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aecs-multy · 3 years

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Even in the darkest hour, we will find the light

Summary:

When Arthur discovers that Merlin has magic, things go downhill fast, but sometimes you need to reach rock bottom to get up stronger than ever.

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He was tired. As the last bandit fell to the floor barely five meters in front of him, all the energy left his body. Around him were the unconscious bodies of men and women alike, the bodies of those who had tried to hurt them. They had been too many. He knew there had been no way that they had gotten out of the ambush alive if he hadn’t used his magic.

He also knew that there was no way that Arthur hadn’t seen him using it. Slowly, he lowered his hand, that had been pointing at the last bandit he had knocked out. He was so, so tired. He didn’t want to turn around, he didn’t want to see the hurt, the anger, the hatred, the betrayal that would be in those blue eyes he had learned to love.

Merlin’s vision got blurry, but it wasn’t until a lonely tear run down his cheek that he understood why. He was crying. Right in that moment, he had lost everything. He lost his life, his home, his family, his friends, his soulmate. All his life hiding, doing things from the shadows, completely alone, without people that understood him because he couldn’t let them in, for it to end like this.

I should have let that last one kill me, Merlin thought, Arthur wouldn’t have any problem defeating him and I wouldn’t have to turn around and see him now. He almost wanted to laugh. To think that he didn’t want to even look at Arthur right now because it would hurt too much to see what his king was thinking.

The point of a sword was placed between his shoulder plates and he stuttered a breath. This was it. He was going to die by the sword of the man he had sworn to protect, by the sword of the man he loved. His destiny was going to be his end. At least I won’t have to face him, he thought with a trembling smile while another tear fell.

“Merlin,” Arthur said, and his tone was cold, sharper than the sword that threatened to pierce him. “Turn around.”

He gulped and closed his eyes. It took him what seemed like hours to do as he was told, his body trembling with the chill that had suddenly filled his bones, feeling so cold that not even his hysteric beating heart could warm him.

“Open your eyes.”

He shook his head and pressed his eyelids harder together, willing himself to not break down. When he felt the sword reach his throat, he let a pained gasp fall from his lips.

“I said open your eyes.” Each word was said slowly and punctuated with added pressure of the metal against his skin, until a small drop of blood run down his neck.

He did as he was told, but the moment his eyes landed on Arthur’s, he wish he hadn’t, that he had kept them closed and died without the image that would now haunt him during what little he had left of live and during his death.

Those beautiful eyes were shining with unshed tears, full of those emotions he had put there, and he would give his life to make them go away. Arthur was gripping the hilt of the sword with both hands, in a position he had seen him do many times during his training and their adventures. The difference was that his hands were trembling now. It was barely noticeable, but Merlin knew him better than anyone.

“You have magic,” he said.

It wasn’t a question, but Merlin answered with a weak voice anyways, “Yes.”

“All… all this time, you... you’ve been lying to me,” Arthur said, his voice quivering. “I trusted you, I… I let you in, you were my servant, but also my advisor and friend, I… how could you do this to me?”

“I-” he tried to reply, but nothing came out of his mouth. He wanted to say a lot of things, but Arthur wouldn’t believe him, not now, not ever again, and proof of that was how he pressed the sword harder against him, making him hiss in pain.

He kept staring at Arthur’s eyes for seconds, minutes, hours, days? He didn’t know, but none of them moved or looked away. Finally, Arthur put Excalibur down. “I banish you from Camelot, you have until midnight to cross the frontier, if you ever return, you’ll burn in the pyre.”

His whole expression changed as he covered his emotions with a mask, not letting them show, and that was worse than seeing how much pain he had caused him.

“No,” Merlin said, his voice surprisingly strong, but being banished and separated from Arthur would be a fate worse than death. Determination filled him and he swore to himself that he wouldn’t let Arthur send him away. If he had to die, then so be it, but he wouldn’t that which made him whole.

A flicker of anger went through Arthur’s eyes before he could control himself. “What did you say?” Arthur asked between gritted teeth.

“I won’t go away.”

Arthur took a step closer, making them stand with their noses almost touching, but they had never been further apart, and said, “Then you’ll die, is that what you want?”

“No, but the only thing that will separate me from you will be my death,” he said. Merlin turned around and put his hands behind his back, wrists together, presenting them to Arthur to tie them. “I will be by your side until my last breath, until my heart stops beating, so don’t tell me to go, because your face will be the last thing my eyes will see when my world fades to darkness and your name will be the last word my lips will utter.”

“Then you leave me no choice.”

He felt something hit the back of his head, and then he fell, unconscious.

oOoOo

They were all seated in their respective places in the round table, but Gwaine couldn’t help but feel itchy, ready to fight at any moment. Something wasn’t right, he knew it because no one else was in the room but them, and neither were guards outside of the door like there would be any other day. What made him feel worse, though, was the lack of Merlin.

Their friend was always there, even if he wasn’t a knight, and not because he was Arthur's servant. He was always there because he was their friend and even if Arthur would never admit it, they often came to him for advice.

That’s why he knew something was wrong, because Arthur wouldn’t have called them all without Merlin being there, not unless something had happened to their friend. As he looked around, he saw the confused and worried expression of the rest of the knights, mirroring his own.

As soon as Arthur sat, he spoke, “Merlin is a sorcerer.”

With those four words, all the blood left Gwaine’s face. He knew what those words meant, but he refused to believe them. Merlin wasn’t a sorcerer, he was his best friend, he would know. No, Merlin wasn’t a sorcerer.

The silence in the room was deafening, everyone looking around, as if expecting someone to burst out laughing and tell them it was a lie.

“He isn’t a sorcerer, Arthur, how could he? He is Merlin,” Lancelot said, some kind of urgency laced to his words. Gwaine saw that, of all of them, he seemed the most affected by the statement. Lancelot looked as if he had seen a ghost, panic clear in his face, his hands trembling where they rested in fists over the table.

“I saw him myself doing magic, I saw how he defeated 20 bandits with just movements of his hands right in front of me. Merlin is a sorcerer,” Arthur said without looking at them, staring at the door.

“He isn’t,” Gwaine said. “He can’t be.”

“He is.”

“No, he isn’t, because that would mean that he will have to die, and that won’t happen,” Gwaine said fiercely. He wouldn’t let his best friend die.

“He betrayed Camelot, he used magic. I offered him banishment, but he said that he would rather die than go away,” Arthur said, his tone was low, but full of ice and betrayal and it echoed in the room. “He will burn in the pyre first thing in the morning.”

Gwaine didn’t waste a second, he got up and drew his sword. He said, “You won’t touch a hair of his head.”

Arthur didn’t move, didn’t even flinch. “He is accused of treason to his king, of using magic and letting it corrupt him. Both of those crimes are sentenced with death.”

“Treason of what?!” Gwaine shouted angrily, hitting the table with his free hand, leaning on it. “He is the most loyal person you will ever meet, more loyal than all of us together, and not because of a lack of loyalty in our part. He has gone to countless dangerous places for you, done a hundred million things to keep you safe and to protect you. He is the bravest man Camelot has ever seen, and all you give him in exchange is burn him to death?!” He was breathing shakily and his jaw hurt. “If you want to hurt him, you will have to kill me first.”

“Then I accuse you of treason and will die alongside Merlin,” Arthur said, his gaze now in Gwaine.

“Then I shall burn with them.” It was Lancelot who spoke now, and Gwaine noticed that he had stood up and drawn his sword at some point too. “I knew of Merlin’s magic since the first day I came to Camelot.”

Arthur looked at him now, his eyes full of hatred and his words dripping poison when he said, “You knew?”

“I did,” Lancelot said. “You want to know what he used the magic for when I discovered it? To save Camelot from the Griffin. To save you. All those times branches feel on our enemies’ heads, all those times we lost the enemy, all those times he guided us in the right direction, he use magic to help us.”

“Am I surrounded by traitors now?!” Arthur shouted standing up, looking at the rest of the knights, that cowered under the anger that radiated from their king.

“No, you’re surrounded by friends.” Surprisingly, it was Leon who talked. “I didn’t know about Merlin’s magic, but I do know him. I don’t believe that he is evil, nor a monster, nor corrupted. He was your friend, and so are we, and that’s the reason why we stand by your side, but sometimes we must stand against you to make you see reason. That’s why you trust us, because we aren’t afraid of telling you what we think. If you wanted someone to lick your boots and kiss the floor you step on then you would have sacked Merlin a long time ago in the first place.”

Arthur looked more and more enraged by the moment. “Merlin is a sorcerer,” he said through gritted teeth, as if that was the answer to all their problems.

“So what?!” Gwaine asked. “He is our friend and he would never hurt us or Camelot. He is so devoted to you that he would go to the mouth of hell just to make you smile!”

“He lied to all of us!”

“And can’t you imagine why he did that?! In Camelot, if you use or have magic, you die. What did you want him to do, come and tell you?!” Gwaine argued.

Arthur shouted, “Yes!”

“He couldn’t because if he did, you would have killed him, like you are going to do now!”

“I don’t want to kill him!” Arthur said, his voice breaking at the end, and now Gwaine saw what was happening. Arthur had been told all his life that magic corrupted whoever used it, but now that Merlin was the one he had to sentence to death, he was conflicted in his beliefs.

“Then don’t,” Gwaine said softer. “Magic is just a tool, not better or worse than a sword. It’s the one that yields it who choses how to use it. Do you believe that Merlin, and forget for a second that he has magic, would ever betray Camelot, betray you?”

The silence that followed then was answer enough. “We all know Merlin, he wouldn’t hurt anyone that didn’t deserve it.” Percival said.

“And what should I do?”

“Go to the dungeons, tell Merlin that he’s free and he won’t die, tell him that you are going to lift the ban against magic, tell him he’s no longer your servant, and when he has a fit about it, and we all know he will have one because only someone like him would want to be your servant, then you tell him that he’s now the court sorcerer.” Gwaine said.

“I can’t just lift the ban against magic, a lot of people wouldn’t be happy with that and they will demand a reason.”

Gwaine was happy to hear that the only thing he complained about was what people would think. Arthur appreciated Merlin more than he would let himself believe. “Then tell them it’s for Merlin, half of Camelot likes him, the other half loves him and would kill you if you put him anywhere near a pyre.” Gwaine shrugged.

“This isn’t a time for jokes.” Arthur sat down with a heavy sigh.

“It doesn’t need to be made in the span of a day, it will take months, maybe years, but erasing the ban against magic will be what we will aim for, starting with the erasure of the death penalty,” Leon said, always the pacifist and the voice of reason.

“Merlin betrayed me,” Arthur said, probably more to himself than to the knights, and before Gwaine could argue, Lancelot talked.

“He didn’t. Is it betrayal to do something with the objective of protecting their king and kingdom? Is it betrayal to hide something to avoid their death? Is it betrayal to risk their life for the people they love?” Lancelot said.

“We can’t kill Merlin,” Elyan, that had been silent until then, said. “It would be wrong.”

Arthur stared at his hands, thinking, until he said, “I want to be left alone, no one is to disturb me unless it’s an emergency.”

Everyone looked at the rest of the knights, unsure of what to do, not wanting to disobey their king but worried about their friend in the dungeons too. Gwaine wouldn’t move unless Arthur promised that he wouldn’t kill Merlin.

“I’ll go and free Merlin myself, now go,” Arthur said, addressing what everyone was thinking, and one by one, the knights left. All but Gwaine.

“I know your father always told you that magic was evil, but, Arthur, Merlin needs you right now. I can’t begin to imagine how lonely his life might have been, hiding something so important about himself. If you ever tell anyone, I will deny it, but I’m begging you, don’t be a prat, because if anyone can break him, it’s you.”

He didn’t let Arthur answer, he was out of the door before his words could take effect, praying that his friends would find a solution to their differences.

oOoOo

With each step he took down the stairs he willed his beating heart to calm down. He had went to countless battles, fought against thousands of enemies, lead armies to victory, killed mythical beasts, but nothing had terrified him as much as this.

“I want to talk to the prisoner alone,” Arthur said, trying to keep the fear out of his voice. The guards nodded and walked away.

He hesitated one, two, three times before he got the courage to walk in front of the cell where Merlin was. The sorcerer was sitting on the corner, his legs pulled to his chest, his arms around them and his chin resting on his knees, his gaze unfocused. His eyes were red from crying, his face was so pale that Arthur thought he was going to faint at any giving moment.

He had never seen Merlin like this, as if the life had been drawn out of him and nothing was left, just the shell of the bubbly man he had learn to love. Arthur still had problems believing it, that Merlin could use magic, that he could conjure such power.

The knights were right, Merlin didn’t deserve to die, he deserved every good thing the world had. He was the kindest, selfless, most loyal, bravest and strongest person in the whole kingdom. And yet, he had imprisoned him because Merlin had saved his life.

All the things Uther had said about magic, how it corrupted people, how it made them evil and dangerous, how they had to get rid of them, it had to be wrong. Everything he thought he knew about magic from his father was wrong. He didn’t know what to believe anymore, he was starting to doubt all the things he had learnt in his life.

His world was turning upside down, and the only person he wanted to be with was in a cell, where he had put him.

“Merlin,” he said, and talking now seemed like the hardest task of all, but he managed to choke his best friend’s name out of his lips.

The sorcerer looked up, a sad smile on his lips. “Is it time?”

Arthur felt sick. How could Merlin look at him, smiling, and accept his death without a fight? After what he saw at the forest, he knew that Merlin could have escaped, could have threatened him, or done something. But no, Merlin was there, sitting, looking miserable and staring at Arthur with trust and love in his eyes.

“It is,” he said with a shaky voice. Tears threatened to spill from his eyes, but he blinked them away. He wanted to know what to do, he wanted a solution, he wanted to go back in time and not know anything about Merlin’s magic because that way he wouldn’t have so many problems.

“It’s okay, I’ll look after you and Camelot even when I’m gone,” Merlin said, his smile so genuine that Arthur had to grab the bars from the cell to keep himself from falling down when his knees became weak.

“It’s- it’s not okay,” he said softly, voice choked with emotion. He didn’t like showing emotion, he didn’t like being vulnerable, but this was Merlin. Merlin, who had stood by his side even at the worst of times. Merlin, who had broken down his walls and disarmed him with smiles. Merlin, who had been loyal to him all this time. Merlin, who had seen him broken down and, instead of taking advantage of that, he had built him back together. Merlin, who treated him like a person, like a friend, and not like a king. Merlin, who had magic and had used it to save Arthur even when that meant he would be accused of sorcery and condemned to death.

Merlin, who he trusted with his life and who he loved more than he loved himself.

He could be vulnerable around Merlin, because even now, Merlin still believed in him, he could see it in his eyes.

“I- I don’t know what to do, Merlin,” he said, his eyes glued to Merlin’s, pleading him and asking for some kind of solution to this mess.

“Arthur,” Merlin said, standing up and almost falling when his legs gave out. He managed to recover and walked to stand before him. “You might be the king, but you don’t need to have all the answers.”

“That doesn’t help, so just tell me what to do,” Arthur pleaded.

“Well, it’s nice to see that you’re still a prat, barking orders. One might think that after all this years you would have learnt that I never do as asked,” Merlin said, and somehow, Arthur chuckled despite himself. He bowed his head and looked at his feet, a tear falling to the floor, between his feet.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Why? I like being here, at least I don’t have an annoying dollophead bossing me around,” Merlin joked, his tone light, but it did nothing to lighten Arthur’s heart.

“I’ve been horrible to you, haven’t I?” Arthur asked, although he didn’t need Merlin to answer, he already knew it would be a ‘yes’. He had treated Merlin horrible at times just because he felt pressured to keep his servant at arm’s length, because he was the king, and a king couldn’t be friends with his servant. Never mind that to him Merlin was much more than a friend.

“No,” Merlin said, and Arthur felt hands over his a second later. When he looked up, Merlin was watching him with so much emotion that Arthur felt dizzy. “You might be a royal prat, and bossy, but you’re also my friend. I know you, Arthur, and I know you care about me, you don’t need to say it for me to know it. You would have sacked me a long time ago if it weren’t because of our friendship, because let’s be honest, I’m the worst servant ever.”

“You are,” Arthur chuckled wetly, a few more tears running down his cheeks.

“You may not have the answer to this, but I’m certain that whatever you do will be the right thing. I believe in you.”

“How can you say that when you’re locked in a cell because of me?” Arthur asked. He wondered how it was possible that Merlin was the one consoling him and not the other way.

“Because I love you,” Merlin said, his cheeks slowly reddening with a blush. “I have loved you for a long time now and I never told you because I was afraid of losing you. You’re destined to great things, too, and I trust that you’ll unite Albion and lead everyone to a time of prosperity and peace like never before.”

He knew he should say something back, like how he felt the same and that they could rule together one day, that if he was destined to great things would only be because he had Merlin by his side, but he couldn’t make a sound. When Merlin gave him another sad smile and took a step back, Arthur didn’t think, he just reacted.

He grabbed Merlin’s face and joined their lips, doing what he had wanted to do for a really long time. At first, he could feel the surprise in the sorcerer in the way he tensed, but when Arthur didn’t let go or pushed him away, he relaxed, and finally, the kiss was reciprocated. It was uncomfortable with the metal bars pressing in his cheeks, but all that mattered was how much he loved Merlin and the soft lips that moved at the same time that his.

Shivers ran down his spine and a tingling sensation spread through his body with each caress of their lips. His heart wanted nothing more than escaping the confines of his body and go to Merlin, because the sorcerer was its real owner. The feeling of the metal bars disappeared suddenly and hands moved to cup his face, thumbs stroking his cheekbones. Arthur’s arms circled around Merlin’s waist and pushed them flushed together until they were chest to chest, an urgency to touch him filling his bones. He could have lost Merlin because of his own stupidity, and he needed to know that Merlin was there, with him

“I’m sorry,” Arthur gasped when they broke the kiss to get some air, their foreheads pressed together. “I love you, too.”

“I got as much from the kiss,” Merlin said cheekily, his breath coming in puffs that tickled Arthur’s lips.

“Shut up,” Arthur laughed.

“We both know you don’t actually want me to shut up,” Merlin said, moving his head to look at him, an eyebrow raised in a way that made him look like Gaius.

“I don’t want you to change. I want you to always be you. Magic or not,” Arthur admitted, staring back at Merlin’s blue eyes and begging him to understand how much he meant those words. “You’ll have to teach me so that I can understand, but I can’t kill you, I could never do that to you.”

“I’ll tell you everything, I promise, even what I don’t want to say,” Merlin said seriously, but his eyes were full of happiness.

In that moment, Arthur noticed that with Merlin by his side, they could fix this, because they had always done things together. The reason why he couldn’t find a solution was because he needed his other half to guide him.

“Where are the bars of the cell?” Arthur asked when he looked around.

“I… made them disappear?” Merlin said, his eyes wide and innocent. It was such a Merlin thing to do that Arthur wondered how he could ever think that the sorcerer was evil. The knights were right and he would have never forgiven himself if he had sent Merlin to the pyre.

“Of course you did,” Arthur said, shaking his head in amusement. “Everything will be alright, won’t it?”

“It will, Arthur,” Merlin said, kissing him softly once again. “It will.”

#merthur #merlin #merlin bcc #arthur pendragon #one shot #merthur fic #gwaine #lancelot #leon #percival #elyan #knights of the round table #merlin x arthur #i miss my merthur #merlin fandom

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pollylynn · 3 years

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Title: Prototype WC: 1100 Episode: Murder Most Fowl (3 x 08)

She thinks of him as dealing exclusively in heroes and villains. Drama queen doesn’t begin to cover it, and from her vantage point it seems that humans in between don’t exist for him. She’s not sure how he maintains it—this investment in absolute polar opposites—given that they spend their days and nights sifting through the details of the lives of people who are mostly fair-to-middling when it comes right down to it.

Most of the time, she supposes it’s just a writer thing. It’s his job, in some sense, to be that drama queen, to blow up the banal misdeeds and petty motivations of the everyday person until they’re fit to keep the pages turning until the very last.

Today, though, she has to consider the possibility that it’s a dad thing. The villain of the day is, of course, The Boyfriend.

“You can’t tell me a rat isn’t a red flag,” he huffs as he tries to keep up with her. It’s a struggle, given how much breath he’s expending on his scenarios where Ashley falls somewhere in between the Gilgo Beach Killer and The Manson Family—Yes, Beckett, all of them—in terms of murderous depravity. “A rat with a ‘special diet’?”

She’s not listening. She is definitely not listening, and still it’s almost a relief when he moves on to The Falcon Killer. This second villain springs forth, fully formed, from the writer part of his brain, so it looks like his hero–villain complex is a both/and situation. The Falcon Killer is not one bit less annoying than Ashley the Rat King, but being imaginary he at least has the virtue of having no financials someone might try to demand that she run, and there’s a lower likelihood that she’ll find herself on the receiving end of pointed questions about how to file an order of protection on behalf of someone else.

By late morning, things have swung around to the hero end of the spectrum. It’s all working class hero Lightbulb Len all the time. Arthur Sansone, she supposes, is the exception that proves the rule. He’s neither hero nor villain.

“He’s Sancho Panza to Lightbulb Len’s Don Quixote!” The grimy tiles of the subway reverberate as he waxes rhapsodic, and she wonders what city she’ll pull up stakes and move to, because she can clearly never show her face on New York public transit ever again. “Samwise to his Frodo!”

She’s thinking very seriously about being Michael to his Fredo even before he sets to work on special guest villains, Mario Rivera and Byron H. Singer, to say nothing of the shadowy figures behind the conspiracies aligned against Len Levitt.

“It’s a blood pact.” She, like everyone else in the bullpen, hears his stage whisper to a nodding Ryan. “It’s so much bigger than bulbs—it’s bulbs and birds.” He slaps a palm down on whatever evidence it is he’s spread out on the desk. “Lightbulb Len never stood a chance.”

She’s got a pinching headache right between her eyes the next morning when he rousts her practically at dawn to spend another day seeking justice for his latest Campbellian hero. The coffee he hands her is hardly enough to counteract the way he’s pin-balling between singing their vic’s praises and contemplating how he can get Alexis out of the country before Ashley returns and fully commits himself to a Count of Monte Christo–level revenge scheme. He’s crossing the writer–dad streams and it’s too early for any of it.

