connecting both of my happy places. You weren’t ropes of muscle, but you also weren’t skin and bones either. You were my ideal man. Something which you had every intention of exploiting to your best degree. You furthered my point when you met my eyes and let your sweats drop to the floor before climbing into bed, albeit carefully, to rest your back against the headboard. “See. Not anywhere near your nails. And since he,” with a pointed nod towards your dick, “isn’t going anywhere anytime soon. I assume you don’t mind if I rub one out here.”
           At the sight of my flushed cheeks and parted lips, you knew that I had no intention of answering you, not even if I was forced to. Especially as your right hand went from behind your head, which allowed me a full view of your body, to your dick. You slowly, and loosely, started stroking your dick, the muscles bunching in your arm with each stroke. I was still able to hold out on helping you, but not by much. I saw you facial expression change from calm certainty with a side of arousal to completely confident with a main dish of arousal. You knew you had me. It was just a matter of time.
           “Ohhh, fuck baby. This feels so good,” you moaned out breathlessly. By this point, your pre-cum had leaked out and your stroking did a good job in spreading it around to only aid you. Your hold got tighter, making the sound of your strokes get louder and wetter. You were so confident that you had me, you stopped paying me any attention to focus on your dick. Your head was still against your other arm but now your eyes were closed, lips parted to let out every sound, every harsh exhale as your stroked yourself to completion. Or maybe I wasn’t even needed for this jerk off session. We both had a pretty good memory for our spank banks. This wouldn’t be the first time that either one of us would cum without the other, usually due to schedule conflicts. At that thought, I folded. I hated masturbating by myself, would rather wait until you could join or even just direct, just so that I could feel close to you. Nails could be re-done. Besides, I don’t need my hands to make you cum.
           You didn’t falter in your strokes, nor did you startle when you felt me suddenly move to straddle you. All without hands, too. My pussy was mere inches from where you were stroking your cock, I could almost feel the whooshing of air against my pussy. I had been so busy trying to not give in that I completely ignored my own arousal sings; my nipples were pebbled, noticeable through your hoodie while my pussy was leaking my arousal onto your cock as I hovered, only aiding in your stroking. I fully admit that it doesn’t take much to turn me on, not that I can’t behave, but your tease and how far you pushed me made it ten times worse than usual.
It wasn’t until I started to sink down on your cock that your eyes opened, and your lips briefly went into a smirk before I smothered them with my own. Nipping on your bottom lip, almost in punishment for my lack of a will power when it comes to you. As I bottomed out, quite easily due to how wet and turned on I was, I went from nipping your lips to meeting your tongue with me own. Adjusting to your size, the stretch of your think cock always making it a necessity, I started to grind against your cock followed by lifting my hips and slamming back down. By this time, I knew my toe nails were fucked, if they weren’t messed up from when I straddled you, they were now as I moved my feet every lift of my hips to offer balance. My hands were still half in the air after all, rather comically.
“Good girl,” you murmured to me, having broken off of our kiss. “I was wondering when it would take for you to fold. It’s a shame about your toenails. It’ll be a shame if something happened to your fingernails too.” At the same time, your hands from behind your head, where they went after my pussy swallowed your dick, to my hips. Your hips started to meet my own in a frenzy, your grip on my hips almost too painful as you helped me keep my speed. As I had opened my eyes to meet yours after you broke the kiss, I was able to see the pure animalistic need that appeared as you thoroughly fucked me from the bottom. It seems as though you held off from coming to find me longer than I thought, but in the moment, all I could think was how good your dick felt.
I gave in. Having almost lost balance and fallen off your dick, which we definitely can’t have, I moved my hands from being a mummy to rest on your shoulders, just slightly grasping a hold. This moved my breasts from lightly resting on your chest to help with balance, to out I the open. Something you definitely took notice of at they bounced with every thrust. This only further your need, mine too, as I now got even better leverage to move my hips. Occasionally, I would go against your hold on my hips to grind against your groin. Before allowing you to go back to leading me in the rhythm. Each time your dick bottomed out, your balls slapped against me, adding a slight sting that did nothing but further the knot being created in my stomach.
“Nooo, what are you doing,” I half whimpered, half moaned, as you stopped altogether. “I was enjoying that.” Turning to look at your face, I had been ogling your muscles that were tensing and relaxing from fucking me seconds before, your confidence was back and even more apparent than before. You got me right where you wanted me anyway, begging for your dick, so you had no reason not to be.
“Oh, I know,” cue the half smirk. “But you are going to like this even better.” Not a second after that, you somehow took us from cowgirl to missionary without detaching our connection or further messing up my nails that rested on your shoulders. “Now hold on.”
           And I did. If I thought you were animalistic before, I had no words for how fast and hard you were thrusting into my pussy. The squelch sounds from my pussy only got louder and I could feel a mixture of my wetness and your pre-cum dripping down to make a puddle on the bed. I could only imagine how wet your balls were from slapping into me, which made the feeling of them slapping into me that much greater. My hands on your shoulders went from a loose, I-need-to-balance, hold to a I’m-being-fucked-for-my-life, hold on so I don’t lose my soul. My legs wrapped around your waist, feed resting on top of your ass, feeling how you tightened with each thrust. The ball that slowly dissipated with my disappoint of you stopping came back with a vengeance.  You were supporting your weight on your arms, allowing a gap between us, feasting your eyes on my tits that had their own jiggling in mind, occasionally looking down at my stomach that was jiggling just the same. You had the perfect body in my eyes, and somehow, you always said that I had the perfect body in your eyes, regardless of my jiggly parts. Rather than feeling self-conscious, I let the feeling of possession and love take over me, in between the tightening of my lower stomach.
           When your dick buried into me at the hilt each thrust, I moaned out, “I’m. About. To. Cum. Don’t. Stop.” What did you do? You stopped completely, not moving an inch. Pressing your hips against mine to stop me from bringing about my own orgasm. You brought your arms from pressing against the bed on either side of me to under my head, ignoring my whining and begging to please move all the while. After what felt like years of struggling for some kind of friction, I gave up with a huff. “I was so fucking close babe. Why?”
           This brought your attention up from where you were staring at my tits, to my face, giving you a slight smolder. “Well, seeing as how you didn’t want to have sex in the beginning, I didn’t think you would mind not having an orgasm either. After all, aren’t your nails more important?”
           I couldn’t tell if you were trying to appear innocent or just plain old furthering an agenda that I have no doubt you planned at this point.
           “Yes. I know. You know. But not want now they aren’t and I want to orgasm on your cock. Then I want you to call me your dirty little slut as you fill my pussy up with your cum. Then we are going to cuddle and I will give you all of the attention you can handle until you are ready to go again. Then we can have nice lazy sex to make up for both of our rudeness.” In my head, my words had backbone, they were words from a strong independent woman who didn’t need a man to cum. In reality, however, they were barely more than a plea for mercy hoping you took pity on me.
           “Hmmm. I don’t know. I don’t think bad girls,” you emphasized the last two words with two harsh thrusts, “should get what they want. So how about this. I’m going to fuck you until I cum and if you cum too, great. If not, well, I guess you have to mess your nails up further, huh? With how tight your pussy is right now, I wouldn’t doubt that you were still on the edge, I know I am. Now gimme a kiss and hold on.”
           I had been well and truly defeated. You definitely won this round of wills. So I offered my lips up for you to dominate and gripped your shoulders for dear life. The thrusts that I thought were animalistic were nothing compared to how your cock felt diving into my pussy. In hindsight, you were thrusting fast, yes, but not your full length. This time, though, I’m pretty sure I’ll need a band-aid for my cervix after the pounding your cock puts it through. I was getting your full length over and over and I could do nothing but hold on. There was no lifting my hips to match your pace, none of that. I was there to receive whatever pleasure you deemed fit to allow me and bring you to cum. Judging by the drool enticing kiss you somehow managed to keep up with, you weren’t not trying to prevent my orgasm. Just the opposite really. I knew I was done for when one of your hands moved from cradling my head to putting pressure on my throat. If I ever had any reason to doubt that you knew my body, every time we had sex and you somehow knew just the right thing to make cum restarted my thinking.
           “Mmm, that’s baby. Cum on my cock, clench your little pussy on my cock as it pounds into you. Are you gonna squirt? I think you might. My little slut is gonna squirt just from having her greedy cunt filled. So sensitive.”
           “Ohhh fuck. Oh fuck,” I moaned, if not screamed. “Yes, yes, yes. Please, please. Please.” Whatever rhythm you had before was gone. My hips were uncontrollably fucking myself on your cock and, as I could feel your balls tighten and dick start to twitch, I knew you were done for too. As the nice person I am, I decided to help you, “Ohh, yes. I want your cum inside me. Cum in your slut’s pussy. Yesssss,” I hissed out as I felt your cum shoot out with each sharp thrust into my pussy. Judging by how wet we both were, there was little doubt of me squirting and even surprise as the amount of cum that you pumped into my pussy, only for it to leak out with the softer thrusts following out big climaxes.
What cultivated over who knows how long by yourself, a good half an hour of teasing alone, and an immeasurable amount of time of fucking, both our orgasms felt that they took eons to fully pass over us. Leaving us in the aftermath of sweat, cum, and pussy juices. Even though both of our bodies needed a shower, neither of us wanted to move from where we found ourselves; your dick softening inside of me while your arms wrapped around my waist with your head on my chest, your full weight offering me the comfort only you can bring. Our legs were tangled, although mine barely reached your knee with our height differences and positions. Not even paying mind to my sure to be messed finger nails, I was lightly running my nails over your scalp and back, or what I could reach of your back, before continuing the path.
Although both of us enjoyed our positions immensely, the drying juices were starting to get uncomfortable. You popped your head up to look at me, “Wanna take a bath with me? I will show you how a man does his woman’s finger-nails.”
At my slow grin and heavy eye-lids, you had your answer. And a promise for a second round. Maybe even a third, depending on how well you can paint.
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Prologue.
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Masterlist/Warnings
Your fingers numbly picked at the thread that had come away from your mustard colored blouse moments earlier, you could see the red chipped nail polish on your fingernails, dried dirt settling beneath them. The smell of artificial clean linen and expensive perfume flooded your nostrils. You didn't want to be here, sitting across from the blonde woman with the soft smile and the notepad sitting neatly in her lap. Her suit seemed expensive, from a distance, but you could tell that she had probably gotten it from a department store in the clearance section.
You tired your hardest to avoid the soft smile and the reassurance behind the woman's deep brown eyes as you continued to look down at the gray carpet, your shoes brushing against it. You could feel the tiredness behind your eyes from the lack of sleep, you knew that when you looked in the mirror you would see the dark rings below your eyes. Sleep was a rare and difficult thing to acquire these days, no matter how hard you tried, no matter how many prescription drugs you were given, you were always awaken to the smell of death and the feeling of the air leaving your lungs.
"It wasn't your fault".
God how many times had you heard that sentence repeated over the past few weeks? It was almost losing it's meaning. It was just words in your ears, sympathy from people who weren't there, who didn't know what really occurred in that room. "Did you read the brief?" You asked, voice quiet and dry as if you hadn't drank water in weeks.
"I did".
You let out a small sigh, your eyes finally looking up to see the the psychologist's sympathetic glance, her head slightly tilted to try and show that she was listening to you, "Then you know that it isn't true. I was reckless. I-I was stupid," You gave a small, but sarcastic, smile, "I've been in this job for over 3 years, I should have known better,"
You watched as the psychologist wrote something in her notepad before looking back up at you, her hands resting neatly back in her lap, "Everyone makes mistakes-"
Roughly, you shook your head, "I got them girls killed. I had a choice and I made the wrong one," You bit out. You could feel the sting behind your eyes as your chest clenched, you swore that you weren't about to cry, you felt like you didn't deserve to cry over the mistake that cost the lives of three girls.
"You didn't know what he was going to do. You had a choice and you made the one best for your survival. If you didn't make that choice you would have died with them."
You scoffed and shook your head, "Sometimes I think that would have been better you know? Better then living with this guilt on my chest every waking moment," You looked down at your wrists, you could still see the scars where the shackles had bit tightly into your skin for days before you were found. You felt the tips of your fingers trace them lightly before looking up, "I could have finished it. Finished him. But he said-" You shook your head and swallowed the lump in your throat, two silent tears dropping on to your jean legs, "He said her name and I just froze. It was like I was that kid again you know?"
The psychologist nodded gently, making it known that she understood, but you knew that she didn't. How on Earth could she understand what it was like to be in the presence of someone you had spent your entire adult life looking for, only for them to taunt you with the one thing they held over you? Silence overcame the room, leaving you to resume picking at the thread that was still barely hanging on to your blouse.
"How's you interactions with the team been since the incident?"
You gave a slight shrug. Everything was the same. Well, almost everything. You didn't miss the sympathetic glances, the gentleness when people touched you, the way the team seemed to tip toe around you. The only person who didn't was your Unit Chief. He seemed to understand better then anyone at your need not to be coddled. You needed normalcy again, you needed to feel some resemblance of yourself.
"I think they're scared to talk about it to be honest. It's like, they're worried that if they mention it around me I'll break into a thousand pieces or something,"
"And will you?"
"What?" You asked, confused.
"Break into a thousand pieces".
You shook your head. You had thought about the incident so much that you had almost become numb to it, you found yourself at night going over the case files repeatedly to see if there was anything you could do to change the outcome but each and every time you did, the answer was always staring you in the face. And you chose the wrong one every time. "No," You replied simply.
A small sigh escaped her lips as she closed her notebook and looked at the digital clock on the side table. Her eyes met yours and she leaned forward, "I can't clear you for active duty until I'm positive that you're not going to do yourself or anyone else harm,"
"I'm not going to go postal if that's what you're wondering," You joked, reaching down beside you to pick up your brown satchel bag. You knew this conversation was coming, it had been weeks since you had started seeing the FBI psychologist and after each and every session she would tell you that she wasn't clearing you for duty. It was disappointing, another thing that you added to your growing list of things going wrong in your life.
"It's not. I just don't want you in a dangerous situation and have you freeze. I don't want a phone call saying that something bad has happened to you knowing that you weren't ready for the field yet," She stood up, waiting for you to follow suit, before slowly walking over to the door, "You're doing good though agent. You just need to work through that guilt,"
"And the PTSS," You stated with a small smile.
The psychologist opened the door, "I'll see you next week same time?"
You nodded, "Yeah. Thank you," You slipped through and heard the door click closed behind you. You gripped the strap of your bag with two hands and made your way down the blank carpeted hallway, your mind feeling millions of miles away compared to where it should have been. You felt yourself dragging your feet behind you, begging your mind to catch up to where you were. Instead you found yourself thrown back into that dark and dirty cellar, the rusted shackles so tight around your wrist that they sliced through the thin skin.
Your mind replayed the screams coming from the the girls in front of you, them begging someone to find them; their accusing stares when you told them that the people who where there to help them didn't know where they are. The lump in your throat grew as you tried to blink away the tears, shaking your head as you pushed open the glass doors and made your way into the Spring sun. Taking a deep breath in, you tried to remind yourself to breathe, that you weren't there anymore, you weren't under your captors hold anymore. You were free, and he was dead.
Footsteps beside you made you look up and open your eyes, a small smile crossing your face as you saw your boss' concerned brown eyes looking back at you; "I'm fine Hotch," You tried to smile reassuringly at your Unit Chief, his gaze didn't falter. He knew you were lying and he knew that you knew.
"Did you want me to take you home?" He asked lowly, watching as another agent exited the dull grey building behind you.
