#managed to redress my finger so i can draw | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

blankdblank · 3 years

Text

Ash

Requested by @devilishminx328

...

“Go my child, and be a good wife to your husband.” That was your order. Child to an old tradesman who wanted nothing but a son was given you, and so the widowed King came. You couldn’t even remember his name now your husband though you bore his rings and gifted necklace and watched him from this warped prison orb and heard the hungry pleading cries of your people that haunted your every waking moment. Then the flames came and another violent tremor came. He would do this often, lift the orb and toss it about until you cries out for him to stop or he lost amusement in your elder years when those cries never came.

One room castle and a lake of glass in a solid fake tundra was all you knew these days, that and the enchanted bag he gave you with all you would ever require inside. Still this was different while the castle jerked and into a wall you slammed hard to collapse gasping for air into the floor the orb turned and across to the other wall you slid eventually to be slammed hard into a beam on the roof. One more turn and you could hear glass shatter and all at once smoke billowed across your body that lay flat across a carpet in a library you’d long since forgotten.

Blinking through the smoke coughs helped to fill your lungs again with air. Hushed whimpers left you at the glass slicing into your palm from the orb broken to bits underneath your chest, arm and hand that drew blood from your collarbone down in scattered clusters now staining the top of your deep necked tunic with ties slightly frayed on the top cross of the tether that secured your cleavage from sight above the top of your vest. The pain from that however lasted barely a blink as a shriek left you in the turn of your head to find your dead husband strewn across the floor headless. In a panicked scramble away to the wall around your ankle the strap of your enchanted bag tangled.

Loud shouts outside the room drew an instant shrink of your pupils at the sight of a monstrous wave coming for the island kingdom. “Please no,” you whimpered and backed into a shelf of books your bloody hand rose to fumble against the wood to try and rise as if you could outrun the wave now blocking out the sun. “Help, some, someone, please.” Shouts and shrieks split the air and into an all you tucked hiding your face in your knees, warm tears spilling down your cheeks to another futile plea, “Someone, save me...”

All you knew was something hit your head, off the shelf a certain book had fallen and open landed on top of your head and engulfed you right as the first starving waves had touched the toe of your right boot.

Deep under the surface of the sunlit water thrashing you about your body unfurled and fought uselessly against the current that jerked you this way and that. Burning hot your lunges felt close to exploding while your every inch froze and burned at once to the stinging cluster of pain searing throughout everything from your muscles to your very veins that ached to pump blood at its usual speed again now slowing to lack of air. A firm hand twice the size of your arm circled your upper arm as a second drew you into the firm chest of a heavily bearded man now being tugged backwards to his tug on the rope around his waist. Swift and smooth you were brought to the surface to sputter and cough the agony away and face the chocolate haired Dwarf whose white haired brother helped you to your knees on the shore. The both silent until you stilled simply to let you regain your breath to the wind of the now untied rope and stares to the stunning jeweled necklace around your neck, matching ear covers, wedding rings and jeweled beads and ribbons woven all throughout your starlit raven curls hung about you like a wet blanket to the ground to pool in a small puddle all it’s own.

An upward tilt of your head to the first steady breath you could draw brought the gawking pair to your focus in their admiration of your brilliant purple silver flecked eyes unlike any they’d seen before. “Thank you,” you managed to say and the duo reached out their broad hands to help you to your feet, a move that had you realize they were a good half a foot shorter than you.

In a joint fumble of their hands at their sides the darker haired of the two spoke, “Not the season to be swimming.”

The dialect was rough yet came out like liquid honey, slow and constant that your ear covers enchanted to translate the languages of the music records you had to entertain yourself while trapped let you hear their meaning. “I wasn’t swimming, my home was washed away in a flood.”

The admission dropped the jaws of both men who looked to one another then guided you towards the city they called Dale once you untangled your bag from your ankle underneath your soaking wet heavily embroidered skirt with layers galore fighting to both drip and cling between steps to your legs, and slung the bag over your shoulder for their means to help. Right to a blacksmith’s shop you were led and to their joint conversation but he corner with a shirtless friend of theirs with an absurdly large mallet in hand glared between glances at yourself until you were tasked to shift various objects around and fetch a few things for him for the next few hours until he tired of you. His agreement came with a once over your appearance that had you reach into your bag for a hair tie you used to wind your hair back into a haphazard bun.

A simple tug on the ribbon around your waist had his lips part as to why you were taking off your skirt until he saw the front half fold back to fold over the belt around your waist with buckle to hold the skirt in place on top of your soaked black pants and knee high boots, a simple bow in the back and you were ready to get to work. He gestured to the first thing to move as you tied a cloth around your cut palm and added your rings to your necklace to keep them safe. Back and forth his eyes darted from you and his task until you stood beside him in his move to close up shop after the confused tall Man came to fetch the cross bow he had been repairing. From the handful of coins the lesser of the group was offered to you. “Know it won’t amount to much with the loss of your home, but it will fill your belly tonight.”

“Thank you,” you said with a flinch of a smile to the fold of your fingers around the coin laid atop the cloth with a hint of blood showing through the material that you would have to change soon.

Outward his hand stretched and he said, “Head to Broakbem’s shop, been belly aching all month about a new delivery person. Tell him I sent you and he’ll pay you per drop off.”

“Thank you, truly.”

He nodded his head to your next flinch of a grin that was barely able to appear at all while your heart was drowning you from the inside out at the loss of everything you had known and drop to complete obscurity after finally having found your freedom in whatever lands these were. “Your name, Lass?”

You almost said Princess, yet the word died on the back of your tongue and you simply stated, “Jaqiearae Pluto Pear.”

“Grunnd, welcome at my shop anytime Lass. It’s the one with the idiotic wooden frog outside.” You nodded again and turned to pass through the mingled crowd of those both shorter and absurdly taller than you all the way to your next employer. Each tall creature spent longer to keep their gaze on you in wonder at the smoke coated Elleth in their midst none could name with glimmering adornments to the gracefully pointed ears still glimmering faintly in the random streams of sunlight as the only patches of clean visible skin. Doubt was in his eyes but by the smoke and signs of dirty palms you were led to the bath to scrub up and redress your wound some ointment was given for along with those still giving off their dying drops of blood to the scabs now stretched across them. The wife helped to get the blood off your shirt at least in fevered scrubs of a lemon and some rough cloth and with basket in hand you were off to add some more weight to your coin purse.

Stop by stop you crossed from one end of the city to the other and back again by aid of an enchanted compass from your bag that helped to aim you to any destination you were given. Each location more curious than the next the more your bun dropped until on your next trip back to the shop your hands rose to split sections of your insubordinate curls that were wound into a long braid your hair tie looped on your thumb was used to secure the end of to bounce to and fro behind your hips for the remainder of the day. Across your face however the section of curls that sideways lay sideways in a swoop cut to your chin freed themselves from the braid to shift and float then drop with each huff you gave in their taunting slide to cover your face fully.

Golden, fiery or lovely shades of brown locks were scattered amongst the other tall beings with ears like yours with only raven locks on the bearded shorter peoples that flowed around you trading head bobs in for each that managed to catch your eye. And for all your efforts once back inside the shop a similar coin to the one Grunnd had given you laid in your palm expecting to accept the final basket on the counter to trade for the empty one you had returned with the Husband said, “Wagons for Greenwood will be leaving shortly. Can’t risk you to miss your ride home, Lass. But you come back on the morning wagons Tuesday and you can earn double that with a full days work.”

“Thank you, I’ll be here.” Was your answer and withholding the irritation you felt for not earning very much at all for all that effort outside again you found yourself to once again dig out your compass and mutter, “Greenwood?”

The arrow turned and with it your feet moved to follow the cobbled lane in the downward reach to untie the same ribbon on your skirt to tie it forward again to the sight of more of your fellow pointy eared numbers all entering the same lane apparently off towards the same mysterious wagons. Seven open wagons surrounded by a group with what seemed to be scale coated outer shirts in deep green on horseback who in pairs split off to guide each wagon once full. The final wagon half full with items was all that was left once you had arrived and behind the redhead in front of you up you climbed to sit on the end of the bench inside to catch the curious gaze of the armed scale armor clad Elf who would follow the wagon. To her had bob you mirrored the motion then faced forward in a try to ignore the constant stare of her and the glances back of the rider in front of the wagon wondering where this straggler had come from who was clearly injured.

Trees, miles of trees and a distant looming wall finally came into view that held a hidden entrance that you rode to and found yourself in the sights of more and more Elves at the stop of the wagon clearly near what would be stables for the horses they had ridden and used to pull the wagons. Last on and first off you stood underneath an endless tree head tilted back in awe until a voice drew your gaze lower to a different nodding redhead, “The public supper is served and the guard patrols should be done with the public baths once you are fed.”

“Oh, thank you,” you said in a turn to follow her guiding head nod behind the others to grant the other guards a chance to disclose to the Captain of the Guard just where this newcomer had joined their people. The most they could have learned was from a seamstress who overheard the Smith you had worked for that you were fished from the river and spoke of a flood that took your home. A fate that instantly, while still wary of you, extended their kindness to keep an eye out for any pains or sorrow you might bear from the terrible loss whether you chose to stay here or possibly request travel to another Elven Kingdom closet to where you were washed away from.

Timid and with eyes forward behind the Elf you had trotted to catch up to in line you waited to accept a large bowl of what seemed to be a hearty stew over rice under a butter brushed roll that had your mouth water to the point you nearly missed your turn to step to the table of glasses where you chose what smelled to be a fruit juice mixture with at least peach and cranberry in it. A half empty table called your name and on the stool there you sat careful to not knock it over and make a scene by accidentally hurling your food across table behind you in a fall backwards. Just the bowl and glass was where your focus was until your eyes rose to the ripple of Elves who stood up in the entrance of a trio of what you would have considered impossibly tall Elves with the same Captain if the Guard who had tipped you off to the free meal.

With the females around you in a curtsey you dipped in a lower of your eyes from the apparent King with a crown of silver branches topped with daisies and forget me nots that held back his long white locks, dressed in a long robe of silver between a second platinum haired Elf with scaled armor who wasn’t on the guard for the wagons, both with stoic expressions contrary to their golden haired companion. His long waist length curls held back in a ribbon ponytail dressed in a deep green robe to the knee accented with silver seams, quiver in his back and bow in hand. The three in your dip now with eyes on the lone raven haired Elleth in their midst. Hushedly in a mental inquiry the King asked in a dart of his eyes off the stranger now in their rise, “We have a guest?”

Tauriel replied, “Yes one of our Seamstresses overhead she was pulled from the river near Dale. A flood destroyed her home.”

Far more serious his face flinched in his glare to the wall ahead on news of another possible Elf Kingdom that had lost its foothold by accident or malicious intent. Five more steps he took in silence in the relax of his face to its prior stoic rest spot and he replied, “I shall send out inquiries of where those lands may be. Should our kin be scattered we should ready for more survivors of the flood or possibly belongings washed ashore.”

Behind their backs amongst the others you lowered to sit again, smoothing your skirts against your legs and the spoon in your bowl was lifted again for another filling bite. Not until a warm tear had rolled down your cheek the sink of your mood had been brought to your attention. Hastily you wiped away the tear and straightened up in a try to not break down in front of everyone. Two coins was all you had towards the future and the words of that shop keep popped in your head, Tuesday, he would see you Tuesday, four days away only made you wonder how you could fund your way here in this kingdom if you didn’t get free food daily at least once.

Empty bowl in hand the path to the trays to collect the dishes you walked and out curiously inspecting the halls that your compass guided you to towards the public bath. Only a few of the Elves were headed that way and past a door of steam from the open archway a length of hot springs and a waterfall far in the distance, past the open baths you walked towards the screen separated area where you assumed privacy would be guaranteed. Once inside the area you inhaled sharply at the sound of others in each closed off area. Sure to seal the opening to the tub you went and gave the sliding hatch a tug that let water from the spring inside until you sealed it again. Near to scalding the water shot out, you were glad to have done this first and turned to begin removing your layers. Near to tears the necklace holding your wedding rings was tucked into a pocket on the side of your enchanted bag you debated internally if you should wear them again now that your supposed husband was clearly dead. Down to nothing you stripped and with comb in hand each curl was seen to both before your wash and rinse.

Harsh and bad enough to make you bite your lip the palm of your hand stung once in the water along with your other cuts and scrapes you were unaware that the water was trying to heal. Soap from your bag was lifted and used to wash the rest of you. A soak didn’t seem to be possible at the sounds around you only heightening your nerves at being so bare to near public that killed your try to relax and soak a while. Right away you wrapped yourself in the towel there and released the drain hatch. Back to the bag you went and the underwear beside it were lifted and wiggled on up under the towel you then removed to better dry the rest of you to keep the mint green dress you had chosen to put on with long sleeves in case it got chilly later on. Simple shakes cleaned your clothes with mental charms before you eased them back into your bag. The set aside socks beside it that reached your knee were next to keep your boots from rubbing the skin more than necessary you added afterwards.

It didn’t matter truly, that was what you told yourself, who gave you the ring with a large rectangular emerald with two square diamonds on either side surrounded by more diamonds to wrap around the band paired with an all diamond wedding band. Onto your ring finger they were added again with your necklace to follow. Out again you went and alone you walked through the halls with your compass in hand unable to find a direction to a hotel or sort of room to rent for the night. Simply to keep from crying you strolled around with curls loose down your back, every lamp and torch along the way reflecting off the star like speckles trapped in each shadowy curl that drew attention from each guard and worker to the new stranger among them. Kitchens, a wine cellar and several empty halls were between you and the library where you ended up. Nice and quiet even a try to read ended up useless, though a window bench in the apparently forgotten corner of the kingdom was where you slept.

Dawn was there to wake you and a guest bath was slipped in and out of to rinse away the tear stains from tears that had escaped you in the night. Back again you wandered the halls until a face from the crowds from the day prior on your wagon ride who shared that you could walk with them to the public breakfast. In a means to be kind he showed you to his table and on the end you simply listened to the conversation between the others until a huff in a shared task they were appointed with had your eyes lift and for that you volunteered. It was just the once but the option to hand over a tedious task became an avalanche all its own and for each task you completed more coins were handed over in return. While you were new and did draw attention everyone did have to appreciate how you had secured a firm place to stand in the numerous jobs to begin again.

Half the morning on your latest assignment was spent in rearranging a storage room that others usually mopped around the mounds of junk, trunks and crates that now after your furious cleaning frenzy aided by years of solitude and angry scrubbing was a tea room of sorts. Furniture was arranged and paintings leaned against the walls on tables at the lack of nails with shelves now housing the decorative objects you had found. Halfway burning and throbbing your palm, now freshly cleaned and rewrapped was pressed to your middle on the path back to the meet up with the Elf who had skipped on the task who gladly handed over two coins for the task. He then introduced you to the next one who had a couple jobs for you so he could spend some more time with his sweetheart he was wooing into a courtship. Change some towels and hand off some books and paperwork that would be required by others across the kingdom for a meeting.

Beyond in a bad mood King Thranduil was storming his way back to his apartment for some well needed time alone. Aloofly taking notice of each head bobbing to him along the way mingled with a few curtsies in between. At least until his eyes rose to the staircase that lay between him and his floor and the new face to his halls was trotting down the steps with a haphazard pile of towels, books and scrolls pinned to their chest while their other hand clutched the hem of their mint dress.

Zero acknowledgement came from the odd new arrival who breezed right up to his side where she said trotting onwards, “On the stairs in a dress I’ll bow at the bottom or I’ll fall!” With each word mid step the King shifted to watch her path to the bottom where she promptly turned released her hem to dip into a hurried curtsy then grab her skirt again saying, “Your Majesty, very late, you look lovely today, periwinkle, very dashing on you, bye bye.” As soon as she had popped up again her body turned with a whip of those shadowy star speckled curls his eyes trailed over shamelessly and off she trotted again leaving just the puzzled King to turn to continue the shift of his weight on his higher foot to continue climbing the steps. Though now with the corner of his mouth unknowingly ticked upwards ever so slightly.