It all falls away, though, when the case breaks in a terrible, unexpected direction. Len Levitt’s last act on earth was to turn his camera on a man abducting a child, and damned if that isn’t the most heroic thing any of them has heard in a long while.

He’s all work from that point on. There’s no talk of heroes or villains. Lightbulb Len, it’s sad to say, is all but forgotten as lead after lead on the abduction turns up absolutely nothing.

Heroes and villains are forgotten entirely. All his dadly, all his writerly energy is focused on every single thing he can remember about Alexis’s life just four or five short years ago—everything that might give them a lead.

Even when they have their hands on Dean Donegal and he’s goes after the man hard, there’s no villain across that interrogation room table. It’s obvious, even as they take turns grilling him about Indianapolis—about everything—that he sees a mirror for his own desperate fear. It’s clear he sees a father facing the worst pain of his life.

Before long, she feels like the villain—she sees herself through his writer’s eyes when someone has to be the rational, not-a-parent in the room when the Captain decides that they’ll back Dean as he goes to meet the kidnappers’ demands. She imagines how he’d cast her on the page right now—implacable, ice water in her veins. She has all too easy a time imagining Nikki Heat’s villainous turn, but what can she do when no one else will say what needs saying?

She feels like something worse than a villain in the subway for the second time in as many days. Adrenaline is running the show when she kicks in the door and gets her shot off. Her momentum carries her on a beeline for Tyler Donegal, but somehow he gets there first. Somehow his body is between hers and the boy’s, and he’s crouched down, two careful feet away, talking in a low, absolutely calm voice.

She doesn’t hear what he says at first. She’s too busy re-running the last minute-and-a-half, complete with what was very nearly yet another traumatizing event for Tyler Donegal with her in a starring role. When she catches back up with real time, he’s standing up. He’s reaching a hand down patiently to help the boy up from the filthy floor in his own time.

“Your dad told us you were smart,” he says. “But save yourself smart? That’s hero smart.”

She can only just make out Tyler’s wide eyes in the dim light, but she feels the tension slowly trickling out of him. She sees his pale skin moving through the shadows to grip Castle’s hand as he staggers to his feet. He places a careful palm on the boy’s shoulder and flashes her a grin that’s exhausted and triumphant all at once.

“Wouldn’t you say that’s hero smart, Detective?”

“I would.” She returns the grin. “I definitely would.”

A/N: This has no morphousness in its flabby, flabby end, but I am so very tired.

images via homeofthenutty

#Castle #Caskett #Castle: Season 3 #Castle: Murder Most Fowl #Kate Beckett #Richard Castle #Alexis Castle #Roy Montgomery #Fic #Fanfic #Fanfiction #Fan Fic #Fan Fiction #Writing #Tell Me More

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five-rivers · 3 years

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Secret saturdays prompt

The secret scientists and/or argost finding out Zaks s1 finale secret. The show did a 6 month time skip and never showed us /how/ they came to find out.

Zak got sick when they came back from Antarctica. It wasn’t something particularly foreign to him. Traveling all over the world meant that he picked up a lot of bugs. It was an occupational hazard. Or, well, not occupational, exactly, because Zak didn’t get paid for what he did, but...

Yeah.

(Maybe he should get paid for this. He did a lot of work, if he was being honest.)

Usually, though, nothing he got was this bad. Mom theorized it was because he overused his powers. Dad thought it was just the stress and the shock- Both things that could impact an immune system. Doyle kept making jokes about bottled water, because, yeah, that was the problem.

Not.

A cold was something he could deal with, though. A nice distraction, even, from having to figure out the implications of the Kur artifact lighting up when pointed at him.

(Maybe, he hoped, Kur was an inherited title, and when he defeated Kur-controlled-by-Argost, it jumped to him.)

(Maybe it was just broken. It wasn’t like Doyle was all that spiritual.)

(Maybe it lit up whenever it was near someone with Kur-like powers.)

(Maybe Kur was living in the back of Zak’s mind and any minute now-)

(Maybe... Maybe Zak was Kur.)

Except, the universe had abruptly decided to hate Zak, because the illness was also screwing with his powers. Every so often, they’d just turn on out of nowhere, not even doing anything, and it would hurt. Like in the ice caves with Doyle, when he was flooded with more spiritual energy than his body could safely handle. Like when he overused his powers in Antarctica.

It really wasn’t conducive to the whole ‘ignoring it’ thing he was going for.

Mom opened the door to his room, and he groaned as the light hit his eyes. “Hey,” she said, maneuvering around the door with a tray in her hands, “how are you feeling?”

“Bad,” said Zak.

Mom put the tray on the table next to his bed and took his temperature. “Still high,” she said. “Do you feel up to eating? I have soup.”

“Okay,” said Zak. He sighed and rubbed his eyes and frowned at the gold reflecting off of them. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing his powers off. With another groan, he forced himself into a sitting position. “I’ve been having weird dreams,” he said, taking the spoon. It felt heavy.

“Oh? Like what?”

“Like... There’s something moving around outside, in the woods, and I think it’s Fisk, but Fisk and Zon are with me.” He poked the soup, breaking the thin skin that had formed on top of it. “You’d think I’d be having dreams about that but... I don’t know. It’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid,” said Mom, ruffling his hair. “You should probably take a shower next time you get up. You’re all sweaty.”

“Okay,” said Zak.

“I’m worried,” said Drew. “I think there’s something supernatural about this illness.”

Doc looked up from the culture they’d taken of Zak’s throat swab. “Really?” he said. “You don’t think it was a pathogen he encountered when he went into the Antarctica cryptid to fight Argost?”

Both parents shuddered. They could still hardly believe they’d let Zak do that, even if the fate of the world was in the balance.

“He’s dreaming about the prowler,” said Drew, before reciting what Zak told her.

“That could be a coincidence,” protested Doc.

“You know,” said Doyle, entering the room with a bag of chips and his hair plastered to his forehead with mud, “after all this, I’m not sure I believe in coincidences anymore.”

“No food in the lab!” shouted Doc, pointing an accusing finger at Doyle.

“Jeez, dude, lighten up. What’s the worse that could happen?”

“You could ingest a deadly chemical,” said Drew.

“Oh,” said Doyle. “Yeah, I guess that would be bad.”

“Did you find the prowler?” asked Drew.

“Nope,” said Doyle. “Not hide nor hair, even with Jurassic overhead. But what I did find...” He made a face. “You know the river?”

“Yes, Doyle,” said Doc, “we are in fact aware of the river we live next to.”

“Yeah, cool. All the fish are dead.”

“What?” asked Drew, raising her eyebrows.

“Dead,” said Doyle. “Belly-up. A lot of the plants near the water aren’t doing so great, either. I’d stock up on bottled water if I were you guys.” He took a sip from his own bottle of water, as if to prove a point. “Now, what were talking about when I came in? Do you think this prowler has something to do with the little guy being sick?”

“Yes,” said Drew.

“Maybe,” said Doc.

They looked at each other.

“I think we need more help,” said Drew. “He’s not getting better.”

“Grimes and Lawhorn?”

“They do specialize in paramedicine. They’re even working on a cure for everything. Unless you think this is neurological, in which case we should call Dr. Bara again.”

Doc made a face. “Not after what happened last time.” More than half of the house was still in ruins.

“Hm, I don’t think Grimes and Lawhorn will be that happy to see us, either,” said Drew.

“They weren’t hurt that badly,” protested Doc. “Arthur just likes to exaggerate. They aren’t even O-positive!”

“Even so,” said Drew. “But, yes, I think we should contact them.”

Zak stirred as Fisk picked him up. “What’s goin’ on?” he asked, sleepily.

“Hrry nn thhn yueeep.”

“It’s fine.” Zak sat up a little so he could rest his head on Fisk’s collarbone. “Where are we going?”

Fisk answered, and Zak nodded sagely.

“I’m really sick, huh?” He closed his eyes and let himself go to sleep again.

“Miranda, Arthur, we didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Well,” said Arthur, “after that whole think with skunk-stripe’s mirror-world double, they’re kind of on edge when it comes to tall stuff, here.” He nodded at Fisk. “They asked us to monitor.”

“We also wanted to discuss what happened in Antarctica,” said Miranda. “Your report felt... incomplete.”

“Right,” said Doc. At least they’d ironed out a cover story before coming. “We’d like to take care of our son, first, though.”

“Of course,” said Miranda. “We’re in no hurry.”

“Hey, there, buddy, how are you feeling?”

“Dr. Grimes?”

“Yep, that’s me.”

Zak blinked slowly. “Better.”

“Good!” said Grimes. “We weren’t sure if that would do anything, but there we have it. Seems like you picked something up from Kur after all.” They spun in their chair and didn’t notice how Zak cringed at the name. “Had to give you an Ancient Sumerian protective amulet. Not easy to get those right!”

“Oh,” said Zak, who had been wondering about the thing tied around his wrist. “Cool. Where are Mom and Dad?”

“Talking to Miranda and Arthur.”

“Oh,” repeated Zak. “Why’re they here?”

“They wanted to talk about Kur,” said Grimes. “I heard you beat it and Argost both! That’s impressive.”

“Thanks,” said Zak, fiddling with the amulet. A spike of pain went through his head, and with it came a sense of movement, images of a forest, the outside of Lawhorn and Grimes’s home.

... What?

“Hey, Zak, are you okay?” asked Grimes. They said something else, but Zak didn’t hear him.

“Something’s coming,” said Zak.

Grimes rolled their chair to the door and pulled it open. “Saturdays! You kid is being ominous!”

Arthur frowned as he watched Doc and Drew leave the room. He wasn’t good at reading people, but-

“They’re hiding something,” said Miranda.

“I think you’re right, buns,” said Arthur.

Miranda rolled her eyes. “I can understand you not remembering my name, Arthur,” she said. “But if you call me that again, I’m going to hit you. With something heavy.”

“Yeah, yeah, don’t get your circuit boards in a twist. What do you think they’re hiding, though? Why hide anything? Like, they told us the parts they screwed up on, letting Argost getting away and all. What could possibly be worse than that?”

Miranda frowned and rubbed her lower lip. “They aren’t the type to lie to make themselves look good, Arthur. There’s something else. The timing of Zak’s illness... They would lie to protect each other, to protect their children.”

“What, do you think short stuff was poisoned by Argost or something? Not that it’d be out of character.”

The idea that Argost got away with Kur, or at least that he had the Saturday’s under his control... That was scary. But it had to be the second one. Argost was patient, but not that patient. There would be wide-scale destruction.

If he was threatening the Saturdays into working for him by holding the kid hostage, that was bad enough. Even if it probably felt like a consolation prize from Argost’s perspective.

“No, it wouldn’t,” said Miranda. “We’ll have to look into it and hope Lawhorn and Grimes can find a solution.”

“We can do more than that! We can go back to their house and see what they’re giving Argost!”

“Arthur, no. We don’t even know if that’s what’s happening. We can’t just break into their house.”

“We can,” Arthur argued, crossing his arms. “You just don’t want to.”

“These are our friends,” said Miranda. “I was only giving a possibility. They might not be hiding anything at all. They could just be worried about Zak. I know I am. Besides, Drew has her mercenary little brother guarding the place.”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Arthur, waving his hand, “whatever. I don’t want the kid hurt, either. We’ll talk to them again when he’s better, maybe they’ll change their story.”

Arthur was about to elaborate on this when a rotund, three-legged, three-armed creature with far too many eyes tore through the walls.

Zak gasped and reached for the Claw. Which he didn’t have because he was still in his pajamas. His head pounded. The talisman wrapped around his wrist burned. Dad and Mom stepped between him and the monster, and Fisk pulled him away, to the side of the room, out of the line of fire.

“Who dares to take my prey from me?” growled the creature. “Who dares to come between me and Kur?”

“Azag,” breathed Zak. He didn’t know how he knew this cryptid’s name. He just did.

“The Sumerian sickness demon?” asked his mother, brandishing her sword.

“Kur,” said Azag, all of its eyes fixed on Zak, “the flesh you wear now is weak, and I will take great pleasure in watching it fail you, in watching it trap you, oh Kur, great king of the cryptids.”

“Stay away from him,” said Mom.

“Or else,” said Dad.

The monster started laughing. Then it was hit from behind by one of Arthur’s energy discharge weapons. It hissed and righted itself.

“Do you think I fear his mortal servants? Fools!” It lunged for Dad.

“No!” shouted Zak. His powers flared and the talisman burst into a hundred tiny pieces as he forced himself into Azag’s mind.

(Too familiar- Had he done this before?)

“Can’t,” he panted, “hold for long. Hurry!”

Grimes snatched a bottle from a cabinet, and a syringe from a drawer. “Just hold it a minute longer, Zak. If this is what I think it is-” They didn’t finish the thought as they filled the syringe with the liquid from the bottle.

Then he plunged the needle into the creature’s stony hide. It screamed, the sound and pain echoing through the connection Zak had made with it. His vision went white. He felt his eyes roll back in his head and his knees go out.

Nothing more.

“What was that?” asked Miranda, staring at the melted remains of Azag.

“Disease demon,” said Grimes, giddily. “Lawhorn and I always theorized- I’m so glad I was able to test it! The panacea! I wonder what diseases it represented and how they’ll be affected...”

“Whatever,” said Arthur. “I’m more interested in what that was.” He pointed at Zak, who had collapsed and was currently being fussed over by his parents. “You two have a lot of explaining to do. And you’re going to start with why that thing was calling him Kur.”

#secret saturdays #once again I find myself trawling sumerian myth for characters #fic #my fic #prompt #prompt fill #it's been a bit hasn't it?

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longing-and-heartache-and-lust · 3 years

Text

the drug, the dark, the light, the flame, Ch.VIII

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A brand new chapter of my work for this year’s @geraskierbigbang in collaboration with the incredible @gen-syz-art as my artist ✨

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The ride back into the town is lost behind a haze of pain.

The wounds on Geralt’s thigh are still bleeding even as he dismounts Roach and makes his way towards the inn, his head spinning with blood loss and the remaining effects of his elixirs.

The innkeeper and the guests all gasp at the sight of him but with his stomach somewhere in his throat, Geralt couldn’t care less.

He stumbles through the door of his room and all but collapses onto the bed, his hands refusing to work properly as he gets himself out of his armour.

Once he finally gets proper access to his thigh, he winces. There are four deep, ragged tears in the flesh, all of them still bleeding, and if it wasn’t for Geralt’s slow heartbeat, he would’ve been dead already. Swallow helped with keeping him conscious and strong enough to walk but with wounds like this, it wasn’t enough.

Breathing heavily, Geralt drags himself to the water basin in the corner of the room and brings it with him back to the edge of the bed, soaking a rag that had once been a shirt in the water and pressing it to his thigh. The light fabric turns red immediately.

He has to stitch the wounds if he doesn’t want the scars taking up the entire expanse of his thigh, and it takes him everything he’s got to reach into one of his bags and find needle and thread there. His hands are still shaking but he’s got enough experience to know his way around.

Having wiped off as much blood as he can, he sets the dirty rag aside and casts another Quen over himself, groaning at the dizziness that it brings. He’s barely got enough energy for Signs, but without them, he will bleed out before as much as half the stitches are in place.

As the wounds close, bit by bit, Geralt feels both better and worse.

His head no longer spins as bad as it did before, and the nausea subsides, but it takes him all the self-control he’s got not to close his eyes for too long, for he knows that if he does, he will immediately pass out.

Mercifully, it doesn’t last long.

He gets all four wounds stitched and bandaged even before the sky behind the windows starts lightening with the first rays of the sun.

Soon - way too soon - he’s going to have to be up in the saddle again, making his way back towards Tretogor, but right now he can allow himself to rest, and as soon as his head hits the pillow, he slips into unconsciousness, exhausted and hurt.

***

The next day, he’s back on the Path.

After paying the promised two hundred crowns, Jorund did suggest that Geralt stay for another few days, until his wounds healed a little more, but Geralt knew that he’s saying that through clenched teeth. The werewolf could’ve killed his wife and children, and Geralt made sure that that’s not going to happen, that’s true, but regardless, he was still a witcher. Nobody wants witchers in their town.

No, Geralt wasn’t going to stay any longer than absolutely necessary.

His leg still hurt, making it hard to walk, but he’d had far worse, so after sleeping through the entire night and early morning, he collects his pay and leaves.

And though he hates to admit it, every time he thinks about going back to the mansion, seeing Jaskier again, something deep in his chest flutters with anticipation, almost the same way that it does in the late autumn, when he turns Roach towards Kaer Morhen.

It almost feels like coming home, he thinks and then immediately chases that thought away.

***

The journey that took him nine days the first time now lasts only a little short of two weeks.

The pain keeps him up at night and slows him down during the day, making Geralt stop Roach more often just to try and breathe through it, taking the edge off. He’s forced to keep her at a slow gait, as well, because every time he flexes his muscles to lift himself up from the saddle, the pain gets paralyzing.

For the first few days, he doesn’t let himself think about this journey as of the one that will take him back to the mansion, back to Jaskier. He knows from the very start that will not be able to leave it behind, will not be able to break his promise, but for some time, he stubbornly doesn’t acknowledge it.

By the end of the ninth day, though - the day he would’ve already been there, had it not been for his thighs - he finds himself annoyed with still being on the Path.

There is a pull of impatience somewhere in his chest, and though he manages to ignore it during the entire day, when he stops for the night and is left alone with his thoughts, he’s powerless against it.

He falls asleep thinking of what it would feel like to have Jaskier in his arms, in one of those enormous beds in the mansion.

And so when he finally sees the familiar silhouette of the estate three days later, he has to bite his lip not to urge Roach into a faster gait.

The sun has almost completely set, and the golden light has now changed into the blue-green one that makes it almost impossible to tell whether it’s twilight or the very break of dawn. Geralt loves this time of the day, when the air gets pleasantly colder and his senses heighten. He can almost forget about the pain.

Before he can as much as dismount, Asra and Lucio come running from somewhere behind the mansion, having picked up his scent. They bark a greeting at him, their long tails wagging from side to side. The purple collars are a sharp contrast to their white fur, almost glowing in the pale light.

Just as they make it to the gates, the main door of the mansion opens, and Arthur steps out.

“Master Witcher,” he says, coming closer and inclining his head politely. “You are much expected.”

Geralt mirrors his gesture and gets down from the saddle, trying not to wince at the pain that the first step brings. It’s not nearly as bad as it used to be, and he can force himself not to limp if he really wants to, but it’s going to take another couple of weeks for the wounds to fully heal.

“Master Julian is in the main library,” Arthur says, opening the gates and taking Roach’s reins from Geralt. “He will be delighted to see you.”

Unsure of what to say, Geralt just nods and thanks the majordomo as he turns to take Roach towards the stables. Trying not to think of the pain in his thigh, Geralt crosses the garden towards the main door, Asra and Lucio close at his side. He tugs his gloves off and pets them on the heads, fingers drowning in the soft fur.

He knocks, because just entering seems like the most impolite thing he can think of, and once the door opens, he’s immediately hit with the now-familiar scent of dried herbs and vanilla. Without even realising, he takes in a deeper breath, letting it fill his lungs.

“You’re here,” Jaskier smiles, so impossibly bright, his cornflower-blue eyes shining, voice barely above a whisper, like he doesn’t quite believe it.

But then his arms are around Geralt’s neck as Jaskier pulls him into a tight embrace, their chests pressed together close enough for Geralt to feel the quickened beat of the younger man’s heart.

“I promised, didn’t I?” he says, unable to hold back his own smile and wrapping his arms around Jaskier’s back, the warmth of his body sending little sparks up the witcher’s spine.

Jaskier doesn’t let go for a few long, torturously good seconds, and when he does take a step back, his hands slip down Geralt’s shoulders and arms, until he catches the witcher’s fingers with his own and pulls him into the hallway.

Geralt lets himself be led willingly, his every sense narrowed down to the feeling of Jaskier’s fingers where they are pressed against his own.

It takes the edge off the burning pain in his thigh, dulls it, makes him let his guard down, and by the time he realises that he’s limping again, it’s way too late. Jaskier’s smile immediately turns into a frown, his thin brows knitting together.

“You’re hurt,” he says, and it’s not a question.

Geralt tries to brush it off, though he already knows that it’s no use.

“It’s nothing,” he says. “A scratch.”

Jaskier’s frown deepens, and he gestures at Asra and Lucio, sniffing at the witcher’s thigh with heightened interest, with a move of his head.

“They smell blood on you,” Jaskier says, clicking his tongue at the dogs when they poke their noses at Geralt’s leg. “Sit down.”

Geralt’s not entirely sure whether that’s addressed to him or the dogs, and he falters for a minute, but then Jaskier gives him an expecting look, and he does as he’s told, though with little enthusiasm. Though he tries not to, he still winces as he sits down.

“Tell me what it really is,” Jaskier says.

Geralt sighs but obeys.

“I got a werewolf contract near Gelibol,” he says. “He scraped me with his claws.”

Jaskier folds his arms over his chest and gives Geralt a dismissive look, clearly unimpressed.

“He scraped you,” he repeats mockingly. “If it’s a scratch, like you keep saying, how come it’s not healed yet?”

Fuck, Geralt thinks, God damn his witcher knowledge.

He shrugs, but says nothing. Jaskier rolls his eyes and sits down next to him.

“Will you let me help you?” he asks, softer.

Geralt almost considers it, thinks about the feeling of Jaskier’s hands on his skin again, but then the image of having to undress flashes through his mind, and Geralt clenches his jaw until it hurts to keep control of his body and prevent blood from spilling over his cheeks.

There are limits even to his heart.

“I’m just tired,” he says, meeting Jaskier’s impossibly-blue eyes. “It’s nothing serious.”

He can tell that Jaskier doesn’t believe a word but after a few long seconds of him waiting for the witcher to break under his gaze, he gives in. Geralt, however, has to pay for that, because while Jaskier contemplates whether or not he should let him go, he bites on his lower lip, and it’s the single most distracting thing Geralt has ever seen.

“Well,” Jaskier finally says, clicking his tongue. “In that case, I think you should get some proper rest. It’s a bit late for dinner but the cooks are still in the kitchen, I’ll ask them to make something nice for you. And while they’ll be on that, how about a bath, hm?”

A bath is a luxury that Geralt hasn't had since the night before the hunt. He craves the relaxation that only hot water can bring, and his wounds are healed enough for it not to cause too much bleeding.