All you wanted was sleep.
Was to sleep and forget for one night about what had happened, to not wake up in the middle of the night feeling like something was sitting on your chest When you woke up you felt like you could never breathe, you were always tired, always feeling like you were being swallowed hole by the feelings of guilt and sadness that filled your head day after day.
"I'm okay," You replied gently, "Just a long session is all. A walk might clear it up," You swallowed the dry lump in your throat and walked slowly towards the footpath, away from the black suv.
SSA Aaron Hotchner turned to face you, "You know you can talk to any of us as well? We stand by you and your actions that day 100%"
You felt your chest tighten, "I know. And I appreciate it. I really do. But this, this is something I need to do on my own," You felt the tears welling up in your eyes once again but you quickly blinked them away. You licked your lips and gave your boss a small smile, "I'll be okay," You tried again, but you weren't sure if it was him or you you were trying to convince.
"You will be. But just remember that there are people who love and care about you. What you did was for survival," He tried again to make you see the situation from his point of view, "The Director thinks so, I think so, the team think so,"
"Yeah well there's three different families who would beg to differ Hotch," You snapped back, looking down almost immediately as if you were ashamed of your reaction.
Aaron didn't even flinch at your outburst, it wasn't the first and he was positive that it wouldn't be the last. He stayed silent.
"Sorry, I guess I'm just tired," You rectified, taking a small step backwards.
"You know you can call me. Anytime day or night," He reassured, almost forcing the point across that he was there, no matter what, to help you.
You nodded, "Thanks Hotch," You turned on your heel and walked towards the busy street. You could feel Hotch's eyes on you as you ran across the four lane street and down the sidewalk. It was piercing, as if he could see through your very demeanor. From the beginning he was the one who found you, who held you as you cried in his arms; dirty and bleeding. He waited by your hospital bed until you were ready to talk, he was the one who pushed you to see the department psychologist.
He was the one constant in your life that kept you grounded, who kept reminding you that what you did wasn't the wrong thing, that you weren't to blame for the deaths. You wanted him around every night to hold you tight when the nightmares swallowed you whole, when you couldn't breathe and your head was spinning. You needed him now more then ever. A part of you was envious of his wife, his oh so beautiful wife who had no idea what kind of husband she had in Aaron Hotchner.
But that wasn't your business.
Two stray tears fell down your cheeks as you pushed through the gathering of people walking past, your head down to hide away from the world. The scars on your wrist once again reminding you of the raging war inside your head. Reminding you that although your broken ribs had healed and your wounds had turned to scars, there were some things that couldn't heal.
Tags:  thatonebishsstuff  toasteddragoness  fics-ilike unusualtingz
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just-patchy · 3 years
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NRC’s 7 Mysteries: The Ghost Clown
kind of like a test? i have clown man lore but idk how to throw that in anywhere so-
i’ll be using yuuto here as mc
———
“Have you heard of the Ghost Clown?”
“I heard that he’s the ghost of a failed actor who went mad and died. Supposedly, the circumstances surrounding that actor’s death are mysterious.”
“The doctors couldn’t find anything wrong with him, he just became fatally ill all of a sudden...”
“He did a lot of minor comedic roles or something.”
“Isn’t he a student here or something? A 3rd or 4th year or so I’ve heard.”
“No one’s ever seen him around though.”
———
Yuuto felt that his dreams had taken a rather peculiar turn. Typically, his dreams were more like prophetic memories, and he was witnessing events of the past from someone’s point of view, events that could be recreated in the present. They were often monotone in colour, perhaps with the occasional splash of colour here and there, but mostly in varying shades of grey.
It was rare that he had such a bright, vivid dream as this. They had the same prophetic feel to his other strange dreams, but they weren’t quite memories.
He dreamt of sitting at a large table, party decorations strung up on the walls and his family surrounding him. The faces of each of his family members were just as he remembered them, and the party was exactly to his liking, even for someone who didn’t typically enjoy parties, down to the tiniest of details.
The thing was that, it was almost too perfect. Yet, it was a perfect scene as fragile as a house of cards. He could see black, or rather, empty areas just at the very corner of his eyes, right at the edges of the room. He could barely feel the slightest hint of chilly air from somewhere, which was a stark contrast to how warm the room felt. He could hear the bit of artificiality in his family’s voice, as if everything was scripted. The set nearly seemed patchy in some spots, and the food looked just a little plastic like.
He could almost see a dash of colour, the wobbly, vague shape of a figure, bright flashes of neon suggesting hints as to who else was present, but he blinks, and everything’s gone. 
Yuuto wakes up. He sees reality, the familiar walls of Ramshackle in their dull colour palette. It feels much warmer.
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lake-arrius-caverns · 3 years
Text
Prologue - pt 5
content warnings none explicit for this chapter. mentions/references to death and murder
tag list @boulderfall-cave , @padomaicocean (lmk if you’d like to be added!)
final part of the Prologue AT LAST  onto the actual game after this 👀
read under the cut or on AO3, cheers 👍
:: First :: || << Previous << || >> Next >> || :: Masterpost ::
 —————————————————————————————
As Fahjoth was pushed through the prison’s doors, the first thing to hit him was the scent. The air inside was thick and musty and riddled with damp, almost seeming to clog up his airways and pollute his lungs. It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust; coming in from outside, where the skies had been a pale, blank grey, the dingy prison corridors were almost completely dark in comparison. A few small torches hung in brackets, casting weak orange lights upon the rough grey stone walls. Perhaps it was purposely designed to instill a sense of hopelessness in those who were unfortunate enough to be imprisoned here. Or perhaps that was solely as a result of Fahjoth’s current mood. 
First, he and Ribyna were escorted to be processed, giving up their names and details for the records. Fahjoth was relieved that Ribyna seemed to be able to speak for herself now that they were away from the docks, but he was still worried over his twin’s mental state. Then, they were stripped of all their belongings, including the very clothes off their backs, to be replaced with the dirty, ragged sack cloths of their prison shirts and trousers. Neither of them were to be afforded any dignity in the process, but even that wasn’t the worst part. 
The worst, by far, was facing the unknown, in the form of whatever lay ahead of them both. 
Fahjoth wasn’t worried about himself, not really. There was no evidence of him being involved in any particular crime; the worst he could be charged with was public nuisance and affray, if the guards decided that he was involved in the confrontation that had taken place on the docks. The blood still staining his knuckles may have provided enough proof for that to be the case. 
But the biggest cause of his anxiety was Ribyna. Not only had she killed someone, that someone was the Captain of the Imperial Watch himself, and she had done so in full view of all the other guards. There was no denying that she would be facing charges for murder at the very least. 
But to murder such an important figure…
Perhaps they would make allowances, Fahjoth let himself hope as the prison guards now took them down towards the cells. Maybe they would charge her with manslaughter, seeing as the Captain’s death had been an accident. On the other hand, she was still also facing attempted murder for her desperate struggle to stab the staff-wielding cultist. 
Overall, the outlook for his sibling was bleak. Ribyna herself said nothing as they were taken to their respective cells, which were situated directly next to each other. In a way, that was some small comfort. But on the other hand, the fact that they couldn’t see each other left Fahjoth feeling even more distressed. 
The cell that Fahjoth was unceremoniously shoved into was itself no more welcoming than the rest of the prison. As the iron bars slammed shut behind him with a deafening clang, and a mechanical click announced the key turning in the lock, he stood and examined his surroundings. A single candle stood mounted on the wall in a rusty iron bracket, not doing much for the overall light level but valiantly flickering nonetheless. The walls were comprised of the same dull grey stonework, splashed occasionally with patches of moss and streaks of black discolouration where the damp was creeping in. A small wooden table and chair, crooked and riddled with rot, sat in the corner with clay cups and plates sitting haphazardly on top, but apart from that, there was nothing. A narrow opening — not even a window — sat high up in the stone wall, blocked with thick iron bars like those of the cell gate. The hole let no sunlight in, but allowed cold draughts to permeate into the cell, bringing with them a fine drizzle of rain. 
Fahjoth shivered, rubbing his bare arms while fighting the urge to throw up. Everything had gone so wrong, so quickly, and a small part of him wanted to blame himself. The rest of him, however...
He shook these thoughts out of his mind; playing the blame game was of no help to anybody now. Instead, he padded back over to the cell gate, reaching his arm out towards the cell on his right, where he knew they had imprisoned Ribyna. 
“Ribyna?” Fahjoth called, keeping his voice hushed so as to not alert the guards. On receiving no response, he frowned and tried again. 
“Ribyna!”
To his relief, there was a small reply this time. 
“Yeah?”
Thank the gods. “How are you holding up?”
“How d’you think?”
Right, that was a bit of a stupid question, he reasoned. Nonetheless, it hurt to hear his sibling sounding so broken and defeated. “Look, we’ll... we’ll figure it out,” he said softly. With the trembling of his voice Fahjoth wasn’t sure that he sounded convincing enough, but he had to try. “We’ll sort this.”
Ribyna didn’t reply. Fahjoth kept his arm stretched towards her cell, in the hope that she would reach out to him — though he wasn’t sure who needed the comfort more at this point. He knew Ribyna was suffering, and wanted nothing more than to throw his arms around his twin, to tell her that everything would be alright, but he couldn’t. They’d never been forcibly kept apart before and it was nothing short of devastating. As well as the uncertainty surrounding their fates, they were also left to process indescribable grief. 
They had lost Merrick. 
The youngest member of their group and one of the kindest people Fahjoth had ever known. It was a terrible injustice. Fahjoth had been very fond of him himself, but Merrick had been Ribyna’s best friend. Though his own eyes brimmed with tears, Fahjoth couldn’t even begin to imagine how she was feeling. 
He had shunted all thoughts of Cassius out of his mind. On the rare occasion that his boyfriend — now very much an ex — wormed his way to the forefront of his mind, it incited both anger and hurt in equal measure in Fahjoth’s heart. After everything they had been through, how could Cassius have just abandoned him like that? Had he ever even cared for Fahjoth at all? 
Again, he pushed it to the back of his mind, trying not to think about it. What was most important now was what ultimately awaited him and his sibling, and how they were going to deal with it. 
Such an opportunity arose when a guard came patrolling past. The clanking of his iron armour paused as he stopped by Fahjoth’s cell, jerking his head towards him with a frown. 
“Arms in, prisoner.”
“Sorry,” Fahjoth apologised on instinct, drawing his hand back through the bars. “Listen, um... I was wondering if you know what’s going to happen to me and my sibling? They didn’t really... tell us anything...”
Strangely, the guard didn’t decline. But perhaps it wasn’t that shocking; many on the Waterfront joked that Fahjoth possessed somewhat of a silver tongue. 
“Vetharys, isn’t it? Sure, I heard the head jailor talking. You’ll probably get a few years at most.”
“And Ribyna?” Fahjoth pressed, his stomach twisting with anxiety. 
“You mean Little Mr Murder next door?” The guard lowered his voice, though Fahjoth was well aware that Ribyna would probably still be able to hear. “Killing the Watch Captain is no petty crime, you know. If he’s found to be guilty, he’ll probably be looking at the death penalty.” 
Fahjoth froze as his worst fears were all but confirmed. As the guard received no response he simply carried on his way, leaving Fahjoth to reel with horror alone in his cell. 
He had already lost more than he could have ever possibly imagined. 
Was he going to lose Ribyna as well?
Leaning back against the bars of his cell door, Fahjoth desperately reached towards Ribyna’s cell once more with his arm violently shaking. 
“Ribyna?!”
His heart was hammering in his chest and his eyes burned afresh, hoping and praying that Ribyna would respond. Being separated had been torture before, but now... 
“Ribyna...” His voice was a mere croak, barely above a whisper, an anguished plea for her to answer. And she did.
“I’m tired, Fahjoth.” Ribyna’s own voice was hoarse and cracked, and it was only too easy for Fahjoth to know that she was crying. “Leave me alone.”
As silence fell throughout the jail corridor Fahjoth slumped against the wall, his hand dropping limply to the ground. In the quiet that followed he could still hear wheezing sobs coming from the cell next door, despite Ribyna’s best attempts at hiding them. It was then that Fahjoth let his own tears fall, trailing down his cheeks as he finally settled into a wretched, crushing despair.
                                  —————————
How long had it been?
Fahjoth had attempted to keep track of the days at first, but by around the middle of the second year all hope of counting was long gone. Past that it was just a stream of repetition as the days blurred into one. It was long enough that Fahjoth’s hair was beginning to grow white, in any case. Though he had no mirror to see himself with, a silvery strand would occasionally come loose from his head, which was both puzzling and quite frankly depressing. Prison must be ageing me, he mused wryly. 
There was no leaving the cell he had been forced to call home. Food — if the pitiful morsels they were given could even be called that — and water were left at the gate. Sometimes, Fahjoth would be able to chat to the other prisoners, or even the guards. He’d managed to get on first name terms with a few of them now, who reassured him that a charming lad like him ought to be out in no time. The months and years came and went with no sign of this prediction coming to pass, but Fahjoth didn’t care. He didn’t want to go anywhere without Ribyna. 
The guards were mostly reticent, but from the information Fahjoth had managed to glean from their interactions, he deduced that the issue was a complicated one. It seemed that the Imperial council, to whom the issue had been escalated, were having trouble deciding whether Ribyna’s crime amounted to murder or simply manslaughter, which would grant her somewhat of a lighter sentence and the possibility of avoiding capital punishment. But apparently, as one of the guards had whispered to Fahjoth one dark and dismal Loredas afternoon, Rusant’s wealthy and influential family were very angrily lobbying for a public execution, further complicating matters. And then there was the matter of whether Fahjoth himself was an accomplice in the Captain’s murder. Many of the more friendly guards assured him that this wouldn’t be the case, but it seemed that Fahjoth would be in for the long haul as well.  
But, oddly, he didn’t mind. Fahjoth much preferred being close to his twin over being separated any further, even if it meant a dreary existence in the Imperial Prison dungeons. Ribyna herself was mostly quiet; occasionally she and Fahjoth would talk amongst themselves, their fingertips brushing as both reached out of their prison cells towards one another. But she knew as well as Fahjoth did that her future was looking very bleak indeed, and it frequently reflected in her withdrawn and melancholic demeanour. 
Until a day came when everything would change yet again. 
Fahjoth was awoken early one Sun’s Height morning by the inconsiderately loud footsteps of two prison guards, who came marching past his cell at dawn. His cell painted with bright peachy gold streaks by the sunrise, Fahjoth hastened to sit up and hurry over to the cell gate. A change in schedule only meant one thing; either someone new was being admitted, or someone was leaving. As the guards weren’t accompanied by any new prisoner, evidently it was the latter. 
His stomach dropped as he realised that the guards had stopped outside Ribyna’s cell
“Vetharys?” one of the guards asked, consulting a roll of parchment. 
Ribyna’s voice was wary. “Yeah?” 
“Come with us. Emperor’s orders.”
The Emperor himself had got involved?! Fahjoth felt his heart banging as dread overtook him. Was it time already?!
“What’s happening?” he demanded, unable to keep the tremor out of his voice. Unfortunately, the guards were unmoved. 
“None of your business, prisoner. Alright, Vetharys, stand back. We’re opening the door.”
There was a shuffling of footsteps and a clanking of metal, but Fahjoth couldn’t see what was happening no matter how hard he pushed himself against the bars of his cell. The next thing he was able to see was Ribyna being pushed out of her cell by one of the guards, her hands tightly bound behind her back as the manacles that adorned all prisoners’ wrists were firmly locked together. 