She was the reason he was upset, however indirectly, that loss of her home stirred up all the pain and fears trapped deep within him. It couldn’t be helped any threat to any of his kin, however distant always triggered something. Although she seemed at least a hint content here in these new lands that gave him a hope that she might stay here and not wish to be transferred to another kingdom. Brief glimpses others had given notice that some means of work had been gathered already along with what he hoped to be a hint of friendship that could brew amongst his people and her.

Letters, a full bundle of them, had been sent off to every kingdom within flight range for his messenger birds with requests to send out word even farther to see where this storm had swept that woman into those waters. There were only two locations that that area of the river had stemmed from, the Forest River and the less likely far Southern Celdwin River. Only Angmar was close to the Forest River which ran through his lands that contained no hidden kingdom he was not aware of, he knew of a few treetop communities who chose not to live inside the mountain keep he ruled over but none of them had her face or those dark starry curls.

There wasn’t a kingdom he could think of that could have had the materials or designs to the embroidered scenes across the skirts of both from yesterday and today’s. Not to mention those gems, just those clear stones alone void of any glow were strange, not of this continent he had ever seen and he was older than the sun itself. Just a necklace and ring, the latter his focus to his bedroom had centered on in wonder for lack of view on what finger it sat on. Though by the time he plopped into his chair a hand rose up for fingers to trail over the edges of his own ear with mind honed in on the decoration to that Elleth’s ears, an adornment that made her all the rarer as to where he could have gotten them.

“Lovely,” you muttered to yourself inside your head, “Called the King lovely, first meeting, you’re lovely…” Mid handoff of the scrolls all you could think of was the yet to be seen Queen that would toss you out of the front gates to leave you to the wilds alone if he did share your nerve wracked slip of the tongue.

Books were handed over next when you heard the name of the King in passing and that of the Prince in a hushed mention on the late Queen’s sitting room for guests having been fixed up. Towels however was what you shook your mind to focus on distributing them to where they were needed. And far off of the widowed King and the Elves stunned about the now fixed up room you couldn’t understand what the importance to everyone that it had been fixed up unless it was another public space you would one day run across.

Orange in hand you sat down on a bench outside overlooking a distant grazing herd of Elk and a closer group of horses milled around lazily on their warm afternoon. Another bite of the slice in your fingertips and a tan stallion with a dark mane turned its head and began to walk over. The curly haired blonde from the day prior had the stallion huffing and stomping off at his call to go for a ride spoiling his snack.

Loud whinnies however broke your focus and from the bench you rose and strolled across the tall grass glad you had changed into a pair of trousers and a loose tunic vest pair. The past few days had been tiring and tomorrow you had decided to rest up before the infamous Tuesday return to Dale where you would be racing across that city once again. Nearly to eight feet tall and furious a dappled mare bucked and jumped inside a stall alone in the stables another Elf had simply walked out of with a dejected sigh at the furious creature. Who upon his exit flared its nostrils at you, “Hey do you want an orange slice?” A try to offer the slice had it turn and kick the door that bowed and straightened again. From the door to the horse your eyes shifted and you said, “Can’t be comfortable in here all by your lonesome. Why won’t anyone take you out in the sun?”

Loudly a whinny and snort was your reply and you said, “Ooh, you want to bite me, don’t you? Well, see you’ll have to be let out to do that won’t you grumpy?” The slide of the pin you removed from the lock had its eyes dart from the door to you and back again as you turned to stroll to the door. “I’m gonna go for a run if you feel like getting some sun.”

Just past the large open doorway you heard the door to the stall open triggering your pleased smirk. The orange finished off in a couple more bites. Off towards the pathway through the trees while winding up your long braid into a bun to keep it from your face or catching on anything. Hoof steps behind you sounded the exit of the mare who looked around for the one who had set her loose.

Just on the cusp of the tree line however you finished off the orange and pressed more weight into the hall of one foot at the sound of the horse picking up its pace to catch up to you. Slow at first you began a trot gaining speed at the echoing hooves that sped up to catch you. Sight of the horse in chase not missed by the head of the herd of Elk had him rapidly in chase as well to aid in a stop to any try for an attack. Giggled comments to the horse to egg her on in the now apparent race calmed the Elk who now remained in chase but hung back to ensure no harm would come to the little Elleth.

That particular mare was known to be temperamental however Former Queen and mother to King Thranduil had been the one to take her and gain trust enough to ride her and since her choose to sail to Valinor the young mare had not taken the loss of its partner very well at all. This was an odd way to gain a horse’s trust. Yet to simply see her in more than a reluctant stroll and plop under a tree when the stables grew too warm in the summer warmed the hearts of the Elk and now the two young stallion you raced last that gleefully trotted after your group soon to gain more shadows.

Normally you would be bested easily at the speed you were at, yet thanks to this winding path you had a good lead from the horse and Elk who watched you pick up speed in the sights of the paused Lord Glorfindel who had come in curiosity of the sound of thundering hooves in this part of the woods. Atop his tan colored steed he sat with mouth open at the full speed charge you gave to the fallen log blocking off the return path to the long grass pastures that had been yet to be cleared after their last storm had blown it over there. More that six feet into the air you leapt with a tuck to your legs nearly to your chest to clear the log. A move that had the Lord holding his breath until the confirming sound of your feet back into the dirt that shifted in two dips below your feet. Three more steps came before a startled squeak and a thunk with pained giggles to follow.

Sat there in awe he watched the Elk in his dart around the mare to leap a good foot above the log. Who landed and was seen from the cheek up over it in a slowed trot to circle and stop in a stare at the ground in the leap of the other five young horses. Who each gave excited an whinny for their safe landing, the last turned to find their little brother walking around the end of the fallen log in their short stature that kept them from possibly making it that was welcomed back by brother and friends for having kept up to that point. Their celebration moved to their parents still grazing in the stroll of the mare to the log the speckled mare looked over to see you still on the ground tapping your fingers to your bloody temple. A raised knot in a log was all it took for you to tumble and bump your head into another root that couldn’t move fast enough to prevent harm.

Off to the side you waited in front of the Elk that loomed over your head with each pass of the horses in the still of the world that had just been spinning for a few moments. And up onto your elbows you propped yourself now feeling the pinch in your ankle you had twisted to lock eyes with the mare asking, “Are you trying to say you can’t get over that log? I have seen your legs you know.” She replied with a glare and an irritated whinny and you said, “I’ve got two legs and I made it and you’re way taller than me.” Again she snorted and turned sharp to stomp her way back to where Glorfindel sat in a fight to not smirk and watch the turn and lightning race back to the log. She soared high above it with a smooth landing and loud whinnies to gloat about the better form and elevation in her prance away to the sight of the confused Elleth who had brought her next meal who saw her in the pasture after being told she wouldn’t let anyone let her out again today.

This was gonna be difficult, but all the same you pressed your hands into the dirt and hoisted yourself up into your good foot. Much easier though with the snout that scooped under your back to get you up from the Elk. In a pivot you turned and gave him a kind pat, “Thank you. I’m all good I’ll hobble my way in now.” His head rose so he could watch your pained try to put weight on your left foot to get simply a hurried limp of a step. Right over the top of the log he caught eyes with the Lord’s back and huffed. Three steps and his head lowered again, this time to scoop you up mid hopping step onto his antler to with ease begin the trot to the Palace.

Straight inside he went and in a frozen state of shock you sat in full view of the scattered Elves that parted to allow the Elk past in each hall and corridor from one end of the kingdom to the other. Even past the Elf King who turned on his way to a meeting to see the dirt coated bloody guest his Elk was delivering to the Healing Wing that narrowed his eyes in confusion for what could have happened to urge his steed Tuo to take it upon himself to deliver you to be healed right away. A huff was given and he turned to head for his meeting with assurance to himself that he would find you later to inquire upon what had occurred.

Right to the double doors left open you were carried with echoes of hooves that turned the Healers’ heads to gawk at the injured guest they hurried over to help down. And with your weight braced to hop to one of the empty beds while the Elk you thanked turned to trot back to his herd content the little Elleth was being seen to. Damp cloths helped to find the wounds both from today and days prior that were rinsed and came with a trip to the private bath there. Stripped in the midst of a trio of Elleths over your head and limbs water pitchers were poured for a bath before the soak to heal your injuries would come. Gently they lowered your cut hand into the water while under the surface another rubbed and stretched your twisted ankle that the swelling was dropping steadily. From your bag a change of clothes was found and at their refusal to take payment you walked out of the Healing Wing to find a place to hide after the embarrassing ride through so many people that no doubt would put you as the biggest joke of the year.

The library was helpful for that again and late to supper there were few still there by the time you took your seat to eat and then return to your hiding spot. The absence was not missed and many an Elf took it upon themselves to search for the injured newcomer in a means to check on you and to share you were not the first citizen that the steeds had drug off to the Healing Wing in case of any embarrassment with ample ready to share their tales. Both of the trip and the personal meetings with the King afterwards in an assurance for him that they weren’t too terribly injured and were seen to with the utmost care.

Always Thranduil had assumed he was in charge of things around his kingdom, now he was not so certain. One newcomer and everything had changed. Each and every guest chamber had been searched after the first night when his trip to the usual Elleths that ran the refuge dwellings that you should have been assigned to had turned up empty. This was how it went. Newcomers arrive, are fed then bathe and then led to one of the refuge dwellings until they had confirmed that this was where they felt a wish to remain then amongst the guest quarters an apartment would be assigned, normally near to a friend they had made.

Nowhere, you had been assigned nowhere, the illustrious Mistress Pear. According to echoes from the Dale trip and the few you had spoken to who hadn’t quite caught what your first name leaving him to an odd surname that left him to assume you might hail from some sliver of mortals to have a surname at all, as it was not formatted to be the name of an ancestor or parent by their culture rules on stating such lineages.

By the minute after his hearing that you had left both the Healing Wing and Public Supper Hall his rage bubbled out from his hours of irritation as to what impression as a King he had given this kind, hard working and now injured refugee that was dwelling who knows where each night at this apparent massive skimp in regulations to ensure his people were safe. He would find you tomorrow, somehow if he had to ride to Dale himself and apologize fervently until you forgave him and his people. But for tonight he knew what he would do, turn from his usual maps and consult the older records to find some sort of hint as to where that flood could have stemmed from to wash you up here alone with still no sight of anyone or anything else in the rivers nearby.

And that was exactly where he found his answer, not to the maps, but to you. Faced away from him with starlit curls hung to the ground off the end of the window bench you were draped across on your side with bag as your pillow he found you. For who knows how long he stood there with hand blocking the lantern light with his free hand he had used to light his way as he stood watching your sleeping sniffle. Clearly deep in sleep a regulatory sniffle had come once then again to the streams of tears that in the reflection on the window were tears that rolled out across the edge of your nose while you slept. Each one stabbed deeper into his chest in an endless internal scream of pleas to know why you wept and how he may just smooth off the edges of that pain away with an apartment or anything else you may desire.

The Prince with word of his latest patrol broke his stare and claimed one of his own a moment to have his father show him to the hall where he said, “You are in one piece. I take it your patrol went well?”

“Ada,” the Prince was barely able to voice, sharply he drew in a breath and asked, “That is where the new guest has been sleeping?”

“For at least tonight it would seem. I shall meet with her in the morning to discuss her living quarters myself as there has been an egregious error that has left her to this window bench for a bed.” In a sweep of his eyes over his son’s face at his glance to the doorway again he asked, “The patrols?”

Pt 2

All –

@himoverflowers, @theincaprincess, @aspiringtranslator, @thegreyberet, @patanghill17, @jesgisborne, @curvestrology, @alishlieb, @jogregor, @armitageadoration, @fizzyxcustard, @lilith15000, @marvels-ghost, @catthefearless, @imjusthereforthereads, @c-s-stars, @otakumultimuse-hiddlewhore, @mariannetora, @shes-a-killer-kween, @ggbbhehe4455

Hobbit/LotR – @abiwim, @jotink78, @pastelhexmaniac

X Thranduil - @evyiione, @sweetlytenacious25, @tigereyesf, @pastelhexmaniac, @otakumultimuse-hiddlewhore

x Ash - @fandomsstolemylife00, @lilith15000

#Fallen to Middle Earth #Haunted Stranger #Lost Kingdom #Starting Over #New Jobs #Making friends #Building Trust #Culture Clash #Culture Shock #Confused Thranduil #Request

47 notes · View notes

thetomorrowshow · 3 years

Text

unless you take your army back ch. 4

First - Previous - Next - Read on AO3!

okay so I’m moving to college this week!!! My updates will probably be delayed or sporadic until I figure out my schedule, but I will definitely not stop writing :)

cw: temporary paralysis, blood, injuries

Crutchie twitched into wakefulness when he heard noise, and was almost instantly annoyed. Had he slept right through the whole day? He’d wanted to practice walking some more before anyone got back, had only been planning on napping for a few minutes. With the commotion around him, it sounded like everyone was already returning.

Crutchie cracked open his eyes to see Jack, sitting in that chair that he’d taken over for the past week. He was drawing something, the tip of his tongue sticking out the corner of his mouth.

Around the room were a few of the guys--Mush, Blink, Buttons, Henry, Romeo. Romeo had been returning home earlier than normal, falling right into bed and lying there until Jack made him leave so Crutchie could redress his wounds. In moments of quiet, when Jack was dozing in his chair, Romeo would creep over to Crutchie’s side and whisper about how badly his head was pounding, how he felt dizzy and tired. His head had been hit pretty hard in the riot, so it wasn’t exactly surprising. The others were all still nursing various bruises and scrapes.

Jack looked up now, dropping his art as he saw Crutchie was awake. He looked bad, to be honest--his hair was sticking up awkwardly under his cap, eyes swollen and face grimy. Crutchie didn’t ask about it, just nodded to him.

“Hey, Crutchie,” Jack sighed, rubbing at his eyes. “How ya feelin’?”

Crutchie shoved away the irritation at being asked that again. Did Jack expect his answer to change just because he took a nap? He ignored the question, stretching out a little bit, relieved to find that stretching almost felt good.

“Romeo,” Crutchie called past Jack. A hand lifted from Romeo’s bunk. “How’s ya head?”

“Better ‘n better,” Romeo called back. “Think I’s just about good as new!”

Crutchie wished he could say the same. He felt like he was going to fall apart every moment he was awake, and even some of those when he was asleep. He hadn’t been having nightmares, exactly--just a vague sense of fear, death around the corner. Exactly like how the Refuge had felt. Maybe that did count as a nightmare, even if he never saw anything.

“Crutchie, I gotta have a meetin’ with the boys,” Jack interrupted his thoughts. “I didn’t wanna leave afore you woke, or wake you up. I brought ya a sandwich, here.” Jack handed him a small bundle of paper, presumably wrapping a sandwich. Then he left the room, beckoning for the other boys to follow without even letting Crutchie thank him. Romeo groaned, but rolled out of bed and followed.

They were going to have a newsies meeting . . . without him?

Crutchie frowned as he unwrapped the sandwich. He really wasn’t all that hungry, despite the only thing he’d ingested being the coffee from this morning. He was still a newsie, even if he couldn’t do the job lately. Wasn’t he?

This . . . this hurt, more than the stinging lashes on his back, more than the sharp pain in his chest when he breathed, more than the sickly aching of his bad leg. He’d been present for every newsie meeting ever since he started living here, and they were just going to have one without him?

Jack had always made sure to include him in everything. Even when some of the other guys didn’t make the effort, Jack did. And now Jack was purposefully excluding him. Just because--because, what, he couldn’t walk? That had never changed anything.

He really had to get back to work. Soon. They had to be leaving him out of it because he wasn’t technically a newsie, right? He felt bad even thinking that. Of course he was a newsie, he always would be. Newsie meant more than a career--at least, it did to him. Maybe none of the others thought of it the same way.

Crutchie morosely picked at his sandwich, putting tiny, manageable pieces into his mouth. The swelling of his face had almost completely gone down, but that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt to move his jaw. Nor did it mean he wanted to eat at all.

Maybe they just didn’t want to disturb him? That was decent of them, he supposed, but not at all what he wanted. He wanted to be involved, prove he was getting better, see the guys and laugh with them again.

Unbidden, an image of the Refuge on that calm day popped into his head. All those boys, worked to death for no purpose, celebrating in what ways they possibly could while Snyder was out of the building. They included the sick, the hurt, the broken.