Despite all that, he says:

“I can’t ask you to--”

“You’re not asking,” Jaskier retorts, cutting him off, but the irritation in his voice is pretend. “I’m offering.”

Geralt is hyper-aware of how close Jaskier is to him, of the scent of his skin and his hair, of the warmth radiating off of him. Feeling like he’s jumping off a cliff and into a lake of cold water, Geralt shifts just enough for their knees to touch. Just like the impact of diving into freezing water, it takes his breath away.

Jaskier’s eyes dart up to meet his for a second, sparkling like the stars. His lips are bitten red and parted just enough for something deep in Geralt’s chest to catch ablaze.

“They’ve missed you,” Jaskier says, nodding towards the dogs that refuse to leave the witcher’s side, poking at him with their wet noses and licking his hand when he reaches out to pet them.

Before Geralt can think about what he’s about to say, the words already leave his lips:

“Have you?”

Jaskier cocks a brow at him, clearly amused.

“Maybe I have,” he murmurs teasingly, his knee brushing over Geralt’s. “Why, Witcher? Would you want me to?”

Gods, Geralt wants to kiss him.

And he can’t deny that the thought of Jaskier missing him stirs something in his chest, makes the possessive little side of him purr in satisfaction. If Jaskier missed him, it means he’d thought about him, and that resonates through the witcher’s entire body in an internal shiver.

“It’s been a month,” Geralt says, controlling his breathing carefully. “Maybe I do enjoy the idea of you thinking of me every now and then.”

Saying that out loud seems to require much more courage than fighting werewolves on a full moon, and Geralt’s heart skips a beat, but the way Jaskier’s lips curl up in a pleased little grin is an inspiring reward.

“Well, my darling,” he murmurs, and the endearment goes straight to Geralt’s heart. “In that case, you will be pleased to know that I have thought about you. Especially in that little library upstairs.”

Geralt thinks back on that morning, on them hiding from the cold of the thunderstorm together, on the way Jaskier gasped at the feeling of Yrden binding his wrists, if only for a second. Geralt still thinks that using the Sign like that was too brave of a decision on his part but he can’t forget the way Jaskier’s heart rate picked up in response.

Before he can come up with an answer, though, Jaskier already gets up, his fingers brushing down Geralt’s thigh as he does so.

“And now that you know that,” he smiles, running his hands through the fur on Asra’s neck. “You can go and enjoy that bath.”

Geralt bites back a disheartened little sound, though only just.

“Are you going to be here later?” he asks, standing up and ignoring the stab of pain in his thigh. “Or should I look for you somewhere else?”

Jaskier shakes his head.

“You should rest. I’ll have the dinner brought up to your room. And if you don’t fall asleep right after you’re done with that bath, I’ll come sit with you, if you want.”

Your room, echoes through Geralt’s mind.

“Bring the dogs,” he smiles.

***

The bath really does work wonders on him.

By the time Geralt is done with his dinner, it’s already full of steaming-hot water, and when a housekeeper asks him what kind of oils and salts he’d like, Geralt just blinks at him for a moment or two, feeling a little overwhelmed by the selection. The housekeeper then quickly goes over every single phial and jar - Geralt counts twenty-seven - telling him about properties and benefits, and in the end, the witcher decides to go with eucalyptus and sage, for he is assured that they help relieve headaches and clean the airways.

After the housekeeper leaves, having bid Geralt goodnight, it still takes the witcher a minute or two of just taking in his surroundings before finally stripping off his armour and clothes and getting into the wide tub.

Hot water envelops him like the softest of blankets, and Geralt fails to bite back a low moan of satisfaction.

Some part of him still thinks that he shouldn’t be here, like this is too much and he should’ve found a way to turn down the offer, but that part is quickly silenced by the low thrum of pleasure through his entire body. It fills him with thrilling anticipation to know that after he gets out of the water, he will be able to slip right under the soft fur or blankets, the bed already familiar enough for him to feel comfortable on more levels than just physically.

He thinks of Jaskier’s offer to join him - not in bed, he has to remind himself - and that fuels his anticipation even more.

It’s already dark outside, moonlight shining in through the window at the far end of the room, but Geralt allows himself not to track how much time has passed. He washes his hair that might or might not be getting a little too long, checks the healing wounds on his thigh, making sure they don’t bleed too much from the hot water, and stays in the tub until the pads of his fingers become wrinkly with moisture. Frog fingers, as Lambert tends to call them.

Chuckling at his memories, Geralt finally steps out of the tub, reaching for the provided towels to wrap one of them around his hips and ruffle his wet hair with the other. His entire body feels relaxed and pliant, like hot wax, the pain in his thigh subsiding at last, and by the time he slips into the freshly made bed, it’s like those two weeks on the Path never really happened.

A few minutes later, there’s a knock on the door.

He must know every step taken within the mansion, Geralt thinks.

“It’s open,” he says.

The door handle turns, and the first thing he sees are two long white noses. Asra and Lucio slip into the room even before the door is fully open, and make their way to Geralt, their claws a comforting little tap-tap-tap against the polished wooden floor.

Jaskier follows them with a look of fond exasperation on his face.

“Why, Witcher, don’t you look lovely,” he smiles, settling down into a chair next to the bed. “The dinner was to your liking, I hope?”

Geralt thinks back on the wine-baked pheasant and roasted vegetables. It might very well be the best meal he’d had in his entire life.

“Exceedingly,” he nods. “Thank you.”

Seemingly against his will, his eyes travel across Jaskier’s entire figure. He’s not wearing the matching breeches and doublet that he’d had on earlier in the evening, opting instead for a slightly oversized shirt and loose trousers of light cream colour, an already familiar dressing gown over them. The voluminous silk bell-sleeves flow down the armrest of the chair like water.

There’s something new mixed into his scent, something heady and sweet, like pomegranate, and it doesn’t take Geralt long to guess that it’s one of the bath salts or oils.

Just like him, Jaskier had already taken his bath, and somehow the informality, the quiet intimacy of seeing him like this sends a little shiver down Geralt’s back.

“Are your wounds looking any better?” Jaskier enquiries, clicking his tongue at Asra when she attempts to jump up onto the bed. “Oh, these dogs just get untamable whenever you’re around. They think that if they are allowed to sleep with me in bed, they’re allowed to sleep in any bed they like.”

Geralt chuckles, watching Asra settle down by the fireplace with Lucio, instead. They curl up together, dark eyes closing peacefully.

“There’s barely any blood now,” he says, answering Jaskier’s question. “As I’ve said, it’s nothing serious.”

Jaskier narrows his eyes, giving Geralt a look that lets him know that he’s not buying it.

“Have you bandaged them?”

Geralt hasn’t. Mostly because he doesn’t see a point in it, given that the wounds are not fresh, but also because searching through his bags for a clean strip of fabric seemed like too much work after a long bath.

His silence tells Jaskier all he needs to know.

“Then I’m afraid I must insist I do it myself,” he says.

As Jaskier gets up to make his way across the room and disappears behind the bathroom door where, Geralt assumes, the bandages can be found, he is suddenly hyper-aware of only wearing a shirt and smallclothes.

He knows he shouldn’t react like that, for it’s just his body and he’s not even naked, but there’s just something about having Jaskier this close while he’s playing all those little games with him, that almost feels overwhelming. And it doesn’t help at all that Geralt isn’t used to being taken care of, even if it’s just someone bandaging his wounds.

But Jaskier is already back in the room, a roll of light-coloured cloth in his hand, and it’s too late to say anything.

“Come on,” he urges, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “Let me see.”

Pointedly ignoring the way the air suddenly feels hotter, Geralt complies, lifting one of the edges of the fur blanket and granting Jaskier access to his wounded thigh. All the stitches are still in place, holding the edges of the cuts together, but Jaskier still goes a little pale, sucking in a breath.

“Scratches, Geralt?” he says, flicking his eyes up to meet Geralt’s.

Geralt holds his gaze but doesn’t have anything to say in his defence. Jaskier, though, doesn’t really seem to be waiting for an answer, moving closer and unwrapping the bandage in his hands. He keeps his eyes on the healing wounds as he wraps the first layer of soft cloth around them.

His fingers are warm where they brush over Geralt’s skin, sending shivers down the witcher’s back, and slowly, Jaskier’s frown fades.

“Gods, Witcher,” he says, fighting back a smile now that he’s sure that the wounds won’t re-open. “You do know that there are easier ways to get me to touch you, don’t you? You need to stop getting yourself hurt.”

Geralt suddenly feels like all the blood he’s got in his body rushes to his cheeks. He prays to all the gods he knows that it won’t be noticeable in the light of the fireplace.

“It’s not--” he starts but can’t quite find the words.

“It’s not what?” Jaskier murmurs, teasing, his knuckles brushing over the inside of the witcher’s thigh almost accidentally as he tucks the ends of the bandage under one of the layers.

It would be so easy to just catch his wrist and tug him into a kiss. Pull him down onto the pillows, lick into his mouth to see if he tastes as sweet as he smells.

Geralt can almost feel it, and he has to bite his lip to stop himself from reaching out. But those thoughts, somehow, give him enough courage to play by Jaskier’s rules.

He takes in a breath, regaining his composure.

“Well,” he says, very aware of Jaskier’s hand still resting on his thigh even though the bandage is secured. “It’s not me that insists on helping, is it? So maybe you’re the one looking for excuses to touch me.”

Jaskier’s eyebrows jump up in surprise but the grin on his lips only grows wider.

“Is that what you think, Witcher?” he asks, bracing his other hand against the bed to lean in closer.

All Geralt has to do is surge forward, and his lips will be on Jaskier’s.

“Is that not how it is?” he says, answering a question with a question.

He holds Jaskier’s gaze even as the younger man brushes his fingers along the inner side of his tight again, unapologetically deliberate this time, and Geralt can feel a spasm of lust somewhere low in his abdomen as a response.

His hips are still covered with the blanket, but if Geralt had a little less control over his body, he would’ve already been half-hard.

“I would tell you,” Jaskier says breathily, his voice barely above a whisper. “Or maybe even show you--”

He leans in even closer, until Geralt can feel his breath on his lips, and tips the witcher’s chin up with a knuckle of one finger. This close, his scent fills Geralt’s lungs from wall to wall, leaving no room for anything else, and it’s more than enough for the witcher to give in, to give himself over to whatever this can lead to.

Jaskier lets go of his thigh and runs his palm over Geralt’s chest, tilting his head just enough for their lips to slot together perfectly if one of them was to close in the remaining distance.

“Show you just how I could touch you if you wanted,” Jaskier breathes, the pad of his thumb brushing over Geralt’s lower lip. “But I’m afraid, you’re still hurt.”

And before Geralt can stop him, he breaks away, laughing, leaving Geralt with nothing.

The fire in Geralt’s chest flares up, and he has to take in a very deep breath to clear his head. Oh, the things he would do if he only could. But he’s not about to lose this little game by breaking this fast. If Jaskier wants to test his self-control, well, he can’t say no to his host, can he?

“Well,” he murmurs, making himself look as unaffected as possible and reaching out to take Jaskier’s hand, bringing it up to his lips and leaving a kiss on his knuckles. “With your hands, I’m sure I will be healed in no time at all.”

Jaskier’s eyes sparkle as he watches the witcher, and it makes the disenchantment fade into nothing in a matter of seconds.

Geralt runs his thumb over the younger man’s fingers, not quite letting go.

He knows that it’s over now, but that doesn’t have to mean that there needs to be a distance between them again. It can just be something a little more… non-provocative.

Maybe it’s the rush of adrenaline that hasn’t yet worn off, or maybe it’s Jaskier’s scent still making Geralt feel lightheaded, but he pats the empty space beside him, lifting his arm in both a conciliatory and an inviting gesture.

“Come?” he offers.

Jaskier only hesitates a moment, more pretend than genuine, before climbing up onto the bed with both his knees and slipping under one of the furs, making himself comfortable in Geralt’s arms. There are two layers of blankets separating them but Geralt can't find it in him to mind it too much.

He wraps his arm around Jaskier’s shoulders and pulls him a little closer, more than happy to let him rest his head against his chest. He can’t quite remember when was the last time that he’d held someone in his arms like this.

“Tell me about that werewolf hunt?” Jaskier asks after a moment, finding Geralt’s other hand to press the pads of their fingers together.

He seems warm and comfortable, like he could stay like this for a while, let Geralt enjoy it, and, well, if all Geralt needs to do for that is tell him about his last contract, he’s more than willing to.

“If you fall asleep, I don’t know which bedroom to carry you to,” he warns, because when Jaskier was giving him a tour of the mansion, he didn’t mention which rooms were his.

Jaskier huffs a laugh.

“If I fall asleep, you can just keep me here.”

That sounds very… tempting.

Geralt had never considered himself too much of a storyteller but, to his surprise, once he starts talking, the words flow easily. Jaskier listens to him with the same fascinated attention as one might pay to a particularly imaginative bedtime story, and somehow, Geralt finds comfort in it.

One story bleeds into the other, and before he really knows it, he tells him about two more werewolf hunts that he remembers especially well.

Jaskier listens to him without interrupting, rubbing little circles into the witcher’s palm or following the lines of his fingers, and though he doesn’t fall asleep, after some time he doesn’t seem entirely awake, either.

It’s well into the night that Geralt finally grows tired of talking, and though he doesn’t want to let Jaskier go, keeping him close seems too intimate, on the verge of overstepping, so despite himself, Geralt runs his hand down his shoulder, getting the younger man’s attention.

“It’s late,” he murmurs, barely above a whisper. “You should go to bed, you’re barely awake.”

Jaskier takes in a long, deep breath, propping himself up on one elbow and rubbing at his eyes sleepily.

“You’re right,” he says, just as quiet. “A little longer, and I would’ve dozed off right here.”

Geralt doesn’t stop him as Jaskier pulls back and slips out of the bed, calling for his dogs softly to wake them up.

“I will see you when we decide to wake up,” Jaskier smiles, his hand already on the door handle. “Goodnight, Geralt.”

Geralt echoes back and when the door behind Jaskier closes, he finally feels how tired he is. And the perspective of sleeping for as long as he wants, nestled comfortably among pillows and cushions, seems very attractive.

He stretches with a low rumble, and turns to his side, pulling the furs up over his shoulders. One of them still holds Jaskier’s scent, and before he can stop himself, Geralt pulls in closer to his face.

Falling asleep, he can almost imagine Jaskier next to him.

#geraskier #the witcher #geraskier big bang #geralt x jaskier #geralt/jaskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #the drug the dark the light the flame #my writing #calton writes

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hati-writes · 4 years

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Harry Potter and the Family who Loved him

What would have happened if Harry Potter had got the family he deserved, one that loved and supported and protected him no matter what? Maybe something like this...

When Harry Potter was three years old his uncle locked him out of the house at ten o'clock in the evening because he’d spilt a glass of orange juice across the floor. A passing stranger saw the toddler sitting on the front doorstep and shivering and called the police. Half an hour later Harry Potter had been officially removed from the Dursley’s custody.

Upon hearing of this Dumbledore immediately got involved, Harry Potter needed protection and he needed it immediately. The authorities wouldn’t hear of the child going back to his Aunt and Uncle’s home and, forced to think very quickly of a suitable foster family for a young toddler who needed to be out of the media, raised well and, most importantly, protected; Dumbledore turned up on Arthur Weasley’s doorstep at six in the morning with a tired and confused three year old by his side.

Harry Potter grew up surrounded by family and love and the confident feeling of being wanted. He had a twin brother, a younger sister and five older brothers along with a mother and father who never let him feel he wasn’t a part of their family.

Ron Weasley grew up with a twin brother, a best friend who he spent all of his time with. Together they tried and failed to play pranks on their brothers, argued happily about Quidditch teams, learned to cook with their mother and always had someone to rely on.

Harry’s first accidental magic occurred when he was six years old and woke up with bright red hair to match the rest of his family. His excitement was overwhelming and only matched by his disappointment when it faded back to black after a few hours. He spent the next few months begging his mother to let him dye his hair until she finally relented and charmed it as ginger as Ron’s for him.

No one ever noticed Harry Potter when he went out in public, not when he was just another red headed Weasley child running about with his brothers. Harry grew up as a perfectly normal child, aware of the Wizarding world and confident of his place in it.

When his Hogwarts Letter arrived addressed to a ‘Harry Potter’, Arthur Weasley sat down with Harry Weasley and explained how his birth parents had been killed by You Know Who and how Dumbledore had brought Harry to them. He reassured his son that he was still absolutely and one hundred percent his son, how Harry would never stop being his and Molly’s son no matter what. Harry went to bed with a lot of mixed feelings, but still never needing to doubt that he had a family who loved him.

Hagrid had kept in touch with Harry all his life and, when he bumped into the Weasley’s doing their annual school shop insisted on buying Harry an owl to congratulate him on reaching eleven years old. To make it fair he also bought Ron a set of gobstones and clapped them both so hard on the back the brothers almost fell over.

When his trust vault was revealed to him at Gringotts Harry was determined to give it all to his family. Molly was equally determined that Harry would not give away his inheritance. After a long argument when Molly told Harry he would need to save for his future and Harry retorted that his mother had given him so much and he finally had the chance to give something back they managed to compromise. Harry would buy all his siblings school supplies each year but would not pay rent or any other money to his parents. Ron started his Hogwarts career with new robes and a brand new wand. When Draco Malfoy came to sneer at them on the train he asked which of them was the famous Harry Potter; and Ron and Harry Weasley just laughed at him.

It took Harry a moment to realise that McGonagall was calling him up at the Sorting Feast, having been waiting for the end of the alphabet and he felt his stomach twist. He’d half believed Fred and George when they’d said you had to wrestle a troll, and had been relieved it was just a hat, but now half wished it could be a troll instead, how could he show a hat he was brave enough for Gryffindor? He wanted to make his parents proud and get into the House all Weasley’s were in, to show the world he was really a part of that family. The flood of relief as the hat shouted ‘GRYFFINDOR’ to the school was indescribable.

When Snape faced down the first year Gryffindor’s he didn’t see a miniature James Potter looking up at him. Instead he saw Lily’s bright green eyes flanked with messy red hair and almost did a double take. He didn’t treat Harry any better than any other Gryffindor, but he couldn’t bring himself to treat him any worse either. Not when he seemed to see Lily looking at him reproachfully from the eleven year old’s eyes. Instead he avoided him as much as possible and never set him a single detention. He still took plenty of points however, and his bullying of Neville certainly made Harry and Ron hate him well enough.

Charlie Weasley had taught Harry to fly a broom when he was five years old, impressed with his little brother’s skill. When Draco grabbed Neville’s Remembrall and flew away there wasn’t a moment of hesitation before Harry was following him up. The dive for the small sphere was no different from the apples he had practised Seeking with with Charlie and he caught it with time to spare. He was terrified when Professor McGonagall came storming out, but being put on the Quidditch team was a dream come true and he almost burst with excitement. Molly and Arthur were incredibly proud of their son and sent him a new broom, a Cleansweep Five. Secondhand of course, but Harry treasured it more than anything else he owned.

Hermionie had been fascinated by the chance to meet Harry Potter, the boy who lived, and then confused when he angrily corrected her that he was Harry Weasley, and Ron was his twin brother. She had struggled with making friends, and Ron’s accusations of being a Know It All who no one liked had stung. It wasn’t until Halloween came, and Ron and Harry came to save her from a troll that she found herself with two new friends, twin brothers. She never failed to refer to Harry as a Weasley after that, understanding his desire to be publically seen as part of his family.

They all still suspected Snape when Harry’s broom went haywire at the Quidditch match, and Hagrid revealed slightly too much about Fluffy and Nicholas Flamel. Searching for Flamel took simple ages, although Harry debated simply asking Percy for a long time. He knew Percy was very good at knowing which wizards had achieved great things recently, and he would certainly know who Flamel was. They decided that the secrecy was too important in the end, but it was a close call.

At Christmas Harry received a Weasley jumper, the same as he had been given at every Christmas for as long as he could remember. He complained that his mum always gave him emerald green, just because it matched his eyes. He and Ron swapped their jumpers and dug into the sweets and other gifts from the rest of their large family. Their present piles were exactly the same height. The only difference was the invisibility cloak from an unknown gifter.

He shared the cloak immediately with Ron of course, but after a moment of thought he also let the twins borrow it occasionally. McGonagall was driven half mad by the sudden increase in impossible pranks Fred and George were capable of. In return Fred and George lent them a map that they’d found in their first year, one that showed the position of all the people in the school as well as every secret passage.

While prowling around the school under his cloak Harry ran from Snape into an empty classroom and found a mirror that showed images that could not possibly be true. He stood reflected in the mirror, Ron next to him with his arm across Harry’s shoulder and Molly and Arthur stood behind them both. Flanking Molly and Arthur was a dark haired man Harry had only seen in photos that his parents had shown him and a woman with bright green eyes exactly like Harry’s. His brothers were there too, and all his extended family...more than his extended family. As he stared he saw that, mixed among the Weasley relatives he already knew, were people he’d never met but who must be related to him...more brilliant green eyes, knobbly knees just like Harry’s, a shy smile like the one in the family photo Molly kept up in the living room. Harry leaned against the mirror, staring at the family he loved, and the family he had never had a chance to know.

He brought Ron there the next night, Ron who saw himself as Quidditch Captain, and Harry standing next to him as Head Boy, both of them holding up the House Cup and standing out from all their family and, even more importantly, standing together. They visited the next night too, and the one after that despite Ron’s misgivings, until Dumbledore arrived and warned them both away.

When Norbert arrived Harry thought of Charlie immediately, having grown up listening to Charlie’s obsession with the beasts and well knowing where his second oldest brother was and what he was doing. It took a long time to persuade Hagrid however, and getting rid of Norbert was so stressful Hermionie and Harry forgot the invisibility cloak at the top of the tower. But Harry found the anger of the school for the lost points was easier to deal with when his family had his back no matter what. Fred and George reminded him of all the times they’d lost huge amounts of points, Charlie wrote a letter apologising for being involved with the scheme that got his youngest brothers shunned. Even Percy admitted that it seemed a harsh punishment just for being caught out of bed.