The guards began to escort Ribyna out, and as she passed Fahjoth’s cell, he felt a shiver run down his spine. As she met his eyes, his sibling looked utterly terrified. 
“Fahjoth!” she whimpered, almost resisting the guards for a moment as Fahjoth reached out towards her, ignoring the tears spilling hot and fast down his cheeks again. Ribyna’s own eyes were brimming with tears as she was whisked away by the guards without hesitation. 
“Ribyna-!” Fahjoth cried, continuing to reach out to her even after they had rounded the corner at the end of the corridor and vanished from view, and even after their footsteps receded into silence. 
So that was it, then.
His twin, his best friend, the one person who had been there for him his entire life was heading towards her demise and there was nothing Fahjoth could do about it. 
He howled out in frustration and devastation, slamming his fists against the wall of his cell, but soon his strangled yells dissolved into sobs instead as grief overtook him completely. His legs gave way from beneath him as he collapsed to the floor, his shoulders jerking as he wept without restraint. 
Along with heartbreak for his lost sibling, a horrible emptiness began to take root in his chest. For the first time in his life, Fahjoth was now completely and desperately alone.
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skyedragonwrites · 4 years
Text
wow it’s 4k words of mer baby suffering merry chrysler mons!
Fic of @dooblebugs mer au! 
hey hey hey there is some heavy gore in this shit and a lot of breathing trouble. Also Hollow starts with two arms and ends with one,,, so,,, if arms b gone isn’t your speed? don’t,,, don’t read this
It woke, as always, in pain. Its eyes snapped open, the dirty water stinging terribly against their tender surfaces. Its right eye grew cloudier every day. Despite the loss of vision, the lights still burned it the same as its aching left eye.
The wires attached to its tail floated in the water as it shifted. The small tank it was in left little room to move, but its gills fluttered with the strain of even moving its tail. The ever-present hunger gnawed at its energy, and it slipped further and further into lethargy every time it opened its eyes once more.
Thoughts were hard. Its mind was as hazy as the water it was in. The only thing that ever seemed to properly register was pain. Pain in their stomach from everything it’d snapped up in a desperate attempt to feel full, pain from all the cuts and scrapes and old scars, pain from the disgusting water it was in. Pain in its chest from breathing sickening sludge, day in and day out for every moment it could remember.
Its memory was as full of holes as its ragged fins, so it couldn’t help but wonder, in its rare snatches of lucid thought, if it had ever known anything else. It dreamed of clear water, of breathing without pain, of more of it…
It dreamed of siblings with horns like its own. A sister, red and sharp.
Sometimes, rarely, it dreamed of a small, pale being, barely larger than itself with a whispery voice.
Those dreams always left it feeling odd.
It would tear at its fins after it woke from those. Maybe if it put enough holes in itself, the memories would slip through.
That never worked, and all it was ever left with was more pain.
Slowly, it felt its eyes begin to slip closed, the ever-present pain pain pain shouting in its mind slowly being overwhelmed by sleep sleep sleep.
The burning lights flickered.
It blinked.
That was new. New was dangerous. New meant traps and tests and being poked and prodded and held down in the air. It meant more wires and more pain and more remembering.
It was tired of pain and wires, but remembering was the worst of all. Teasing, taunting flashes of clear water and easy breathing and swimming freely and working eyes.
How cruel, it could remember thinking once, when its mind was clearer, to remember something that never happened.
There was a tapping sound on the glass bottom of its tank.
It flinched.
The tapping grew louder, slowly increasing in volume and pressure until it could feel the vibrations in the water. Suddenly, a hatch on the bottom of their tank that they didn’t remember existing flew open. it flinched violently, pressing against the clear back wall of the tank.
It was so tired, please, just let it rest.
Dully, it saw two small shapes slip through.
Food?
It couldn’t remember the last time it ate. Its gills fluttered painfully as it tried to pinpoint the small shadows. One was dark, much darker than the dull grey of its own flakey scales. The other was a bright red, and wielding something sharp.
Perhaps it should avoid the red one. The black one would be easy prey, being so small.
The lights flickered again.
It coiled its muscles, bracing against the pain the movement brought, and pounced.
The small one was pulled out of the way by the red one, and they felt the sting of the blade the red one carried.
A tail bashed into the side of its face and it hissed. It was starving and it needed to eat. The small one was its prey, not the red one’s.
It swiped at the black one, catching its frilly fins on their tip of its claws. The black one wriggled helplessly.
Yes… finally… food.
It snatched its hand back, an unearthly scream escaping it as the red one’s blade once again bit into it, this time on their arm. NO! MY FOOD!
It pounced on the red one, ignoring the sounds escaping from it. If this mer wanted to steal from it, it would kill them.
The blade bit into its side again and again, but it ignored the pain. Its tail slammed into the red one’s head briefly stunning the smaller mer. It threw the red one against the wall of the tank, where it hit and slid down to lay limp on the rough, pebbly floor.
It watched the red one for a few heartbeats, ignoring the sting in its side from the cuts. When it was certain the smaller mer was truly down for the count, it turned slowly around and pricked its ears.
The hunt is on.
The murky water was still, aside from the rasping of its gills. Irritated, it tried to stop breathing in order to listen for the little creature, but instead, it started coughing. It doubled over, heaving up bright orange gunk and small bits of plastic. Glass shards and bottlecaps sprayed into the water as it shuddered, sinking to the floor of the tank.
Something was caught in its throat. It hacked and struggled, gills fluttering wildly as it tried desperately to breath. The dirty water swirled around it as it thrashed desperately, the air beginning to grow dark.
Something struck its stomach, and in a massive heave that shook its entire body, the thing in its throat was expelled.
An old car tire flew across the small tank and slammed into the far wall, landing right next to the red mer. The lights flickered wildly.
It looked down, seeing the small black mer underneath it.
FOOD-
Before it even realized what it was doing, the smaller thing was clenched tightly in its fist. In one smooth motion, it brought the little black mer to its mouth and snapped.
Nothing.
It attempted to open its fist, see if the smaller mer had escaped, and locate it to swipe once more, but it couldn’t feel its arm.
Then, the pain began.
It curled up on the floor, convulsing as white-hot sickening pain shot through it.
Their arm, their arm was gone. They pushed themself up through the floor once more, trying desperately to defend themself from more needle strikes.
They understood now. The smaller mers weren’t food.
They were food now.
Hissing, they pressed their back against the wall. Their tattered frills flared, and their wounded tail whipped back and forth.
The water was turning darker, and dully, they realized they were bleeding. They raised their head and made eye contact with the red mer-
They know who that was.
Their sister.
Hornet.
Much larger than the last time they’d seen her, when she’d barely been more than a pup, still at the side of her mother.
They had hurt their sister.
Unforgivable.
Frantically, they tried to locate the other mer, tilting their head to give their good eye a view of the whole tank. Their vision was growing hazy, likely from blood loss. They’d die very soon, they realized.
They wished they had a voice to thank their sister, and to beg her to leave before she got caught. She’d freed them from this torture and given them awareness in their last moments.
The lights flickered weakly, before going dark.
Where was that other mer?
Finally, they located a shadow of a flicker on their blind side. They whirled around, coming face-to-face with…
A sibling?
But…
But all of the siblings are dead.
Their sibling reached out, and they flinched away. They’d tried to eat their sibling. They shouldn’t be near them. They were a danger to this small, precious mer.
It didn’t matter. They wouldn’t be here much longer. Their gills fluttered as they struggled to breath, and their vision grayed out as they sank to the floor.
Baring their neck, they turned their working eye to Hornet.
Please, they tried to convey, be merciful. I won’t struggle. I understand now.
Their sister knelt beside them, resting her needle behind her.
They watched her, wheezing quietly. She was right. They did not deserve a quick death after hurting their siblings.
They were so sorry.
Colors blurred as their sibling lifted them off the ground at Hornet’s direction. Something was wound tightly around their waist, constricting their already raspy breathing.
They coughed, trembling in Hornet’s arms. What was she doing? Why wasn’t she just letting them die? She needed to leave, before somebody came to check on them. They powered the whole facility, and if the lights stayed off for much longer, somebody would realize that something was up.
The bindings on their chest were tied off, the flow of their dark blood stemmed by the clean wrappings.
It was the first clean thing they’d touched in years.
It was too good for them.
They could feel the smaller mer lifting up sections of their long tail, and Hornet wrapping those just as tightly as she’d wrapped their chest and the stump of their arm.
When their siblings reached their fins, they heard a sharp intake of breath from Hornet.
“Hollow, I’m going to have to bind these down until I can get a better look at them. You’re not going to be able to swim until I take the bandages off.”
Hollow.
That was their name.
They were The Hollow Knight, once.
It was disconcerting to have their fins bound tightly together, for their tail to transform from a powerful way to push through the ocean water to entirely dead weight, but they could survive. The only real threat in this tiny tank was the poison water. The only way they could move now was to drag themselves along with their remaining arm.
It would have to do.
Water shifting against their face urged them to open their eyes. They propped themself up as Hornet lifted their chin and peered at the cracks on their face.
They studied her face – sharp teeth, dark eyes, her mask a mirror of her mother. Angry and stern, yet completely in charge.
“Your eye is badly damaged.” Hornet told them, pulling another roll of bandages from the satchel Ghost carried. “I don’t know if I can save it.”
Save it? What?
They were so confused.
“Close it please – I’m going to wrap it up until I can get a better look at it.”
Obediently, they closed their eye. They barely managed to stop themself from leaning into her touch as she wrapped their head, but they stringently reminded themself that they did not deserve it.
They had hurt their siblings.
They were unforgivable.
Hornet finished and paused for a moment. Hollow followed her gaze to their sibling, who was watching curiously.
“Ghost, not a word of what I’m about to do reaches anybody.” She told them.
Their sibling – Ghost – nodded.
Hollow tensed. What was she going to do?
Hornet looked them in the eyes, and then pressed her forehead to Hollow’s in the same way they had used to do, in order to soothe her after nightmares when she was still a pup. “I missed you so much,” She sobbed. “I love you and I missed you and I never want to lose you like that ever again!”
They stayed like that for a few minutes, their mind racing as Hornet sobbed softly.
She was hiccupping and trying to pull herself back together when they moved. Straining, they managed to pull their supporting arm up and over her shoulders, pulling them close in the same manner they had when her mother had vanished.
It seemed Ghost had had enough of being left out. They wriggled in between their siblings, nuzzling under Hollow’s chin and letting out a series of small chirps.
At first, Hollow was nervous, but slowly, they began to sink into the embrace.
BOOM!
Hollow flinched violently. Hornet and Ghost looked up, alarmed.
“Is that mom? She said she’d wait until I gave her the signal…” Hornet frowned.
<<Mom worried? Took long time find Hollow>> Ghost signed.
Hornet considered that for a moment. “Probably. Hollow, hold on to my hand as best you can. Ghost, guard Hollow’s injured side. Don’t let them land on it. This… is going to get rough.”
Faintly, Hollow became aware of a rushing sound. It almost sounded like… moving water?
They hadn’t heard a sound like that in years.
It grew louder and louder, and more loud explosions were heard. The screech of metal and the sound of buckling wood echoed throughout the room.
The door to the room where Hollow was kept bugled and burst. Water shot into the room with the force of an erupting geyser, striking the thick glass of the tank.
There was a crack, and with a burst of strength they didn’t know they had, Hollow curled around Ghost, protecting their delicate fins from the shards of glass. What little control they had over water went into keep glass out of Ghost’s tender gills.
Hornet’s grip on their hand tightened, and Hollow risked a peek at her. She was panting heavily, clearly strained to her limits.
The reason for her strain became apparent as the churning, whirling water of the room abruptly stilled. Hornet floated limply, gasping as her limbs trembled.
Ghost wriggled out from under Hollow’s tail and rushed to Hornet’s side. She shooed them away, direction them to check on Hollow. “I’m fine, little Ghost. Don’t expect me to do that ever again.”
Hollow felt their torso being lifted off the ground. Their sibling was swimming beside them, pulling them upwards, towards the cleaner water. Their tail followed, and they glanced down to see Hornet pulling them up.
���That water is disgusting.” She told them. “You’re not staying there for another minute.”
They blinked hazily at her. The minute the fresh, clear water hit their gills, they started coughing frantically. Ghost patted their back as they heaved, expelling more and more orange. Strings of fishing wire, a plastic straw, yards and yards of netting, all being relentlessly coughed out. Their chest ached underneath the bandages, and the stump of their missing arm was an agonizing constant.
Greedily, they sucked in breath after breath of the blessedly clean water.
It was saltwater.
They hadn’t had a breath of saltwater since they’d been pulled from the ocean and trapped in this tiny tank.
It felt so good, just to breathe.
Hollow would have been happy to spend the rest of their life right there, breathing freely, but Hornet had other plans.
“Ghost, we’re going to bring them into the hallway, and try to get mom’s attention. Are you ready to move?”
They felt Ghost nod, and Hornet began calling out directions to them. The door was a bit tricky, but eventually they managed to reach the large, open hallway.
Hornet set them on the floor and directed Ghost to lean their head against the wall. “I’m going to go get ahold of mom – don’t let them fall over. They can sleep – that’s fine, but don’t let them injure themself any further, all right?”
Ghost nodded, and snapped her a salute. She stuck her tongue out at them and darted away.
Hollow watched her go. Their little sister truly had grown up into an apex predator of the sea, sharp, fast, and smart.
Tap tap tap.
They looked up. Ghost was standing near them, signing at top speed. <<Sibling! Sibling, I missed you!>>
Hollow tilted their head, searching their ragged memory for Ghost’s face.
A flash of a face, and the unique shape of their mask, forever burned into the back of their mind.
Oh.
The sibling they’d abandoned.
Why did Ghost miss them?
Hollow jolted upright, hissing as the pain in their arm flared. They’d almost fallen asleep sitting up. Ghost patted their shoulder to get their attention, and when Hollow turned to look at them, they signed: <<Sleep.>>
Hollow shook their head, even as their eyes began to slip shut. No! No! They didn’t want to leave this dream, to wake up choking and mindless and tear at themselves until they felt something other then dull numbness.
Please…
Just a little longer…
Their eyes drooped shut and their mind slipped away.
*
They awoke, as always, to pain. Two strong hands, one on their back and one at the base of their tail, pinning them down. Something was peeling back the bandages on their tail, spreading their delicate fins wide.
They laid limp and still. Whenever they woke out of the tank, they were expected to be still. They’d learned very quickly not to thrash, or try and resist any of the poking and prodding.
Something burning was pressed against their tail, and the hand on their tail tightened at their involuntary flinch.
Their ears caught sound, but their mind only produced one word: awake!
Something flashed by their good eye. A dark shape – a hand on their cheek?
They let themself press against the hand, the good feeling of another mer’s touch sending an involuntary shiver down their spine. The hand left, but before Hollow had time to mourn the loss, it was replaced by a face.
Hollow pressed their cheek against their sibling, using the gentle pressure to distract from the burning in their tail. The hands spreading their fin weren’t human, they realized, but clawed. Another mer?
The large fin at the tip of their tail was gathered, and wrapped up tightly once more. They realized that the bandages on the stump of their arm were different – no longer just a simple layer of fabric, they now were thickly padded and tightly bound.
The hand holding their tail shifted, instead reaching under them to scoop them up. Hollow’s head spun at the sudden change of position, and their vision went spotty. More conversation – an agreement being reached?
They were moving, a steady rhythm. Slowly, their eyes closed, and they began to drift off to sleep once more.