Now Crutchie was actually getting a bit annoyed. They weren’t even going to try to hide their meeting, or ask if he wanted to participate? He wasn’t a child. He could assess his own limits and make good choices. In fact, if Jack had just told him straight out that they were going to have a meeting and what it was about, and invited Crutchie to join them, he probably would have turned him down in favor of rest.

Jack hadn’t said that, though. Jack had left, taken everyone else with him, had mentioned it offhand like it wasn’t important at all. What kind of friend--brother--did that?

Crutchie rewrapped the sandwich as well as he could manage, his fingers trembling as usual. He was so sick of this. Sick of barely being capable of any fine motor skills, sick of not wanting to eat, sick of sleeping the day away. He hated feeling so weak. He hated the others seeing him so weak.

Mind made up, Crutchie sat up the rest of the way from his reclining position. His entire body ached, and for the first time in a long time, Crutchie wished he had a drink to numb it. He shook the thought away after contemplating it for a moment. He didn’t need another problem to deal with, another expense to owe. Not to mention, there was no way he’d get it past Jack.

His crutch was still within easy reach, but placing it under his arm reminded him uncomfortably of the cut there that was now stiff with dried blood. He probably shouldn’t irritate it anymore, should probably take the empty room as a chance to clean the wound and rewrap it.

Crutchie didn’t do that. Instead, he stood up.

He almost doubled over immediately. How was the pain that much worse than it was this morning? He hadn’t been doing anything, just sleeping. Wasn’t he supposed to be feeling at least a bit better?

He didn’t back down, though. Crutchie straightened his back, breathed in and out for a few moments, then swung forward.

His bad leg dragging against the floorboards shot needles of pain up through his body, but his knee trembled and gave out when he tried to lift it up. Dragged on the floor it was.

Just the one step had made his entire body break out in a light sweat, but still he hobbled forward. This step was easier than the last. His back stung with the stretch of his shoulder, fingers trembled around the grip of his crutch. He could do this. He hadn’t survived the Refuge just to not be able to cross a room. The next step was going to be easier still.

It wasn’t, but it wasn’t necessarily worse. Crutchie’s good leg wobbled from lack of use and fatigue, his breathing so heavy that he imagined he could feel his ribs scraping together. That would explain the pain, right?

The door seemed to be forever away. Crutchie took another hop toward it, then another, then a third in quick succession, almost trying to outrun the exhaustion that was beginning to fill his bones. He dimly registered that under his right arm, up against where his crutch chafed, was sticky. That was probably not very good.

Crutchie paused for a moment, his head pounding in time with his pulse. He could do this. He looked around, trying to distract himself from what felt like his body failing. The room wasn’t all that dark, even though the sun had completely set outside. Only one of the windows was still open, the one that led out to the fire escape right next to the bed that Crutchie had been spending the week in. A few candles or lanterns were scattered around, giving the room a familiar nighttime ambience.

Crutchie took another step, breathing in short gasps--the smooth wood felt like spikes underneath his bum leg, his chest was tearing apart from the inside out, his back had to be on fire, every single part of his body was aching and trembling.

One more step sent his legs collapsing from under him, his body slamming into the floor. Crutchie cried out quietly, shoving his fist into his mouth to muffle the sound. Not that it really mattered. There was no way that fall went unheard. The bedframe closest to him was still shaking from the impact.

He wasn’t sure that he was going to be awake in time for anyone to find him, though. Black was encroaching on the edge of his vision, increasing with every agonizing thrum of his injuries. Something sticky was dripping down his back, sticking it to his shirt, but Crutchie didn’t have the time to consider it before the world was completely black.

He wasn’t quite . . . asleep, though. He couldn’t surrender to the darkness yet, some hidden reserve of energy fighting for any thread of consciousness. The pain of his body was distant, something separated from his current state.

There was a crashing sound--the door?--then a sea of gasps and shouts and bangs and so, so much noise. Crutchie couldn’t move a muscle--not that he’d really want to, that would hurt. Still, he wished he could’ve given some sign to Jack that he wasn’t asleep. Jack, who was now brushing his hair away from his eyes.

“Crutchie,” came Jack’s frantic voice, “Crutch, can you hear me? C’mon, bud. It’s okay.”

“What happened?”

“Whaddya think?”

“Well I dunno, or I wouldn’ta asked!”

“Shuddup, Jack’s tryna focus!”

“Crutchie, please wake up. What were ya tryna do?”

I am awake, Jack, Crutchie desperately wanted to say. I’m fine. But his mouth wouldn’t respond to anything he tried. He was limp, yet frozen in place.

“Should I get a doctor?”

“See anyone here what can afford one?”

“He’s breathin’,” Jack said, so close that Crutchie could feel his breath on his cheek. A fist wrapped around Crutchie’s wrist and he panicked, tried to wriggle away from whoever it was about to drag him to his next torture session. He didn’t move at all, though, and the hand was gentle and pressed against one spot of his arm for several seconds before pulling away.

“Pulse is sorta quick I think, but his skin’s too warm. Albert, he--” Jack’s voice broke-- “help me get ‘im ta bed?”

Strong arms scooped him up, and once again Crutchie tried to throw himself away from them, his heart racing with fear. Once again, he could not move. He was half aware of who was touching him, and why, but the other half of his brain was too far in the shadow to realize that it was safe, that they were helping him.

Soon enough, he was laying on something soft and Crutchie almost let it overtake him, almost gave in to the darkness pulling at him. A feeling of--shame?--rose up, though, making it impossible to let go.

He hadn’t even made it across the room. Maybe not even halfway. He’d wanted to go to their stupid meeting, surprise them by being functional, insist that he could go out and sell at least for a little while tomorrow. Jack would never let him now, not after this stunt. Not after this failure.

“He’s bleedin’ through ‘is shirt, Jack, see?”

“I see, Blink, no need to call it to the world.”

“I’ll get the bandages, where they at?”

Crutchie’s heart seized. He couldn’t let them fix him up, they’d see! They’d see everything, all the lashes and cuts and marks from beatings. He’d seen how upset and uncomfortable just his visible ones made them, he couldn’t--he didn’t want--

Jack’s voice cut through his thoughts. “No, he wouldn’t want that. He’d be real mad if he woke up ta see we’d done exactly what he said not to.”

“So what we gonna do, Jack?”

“Jackie, somebody’s got to help Crutchie. If none of us can afford a doctor, somebody will have to do it. Who do you think Crutchie would want to do it?”

“No one, he ain’t wantin’ no one! He ain’t even let me do it, Davey, he don’t want us seein’!”

Jack sounded unbearably upset. Crutchie tried for what felt like the thousandth time to open his eyes, but his lids were just so heavy. Why was Davey here? Wait, Les was here too, he’d heard his voice earlier. They were included in the newsies meeting, when Crutchie himself wasn’t?

“Isn’t there anyone--”

“Katherine. But she’s--wait--Race--”

“Yeah?”

“Head down ta Medda’s, see if Kath’s there for a show. Bring ‘er back if she is, got that?”

“No problem, Jack!”

A door slammed distantly. Crutchie took a break from trying to force his body to move. It would hurt a lot if he succeeded, anyway. Maybe he should just sleep.

Someone was holding his hand, gently, rubbing his knuckles, and Crutchie wished he could squeeze their hand. Anything to show he was okay.

He wasn’t okay, though, was he? As he thought about it, the pain that had been distant and disconnected mere moments ago was becoming clearer and sharper. Why? Couldn’t he have a moment’s reprieve? Couldn’t he just get better already?

“Crutchie, can you hear me? Can you open your eyes for me?”

He wanted to, couldn’t Jack see that?

“Did he move?”

“Yeah, a little. His face, y’know?”

His face had moved? How had he managed that? Nothing had seemed to change--maybe his eyelids had twitched from his ceaseless attempts to open them.

The pain was spreading, bringing back every memory of how it came. Crutchie didn’t want to cope with it right now. He didn’t want to feel. He didn’t want to hear Jack pleading with him to wake up. He just wanted darkness.

Finally, Crutchie surrendered to the sleep pulling on his bones. He could rest for a minute, before trying to open his eyes again. Jack would understand.

It felt like forever until Crutchie could hear their voices again, but he still couldn’t move. In his mind it felt like he was drowning, thrashing about just under the surface. Each time he struggled to move, he just sank lower and lower, until he was full-on panicking, freaking out entirely while never outwardly moving a muscle.

It was mentally exhausting, and after some time, Crutchie had to take a moment to rest or risk losing this little taste of consciousness. He wasn’t quitting, he told himself, trying to placate his mind. He just needed a rest. As he did, though, it felt as if he rose, just a tiny bit, closer to the surface.

It took a few tries, but Crutchie forced himself to stop struggling. He relaxed as much as he could, and the longer he waited, the faster he rose--until--

With a release of air that almost sounded like a groan, Crutchie opened his eyes. Immediately the talking ceased, and Crutchie registered that there were several faces crowding around him. He blinked a few times: Jack, closest. Then Albert, Davey, and Henry, a little further down. Crutchie opened his mouth a few times, swallowing away the dry feeling as well as he could, then spoke.

“Hey?”

There were sighs; Jack’s head dropped to his hands, Albert rolled his eyes, Davey stepped away.

When Jack looked back up, there were tears in his eyes. Crutchie shifted uncomfortably, then gritted his teeth when his injuries all reminded him of their existence. Davey returned with two glasses of water, one of which he handed to Jack, the other he pushed against Crutchie’s mouth. Crutchie accepted it without complaint--he wasn’t sure that he could make his fingers grip the glass right now.

After he finished drinking and Davey had placed the glass somewhere on the floor, Crutchie met Jack’s red-rimmed eyes. Jack stared at him for a moment.

“What in Manhattan was you thinkin’?”

Crutchie cringed. What had he been thinking? Well, he’d wanted to be a part of the meeting, but now he wished he’d gotten over his anger. How was Jack ever going to believe that he was good enough to be a newsie now? Shame rose, bile-like, in his throat, as he opened his mouth to speak.

Jack cut him off before he could even say anything. “D’you know how much you scared the guys? What made ya think you could walk, ‘specially without help? How did ya get the idea into your pointy little head that it was somehow okay? Tell me what you was thinkin’. Tell me ‘xactly what thoughts led to ya doin’ somethin’ so stupid.”

Maybe he would, Crutchie thought with a prickle of irritation, if Jack would shut up. Jack kept on talking, though.

“Ya know ya made Elmer cry, right? You coulda been dead, for all we knew. We was so scared and you wouldn’t even wake up!”

“Jack--” Davey started, placing a hand on Jack’s shoulder, but Jack shrugged him off. Other than the three of them, the room was empty. Albert and Henry must have left at some point.

“It ain’t been a week since you was in the Refuge--” Crutchie flinched, Jack didn’t seem to notice, too caught up in his gesticulating hands and beginning to pace in the small space beside the bed-- “and here you is, tryin’ ta walk like it ain’t happened. Ya can’t even walk normally, how the he--”

“I was tryin’ ta go to the meeting,” Crutchie burst out, face red. Yes, he was ashamed of it. No, he did not need Jack jumping down his throat like that. “I-I miss seein’ everyone,” he added. It wasn't a lie, not exactly. He did miss the guys, a lot.

Jack paused in his short pacings, looking down at Crutchie with his mouth wide open. “Why didn’t ya say nothin’?” he asked loudly, as if Crutchie was slow. “I coulda brought everyone up for a few.”

Crutchie snorted, his face still burning. “Not like you gave me any time ta say anythin’. And I don’t want everyone up here, I wanted ta go to the meeting.”

Jack waved him off. “You don’t really wanna go to it, y’ain’t even workin’ right now, it woulda put ya ta sleep.”

Who was Jack to tell him what he did and didn’t want to do? And yes, Crutchie wasn’t working right now--he was still a newsie, he still got to go to newsies meetings! Right? Did Jack not see him as a newsie anymore?

“I still wanted ta be there,” Crutchie said stubbornly, trying not to show that anger was steadily overtaking his embarrassment. “I wanna know how the sellin’s been goin’ after the strike, wanna know if they’s seen any o’ my regulars, wanna know how the Delanceys are treatin’ everyone--”

Jack’s face went white. “Yeah, well, ya don’t need ta know,” he said brusquely. “You’s in bed all day. There’s nothin’ you can do about it.”

Crutchie’s fingers twisted in the blanket laying over him. The aches were vanishing as anger pumped through his body. What was Jack’s problem? Everything he was saying was just confirming Crutchie’s fears, that they no longer wanted him to be a newsie, only saw him as a burden. It couldn’t be true, right? Clearly Jack was thinking it.

“Ain’t everyone you, Jack,” Crutchie argued, shifting so that he was sitting up more. “I can decide for myself what I want, I don’t need you to tell me--”

“Oh, so you don’t need my help?” Jack cut in, disbelief written all over his face. “Ya’d be a-okay if I just stopped bringin’ ya food? Stopped payin’ rent for ya? Kicked you outta my bed?”

“Well, since you clearly don’t want me here--”

“Okay, can we maybe--” Davey tried to interject.

“This don’t concern you, Davey,” Jack spat. “Brothers only.”

Davey looked a little hurt, but instead took the glass from Jack’s hand, which he had been waving around for emphasis.

“One’d think you was tired of everything I sacrifice ta keep ya safe,” Jack continued. “Maybe you should try doin’ it all yourself--”

“Maybe I want to,” Crutchie interrupted, his face going red as his anger grew. “Didja ever think about that?”

“Yeah, well, ya can’t, so get over yourself and--”

“Yes I can! I’s perfectly capable of--”

“No ya ain’t, ya just--ya just collapsed while tryin’ ta cross the fu--”

“I’m not a child, Jack--”

“Yes you are!” Jack yelled, his face redder than ever. “You’s just a kid! You don’t deserve none o’ this, you oughtta be in school and with parents, and no bum leg and no Snyder, and someone who can actually take care of ya, someone who can stop freaks from attackin’ ya--”

Jack broke down, his knees buckling as he fell into the chair beside the bed. Loud sobs tore from his throat as he hid his face in his hands.

Crutchie ran a hand across his own face, shocked to discover tears of his own. He was fuming, madder at Jack than he had ever been. Even looking at him made him want to scream in frustration. The only other option was Davey, though, and Davey looked so uncomfortable Crutchie thought he might die from it. So Crutchie stared at Jack, wishing his eyes could set fire to Jack’s newsboy cap through the heat of his glare alone.

Crutchie swallowed repeatedly, trying to get his voice to a place where he wouldn’t yell at Jack. Finally he spoke, voice shaking. “You’s always said I’m just as capable as anyone else. Why is that suddenly not true?”

Jack drew in a shuddering breath, but didn’t say anything. Crutchie waited for a moment, before huffing and turning his head to look out the window. It was too dark to really see anything, what with the candle on the post of the bed shining right against the glass. Still, though, he stared at the glass. The adrenaline from the shouting match had begun to exit his system, leaving him very sore all over.

“I jus’--I don’ want you gettin’ hurt,” Jack choked out. Crutchie remained resolute in not looking at him. He hated it when Jack got protective like this, but usually it only lasted for two days or so after Crutchie had been sick or pushed around by one of the Delanceys. And sure, maybe the Refuge was on a bit of a larger scale than either of those, but that didn’t give Jack any right to treat him like--like a kid, like Les, or Elmer, or Boots, or any of the other littles. Come to think of it, actually, Jack would probably treat them just normal-like. Jack was still letting them sell, even after the riot. It was only Crutchie, only the kid with the crippled leg. When was that stupid leg going to stop defining his capabilities in Jack’s eyes?

Crutchie decided to try a different angle. “Why didn’tcha even ask me if I wanted to go ta the meeting?”

“Crutchie, I couldn’t--”

“No, Jack,” Crutchie interrupted. “I’s been doin’ nothing but lie in bed all day. I can handle a newsies meeting!”

“It ain’t that I think you can’t--”

“News ta me, it certainly sounds like--”

“You couldn’t come because the meeting was about you,” Davey burst in. He gave Jack an apologetic glance before turning his focus on Crutchie. “Jack didn’t want ta hurt your feelings by talking about you in front of you.”