Ron felt overwhelmingly guilty when Harry and Hermione went into the Forbidden Forest, he actually asked McGonagall if he could share their detention, just because he couldn’t bear the thought of something happening to his twin while he wasn’t there. They hadn’t been apart for as long as they could remember. McGonagall refused to let him however, and he sat up the entire night, waiting for his best friend and his brother to return. And when they did he wished even more that he’d been there to help somehow.

Exams came and went, and the mystery of the Philosopher's Stone continued to nag at Harry, Ron and Hermione. They began using the Map to keep an eye on the Third Floor Corridor, trying to see if Snape was attempting to break in and subdue Fluffy. Finally exams were over, just as Harry realised the significance of Norbert’s egg, that Snape now knew how to get past Fluffy and that the Stone was in danger of being taken by Voldemort. Dumbledore was gone and the trio decided they had to save the Stone themselves.

Sneaking out at night, stopping Neville from revealing their plan, Harry took comfort in having Ron and Hermionie with him. They used the map to check if Snape was in his office and then began their journey. Harry was supremely confident when catching the key, after years of flying lessons, and he proudly boasted of Ron’s skills at chess when they reached the room with the giant board. Unfortunately Ron sacrificed himself and Harry and Hermionie continued on alone. Hermionie was left behind in the potion room and Harry continued on without anyone to come with him at all.

He faced Quirrell, faced the spectre that had been haunting his nightmares, the twisted, evil face of Voldemort himself. He took comfort in the knowledge that Ron would be fine, that his family would come looking for him no matter what, that Voldemort may have taken his parents away from him once, but Harry still had a family and parents who loved him. He kept that thought in his mind as Quirrell lunged at him, the love he had for both his families, the one that had died saving him, and the one that had raised him. He thought of them as Quirrel screamed, and as firely pain swept over Harry, sending him falling into unconsciousness.

Molly was distraught when the school contacted her to say that both her youngest sons had been injured, and one was still in a magical coma from it all. She tore down to the school immediately to check on them, and was only reluctantly persuaded away by Dumbledore’s reassurance that Harry would be fine after some rest. She didn’t sleep easily until Harry woke up and wrote to her to tell her that he really was fine and she didn’t need to worry anymore. She wondered how to tell him that she would never be able to stop worrying about any of her children, no matter how old they got.

The Feast was spectacular, especially when Gryffindor won against all the odds. Harry thought it might be his happiest memory from a life filled with good, happy memories. He hugged Ron and they both got swamped by the rest of Gryffindor House, all screaming with delight.

On the way to the train home, Hagrid stopped Harry, giving him a photo album. When he opened it to the first page, James and Lily smiled up at him from their wedding. On the next page, he stared at Molly and Arthur dancing and laughing at their wedding. Photos of the Potter’s at school were side by side with photos of the Weasleys. Both his families; put together. Speechless, Harry stared up at Hagrid, and impulsively threw his arms around the Gamekeeper. Unable to express his gratitude with words, he hoped Hagrid understood. Judging by the way Hagrid hugged him back, and the soft smile he gave the eleven year old, he understood perfectly.

Harry got on the train, to head back to the only home he knew, a ramshackle tall building in the country, with a lawn full of gnomes, a broom shed in the apple orchard and the largest most loving and perfect family Harry could imagine. He couldn’t wait to see what next year would hold for him.

#harry potter #ron weasley #dumbledore #my writing #Harry is a Weasley #hermionie granger #molly weasley #arthur weasley #fred and george weasley

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nephilimsarchive · 5 years

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If only you knew (pt.3) | Arthur Fleck x reader smut

Summary: You hadn’t seen him in a while after your last meeting, but fate always seemed to find away to bring you together.

Note: im so sorry this took so long, hope you like it!

Warnings: nsfw content under the cut, don’t read if you are under 18, lots of swearing, unprotected sex, public-ish sex

Word Count: 4937

Read the first part here.

Second part here.

Arthur woke up early the next morning, slowing adjusting to his surroundings as sunlight shone into his eyes. You had been on his mind all night long. He could see you so vividly, soft (h/c) hair falling onto your shoulders, lidded (e/c) eyes staring up at him through flushed cheeks, and that breathtaking smile. You had absolutely bewitched him, occupying every second of his dreams since nightfall.

He was so caught up with the image in his head that only then he noticed that the bed he was laying in wasn’t his, and the weight on his left shoulder wasn’t usually there. He lazily turned his head, wanting to savor every second of this marvelous dream. His jaw collided with something soft, eyes shooting open at the realization.

He was awake. And you were there. With him.

His arm was slung around you, hand on your waist, cuddling as if you were lovers. Soft breaths made their way past your plump lips, the expression on your face one of pure peacefulness. He had wanted to fight the urge to kiss you, but ended up gently pecking the top of your head anyway. Try as he might, he couldn’t escape his emerging feelings for you. Actually, they were growing with every minute he spent gazing at your sleeping form, drawing small circles on your waist with his thumb. He had never met anyone quite like you, and it was scaring him. Never had he been exposed to such kindness, you didn’t judge him like so many other people did. Then again …you didn’t know about his condition, you didn’t know much about him at all. Neither did he, you could have a boyfriend, or worse - a husband. You didn’t know he was earning money as a clown, and you didn’t know how damn much he adored you after one single night. What if this was nothing but fun to you?

A bitter feeling spread through his chest at the thought, but his lips curved into a smile. Oh, he knew what was coming, and how much he hated it.

He tried to untangle himself from your embrace swiftly, making you shift and sigh. His chest heaved as laughter bubbled up inside him. “Stay.”, he heard you mumble, voice sleepy. Lips tightly shut he ignored your plea, making his heart ache. He picked up his clothes as quickly as he could, trying to get out before he could startle you with one of his uncontrollable fits. Getting into his pants he clasped his hand in front of his mouth, cursing his illness for what must be the millionth time. He would’ve loved to spend more time laying with you, it was too early to even stay up. But he’d be damned if he woke you up with this, seeing the horror in your face as you’d surely question your decision to spend the night with him - or even talk to him at all. Unwanted laughter escaped him even before exiting your flat, and he could only hope you didn’t hear.

If Arthur leaving your side didn’t wake you up yet, the door falling shut after hearing him chortle surely did. You turned onto your back drowsily, tired eyes staring at the ceiling while you pondered if you should’ve gone after him. But you didn’t. Instead you were lying awake, at 5 in the morning.

—

The days since Arthurs and your last meeting were fairly uneventful. In fact, you hadn’t seen or heard from him at all. Whenever you were at university Arthur was home, and whenever he was at work you were back. One day you were sure you had heard him in his flat, but your knock on the door had been ignored. Some people would say he is trying to avoid you at all costs, and frankly, they’d be correct.

Now, he didn’t at all intend to be like this, but to say he was overwhelmed with the whole situation would be an understatement. There were so many questions and emotions in his head that he had to sort out. When he entered his flat that morning he swore to himself that he’d find a way to explain his condition, and that he only left because he didn’t want to disturb you. He’d say that he’s absolutely smitten with you, for plenty of reasons, and then he’d ask you out.

In his head, he played out this scene a thousand times. He thought about what to wear, and thought about whether he should give you chocolates or flowers. But when it actually came to doing what he had planned, something held him back. Even though he knew you tried to reach out to him, years of negative experiences of not being cared for discouraged him. Not to mention the fact that Arthur never had any sort of romantic relationship, and thus only could try to impress you with what he had seen on TV.

Penny had noticed immediately that something within him changed as he came back that morning. He had told her about you, of course not in more detail than necessary, and she knew how much he felt for you with the way he spoke. His eyes shone as bright as stars and the corners of his mouth curved upwards whenever your name was mentioned. She saw him then, standing in front of the small mirror in his bedroom, in that outfit he had laid out days ago, fixing his hair.

No doubt he was going through what he wanted to say to you in his head. “Happy.”, she exclaimed, the tone of her voice soothing “Just go, she’ll say yes.”.

He saw his mothers reflection through the mirror, pondering what she said. Then he thought about you, about how accomplished he would feel if he did this - a smile crept across his face. He kissed Pennys forehead and strutted out of the flat.

—

A small box of chocolates was stowed in his bag as his hand reached out to one of the buttons of the elevator, then to his hair to smooth it out. He had saved up for the occasion, not enough to buy one of those fancy golden packages with more flavors you could count, but a decent one nonetheless.

Just then you were coming back home, your (f/c) dress flowing in the breeze, feeling shivers run down your legs. Having to pick up a pace as you saw the elevator doors sliding shut, you were barely able to squeeze through the remaining gap.

And there he stood. Arthur.

His hair was perfectly in place, he wore black dress pants, a jacket and beneath that a simple white button up. Truthfully, he looked amazing. Both of you were surprised at whose company you found yourselves with. You wanted to ask him whether you had done something wrong, whether you had pressured him into something he didn’t want. You wanted to make him feel like he can talk to you, trust you even. Anything that sounded like you weren’t as hurt by his behavior.

But no words made it past your lips. You just stood there, staring blankly at the elevator doors.

Arthur couldn’t believe his eyes as you had stepped in. Your hair was up in a ponytail, a few thin strands had fallen out because of the wind. A pretty (f/c) dress ended just above your knees, showing off your gorgeous figure in all the right places. You looked like an angel. Beautiful, intimidatingly so.

He had expected you to say something, but you stayed mute. The seconds went by agonizingly slow as his hands grew sweaty around the handles of the tiny bag he was carrying. Before, you were so wonderfully outgoing and open with him, and now he had rendered you to this state.

Only then he noticed how you must’ve blamed yourself for his actions.

Even the tiniest scratching sound the elevator made seemed louder than usual, when suddenly it came to the same unsteady halt the elevator always made, signaling that you would be up soon.

Something inside Arthur switched, there was no way he was going to let this stupid elevator, or his stupid illness destroy what he had spent all week preparing and rehearsing. He knew he’d regret if he let you walk away. So, without thinking twice, his elbow crashed onto the emergency button. You jumped, shrieking in shock as the machine stopped any movement completely, lights turning off. A dim lightbulb flickered to life - you could barely make out Arthur. He was walking towards you in the strobing light, determination in his eyes that you had only seen from him once before. He stood in front of you, bringing his hands to your cheeks before pulling you in to kiss you deeply.

As your lips touched his you felt complete again. He lingered on the softness of your skin, but broke away too soon. The kiss hadn’t been long, but held emotions words cannot convey. Gently, he rested his forehead against yours. A blush surely would have been visible on your cheeks if the lighting was better. He opened his eyes to find you looking up at him, the wild look in his eyes was gone as quickly as it came. As if he was constantly between stuck two extremes, an angel and a devil on his shoulders.

„I’m so, so sorry.“, he whispered, „I never meant to make you feel bad, or ignore you.“ Cautiously, he took your small hands into his, rubbing circles over your knuckles with his thumb, thankful that you didn’t pull back.

He told you about his condition, about his doubts, and about the fact that no matter how hard he tried to fight it, there is always a part of him that thinks he isn’t deserving of the affection you gave him - or that you simply didn’t mean it. He explained that he left so his illness wouldn’t ruin the one thing that seems to bring a sense of happiness to his life. You. He meant you.

You felt tears forming in your eyes, both from feeling honored and not wanting to hear him talk about himself like that. A staggering amount of - dare you say love? - built up inside your chest. He noticed your tears, and just like that all of his personal worries were replaced by concern for you.

„Are you alright?“, he asked. You nodded and pulled him into a hug, savoring his closeness as he ran his hand down your back soothingly. Stroking his cheek with your thumb, you glanced into his eyes, “Don’t you dare even for one second think that I’m just playing with you, or that you don’t deserve love.“, you brushed away your tears, voice growing more and more steady with each of your words, „You’re the most kind-hearted man I’ve ever met. I like you for you, I like how much you try to always do the right thing. I love hearing you laugh, I love being close to you. I don’t care if you’re older than me, or if you don’t have a lot of experience with relationships. There’s something incredibly romantic about that, actually. And I couldn’t be any happier that you trust me enough to let me be your first..“.

A short silence engulfed you. Then he beamed, a genuine expression of joy on his clean-cut face. „If that‘s the case.. There is something I‘ve been wanting to, uh, ask you anyway.“. He stepped back attentively, picking up an item you hadn’t noticed was there. Inhaling and exhaling deeply, he looked you over and began „Y/N.“, another big breath, „I have never expected to meet anyone who is as nice to me as you have been.“, his certainty crumbled for a second, then he smiled again. „You are the most stunning woman I have ever laid my eyes on, and I‘d be more than honored if you wanted to go out with me.“, shaky hands handed you a box of chocolates, which - to his luck - was your favorite candy.

Contemplating whether he messed up the small text he had come up with his stare was fixated onto the ground before him, too shy to be able to see the grin on your face. You adored how much effort he put into this. It was obvious how much he was trying to do this properly, after your rather unconventional start.

You stepped closer to him, tilting his chin up with your fingers. „Of course, Arthur. I‘d love to.“, you said, pecking him on his lips sweetly. Pulling back, you studied his features, breathing in his scent as he held you close. The look in his eyes was soft and loving, the ghost of a smile on his lips. “You have no idea how handsome you are, do you?”, you stroked his hair absentmindedly. The response to your question was an alarmingly red blush on his cheeks, his eyes blown wide. He had never, ever gotten complimented on his looks before. You giggled and pressed a kiss onto his nose.

You stood like that for a while before you took a step backwards. You properly assessed the situation; you were stuck, and had no idea when any help would show up. Arthur seemed to realize that, too. “Well, what are we going to do now?”, you queried, looking around you for inspiration, and finding none. “We can’t have our first real date in a brittle elevator.” He laughed at that, leaning onto one of the walls, his arms crossed. Looking you over he licked his lips subconsciously. Being with you made him feel much more secure in so many ways. Above all, he felt like he could fully be himself. To the extent that it brought out parts of Arthur not even he himself had known until then. A cocky smirk lit up his face. “I’d have an idea.”

You raised your eyebrows while he was taking off his jacket, throwing it into a corner. You were fully aware what he was talking about, but ready to challenge him. “Oh?”, you hushed, propping yourself up on the wall opposite him, “And what might that be?”. His long fingers rolled up his sleeves, keeping his eyes on you.

The grin on his face never faltered while he took two big confident steps towards you, placing one of his hands next to your head. Heat radiated off him in waves as he stood in front if you, towering over your smaller form and tilting up your chin just like you had before. “I don’t think you’re in the position to act coy, little one.”, he growled, peeling you out of your coat „In fact, last time you made the naughtiest of sounds for me.“.

The way he spoke sent shivers down your spine, and he knew that.

His hand reached your waist as his head moved to your neck, he trailed kisses from the shell of your ear to your neck, sliding down a strap of your dress to reach that certain spot on your shoulder.

He had paid attention, taking note of every tiny detail that made you melt under his hands. When he drew back you grabbed his collar, crashing your lips onto his. Desire and hunger controlled you as your tongues danced. Arthur took complete control of the kiss, unspoken permission in each of your gasps. His kisses were desperate, verging on starvation as he bucked his hips against you. You moaned at the contact, hands tangled into his hair, which - combined with your dress sliding up your legs ever so slightly - resulted in a low hum from your lover.

His cock was hard as he ground himself against you, a familiar wetness spreading between your legs. He shifted, tilting his head to test out new angles, tasting you until you finally broke away.

“Arthur..”, your voice sounded alien to yourself. He had you wrapped around his finger in no time, and he loved it. Just once, he did what he wanted, not thinking about the consequences. His eyes travelled over your body, lingering on your chest. The buttons that held your dress closed over your breast were tensioning with every breath you took. The motion of your chest rising and falling provoked him to slither his fingers up your hip to your stomach. Feeling his knuckles ghost over your hardened nipples you released a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. You watched as delicate fingers popped open one button after the other, not daring to move. A sharp intake of breath rang in the silence of the room when it was just enough for him to be able to see your bra.

He took in the sight before him. Red laces graced your full cleavage, the fabric tensing over your nipples while you rubbed your thighs against each other subconsciously. Noticing your doings he pushed a knee between your legs, keeping them apart.

„Tsk, tsk.“, he scolded, „So impatient, so eager.“ His left hand pinched your nipple, making you whimper in delight. Slender fingers brushed under the edge of the lacy cloth, exposing you to him as his right hand began kneading your other breast. He came even closer to you, intentionally brushing his leg along your slit. „Patience“, he had said, „is a virtue.“ You shivered at how sultry and controlling he sounded, but his antics were a double edged sword. His lips came down, leaving open mouthed kisses all over your breasts. You arched your back, feeling his stiff member twitch as he left little bites and marks. His hands wandered over your body freely this time, not holding back whatsoever. Becoming aware of the cold air on your skin you groaned out his name again.

„Hmm?“, his voice vibrated against your sensitive skin as he groped your breasts. A wicked grin was on his face as he drew back, pupils blown wide. He cocked his head to the side. „What is it that you want, kitten?“ The nickname he chose went straight to your clit. Even though you felt powerless to his touch, you loved this side of him, and you wanted to show him just that. He was confident, dominating, and so very sexy. If all he wants is for you to say it, then you damn will. You held his stare confidently, biting your lip as you tried to sound as seductive as you could „I want to suck you off.“

Your request caught him off guard and pulled him back into reality. For a second, he couldn’t phantom how you wanted to put his pleasure before yours. All of his thoughts were wiped away as he saw you drop to your knees before him.

Rubbing your hands against the cloth of his pants his breathing accelerated. His eyes were glued to your movements, hardened member reacting to every little of your touches. The noise of his belt unbuckling sounded horribly erotic in your presence, aching cock finally freed. You took him into your hands, gently stroking at first. He was rock hard, like steel wrapped in silk. Precum leaked at the tip of his member and you licked your lips. Holding the base of his cock, you looked up at him through your eyelashes as you gave a long lick along his shaft. Arthur shuddered and moaned, throwing his head back in the process. Finally taking him into your mouth his hips bucked towards you, his body reacting on its own accord.

A string of curses, praises and your name fell from his parted lips, fueling your need to pleasure him. You picked up a pace, running your skilled tongue along the lower side of his member. “Fuck, Y/N.”, he rasped, his words laced with pleasure. One of his hands grabbed your ponytail, “That feels so good, babygirl.”

In any other moment he would’ve felt awkward about the way he was talking to you, using phrases and names he had picked up elsewhere. But right then, he didn’t give a shit about anything other than the way those pretty lips of yours felt wrapped around his cock.

You felt him thrust into your mouth, juices pooling between your legs. You wanted release, wanted to touch yourself to loosen the ever tightening knot in your stomach. But you didn’t, and instead focused on Arthur alone. He was sweating, panting and rocking his hips towards you cautiously. You knew he was probably trying to hold back, scared of hurting you. So you looked up at him, waiting for him to return your gaze. When he did, you met his thrusts, deepthroating him until you felt your nose touch his pelvis. A strangled roar escaped him as he was completely overwhelmed with the wet muscles engulfing him. The grip on your hair tightened as you kept him in your mouth. Tears strung in the corner of your eyes, then you finally released him with a loud pop.

The way you stared up at him then was intoxicating, disheveled hair, perky tits falling out of your bro, a string of saliva connecting your swollen lips to him. Usually, he would have been concerned about the gagging sounds you had been making, unsure about how watery your eyes looked. But his mind was hazy, smothered with immense pleasure.

His hands on your face guided you up, craving your touch too much to let you go for long. You stood in front of him while he - with a surprising amount of carefulness - wiped away the tears that had formed in your eyes, brushing away a loose strand of hair. You could make out the ghost of a smile on his face before his lips were on yours again. He begged for entrance impatiently, groaning as he tasted himself on your tongue. His hands suddenly grabbed your bottom, bringing you up against the wall as you gasped. Your dress hiked up, pooling around your hips. One of your hands searched the surface of the railing to hold onto, pushing yourself closer to him.

You were thankful for the way he was holding you, not having to worry about keeping yourself up as his erection pressed onto you. You rocked your hips towards him involuntarily. Arthur moaned at how soaked you were, his breathing getting progressively heavier. The thin layer of the underwear you wore was the only thing separating him from your aching core. He pulled away from the kiss he had ben roughly holding, staring at you like he was admiring his prey.

He freed one of his hands, slowly moving it to your panties. Rubbing teasingly slow circles over your most sensitive area he cooed, “Shit, little one. So wet for me, hm?”. You nodded obediently and his fingers immediately moved faster. “That’s right, Y/N.“, a tingling sensation built in your stomach at the pressure of his fingers, just enough to have you go crazy, not enough to get you off. He must’ve sensed your desperation. „You want me to fuck you?” He demanded, knowing the answer fully well.

„Yes, please.“, you breathed wantonly.

“Good girl”, he praised, tearing off your panties and ripping them in the process. You shrieked, pleasure and shock in your voice as his boldness made you feel hotter with every passing second. You held onto him for dear life as he rubbed the tip of his painfully hard member against you.

He pushed himself inside then, both of your moans filled the small room immediately. Going slow at first he pulled out of you completely before slamming back into you with full force. You screamed at the inseparable mixture of pain and pleasure, the knot inside you pulling tighter with each of his thrusts. The feeling of him inside you was better than anything you had ever experienced. Arthur was panting, „Fuck, Y/N. Just like that.“. His endurance was rising with his need to please you. He was pounding into you like a machine, steady and forceful. Working your body flawlessly, he brought you closer and closer to the edge. By now you were moaning an incoherent mess of words, but Arthur loved it. Fuck, it was the sweetest sound he had ever heard. Determination boosted through him, wanting to feel you come undone for him. „Argh!… Ar… Arthur!“, he could make out his name between lustful groans, „I’m going to..“

You couldn’t finish you sentence before the knot in your stomach exploded, a feral scream breaking through you. Pleasure was seeping through your whole body in waves, filling you with far more sensations than you were possibly able to process. Arthur shuddered at the sound, not once stopping his motions. The picture in front of him was the most appealing thing he had ever seen. He rode you through your orgasm, strands of hair sticking to his sweaty face, all of his focus on you.

Arthurs hips slowed down at some point, and you started shaking from the way he was keeping you in your position, forcing you to endure the endless mixture of pleasure and torture he brought upon you. „Ah, Arthur. I..“, you tried to voice how intense this feeling was, how you felt your juices drip already, but you couldn’t. He wanted to keep up the expression of pleased desire and nonexistent self-control in your eyes. Hell, if it was his choice he’d always see you exactly like this. Legs spread, shivers raking over every inch of your body, his name on your lips, pleading him.