*
Ghost had completely exhausted after everything. Even with Herrah carrying them most of the way, the swim to Deeptrench was long for their tiny fins.
Now, they were curled up happily in the middle of a snuggle pile. Hornet was on their right, and somehow in their sleep, Hollow had managed to pull both siblings into their chest. Herrah was wrapped around them entirely, and Monomon was leaning against her back. Quirrel was sleeping in Monomon’s lap, and Ghost could hear his snoring even through two of the largest mers in the sea.
That wasn’t what had woken them up. Ghost was quite the lazy little thing, and often had to be woken by Hornet for them to be moving any time before late morning.
Of course, other times, they were up at the crack of dawn, driving their sister insane.
But what had woken them this time?
It wasn’t until Ghost look up that they understood.
Hollow had been a dull grey when they broke them out – a color they’d only seen on mers nearly dying of pollution. Bioluminescent mers wouldn’t glow until they reentered clean water – one of the best ways to tell if somewhere was uninhabitable early on was to bring a glowy mer along and see if they stopped glowing after a few days. That way, everybody could get out quick before any permanent damage was done.
So it made sense that they didn’t know Hollow could glow!
Gently pulsing spirals covered their sibling’s body. The arm that was coiled around them was banded with soft rings of light, and all of their fingertips were lit up. Ghost edged closer trying to get a look at their face.
Swirling lines gathered under their left eye, although Ghost could faintly see light from underneath the bandaged right eye, so they figured their whole face must be lit up.
They wriggled higher, slowly pushing themself the ground with their tail, trying to get a look at the rest of Hollow’s glow.
Oh! It was so pretty! Ghost clapped their hands together over their mouth, doing their best not to cause any of the other mers to stir.
Large glowing stripes ran down Hollow’s back, the light visible even underneath the bandages. It looked like their tattered fins were glowing too, although those were so tightly wound that they really couldn’t tell.
Ghost allowed themselves to sink back to the floor. Once they were sure everybody was still asleep, they rolled over and prodded Hornet, trying to get her to wake up.
Was that her tail flicking? Was she awake yet!
Oh! She was up! Mission accomplished!
Hornet opened her mouth, likely to snap at them for waking her up, but she stopped when Ghost pointed her upwards.
“Oh, Ghost, I haven’t seen them glow since I was very little,” she whispered quietly. “That means they’re very, very happy. Let them sleep for now, okay? Tomorrow is going to be hard for them.”
Ghost nodded and curled up against Hollow’s chest again, closing their eyes.
*
They woke, as always, in pain.
Hollow laid still for a moment, savoring their pleasant dream, the feeling of their siblings curled around them, of lying on soft sand, of breathing again. They braced themself and cracked a single eye open, expecting the sting of dirty water.
It didn’t hurt.
Their eye popped wide open.
Their siblings were still there. Ghost and Hornet curled around each other, pressed into their chest. Their gills fluttered anxiously, and they realized that they could breathe.
They raised their arm-
Where did their arm go it hurts it hurts it hurts-
Right. That’s right. It was gone. Their punishment for trying to eat their siblings. They deserved it.
The wall they were leaning against shifted and Hollow found themselves looking into the face of a very big mer.
Their ears flattened and their eyes widened as they took in the six-eyed mask and very sharp teeth. Herrah the Beast. Hornet’s mother.
They tried to push themself up, to bow and show proper respect to a queen as someone of their rank should, but their remaining arm trembled and gave out under their weight.
Instead of letting them fall as they deserved, Herrah caught them. She was nearly three times their size, and she easily scooped them off the ground.
Hollow trembled against her chest. They’d sparred her once, at the king’s command. They’d lost within seconds, even at full strength.
Now?
They could barely move.
“-gry?”
They flinched at the sound of her voice, only able to catch the tail end of her words. They lifted their ears in her direction, silently asking her to repeat herself, hoping desperately she wouldn’t be upset at their inattention.
Not that they wouldn’t deserve her ire, of course. They deserved every bad thing that had ever happened to them.
Thankfully, she didn’t seem to mind their slip-up. “Are you hungry?”
Just the thought of food had their stomach screaming.
They nodded frantically, but stopped when their eye protested the movement.  They pressed their face into Herrah’s side, the same way they’d often rub against the tank wall to stop the aching, before snapping their head back.
Their chest heaved as they realized what they’d just done.
They were sorry they were sorry they were so sorry they didn’t mean to lean in or touch without permission sorry sorry sorry sorry-
They didn’t even realize they were coughing until they’d hacked up a large blob of orange pollution directly onto Herrah’s chest. Desperately, they tried to stop coughing, but they couldn’t. Hands rubbed their back as they hacked pathetically, until finally, mercifully, they collapsed.
Numbly they registered movement, and before they could get their remaining eye to focus, smaller, clawed hands lifted them up.
“Sorry, this is going to feel nasty, but you need to get that garbage out before you can eat, and mom is the only one big enough to hold you.” Hornet’s voice sounded near their ear as she propped them up into a sitting position. “We cleaned your wounds while you were asleep and your breathing sounded better, so we thought you’d gotten everything out, but it looks like we were wrong.”
A cup of something odd-smelling was pressed to their face. Obediently, they swallowed it. “This is going to make you feel very sick, hopefully enough to get that stuff out of your system.”
Make me sick?
What?
Oh no.
They coughed and heaved and their entire body shuddered. Orange, littered with bottle caps and glass shards and plastic bags and old tires and fishhooks and wire floated in front of them. Their chest ached and their stomach hurt, but they couldn’t stop.
Gills fluttering desperately, Hollow gave a large, violent cough, and expelled a goopy glob of orange matter twice the size of their fist out of their gills and crumpled limply in Herrah’s arms.
They weren’t even afraid of her rage anymore. They just wanted to be held so badly. Please don’t be angry please don’t be angry.
One last weak cough shook their body, and they spat out a single paperclip.
Hollow’s gills pulsed as they struggled to sit up, to show their gratitude for the help, but the convulsions had left them shaking and weak.
Something brushed their side, and they looked down, finally managing to focus their vision. Hornet was holding a large kelp satchel, and a truly delicious smell was emanating from it.
Everything else in the world vanished.
All that mattered was the contents of that bag.
Hollow felt their mouth water as they tracked the bag with their eyes. The minute it was within arm’s reach, they snatched it and snapped.
Not a minute later, everything in Hornet’s bag, along with the bag itself, was gone.
Hollow blinked, taking in Hornet’s shocked expression. They didn’t dare glance up to see what the mer holding them thought.
They felt a rumbling in Herrah’s chest and tensed, expecting some kind reprimand for their atrocious behavior, and truly they did deserve it-
A large hand stroked down the side of their back.
They stiffened.
What was she doing?
The hand returned. It felt… it felt nice.
“You were definitely hungry!” Herrah’s voice was rich with good humor. “That might have outstripped Hornet at her hungriest!”
“MOM!” Hornet snapped, her face turning scarlet.
Hollow relaxed, letting their eyes drift closed.
Maybe… maybe everything was okay.
Maybe this wasn’t a cruel dream.
Maybe, just maybe, they would swim again one day, breathing freely, with their siblings at their side.
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griimreaping · 4 years
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@utternocries​ - one word fic prompts
Lower ( part 1 )
The tolling of the church bells was genuinely ominous. An impending sense of dread dominating the grey morning fog, which blanketed Novigrad. Those silvery sounding clangs ringing out through the mist to call forward its faithful masses from the gloom. Pulling the traveling cloak tighter around her shoulders, if only to stave off the nerves rather than the general chill that harkened the coming of autumn, Jean flinches when Geralt's shoulder lightly brushes hers. Nerves had been high in the woman's chest as they neared the city, the last time she'd stepped foot in those walls being the night before her family died. Now with the cold solid stone rising around them, Jean couldn't help be reminded of a tomb.
This must have shown on her face from the flicker of a frown that graced the Witcher's mouth. He'd been summoned on a contract put forth by one of the wealthy governors that had come to occupy a mansion in the northern district of Novigrad. Since he'd taken up residence there, it's caused the man nothing but grief. Deaths in the family, along with some more insidious spectral activity that made even the most persistent of tenants shy away from even renting the place. Which only added to the misfortunes befalling an otherwise uninteresting and mundane man of wealth. With such wealth, he enlisted Geralt's help, and by some lucky stroke, Jean as well. Who had insisted she come along since the governor had mentioned something about black vines overtaking most of the house. 
"What plant has black vines?" Had been the first question Geralt had asked when done skimming the frantic letter that had been sent forward to Downwarren. The Witcher had to stop spending so much time in her little hut, now even people outside of the village were beginning to notice. Plucking the letter from his hands and chewing on the inside of her cheek as she read, Jean's mind crunched over all the various odd species that thrived in this environment.
 "Devil's bramble is the first that comes to mind, but it's more of a shrub than vines. Could also be just a mistaken color?" Placing the letter back down and folding arms across her chest, the Druid casts an uneasy glance out of the dewy glass in her kitchen to the misty bog. She hadn't been to Novigrad in nearly fifteen years. The harsh smell of a house fire coming back in a wave so sudden it took a considerable amount of will not to choke on the air stuck in her lungs. Hugging herself tighter, Jean forces the words out of her lips in an attempt to cast away unwanted memories. To drown the screams.
"You'll probably need an expert on plants and herbs," a glance is cut at the Witcher to gauge how the words are received. "I won't ask for any of your payment, I'm just genuinely curious now and could do with a bit of adventure away from the bog and corpses." Geralt grumbled a few words about how things were dangerous, and Jean's rebuttal of how she could handle a sword along with magic seemed to lessen the worries only marginally. Or at least enough that he put them to bed. Now walking among the cramped sewage reek which clung to the southern district like a diseased lover, Jean begins to miss her bog. Roaches hoof beats echo in the dull mist as they weave through cobblestone streets going north. A beggar approaches before seeing the Witcher and thinking better of his choices, slinking back into a darkened patch of fog that yawned into an alleyway. The struggling morning sun had yet to touch these streets, sleepy shop windows gazing out onto quiet abandoned boulevards. A liminal moment in time before the meager warmth of an autumn day shone through the slate clouds above.
 That invisible line between districts isn't so invisible in Novigrad. A stark change between cramped tenant buildings that had begun to go crooked like a thieves smile, to the gaudy colors in the markets almost hurt the Druid's eyes. Even at such an early hour, a merchant in puffy gold pants tried valiantly to hawk some bruised peaches to her, claiming they were the city's sweetest. More polite "no thank yous" than Jean figured were necessary, and he'd given up his venture only to flag down another tired traveler bustling away. They did not make it out of the markets without expending a small amount of coin, which Jean put out to receive a small set of glass bottles in return, which now clinked softly in her bag. Geralt eyed the merchant selling her the glass wear with a critical eye, waiting to see if he was going to swindle her or not. This intense cat-eyed stare is more than likely what got jean a reduced price just to make them go away.
"I think I have a new idea about what the vines are." The Druid pipped up as another jarring change in scenery happened from the markets to the northern district. Now polished iron gates bore their teeth at them from the mouths of massive walkways up to ostentatious villas. No longer is the lower districts' corpse stench lingering; instead, a delicate waft of mountain roses and lemon trees walk in step with the Witcher and the Druid. Jean felt dirty here like she shouldn't be permitted to touch anything for fear of sullying it beyond rescue.
"There's a rare type of flower which only grows on the site of immeasurable evil. I've only ever read about it, though; the drawing seemed close enough to the description he gave." Rummaging around in the folds of her cloak, Jean produces a very worn and overly bookmarked tome. Roughly the size of her palm, the books brown and yellow pages had the look of something that had been steeped in bog water and perhaps blood at one point. Leafing through to the proper page, the pages crackle with age under the woman's touch.
"Here, Dagon's breath. Black vines with leaves about the size of a supper plate, able to produce flowers but only on full moons. Dried flowers turned into a powder can produce some of the most potent madness-inducing potions known to the world. Since this is such a rare specimen, there are speculations that even the scent of the flower can cause severe hallucinations." Reading this passage aloud, the Druid could feel a cold hand drag down her spine. If this was what they were dealing with, then whatever cast the curse even to make it grow had to be obscenely powerful.
The Dagon is old magic. Older than what most perceived as life it's self, coming from the chaos before time. From all that Jean could find in the books in her home, it was a god born of entropy and discord but required strict worshippers to ensure that it would have a proper host to inhabit when the void took back over. Mages and fanatics alike that dabbled in the Old Gods were ones that put their minds in the hands of babbling madness willingly, hoping to be rewarded with some form of forbidden insight to the world. The thought made the Druid shudder. She'd tasted the sharp edges of madness once before, those dark whispers in a language lost still snaked into the blackest of nightmares that she couldn't wake herself from. They'd always promised such alluringly unfathomable things to her.
It's lost in these troubling murky visions that cause the woman to bump into Geralt when he stops at one of the ornate gates. Placing a hand on her shoulder to steady her, the Witcher's disquiet shows fully. He'd had many half-hearted qualms about bringing her along on this, and now that she was becoming so distracted, it only furthered his worry about her being a liability.
"You should go wait back at the inn. Now that I have a better idea of what this plant is, it shouldn't be a problem." I don't want you to get hurt; goes unvoiced, but his cat-like eyes' narrowing conveys the sentiment. Jean's face flares pink around the ears at her embarrassment, but she doesn't allow the dialogue of the inn to go any further. Making a vague gesture at the nameplate affixed to the gate, the woman lets out an irritated breath, the frustrations more directed at herself.
"We're already here; it wouldn't make sense just to send me away now. Plus, I don't remember which roads we took to get here through the fog. Come on, Geralt, just let me continue, and I'll keep my head on straight, okay? No more distractions." A half-hearted smile that she hopes will cement the words into place only has Geralt absently rolling his eyes. Producing the key that had been sent along with the letter they'd received, the gate is unlocked. A horse post just inside the iron portal is where they part with Roach, who busies themselves with munching on the fresh hay that had been left out.
Path flanked on either side by overgrown flower beds containing every flavor of poisonous plant known to the region. Even a few that look notably exotic had a tight knot of anxiety forming in the woman's chest. A breeze sighing up the path causes the nefarious blooms and grasses to seethe in a green ocean around them, their ghostly voices curling in Jean's ears. Reaching out to place a holding hand on Geralt's arm, Jean freezes in her tracks when the house looms into view from the dismal fog, which had turned into a light misting rain.
When the governor had stated the vines were growing along the house, she had expected a few sparse fingers grasping greedily at the spaces between the bricks. Instead, what they were greeted with was a building that seemed to move with a life of its own. Thick coal-black leaves nearly the size of Geralt's head shiver in the breeze giving a sinister shivering quality to the house from foundation to rain gutters. Interspersed with wine-red flowers sporting elegantly curved petals and long golden yellow pistils that reminded Jean of a great blood-sucking insect searching for its next meal.
Then the whispers.
"Geralt, we shouldn't go in there." We're the words Jean heard herself saying, startled by how her voice sounded so terrified. While the Druid can listen to most of the passive voices of the plant life around her, these held that same nebulous darkness that only spoke to her in deepest nightmares. They carried the same voice as the madness. Their saccharine-sweet smell only there to lure you in closer with beckoning leaves and candy red petals.
Before responding to such a statement, a loud voice calls to them excitedly from the house. A gaunt man in a midnight black traveling cloak hurries toward them, waving his arms and wearing an almost crazed smile that shows far too much of his gums, which are far too pale to be healthy.