Crutchie’s heart felt like it stopped. So this was it, wasn’t it? The decision on whether or not he was going to be able to work. Whether or not they would need to kick him out. Crutchie couldn’t decide what was worse--being thrown out onto the street in his condition, or knowing that he was just so pitiful that they couldn’t bear to do anything but keep him inside all the time. “Oh, so you was gonna save my feelings by talkin’ about me behind my back?” said Crutchie dumbly, his mouth moving of its own accord. “Real smart, Jack Kelly. Makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside, you bein’ so considerate-like.”

“Ya don’t understand,” Jack managed, running a hand under his nose. “It ain’t like that, it ain’t--”

“Oh, well feel free to jus’ tell me what it was like,” Crutchie said, gesturing with a wince as he noticed that under his arm was sticky and pulled painfully. “Go ahead.”

“I can’t--”

“Oh, I’m too weak ta know, huh? Just a kid, like you said--”

“Crutchie, I don’t--”

“Which makes it so much better, huh, makes it all--”

“It was the Delanceys!” Jack shouted, spit flying. He took a deep breath and pulled at his hair, knocking his cap to the floor, tension in every line of his body. “They was--they was bein’ rude.”

Crutchie scoffed. “The Delanceys? I can handle them. I can take them any day.” He didn’t mention the sick feeling that lined his stomach at the mention of them. The last time he’d seen them, they’d practically bashed his head in and dragged him off to the Refuge. Still, he’d never known the Delanceys to be particularly kind. He could deal with their insults.

“They . . . were bein’ a bit worse than rude, Crutchie,” Davey said quietly. Davey glanced at Jack, whose face was in his hands again. Jack shook so badly that Crutchie thought he was crying again for a moment. When his face reappeared, though, it was clear that it was barely-restrained anger.

“They said they was gonna kill you,” Jack growled. A tear rolled down his cheek, unnoticed. “They--they was gonna hunt you down, and get you, and--” Again, Jack couldn’t seem to go on. Davey laid a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“Crutchie, we’re scared for you, that’s all,” Davey said placatingly. “At the meeting, we were trying to work out a way for you to keep selling papes but stay safe. We should’ve invited you, that’s for sure, Jack just thought you’d be too tired.”

Crutchie didn’t speak. The sick feeling in his stomach had spread to his head, making it feel gross and backwards and like he was going to throw up. He was fine, he was alive, but for the first time in a very long time, the Delanceys actually struck fear into his heart.

Luckily, he was spared from having to say anything by a knock at the door. Race poked his head around the corner, an apologetic look on his face.

“No sign of her,” Race called to Jack. “Need anythin’ else?”

Davey walked away to talk to Race, leaving Jack and Crutchie alone. Crutchie tried to swallow away the bad feeling, but Jack took his hand, completely distracting him. For a moment, Crutchie considered shaking him off, the embers of anger that had been left when the mention of the Delanceys had doused his chest flaming up, but it was clearly an olive branch of sorts. Jack wanted to forget the argument for now. Crutchie could at least do that.

“I-I’m sorry,” Jack muttered. “For goin’ all--y’know. A minute ago. You don’t deserve that. It was just . . . so, so--hard, and wrong, ta--ta come in here and find ya out, and on the floor--” Jack turned away, his voice choking up.

“I was awake,” Crutchie said, gripping Jack’s hand as hard as he could. Jack looked back at him, confused. Crutchie wasn’t entirely sure why he’d said it--had he been awake? He hadn’t been able to move or open his eyes. And yet, he was certain that he could remember almost everything that happened before he slipped away. Maybe he was just trying to make Jack feel a bit better. “Yeah,” he added self-consciously. “I sorta . . . heard everything? I jus’ couldn’t move, right? I’m better now, just . . . felt a bit like I was all wrapped up in a blanket an’ couldn’t escape,” he finished, blushing a bit. That was a stupid comparison.

Jack watched him carefully for a few moments, his thumb running along Crutchie’s knuckles. “Heard o’ that, didn’t know it was real. Sorry about that. That’s--real bad. Terrible, that feeling. I’ve heard, I mean. I haven’t--yeah.”

Crutchie nodded. He could guess where Jack might have seen or heard about that. He tried to swallow past the sick feeling in his throat, only succeeding in making it drier than ever.

“How d’ya feel about finishing that sandwich, huh?”

Crutchie blanched, shaking his head with jerky movements. Literally anything would be better. Jack frowned at him, but nodded.

“All right, I trust you,” Jack said. Crutchie looked him in the eyes, trying to forget about the apple he’d tossed out the window just this morning. “But Katherine ain’t around, so either I or you is gonna have ta fix you up.”

Maybe literally anything wouldn’t be better. Crutchie sighed. “I got it,” he replied, feeling weariness settle into his bones right alongside the pain. “I’ll let ya know when you can come back in.”

He was still mad at Jack, though not nearly as mad as he was at himself. What kind of idiot went and got himself all bloodied up trying to cross a room when he knows he’s hurt? Crutchie just took a shallow breath and allowed Jack to help him into a sitting position. Whatever kind of idiot that was, Crutchie was stuck with him for a while.

#newsies #livesies #newsies live #newsies fanfic #newsies fanfiction #crutchie morris #jack kelly #mas writes #< i'll try to tag every chapter with that #i love writing arguments #i'm terrible at having them but they're just so easy to write #all of my characters have rage just beneath their incredibly polite facade #every character i have ever written is ready to throw hands at the slightest provocation #but otherwise they are very kind and do good recklessly!!#just wait until you see chapter ten lol #anyway see you whenever!#love you guys

9 notes · View notes

muchadoaboutbucky · 3 years

Text

Fall Apart in Me || oneshot

PAIRING: Steve Rogers x Native American!Reader

WORD COUNT: 1,775

WARNINGS: spoilers for the end of Infinity War, grief, self-blame, smut

NOTE: Edited by @crispychrissy - please heed the warnings and enjoy! This is my first ever Captain America fanfic… here’s to new firsts!

⭒ become a patron for just $3 ⭒

It’s been a week since everything happened.

You’re back at the compound, barely able to leave your room. Nat’s keeping the TV on as the news broadcasts the names of people who vanished, and you can’t find the strength to ask her to turn it off.

Everyone’s coping in their own way.

It’s day three of you staying huddled in your room, and you’re long overdue for a shower. Quietly, so that you don’t disturb anyone’s sleep, you gather a change of clothes and slip down the hallway and into the communal bathroom.

Steve’s standing at the counter, staring at his reflection in the mirror. He only moves when the door swings shut behind you, turning slowly to watch you set your clothes down on one of the stainless steel benches. He looks genuinely surprised to see you.

“Hey.” He folds his arms across his chest. “How you holdin’ up, kid?”

Shrugging, you fidget with the hem of your shirt. “I… not good, but is anybody here really holding up?”

He looks at the tile floor. “No… I don’t think anybody is.” He goes quiet for several seconds before raising his head to look at you. “I’ve been trying to contact Tony, but… there’s nothing. Pepper’s alive, at least.”

“Oh.” You swallow the lump in your throat. “I… it’s Tony, he’ll find a way.”

Steve chuckles. “Yeah, I bet he will.” He looks like he doesn’t want to leave you alone, and when he reaches up to scratch at the beard on his jaw you make an effort to continue the conversation.

“Were you gonna get rid of that?” you ask, gesturing to his face.

“Eh, maybe.” He sighs heavily. “I was thinkin’ about it.”

“Keep it,” you suggest, “just a bit longer.”

He offers a tight, sad smile. “Yeah… well, I’ll let you have the room.”

He leaves before you can say anything, and as soon as the door’s shut you strip and step into your favorite cubicle. The warm water rinses away the grease and grime from the last three days. You stay there for at least an hour, until your fingers turn pruny and the water starts to run cold. Quickly toweling off, you redress in flannel pajama pants and a tank top and toss your laundry into the hamper before walking back down the hallway.

Steve’s on the patio, leaning against the railing and blankly gazing at the empty space in front of him. He’s changed into black flannel pants and a white tank top, and you can’t help the way your mouth waters at the sight. It’s been too long since you’ve shared your bed with anyone or anything other than your vibrator.

“Can’t sleep?” You step through the sliding door and close it behind you.

“No, not really.” He clears his throat and wraps his fingers around the top rung. “Good shower?”

“Yeah.” You lean on the railing, closing your eyes as the cool breeze blows through your hair. It’s eerily quiet, and you can’t help but shiver. “It’s so quiet,” you murmur. “Do you think we’re ever gonna fix this?”

Steve exhales sharply and hangs his head. “Kid, I… I don’t know, I’m still trying to realize that this even happened. We screwed up.” He runs his fingers over his beard. “We screwed up and we lost, bigtime.”

You chew on your lower lip. “I keep wishing I’d done more.”

“We all do, Y/N—”

“No,” you interject, “I mean… I should have done more. I was supposed to be protecting Vision and the stone and I failed…”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Steve explains softly, “we all tried as hard as we could—”

“But I didn’t.” You fight to keep your lower lip from trembling. “Shuri was so close to getting it out and Wanda went to help everyone else and it was just me… I was supposed to be strong enough, but I got knocked out and when I woke up—”

“No.” Steve covers your shoulders with his hands, spreading his fingers wide to keep you steady. “No, don’t put that on yourself. You did everything you could and none of this is your fault. The guy who attacked you was three times your size.”

“I’ve handled bigger, it should have been easy—”

“Y/N, just stop.” Steve brings his hands up to your face, cupping your cheeks and forcing you to look at him. His thumbs wipe away the tears that fall from your eyes. “I don’t want to hear you blaming yourself anymore, do you understand?”

“I just feel horrible,” you whisper, “I want a distraction… does that make me a bad person? I just don’t want to think about this for just one night.”

Steve shakes his head. “It doesn’t make you a bad person at all.” Stepping closer, he lowers his head until his forehead is resting against yours. His breath is slightly shaky, and you reach up to grip his wrists. You can’t remember being this close to someone who’s not an immediate threat.

Before you know what you’re doing, you’re stretching up on your toes and kissing him. His lips are warm and soft, beard delightfully scratchy on your skin, and when he lets out a soft breath and kisses you back, you can’t help but wind your arms around his neck.

“Distract me,” you whisper. “Please…”

He leads you through the door and down the hallway to the bedrooms. He lifts you up outside the door to his and carries you inside, nudging the door shut before crossing to the bed and laying you out on the soft surface.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, kneeling up between your thighs and hooking his fingers in the waistband of your pants. You lift your hips so he can ease them down, and when he tosses them off the edge of the bed you tug your shirt over your head. He blinks slowly, absorbing the sight of your naked body like he’s trying to commit it to memory.

“You’re wearing too much,” you cover, tugging the hem of his tank top. He strips it over his head—Jesus fuck—and tosses it to the floor. Your pussy clenches around nothing at the sight, but you don’t get to look for very long before he’s holding himself over you and kissing down your neck, the valley between your breasts, your stomach, the dip of your hips…

The sound you make when his tongue scoops through your bare folds is somewhere between a whine and a groan. His beard scrapes sensitive flesh, adding a pleasant, scratchy tingle to the rhythm of his lips and tongue.

“Ohh…” you bite your lower lip and thread your fingers in his hair, “oh, fuck… yes…”

Steve hums at the expletive and presses his fingers into the soft flesh of your thighs, holding you open for him to feast. You arch up, rolling your hips against his face, and you shiver when his tongue circles your clit. It’s more than you can take, and you pull away with a soft whimper.

“Wasn’t done yet,” he murmurs, trying to pull you back down.

“Need you inside me,” you whisper, “please… wanna feel you inside.”

His pants are gone before you can blink. His cock is thick and heavy, flushed dark with arousal. You reach out for him, grip his shaft firmly, and give a steady stroke. He grunts softly, tipping his head back as you reach out with your other hand and pull his hips down.

“Easy,” he chuckles, “easy, kiddo.”

He presses his lips to yours, and you hum at the taste of yourself on his tongue. Rubbing the tip of him through your folds, you let him find the small divot between your thighs and guide him in, only releasing him when he surges in deep, your bodies coming together in one primal, gratifying moment.

It’s been a long time since you’ve felt this full, and you’d be lying if there’s not a slight twinge of pain when he thrusts the first time. You take it in stride and wrap your legs around his waist, heels pressing against his ass as he picks up a steady rhythm.

“Christ.” He sighs against your mouth, swallowing your own gasp of pleasure in a wet kiss. He grips the covers on either side of your head, his forearms sliding underneath you to form a cradle that keeps you tucked safely underneath him. You slide your hands up his back, scraping your nails just a little to feel the roll of firm muscle under his warm skin.

“Go deeper,” you murmur, “you can go… oh my God—ahh…”

He digs his knees into the mattress for leverage and changes the angle of his hips, causing his cock to rock against your sweet spot on every inward movement. Rolling your hips, you manage to meet him thrust for thrust, and he pulls back to gaze into your eyes.

“You’re so warm,” he murmurs, shaking his head slightly. “I’m… ngh, not gonna last…”

“Don’t.” You squeeze his waist with your legs. “Cum inside me.”

His head drops onto your shoulder as he exhales a solid groan. You wiggle a hand down between your legs and rub your clit, holding onto Steve with one arm wrapped around his shoulders. He quickly works you up to your peak, silencing your high-pitched moan as you cum around him. The rhythmic squeezing of your cunt around him only drives his own urges, and he only manages a half-dozen spasmic thrusts before he pushes in deep and shudders, spurting deep into your warmth.

He draws you into a tender kiss, continuing to rock his hips until you’re both sensitive and quivering. When he pulls out and rolls to lie beside you, he brings you with him, holding you close as if terrified of letting you go.

“Where did you learn to do that?” you ask, unable to help a giggle.

He closes his eyes, a soft, delirious smile playing on his lips. “I did have two years away, y’know. Some nights got lonely.”

You tuck yourself against his body, nuzzling the crook of his neck where he’s warm and smells like musk and amber. “Are we gonna keep doing this?”

Turning his head to gaze at you, he raises a hand and brushes his fingers across your cheek. “I wouldn’t mind.”

You kiss him gently, only pulling back when your breath catches in your throat and the overwhelming reality seeps back into your intimate moment. “We’ll get them back,” you whisper desperately, “we’ll find a way, somehow.”

Sighing deeply, he caresses your shoulder and closes his eyes. “Yeah, kiddo. We’ll figure it all out.”

Please reblog & comment if you enjoyed reading this :)

Wanna get tagged? Click here!

MARVEL TAGS: @beefcakebarnes @breezy1415 @cosicas-cuquis @daughterofthenight117 @emoryhemsworth @mariekoukie6661 @musesforart @starsandasteroids @nacho-bucky @bucky-the-thigh-slayer

#steve rogers x reader #marvel fanfiction

47 notes · View notes

poptod · 4 years

Text

October 1st (Elliot Alderson x Reader)

Description: He waits until the last moment and it’s too late.

Notes: i wrote a love letter to my friend but im never gonna send it so im profiting off my misery. gender neutral as usual

Word Count: 1.9k

Sad, sick people have a tendency of gravitating towards each other, whether or not they're aware of the illness of the other person. You know this quite well – in your rather sick childhood, where your mind was plagued with thoughts of self hatred, most of the friends you made were just about as sad as you. Looking back, it is a rather horrifying thought considering you were only twelve and so ready to die. Your mother said you were exaggerating, and that makes sense. Things were dramatized back then. But there's a flicker of truth in there, a small part within the soul that truly believed they should be dead. There's no sicker thought than that.

This trait, that part of yourself, carried through into adulthood. Unfortunate, really – that means it isn't just teenage drama, it isn't just your peers or your family. It's you. You look at yourself in the mirror and realize with tired, drooping eyes that it was always you. There's a quote – something along the lines of, "some people grow sad very young, and I know this, for I am one."

Elliot is sort of like that, too. Well, the two of you get on fine – in both life and within your friendship – and you don't really need to talk about it. You're both well aware of the others' problems, but it doesn't need to be mentioned. All you do is sit in cafe's together so neither of you are approached by creepy people and smoke together at his apartment. It doesn't need to be more than that.

Despite that barrier in your head, he's still your best friend. Maybe because he's one of your only friends, the other being an internet friend who you visit every now and then. Oh well. You lead a pretty sedentary lifestyle – you don't need a lot of friends. Just one to hang around.