Gradually, you came down from your high, but you didn’t get too far.

By now he was more than willing to find out just how much he can unravel you. Oh, he was zealous. His firm cock was still inside you, feeling your hot walls clench around him as he kept up his motions. Slowing down to an agonizing velocity, he pulled himself in and out, driving you insane as a new orgasm built up inside of you.

You almost felt dizzy as his fingers found your clit again, drawing circular motions on your swollen bud. Your mind was clouded with arousal, it almost felt as if you were watching the whole scene from afar. His thumb felt deliciously rough against your slippery skin, your eyes meeting his as he opened his mouth to speak. „I want you..“, he whispered as he continued penetrating you a little faster, moving to your neck and biting, „To come for me, again.“

You trembled in both fear and anticipation as he dominated you. He pounded into you harder again, building up a reckless speed. You were unable to grasp a single clear thought, the overstimulation taking over your body. And your body did what it only could, it reacted, it obeyed. Your back arched as one of his thrusts left you seeing stars, hitting your g-spot. Without inhibition you were calling his name, as he hit that devilish spot over and over again.

His breathing got more and more ragged, nonetheless he kept up the motions on your clit, slamming himself into you with all the force he could muster. Heavy-lidded eyes gazed at him as he repeated your name, both of you getting alarmingly close to the release. He lost the rhythm he had been keeping up, heartbeat soaring through his chest as he paid attention to his hand on your soaked cunt, going faster, merciless. „Come for me.“, he grunted, „Now.“. Just like that, you broke.

A deafening cry you didn’t know you were capable of tore through you as your walls tightened around him. He tripped over the edge at the same time, your orgasm causing his. Passionately he growled your name. You could sense his member jerk inside of you, spilling his seed deeply into you.

Arthur lingered just like that for a moment, buried deep inside of you, feeling the voluptuous combination of both of your fluids trickling down his shaft. With you, he felt like he was on top of the world. He finally pulled out of you, letting you down slowly, steadying your wobbly stance. Only then he noticed how strained his muscles were. By that time you were finally, slowly coming back on earth, noticing how the air around you had turned damp. Little drops of water ran down the fogged mirror beside you.

You felt like you had run a marathon, both of you catching your breaths like idiots and smiling dopey at each other. Brushing your hand over his chest to his cheek you noticed how his stare was directed to the box of chocolates he had given you before. You wouldn’t be surprised if they had started melting by how warm it had gotten. Arthur seemed to have the same idea, both of you erupting in giggles.

Suddenly, the light flickered again as the elevator sprung into motion. „Shit, shit, shit.“, he cursed as you tucked yourself into your dress, fixing your hair as much as you could. Arthur hastily picked up the remains of your panties, stuffing them into his pockets. A loud „ding!“ signalized that you made it to your designated floor, alarmed expression on your lovers face. You smiled at Arthur reassuringly, sashaying out of the elevator with his hand in yours like nothing happened.

Either you were oblivious to the distraught stares of the small group of people who greeted you outside the elevator, or you just didn’t care. You just turned your head towards him, satisfied grin playing on your lips.

Right then he knew, you would be the death of him.

#arthur fleck x reader #joker x reader #arthur fleck smut #arthur fleck imagine #joker smut #joker imagine #nephwrites

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thebellamybarnesarchive · 4 years

Note

🐍🐍🐍🐍🐍🐍

Harry Potter AU! Drabble...

A relationship between a Head Boy and Head Girl. + NPC AU Stuff

@d-arthur

A photo showed the head girl on her knees doing what her title could only allude to, obviously movements and clothing being removed. Bellamy pursed her lips, thankful that at least Daniel wasn’t pushing things so far this time that the picture showed who she was blowing. No, it just showed her, and she was thankful for that.

“I really hope you’re not the one taking these photos, because I don’t think Love would be very pleased with you,” Bellamy said, tearing up the photo even as she knew he probably had more. Really though, if she and Daniel actually hated one another he’d probably have sold the images, there had certainly been worse ones, but usually it just meant that he wanted to do something that he knew Bellamy would not want to.

Daniel chuckled, waving his wand to clean up the torn paper. “Who do you think took the picture? Love’s got an eye for these things, the lighting was very well done,” he answered and Bellamy rolled her eyes. She actually sort of liked Love, in a strange way. They weren’t very similar admittedly, not from what Bella could tell, but it was hard not to admire the way his girlfriend got what she wanted. Sometimes he wondered if Daniel actually wanted the same things, or if Love was just terribly good at convincing him that he did.

“Yeah, I’m sure she waited for the right moment when the clouds were out of the moons way,” Bella responded sarcastically, adjusting the head girl pin on her blouse. Unlike Daniel, who was very well put together, Bellamy’s shirt had clearly been raised a few inches, and despite the fact it was freezing cold she wore not a vest or a robe and had her blouse unbuttoned. Daniel never looked, because despite the image he had of her, he seemed quite solely devoted to his Love. “Just tell me what it is, Daniel?”

“We’ll be addressing Headmaster Dumbledore with a request for some of the dorm enchantments to be removed,” Daniel informed her and Bellamy rolled her eyes because she knew what he was talking about. The enchantment to the Gryffindor Girls Dormitories that meant no boys could go into them.

Bellamy started to walk off, knowing she’d have to agree, “you just want to spy on them!” she called back, walking backwards and turning to her front without thought, slamming directly into someone. Love.

“It’s about equality, Bella,” Love told her and Bellamy chuckled.

“Yeah, allowing the boys to sneak up to the Gyffindor girls dorms is about equality, sure,” Bellamy said as Love joined her boyfriend, long sandy blonde hair falling over the girls shoulders, fuller than Bellamy’s own, but with a sterner jaw. “You two are up to something, and if it was actually interesting, or about equality I’d know you’d have just asked,” she answered, tone growing lighter as she easily recalled her fondness for being part of the schemes she liked.

“Oh Bella, you’ll like it when we’re done,” Daniel insisted, arm wrapping fully around his beloved girlfriend, drawing her into him and pressing a soft kiss to her cheeks. “Just wait.”

🐍🐍🐍🐍🐍🐍 BONUS EMMETT AND BELLA ( BEMMETT? ) SHIP + Noah is there too...

Noah’s fingers moved up Bella’s jaw, dirt and sweat on them, as it was on the rest of him post game. Emmett had to listen to her squealing loudly for his brother, the Captain of her house’s team the whole game as he tried to focus on his charms work. He’d read the same paragraph over and over again because each time she shouted ‘go Noah!’ he wished he knew of a spell to make him deaf, if only for the hour. Now he wished to be blind too.

“You’re touching my make-up,” Bellamy objected, immediately pulling a mirror from her robe and checking to see that his fingers had not smudged her foundation. It wouldn’t have, she had spelled most of her make-up to only be removed by an exfoliating potion cleanser that she had, but it stopped Noah from touching her without deterring him from flattering her latter with flowers for being his loudest cheerleader.

Due to her comment Noah didn’t kiss her as he headed for the showers, instead rubbing her arm softly as she continued to look at herself, admiring the way the gloss on her lips made them look full and pink.

“You know you could play too,” Bellamy said as he closed the mirror, looking to Emmett who was still seated. “I’d cheer for you over him,” she playfully teased as Emmett slowly closed his book. He’d not retained any of it, of course.

“You’d still cheer for him,” Emmett said plainly, standing with hands shoving his book into the messenger bag he carried over one shoulder. Emmett was smarter than his brother, he knew that Bellamy toyed with both of them, but logic defied love and when he heard her screaming for his brother. All he could recall was the summer between third and fourth year, when his father had agreed for the girl to stay with them for the season, and he’d walked into his brother’s room and saw them kissing, his brother’s hands on her. Sometimes it felt like she was only teasing him. "He’s Captain of the Slytherin team,” Emmett added so he did not sound bitter as he went to walk by her.

Slender fingers stopped him, false nails with a snake dancing across them magically pressed into the soft cotton fabric of his shirt, and the navy of his tie. Like his father he was well put together, his clothing pressed and worn appropriately, and, quite like his father, he had eyes for only one, gaze lifting from her hand, to her cleavage and finally to her face, where her golden eyes caught his, surrounded by thick false lashes and covered with soft green shadows.

“You’re never going to forgive me, are you?” Bella said, full eyes open and looking into his own, her lips shining in the setting sun’s light. “You could have kissed me too, you know. When we were playing hide and seek and we hid in your mother’s closet for an hour from him, when your dad had that party with all the ministers and Noah was spouting ridiculous stories and you had me to yourself all night, or the countless times I heard you walk past my bedroom door and stop. You can’t be mad at me when you never did anything, Emmett. Sweet notes, romantic songs, heartfelt birthday gifts, they don’t do anything,” she insisted, hand grasping at his shirt, leaving lines in it’s previously crisp fabric. “If you want me, take me,” Bellamy insisted, remaining there with her grasp desperate for a response.

Had he actually been shooting himself in the foot all this time? Was she waiting for him? Noah had always been the one to take what he wanted, screw everyone else. Emmett hadn’t been shocked when he saw Noah kissing her, why would his brother care that he liked her too? Were his efforts to gain her affection through songs dedicated to her on their radios, notes flown to her countless times by his owl, and gifts catered to everything he knew of her simply overruled by the fact she’d been waiting for him to show a bit more of himself, be perhaps as determined and assured as his father had been with his mother?

She went to let go and he refused, hands grabbing her waist and pulling her closer, his long fingers practically able to engulf her small waist. Eyes moving through hers as he searched for the right answer to not lose her entirely. “Take me,” she repeatedly, almost pleaded like when she begged to stay with them each summer rather than go home to her mother. He knew then.

“Emm-,” Bella was cut off by his lips, finding hers fast. Even though she’d wanted it, she hadn’t expected he’d give in, he’d pushed his brother out of the way on occasion to get her attention, and get her preference, but he’d never actually done it when they were alone, when it was just them. Bella’s hand relaxed between them as her mouth opened and pressed for more. The rest was instinct, every action Emmett had thought over in his head time and time again was like muscle memory, fantasy slipping into reality. Emmett did not intend for this perhaps temporary reality of fantasy to end before she was screaming his name with far more passion and need than she had been cheering his brothers for the past few hours.

“Emmett,” she whispered at his lips with soft desperation. He was getting closer.

#meme darther #darther #au: hp #au: harry potter #drabble #meme #d-arthur

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inmyownlittlecorner5 · 4 years

Text

Moonlight Chapter 18: Romanian Holiday

A fanfic Novel by la-topolina

Rated for Mature Audiences

Warnings: Language, Violence, Sexual Content

Chapter 18/26

Moonlight Masterpost+

<< Chapter Seventeen+

Chapter Nineteen+ >>

It was Monday morning before Severus finally arrived at the Merry Cemetery in Săpânța, spinning into sight alongside a stout Frenchman and his sharp-featured wife. Severus’s stomach lurched as he landed, and his entire body ached from the Cruciatus that the Dark Lord had cursed him with two nights earlier. It might have been wiser to have stayed at Hogwarts for another day before traveling but he did not care to put himself in Albus’s sight line longer than necessary. Sunday’s dressing down over the Potter fiasco was as much as he wished to endure.

“You came!” Miranda said, her smile bright as the morning sun that was beating down on him.

“I said that I would,” he replied tersely, muscles tensing as she wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her warm lips against his. They were enticing, and tasted pleasantly of coffee and cream, but he could feel the French witch’s curious eyes watching, ruining the pleasure that he would usually have taken in such a gesture. Thankfully, Miranda kept her greeting short, releasing him and putting a respectable distance between them.

“I know you did. But I thought you might chicken out in the end. You kept putting me off.”

“There was nothing to be done about the demands on my attention,” he said defensively. “Perhaps I have been spending so much time around you that your bad habits are beginning to affect me. Aren’t you the one who is constantly tardy?”

“I guess I am,” she allowed. “Well, you’re here now, that’s the important thing.” She grabbed his hand and started pulling him along, pointing at the garishly painted grave markers. “Have you ever seen anything like this?”

His stomach was still reeling from the covert French port-key trip—why Miranda had connections to an illegal international port-key he had decided not to ask—and a headache was beginning to bloom between his eyes.

“No,” he answered, his hand limp in her tight grip. He felt completely disoriented; the sun was too high in the sky, the air smelled like fecund earth instead of like the sea, and a riot of blues, reds, and greens assaulted his eyes. His corner of Hogwarts was a sober gray and black, predictable and constant. This place hummed with a promise of the unexpected, and Severus knew that at any moment the Mark on his arm or the mirror in his pocket would demand his attention, ending this ill-advised venture before it even began.

She stopped in front of one of the markers and mercifully dropped his hand.

“Mental note, no hand holding,” she said under her breath before explaining, “All of these were painted by one man, his pet project. Aren’t they beautiful?”

Severus studied the image of a young man in old-fashioned dress riding a bicycle. The somewhat amateurish portrait was bordered by doves, poppies, and that bright blue that was the theme throughout the strange graveyard.

“If by beautiful, you mean garishly morbid,” he commented.

“That too. I thought you’d like them. The artist even wrote a little verse about how each person died. This fellow met with a knife, if you can believe it.”

“Charming.”

“When I get back to Edgewood, I’m going to try to talk Papa into doing this in our family plot.”

“Somehow that does not surprise me.”

“Mine will say something like, ‘Here lies Miranda, she was cut in two by a werewolf’s bite. Pray for her soul, lest she gnash her teeth with those who’ll never see the light.”

“That is a terrible rhyme.”

“How nice of you to say so. Yours will say ‘Here lies Severus, he died an ass. Now kindly take your tears off his plot of grass.’”

A smile tugged at his lips in spite of all of his worries. “Fitting. Although I fail to see how I will come to be buried in your family’s graveyard.”

“No, of course not,” she said quickly. “I’m sure English earth will be the final place for you.”

“Obviously.”

“Listen, maybe this was a bad idea. If you’d feel more comfortable back home, you can just take the port-key back. I’ll understand.”

Why on earth had she said that? He finally looked at her and, while she was still smiling faintly, there was a tension around her lips and the brightness of her eyes had clouded over.

“I am here, aren’t I?”

“Yes, but I get the feeling you’d rather not be. I don’t understand it myself, but I do know that not everyone likes to travel. My mother and my brother Finn hate it. I just wanted you to have a chance to relax, and if this isn’t the right place for you to do that, then maybe you’d better go somewhere else where you can.”

He let his eyes wander back to the exotic grave marker. It was true that this vacation of his was an unnecessary risk. While he was not a coward, his life currently involved so much risk, that taking on more seemed like the highest form of idiocy. He wasn’t sure exactly why he’d agreed to come in the first place. Was a petulant act of independence or the pleasure of Miranda’s company really worth it? It made far more sense for him to turn around and go back the way he had come.

Just as he was about to concede her point, a group of plants growing out of the unfortunate bicyclist’s resting place caught his eye. They were shy things, struggling up amid the otherwise neatly kept rows of graves. He wondered why the caretaker had let them be, they were so gangly. But their hairy leaves and sweet, purple flowers were reaching up to the sun, determined to live in spite of their deathly surroundings.

“Lamium maculatum,” he murmured, as though greeting an old friend. Pomona had some growing in the staff greenhouse, and it had been one of the keys to unlocking the anti-venom that had saved Arthur’s life.

“I’m sorry, what?”

Severus’s stomach had finally settled and, while his headache had not disappeared, it hadn’t grown any worse either. He took Miranda’s hand and tucked it into the crook of his arm, taking his decision.

“{It seems a waste not to stay after I have spent so much time learning the language,}” he remarked.

The lines of tension around her lips softened into a real smile, and the light in her eyes came out from behind the clouds. Although he called himself a fool for thinking it, in that moment he felt that all of the uncertainty and discomfort was worth it if it pleased her so.

“{I agree. What would you like to see first?}”

******

Miranda stretched luxuriously and propped herself up on her elbow in order to study her sleeping companion more closely. It was unusual for her to wake before Severus and, when she did, she liked to take advantage of the opportunity to observe him without his practiced reserve in the way. In sleep, the marks of care and displeasure that marred his countenance were missing. She wouldn’t say that he looked exactly innocent, but he looked striking, and really rather handsome.

She didn’t have much time to admire him this morning, though. He didn’t know it yet, but they were due at Vasile Ursu’s within the hour, and it was time to wake him and break the news. Yesterday had been such a lark, between showing him the sights of Săpânța, and exploring the natural treasures of the Rodna mountains where she’d pitched her tent, that she hadn’t found the time to mention this other project. She laid a finger between his eyes and started tracing his nose lightly, suppressing a laugh when his nose started twitching. After a moment of this, his hand snapped up, catching hers in its grip.

“And what torture do you have planned for me this morning?” he rumbled without opening his eyes.

“Me torture you? I should be the one complaining. I think I was very indulgent to let you drag me around all afternoon and evening looking at weeds and wildflowers.”

“It was research.”

“You’re on vacation.”

“You said you wanted me to relax. Research is how I relax.”

“I’m glad to hear that, because I have a job for you.”

He opened one eye and arched an eyebrow at her. “Et tu, Brute? I had thought that you were the one person in the world who wanted to have me around simply for the pleasure of my company. Now I find you only wish to use me.”

“I like you for many reasons, Severus, and you know it. Besides, I thought it might amuse you to help a damsel in distress.”

He let out a bark of laughter and nipped her wrist. “You are the furthest thing from a damsel in distress that I’ve ever met, and I shudder to think what you might require my assistance to accomplish. I must insist on tea before I hear whatever your mad idea is.”

“{You are late, Doamnă Rose,}” Vasile said when she and Severus arrived on his doorstep an hour later. But he smiled fondly at her and kissed her cheeks. “{I was beginning to give up hope.}”

“{You should know that I’m usually late. It’s one of my many flaws, I’m afraid,}” Miranda replied, returning his embrace. “{And Severus wouldn’t go anywhere this morning until he’d had his tea. English, you know.}” Severus glowered at her and she grinned back at him. “{Vasile, this is Severus Snape, the Potions Master at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Severus, Vasile Ursu, the Solomnar of Maramures.}”

The men shook hands briefly, sizing each other up like a pair of fighting occamys.

“{This way, if you please, best not to be loitering in doorways,}” Vasile said, leading them over the rock hewn staircase and into a narrow tunnel. The low ceiling was lit with incandescent stones at regular intervals, and their feet echoed as they descended into the cave.

“{You will have studied with Horace Slughorn, then?}” Vasile asked with the air of a professor examining his student.

“{Yes. And with Nadia Angouleme. I completed my masterwork under her.}”

“{Ah, Nadia.} ‘C'est un songe que d'y penser.’” Vasile’s voice was a dreamy sigh for an instant before he came back to the interrogation. “{Good. Then you know what you are doing. Nadia does not suffer fools. What was your master-potion?}”

“Suspension de l’incrédulité. {Its purpose was to enable the imbiber to master flying spells more easily.}”

“{And you were successful?}”

Miranda’s attention was riveted on Severus. He had never mentioned either this project, or flying spells to her before.

“{Yes,}” Severus answered. “{Although it was a primitive attempt. Too much mercury. Many…undesirable side effects.}”

“{Your most recent project?}”

“{An universal anti-venom.}”

The corridor came to a divide, one path leading downward and the other curving away in a gentle incline. Vasile led them on the upward path, which was brightly lit by a row of torches that ignited as they passed by. Portraits of witches and wizards with narrow, stylized faces snored gently on their shelves, although a few shook themselves awake long enough to observe the new-comers. One dangerous looking fellow even had the audacity to wink at Miranda, but they did not linger long enough for conversation.

“{How did you solve the mistletoe problem?}”

“{Tumeric added at each stage of preparation.}”

“{Nicely done.}”

A rush of fresh air blew past them as their path opened into a domed cavern, and Miranda was surprised to see sunlight streaming in through a skylight cut in the ceiling. She had not thought that they had climbed high enough in the cave to be this close to the surface, but the blue sky was clearly visible, and the breeze felt and smelled too real to be an enchantment. The skylight was placed above a circle of leather cushions and low chairs that were equipped with portable writing desks, parchment, quills, and bottles of ink. The enormous walls were fitted from bottom to top with bookshelves carved directly into the stone, and books of all shapes, sizes, and conditions were crammed in every available nook and cranny. Miranda was a little disappointed that they did not pause in this wonderful room, but passed through it to another chamber.

This chamber also sported high ceilings and skylights, although they were slits rather than true windows. Numerous floating candles flamed to life upon their entrance, reflecting off row upon row of neatly labeled jars, beakers, bowls, cauldrons, and other well-kept equipment. The supplies sat proudly on their fancifully carved wooden shelves, waiting like chessmen to be brought out to play. Across from this bounty was an L-shaped table, one half wood, and one stone; the perfect height for standing while working. Miranda was impressed that the floor near this workspace had a springy give to it, which must be a mercy one’s feet and legs during long hours of brewing.

“{Doamnă Rose has explained why you are here?}” Vasile asked, rolling up the sleeves of his embroidered peasant shirt.

“{Yes,}” Severus replied, quickly removing his frock coat. He hung it on a hook near the door and rolled up his own shirtsleeves, greedily eyeing the contents of the shelves all the while.

“{Then we’d best get started.}”

Vasile waved his hand and a fire started under one end of the stone table, while a small waterfall began flowing under the other side of it. Severus raised and eyebrow and curiously ran his hand along the top of the stone, studying the cauldron-shaped inserts that were carved at regular intervals.

“{One end is made for heating and the other for cooling,}” Vasile explained.

“{The stone must conduct the temperature immediately,}” Severus observed. “{But how do you prevent the cauldrons from cracking?}”

“{They are tempered first. I can show you how when we finish if you would like.}”

“{I would.}”

Jars and bottles began floating from their places and setting themselves expectantly on the wooden table.

“{Three chopping boards,}” Severus muttered as he studied the wooden table more closely.

“{Yes, wood for most things, marble for what must remain cold, salamander leather for what must stay hot,}” Vasile explained quickly as he fished ingredients out of jars and set them on the table. “{Three Rhodiola, two swift eggs, a seven inch piece of young horntail claw. Dice it, please.}”

Severus produced his favorite knife from some pocket and started dicing the claw into perfectly matched pieces as he ordered, “Miranda, take dictation.”