"Witcher! And... company. So good of you to finally arrive, and when I fear I am at my wits end!" The man nearly shouts at them, reaching out to vigorously shake Geralt's then Jean's hand with both of his clammy skeletal paws clasped around theirs. When his fingers leave the Witcher's, he notices fresh raw wounds on the man's forearms peeking out from his dark robes' confines. They looked almost like symbols carved into his skin, but such a quick glance hadn't been enough time. Deep-set eyes that once would have struck a woman dead with a glance now flit in their sockets nervously, the striking ocean blue ringed with bloodshot scleras and the deep shadows of exhaustion. The man looked to be hand in hand with death, yet the cold grip that clutches Jean's own spoke of fierce hidden strength that still dwelled like an angry spirit inside him.
"You must come inside! He has told me so much about you. I am looking forward to speaking with you before we get to such dark and dismal affairs. Come come." Voice and grip offering no rebuttal, the governor loops his arm with Jean's, nearly dragging the woman toward the house of dark whispers. Following close behind, Geralt notices the low humming of his medallion as they approach the building. There was nothing good contained within, the corrupted magic oozing out and tainting the air around them.
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olboypacman · 5 years
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Make Room
Raven's made peace with the idea of loving Beast Boy, but isn't sure of how to express or confess her feelings or if she should. She consults her mother during a visit to Azarath. Sister piece to 'Trigon the Benevolent.
****
A/N: I don’t own Teen Titans
****
A black-haired older woman lays down a plain white saucer with matching teacup, almost filled to the brim with warm herbal tea in front a purple-haired younger woman seated at a brown table. The young woman is dressed in black, long sleeved leotard, royal blue ruffled boots that reach ankle level and a gold belt with circular dark red gems embedded in it. There’s also a hooded cloak that matches her boots sitting over the back of the chair she’s seated in.
The older woman is dressed similarly to her younger counterpart, except her leotard, cloak and boots are colored white. She smiles fondly at the younger woman, which other than a little more roundness in her face, pale grey skin tone and larger eyes, is practically the splitting image of the older black-haired woman.
Older woman takes a seat directly across for the younger one, then starts to stir her own cup of tea.
“Boy trouble, dear?” Said the older woman before she took a sip. “I’m not really an expert on the subject, considering your father is the only man I’ve ever loved.”
The younger woman’s gaze is fixed to her tea, the cup being grasped by both of her hands. “It isn’t trouble exactly. I know I’m sure of my feelings. It’s more I’m terrified of what could happen if I confess.” The younger woman droned in a monotoned voice.
The older woman giggles, “Again, Raven. It’s not my area of expertise. Have you tried telling Garfield how you feel? Being straight forward with your father always worker for me.”
“Mother! It’s not that simple!”
The older woman giggles once more, “What’s the worst that can happen, dear Raven?”
It’s amazing, thinks Raven, Lady Arella, spiritual leader of our people, laughing at her daughter’s romantic plight.
The red faced, embarrassed Raven waits until her mother stops laughing.
“If I’m rejected, I could end the world, again.” Raven said dryly.
“Oh, stop!” Said Arella, waiving her hand at her daughter. “Do you think Garfield feels the same?”
“That’s the thing. I try not to pry on my friend’s feelings, like you and Azar had taught me, but some of them feel so strongly I can’t help but sense what they feel.” Said Raven, running her hand through her hair in frustration. “Occasionally, when he practically begs me to hang out with the team, I catch his eyes and a very strong, very brief feeling of something underneath his friendly affection for me before he breaks contact. I’d imagine he’d been taught to dull his emotions by Mento, lest they run into an enemy who can use it against him. But, it’s somewhat like the affection I feel from Starfire. It’s confusing. Does he feel affection for me like a close friend or sister like Kori? What is he hiding beyond his friendly affection for me?” Said Raven, looking away from her mother. Raven takes a long sip of her tea, then re-establishes eye contact with Arella. “When did you know you and father were in love with each other?”
Arella smiles brightly once more at Raven, “It wasn’t just one ‘aha’ moment. After he saved me from the Church of Blood, he arranged for me to stay with an ally of his. Even though Trigon wasn’t around all the time, he still checked up on me, talked with me. And at that point in my life I didn’t really care what happened to me after that betrayal by the Church of Blood. It didn’t matter that I was comfortable around him or that I honestly thought he was handsome. When I confronted him about why he was being nice to me, he said something to the effect of, ‘Speaking from experience, I can sense you need a friend.’” Her face takes a solemn expression, “I was lucky he reached out. I don’t know what would’ve become of me had he not. It was around then the dynamic between us started to change. I started being receptive to his friendliness, we spoke about everything in length. I guess when I really noticed I was feeling something for him was during one birthday.” Arella points to the jewel embedded in her forehead. “When I was a teenager, I got a fake a chakra stone put into my forehead. My foster father at the time didn’t take kindly to that and violently tore the piercing out, leaving a scar on my forehead. As a birthday gift, Trigon healed the scar and embedded a real chakra gem in its place. It actually awakened empathetic and magical potential. I remember smiling at him with tears in my eyes and that gesture made me realize my feelings for him. He would later admit that it was my smile that day that made him realize his feelings for me as well.” She finished with faraway look on her face, and a pink tint to her cheeks. “Much like how you described with Garfield, I occasionally catch your father watching me, not with eyes of something he wants, well, maybe with some want.” She laughs.
“Mom, you’re his peace, his rock. You keep him grounded when the emotional fragments become too much to bear.” Said Raven.
"We both are, Raven. Do you remember when Trigon showed you his memories, dear?”
Raven nods in the affirmative, recalling the somber memory of find out her father’s past.
“Your father’s love… It’s difficult to explain, but it's strong. Intoxicating even. It’s burning hot, like a white star and comforting like a secure embrace. Is that what you sense with your brief glimpses from Gar?”
The young half-demoness nods meekly.
Arella gets up from her seat across from Raven. When she reaches her daughter, she lays a kiss to Raven’s forehead. “Open your senses Raven. Have a little courage and tell Garfield how you feel. I have faith that you’ll find what you’re looking for.”
****
After consulting her mother, Raven teleported back to Titans Tower. More specifically in her room.
From there she decided to make her way to the tower’s kitchen area, having not had her fill of tea in Azarath.
The door to common/kitchen area hisses open and there’s nothing but the blare of television to greet her.
Beast Boy pokes his head up over the couch to see who’s graced him with their presence.
“Oh, it’s you Rae!” He said in surprise.
She read his emotions with her empathetic senses.
There it is, she thinks.
Like many other times before, right beneath his friendly affection for her.
Comforting like an embrace.
Hot as the hottest of stars.
And almost strong enough to get high on.
Love.
And just like that it’s gone.
“Uh, Raven? You OK?” Says the changeling having interrupted her realization.
“Huh?” She said embarrassed having been caught staring. “Sorry,” she mutters, pulling her hood up to hide her blushing face, “I must’ve spaced out. Where’s everyone?”
Beast Boy throws his arm over the back of the couch to hold himself up, having been lying down previously. “Dates,” said Beast Boy, a hint of sadness coming across his features, “Rob and Star are at the movies and Bee was in town and dragged Cy to grab a bite to eat. Seems everyone’s getting together these days, huh Rae?” He finished with a smile that didn’t quite reach his face.
She hums noncommittally as she makes her way to the cabinet to grab her kettle to warm some water for tea.
“Poor baby,” intoned Happy. “How much longer are we going to wait to confess? I can’t stand to see my Beasty so sad!”
With his feelings for her practically confirmed at this point, the empath racks her mind trying think of a way to confess without shattering all the windows in the tower.
While filling the kettle and putting on a flame on the stove, Raven’s interrupted by yet another one of her emotoclones.
“Remember what mother said, ‘have a little courage.’” Said Brave.
An idea pops into Raven’s head at Brave’s declaration.
“It’s just crazy enough to work,” said Knowledge.
“What if he isn’t receptive to it?” Said Timid.
“It has to! Who could deny what our Raven has planned!” intoned Affection.
With her plan in mind, Raven removes the kettle and pours the warm water into a waiting cup. She grabs two bags, throwing it into the cup, adds honey and takes a long sip.
“I’m going to need you, Brave,” she said quietly before polishing off her tea.
****
The resident verdant shapeshifter is lounging the plush black leather of the living room couch, hands behind his head, enjoying a binge session of Bob’s Burgers.
His enjoyment of the shenanigans of the Belcher family’s interrupted, as Raven steps in his line of sight.
“Hey Rae, what’s up?” He asked, not that he minded the view.
She stares down at him, determined look on her face. “Scooch,” she said simply, waving her hand.
“Wha?”
“Make room for me, Garfield.”
Gar motions to the couch, “Um, there’s plenty of room on the couch Rae. I’ll sit up to give you space, if you want.”
She hums once more. She then unclasps her cloak, throwing it toward the other end of the couch.
A blush comes over the face of the shapeshifter at the rare sight of Raven without her cloak, the changeling more than pleased at the sight of the empath’s shapely legs.
She cracks a rare smile at the changeling. “It’s fine,” she said simply.
Her next actions come as a great surprise Beast Boy.
She takes a seat on the edge of the couch, her rear touching his hip. She then swings herself around, laying her body on top of a half of his. She wraps an arm behind his neck, her other resting on his chest. She then entangles her legs with his, her right leg in between his, her knee falling just short of the most sensitive part of his anatomy. She wriggles around on top of him trying find a comfortable position. Once she finds comfort, she nuzzles his neck. Her lips are right by his pulse. If she had a mind to, she could…
“No can do, boss!” Yelled Happy. “That’s gonna take more courage and I hate to tell you, but this impromptu cuddle session took pretty much all we had.”
An image of her emotoclones standing over an unconscious Brave in Nevermore flashes in Raven’s mind. The emotoclone has a dopy grin on her face and her cheeks are flushed as her head is cradled in Affection’s lap, as the representation of love fans her off.
Thank, Brave, you did us good. And thank you mother. Thinks Raven.
“So, does this mean what I think it means?” Asks Beast Boy.
“Yes, it does, Gar.”
“Well, in that case…”
Raven releases a yelp in surprise as she’s repositioned by Garfield as he forcefully reconfigures their position.
Now, she’s sitting across his lap, her legs on the couch, arms wrapped around his neck as he’s sitting up regularly on the couch, her body pressed up to his.
“I think I might owe you a date, Raven.”
She laughs at her changeling’s declaration.
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artificialqueens · 4 years
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Withstanding The Test Of Time Ch6 - Shalaska - pureCAMP
A/N - Yes it has been a long time and yes, I’m still writing all my fics! Hang in there, any old fans, I haven’t given up on you.
Last time: Sharon and Alaska had a fight on the way home from the party, and Sharon was given an opportunity to express her views.
This time: Wait and see…
When a society is on the precipice, moments away from falling off the edge, it is nearly impossible to tell. Any act of defiance - any protest, any argument, any kind of resistance against the social norms - any of them could be the proverbial straw on the camel’s back, the tipping point that throws everything into chaos. Sometimes it can be a call for change, a new leader, a shift in the ways of thinking. 
Sometimes, it can be something as innocuous as an article, written by a newly-promoted journalist, desperate to use her degree and have her voice heard all at once. Sometimes, it can be as little as one woman’s fury to send the media into a frenzy.
That’s right. I didn’t want to get married. In fact, I was pretty much dragged to the registry office kicking and screaming, for all I didn’t want to be there. My childhood plan, to run away with my best friend and live as a fugitive for as long as possible, never came into fruition. I kept tape over the accusing numbers on my arm, and when the name appeared and I had to face facts, I did so with my own mortality at the very back of my mind. When a car wasn’t enough to finish me off, I knew a marriage to someone I didn’t even know definitely would be.
Alaska had gone to work before Sharon left the house, as usual. She had a habit of eating a disgustingly healthy breakfast and then going for a run before changing at the office, so the two had very little interaction within their shared home. It was better that way, Sharon mused. To live like distant flatmates, rather than actual married women. 
It had been a very slow morning after the whirlwind of Alaska disappeared through the front door. Sharon dragged herself up for a sleepy shower, did her best to make her face presentable if nothing else, and had left for work after possibly the slowest bowl of cereal she’d ever eaten.
Even the lingering grey clouds above her were dull. The world seemed to move in slow-motion, everything listless and unimportant. Despite the dreary weather, it was a little too warm for the long sleeves Sharon had opted for, but she shrugged her shoulders and tried to pretend that she wasn’t overheating on the way to the office. It was always freezing in there anyway, and she much preferred to sit and be too warm than to advertise the name of her wife to the world around her.
Just as she got to the lift, praying for a somewhat quiet morning, a familiar face appeared. Sharon reminded herself at the very least that it wasn’t one of the bitches, so she couldn’t be rude.
“Morning, superstar!” Sasha greeted, her mane of hair fluffed and curled messily around her shoulders. Her eyes were glittering with excitement, and she seemed to bounce as though she couldn’t keep all her energy in. 
“Uh, morning, Sash.” Sharon replied, still half-asleep. She was sure that at some point that morning, in an attempt to keep from falling back asleep, she had blinked too hard and smudged mascara everywhere. Hoping that wasn’t the case, she rubbed gingerly beneath her eyes and tried to muster a little more enthusiasm to match her friend’s, at the very least.
Sasha didn’t seem perturbed. “How are you feeling this morning, huh?”
“Tired?” Sharon suggested, growing confused. “I don’t get what the purpose of this interrogation is.”
All of a sudden, Sasha’s eyes grew wide and, if possible, even brighter. She seemed to be completely unsure of what to do with herself. Shrugging, Sharon walked a nearly-speechless Sasha to their desks. Her friend didn’t regain the ability to speak until she had thrown herself into her chair with a loud sigh.
“Have you… you haven’t been online this morning, have you?” Sasha’s tone was leading into something, but Sharon had no idea what it was. She shook her head. “Okay, um… Go on Twitter, I guess that’s probably the best place to go. I’m surprised your phone hasn’t blown up yet.”
Still baffled but choosing to trust Sasha’s judgement, Sharon pulled out her phone and tapped impatiently, waiting for it to respond to her touch. Before she could even reach for the Twitter app, however, she had accidentally tapped on one of the rapidfire notifications that were appearing at a seizure-inducing rate at the top of her screen. As it materialised and grew large on her screen, she did a double-take.
‘Stupid fucking liberal cunt, doesn’t know what the fuck she’s saying DO YOU @sharon_needles!! People like you who claim that soulmate love isn’t real should be EXECUTED! DISGUSTING!’
She blanched, not at all hurt by the bizarre statement but completely dumbfounded at its existence. As far as she was aware, Sharon didn’t know a @BillDewinski1956, let alone tweet anything that would catch his attention. At her expression, Sasha grabbed her phone and then gasped.
“Jesus! Some people are so charming, aren’t they… But I mean this! This is what you need to see.”
She handed the phone back on the list of trending news. The list was as she expected; something about the President’s latest fuck up, some viral tweet about girly movies, a singer making an apology for something dumb. But the banner at the very top was what caught her eye - a photograph of herself.
Media  .  16 hours ago
Controversial ‘timers’ article divides the internet with an unheard perspective on the law
97k people are tweeting about this
As soon as the words registered in her mind, Sharon’s stomach twisted into knots. She wasn’t sure if it was a pleasant sensation or not; all she knew was that her heart was hammering in her chest, her mind was racing, and she didn’t have a single idea what she was supposed to think.