Still, he does get around sometimes. He gets up out of nowhere, you ask where he's off to, and he says out. Most of the time he doesn't let you come, but this time he has and he's just wandering around. Looking at people and rationalizing their presence, watching the birds on benches, staring at shopfronts. For a moment you think to ask why he'd take such excursions in such cold weather, but with a glance to his peaced out face you know he doesn't have an answer.

You suppose that's just fine – there's something about fall that has you enjoying time outdoors. The piles of golden and red leaves pushed up against the sides of the streets, the coffee signs in front of every cafe, each with their own drawings of steaming coffee, and of course the scents in the air. It's not a particularly nice part of the city, but it has a fair share of restaurants and most smell of apple cider and cinnamon. The taste of pumpkin is also there; probably because you're sitting next to a Starbucks.

People pass by you donned in fuzzy jackets and long scarves. You look a bit like them; you're not a fan of the cold, so you have mittens, a hat, boots, and a scarf. Elliot on the other hand is much the same, as usual, and you don't expect him to ever stray from that routine. You like his routine. It's familiar.

"I'm leaving soon," you finally blurt out, a topic barely in your conscious mind but ravaging your subconscious. It's both good and bad news, considering the trip is for getting a doctorate, but it's clear he doesn't feel the same way. His eyes widen and he looks to you almost incredulously.

"Where?" He asks.

"Berlin. They've got this program for foreign students. I'll finally be able to get my doctorate in linguistics," you say, nodding to yourself. "I, um... I don't know if I'll be back."

"Why not?" He asks in a softer, rougher voice.

"It's an expensive move, you know? And there aren't that many jobs for linguists here.. at least, there's more in Europe," you half mumble, staring at your fidgeting fingers.

He gets up and leaves. Without another word except an astounded stare out into space, he stands and leaves you on the bench. You almost go after him, but he's got that look about him, and you know he's a little lost in thought. It'll be fine – you won't leave for a little while (not until October, actually), which gives you some real time with Elliot, if that's what he wants. As hard as it is for people to read him, you have a knack for it. That's probably why he spends any time at all with you.

You're going to miss him quite a lot. Lying in bed, staring blankly at the ceiling in your sleep clothes, the clock well past midnight, you wonder if he'll miss you too. He hasn't talked to you since you told him, which you did a good week or so ago now. Guilt settles deep in your chest – he's a man of routine and you're seriously breaking it. Fortunately, it's not really your problem. You have your own life and it doesn't revolve around what makes him comfortable.

You still feel bad about it, though.

About two weeks before you're set to leave he finally texts you, telling you to come visit him, and though he doesn't say it you know he means one last time. You get it right before you're about to get in the bath, and instantly you reach for the drain, unplugging it to let it drain while you redress yourself. Something nice – not your sweatpants, no matter how warm they are in the late September chill.

Outside rain falls in great sheets, battering down on the already dead leaves and the many, many busy people. Most everyone you pass by is dressed in black – black coats, black pants, black umbrellas. It's like they're mourning a death, though the only death you can think of is that of summer. You don't have an umbrella in your bag, but there's enough people on the streets with umbrellas and enough overhangs that you manage to stay mostly-dry, till the crowd thins out around Elliot's apartment and you get drenched. Droplets of water run down your fully-soaked hair, falling cold on your eyelashes and turning your nose a blushing pink.

Excitement pounds through your heart at the prospect of seeing your friend again. People at your workplace are nice, but no one is quite as intricate or interesting like he is. Every person is special, as are you, but you find yourself looking for the same traits in all your friends. A sort of quiet person with far too much beneath the surface. That's the only way you know how to describe what exactly Elliot is – well, he's kind. Soft-spoken, usually. Lost in his thoughts. Distant. Compassionate, and surprisingly, warm. You don't hug him much but he's warm, and for some reason you never expect it.

He lights the joint, taking a few puffs to ensure it's working before handing it to you, leaning over the small couch so you can reach. Smoke clouds itself in your lungs, forming pockets of dry, happy thoughts in your head. It all comes out with your exhale, like the freeze of hot breath in winter and the fog of dry ice.

"I love you," you say. Blurting is becoming a bad habit for you, but that's okay. You won't see him for a long time, and you need to get it out, no matter how surprised Elliot looks. He always looks a little surprised. "You know that, right?"

He laughs – he actually laughs. A smile spreads across his usually dull cheeks, and a blush crosses him, pink around his grin and pronounced in his ears and the tip of his rounded nose. You can't help it so you smile with him, absorbing the entirety of his fluster. He's always so closed off. Maybe you help him out of that hole, but it's mostly wishful thinking that drives your thought process towards that.

A cloud of smoke releases itself from Elliot's mouth. He doesn't say anything in relation to your announcement, but you don't particularly expect him to. He's a little odd when it comes to affection. You don't mind it in the least, too caught up in memorizing his little movements and his breathy sighs to bother with the tough things.

So that's it. You spend one more afternoon-into-evening with him, and you don't see him again, not at the airport, not over text or Skype. There was a chance of that – you knew that, but it still disappoints and saddens you to watch the ground disappear, the last memory of your Elliot from several days ago. It feels as though it's already fading despite the fact that you remember every detail of your time with him. How could you forget?

Fidgeting with your bag on the plane, you close your eyes and wonder what things will be like when you get back, if you ever do. Your bag is a little like his jacket – a comfort, with fringes that are easy to fidget with, as much as it might annoy the person sitting next to you. Anxiously you dig your hand into your bag, looking for your anxiety meds, only for your fingers to brush against paper.

You don't have paper in your bag.

Pinching it between your fingers, you pull the paper out, revealing an envelope with your name on it. With shaking hands you tear open the glue, unfolding a note scrawled onto leaf paper. There aren't any lines for guiding, but the words are perfectly spaced.

(Y/N),

I'm not sure if I'll ever send this to you. Maybe not – everything is so unsure right now. My constants in this hectic state of the world are few and most are not good. My job, my scars, my anxiety, they never go away but neither do you. It may seem inconsequential to you – you're likable and you have other friends, but I don't. Not really. I have you, though, and it often feels like that's enough.

I always wanted a forever person; someone there throughout all life for better or worse. A bit like tonight – it ended with a bar fight, but somehow I enjoyed it. I looked to you and you were grinning and bashing a guy's head in, and somehow that made me smile. It's always better with you. I don't talk about that enough.

You're the good in the world. I find it hard to believe, much less articulate, how good you are. How kind. Understanding. Creative, open, pure in the best way. You make me want to become a better person, and isn't that what humans strive for? A connection with someone who makes you believe the world is capable of good, someone that makes you believe you'll be alright – so long as you stick by their side.

I don't write these kinds of things. You know that – I don't like bringing my deeper emotions to light. But you're safe and I trust you; I just hope you understand how special you are to me. You deserve so much good and I wish I could give that to you. I can't give you what I want to give you, but I will always be your friend, no matter what.

Elliot

He wrote this a while ago. That bar fight was a year or so ago – is that how long he's been keeping this letter back? Is this why he asked you to come over? ... Is this his attempt to get you to stay?

The plane's already over the ocean. You can't even see the shore anymore.

You realize just a little too late that he's the good in the world.

#elliot alderson x reader #Elliot Alderson #mr. robot #rami malek #rami malek character #mr robot #elliot alderson x male reader #elliot alderson x female reader

87 notes · View notes

justjessame · 3 years

Text

Starting Over Chapter 30

We spent the night at Bucky’s - not because he had so much to pack, or because it was cozy and we wanted to leave it with a good memory, but honestly because the idea of redressing after we undressed for the second time was repugnant to both of us.

“I do have a bed,” he teased, hovering over me where I was prone on his living room floor, but I shook my head and arched into him ending whatever push he was making for a move to another room, but getting him to roll onto his back and giving me full reign of our lovemaking.

Nipping his lip and getting him to laugh, I couldn’t help but take a minute to just appreciate how fucking gorgeous he was looked - the blue light flickering from the television highlighting all the best parts of him - which were all of him, to be honest.

“Come here,” I pulled on his shoulders, knowing that if he didn’t want to rise up with me I wouldn’t be able to make him, but he did, sitting up - chest to chest with me, my arms wrapping around his neck I stared into his eyes. “You are -” I wasn’t sure how to articulate it, to say just what he was to me. “I love you and it doesn’t seem like it’s -” but he didn’t let me try to finish, his mouth meeting mine as his fingertips danced down my spine. “I thought it was my turn to be in charge,” I murmured when his lips left mine, ghosting along my jaw to nip at my pulse.

“You weren’t really doing much with the power, Brooke,” he teased, his tongue tasting the hint of sweat we’d managed to work up since we’d arrived.

“Are you daring me, James?” I moved just enough to get a sharp inhaled breath - loud enough for me to hear for once, “well?”

Bucky’s teeth met my pulse and I swallowed just as loudly as he’d inhaled. He didn’t bite, he only let me feel them against my skin and I knew that he felt how that tiny pressure affected me all the way down to where we were joined. “Maybe,” his breath against my skin, those two syllables had me rock my hips once - earning a hiss from his lips.

My fingers slid through his hair and met at the base of his neck, tugging to get his gaze to meet mine again. “Come here,” I urged, and then our lips met again, but this time I rode him as our teeth and tongues dueled, and if I had been loud at the hotel in Louisiana, I made damn sure that I had company in the noise pollution here in New York.

He carried me to his bed, refusing to sleep on the floor after our exercise. Laying me down carefully on a blanket that felt brand new, he traced over my skin as if he was taking inventory. Just as I was getting ready to ask if he was planning on joining me, his fingertips stopped their journey, and I looked up to see him staring at where they’d landed.

“What is it?” I considered raising up on my elbows, but I was comfortable, even without being under the blanket or cradled in his arms.

“I bruised you,” he was worrying his lower lip with those brilliant white teeth of his and I almost teased him about how I was pretty sure he also left a bite mark or two on me, but his eyes were narrowed with concern so I knew now was not the time to mock his upset.

I let my own hand drift down to meet his, touching his fingers that were still laying gently against my skin. “Hey,” his eyes met mine and I smiled. “I’m pretty sure that you’re wearing a few marks from me, too.” I knew he was, not only the bite from the plane, but scratches and who knew what other marks I’d managed to make on his skin - he’d called me a hellcat and I felt certain I’d earned it.

Bucky sighed and started to pull away, but I was having NONE of that. My hand touched his, then I worked to hold on, getting our fingers linked in spite of his less than best efforts. “You really think that you could hurt me?” I shook my head and he sighed, letting me pull him down onto the bed beside me. “Physically?” His eyebrow was arched in a wondrous display of complete disbelief in my ability to cause him harm.

I shook my head at him. “No, I don’t think I can hurt you, Buck.” I sighed, and waited while he situated the pillows to his liking that way I could use him for MY pillow. Once he managed the feat, I pressed my cheek against his chest, next to his dog tags, where I could hear his heart pound soothingly. “I think that you need to understand that I’m not going to break because we got frisky,” he sighed again, but his fingers were back on my skin, sliding gently over the bareness, drawing designs again, brushing my loose hair out of his way. “Are you listening to me?” He hummed and I went on, snuggling into his chest. “A bruise here or there, a scratch or two or three? A bite or a mark? None of that matters, Bucky. It doesn’t because it wasn’t done in anger.”

Another sigh, with less force, but I knew that he was listening to me, so I waited for him to counter my argument. “I - I don’t want to hurt YOU,” his chin was on the top of my head, the heat of his breath was hot against my scalp. “My strength, I could so easily -”

“Hey,” I moved so my chin was propped up on his sternum, with his head on the pillows it was an awkward angle, but we made it work so we could look at one another. “You didn’t. I’m fine. Complete working order here, Bucky Barnes.” I smiled up at him, before I moved my face back down to face against his chest, kissing his skin. “I only LET you carry me in here like Tarzan because you seem to like manhandling me.”

That got a laugh, which was the point. Bucky getting tense over something as slight as a little discoloration after we had sexy fun times, which I planned on us having much more of I might add, wasn’t something I wanted to become routine. I knew he had baggage, who wouldn’t be given his past, but I fully intended to make sure that he knew that I loved him and he wasn’t broken or ruined. Together we were two slightly fucked up people, but I thought that together we might be able to figure things out and make our combined shit more manageable.

I left the next morning, after I had leftover Chinese - since Bucky had been out of town for long enough to make me doubt most of what was left in his fridge. He had to check in with his therapist - a reminder from me for that gold star so I could celebrate with him at the house later - and then he was coming back to his place to pack up to move in with me.

“Do you need help?” I would stay, I could stay, but he shook his head as his grin took my breath away.

“The only things that are really mine are my clothes and books,” he promised, and I smiled up at him as he put my bags into the Uber that had arrived to take me back to my - OUR - house. “I’ll call you when I’m on my way,” he held the door for me as I got into the car and then leaned into kiss me goodbye. “No more pineapples,” he vowed and I nodded.

“Gold star, mister,” I reminded him and he shook his head with a huge smile. “I love you,” I mouthed as the driver pulled away, and my heart stuttered as I watched him mouth the words right back.

I needed the time it was going to take him to check in with Raynor and pack up his humble belongings to get my own welcome home surprise together. I texted Connie during the drive from his apartment and was laughing as she texted me back almost immediately.

“Oh NOW you have time for me” the addition of a few choice emojis reminded me of my failure as a best friend, but then she sent another text. “How long are you alone before he’s back within sniffing range?”

I sent her my best estimate and she calmed my ratcheting nerves by reminding me that she had half days and she’d be over to help me set the scene for Bucky’s return. When the driver let me out, shucking my bags onto the porch, I took a deep breath and hoped like fuck that I wasn’t about to set off some trigger in Bucky’s PTSD reserves with my little surprise. That would suck balls, and it would ruin our first night as cohabitants in the house.

Looking around the living room once I got my bags inside, it sobered me when I realized that technically the wrong trigger with Bucky could actually fucking demolish the house. Oh well, I thought, putting as much forced positivity into the thought as I could - too late to back out now.

#bucky barnes/oc #the falcon and the winter soldier #alternate universe #slight smut #FLUFF AND SMUT #humor

7 notes · View notes

wretchedmischief · 4 years

Text

Scream Queen (Mary Goore/Reader)

A little smutty fic inspired by a conversation with @ghouls-get-pegged and @altarsofmadnes. Mary really likes slasher movies.

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

“C’mon babe, s’not that much further.”

It had been just before midnight when Mary had led you away from the party and into the forest. He’d called it a shortcut home but it seemed to be anything but. You’d been walking in almost pitch darkness for what felt like hours, the warmth of the evening becoming a cool night. The only thing lighting your path was the feeble torch you’d brought and the halo of light round Mary that flared up every time he took a draw of his cigarette.

“Pretty sure you said that half an hour ago.” The dark was starting to get to you, goosebumps raising along your skin, or maybe it was the cold. You had Mary’s jacket draped over your shoulders in a vain attempt to keep warm. “We’re lost aren’t we?” He turned toward you, face illuminated so it looked like the skull he usually painted it as.

“No faith in me huh?” He slowly moved closer to you, hand sliding round your waist to pull you in. “Or are you scared?” A grin spread across his face, his eyes staying on you as he tilted his head. He was doing this on purpose. He always did this to get what he wanted, and what infuriated you the most is that it always worked.

“‘M not scared,” you muttered, flicking his chest. A bark of laughter came from him as his hand slid down to your backside, pulling you flush against him. “Just cold is all.” A mocking cooing sound came from him that had you shoving at him. Asshole.

“You want me to warm you up, baby? Is that what you want?” He rolled his hips against yours; you could feel he was already getting hard. But that wasn’t exactly difficult, just about anything could get him hard. It’d taken you a while to get used to.

In answer, you slid a hand into his hair and kissed him, wrapping your other arm round his shoulders, his jacket falling to the ground. You could feel him smile against your lips, his tongue easily slipping into your mouth with a groan from him as his hips continued to rut against your own. It didn’t take long before he was backing you up against a tree, his lips moving away from yours to kiss and bite his way down your neck. You let your head fall back against the tree, allowing him better access as you slid a thigh between his legs, giving him something to rut against. Mary Goore, always playing the tough guy, the loud mouth, annoyingly hard to get, until he was alone with you. Then he became something a little softer, someone eager to please, to get you to cum first, someone who moaned your name beautifully as he came. That wasn’t to say he wasn’t still difficult, a exhibitonist and a bit gross, that was part of the Mary parcel. But this part, the part that had him rutting against your thigh and groaning against your neck, that part was all yours. And it was all you could think about until-

“What was that?” Your breath caught in your throat at what sounded like someone walking, twigs snapping under their feet.