She had expected this, and had already made herself at home in a bearskin covered armchair that had appeared near the work tables. She pulled a large, leather-bound book from her bag and positioned it atop one of the portable writing desks. By the time she had her quills and ink bottles floating beside her, the men were on to the next step, but she wrote quickly in her clear, even hand, and soon she was apace with them. Her mother had insisted that all of the Rose children learn decent penmanship and Severus had once remarked that he preferred to read notes written in Miranda’s handwriting than his own. This admission had pleased her inordinately and, while she had no intention of becoming Severus’s private secretary, she did not mind taking notes for him from time to time.

Although Miranda did not care for making potions herself, she did enjoy watching Severus brew. He was in his element, and his movements were quick and sure. When he was fully engaged in his task, something wonderful happened to his face. It was focused and excited rather than censorious and worn. Sometimes, as he did now, he would tie back his hair, which made him appear younger than he did with it hanging in his face. She thought that it suited him, but she kept this opinion to herself. That black curtain of hair probably served as a convenient shield, hiding his thoughts from the world. And he had so much to hide.

By the end of the day, Miranda’s shoulders ached and her hand was cramped from all the writing. It had been difficult to translate the instructions from Romanian to English as quickly as Vasile spoke. There were several times that she’d had to explain some of Vasile’s colloquialisms to Severus, making all three of them impatient. When Vasile had finally proclaimed that they had completed enough work to be satisfactory, Miranda was more than happy to stretch her legs and explore the bookshelves in the larger cavern while the men tidied the potions room.

Vasile was a stern taskmaster, but he was also an excellent host. When the potions room had been put to bed for the night, he led his guests all the way down to his private quarters. These were nestled in the heart of the cave, cool and quiet. They were well furnished with comfortable chairs, amusing books and games, and ample light for reading. A hearty dinner of sarmale and minciunele was waiting for them, laid out by unseen hands, and Vasile entertained them with more of the fanciful folktales that Miranda found so fascinating. After dinner, the three of them played several rounds of tablă, which Vasile won handily, but he also soothed the blow with an excellent bottle of mastícă.

Severus and Vasile soon dominated the conversation, exchanging stories of nightmare students and commiserating about the difficulties of teaching. It was amusing to listen to them, particularly since Severus could be quite verbose when he wanted to be. At some point, he absently reached over to massage the aches out of her writing hand, and then flicked her hand with some practiced maneuver, which immediately cured the pains in her wrist that had been caused by the day’s work. The pine-scented liqueur and the warmth from the fire encouraged a pleasant sense of well-being that spread through Miranda’s body, and she settled herself cozily in her chair to enjoy the company. Eventually she felt her eyes growing heavy, and she did not realize she had fallen asleep until Severus’s hand on her shoulder startled her awake.

“{My apologies, Doamnă Rose,}” Vasile was saying. “{I should have noted the hour. I will need you again tomorrow, but I believe we will be able to finish our task then.}”

“Are you able to walk, or will I be forced to carry you?” Severus asked in English, a teasing gleam flickering in the depths of his dark eyes.

“Is that an offer?” Miranda replied.

“I suppose. But I will throw you over my shoulder and I doubt you will enjoy it.”

“Promises, promises.” She let him pull her to her feet and gave Vasile a parting embrace. “{Goodnight, Domnul Ursu. We’ll be back in the morning.}”

When the pair of them were out of the cave and walking through the cool, spring night, Miranda turned to Severus and asked, “So, about that flying potion. Did you ever get it to work?”

He smiled mysteriously at her and replied, “Yes and no. Perhaps I might be convinced to show it to you someday.”

“I’m sure I can make it worth your while. I know you’d like to learn how to do some of the smoke magic.”

“That is true. I should think that we will be able to come to an arrangement to our mutual satisfaction.”

*****

On Thursday evening Severus sat in a transfigured armchair in Miranda’s tent, perusing the notes for the Changeover Potion, and feeling mentally and physically sated in a way that he rarely achieved. This potion was a welcome challenge, and the time working with Domnul Ursu had stretched Severus’s mind, giving him a plethora of ideas for his own projects and for his workspaces at Hogwarts. Miranda sat tailor-style on the bed, weaving a length of unicorn hair into a fine net, and it was a pleasure to watch her graceful movements as she worked. A disobedient voice in the back of Severus’s mind was whispering that, if he liked, there was no reason for him to return to Hogwarts the next day. He could stay here in this tent with Miranda, like Merlin in Nimue’s cave. Since he knew that he wouldn’t stay, he felt free to indulge in this fantasy, and the idea of staying with Miranda, either in Romania or in Britain, grew more appealing to him with each passing day.

“Aren’t you glad you came?” Miranda asked smugly as she looped and knotted her net.

“I suppose it would be a lie to say otherwise,” he replied.

“And nothing bad even happened.”

“I wouldn’t go so far as to say that yet. There are a few hours left before I return home, after all. Around you that is enough time for the world to end. Chaos follows ever on your heels.”

“I think that you need a little chaos.” She bent her head over a complicated part of her weaving and added, “If you come back in the summer, we can go to Bucharest and see an opera.”

Several sarcastic quips automatically leapt to Severus’s mind at this suggestion, but he took an effort to refrain from letting them out of his mouth. He ran his fingers over the beautiful lines of potion notes that Miranda had taken for him, admiring their form.

After a moment, he glanced up from the book and said honestly, “I should like that very much.”

There had not been many occasions in Severus’s life where another person had looked at him with such delight as Miranda did now, and he felt his ears heat up with embarrassment at the sentimental emotion that was growing in his chest. He cleared his throat awkwardly and added, “That is, assuming that you do not manage to get yourself killed on these ridiculous quests.”

She laughed lightly and went back to her net. “Oh, it’s just bird catching and flower picking. How hard is that?”

“As I recall, dragon riding is part of the second task.”

“It is, but I’m getting much better at it. By the time June gets here, I’ll be an expert.”

“I still do not understand why this ordeal is being dragged out for so long. Why on earth can’t you retrieve the children now?”

“They aren’t in any immediate danger. And we can’t even get to them until the veil between the worlds is thin enough. That won’t be until October.”

“I don’t like it.”

“I’m not surprised, but that’s how it is.” She smiled slyly at him and turned the subject. “When you see him tomorrow, tell Malfoy that I miss him.”

“I think I shall not mention that to him, if it is all the same to you. When will you be coming back in May?”

“Whenever Rachel’s baby comes. I’m godmother, remember?”

“I remember. I’m surprised you were able to convince Lucius to wait for that.”

“Aaron was the one who convinced him. Actually, I think Aaron convinced Narcissa, who took care of Lucius. I guess she is understanding after all. I assume that the answer is no, but do you want to come to the baptism? There’ll be a little party at the Lees’ afterwards.”

“It is entirely possible that I will be struck by lightening if I set foot inside of a church, but I suppose it is a risk that I would be willing to take.”

“I understand, of course you wouldn’t want to… Wait a minute, did you just agree to come?”

Her head snapped up and Severus chuckled softly at the shocked expression on her face. He so rarely managed to catch Miranda off guard, and he treasured the moments when it happened.

“I am aware that being a godparent is an important honor. And I do find your friends tolerable, surprising as that may seem,” he chided.

She opened and closed her mouth more than once, and that charming blush bloomed on her cheeks. “I should tell you that Arthur and Molly Weasley are going to be there too. Arthur is acting as proxy godfather because Aaron’s brother can’t make it over from the States. I know we’re trying to keep things quiet, so I understand if that changes your mind.”

“That does complicate things slightly.”

“I may have mentioned to Arthur that we were seeing each other, though.”

“Did you?”

“It just popped out, he’s so friendly. But he seemed to understand that it was important to keep it under his hat.”

Severus frowned, mulling this over in his mind. In some ways, he would prefer the world to know that he was capable of holding the interest of a woman like Miranda, and his irritation over her carelessness was tempered by his excellent mood.

“Arthur does know how to keep his mouth shut,” he admitted. “Perhaps better than certain persons in this tent. I will think about it.”

“Speaking of secrets, you’re not supposed to know what I’m doing here. So if Albus, or anyone else asks, I never told you anything.”

“If Albus or anyone else asks, I was never here.”

She set down the net and flexed her fingers, grimacing as though they hurt, and he set the book of notes aside in order to take her hands in his.

“If I can tell that your hands are cold, they must be frozen solid,” he remarked, bringing her chilled fingers to his lips.

Somehow this gesture led to her sitting on his lap, running her hands through his hair. Their kisses were lazy, and while he hadn’t thought he had the energy for another round of that sort of recreation this evening, her delicious sighs were convincing him that he might be persuaded otherwise.

She had just started toying with the buttons on his shirt when she stiffened in his arms and jerked her head away from his, listening intently.

“What is it?” he asked, and she laid a finger over his lips.

With a snap, all of the lights in the tent went out and she tapped on his cheek with her finger:

THERE IS SOMETHING OUTSIDE PUT YOUR SHOES ON

She slid off his lap and he pulled on his shoes while she quickly laced on her boots. He retrieved his wand from the table while she crept to the door, peering out of the glass for and endless string of moments. When she was satisfied, she padded back to him and tapped on his hand:

PRICOLICI 5 OF THEM

He tapped back:

WHAT ARE THOSE

She explained:

PART VAMPIRE PART WEREWOLF PART ZOMBIE THINGS

Merlin, could nothing be simple in this place? He tapped quickly:

HOW CAN THEY SEE YOUR TENT

She replied:

THEY CAN SEE THROUGH ENCHANTMENT THEY ONLY BOTHER YOU IF THEY ARE SENT AFTER YOU

He asked:

WHO SENT THEM

She rolled her eyes and tapped:

WORRY ABOUT THAT LATER FIRST WE HAVE TO KILL THEM

He gave her a disgruntled look and asked:

HOW DO WE DO THAT

Miranda patted his shoulder and went to the trunk at the foot of the bed. After a bit of rummaging, she pulled out a double-headed ax, along with two vials of Strengthening Solution. She tossed one of the vials to Severus, and when they had both drunk, she returned to him and tapped on his cheek:

YOU CAN KILL MOST ANYTHING BY CHOPPING OFF ITS HEAD YOU SET THEM UP AND I WILL KNOCK THEM DOWN ON THREE

By now, his eyes had fully adjusted to the darkness, and he moved towards the door, wand at the ready. He shook his head silently, musing that he had been quite correct—chaos did follow ever on Miranda’s heels. Her hand was on his shoulder, and before he could wonder overlong about whether she, the Dark Lord, or Albus was most likely to be the death of him, she was tapping out:

ONE…TWO…THREE

The door flew open and Severus surged through it into the moonlit clearing. After the dark of the tent, the moonlight was more than sufficient to reveal the hulking figures of two werewolf-like monsters. The beasts froze for an instant, as though startled by the humans’ attack.

Without hesitation, Severus flicked his wand and hissed, “Sectumsempra,” casting rapidly at each of the creatures in turn. They reeled backwards as the curse hit them, wounds exploding and sending bits of pus and fur-covered flesh in all directions.

“Left!” Miranda shouted, and Severus whirled to cast at another charging monster.

His curse hit the mark again and he instinctively ducked, knowing without words that Miranda would come vaulting over him to cleave off the head of the third creature. He allowed himself an instant to admire her form, before shifting to one knee and casting at the fourth attacker. This pricolici had managed to advance closer than the others, and Severus bombarded it with slash after slash of his signature curse, until Miranda appeared beside him, and used his leg as a stair-step. He seamlessly gave her his free hand, helping her up like a dancer, and she neatly decapitated the monster before swinging behind Severus’s back and onto the ground.

This last move had perhaps been unnecessarily showy, as it had given the final pricolici ample time to charge. It caught Miranda up in its hairy arms and threw her like a rag doll across the clearing. Severus cast viciously at the attacker, but his eyes kept involuntarily searching for Miranda, and he found himself knocked to the ground. With a muttered expletive, he blindly cast a bombarding curse and scrambled to his feet, but an instant later the pricolici caught him from behind in a death grip. Severus cast again, and the pair of them were thrown across the clearing, rolling until they came to a halt with Severus on the bottom. With great effort, and the aid of the Stregnthing Solution, he managed to turn himself in the beast’s deadly embrace in order to see where he was casting. He conjured a rope that wrapped itself around the toothy snout, but the enraged beast snapped through the bonds easily. This he followed with another round of Sectumsempra, and pus and flesh poured over him from his victim. The pricolici whimpered like a kicked dog for a moment, but the whimper became a growl, and its snapping jaws descended to rip out Severus’s throat.

Severus gritted his teeth and cast a final curse, fighting the urge to close his eyes against his own impending doom. But when a wet flood of something hit his eyes, he could not resist closing them. The beast collapsed on top of him, and he accepted with finality that Miranda was going to be the death of him after all.

The teeth on his throat never came though and, after a time, he noticed that the clearing was still except for the sound of Miranda’s bell-like laugh. His face was still wet, and when he opened his eyes he discovered that he was pinned beneath the now headless pricolici. Miranda was disentangling him from it the best that she could, hampered by her high spirits and her laughter. Her soiled ax was sitting on the ground next to them, resting from its labors.

When she finally had him free of the corpse, he sat up and pulled out a handkerchief to wipe the gore off of his face. She offered him a hand to pull him to his feet, and he rose, recalling their first meeting. Her eyes were astonishingly bright in the moonlight, and he wondered if they had been so that first night, hidden in the shadows of that fatal alley.

“Well done!” she said, her voice ecstatic. “Only next time, don’t get so distracted by what I’m doing. That last one wouldn’t have caught you if you hadn’t been worrying about me.”

“Why am I not surprised that you would criticize me for my chivalrous impulses?”

“Chivalry has no place in a battle. I can take care of myself, you know.”

“I am well aware of your competence. It is one of your most attractive qualities.”

This seemed to please her so much, that she caught his hands and started waltzing around the battleground with him. And he was so giddy from the rush of the fight and the victory, that he went along with her, grinning like a fool. The contours of her face and her body were clearer than he’d ever seen them, and the moonlight bathed the world in brilliant blues and silvers and purples. While they danced, he became aware of the smell of hyacinths, and the perfume was so strong that he marveled that he hadn’t noticed it before. Every nerve of his skin was hyperaware of the tiniest sensation.

“I think that you could swing dance if you wanted to,” Miranda teased.

“Of course I could. It is not a question of ability, it is a question of decorum.”

“Oh, that English decorum.”

She pouted prettily, and her lips drew him in like a magnet. He spun her to him, as he had in front of Shoreditch Church the summer before, and kissed her now as eagerly as he had then. She tasted of elf-made wine and honey, and he felt more delightfully intoxicated than mere alcohol had ever helped him achieve. The perfume of the hyacinths was overtaken by her scent, lavender and sweat from the exertions of the battle. She tugged open the collar of his shirt, and seared his cheek with a line of burning kisses. When she reached his neck, she bit him playfully, laughing against his skin when he growled at her. He ran his hands along the curve of her waist, and then scooped her up and threw her over his shoulder the way he had threatened to do the other evening.

“What happened to your precious decorum?” she yelped in surprise.

“Decorum is doing the proper thing at the proper time, and this is the proper way to carry barbarians to bed,” he replied, heading for the tent.

“Says who?”

“Says your English lover. Do you mean to complain about it?”

“No,” she purred. “No, I don’t think I will.”

They did decide to transfigure one of the chairs into a bath before retiring to bed, but removing pricolici gore turned out to be a much more entertaining chore than it had any right to be.

******

“Severus, are you listening to me?” Lucius demanded on Friday evening, breaking off his long-winded tale to glare at his companion. Severus had joined the Malfoy family for dinner, and the two men were sitting alone in the library so that Lucius could talk about himself.

“Hmmm?” Severus replied, swirling his glass of firewhiskey. “Of course I am. You just said that Cornelius Fudge is the stupidest Minister we’ve ever had.”

“Well, yes, to say the least.” He shot Severus one more suspicious glance, but went on with his pompous story of his own cleverness.

In point of fact, Severus had long since perfected the art of listening with one ear while thinking of something else entirely. Usually this skill was put to use in his meetings with the Dark Lord, enabling him to keep hidden what needed to be hidden while gleaning information and constantly evaluating what his next move should be. At the current moment, he was employing his skill much more agreeably, reliving his Romanian Holiday and dwelling on his magnificent Barbarian. He was somewhat troubled that a band of undead monsters had presumably been sent by her rivals to kill her, but she had promised to speak to Weasley and Albus about the matter. And he had to admit that she could, most certainly, take care of herself.

“And now, about your little tart, Miranda,” Lucius said, finally capturing Severus’s full attention.

A chill of warning crept up Severus’s spine, but he schooled his features and kept his tone indifferent as he asked, “What about her?”

“It is unfortunate that I’ve had to send your little playmate abroad, but I think it would be for the best that you don’t become particularly attached to her. She is quickly becoming more trouble than she is worth.”

“Dallying with a woman does not indicate that a man wishes to spend the rest of his life with her. I’m sure you are well aware of that.”

“I’m relieved to hear you say that. I’d hate to think that your mind had been addled by the mud-blood upstart.”

“It would take much more than that to addle my mind,” Severus remarked, covering the tension in his jaw by finishing his firewhiskey.

“Then let us be frank. There is no possible way that Sirius Black is in Romania. I know it, The Dark Lord knows it, and I strongly suspect that you know it, even if your tangled mess of allegiances prevents you from saying so.”

Severus arched an eyebrow and his stomach twisted. “What makes you think that?”

“That is for me to know and you to wonder about,” Lucius said condescendingly. “How long has Miranda been working for Dumbledore?”

“I was not aware that she was. You do understand that I do not spend time with her in order to discuss her work.”

“Very good, I suspected as much.” Lucius refilled both their glasses. “Then she is not in the Order?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“But she is cooperating with them. She’s been working with that Weasley brat at the Dragon Sanctuary in Romania, and she’s involved with some scheme there.”

“Is she?”

Lucius’s eyes were shrewd and calculating as he studied the younger man. “Do you really have no idea what she is up to?”

“I’m afraid not.”

There was a long moment of silence while the men stared each other down. Severus knew that Lucius was no legilimens, but he kept his mind on teaching and the Dark Lord to be safe. He also did not dare risk invading Lucius’s mind, although he dearly wished to do so. What a relief it would be to know what the other man was hiding, but Lucius would notice if Severus attempted a mental search. If Severus wished to keep Miranda, he needed Lucius and the Dark Lord to think that she meant nothing to him. And he found it surprising how much it had come to matter to him that he keep her.

At last Lucius said, “If you have the opportunity, it would behoove you to pry what you can out of her as far as her association with Dumbledore and the rest of those fools goes. The Dark Lord is suspicious of you, as I’m sure you’re well aware. I’ve known you for a long time, Severus, and I respect you. I would like to bring you along with me as I ascend, but I will not let you drag me down. Even for the sake of old times.”

“I understand.”

“To the Dark Lord,” Lucius said, raising his glass.

“To the Dark Lord.”

Severus lifted his glass in time with Lucius and drained it dry. The burn of the alcohol did nothing to warm him, and the dregs sat ashen and bitter on his tongue.

---------------------------

End Notes:

C'est un songe que d'y penser: It is a dream even to think of her. This is a quote from Charles, duc d’Orléans’ (1394-1465) poem “Dieu! qu'il la fait bon regarder” or “God, what a vision she is.”

Suspension de l’incrédulité: Suspension of disbelief. Many thanks to Chiara for helping me research! This phrase was coined by the English poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834). I promise there will be more about this potion later.

Sarmale are sour cabbage rolls stuffed with various fillings. Minciunele is a dessert of friend pastry. Its name means “little lies” in Romanian.

Tablă is something like backgammon. Mastícă is a liqueur made with a resin from the mastic tree, giving it a piney flavor.

Pricolici are monsters from Romanian folklore—because werewolves, vampires, and zombies aren’t scary enough by themselves.

-------------------------

Moonlight Masterpost+

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Chapter Nineteen+ >>

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inkribbon796 · 4 years

Text

Pen and Dagger

Summary: Madness isn’t always a sudden realization. Sometimes it’s a slow descent, an image here, a flash there. The Author is living the high life, having fun, but his life is a house of cards and the Author cannot control fate forever.

~::~ THREE YEARS AGO~::~

“Batter up,” the Author shouted as his bat connected with one of the thugs’ heads. He flew back, not getting back up.

“Dammit, Artie,” Illinois rolled his eyes, walking over, “the Old Man told us not to make a mess.”

“I’ll clean it up,” Arthur smiled, pointing the bat towards his direction. “Promise, cross my heart, hope you die.”

“It’s hope to die,” Illinois glared at him.

“Yeah, whatever,” the Author grinned.

The two young men, barely into their early twenties were taking down a part of a new gang that had tried to move in on Dark’s territory. They were in an underground basement of a building. A new mall that had been taken over by the gang and all the shops were being extorted for protection.

Needless to say, Dark had been furious and sent his two personal hitmen after the gang. The Author, as he liked Dark’s network to call him, and Illinois were two adopted brothers that Dark trusted with all types of secrets and missions. Mostly Illinois got the information since he was “the responsible brother” and the Author was just pointed at people to hurt or kill.

The two young men got to a steel panic door, the last line of defense in the basement.

“Knock knock,” Author used his notebook to make himself inhumanely strong and then beat the steel door down with his bat.

The gangster began shooting at them, but Illinois’s own aura acted like a whip and knocked the bullets away from them. The gangster’s gun clicked uselessly.

Arthur just smiled at him, “You’re supposed to say who’s there.”

“Sweet Mary,” the gangster looked at them in shock. “You two are just kids.”

“Shouldn’ta said that,” Illinois clicked his tongue.

Arthur glared at his book, his pen already moving furious as he wrote, and the man’s right knee broke in half. The young Author stomped on his broken knee. “Let’s try that again.”

“I’ll give you anything,” he began to desperately beg as the Author began to take out a black leather bound notebook and a pen.

“Oooh,” Arthur smiled, the expression almost shark-like on him. “How much? Can I get my own private island?”

“Yes, yes,” the man begged desperately. “Anything you want?”

“Quit playing with your food,” Illinois jabbed, looking through the man’s desk.

“Fine,” the Author glared back at him, writing something in his book.

Illinois frowned, trying to pull at one of the drawers. “Huh, a locked compartment with no keyhole.”