Did this mean she was successful? Did this mean she was going to get fired? As disgusting as some of the replies to the article were, people were definitely interested. At least half of the responses seemed somewhat supportive of her - Sharon scrolled through replies of people who said they had cried when realising they weren’t the only ones, or explained how they’d managed to get past it, or simply commented that she had opened their minds to something they hadn’t considered before.
For the first time in her life, Sharon’s anger was powerful. For the first time, she had the power to influence how people thought and how people felt, and it was a very strange power to possess.
“Well?” Sasha prompted, pulling Sharon out of her introspective silence.
“Well…” Sharon answered, not nearly as eloquent in person as she was in writing. “Shit. That’s all I have to say.”
Sasha was practically beaming, and despite all the confusion and conflicting emotions Sharon felt about the whole situation, her friend’s glowing pride made her feel incredibly uplifted. It was rare that Sharon ever felt so supported and cared for.
“I always knew you would take the world by storm once they let you.” She praised, Sharon waving her off so that she didn’t end up blushing unattractively. “The website is down this morning so there’s not much we can do until maintenance fix it. Too much traffic from everyone trying all at once to read your article. You really swept everyone off their feet.”
Sharon shook her head, unable to accept the compliments. Sure, she’d caused a stir, but controversy always did. It wasn’t like they were praising how it was written, or the language and composition of the piece… no, had it been the usual lovey-dovey drip of an article about timers, no one would bat an eyelid. It was controversy, not skill, that had brought her notoriety.
“Trinity isn’t in this morning, but Peppermint wants to see you.” Sasha finished gently, noticing the slight embarrassment she’d caused. “No doubt to assign you another task to blow out of the water.”
For the first time since entering her job as an underpaid intern, nobody yelled, clicked at, or insulted Sharon as she walked through the office. No one demanded a coffee, or sent a scathing look in her direction. In fact, not a single head turned in her direction at all - possibly the closest thing she could get to a success.
Peppermint, or Agnes, as Sharon supposed she should call her, was the more forgiving of her two bosses, and as she made her way towards her office she prayed that nothing bad was going to happen. After all, she knew they couldn’t fire her for how the article was written, as she had taken the time to ensure it all made sense, but that didn’t mean her audacity couldn’t be the reason she got fired. As much as was her own thoughts, the content was a little outrageous given how few companies were willing to give platforms to voices like hers.
Thankfully, she was greeted with a smile. “Ah! Morning, Sharon. Just thought we could have a chat about that little article of yours.”
Oh god. Here it came. The pointed smile, the cold eyes, the flat tone of voice as she was told that they had taken a gamble on promoting her and it was clearly the wrong decision to make, and that she would need to be fired completely to avoid the humiliation of a demotion and for the good of the company overall, and she would have to rescind her article along with a grovelling apology for daring to be so forthright with her opinions in a society that didn’t want to hear them-
Agnes leaned forwards. “I loved it.”
Sharon was so taken aback, she nearly fell right off her chair. “I- What?”
“Look, Sharon…” She admitted, her voice low. “I’m a trans woman, I know all about causing a stir. There’s bigoted people out there who say I don’t deserve everything I have, simply because I transitioned. So even if we disagree, I want you to do more of this. Share your voice. Angry women change the world, and I can see you have some fire in you.”
Never in her life had Sharon expected to be praised for her boldness. It was something that people in her life had always endeavoured to change about her; the conviction with which she held her beliefs was dangerous. But someone, for the first time in what felt like forever, was encouraging her. Someone, even if it was Agnes alone, believed that what Sharon had to say was valuable, and wasn’t trying to silence her voice.
It was a strange feeling.
She wandered back to her desk in a daze, baffled enough by the meeting and sudden influx of attention that she felt slightly light-headed. Ignoring the swathe of notifications still flooding her phone from all apps, she opened her Twitter once more and decidedly, absently, to briefly address it and then move on. After all, she had more controversy to cause.
Sharon Needles - @sharon_needles
Angry women change the world ..
“She wants more.”
Sasha blinked. “Huh?”
Sharon shook her head, trying to mentally pull herself together and wrench her mind away from the absolute chaos she had somehow managed to cause. She switched her phone off, overwhelmed by the constant notifications, and wheeled her chair around to properly look at Sasha with a little more clarity.
“Peppermint… Agnes… whatever… She wants more from me. She wants me to keep doing what I’m doing, and not issue an apology, and I’m not fired, I don’t have to clear my things…” Sharon muttered, mostly to herself. “She- She wants to keep me here?”
Practically squealing, Sasha kicked the desk and propelled herself backwards in her chair, spinning gleefully. Her enthusiasm was strangely contagious, and within a couple of seconds, Sharon felt the same unbridled happiness bubbling up inside her. It was utterly euphoric.
“I didn’t get fired!”
“You didn’t get fucking fired!” Sasha repeated, her eyes squeezed shut in excitement. She had shuffled her way over to Sharon, and begun spinning her chair so that the both of them were racing round in circles, giddy and giggling.
Sharon laughed at the absurdity of it all - spinning around in her desk chair at work, rapidly promoted, a sudden success in a short amount of time. It was as if her luck was finally beginning to balance out, the bad making way for the good to start shining through.
“Okay, I… I need to start my next one. Or plan it. Or do something, I don’t know.” She babbled, skidding to a halt back at her desk and fumbling with the keyboard. “There’s so much I could touch on… God. I finally get to use my degree, huh?”
Sasha winked at her, the pride emanating from her bright eyes. “Get writing, bitch. Go and knock ‘em dead now that they’re all listening. I know you can do it.”
Now that was something she’d never tire of hearing, something new to her ears and like music every single time. People - a select few, but a rapidly increasing amount - believed in her.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of writing, planning and numbing excitement. It was no secret that Sharon had a lot to say, and she had been trying for years to get people to listen to her. All the protests, the arrests, the candid photographs of a young teenager with a sign in her hands, desperate for some kind of change to protect her from the uncertain future that gave her nightmares… they had to be worth something. Sharon had a voice now, and she couldn’t throw it away.
Time seemed to escape her, each second sliced away by the rapid clicking of keys beneath her fingers. There was so much to be said, so much to do, and before long, Sasha’s hand was gently shaking Sharon’s shoulder, wrenching her from her writing-induced stupor. It was beginning to darken outside, and the majority of the office were leaving or had already left.
“Fuck,” Sharon hissed, stretching and wincing slightly at the cracking of her bones. “I’m gonna go blind if I look at that screen for any longer. Thanks, Sash.”
Sasha smiled kindly. “Anytime. You’re doing great, just make sure you don’t burn yourself out. Try to relax tonight, yeah? Just take it easy, chill a little. I’d invite you over for drinks to celebrate, but I can imagine you’re exhausted.”
Her mood lifted from such a productive, surprising day, Sharon found herself in higher spirits than she expected. “Aww, maybe I’ll come see you and Shea tomorrow. You’re right, though, I think I need a night in to just relax and be by myself. And maybe mute my Twitter, seeing how crazy it was earlier.”
Her friend laughed appreciatively. “I’ll get some red wine in for the weekend, you’re welcome to come over anytime. Now get out of here, freak. Go home.”
Absent-mindedly, Sharon wondered if her slightly later-than-usual exit from work meant that she could claim for a little bit of overtime, or if it would affect which bus she got home on. The elevator music provided the perfect mindless background music for her thoughts, her brain having checked out of work-mode the moment she logged off her computer. As it dinged, the little noise always sounding before Sharon expected it to and making her jump, she walked out into the car park and started towards the bus station. Then she stopped.
Alaska’s car was parked next to Sasha’s, which was quickly pulling away. She was sitting behind the wheel, her arms folded across her chest, her eyes staring straight forward. When she spotted Sharon, her gaze only lingered for half a second before she turned away again, her expression completely, eerily blank. Somewhat apprehensive, Sharon approached.
The car window rolled down. “Alaska?”
“Thought you might want picking up. The buses around here aren’t very safe.”
Sharon lingered awkwardly. On the one hand, she didn’t really feel like spending time with Alaska, given the tension between them that seemed as though it would never go away. A fucking soulmate marriage counsellor, after all, and a fierce anti-timer law advocate, were hardly a match made in Heaven. On the other hand, Sharon had witnessed her fair share of bloody fights and drunk, leery men on her bus rides home.
Reluctantly, she opened the door and got into the passenger seat, glancing furtively at Alaska before lowering her gaze. This was weird - everything about all of their interactions was weird. At least this time, she supposed, Alaska wasn’t begging Sharon to like her. She just started the car without a word.
They drove in silence for a few excruciating minutes. Sharon didn’t usually mind awkward silences - she was usually the cause of them, after all, and would relish in the suffocating misery and discomfort that followed. But this silence wasn’t her own doing, and all of it sudden it wasn’t so nice to get a taste of her own medicine. She flexed her hands, unsure of what to do with herself, as Alaska sat rigid and drove seemingly without blinking. In a last-ditch attempt to break the tension, Sharon reached out toward the radio.
“It doesn’t work.” Alaska told her. “Don’t bother.”
“Oh.” Sharon stopped in her tracks, slowly retracting her hand. “Okay. Sorry.”
Alaska shrugged, barely. “It’s fine.”
They lapsed into silence again. This wasn’t right; Sharon was the one to sit and make others feel weird and strange, not Alaska. Her wife was supposed to be the one who wanted approval, not Sharon. The loss of power was unsettling.
When they came across a queue at a traffic light, Alaska huffed out a breath, as though she was irritated about something. “Want to get something to eat before we go home?” She asked, rather curtly. 
Her tone of voice knocked Sharon for six. It took a few moments for her to register the words, let alone come up with a response. “Uhh, no. Let’s just go.”
It seemed Alaska wasn’t having it. “Well, I think we should celebrate. There’s a good Thai place down this street, it has lots of vegan options too.”
Out of everything, the weirdest part was Alaska’s cold exterior. Sharon had to admit, begrudgingly, that as much as she didn’t like Alaska, she was always inviting and kind and willing to give a second (or third, or fourth, or fifth, or sixth) chance. She always offered little acts of kindness that Sharon turned down, her good intentions clear all the time. But this… whilst her words seemed kind, the chilling voice with which she spoke them were anything but.
“I don’t want anything, I just want to go home.” Sharon shot back.
“Or there’s a good pizza place, too.” Alaska ignored her. “Pretty cheap, but the garlic bread is super good. Special occasions call for special dinners, I think. We should celebrate your success at the very least. It’s only a ten minute drive extra from home.”
Sharon scowled, growing more annoyed by the second. “Why the fuck are you being nice? Shut up, fucking hell.”
Alaska snorted derisively. “The question is, why aren’t you being nice? You don’t have to be a cunt all the time, you know that, right?”
“I didn’t ask for you to fucking pick me up and start trying to buy dinner when all I want to do is get home and be on my own!” Sharon exploded. “Like fuck, girl, take a fucking hint! I can make my own goddamn way home!”
Alaska slammed on her brakes as the traffic came to yet another stop, jolting them both forward. “Why don’t you then, huh? Get out of my fucking car and walk home if you hate it so much. Go on, hurry up.”
Sharon recoiled, as though she’d been slapped. “What the fuck?”
“You heard me!” Alaska seethed. “Get out now while it’s not moving, or else I’ll fucking push you out whilst I’m driving. I’m sick of you, I’m fucking sick of you, and I don’t want to deal with your ass anymore. Get out of my car.”
The light turned amber.
“Gladly.” Sharon opened the door and slammed it shut, just in time. Alaska sped off as the light turned green, leaving Sharon in her dust.
It took a minute for everything to connect in Sharon’s head. What the fuck had just happened? Alaska had snapped. Everything that Sharon had done to torment her and make her life difficult had worked, and it had culminated in a burst of anger, which was exactly what she wanted - tangible proof that the soulmate business was a load of shit, and they just weren’t meant to be.
And yet… why did it feel so awful? Sharon walked faster than she thought she ever had before, her furious strides rivalling that of a yoga mom in a park. A mixture of rage and… was that guilt? wrestled in the pit of her stomach, festering and bubbling in a way that made her nauseous. This was exactly what she wanted, after all, for Alaska to stop fucking trying and accept that, no matter what, Sharon was never going to love her.
It seemed that her anger and hurt weren’t quite linked, and she couldn’t work out where they were coming from.
It was surprisingly cathartic to walk home in the brisk cold, the weather cooling off her angry heat as she walked the rest of the journey home. She had almost gotten over it completely when Alaska’s home came into view - and everything seemed to reignite at just the sight of it. No doubt Alaska had slammed the front door and stormed inside, judging by her haphazard parking job.
She pounded on the front door and waited. Of course, today had to be the day she forgot her key.
It swung open almost violently, revealing a pissed-off Alaska. “Oh, it’s you. I was hoping it was going to be a door-to-door serial killer. I should be so fucking lucky.”
Sharon shook her head in disbelief. “Okay, what the fuck is your problem? 
“My problem?” Alaska asked indignantly. “No, this isn’t my problem, Sharon, this is yours.” She all but yanked Sharon inside, shutting the door with an almighty bang and beginning to pace up and down the corridor. “You’re the one with the issues, and I’m tired of being nice to you only to get treated like shit in response. Willam told me to be patient with you, and fuck, I’ve tried, but you’re giving me nothing and I’ve had enough. So what, please tell me, did I fucking to do you?!”
Fuming again, Sharon shrugged off her coat and stormed into the kitchen, Alaska hot on her heels. She could practically see the steam coming out of her reddened ears.
“What the fuck are you talking about, Alaska? I don’t have time for your stupid games.”
Alaska almost growled. “You! I’m talking about you, Sharon, and how you seem to have no fucking regard for other people. I don’t care if you don’t like the laws about timers because fuck, tons of people don’t, and they’re fucking excessive and I understand that. Hate the system all you fucking want, but don’t take your anger out on me when I did nothing to you. I’ve done everything I can to make you comfortable here and then you- you-”
Sharon stood still and seethed, listening to Alaska’s rant with her jaw clenched. “Communication is key for a healthy marriage, you of all people should know that. Get to the fucking point.”
“I’M GETTING THERE!” Alaska screamed, and the force of her shout shocked Sharon into silence. Her face was distraught, pulled tight with fury and rage that seemed entirely uncharacteristic for someone like her. She was rational, collected, measured - someone who was pragmatic and logical. She didn’t just explode in emotional outbursts, or at least, Sharon had never thought she would.
“All I want to know,” She breathed, her tone dangerously calm, “Is what I did to make you hate me, and what I can do to make you like me. Because this- this-”
She held up her phone, the screen flashing in Sharon’s face - a screenshot of her newly-viral article. 
“I don’t know what the fuck I did to deserve this, okay?!”
Sharon rolled her eyes. “Oh please. I had the freedom to write about what I wanted, and so I wrote about what no one gets to hear, because sycophantic bitches like you who love the taste of government boots sit here all day and tell us how wonderful it is that we’re forced into marriages! Well, fucking newsflash, I don’t think that!”
“And you’ve made it quite fucking clear, from the day I met you!” Alaska cut in. “But for one fucking second, did you think about how this would affect me? How this would humiliate me?”
Tears were beginning to gather in the corners of Alaska’s eyes - hot, angry tears, threatening to spill over her scarlet cheeks and flared nostrils. In the midst of their blazing argument, seemingly a battle of attrition with hurled insults as their ammunition, Sharon started to feel… bad.
“What do you mean? It’s not like I fucking named you. You don’t need to be so sensitive.” She cursed.
Alaska shook her head, and Sharon sensed that if she pushed her any further, she would explode like a grenade. “I have been ridiculed all day - by my co-workers, even by my fucking clients. I walked into work with your name visible on my arm, so everyone knows that the Sharon Needles who wrote the scathing article is the same one that I’m married to.”