“S’probably a fox,” came the muffled reply from Mary before he ran his tongue over your pulse, no doubt feeling how it had picked up. You disagreed but his hands were pulling down your jeans so you didn’t get long to think about it. Between the pair of you, you managed to get one of your boots off and your jeans off one leg. “Fuckin’ gorgeous,” he grinned, immediately pressing himself against you again, getting a hand between the two of you so he could slide his fingers inside of you. It hadn’t been entirely a surprise that a guitarist was good with his fingers but god you hadn’t expected the way he could make your legs shake within minutes.

You clung to him, the spikes on his denim vest digging into your arms but god you couldn’t care less. His fingers slipped out of you, moving instead to stroke over your clit, circling it as he sank his teeth into your neck. You couldn’t help crying out his name.

“Love it when you say my name like that,” you could feel his breath against your skin, cooling it where saliva stained it. “Sounds so good in your mouth.” You laughed breathlessly, moaning as his fingers sped up. It didn’t take long before you were trembling in his hold, rubbing your orgasm out against his fingers. They kept moving until you pulled his hand away, watching as he brought it to his mouth to suck his fingers clean.

Was that-

“I’m sure I can hear someone, I’m sure I can.” You lent against the tree, the air cool on your bare legs. “Will you go check?” A noise of annoyance came from Mary as he indicated his clear erection. “Please, I’ll let you cum inside me.” Even in the dark you could see the flush that spread across his cheeks and hear the quiet noise he made.

“Not fair,” Mary muttered before walking in the direction you’d heard the noise, his boots loud in the silent wood. “There’s fucking nothing here.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah babe, I’m sure.” The sound of heavy footsteps heralded the return of Mary, already undoing his belt and flies. By the time he reached you, his cock was out, bobbing as he walked. “Now, your end of the deal.” He gave a wolfish grin, taking himself in hand and slowly stroking himself. Shaking your head but unable to hold in a grin, you pulled him in close, hooking a leg round his hips.

“Yeah yeah, I got your end of the deal.” You keep your eyes on him as you reach down between you and take hold of his cock, hearing his breath catch as you did so. Biting your lip, you carefully guided him inside you, moaning quietly as he easily slid in right to the hilt. Despite your earlier trepidation, your thoughts fled at the feeling of being filled by him, leaving you to tighten your leg round his hips and keep him close. Mary stayed still for a moment, like he was savouring the feeling of being inside you, sliding a hand round to hold your backside.

“Feel so good..” Mary muttered, pressing a kiss to your lips as he planted a hand on the tree behind you and started to move his hips. It was an awkward angle and you could already tell your back would be bruised but you could not find it in yourself to care. All that mattered was how good Mary felt inside you. “God...love being inside you,” his voice was muffled against your lips but it didn’t stop heat rushing through you, heightened by the slow but deep and firm roll of his hips.

Was that… No it can’t have been movement in the dark. Right?

Pulling him away from your neck, you pressed your lips to his, using the leg you had round his hips to urge him to speed up.He’s good at taking hints, picking up the pace until the sound of skin hitting skin gave you something to focus on other than the noises in the woods. He moved away from your lips, returning to your neck where he moaned and panted against your skin.

No you can definitely hear something.

“Mary, I think there’s someone here,” you whispered the words by his ear, breath catching in your throat as his hips stilled and he started just grinding against you.

“Yeah? You think they wanna watch? I’d wanna watch,” he growled back, continuing his hips slow grinding that was putting perfect pressure on your clit. “Should we give them a show?” He pressed an open mouthed kiss to your jaw, moving to run his tongue up the length of it.

“What if it’s the killer? The one that’s-“ your voice catches as his teeth sink into your neck. “The one that’s been murdering couples in the forest?”

“You know that’s fake, babe, come on. S’probably just a jogger or something. There’s no killers.” He laughed low against your throat, and he seemed so sure you find yourself believing him. “You gonna let me cum or is this a new way to edge me?” A louder laugh came from you, smacking his shoulder with your hand.

“Get on with it,” you whispered, pressing a kiss into his dark hair, “cum in me.” A moan came from Mary and he started moving again, speed picking up hard until he was all but pounding into you, noises leaving him freely and loudly with no effort made to muffle them. “Oh fuck, Mary…”

The sounds of your wetness are all the more lewd in the silent forest, as is the slap of skin. But in amongst it… “There’s someone here…” You clung to Mary, your mouth close to his ear. “I can see him.” A groan comes from him, his hips only seemingly to move faster, harder, his movements desperate.

“What does he look like, baby? He got a knife?” Mary’s voice is rough, the closeness to his orgasm clear.

“Yeah...yeah, a machete… Fuck, fuck fuck,” you can feel your own peak fast approaching. “He’s covered in blood, I...fuck… I can’t see his face. There’s a...a...a..” you gave your best ‘scream queen’ scream before your orgasm hit you hard, making you cling to Mary as he fucked you through it. He’s close behind you though, burying himself inside you as he came, emptying himself inside you.

You stay still for a moment, the both of you panting, skin that had previously been cold now hot and slick with sweat. He laughed first, breathless and muffled but unmistakable. You find yourself joining him, closing your eyes and leaning your head back against the tree.

“Fuck,” you laugh, shaking your head. “Was that good for you?” In answer, Mary pulled you in for a kiss. Its messy, there’s far too much tongue and your teeth clink but it tells you what you need to know. This whole ‘pretend to be in a horror movie’ thing had been his idea, not that you hadn’t been happy to play along. You’d always enjoyed a slasher film.

“S’pretty cliche killer you described babe,” He smirked against your lips, pulling back to look at you. “Who was that, Michael Myers?”

“No dickhead, Michael uses a kitchen knife. I was thinking of Jason.” You gave him a shove, making him finally pull out with a hiss. “Some horror fan you are.”

“Hey, It’s hard to think when you’re balls deep in someone, alright?” He shot back, tucking his cock back in his ripped jeans, stopping to watch you get redressed.

“Yeah, it shows.” It took a moment to get back into your own jeans, as sweat started to cool on your skin. “Take me home?” Mary nodded, holding a hand out for you as he walked back onto the path.

“Wait…” He stopped suddenly, looking behind you. “Did you hear that?” He managed to keep a straight face for about thirty seconds.

“Bastard!”

#mary goore #repugnant #tobias forge #ghost #the band ghost #ghost the band #papa emeritus iv #papa emeritus iii #papa emeritus ii #ghost bc #my writing

87 notes · View notes

writefightandflightclub · 4 years

Text

Violent delights (Chapter four)

Summary: First Order!Poe x reader series (ongoing). Chapters 1-3 available here. Taglist open.

Author’s note: Chapter 3 was smutty. Have we all recovered? This is significantly less smutty, but stick around. You have my assurance that things will heat up again in future chapters. Also, if you’ve ever wondered what the Morning After the Night Before with FO!Poe might be like? You’re about to find out. As ever, reblogs appreciated, comments and asks very welcome. I LOVE to hear what you think (what is the point without you?)!

Warnings: (18+ only) restraint / imprisonment (canon-typical), language, sexual references, choking (con and non-con), torture references, drugging references, bondage references. Um, being stepped on (idk). Let me know if I missed any.

Taglist: @aussiefangirlwolfy @localashe @fictionalcharactersownme @a-somehow-functioning-dumbass @itsamedeemoney (let me know if I missed you or you’d like to be added). @tintinwrites I’m taking the liberty of tagging you - hope that’s ok?

The Commander lures you from your slumber with the soft press of a kiss on your mouth, the seductive skim of his tongue along your bottom lip. His scent ensnares you; that undertone of caustic, First Order soap masked by his potent, rousing musk. Stirring, you hum as -impossibly gentle- he ghosts his lips along your cheek, your jaw, mouths at your pulse point. “Time to go, sweetheart.” he coaxes, his balmy breath trailing to the shell of your ear. And then you can practically hear the shark smile, the glisten of teeth as he whispers: “Hux is waiting for you.” His words are soft-spoken, but with the precision of his threat they become as intrusive as an alarm resounding in your head.

It is quite the wake-up call.

You inhale sharply, instantly alert, but before you can react he yanks your hands, your bound hands, wresting you violently from the bed. He jolts you forwards and your knees collide harshly with the hard floor, your continuing momentum throwing you down on to your elbows. You are immobile for a moment, hissing-in air, until the jarring pain in your joints abates. And then, in an instant, he is looming over you, pressing his polished, heavy-tread boot down on to the side of your face.

It is quite the Morning After.

“G’ morning to you too, darling,” you simmer as your face crushes against the cold, unyielding floor, your ass sticking up into the air.

“Are you going to behave yourself?” he asks, curtly, as his boot pushes down more insistently, forcing your jaw slack, a trail of drool beginning to course down on to the cool tiles. You treat it as a temporary moment of respite, a chance to haul in a deep, centering breath. To observe that he’s redressed you in your sullied Resistance clothes, boots and all. You brace against the stun-cuffs at your wrists, against his foot; testing your restraints, testing him. You find no hint of weakness. “Are you?” he snarls.

You make a reluctant noise of compliance, the mention of Hux still causing blood to pulse rhythmically in your ears like a muted siren.

“Good. Get up.” he orders, unpinning you, and you clamber to your feet, scouring the commander’s face for any whisper of feeling; any hint at all of internal conflict which might indicate he would think twice before handing you over. You draw a blank. The siren in your head does not relent.

“I’m getting the hint that you don’t want me to stay for breakfast, Dameron. How about you call me a TIE and I’ll be on my way?”

That fucking crescent smile. A bat of his eyes. “Come on, rebel. What did you expect?”

He’s right. Surely you knew it would come to this? And yet you still srutinize his overcast, sunless eyes as if he might be your lighthouse. As if he might guide you through the rolling sea of panic. As if his eyes -alight with that gunmetal glint- could call you home across unforgiving seas. But his expression meets you and it’s bleak; detached. He’s not your light. Once again he’s the dark side of the storm that will spell your desolation. Your stomach flips as if you are being subsumed by a crashing wave.

He’s in control. You submitted. You remember submitting vividly. Your core clenches around that memory.

“You didn’t think I would keep you safe much longer, did you?” he questions.

“Safe?” you scoff.

“Have I hurt you?” he asks pithily, managing to sound affronted.

Where do you begin? Drugged, slapped, fucked, cut. “You know you-”

He interrupts, rephrasing his question, eyes fervid. “Have I hurt you in ways you didn’t like?”

No. No, you admit. Not yet.

But the General will.

Somewhere through the haze of panic, the trauma of being torn so harshly from sleep, the memories of the night before which cavort in and out of your head, your self-preservation instincts finally begin to kick-in. You cling to this newfound lifeline, cycling through your options, systematically.

Seduce, bargain, blackmail, beg, fight. And he must sense that you land on “fight” as your body coils itself like a snake preparing to strike.

He raises a finger.

“Ah-ah.” he warns, imperiously. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Don’t you want to find out where Hux is keeping Barret? Aren’t you burning to know?”

A final option. Comply.

Bile rises up in your throat. Barret. You avert your eyes from the commander as your face burns in an admission of guilt. You haven’t thought about Barret once. You were too preoccupied getting the fuck of your life from the First Order commander who drugged him. Who drugged you. Your breath seethes in and out of you, but -in truth- you’re only angry at yourself.

“He might be a little worse for wear,” Dameron continues, unmoved, “you know, from the torture... but he’s alive, for now. And I hear he’s really worried about you.” His tone is purposely flippant, his wolf eyes hooded, goading.

You feel sick. Ashamed. But you jut your chin at him, as defiant as possible in the face of resignation. “Take me to Hux. I’m not going to beg.”

The commander leers fiendishly, knowingly, knives hidden in his smile. “You only beg for my cock then? Not for your friends’ lives?”

There’s nothing but truth in his razor-sharp words, and he can see that they cut you. You could muster something in retort, you could attempt to fight or rage, but it would be futile; it wouldn’t change how much of a monster you apparently are, would it? Maybe pain, a slow end, is as much as you deserve.

“Don’t get me wrong, sweetheart,” he sings, his buoyant tone contrary to everything you are feeling. “I’m all for the begging. I like my needy little toy.” The pad of his thumb rises to your lips, brushing each in turn. Predictably, even this wretched morsel of touch evokes a dark desire in you. How is he so capable of overriding all your better instincts? Flooding you with it.

Yes, you could say something, try and retort, but instead you just look at him, dragging your eyes over his lips, his hair, his uniform, his body, his crotch. Until his nostrils flare. Until he begins to squirm under your intense study. Until -you imagine- the blood pulses to his length. You swear, somehow, that you can almost feel the throb of lust in his body.

And then, you give him a tight-lipped, knowing smile. A self-satisfied quirk of your eyebrow. “I’m the needy one?”

Neither of you are locked in this tryst alone. Both dragged down by it. Perhaps... perhaps you shouldn’t castigate him for this. Perhaps he simply stirred the beast which had been in you all along. That’s it. You could hardly blame him for tipping you into darkness -could you- if you had already come so close to the edge by your own volition?

A long breath seethes out of him, and he wrings those damn leather gloves. His eyes darken. “Get to the refresher, now, scum.” he says coolly, no doubt reasserting his authority. You side-eye him, huff a breath out. It’s not as though you could forget that you’re presently at his mercy. If he has any.

So, you oblige. You let him lean you up against the counter, hands positioning your hips. You let him spread your thighs astride him so he can nestle there. Your bound hands pinned uselessly between your warm bodies. You let his hand still your head as he washes your face with a damp cloth, his jaw set. You let him gently fix your hair. You feel awash with unease. Despite this closeness his touch feels... ceremonial. Like he’s preparing you for a ritual slaughter; preening you as a pretty prize for the General. You suppose he enjoys the power play of being the one to get you ready. After all, why would he allow you even a scrap of control? He decided when you woke, how you woke. He’s decided everything which has happened since. It’s meant to be destablising, you understand. Well, it’s working. You feel a distinct lack of stablity.

You grimace as, next, he coats a toothbrush with paste and holds it out to your lips. You look at him questioningly, mildly humiliated. And then he’s saying “open”, voice laced with honey, looking right at you from beneath his lashes, his eyes like tractor beams. You despise yourself for the fact it turns you on as he controls your jaw with his hand in order to work the toothbrush over your pearly teeth. Seriously? Even this? He commands you “spit”. He says something about if you had more time he would make you open your pretty mouth and have you swallow instead.

Then, he caresses you with a single, gloved finger. He runs it deliberately along your jaw, his touch like a fuse line running along your skin, possessing the power to combust you. And with him here, between your thighs like this, all you can think about is last night. Him writhing on you, hot and animal. You remember how you opened eagerly for him and welcomed him in, his length gliding into you thick and urgent. All you can think about is how you want him again. You become lost in your body, in the echo of his brutal thrusts.

“Oh. One more thing.” his teeth flash white as he takes his aftershave in one hand, clasping your bound limbs in the other. He spritzes his scent on to each of your pulse points in turn. So that you smell like him. Then, his hand travels up your neck, and he squeezes. Lightly. Ardently. His thumb traverses circles on the fading bite marks he trailled down to your collarbone. He hums in satisfaction as you mewl for him, unconsciously offering your throat to him like dazed prey. He swallows thickly, settling his firm gaze on you. He shakes you, to be sure you listen. “When he touches you like this, don’t forget who you belong to.”

You avert your eyes from him, from your captor. Your lover. The gesture, his words, trailing a slow, liquid heat all the way down to your core.

“So needy, sweetling,” he confirms, with relish, slapping you lightly on the cheek with his open palm.

Seduce, bargain, blackmail, seduce, beg, fight, comply, seduce. You cycle through your options again.

He removes himself from the junction of your thighs, seemingly unaffected. It leaves you lacking. He turns, somehow composed, and sweeps towards the main room, where you intuitively know you’re expected to follow. “Ready to meet the General?” he throws casually back to you.

A final option. Panic.