“Well, start talking,” Arthur ordered, tapping the top of the notebook with his thumb.

“I don’t—” the man started and then the young Author was scribbling something and the man’s whole left arm twisted at an unnatural angle. His elbow and shoulder dislocated as they turned.

With a desperate scream the man tried to grab at his mangled arm but found that his body wouldn’t move. Arthur was just smiling down at him, taking a deep breath.

“Wrong, answer,” the Author grinned. “Let’s dig down deep for some motivation.”

There was another crack, and Illinois just drummed his fingers on the table, knowing that the other man was being a sadistic drama queen, but knowing that if he tried to move to stop it, the situation would only escalate.

“Just tell us where the key is,” Illinois ordered.

“It’s,” the man was stammering through the pain and his tears. “Magnetic . . . lock.”

“Oh, clever,” Illinois dug through another draw to pull out a magnet and maneuvered it under the drawer and it clicked open.

The only thing inside was a USB drive, tucked into the back of the drawer. Illinois held it up, “This it?”

Author smiled and after writing a couple words the man coughed violently. His voice raspy. “No . . . it needs an arming . . . key to be used.”

“So, it’s hardened plastic without it?” the Author smiled.

Smiling back, his first real smile since he’d entered the facility with Arthur, Illinois took out a good sized Bowie knife and carefully pried the USB open, and then stabbed into the circuitry. “Oops.”

The man looked furious beneath what Illinois knew had to be agonizing pain.

“You know,” Arthur looked the gangster over. “I think you would be perfect for my new book.”

“Wha?” the man whimpered.

“Come on, I don’t need the Old Man complaining at me cause of the mess,” Illinois told him.

“If I feed Bim, I’m sure they won’t be too upset,” the Author shrugged and with a couple lines the man’s body seemed to snap back to being whole, the room filling with loud, agonized screams that eventually fell into labored breathing. Then he disappeared, Arthur finishing with an overdramatic flourish of his pen. The young man jumping a little with sadistic glee. “I’m thinking eldritch horror, with a 1940’s gangster vibe.”

“You literally just described the Old Man,” Illinois rolled his eyes.

Arthur let out a very offended gasp. “I would never be so hackneed as to plagiarize someone else’s content when I am more than capable of making my own stuff. No, he’s going to be my main character, this monster is going to be more Azathoth and less Nyarlathotep. I bet he lasts five hours before I have to track down a new one.”

Illinois chuckled nervously, “You sadistic prick.”

After a couple uncomfortable jokes at Illinois’s expense, Arthur procrastinated clean up a little bit but finding the staff bathrooms, carelessly stepping over the bodies of the other thugs. Illinois however wasn’t too far away, making sure he couldn’t run and leave the younger of the two with all the grunt work. Using the excuse that he had to go to the bathroom too as a flimsy excuse to keep an eye on him.

Flipping, Illinois off, Arthur walked over to the sink, compulsively making sure his hands were clean and his hair was nice. Then he felt something, almost like it was dribbling from his eyes onto the skin just below it and rolling onto his cheeks like heavy tears.

Confused and concerned, Arthur reached up with his still wet hands and felt nothing. Only his own fingers dampening his skin. Quickly looking up, the Actor expected to see dirt or dust, or even his own unexpected tears of irritation.

But he didn’t.

Arthur startled when he looked up, in the reflection was a man in a brown trench coat, blood soaked bandages over his eyes, and a blond streak in his hair. Tears of blood rolling down his face. The reflection smiled, his teeth dripping with blood. The young man jumped, looking around him to find Illinois.

“What’s wrong?” Illinois asked, zipping up his pants.

“There’s,” Arthur began, looking back but only seeing himself again in the mirror.

“Did you see someone?” Illinois asked, looking at the mirror seriously, gently nudging Arthur out of the way. Washing his hands at the same sink, never breaking eye contact with the mirror. “Think it’s the Old Man?”

“No,” Arthur shook his head, even if he looked away the mirror only showed himself looking back. The Author didn’t know what was worse that he had probably only imagined it, the “overactive imagination” that his old orphanage had derided him for . . . or that there had really been something. “I saw someone.”

“Was he wearing red?” Illinois put his gloves back on and touched a finger to the mirror, checking if it was an actual mirror or a one-way.

Arthur shook his head again, starting to kick in the stalls to check that they were still empty. “It was some dude with bloody bandages over his eyes, and a trench coat.”

“That’s not good,” Illinois agreed, trying to look for any magic. “Least this creep’s got your flare for the dramatics. Think we should tell the Old Man?”

A “Yes” was at the top of his throat, but he ground his teeth down. “No, I can take care of it myself. Don’t need the old geezer motherhening me and locking me in the Void with Bim.”

“Okay,” Illinois allowed. “If shit hits the fan I’ll tell him though. If you’re good right now, let’s start cleaning up. I don’t want to wind up on the Heroes’ watch list.”

“We could join Yan, she looks like she’s having fun,” the Author tried to chuckle, taking meticulous care to dry his hands so that when he pulled out his notebook, his precious leather bound wouldn’t suffer even a damp speck of water damage.

As the two left the bathroom, however, none of them looked down at the floor. Two bloody sneaker prints were right in front of the sink, the print slowly fading away the farther away the young Author got from the sink. Leaving no trace of the incident, except for the festering echo in the young man’s mind as he tried to focus on clean up.

#Superhero AU #Masks and Maladies #Markiplier #the Author #ahwm Illinois #Illinois Jones #Birthday Post #Author typical violence #hallucinations #Illinois plays babysitter #violence with a baseball bat

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pi-cat000 · 5 years

Text

MSA time travel idea (part 25)

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, Vivi POV, 8, 9, 10, Lewis POV, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, Lance POV 18, 19, Lewis POV 2, 21 , 22, Vivi POV 2, 24,

Part 26: here

“Welcome to MacDonalds Sir. Can I take your order?”

The van stops at a drive through, halfway to the hospital and his Uncle. Doom hangs over Arthur like a dense grey fog. A clock slowly counting down.

“Hey. You want anything?” The demon asks, nonchalantly rifling around in the glovebox for spare change.

Arthur’s never swum in the ocean, but he’s watched enough media to estimate and guess that this is what drowning feels like. Memories crash over him, pulling him about in waves. It’s had to keep a grip on what is current and what is past. It’s hitting him all at once. Images of Lewis falling are now mixing in with frames on Darrel’s motionless body left out in the middle of nowhere, carelessly kicked to the side of a narrow dirt road. Alone. Just like Lewis. Left behind to rot. Who knows if anyone would find him. Did Darrel have a family? Arthur can’t remember. What he does know is that it’s all his fault…and he can’t stop. Arthur needs help. He desperately needs help, but there’s no one. The only people who care are miles away and completely ignorant.

‘Why?’

The question is out before he gets the chance to clarify, his thoughts not coherent enough to manage a full sentence. There must be a reason. A point to everything. Because, if there isn’t, then there is no way that Arthur can convince this creature to stop. To leave his Uncle alone.

“Cause we’re hungry. Duh. Try not to ask dumb questions.” Arthur is dismissed, the demon turning back to order. So far, it has been quiet, exuding a calm satisfaction which is only marginally better than manic joy, ignoring Arthur’s thrashing with practised ease. This is the first time Arthur’s had the presence of mind to communicate since leaving Darrel.

At the order collection window, as the serving-girl hands over a brown and red paper bag, she points to her cheek, commenting, “Um. Sir. You have a little dirt on your face. Just there.”

“Do I?” The demon laughs good-naturedly, adjusting the rear-view mirror to reveal their reflection. Arthur looks out, unable to help himself, meeting his own gaze. Bright green eyes stare right at him. The pleasant smile shifts to become mocking. The ‘dirt’ referred to is the small flecks of Darrel’s blood, which have dried a dark brown.

“I do indeed. How embarrassing,” It chuckles, taking the bag, “Thank you for pointing that out.”

The girl smiles back, “Hey no problem. Have a good afternoon sir.”

If only she would lean further out and see the prominent blood splatter across Arthur’s front. She doesn’t. He watches powerlessly, feeling his body wave a goodbye.

“Have to say. I love these new food options. You humans have certainly been busy this last century.”

Now. This is Arthur's opportunity to talk. He needs to use it and convince this creature to stop. It probably won’t work, if anything it’ll make everything worse, but he must try.

‘Why,’ Arthur asks a second time, pulling his focus forward.

“Why what,” The demon is deliberately obtuse, taking a bite with its free hand, steering back onto the highway with the other. Arthur would be grimacing at the taste. The last thing he wants to do is to eat greasy food. Luckily, nausea is primary a physical phenomenon, so his need to throw up is entirely associative.

‘Why are you doing this. What’s the point?’ How does he get it to stop?

The demon chews and slurps down a soda methodically like it is buying time to consider a response. More likely, it knows how anxious waiting makes Arthur.

“Because it’s fun. You know...Spread a little pain and misery. Cause trouble. Mess with the cosmic balance. You do know what fun is right?"

‘I can be plenty miserable without Uncle Lance dying.’ Arthur jumps on the connection despite how tenuous it is, ‘You’ve seen my memories! I can make anything good depressing if I want to.’

“Ha. Yeah. You do know how to screw yourself over. But, regrettably, I never leave a host alive. Personal policy. Less hassle down the line and all.”

‘He’ll be no hassle.’ Arthur lies blatantly because there was no way Lance wouldn’t try to hunt them down if given a chance, ‘Nope. No hassle at all. No one would care if I vanished right now. Especially not Lance.’

“I’m in your head, I can see you lying,” An eye roll, followed by unpleasant chuckling, “Besides, nothing beats the rush of cutting one of your pathetic lives short. All that potential. Poof. Gone.” The discordant sensation of happiness is back again, and Arthur quickly withdraws, mentally flinching away, doing his best to distance himself.

‘Someone will stop you.’

“Who will? The dog? It’s miles away. Won’t be here till tomorrow and by then we’ll be done and dusted. I was thinking of going after Lewis’s family next. Sneak on in, in the dead of night, get em all in their sleep…”

Any further attempts at reasoning fall on deft ears. Begging is just as ineffective. All it does is inflate the awful feeling of calm satisfaction. Apprehensively, Arthur watches the demon wipe the blood off their shared face, energy well and truly spent. A grin is flashed towards the rear-view mirror which has yet to be re-adjusted. Not like this thing cares about road safety. It makes Arthur want to laugh hysterically. But he can’t. He can’t do anything.

Half an hour later, after getting waylaid by some traffic, they’re back at the hospital. All up, it’s hardly been two hours since their departure. They even park in the same spot.

Before heading inside, the demon pulls on one of Arthur’s old work shirts, which he keeps in the van for spur of the moment mechanical work. It’s got a few oil stains down the side and hasn’t seen a good wash in a while, but is inconspicuous when compared to coffee and blood splatters. Now, apart from the eyes, there is no other noticeable difference between the two of them. Nothing that screams ‘I’m a demon on a murder spree, please stop me.’ The sickly green skin Arthur had noted in his memories has faded to a natural colour.

St Peter’s Emergency Ward is as cold and sterile as he remembers. The smell of disinfectant and the return to chilled air-conditioning are equally unwelcome. Nurses, doctors and members of the public mill around, murmuring and talking in low tones. ‘Someone notice! Please,’ Arthur thinks desperately while the demon obtains directions from the reception desk. Despite Arthur’s less than clean appearance no one spares a second glance. Everyone is too busy, caught up in their work and lives, to notice his one falling apart.

An older, matronly woman, sporting a messy bun and tired eyes, ends up leading Arthur to his Uncle’s recovery room. It’s not too far from the main entrance and is, to his dismay, empty of other patents. Space, meant for a second bed, is vacant.

Arthur, the demon- he’s having trouble separating the two -both watch the nurse check his Uncle’s IV, lowering the dosage of whatever is going into Lance’s arm. Probably a mix of pain medication and anti-inflammatories going off Arthur’s previous experience. Curiosity and interest flash between their shared mind. It is taking notes, intently watching the nurse work. Please. Turn around. Turn around and notice what a creepy monster he’s being.

When she does turn, Arthur has already stepped away, acting to part of the worried relative.

“Is he okay. Everything’s okay, right?”

“Your Uncle is recovering as per normal. He’s on a low dose of Dilaudid, to reduce pain and swelling. It’ll make him drowsy when he regains consciousness so don’t be alarmed if he has trouble forming sentences,”

“He’ll regain consciousness? That’s good. When will that happen?” Its barely contained eagerness makes Arthur want to cry in dismay.

“Another hour or two,” The woman gives him a perplexed sideward glance. If she does notice anything strange, it isn’t mentioned. “I’ll have a doctor come by and give you a proper run down and better details shortly.”

“Good. Good. That’s very good. Thank you for letting me know,”

A nod. A kind expression. She moves to away, passing by, leaving Arthur alone. She leaves the demon alone with his Uncle unconscious, helpless in the bed. Eagerly, the demon piolets his body forward, scanning the empty room, eyes landing briefly on the solitary clock decorating the otherwise sparse walls. 4: 59. Tick. Tick. Tick. An audible reminder that Arthur is running out of time. A hand reaches into his pocket to fiddle with Arthur’s keys and the small knife attached. Both are crusted with dry blood which crumbles when touched. They clink together threateningly.

‘What do I have to do to get you to stop. You have to want something. Anything.’

“Sure, I do. It’s just nothing you can give .” Nonchalantly, it approaches the bed, finally acknowledging Arthur's presence.

‘Don’t demons collect souls?’ He asks with increasing desperation. Can he give this thing his soul? Was that something he could do?

“Some. I don’t. I think you’ll find that ‘demon’ is a very broad term, covering a wide range of individuals. Besides, your soul is super screwy. Whatever’s shoved it back in here has bound it in tight, so I’d probably have to rip it up to get it free, rendering the activity pointless. So, no deal…But thanks for the offer. I’m flattered.”

‘Please. Stop. I’ll do anything!’

Does he really have nothing? No way to save his Uncle. The only member of his whole freakin family who gave a damn and he can’t even save him. Useless. Why does he fail in all the ways that matter most?

“Oh, don’t mope. Just think, once we finish up here, you’ll never have to worry about failing anybody ever again. No lying. No stress. Doesn’t that sound nice.”

It doesn’t sound nice. It’s the opposite of nice!

The demon drags over the one visitor's chair, which squeaks along the lino flooring, slumping down to stare at his uncle, waiting. It fingers the IV tubing, tracing the piping up to the control dial and back again. Deliberately, it pinches the thin tube shut, attention jumping back to Lance, scanning for any changes.

Waiting.

The waiting is terrible. Especially, when Arthur can feel its attention, partially giddy, laser-focused onto his Uncle. Arthur’s never seen the man look so pale or sickly. Apart from the odd work-related accident, which is impossible to avoid even with strict safety standards, his Uncle has always been healthy. Even the rare times he has seen the man sick it was still ‘no big deal,’ ‘just a scratch,’ or ‘the bodies way of forcing me ta rest.’ While Arthur flip-flopped from one emotional extreme to the next, his Uncle had been a steady, seemingly indestructible, pillar of support. Arthur had never said thank you for any of that. Worse, he’d repaid all that kindness with lies and evasion. Lance should have never taken him in. He had been more trouble than it was worth in his original timeline and he’s definitely not worth it now.

“Hey. HEY!” The demon grows tired of the waiting and gives his Uncle a light slap on the cheek with its free hand, “Wake up.”

“Arthur?” The word is half muttered, barely audible. Lance is phasing into consciousness slowly.

‘Just say asleep. Stay asleep a little longer. Someone has to come in and stop him. Please.’

“In a manner of speaking. Yeah. I’m Arthur.”

That gets his Uncle’s attention. Lance violently twitches, forcing an eye open. It locks onto him, hazy but critical. Despite being in obvious pain a hand flashes out, snapping onto to Arthur’s wrist, pulling the hand away from his face. The grip is firm abet weaker than Arthur’s expecting.

“Whoa, you might want to take it easily Uncle Lance. Wouldn’t want to pull any stitches. You were stabbed five times you know.”

“You,” His Uncle growls hatefully, eyes narrowing, “Get out of Arthur ya fuckin, slimy piece of shit, bastard.”

“That’s some strong language. And in front of your nephew. He’s watching you know,”

A loose flick and the demon frees its wrist, efficiently shoving his Uncle back down when he attempts to lunge outwards. The hash action causes Lance to grunt in obvious pain. A move towards the emergency call remote has the demon snatching it up and placing it on the small table just out of reach, tutting in disappointment.

“I’ll get ya. Mark my words…You’ll regret this,” His Uncle spits, his attempts at sitting foiled. His face is pure revulsion and fury. That determination and fire is something Arthur’s never seen directed his way before. It’s all in vain. Nothing matters. Not anymore.

A teasing, “How? You can’t even move. Soon you’ll never move again.” The demon releases its hold on the IV and turns the control dial up to its max setting. Dismayed, Arthur watches the drug take quick effect, rapidly dulling his Uncle’s movements. Eventually, Lance just lies still and glares, even while his eyes are dropping shut.

“Don’t worry about your nephew. He’ll be safe with me. Since you care so much and all.” The glare faulters much to the demon’s renewed glee. The predatory buzz is back, coiled alongside a sensation of anticipation and pleasure.

“Arthur.” His Uncle’s voice loses its heat, softening. He’s struggling to stay conscience, drowsy, eyes shutting.

‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please. Stop. Please. PLEASE.’

A knife is produced after a small struggle. The hinge, which usually allowed it to flip cleanly open, is stiff, jammed with blood. The key ring makes a clinking sound, hitting the side of the metal bed frame. Tap. Tap. Tap. It echoes through the room in time with the ticking clock.

“Now. How do we go about this in a way that won’t immediately alert the plebs?”

‘NONONONO!’

“Kindy slow bleed? Good choice.”

“Nighty night,” It stands upright. The chair squeaks. Blankets and paper thin robe are pulled aside in an energetic flourish, revealing the assortment of bandages covering his Uncle’s chest and side. A second is spent in meticulous calculation. The knife is carefully positioned and thrust in. The demon waits for a beat before pushing forward against any resistance, twisting, then drawing out. Cold satisfaction. His Uncle’s fingers catch on Arthur’s retreating arm. This time, there is no strength behind the grasp, and it’s easily shrugged off.

“Not….You…r… Fa..ul…t...” The words are mumbled and slurred, swallowed up by the silent room. The clock on the wall ticks.

“Eh. Suppose we’ll look a bit suspicious if we stick around.”

The blanket is tossed back into place, covering the reopened wound. They turn, strolling towards the door, practically skipping back down to the reception. Arthur can feel himself splitting, joy mixing in with panic and grief.

Just like his life, he’s falling to pieces.

NOTE: re-writes, re-writes for days. But finally got a version I’m mostly happy with. I’m hoping to have the next section out within a shorter time frame so people aren't stuck on the cliff hanger but no promises.

Part 26: here

#MSA #mystery skulls animated #fanfiction #fanfic #arthur kingsmen #lance kingsmen #the demon?#character death #dark #angst #coarse language #graphic descriptions of violence #emotional disorientation #shit has well and truly hit the fan

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falkenscreen · 5 years

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Joker

The problem’s not that Joker isn’t smart, it’s that Joker isn’t smart.

Think about it just a little bit – I promise you’ll give it more thought than just about anything this clown grants herein. Think about Cesar Romero, Jack Nicholson, Heath Ledger, even Jared Leto; all their iterations, however steeped in seeming chaos, hatched and considered every move they ever made so they were steps ahead.

What has made Joker arguably comic lore’s most famous villain isn’t simply his dress, manner, randominity or even the potential for open-ended characterisation. It’s always been about how a lo-fi street thug with an IQ of 300 consistently outsmarts Gotham’s greatest “with a few drums of gas and a couple of bullets.”

None of that’s on display here; not at all.

Much has been made, unsoundly and worse so without prospective contributors having seen the film, on Joker as an impetus for violence. There is nothing that suggests Director Todd Phillips and co are wanton in this regard. Far from it, the catalyst for violence, rather than being lauded, is at once a pitiful, pathetic, tragic figure; being moreover so in his most extreme acts.

Significantly, Joker is not the wily brain we’ve come to expect, with almost everything that happens to him or because of his actions occurring not as a consequence of any deliberation but by happenstance, blind luck or being in the absurd right place at an even more absurd time. Overcoming the pursuit of Police Officers not by ingenuity but due to the actions of others, adorning a mask at this point and at another jumping through a police barricade at the opportune time are about the cleverest things he does. On other occasions he’s shown to be his own worst enemy, including in one hilarious scene in a children’s hospital and another later on in Joker’s apartment. These darker, funnier moments, interspersed throughout, are among this film’s very best, as is the final image on which Joker rests; a promise of what this movie might have been had the Hangover Director more leaned into his comic, outlandish strengths.

Joker not being the brains of any operations yet experiencing such an unencumbered rise undercuts this otherwise erroneously grounded approach to Gotham here steeped in the imagery (and blatant symbolism) of Martin Scorsese’s 1970’s New York, which namely draws inspiration from Mean Streets and (overly so) Taxi Driver. This Joker being nay equipped for the role as traditionally realised may too undercut, and perhaps intendedly so, criticism that this figure is being in any way idolised by the filmmakers, yet the approach bears a direct dissonance with that which has otherwise rendered this icon resonant, believable and hitherto compelling.

The casting of Robert De Niro seemingly endorsing Phillip’s riffing on Scorsese’s oeuvre, the unavoidable King of Comedy comparisons, given De Niro’s now placement in that akin to Jerry Lewis’ role, like the direct hark-backs to Taxi Driver (Joker could just as well have done without all the pointing of fingers at skulls) are more distracting than necessarily symbolic. Otherwise laden with the imagery of other movies, the entirely unnecessary inclusion of Bruce Wayne and a formative event in his life, covered in now too many recent adaptations, was by no means compulsory; emerging tired and familiar.

On the matter of The King of Comedy, consider also the nuance with which De Niro and Scorsese portrayed Rupert Pupkin. Analogous in no small measure to this film’s own joker (Arthur Fleck) the depiction of Pupkin’s rise, not as here overwhelmingly encumbered by the language and motifs of a traditional hero origin story, made space for the hilarious irony which underlined the filmmakers’ much more apparent disdain for their anti-hero.