As she ranted, tears spilling over, Alaska kicked off her heels, ignoring how they flew across the room and likely damaged something of hers. The resulting clatter seemed to only exacerbate her fury.
“I’m a marriage counsellor, Sharon.” She stressed, leaning over the worktop. “My entire livelihood is helping people come to terms with their relationships and live out long, happy lives together in whatever way suits them best. All fucking day, I’ve had people laughing and sneering in my face, my own fucking clients telling me that if I can’t fix my own marriage, how the hell am I supposed to fix theirs?”
She swiped away her tears in a vicious motion. “Humiliated and ridiculed, all fucking day, because you made your goddamn think-piece into more of an attack on me than you did an attack on the system that you’re actually mad at. I just- I can’t take this anymore, Sharon.”
With mounting guilt, Sharon mustered as much disdain into her voice as she could. “Can’t take what? Enlighten me.”
“You!” Alaska’s eyes were shining, her chest heaving with the effort of yelling and crying all at once. “You’re spiteful, you’re mean, you’re bitter and nasty and cruel and I have noidea why that is, but I wish I fucking knew so I could something, anything! I’m not asking you to love me, Sharon, because I don’t think you have it in you to love. I’m just - fuck, I’m asking you to try and not be a cunt all the time because maybe if we could be respectful to each other, something could grow out of that. We could be friends. But you’re just fucking horrible.”
A thousand insults sprang to the forefront of Sharon’s mind, her brain working overtime to provide her with harsh, cutting remarks that could stop Alaska in her tracks and effectively win the argument. Each and every one of them halted at her tongue, disappeared, and Sharon deflated.
“I know.”
Alaska faltered. “You- what?”
“I’m a horrible, terrible person, Alaska. I don’t think about anyone else because the only person I can rely on is me, I don’t fucking want anybody else. A soulmate goes against absolutely everything that I stand for as a person.” Sharon found herself suddenly bearing her soul in front of her furious wife, more vulnerable than she had felt in a long time. “I should’ve thought about what this would all mean for you. But I don’t think about others, ever. I get hurt when I think about others.”
Little tear droplets clung to Alaska’s eyelashes, clumping them together as she regarded Sharon with a gaze far gentler than her previously stony glare. All at once, her anger seemed to dissipate.
“I’m never gonna hurt you, Sharon. At the end of all of this fucked up shit, I’ve got your back. I’m your soulmate.”
Sharon shook her head, faster than she meant to. “There’s no such thing.”
Alaska softened. “I read that true hatred can only come from something you once loved. I don’t know if that’s true, but-”
“I don’t want to get into it.” Sharon answered, quietly. “Can I just apologise and try and be better?”
Biting her lip, Alaska nodded infinitesimally and sighed. “Yeah… But if something’s hurting you, and I can help-”
“I can’t talk about it.” Sharon replied curtly, then apologised. “Sorry. I just… I can’t.”
“That’s okay.” Alaska promised, her teary eyes suddenly holding tender sadness in the place of her former rage. “Do you… Can I give you a hug? Just to… consolidate a truce, I guess, and give you a little bit of comfort.”
The words got stuck in Sharon’s throat, but it didn’t end up mattering. At the slightest inclination of her head, Alaska rushed forwards and wrapped her arms around Sharon, the both of them melting against one another in a moment of sheer exhaustion and weakness. There were tears beginning to well up in Sharon’s eyes, too, but she did her best to blink them away, determined not to cry in Alaska’s embrace.
It was nice… nicer than she’d expected. Alaska was warm, and welcoming, and at heart she was a good, loving person. Sharon was selfish and rude and petulant and she didn’t deserve the love, let alone the friendship, of someone like Alaska. But something about the tightness with which Alaska held onto Sharon told her that, somehow, this was someone who would give her infinite chances. Alaska had never waited for Sharon to fuck up, not like everyone else. She had gotten angry, and then her angry had been pushed aside completely in favour of a sweet embrace.
It felt so good to be held by someone. Sharon lifted her own arms to squeeze Alaska and buried her face, hoping that her wife couldn’t tell that she had started sobbing.
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devilrising · 5 years
Text
Fallen Draco Pt. 1
This follows a prompt written by @mymindsmadness
Summary: AU where Draco is a fallen angel, and the way he gets his wings back is by guiding Harry in defeating Voldemort, but it all goes wrong when Draco starts falling in love with Harry.
Word Count: 3018
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Mentions of abuse/torture (non-graphic)
***
2nd March, 1998
It’s hard. It’s really, really hard, to know what I know and do nothing. Every day I wake up screaming, nightmares plaguing me in my sleep. Each morning I look in the mirror, and watch as my wings start to fade. Going from purest white, to a darker shade of grey. I’m losing feathers too. There’s a jar by my bed, and a couple others in a drawer, filled with them.
The day they started drooping, I became terrified. I knew what had caused it, but I didn’t want to think about. Angels are rarely men. And when they are, they don’t usually survive for very long. My life up until now was, rather dangerous. I always thought that if the war hadn’t killed me, I would’ve eventually died from being an angel. I guess it’s both.
Voldemort is in the living room of Malfoy Manor, discussing what the next move will be. Father is listening intently, and I’ve been banished to my room, so it must be vital. Maybe there’s new information. Maybe they are planning another battle. I hope I’m not asked to participate. I never asked to be a part of this. I wish I wasn’t. Mother has grown increasingly concerned recently. She is the only confidant I have. The only person I can talk to. Her once beautiful hair has rapidly been turning grey and warn. The wrinkles riddling her skin are more pronounced than last year, and she is
growing frail. I’m terrified of losing her, because that’s where I feel we’re heading.
A knock draws me across the room and towards my door. The wood is dark and thick, keeping up the illusion of no light in the Manor. When I twist the handle and pull the door towards me, I jump. It’s Voldemort. What’s he doing here? He takes in the surprise on my face, and a beam shows itself. On anyone else, I would say that it ‘lit up their face’. With the Dark Lord, however, it’s much more of a wicked, cruel, and insane look. Like he wants to saw my head off in a public courtyard. I cringe at the thought.
“I’ve been wondering, Draco.” I shudder and pray that it isn’t visible. “How would you feel about being a crucial part of the next battle?” Like I have any choice. Like he wouldn’t kill me on the spot if he questioned my loyalty.
“Of course, my lord,” I say as I drop into a bow.
“Wonderful! Would you like to join the meeting in the drawing room, then?”
“That would be much gracious of you, my lord.”
I receive no reply, just a hand on my shoulder as I walk down the corridor and into the room my father is in.
“You’re here, Draco. Glad. Take a seat over there.” Father gestures to a black leather armchair, and I sit on the very edge of the cushion. Voldemort strides in after me, and takes a seat opposite my father. He begins informing me about the recent decision to crash the Ministry. But not just any part of the Ministry. No, no, we need to be more ambitious than that. That’s predictable even. No. We are crashing the Unspeakables’ department.
Horror drips down my spine, but I smile and nod at the half-man in front of me. I tell him that I think it’s a marvellous idea, and will really persuade people to join the correct side of this war. In my head, I’m screaming. It’s the worst idea imaginable. Who knows what’s in that department? If someone was to so much as knock something, we could all be dead. What if someone was to wear a certain metal that reacted with an object? I can’t see this going at all well, but I sit in silence, a fake smile on my face.
***
9th March, 1998
I’m in over my head. I’ve known the next ploy for a week exactly, and have come up with every possible way this mission could fail. We could burn alive. Explode. Drown. Rapidly age. Turn into objects. Have the air sucked out of our bodies. The list is so long I forget the first few I wrote down. I have no idea why Voldemort decided the Unspeakable department was a good plan. But then again, when has he ever had a good plan?
The wind roars around my ears, and I can’t hear anything other than my pulse and hammering heart. Mountains are beautiful to look at, but to hike them? That’s another story entirely. But I needed to get away. I couldn’t bear to be in the same house as my father and Voldemort. The two men are positively insane. They both need a mental asylum.
I sweep my eyes over the ground below, and marvel at the scene stretched before me. The view from Skiddaw mountain is astonishing. I feel tiny in comparison to everything else I can see. I feel like I’m insignificant. A welcome emotion for me recently. The sky above me is dull and cloudy, but there is no rain falling today. It’s Monday, and I should be at Hogwarts, but I’ve been pulled out for the remainder of Seventh Year. Potter isn’t there anyway, so I wouldn’t be doing much. Studies became quite boring Sixth Year, if I’m being honest.
Potter. Apparently he is off in the world somewhere, trying to locate and destroy Horcruxes. I applaud him for trying, but there is no way he’ll survive that. Voldemort told me himself how difficult they are to find, and that to actually get a hold of them is practically impossible. I’ve tried to imagine where they would be, what they would be, but have always come up dry. I don’t know of a single place so dangerous. Potter must be out of his mind. Potter, Granger, Weasley, and his precious Order.
Suddenly no longer interested in the scenery below me, I turn around and walk over to the tree where I’ve laid all my things out. I sit on the emerald picnic rug, and bite into one of the apples I brought. The pink skin matches what colour I know my cheeks must be, and I hum with the sweet taste filling my mouth. The branches above me sway in the gentle breeze, and I’m reminded of autumn days in Third Year. Before everything started going south rapidly.
That was the year with Black escaping from Azkaban. The year with the stupid hypogriff breaking my arm. The year Granger punched me, and Potter laughed at me. Thankfully, that didn’t happen very often. My thoughts start straying back to life at Hogwarts, before the world turned a head. Before my family started to repeatedly fulfill “tasks” and “assignments”. Before I had to seclude myself from my friends, the rest of Slytherin, and before I had to push myself to the extremes of my magical capabilities.
The Vanishing Cupboard, the Unbreakable Vow, Dumbleodre’s death, and the Sectumsempra incident. Last year was a bitch. I can’t see this year being any improvement however. The plans that I’ve overheard (due to unfold in May) haunt me in my sleep. I don’t know what to do about it. I have no one to talk to. To tell how scared I am.
The wind starts picking up, and the emerald rug beneath me lifts up in the breeze. Although it’s no longer a breeze. It’s more like a blustery wind than anything else. Regardless, I decide that it’s probably for the better to leave Skiddaw mountain and return to the Manor. I use my wand and a complex charm my father taught me in order to pack up all my things. I watch as everything floats above the rug, which starts folding itself into a square. The food I didn’t eat flies into the basket I brought, neatly organised and sorted. Then the rug shrinks, and enters into the basket. The basket then shrinks itself, so now I can fit it in the pocket of my black skinny jeans. Happy with the charm, I nod to myself and pick up my Nimbus 2001 from where it was resting against the tree.
Even though the wind is brutal, I would rather fly the 475-ish kilometres back to Wiltshire, than accidentally apparate into a meeting again. That didn’t work out so well for me last time.
***
11th March, 1998
Life is getting worse. It’s harder and harder each day to tell myself that it will be okay. Two days ago, I was beaten into unconsciousness for arriving after my curfew. The wind had made it nearly impossible to fly, and I struggled the whole way to the Manor. Being the stubborn prat that I am, I was confident that I would make it back before 11pm. I shouldn’t have taken the risk.
As an added punishment, I am grounded to my room. But my father and Voldemort don’t do things by half. No. They have come up with specially designed wards to let them in, but to keep everyone else out. Not to mention, I physically can’t leave. If I try, I’m electrocuted until I pass out. If that happens four times, I’m instantly killed. I am forced to stay in my tiny, dark, uncomforting room for a week. The only thing I’m allowed to do is write letters. But I have no way of sending them out to anyone or anywhere. With no owl to carry them, I’m doomed. They deliberately let me write for help, knowing that I’m not stupid enough to actually do it.
Instead, I write stories, I draw woodland animals (and other more, uh, explicit ones, but those are burned immediately after completion). It’s relaxing. With nothing but ink and parchment, I waste away the hours in front of the fire. The warmth very welcome in the cold month March is shaping up to be. Eventually tired with ink, I grab down a book on puzzles from my shelves. The cover is faded, deep purple, the title written in silver thread. I’ve read this so many times, solved each riddle, word puzzle, and math problem, but I open it anyway.
The first one is easy. “.--. ..- --.. --.. .-.. . ... - .... .-. --- ..- --. .... --. . -. . .-. .- - .. --- -. ...” The problem is written in Morse code, and it takes less than a minute to have it decoded. “Puzzles Through Generations” is the title of the book, and I find it rather humorous that it’s also the first problem. I smile to myself, before diving headfirst into the book.
***
Later that same evening, I start to grow restless. With nothing else in my room, I’ve resorted to lying on my bed, face buried in a pillow. I don’t know what I’m doing with myself. Why I allowed myself to get into this mess. Why I even bothered coming back to the Manor. I wonder, not for the first time, why I’m given so much freedom. Well, except for right now, of course. I’m generally permitted all through the Manor and it’s grounds. I’m given unlimited access to anywhere on the continent, so long as I can be traced.
I always come to the same conclusion though. The two terrible excuses for men know I won’t leave. They know that I know that if I was to desert them, they would track me. Voldemort would employ thousands of Death Eaters to find me, and to bring me back to him to die at his hands. Hours of torture would occur, worsened because of my father. I would be considered a ‘traitor’. I have nothing wrong with that last bit, of course. But I wouldn’t want to leave my mother. She would surely be punished for my actions, and I couldn’t let that happen. I wouldn’t ever forgive myself.
I stand up from the bed, pace over to the small bathroom joined to my bedroom, and stare at my reflection. I look ill. My hair is in shambles, strewn all over my face. It almost looks like Potter’s, except for the colours, which are starkly opposite. My eyes have sunken into my skin, dark rings under them. My complexion has become sickly pale, and I wonder when this happened. I’ve probably looked terrible for months, but been too busy with everything else (like surviving) to notice.
Trying desperately to salvage my appearance I cast a few simple charms. I straighten out my hair, making it fall neatly to my scalp. After struggling with my complexion for a while, I give up and move to my eyes. The bags are covered with a glamour that takes all of my energy. I’m so tired from the spells that I pad back to my bed and gladly fall asleep. In my dreams, I question why I was worn out so quickly, but pass it off as being trapped in a room with no sun, limited food and water, and lack of new oxygen.
***
15th March, 1998
I’m becoming desperate. I was let out of my room for an hour earlier this morning, and dragged outside into the sun and air. The sun was hidden behind the clouds, but it was better than nothing but artificial lights. Food was handed to me, and I greedily ate it, the first proper meal I’d had in six days. I didn’t think the occasional plate of unappetising gloop counted. After fifteen minutes, I was dragged back inside once again, and led into the drawing room where I first accepted the Dark Mark. I was then tortured for the remainder of the hour.
Legilimency was first. Voldemort did it himself. Digging through my memories to find any weakness he could find. He had eventually decided on one of Potter lunging at me, fury in his eyes. I was taunted with it for ages, before being placed under the Cruciatus Curse. It had been extreme pain, and I’m thankful it’s over now. Still, the sensation is fresh in my mind, and I’m being plagued by paranoia.
Desperation fills me just from the memory, and I silently panic at my desk. I need to get out of here. My wings are losing colour every day. Feathers have filled the jar next to my bed, and I’ve started a fourth. I need to get help immediately. I’m seriously starting to wonder how long I have left. As a male angel, I never should’ve lived this long. I should’ve died years ago. I stretch my fading wings out, and try to gently flutter them. No use. Instead, I watch as a single feather floats to the carpet beneath my feet.