You stall there momentarily, still reeling from him, from everything. But as you gather yourself you notice the shaving blade, glinting on the counter; your true lighthouse in the storm.

“Ready as I’ll ever be.” you respond, surreptitiously pocketing the blade and catching-up to him.

He gives you a sly once-over. “Not afraid to meet Hux?”

You shrug, almost light-heartedly, but your words drip with vitriol. “From one First Order dick to another.”

You are shocked as his face splits into a fleeting, perfect smile. It lingers in his eyes even as he clips a chain to your stun cuffs, so that he might easily lead you. Then he gives it a tug -his eyes finally lit, dancing- as if he’s thinking about how else he might make use of you all bound like this. “You know, if you weren’t scum I feel like we could be good together, baby.”

Absurd, isn’t it? He’s about to march you off toward probable death. But suddenly you’re smiling back. “Maybe if you gave up the Order.” you look him up and down, eyes roving aprovingly over his tamed curls, across those pressed lapels at the expanse of his chest, down to those polished, unforgiving boots.

“Let me guess. You want me to keep the uniform.”

He bites his lip, teeth snagging on the plump flesh, and you wonder if you might jump him then and there. Instead, you share an evanescent moment of affinity, an intimation of your weakness for one another. A moment where you both perhaps wonder, what if? What if?

Then, he wrests you from the room, marching you down the long, sparse corridor of the First Order ship. He leads you along by the chain and you follow almost gladly in his wake, the wake of his storm. As you follow, you are positively enthralled by his raven curls, his measured, majestic stride in motion. You recall the first time you saw him stalk down that street, dark and devastating, weaving almost gleefully through the choas and bloodshed. Arresting. Formidable. For some inexplicable reason the memory warms you, perverse as that is. Look at how far you’ve come.

As he leads you, you hardly register the contemptuous looks of the others you pass, as they realise precisely who and what you are. What you do notice is the way the crowd part for him, the reverant fear and respect he inspires. And that makes you glow with the most peculiar pride. He -this powerful man- had craved you, caved for you, taken you, said you belong to him. Not only that, but he had welcomed your imperfect darkness, tasted it, caressed it, drank from it. It disturbs you to think you have never felt more seen.

It already feels too soon, when your journey is complete. If only you had more time. You arrive at a metal door, and the commander swiftly dismisses the Stormtroopers standing guard. They turn on their heels and when the corridor is clear and quiet, he stands outside with you for a moment, toe-to-toe, his hands tugging yours taut towards him. If an onlooker didn’t know better, they might say you were exchanging vows, the scene practically matrimonial.

He stares deeply, uncomfortably into your eyes. “So about last night, sweetling.” he starts.

No, you’re not letting him do that. Not now. “No,” you protest firmly.

The commander looks at you curiously. Amused. “Oh, so you do have some limits, after all?”

“Take the cuffs off me.” Your request is plain, his compliance improbable, but you can’t help blurt it out as you face the reality of meeting the General. The General you know wants you dead. Or worse.

“Honey...” He leans in close to you, excrutiatingly close, diverting his lips to the shell of your ear. “I’ll take the cuffs off you when you’ve been good.” He lingers there, reaching one hand down into your pocket, reclaiming his shaving blade. “And you’ve been very, very bad.” You practically whimper, from his proximity, from the rasp of his hot breath on your cheek, from the fact you are now all alone without any lifeline at all. He leans back from you slightly, rocking his weight on to his heels and smoothly concealing the blade in his own breast pocket. You wish you could wipe that maddening smirk off his face.

“Hey, come on.” he says soothingly, reaching out to stroke your cheek. For the first time, probably long overdue, you flinch away from his touch. “Listen. Whatever happens next, just go with it. It might even be fun.” He gives you a surreal wink, the briefest flash of white teeth. Then, he presses a sudden, crushing, closed-lips kiss on to your mouth, just before the door slides open. It is almost as if he has wed you in the archway of a First Order corridor, claimed your allegience. But you remember with clarity that he’s made you no promises. No vows.

You turn, to see an open, bare, and expansive room, Hux stood in the centre, facing away from you. Arms clasped behind his back.

You are spiralling, into an abyss. Into a place that’s hopeless, and the only thing you find to cling on to is this thrum in your veins, this oscillating darkness. You let it embrace you. Baptise you. Calm you. A deep, centering force. It allows you to draw just enough power to smooth your face, dull your panic. To stand taller as if a taut rope is coiled like a corset at your stomach. You submit -you’re getting so good at that- and you feel the darkness bind you and hitch you up in its beatific bondage.

Bolstered, you suddenly you have the nerve to venture into the space, your voice surprisingly loud, impassive, even before Hux has turned to you.

You want to be majestic. Fearless. Ruthless. Like him. You will be.

“How long have you been standing like that for effect, Hugs? Ten minutes, twenty minutes? Did you try out a few different poses?”

He turns, his face already scrunched-up in distaste as if he’s sucked on bitter fruit. He’s already so unlike Dameron, you realise. In fact, you’re not sure how he dare call himself superior to your sweet, forbidden fruit, at all. Out of the corner of your eye, you even catch Dameron looking at him with disdain.

Nevertheless, Hux stalks towards you as if he owns the room. In your periphery, you see the commander circle to the side of you; to get a better view of the proceedings, you suppose. Hux attempts to tower over you, looks down his nose at you. This close, he smells astringent. Still that caustic, First Order soap, but without any of the warming, tantalizing musk. He cycles through all the classic intimidation tatics. But it’s not working, you realise. You’re not scared of him. You see through him. He’s lost. Desperate too; to prove himself.

As soon as the General sucks in a breath to speak you get in there first. “I’m ready to roll my eyes, so let me know as soon as you’ve finally landed on a comeback.” you snark.

He exhales slowly, already looking mildly perturbed.

“This is one of the problems with the Resistance.” he says to no-one in particular, beginning to circle you, his hands clasped behind his back. His beady eyes fix on you from beneath the brim of his hat.

“Oh, Hugs. The circling. Do they teach this in villain school? It’s making me dizzy.”

Hux only smiles thinly, tiredly. “Commander Dameron, perhaps you’d like to formally introduce our guest to her stun cuffs?” Hux’s eyes tic towards the commander, who -you think- finds himself having to quickly scrub all trace of amusement from his face.

He meets your eyes, just for an instant. “Clicker’s broken, General.”

“What do you mean the clicker’s broken?” Hux spits, voice already trembling with rage. Whether his rage is for you, or for Dameron, you’re not quite sure.

“Clicker’s broken. Very unfortunate.” He purses his full lips, his handsome face pinched into business mode.

Hux seethes, his hand flailing out towards your throat. You eyeball Dameron as he chokes you, and you swear you see his tongue flick out over his lips. But Hux’s grip is crushing, actually suffocating. The tightness in your chest becomes like fire. You begin to see spots.

“With respect, General,” Dameron interjects, “you might want to skip ahead to the next part?”

Hux sneers, as if he doesn’t very much appreciate the commander telling him what to do. Still, he drops you, and you collapse to your knees, coughing and heaving the air back into your lungs, spluttering on the floor at the General’s feet, as if prostrating yourself for forgiveness. Oh, now you are pissed off. You don’t kneel for this man. This whiny, cruel, snivelling wretch. How dare he touch you. As your anger intensifies, you feel that dark force vibrating under your skin once again. You summon more of it. Gather it deep inside until you think you can even hear the drone of it in your blood, in the marrow of your bones.

Hux is not the most powerful one in the room. Not by far. Hux should be afraid of you.

You recover, implausibly quickly. You stand. You bring yourself face-to-face with the General. You brace yourself for whatever he is about to subject you to next, at Dameron’s behest. But there’s no way you could see what Hux says next coming.

“Whilst it is more than apparent that you have some residual... insolence to be drilled out of you,“ he starts to address you, uncomfortably, “be assured we can take care of that. We can teach you the proper way to behave, if you’re willing to learn, to be disciplined. All the same, it is my pleasure to welcome you to the First Order, Commander.”

What in the.... All you can do is look on. As if you are floating above your own body.

“Commander Dameron tells me we have a new recruit. That you were swift to betray your band of rebels,” Hux continues. “So, tell me. Are you ready to fall to your knees and renounce the Resistance?”

You had imagined the most fantastical tortures and mindfucks that the commander might concoct for you, but, well-played Dameron; you certainly didn’t see that coming.

It looks very much like you need a new list of options.

“So,” the general prods, “will you pledge your allegience?”

Before you answer, you bite your lips to stifle a laugh of disbelief. But really, it’s quite simple. You know exactly what to do.

You turn towards the commander.

“Dameron, honey?”

He looks at you, his eyes practically glowing, and then in unison you both tilt your heads towards Hux, enjoying his obvious confusion as his eyes flit between you.

Hux gulps.

You can no longer hold back your own resplendent shark smile as you hold you hand out to your commander. “Give me the blade, darling?”

Maybe this would be fun, after all.

Violent, yes; but delightful.

196 notes · View notes

justkindaoverhereobsessing · 4 years

Text

just another day at the office

In which a pregnant and hormonal Ziva is in deep need of a middle-of-the-workday quickie. This is just smut, friends, zero plot at all.

Thanks to @indestinatus for some of the dialogue!

___________________

It starts with a vague feeling of discomfort, something Ziva can’t even identify. There’s just the sense that something is amiss with her body, something in need of fixing. It makes her restless and she shifts in her seat, trying to focus on the computer work at hand. The words swim on her screen, though, and she crosses and uncrosses her legs involuntarily. She feels… twitchy.

And for some reason, she can’t stop thinking of Tony.

At very nearly five months pregnant, she has long since been excluded from fieldwork. Instead, her days are filled with more of the same—desk work, paperwork, computer work, and frequent bathroom breaks. She really, really misses not being pregnant.

It takes nearly twenty minutes to figure out what’s wrong.

She’s never been so turned on in her life.

If not for the distraction of work and the fact that such feelings are entirely out of place in this setting, she would have realized it sooner, but it’s no matter. Now that she understands what her body is aching for, she can’t stop thinking about it.

Every shift in her seat—and there are a lot of them—sends waves of longing through her. Every time she leans forward to type, her bra brushes slightly against her nipples, making her bite her lip to keep from making some very inappropriate noises. She ends up closing out of her email entirely, because she keeps typing her thoughts rather than what the message is meant to say; there’s little room in a professional memo for the word ‘orgasm’.

Finally, she sends a single text to Tony when she feels like she’s about to lose her mind.

When you are finished at the crime scene, please hurry back here.

Then she drops her head down onto her folded arms on her desk, her thoughts flipping back and forth between scolding the baby for its bad hormonal timing and wondering if she shouldn’t just fake sick and go home early to take care of herself.

This is getting almost painful.

___________________

Half an hour later, an out-of-breath Tony appears in front of her desk. “Ziva, are you okay?” he asks, panting slightly. “I got your text and replied, but you didn’t answer.”

His face is like a breath of fresh air to Ziva, who is deeply struggling by now. “Tony!” she cries in reply. “I need to talk to you. Come. Now.”

She gets to her feet with a grimace, a hand supporting her growing belly, and brushes Tony off when he tries to help. If she’s touched right now, she might just explode.

“Are you okay?” Tony repeats, though he keeps his distance. “Are you in pain? Is the baby okay?”

“We are fine. You talk too much.”

She leads the way to the men’s bathroom, pursing her lips as the innocent friction of her legs rubbing together from walking does strange things to her state of arousal.

She nudges Tony inside, following him in and locking the door behind them.

Tony is—understandably—a little confused and more than a little concerned by her behavior. “Ziva, what are you—”

She cuts him off with a fierce kiss.

He kisses her back, but she can tell his heart isn’t in it. He’s too busy trying to figure out what’s going on.

He figures it out real quick when Ziva starts to undo his belt buckle, though, and he breaks the kiss, backing a foot or two away. “We can’t. Not at work.”

“Why not?” Ziva demands, sexually frustrated enough that this small rejection almost makes her want to cry.

“Well, I’m pretty sure Gibbs would be pissed, for starters. This would be like taking rule twelve and putting in a blender, honestly.” Disregarding his protests, Ziva starts to unbutton her own shirt, draping it carelessly over a stall door.

“We are not dating. We are married,” she reminds him.

“Okay, but I’m pretty sure no-sex-in-the-office is still an implied rule.” Tony’s voice sounds distracted, though, and his eyes are glued to her chest—they widen when her bra joins her shirt up on the plastic wall.

“No one has ever specifically told us not to,” she disagrees, stepping out of her pants and panties in one go.

“That’s the thing about implications, though, right…?”

Ziva can smell a victory, but Tony’s not completely convinced yet. Whatever, she’ll start without him.

It’s a little awkward to maneuver with her belly in the way, but she hops up onto the counter between sinks and props a foot up beside her so her legs are spread—then, she doesn’t hesitate to reach down and start sliding her fingers through the wetness she finds there.

She lets out the smallest involuntary moan, and Tony latches onto it. “I don’t think you can be quiet enough to get away with this, Ziva.” The tent in his pants says he really doesn’t care, though.

He’s right—she is a bit of a screamer. She’s way too far gone to care right now, however. Pregnancy hormones are a bitch. “Then you had better come muffle my voice with your mouth,” Ziva decides, beginning to slide two fingers in and out of her own slick warmth. It draws another moan, and, almost looking like he’s in a trance, Tony starts to step toward her.

“But we have work to do,” he tries feebly, one last time.

“When in your life have you chosen your job over pleasuring a woman, Tony?” Ziva demands. “Especially a woman who is pregnant with your child. I do not know who you are or what you have done with my husband, but I need him back now… Or at least I need his cock.”

That finally convinces Tony, and he laughs, drawing close enough to stand between her legs. “Alright, alright,” he agrees. “Only because I love you. And because I know you’re in this hormonal state because of me.” As he talks, he gently moves her hand aside, replacing her fingers with his own and beginning to move them skillfully as she hisses. “And because you’re the sexiest woman in the world. But just this once, okay? We’re going to have a hard time supporting a baby if we lose our jobs over this.”

He doesn’t wait for her answer, though, instead leaning in to kiss her as he starts to work his fingers harder below. “Tony,” she protests against his lips, “I do not have it in me to withstand much foreplay today. Are you ready—”

“I’m always ready for you, sweet cheeks,” Tony purrs immediately.

“Oh, thank god.” Ziva still whines a little when he withdraws his fingers to undo his belt and pants and shove them down with his boxers, but she doesn’t have to miss him for long.

After just a moment, she can feel him at her entrance, hot and insistent, and he raises his hands to start gently teasing her nipples. She groans loudly enough that he laughs and shakes his head at her. “Remember,” he murmurs, leaning in to touch his forehead to hers with a teasing, affectionate smile on his face, “no yelling.”

“I will yell if you do not fuck me now, Tony.”

“As you wish,” he answers, and one of his hands leaves her breast to position himself so he can push in with no further taunting.

Ziva immediately groans, and Tony kisses her sharply to cut off the noise. It’s a good thing, too, because as soon as he starts to move in earnest, she finds it impossible to control her noises. Pregnancy just makes her so sensitive, and she’s pretty sure this would be a euphoric experience even if she wasn’t already so painfully aroused before he even arrived.

Unfortunately for Tony, this quickie really will have to be quick, because it barely takes Ziva thirty seconds to orgasm. She bites Tony’s lower lip—he doesn’t seem to mind—and manages to mostly stifle the cry that comes out of her throat as she comes harder than she has in ages.

There certainly are upsides to this pregnancy.

As soon as the aftershocks of her orgasm stop, though, Ziva has to push Tony away; now she’s too sensitive. He groans a little, but he immediately pulls out and gives her space. “Just using me to achieve your own ends there, Ninja?” he asks wryly, equal parts amused and sexually frustrated.

“Always,” Ziva answers with a satisfied grin, and she accepts his hand to help her slide off of the counter. “Do you want me to…” She licks her lips suggestively instead of finishing her sentence.

Tony laughs. “As much as I’d love that, it should probably wait til we get home tonight. I wouldn’t make you get on your knees in a dirty bathroom when you’re five months pregnant, love.” The mirthful affection in his tone is impossible to miss. “I’ll just… ya know. And then I’ll go back to my desk. You go ahead.”