The fact that such an approach has been utilised for a villain as it might typically characterise one of the Justice League is fairly one of the more novel advents of this film, together with this, refreshingly, focusing on a (relatively) small-scale story rather than the wholescale destruction of some city or other. The film is unusually a drama and it’s perfectly fine, and revivifying, for a comic book adaptation to serve as such. De Niro is also exceptional as is Phoenix in every respect; for all this movie’s detractions their performances are faultless.

Yet it is the steering behind the camera that lets them down; the intendedly vainglorious characterisation of the triumphant Pupkin amid events rendering his accomplishments as evident self-delusion, intended to be mirrored here, overcome by the desire to more overtly reflect another irony in the superhero-esque treatment of Joker’s ascendance. Seen most overtly in Joker’s penultimate sequence, there’s just no place for the intended tragicomedy, as much as the creatives might wish to signal it, amid the deluge of language and circumstance so characterising a hero’s actualisation.

As to whether these particular instances could be read as treating Joker’s actions lightly, returning to the controversy that has unfairly dogged this all, the film is otherwise relatively clear in its approach and when viewed as a whole this is far from a potent takeaway. The emphasis is more muddled than feckless or forgiving as regards Joker’s worst traits; the seeming, intendedly ironic hailing of Joker at instances far from endorsing him yet when sparingly coupled with the now trenchant, ubiquitous stylings that aboundingly characterise an ‘origin moment’ (or moments) confusing rather than negating what could otherwise have been a readily apparent moral stand on this lead.

Turning to the politics of this movie (aren’t I a sucker for punishment), uber-wealthy Thomas Wayne (Brett Cullen) running for Government on a populist platform sounds a lot like, I don’t know, someone else. The only thing is that those who oppose him, as well as those who empathise with Joker, could be read as stand-ins for both pro and anti-Trump sentiment. Without reference to Phillips’ recent comments on wokeness, which will contribute a lot more to publicity than any discourse on Joker, these non-committal, open-ended politics which will inspire no end of debate are actually some of the film’s more interesting advents.

Serving as a basis for a novel, mainstream dissection of populism thankfully absent it’s overt anchoring to any particular modern movement, one can only wish that the rest of the movie, or Joker himself, had been nearly so clever.

Joker is in cinemas now

Joker on Film Fight Club

#xl #reviews #joker #dc #dc comics #todd phillips #joaquin phoenix

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hino-has-fiction · 6 years

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A Piercing Realization

Words: 1181

Characters: Arthur, Lewis

Summary: In that moment, falling, the pieces slot into place. Arthur understands in that moment, who dropped him and why.

AO3 Mirror

There were a million things lining up in his mind. A million connections being made, a million pieces clicking together.

It’d been almost a year since they’d gone to that cave. Lewis, Vivi, Mystery, and Arthur all bundled into the van. Arthur didn’t remember much of it though. All he knew was he went into that cave with three friends, and came out with one less arm, several pints less blood, and without Lewis. The fact that Vivi never made mention of him again, or that Mystery didn’t seem to react to his absence only served to confuse Arthur, but there was this urge inside him that insisted he not speak of it, and so he didn’t.

But then they’d found that mansion, and little questions began to arise. Things like the ghost that kept chasing him insistently, who seemed to favour Vivi, who for all intents and purposes, wanted to keep her. Arthur had pulled her away and spared no glance backward, hightailing it out of there with Mystery and Vivi, who was dragged behind him, trying to resist. Her fondness for the paranormal was going to get them killed one day, at least Arthur thought so.

From there they’d driven around, and the nightmares that plagued his mind only got worse. There would be dreams of green, of phantom pains and screaming, and when he woke, the sleep paralysis that took over scared Arthur half to death.

So he took up the role of insomniac. With a smile and a laugh and a dismissive hand wave for Vivi, he spent the nights looking for Lewis, and the days traipsing around for clues on the latest ghost story. Vivi joined him of course, leading the way without a care in the world, and when she’d do a little “Vivi-ism” as they’d been dubbed and Lewis wasn’t there to laugh, Arthur felt himself tense up.

It didn’t help that Mystery had been quiet too. Ever since that petal had blown in he’d been moody. It seemed to make him upset, yet any attempt to take it away was met with a bark of denial and a bit of a growl, if you pressed the issue. Plus, ever since the cave, Arthur had felt uneasy around Mystery. There had been something ominous about him, something that left him feeling uncomfortable and had him gripping his left arm. The cool metal was soothing and yet frightening. After all, he’d had an arm before the cave.

Maybe something had happened in there, and he’d just forgotten about it.

But now he remembered it.

That van had come blaring down the highway, and in the rearview he’d seen that ghost, the same one from the mansion. He’d had the paranoia of being followed, and of seeing things out the corner of his eye for weeks now, but as a truck with purple motifs and no intent of stopping came barrelling down the road, Arthur slammed the gas pedal.

The strange girl with the scissors was after Mystery, struck by their van in the attempt to escape the truck. He seemed terrified, although Arthur spared it little thought at the time as he tried to keep them on the road. She’d gone flying off at some point, and they’d careened over the edge of the road and down into the wall of Kingsmen Mechanics.

He’d blacked out at the impact. It wasn’t like their crash was the softest thing in the world, and even though the van could probably be driven away after they’d polished out all the dents, it would still be pretty busted. The fact he’d neglected the seatbelt and the windscreen had been shattered meant he should have been far more injured than he was, although he didn’t exactly have time to count his blessings. By the time he’d come to, he was being dragged towards the truck that had chased them down the highway, and even though he screamed and struggled, that ghost still managed to toss him in the back.

The fall had been long and the impact harsh. His busted arm did him no favours, and the image of that ghost staring at him was burned into his mind, giving Arthur more unease. It didn’t help that the only light inside wherever he’d landed was emitted by those ghosts that seemed to follow the thing around. They let out a screech and he broke into a run, aiming for the low path but settling for the high, when he was denied.

It was just panic really informing his decisions. He didn’t even register where he was, not until he got to that cliff and let his arm windmill around in a desperate attempt to keep his balance. To go careening over the edge and onto those spikes was not something he wanted to try.

His windmilling had done the trick, and he sighed in relief, ready to backtrack and run.

Except it didn’t go that way. The collar of his shirt went tight, as that ghost lifted him up, moving effortlessly, stepping closer to the edge. It didn’t take a genius to know that Arthur was going to be dropped over the edge. He flailed, left arm hanging limp, right arm gripping onto its sleeve, trying desperately to somehow anchor himself. His legs swung uselessly yet he could not stop it, hoping their momentum would get him back on the edge.

It took effort, a ton of effort, feeling the circuitry in his metal arm trying its hardest to cooperate as he clung onto the ghost’s sleeve with his left hand in hopes of swaying things in his favour. Desperation welled up and it showed on his face as he looked at his attacker. Perhaps they were capable of pity, maybe they’d relent and-

There was a flame, pink and heatless. It washed over the ghost’s face, and Arthur felt his stomach drop, mere moments before his body followed suit.

“Lewis?” he asked, eyes wide. His grip loosened only slightly, rationality keeping him clinging on while emotions tried to make him fall.

Emotions won, teaming up with the ghost- with Lewis. The hand let go of his collar and he fell, down towards those spikes, eagerly waiting for him.

There were a million things lining up in his mind. A million connections being made, a million pieces clicking together. Lewis had entered that cave with them, and never come out. Arthur had entered that cave with two arms, and left with one. Vivi had entered that cave in love, and come out without a clue who had stolen her heart. Mystery had entered brave and left hiding secrets.

Of course.

The memory he’d blocked came back in a haze. The green tinge of jealousy, the lack of control, the push, the fall, the pain, the blood. He’d pushed Lewis and then forced himself to forget.

And now, plunging towards a death so similar to Lewis’ own, Arthur could only stare up, one thought standing out among the rest that were frantically scrambling for attention.

Lewis thought it had been intentional.

#Fanfiction #mystery skulls #Mystery Skulls Animated

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kbstories · 6 years

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Kicking off the second part of my Charthur series with some fluff!

Quiet For So Long

Tags: Fluff, Road Trips, First Time, Bathing/Washing

This is a direct sequel to my first fic, Only Lost The Night. Please read that one first!

(No AO3 links this time, sorry!)

“... and this guy, he comes charging at me like a bull, I panic, throw the knife. Perfect bullseye, clean between the eyes–“

“Oh, horseshit–“

“No, no, I swear, on Taima, the fucker went down like a sack of bricks, and there I was: money in hand, just... drenched in blood from head to toe, it was a mess.”

Arthur's expression must've been more than a little incredulous because Charles starts laughing the moment he sees it, head thrown back, teeth bared in a broad grin. Arthur huffs, shakes his head.

“I can't believe this. You are the luckiest fuckin' bast– and that was your first run?”

“The very first one, yup.”

Charles's eyes are shining with mirth, the smile clinging to his lips as he leans over his horse's neck and pats her beneath her mane, settling back comfortably in his saddle. A day's ride or two away from camp, they've fallen into their usual system to cover long distances: side-by-side, their mares march in step with each other, the calmer Taima acting as a guide to temperamental Dyani in narrow spaces and tense situations.

They camp by sundown and keep moving by sunrise, spending the time in-between swapping stories, singing familiar songs, whistling along with the birds – sometimes, when Charles is in the mood, he'll get out that ancient harmonica of his and play a tune, and Arthur will hum along, closely watching Charles's mouth as it teases an incredible range of tones from the instrument, sometimes joyful, sometimes full of sorrow.

It makes him think. With Arthur back on his feet and orders from Dutch to follow up on a lead across-state, together, the reasons keeping them apart dwindle to nothing; and while their first night away from camp was spent with bold kisses and even bolder hands mapping each other's backs, there's an invisible line neither of them have approached yet.

It's distracting, it's the only thing on his mind at any given moment. All Arthur can do is wrangle those thoughts into manageable pieces, pieces of himself he pours into the silent pages of his journal.

Arthur pushes the sweaty tips of his hair off his face and under his hat, the motion calming in its familiarity. A little worse for wear and patched in some areas, Charles had given it back the day Arthur had been cleared for duty.

Welcome back, Arthur.

The man is watching him, now, in that undemanding way of his. Arthur tips his hat a little, smiling at the deadpan blink he gets in return that might as well be Charles's version of an eye-roll. Continuing his story, Charles gestures vaguely to Arthur's saddle.

“That bow I gave you? I bought the wood for it the day after. Figured stealth would be a better way to go about things.”

Arthur's look turns surprised, genuinely impressed. “Wait, you made it?”

Charles's eyebrows rise. “Yeah? I thought you knew. All you folks know are pistols and rifles and it shows, no offence. Makes it hard to find one that's balanced right.”

“Huh. Never crossed my mind, that.”

Arthur glances at Charles, then, at his capable hands, and the jagged scars there. A thousand questions burn on his tongue, but he hesitates, wondering what is off-limits and what isn't. Collecting his reins, Arthur brings Dyani's head back from the clouds, murmuring a word of praise under his breath. Her ears flick back and towards him; she chews on her bit.

Finally: “Is that, uh, somethin' your mom taught ya, or…?”

Charles hums, “Mh, you could say so”, and for a while, only the four-beat gait of their horses is to be heard. “She showed me how to hunt, too. Said it's best to trust in nature to stay alive, and to rely on my skills rather than other people.”

“Wise words”, Arthur agrees softly, maybe it's better that way. He's too selfish to voice the thought out loud.

“Yes and no”, says Charles, meeting Arthur's gaze briefly, shrugging. “Followed that advice most of my life, and it's not enough. I know that now.”

And Arthur knows, before he even opens his mouth, that he shouldn't pry. That he shouldn't drag the vulnerability lurking beyond those words into the light – yet he asks, “What changed?”, and Charles looks at him, eyes warm.

“I met you.”

They arrive at Strawberry with the last light, riding through wafts of mist that flow down the streets and sticks to the few scattered buildings the village has, making them stick out like milk teeth in a child's mouth.

At the end of the road, the hotel's warm glow beckons them closer, and Arthur answers Charles's questioning glance with a shrug and a muttered, “Might as well.”

This, too, is a well-known routine: Arthur strides up to the clerk to get a room set up and the bath running, mentions in stride that the tip'll be highest the least he is disturbed and, thirty minutes later on the dot, he slides the window open and waves Charles inside.

By then, he's washed and making short work of his scraggly beard, preferring a neat shave over his typical scruff just because it's been so long since he felt anywhere close to clean in these past few weeks.

In the mirror, he can see Charles undress in the low light, movements quick and efficient,and while they've been naked in each other's presence countless times – after all, there's no room for propriety in an outlaw's life – Arthur's gaze wanders over each inch of bared skin like it's the first. Until the razor nicks his skin and he hisses, face heating up at the chuckle from across the room.

“Careful, there”, Charles tells him, and Arthur doesn't reply, resolutely staring at the slow glide of the blade over his already-smooth jaw as water splashes behind him and Charles sinks into the tub with a groan of relief.

Arthur blames the sweat on his brow on the thick steam filling the room with nowhere to go.

It's quiet, then. Arthur lingers in front of his reflection a little longer than usual, eyeing the messy flop of his wet hair critically but deeming it a lost cause like the rest; throwing the razor on the bunched heap of clothes beside him, he stands up, stretching and sighing as his back cracks audibly.

Charles hasn't moved a single inch, body soaking up to his chest in soapy water, face lax and eyes closed. Dozing, perhaps, although his breaths are too measured for that.

For a lost moment, Arthur looks at Charles and wants, feels it like a physical string pulling at his guts, very much like arousal but also... different. More intimate, more fragile, like it could shatter in his hands if he holds on too tightly.

Quietly, as quiet as possible, he pads over, kneels, mumbles his name, to wake him up or give him an out, Arthur doesn't quite know; Charles blinks his eyes open drowsily, a lazy smile spreading on his lips. He rasps, “Hey”, and “Kiss me?”, so soft it could've gone lost in the gentle trickling of water.

Arthur does, careful at first, nipping at the perspiration gathering on Charles's lips and watching his lids slip shut again. The string tugs, pulls taut in his chest at the blatant trust in the gesture, how Charles hums and his mouth relents to Arthur's.

The water is warm on Charles's skin, the muscles in his shoulders relaxing under the tender slide of Arthur's hands; he squeezes and Charles's brows twitch closer together as he moans, low in his throat.

“Let me”, Arthur whispers; Charles mumbles, “Whatever you want”, and Arthur exhales shakily, pressing a kiss to his temple.

“You're makin' offers that are hard to refuse.”

“Then don't.”

Two words, simple, really. Arthur swallows, traces the faded arch of a scar on Charles's bicep. The graze of a bullet, maybe, or a knife's cut. Charles leans back and lets him, previously calm breath hitching as Arthur's touch trails further down, brushing over the smattering of coarse hair on his chest and abdomen and lingering there.

Arthur catches the intense look in Charles's eyes and leans his forehead against his, breathing the same air. “Gotta stay quiet”, he reminds him, waits for Charles to nod – Arthur watches him bite his bottom lip as he takes him in hand and pulls experimentally, tightening his hold around him at the almost-hurt noise coming from Charles–

If Arthur had any concentration left to form doubts they'd be gone, blown away by how Charles's voice sounds as he groans his name; Arthur shushes him, wraps his arm behind his shoulders to place his hand on his mouth, gentle.

The angle doesn't allow for much but Arthur doesn't care, eyes fixed on the way Charles's abs tense and release in the rhythm of his hand on his length, how the murky white of the water flows across his dark skin like silk.

Charles pants against his fingers, eyes half-lidded and hazy with bliss – an image that etches itself into Arthur's soul as he strokes him to completion and thinks, I love you.

#red dead redemption #rdr2 #arthur morgan #charles smith #charthur #rdr fanfiction #the second chapter will be pure sugar i'm already warning y'all #we ain't stopping anytime soonnn #please consider reblogging <3 #my stuff #edit: had to take out the n///sfw tag for it to show in the tags......#RDR

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harry-lloyd · 5 years

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In the early episodes of the acclaimed science fiction-spy drama Counterpart, Harry Lloyd’s Peter Quayle epitomized the organization man, devoting himself to pushing papers as the deputy director of Strategy at the Office of Interchange, the bureaucratic headquarters overseeing the portal to a parallel dimension opened accidentally in East Berlin during the Cold War. Placed in his high-ranking position partly thanks to nepotism, he was largely ineffectual, overpowered by both his superiors and his underlings—including JK Simmons’s Howard Silk, whose counterpart from the other world is a ruthlessly effective spy—and betrayed by his wife, who was eventually revealed to be a double agent.

The new season, however, has forced Quayle to act boldly with increasingly high stakes, bringing new vigor to a character who feels compelled to hide his wife’s secret in order to protect his family, even if it means having to deadbolt the door between their rooms at home. This season’s action has energized Lloyd as well, requiring a new intensity in his performance. “He has to be a different person with everyone he speaks to,” the English actor explains. “He has to sell a different lie. This season, I was concentrating much more on winning as much as possible the individual scenes knowing the risk that he’s going to ultimately fail and seeing how smoothly he can get through.”

As if that duality weren’t complicated enough, Lloyd also had to contend with Quayle’s recently introduced counterpart (known as Quayle Prime) in the alternate universe, whose life path has diverged from Quayle Alpha’s since the world cleaved in two in 1987. Kept in a holding facility where his memories and secrets are extracted for use against Quayle Alpha, Quayle Prime is, as Lloyd points out, distinct enough from his mirror image as to effectively be a second role. “It felt like doing another job for a few weeks in a way with all the same crew and the same actor, JK,” he recalls. “I hadn’t had any scenes with that character for ages because he’d been on the other side, so it was nice to hang out with nice Howard, but it was also nice to use a whole different set of muscles.”

In his extensive free time, Quayle Prime obsesses over a taped rugby match, identifying it as a point of difference that separates his life from Quayle Alpha’s—the former got lost and caused a scene, perhaps distracting a player, while the latter didn’t—and perhaps explains why he is being kept in what is effectively a penal colony while his other enjoys his success. For all its spycraft and copious bloodletting, Counterpart touches on deep issues of nature vs. nurture and the innateness of individual potential, forcing characters to ask themselves if they are better or worse than their mirror selves. For Lloyd, the arrival of Quayle Prime has helped solidify the contours of his main character. “Through this Quayle, you learn a bit more about Quayle Alpha,” he offers, “that he’s ultimately a child and that the entitlement and the smugness don’t come from malice. It’s just that he’s not been challenged and he’s unequipped but is still trying to get by through some path of least resistance. He knows he’s lucky and he knows that it’s run out and he doesn’t really know what to replace that with. Actually, I think they’re quite similar, they’re just in very different circumstances.”

Apart from these larger existential questions, there is also no question that a large portion of Counterpart’s success comes from its relevance to our own circumstances when no one on the internet is who he seems and spies and secret agents are once again a topic of national importance. Although set in contemporary times, the show has what Lloyd calls a “Cold War palette” thanks to its wan coloring and the use of Eighties technology, which is the only way the two dimensions can continue to communicate. “There’s been quite a lot of Cold War drama of late,” Lloyd muses. “It does feel that it’s had a revival because of its relevance today with the lack of trust and the difficulty of believing the motives of people in charge. It’s an interesting period where there are wars of a kind going on, but the battleground is somewhere else, yet things are happening behind closed doors in civilian circumstances. Much has changed, but much has not.”

Counterpart can seem in some ways like a natural successor to Lloyd’s last series, Manhattan, which presaged the Cold War in recounting the Manhattan Project to develop atomic weapons, but the 35-year-old says he was not ready to return to television so quickly after two years in Santa Fe away from his native London. “I’d just move back to England—literally my furniture had just arrived,” he recalls about reading the script for Counterpart, “but it was something I felt I really wanted to be involved in straightway. You’ve got to sign away seven years of your life and they made it really easy.”

Lloyd may have spent a fair amount of his past few years on television, but like most English actors, he got his start on the stage, performing in school plays as a way to set himself apart. “I went off to boarding school when I was eight and that first term I got the main part in the junior play, I think because I was good at reading out loud,” he recalls. “Quite quickly, I found a thing that other people didn’t do at school and found my own little niche. It became a hobby but also my little escape and something where I had a bit of an identity suddenly in a school with a hundred kids.”

His “little escape” quickly turned into a passion and he continued performing on stage throughout his time studying English at Oxford. He credits his coursework with giving him a unique perspective on acting, even if he admits it did complicate things inside his head at times. “I noticed when I was at college that sometimes the two were pulling in different directions,” he explains. “In my studies, I was breaking down the text and putting it into little pieces and working out the science behind the art and then when I was doing the plays, it was the opposite. I was trying to take all these different fragments and build it up into something real. In some ways, I found that quite frustrating at times, but actually, I think the two experiences—if you can keep them in check—served me really well. Those are the two necessary parts I think you need.”

After graduating, Lloyd continued to act, even as he imagined his time was running out. “I always thought I’d have to go and do something proper,” he laughs—but that never came to pass. He had early roles in the BBC drama Robin Hood in 2006 and in Arthur Miller’s A View from the Bridge on the West End and was part of the first season of Game of Thrones. Supporting roles in The Riot Cluband The Theory of Everything followed, along with Manhattan. He’s spent the last several years mixing film, television, and stage, but his natural curiosity continues to seek out even more. “I would like to get into other forms of stuff,” he enthuses. “I’ve done radio and audiobooks and I enjoy all the different sides of it. I’d like to do a video game, I’d like to get into VR. Nowadays there are more and more different platforms and I think they all require slightly different emphases from the performance and what the audience needs to believe. I’m definitely into what the next steps are, what actors will be doing in ten, twenty, thirty years time compared to what they were doing thirty years ago.”

But for now, Lloyd’s focus remains Peter Quayle—both of them. After last week’s midseason cliffhanger, which left Quayle Alpha splattered with blood and close to discovery, things promise to only get more complicated. Fortunately, all the added layers are exactly what drew Lloyd to the series in the first place, resulting in a show that does not offer easy solutions. “You start second-guessing people and you start exploring what lies people are telling,” Lloyd says of Counterpart’s continuing evolution. ”You’re not given the answer straight away, but it encourages you to try and piece together your own narrative. I find that really rewarding.”

Counterpart continues on Sundays on Starz and is available on the Starz app.

#harry lloyd #counterpart #interview

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