Uncontrollable tears stream down my face, and it’s desperation that finally drives me to pick up a quill. It’s intense, urgent need that makes me pull a sheet of parchment from my stack. It’s in despair that I actually touch the inked quill to the parchment. I quickly pen a letter to the first person I can think of to save me. Shuddering, I use my wand to summon a muggle postage stamp from the hallway outside, slip it under the door, and stick it to the envelope I pulled from a drawer.
A shiver goes through me as I seal the letter in the envelope. I don’t know how to send it to him, until I remember about the bathroom. I cross the bedroom and turn the water on in the shower in order to cover any noise I might make. Then I drag a chair in from the bedroom, and place it directly beneath the air vent. Standing in the chair precariously, I unattach the grille from the ceiling and place it gently onto the white tiles. The gap is too small for anything but my hand to get through, and grin. There’s no way anyone will think I’ve used this air vent for anything. What’s the point after all?
Carefully, I place the letter into the vent opening and pull my wand from my pocket. Knowing I’ll be drained after this no matter what I do, I decide to use everything left in me to lurch the letter up. A shock of green particles shoot from my wand tip, and they push the letter up the vent. I watch as it disappears from view and into the kitchen vent. I start to track the letter with my mind. Following it as it flies through the deserted kitchen, and out of the window in the dining room. I know it’s made it out of the wards when the green barges into my wand again, knocking me of the chair I’m still standing on.
Now I can only hope that Potter replies. Or rather, that he doesn’t.
***
22nd March, 1998
It’s been a week now, and I’ve heard nothing from him. I have been let out of my room though. My wings have lost all of the pure white, and are now as dark as a raven. It’s quite striking, the dark colour of the few feathers I have left, against my sickly pale skin and platinum hair. I always thought that if I lost my wings, there would be a skeleton left to haunt me of the sins I had committed. Instead, there is nothing. The feathers aren’t attached to anything but air. Maybe it’s because of the extremity of the darkness encompassing me.
I no longer feel much at all, just longing to be saved. Even if it’s by my previous enemy.
***
24th March, 1998
My wings are totally gone. Vanished from existence. I feel awful. The steady stream of food, sun, water, and air being spoon-fed to me isn’t enough. My mother is blaming herself, and I can’t stand seeing her beyond herself. I start praying to a god I don’t believe in for Potter to arrive.
***
26th March, 1998
I threw up today. It’s been 24 days since this whole thing started. Scars have made themselves a home between my shoulder blades, permanently tormenting me. I wish not for the first time that I’d done something sooner. Before I was in over my head. Potter had better get here soon.
***
A/N: Next part will be out same time next week! If you want to be tagged in the next uploads, please tell me so you don’t miss out! 🥰
Masterlist — Next Part
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gay-spaghetti · 5 years
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Role Reversal - Good Omens AU
Wanted to take a stab at a Good Omens reverse AU! Comin’ up with all these ideas was soooo much fun. I might do more soon! :)
Inspired by @dotstronaut ‘s , @speremint ‘s , and @wikigiuli own reverse AUs. I love the different ways people use this AU! And these three are definitely my favorites. They gave me the inspiration to make my own :) Please check ‘em out and give them some love! They are so heckin’ cool UwU [Dotstronaut’s] , [Speremint’s] & [Wikigiuli’s]
Also! Aziraphale’s design in my version of this AU is heavily inspired by @millerizo’s demon Aziraphale. Check ‘em out, I command you! >:3 They’re so super cool.
___
(More info about my version of this AU under the cut!) 
(Please feel free to ask my questions about this AU! ^u^ But be sure to read what’s below so you don’t ask something that’s already answered! Thank you! :D)
The archangels are: Barachiel, Hariel, Jeremiel, and  (This AU’s Beelzebub, Hastur, Ligur, and Dagon).
The demons are: Lord Gaap, Shax, Malphas, Uvall (This AU’s Gabriel, Sandalphon, Michael, and Uriel).
___
Aziraphale is the archangel known as Raphael. After getting into some heavy arguments with the other archangels and asking way too many questions, Raphael falls. His bright brown hair is singed to a dull, dark grey-ish brown color, and his white wings turn soot-black.
When the time comes, he uses his demonic animal form, a bearded vulture, to tempt Adam into partaking of the garden’s forbidden fruit.
There at the edge of the garden, Raphael meets the angel that was given the task of watching over the first humans. Raphael introduces himself as “Aziraphale”, and the angel, known as “Cariel”, introduces himself as “Crowley”.
___
Aziraphale never goes by “Raphael”; he hates that name and anything even remotely relating to Heaven. The demons in Hell just call him “Fell”, a name he despises immensely. Aziraphale is still proper, fairly uptight, and rather fancy for a demon, but he’s grumpy, quiet, and reserved. He’s not a complete stone though; he has a sense of humor and is a total bastard, but it would take’s a big push to get that mischievous part out of him. He is indeed a demon, but he’s a total softy under that hard, irritable shell. He adores the human race, Earth, and everything coming from them. Azira takes an especial liking to reading, and manages to open a bookshop in London. He gladly welcomes anyone into his shop, although people seldom do. Azria’s appearance and general attitude is, unfortunately, enough to keep most people away.
Cariel (Angel of fire) is the rebellious angel who quickly becomes addicted to living on Earth. He changes his name to Crowley, favoring it way more than his God-given name. He calls his fallen angel friend “Phale” as a nickname, and Aziraphale doesn’t mind it at all. Crowley follows the rules and always stays in line, just as an angel should, but he’s certainly more humorous, sarcastic, and cynical than any of the other angels. The archangels joke amongst themselves that if any other angel were to fall, it would be him. Crowley trusts God’s plan, but admittedly, has his doubts. He never lets those doubts be known though. Due to his own anxieties and insecurities, he shoves those thoughts to the back of his head, sort of absentmindedly following Heaven’s rules without question. Just like his demon friend, Crowley falls in love with humanity and the earth. He has a deep affection for his Bentley, fashion, and an assortment of 80s-90s bands. Dancing and music in general is something he really cherishes.
Other info:
Aziraphale gets those scars on his face from angering Lord Gaap. It happens some time in the 40s. Crowley is pretty shocked and upset when he sees them for the first time.
Whenever he is asked, and he often is, Aziraphale will say that his eyes are just a “rare genetic condition”.
The rest of the characters in this AU are the same as they are in the show. I was going to do an entire reversal for all of the characters, but that would’ve been too hectic and confusing. Just untidy and unnecessary. 
Crowley often wears varying kinds of flowers on his varying kinds of suits/outfits.
Crowley, rather obsessively, owns a lot of plants. He’s very good to them, but perhaps owns too many. His flat is full of tall, blossoming, ferns, bushes, small trees, and plenty more. Aziraphale aptly names them “the prettiest plants in all of England”. Crowley obsessively takes care of all of these plants due to his fear of God. He’s always had questions and even objections, but being too scared to rebel or ask anything, he just bottles up all his doubts of the almighty. This has caused him to view Her as a sort of, cruel mother of sorts. So, he keeps all of these plants as a way to prove to himself that he’s better than Her at taking care of things.
As mentioned above, Crowley loves wearing many different outfits, often adorning himself with the flowers he grows in his flat. Aziraphale on the other hand, rarely changes out of his suit—he doesn’t see a reason to.
 Aziraphale often scolds Crowley for using foul language. The demon has an irrational fear of Crowley becoming a fallen angel, so he’s worried that Crowley searing too much would put a negative effect on him. Although, he always just tells Crowley that swearing is “improper” and “crude”. Truthfully, Aziraphale isn’t afraid to swear, he just doesn’t want Crowley becoming too rebellious or Hellish. 
Crowley, when teasing Aziraphale, will sometimes call him a “wily ol’ bird”.
Again, please feel free to talk about and ask questions if you’re curious/interested! :3
I’d love to expand this AU!
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doubledeaky · 5 years
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See What a Fool I’ve Been - Part Three
Brian May x Female!Reader
Part One | Part Two
A/N: Hey, everyone! I’m sorry for my inconsistent updates of this fic, I’ve been having trouble writing this particular fic but I’m getting there! The next part will be the final part, so please stay tuned! Thank you all so much for the love and support on my last two posts, you guys rock! As always, feedback is very much appreciated! Much love! -m:)
Summary: Being friends with John Deacon meant being friends with his band mates. This blossoming group of best buds seems logical until Brian realizes he may like you more than a friend. Unfortunately, your oblivious nature and Roger’s constant cock-blocking spells trouble for Brian and the romantic feelings he harbors for you. Young love isn’t always as fun as the movies make it seem.
Word Count: 1,327 words (sorry it’s so short!)
Warnings: cursing 
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Brian audibly groaned as the white streaks of sunlight pouring through his curtains temporarily blinded his tired eyes. He pressed on both eyes with the pads of his thumb and pointer finger, attempting to rub the sleep from them. His feet felt cold, looking down he noticed they were hanging off of the bed uncovered, typical. He threw the duvet from his body and onto the floor which was littered with dirty clothes and books, very out of character for neat freak, Brian May. His long legs felt heavy as he attempted to swing them over the side of his mattress and when he managed to do so, a dull ache reverberated throughout his muscles. He grimaced, sitting up with the assistance of his also very sore arms. Taking a quick glance of the condition of his room, he sighed and buried his face in his hands. The past few weeks had been tough, and Brian’s room was suffering as a result. He hadn’t really tidied since he met you a little over a month ago and the idea of what could be living among the mess caused a shiver to climb Brian’s spine. Nevertheless, he pushed himself from the bed; his legs still screaming in pain. The band had had a gig the night before and while the aches the day after hurt, having to watch Roger continue to butter you up after every gig hurt even more. You’d been to a total of four gigs now, the flames of jealousy in Brian’s chest only growing after each. Roger was determined, and Brian envied his persistence, especially since you’d seemingly shot him down every time he’d hinted to the idea of something more. Whether you were truly rejecting him or obliviously playing along, thinking Roger’s sly remarks were merely compliments, Brian didn’t know. What he did know was that he didn’t like it, at all. He felt a welcome sense of relief wash over him when he remembered there was no gig and he’d be able to exist in peace without the constant reminder that you weren’t his, you’d never be his, and that you would inevitably end up shagging Roger. He opened the door to his room and furrowed his brow when he wasn’t bombarded by the screams and vivacious laughs of his roommates. Instead, they were all sat at various points in the room either eating, reading, or both. Brian gave the three a friendly wave as he wordlessly poured himself a cup of coffee.
“Morning, Bri.” Freddie said behind his newspaper, yawning obnoxiously right after. Brian hummed in acknowledgement, taking a sip of his coffee and appreciating the warmth it brought to his cold limbs. The unfamiliar, but welcome, quiet was interrupted by Roger who saw it appropriate to begin stirring the pot.
“It’s a shame we don’t have a gig this weekend. Was so looking forward to seeing Y/N.” He said, smirking as he doodled with a blue pen onto the back of a napkin. Brian inhaled deeply and rolled his eyes, annoyed Roger found it necessary to get everyone riled up this early in the morning. John peered at Roger from behind a magazine, sneering at him.
“Rog, can you please keep it in your pants? She’s my friend, and I’d appreciate it if you’d stop dropping us hints about how much you’d like to get in her pants.” John said, rolling his own grey eyes and focusing back on that month’s issue of Rolling Stone. Roger laughed but didn’t look up, extremely focused on his drawing of what Brian assumed, from his view, was a dog.
“C’mon, Deaks! I get that she’s your friend and all, but you can’t deny she’s fit.” Roger said smugly, grinning from ear to ear with a cockiness that made Brian nauseous.
“Yeah, Rog. I can see that, I have eyes, but all I’m asking is that you not discuss your sexual fantasies involving her with the lot of us.” John said, huffing out an exasperated breath. Roger sat back, disgustingly smug. He shrugged and crossed one leg over the other.
“Can’t help it. I mean, she’s a total babe. Nice tits, and not to mention her bum. I’ll tell ya, I’d like to- “
“Stop talking about her like that.” Brian hissed from the other side of the room, absolutely seething. Roger turned to him, still smug, and gave him a challenging glare.
“What’s your problem, Bri? Are you mad you haven’t got the gall to try and get into her knickers?” He said, smirking as he tapped his fingers on the arm of the couch. Freddie’s eyes widened, and John was still shocked Brian was brave enough to even attempt to call out Roger. Brian set down his cup of coffee and crossed his arms over his chest, his full weight shifting onto his left leg. He huffed, growing angry and feeling slightly flustered. Roger tilted his head with both eyebrows raised, awaiting his reply.
“No, Rog, it’s not that. Just think you should have some respect. You’re being a proper dick right now.” Brian said simply, furrowing his brows Roger’s way. Roger’s face and chest grew red, his reputation of flying off the handle on the brink of being on full display. He scoffed, shaking his head.
“No, Bri. I just think you’re just chapped because I’m not afraid to go after what I want. You envy me.” Roger spit, shifting in his seat to face Brian. Freddie and John were stunned. Arguments among them were always lighthearted, this seemed malicious. Brian laughed in disbelief, shaking his head, curls bouncing softly.
“Envy you? Sure, Rog, if that helps you sleep at night.” Brian said, dismissively waving a hand as he turned to pour himself more coffee, already wanting this conversation to end. Roger was angry now; he didn't like being shamed, especially from the likes of Brian. 
“What the fuck is your problem, May? So, what if I want to shag her? What does it matter to you?”
“Cuz’ I fancy her, alright!” Brian shouted, breathing shaky and fists clenched. The room fell silent and Brian witnessed a rare emotion for Roger cross his face, regret. Only for a moment though, as Roger’s trademark smirk soon returned to its usual position in mere seconds. He leant back on the couch and reached for a cigarette on the stool beside him.
“Well, you’re shit at showing it.” Roger mumbled, lighting the cigarette hung loosely between his lips. Brian’s shoulders relaxed but he grew confused.
“What?” Brian asked, his eyebrows still drawn together. Roger huffed and sat up.
“Brian, you may be an astrophysicist, but you truly are daft. If you would have made an effort to show me you fancied her, I would have backed off. I’m not a complete asshole.” Roger said, puffing on his cigarette.
“News to me.” Freddie mumbled, and John laughed into his hand. Roger promptly flicked him off and all attention was back to Brian, who was still a bit shocked to say the least. Roger sighed frustrated, already reaching for a second cigarette.
“Brian, just grow a pair and go get her. Nothing’s stopping you now.” He said, returning his concentration back to drawing. Brian felt relief flood his chest and a breathy laugh escaped him. He ran to the coat rack, fishing for his jacket and pulling it over his lithe frame. Brian turned to the three men, giving Roger a nod which he returned with a playful eye roll and smile. Brian got to work on the lock of the door, flinging it open. John sat up in his chair, his arms supporting his weight.
“You break her heart and your ass is mine, May!” John called as Brian stumbled out of the door, giving John a thumbs up through the opening before it shut. The remaining three all relaxed in their seats, the previous tension in the room now dissipating.
“This is definitely not how I imagined my morning going.” Freddie stated from his seat and John nodded in solemn agreement, burying his face in a pillow beside him.
tag list: @ourfracturedomens @ladylannisterxo @arrowswithwifi @discoball-deaky @everybodyplaythegame @rogerlad @queenbbarnes @mackers125 @alexfayer @borhapqueen92 @thesecondlastjedi @dashlilymark @joe-mozzarello @goodoldfashionedlovergal @readinghorn @disn3yfreak (this is the official tag list for the fic; if you'd like to be added, please let me know!)
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