Ziva sees the logic in this and gives him one last deep kiss for inspiration before swatting his bum and pushing him toward a stall. “Thank you, Tony,” she tells him, sincere but on the verge of laughter.

“Thanks is all I get?” Tony asks as he waddles away, his trousers still pooled around his ankles. “You make me feel so cheap, woman.”

Ziva chuckles loudly and gets redressed as quickly as she can to the sounds of skin moving against skin and Tony’s voice emitting soft grunts.

He’s always been much better at quietness during sex than she has.

___________________

When Ziva makes it out to the bullpen, McGee and Gibbs are back at their own desks. “Where’ve you been, Ziva?” McGee asks curiously.

“I have been… doing stuff,” she answers noncommittally, moving toward her desk.

“Hi, I’m Stuff,” Tony says immediately behind her—Ziva hadn’t realized he followed her that closely out of the bathroom.

McGee’s eyerolls somehow always manage to outdo themselves, and this is no exception. “I was just fine with her explanation, Tony,” he complains.

“Get back to work, you three,” Gibbs interjects grumpily. The way he looks between Tony and Ziva leaves little doubt that he understands exactly what they just got up to, but having had a pregnant wife before himself… he doesn’t scold them. He gets it, and really, this isn’t the most ridiculous thing the David-DiNozzos have ever done in this building.

It’s just another day at the office, honestly.

#ncis #ncis fanfiction #tiva #tony dinozzo #ziva david #cynthia writes stuff too #here i am avoiding writing smut for waao #by writing smut that is plotless #killin it here aren't ya cyn #anyway i woke up thinking about this today #wtf was i dreaming about #and shout out to #the biscuits #for always encouraging my smuttiest self from writing her smuttiest shit #rather than doing anything productive lmao #and thanks to sof for the dialogue #it made me laugh in the gc and i had to steal it (with permission)

101 notes · View notes

lvcychen · 4 years

Note

Tripdaisy + road trip

Wooooow would you look a that! I’ve written an actual fic for the first time in almost three years! That being said, I’m suuper rusty in terms of writin so this is probably... not great, lmao. Please bear with me. I’m so so sorry this prompt (along with MANY others) has been sitting in my ask box for so long. I’m not sure anyone really cares for this anymore, but it was still fun writing it, haha!

Here it goes:

Miles and miles of open road are stretching out before her, pink and golden rays of light from the setting sun reflecting in her rearview mirror. They are somewhere in what feels like the middle of nowhere – Wyoming, maybe? Or Nebraska? She can’t really tell anymore. – and it’s been hours since they came across another car. Without taking her eyes off the road, Daisy reaches for the button on the door and lets down the window to feel the evening air on her skin before it cools down.

Trip is asleep on the passenger seat next to her, his face turned towards the window, catching the last glimpses of sunlight. He looks so peaceful, Daisy thinks to herself, you would never guess that he had been shot less than 24 hours ago. Sure, it had been a clean shot to the upper arm, leaving nothing more than a flesh wound, but nevertheless, a chill runs down Daisy’s spine at the memory of watching him go down, and for a second, she can almost hear her own bloodcurdling scream resonating in her ears.

In midst of all the chaos of the mission, the two of them had gotten separated from the rest of the team, with no functioning communication and unable to make it back to the Zephyr before May had extracted the plane, leaving Daisy to tend to Trip’s wound on her own. And now here they are, in a stolen SUV, with stolen backpacks and a stolen change of clothes on the backseat, a Welcome to Nebraska road sign flashing by outside the window, as they’re crossing the country to rejoin their team on base.

“Do you need me to drive for a while?”

Nearly jumping out of her skin, Daisy swerves on the empty road for just a second before redirecting the car back into her lane.

“Jesus, Trip”, she hisses, “give a girl a warning, maybe.”

His chuckle is deep and quiet and it sends goosebumps crawling over her arms. “My bad”, he says, as he props himself up in his seat. There is a brief trace of pain in his voice, and it would’ve been inaudible to the untrained ear, but Daisy knows him well enough to catch it, anyway.

For just a moment, she lifts her eyes off of the road to glance at him. Trip’s jaw is tightened, the brows over his dark, glazed-over eyes furrowed, and his breathing comes out shallower than usual. He’s okay, Daisy has to remind herself at the sight of him, he’s safe and he’ll stay that way.

“Daisy?”

His voice once again has her snapping out of her thoughts. “Hm?”

“Want me to drive?”

She shakes her head with as much conviction as she can manage, despite the fact that she can feel herself getting tired and she knows she’ll need a break soon. “You got shot in the arm, Trip.” Though she hadn’t meant it to, it comes out sounding almost like an accusation. “I’m not letting you get behind the wheel.”

“You can barely keep your eyes open.”

And just as he says it, she feels a yawn rising in her chest. She tries to suppress it, but it’s a lost cause. “I’m okay, really.”

Trip sighs, but his voice is soft, as always, and it prompts a feeling of relief to overcome her. He reaches out and his hand lands on her shoulder. “C’mon girl. You don’t have to pretend with me.”

His words are so simple, but they’re all it takes for her to let down her guard. She leans into his touch, and the fatigue washes over her body like a tidal wave. She yawns again, in full force this time, and mumbles: “I’m still not letting you drive though.”

“Dais-“, Trip begins to protest, but she won’t let him finish. Instead, she nods to the road sign they’re coming up on. “Look.”

The letters on the rusty, once-had-been-green sign are hardly recognizable anymore, but right next to it towers another, much newer sign, that clearly reads Western Wallflower Motel.

“We’ll take a room”, Daisy declares, her tone of voice not allowing any argument. “Get a good night’s sleep and continue driving in the morning. Deal?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

No fifteen minutes later, Daisy maneuvers the SUV into the parking lot in front of what has to be the tiniest, shabbiest motel known to mankind. The dull, purple paint is chipping off of the badly painted outside walls, the windows are lined with a thick layer of dust, and the lamps illuminating the building are flickering sporadically.

“This looks like a scene straight out of Psycho”, Daisy mumbles as she shuts off the engine. Without the car’s headlights, the place looks even creepier than it had just a minute ago.

Trip laughs while the two of them get out of the car. “Don’t worry, girl. I’ll protect you from any ghosts.”

Daisy halts mid-stretch, her eyebrows moving up towards her hairline. “Ghosts?”

Trip pulls the backseat door open to grab the bags they had hastily stuffed with giftshop shirts and sweatpants to sleep in. He shrugs his shoulders apologetically. “I’ve never actually seen Psycho.”

Still chuckling, they walk over to the glass door with a handwritten paper sign that reads Reception hanging on the inside. When they enter, the teenage girl sitting behind the desk doesn’t seem to notice them, too entranced by the bright light of her phone screen. Standing right in front of the desk, Trip clears his throat loudly in order to draw attention to them, but the girl only chews on her chewing gum harder. Trip and Daisy exchange a look, more amused than anything else. Then, Daisy reaches for the little metal bell on the counter and pounds her fingers down on it a couple times, drawing a series of shrill Ding sounds from it.

Finally, the girl peels her eyes off of her phone and raises her head. With a long sigh, she gets up from her chair and plasters a fake smile onto her face. “Welcome to Western Wallflower Motel”, she recites monotonously, “what can I do for you tonight?”

“Just a room for the night”, Trip explains, leaning himself over the counter slightly and flashing his best brighter-than-the-sun smile at the girl, “please.” Daisy has to hold in a laugh that bubbles up in her chest. She might think his move was ridiculous if it didn’t work on herself every single time.

Immediately, the expression on the teenager’s face become more genuine and Daisy could swear she sees a flush creeping up on her cheeks. “Of course, Sir. However, we only have a one-bed suite left for tonight. But I’m sure you and your… girlfriend won’t mind?”

Now a small snort does escape Daisy’s mouth. Sure, they like to flirt with each other every chance they get and Daisy has had an undeniable crush on Trip for longer than she’d like to admit to herself, but they’re not together together. Trip pretends not to hear her. Instead, all he says is: “We don’t mind at all.”

“Great”, the girl says and picks up one of the keys hanging on the wall behind her. “Your room number will be 201. There are towels up there for you and I’m down here if there’s anything else you need. You can pay in the morning.”

When they finally make it up the stairs and into the room, which is surprisingly clean and well taken care of, Daisy immediately drops down onto the bed with a huff of relief and closes her eyes for a short moment. The bed is a bit small, but she doesn’t mind that at all. She’d shared a bed with Trip before, and especially after the events that got them here, she’s glad for the opportunity to feel him close to her.

When she opens her eyes again, Trip is standing at the foot of the bed, one of their bags unzipped next to him, and his shirt tossed aside on the floor. He’s changed into one of the sweatpants that have the logo of the gift shop printed down one of the legs, but has apparently opted against a shirt. In the dim light of the motel room, Daisy can practically see the exhaustion written across his face, but what really catches her attention is the bandage in contrast to his dark skin. He must have redressed his wound – How long had her eyes been closed? – because the white fabric is wrapped around his upper arm much more neatly than what she had managed to do in the hurry they’d been in.

“Like what you see?”

Daisy shifts her eyes from Trip’s arm to his face, and is met with a smug grin. “You know I do”, she shoots back with a wink.

He tosses her a fresh shirt and says. “Let’s get some sleep.”

She doesn’t have to be told twice and quickly changes out of her dirty clothes and into the clean top.

They settle into bed easily, and as soon as they’re lying down next to each other, Daisy can sense the tension drain from Trip’s body as if someone had pulled the plug out of a bathtub. They’re lying close enough for Daisy to feel his breathing become more relaxed, and eventually turn slow and steady, making her think he had drifted off. She hadn’t consciously waited to fall asleep until he did, but it had been another act of reassuring herself that he was just fine, alive and breathing right beside her.

Just when she is finally ready to succumb to her own exhaustion, she hears Trip’s voice quietly in the dark: “Can I hold you?”

His words make Daisy’s heart flutter and her chest suddenly feels all fuzzy on the inside. Instead of an answer, she rolls onto her side, crawling closer to him, and tucks herself into his chest. Immediately, his good arm wraps around her middle and she can feel him bury his face n her hair, right where the crook of her neck is. His smell is so warm and familiar and an overwhelming sense of home floods through her. Blindly, she reaches for his hand and entwines her fingers with his.

Daisy is so grateful for this closeness, for the feeling of Trip’s skin against hers, the warmth of his breath on her neck. She’s grateful for the heaving of his chest against her back, a new proof of life every couple of seconds.

This time, they fall asleep simultaneously, tightly entangled with each other.

They can worry about getting home in the morning. For tonight, he is all the home she needs.

#sarah writes #my tripdaisy stuff #tripdaisy fic #tripskye fic #legacyquake fic #tripdaisy #tripskye #legacyquake #trip x daisy #trip x skye #daisy x trip #skye x trip #antoine triplett #daisy johnson #skye #agents of shield #aos #aos fic #agents of shield fic

16 notes · View notes

saudadeonly · 4 years

Text

never doubt never fear

Read on ao3. Part seven.

Death Eater!Sirius Black AU

The year after Andromeda Tonks and her family are declared dead to the rest of the Wizarding Britain is the most confusing, most unnerving year she's experienced in her life but she wouldn't change it for the world.

(Spans from February 1982 to March 1983.)

Word count: 11577

___

Andromeda Tonks, formerly Black, which she still has trouble forgetting on the worst of days, considers herself to be a fairly put-together person, able to keep her wits about herself in the direst of situations and her cool even when faced with emotional turmoil.

(“Maybe usually,” says Marina, her friend of too many years, sipping her whiskey, probably the third or fourth one since she arrived. She drinks like it’s a lifeline and has for longer than Andromeda has loved her, but she’s the only one that’s ever cared enough to stay. “But you do have some very specific exceptions.”

“You’re going to die from that,” Andromeda tells her in lieu of an answer, taking a sip of her tea.

Marina laughs, raspy around the edges. “I’ll be gone long before that,” she says.)

(The Dark Mark appears above her apartment three weeks later, the walls painted with her blood, so she’s right, in the end, as she always is—was.

For the first time, Andromeda resents the fact that she can’t sit and listen to Marina tell her, I told you so.)

But waking up in a house she has not been able to visit in a decade, her daughter and husband nowhere in sight when her last memory is of her sister’s manic laugh as she flees through the woods away from her, then walking out of her room only to find her cousin that’s been presumed dead for years in the kitchen is a bit of a stretch, even for her.

Let alone the fact that said cousin, one Regulus Arcturus Black, is currently wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt and stirring a pan full of what look like scrambled eggs. He looks up when she enters, black hair sleep-messy around his face, grey eyes bright. “Good,” he says, blinking slowly at her. “You’re awake.”

“Regulus—” Andromeda starts, then finds she has no words yet and sits down on one of the high stools at the island counter. She goes over the previous night in her head. Dinner, riddle-solving with Ted, getting Dora to bed, pouring tea in the kitchen; then a group of wizards inside her house, Bella’s grin, the dark woods around her. After that, nothing at all—certainly not anything involving Regulus.

She watches as Regulus ladles the eggs onto two plates, adds an abundance of bread slices to both, and sets one of them in front of Andromeda. He flicks his wand and a kettle from the stove flies toward the counter, pouring tea into the two mugs resting there. Once poured, Regulus pushes one toward Andromeda and takes the other one for himself, putting it down beside his plate of eggs as he starts to eat.

He nods toward her plate. “You should eat,” he says. “You’ll feel better.”

Andromeda stares and finds she has no energy to stop, which, considering the years of etiquette lessons her mother imposed on her, is a surprise in itself. It’s not so much the fact that he’s here as it the fact that he’s here like this, domestic and relaxed as she’s never seen him, at ease with himself and the space around him. He’s taller, too, and broader, a new weight to him that only age could have brought along. Age that, as far as she knew only a few minutes ago, Regulus never got to experience.

“Am I dead?” she asks, clearing her throat. It’s the only explanation that comes to mind.

He huffs a breath between two bites and looks up at her, brows and the corners of his mouth raised. She doesn’t remember his smiles, however small, coming as easy as they do now. “Not unless I am, too,” he says.

Andromeda blinks. The irony isn’t lost on her, nor him, judging by the remains of his smile. “Well, legally,” she says, slowly finding footing on this rocky ground, “you are.”

Regulus considers, mouth pulling to the side. “So are you.” He points his fork at her and adds, “Legally.”

“And Dora?” she asks, voice barely above a whisper, the name like a jolt of that peculiar thing Muggles call electricity. She can’t believe it’s taken her this much time to ask about it. “Ted?”

Regulus’s eyes darken, mouth settling into a firm line. “Alive but, like you, considered dead to the majority of the wizarding world. And in much worse condition.” He nods toward the room at the beginning of the hall, the one Cissy always claimed as hers because it had the best view. “In there.”

Andromeda makes to stand up but Regulus catches her wrist before she can take a single step. She reaches for her wand, only to find it’s not in the inner pocket of her robes where she usually keeps it. “Where’s my wand?”

“Let them sleep it off, Dromeda,” Regulus murmurs. “Bella got to them before she got to you.”

Andromeda’s heart slams against her ribcage, as if it could jump out and reach Ted and Dora all by itself. Bella’s cruelty has always aged like fine wine and Andromeda dreads to find out what new expanses she’s discovered in the years since they parted ways. “Then let me see them,” she says, ripping her wrist out of his grip.

He draws his hand back, letting it rest against his side, but he doesn’t back down. “Eat first,” he insists with a stubborn frown that is at once familiar and strange; she’s not used to it on his face but she’s seen it plenty of times before on another. “You need it. You won’t be of any help to them like this.” He runs a hand through his hair, the waves an enviable mix of elegant and mussed. “Your wand broke,” he adds in a quiet, careful voice, so much more like the reserved boy she remembers, “when they got to you. I’m sorry.”

Andromeda’s throat closes up. That wand was one of the few constants she had been allowed for most of her life. From that first summer before her first year, through all the years at Hogwarts, through her elopement, her pregnancy, every good and every horrible part of her life. It was the only thing given to her by her parents that she still truly adored.

“We’ll find you a temporary replacement later,” Regulus says. “I promise.” He nods toward the plates, the food probably cold by now. “Now you sit down and eat.”

Andromeda looks up at him. The last time she properly saw him he was only eleven years old, more skin and bone than anything else, all sharp edges and big eyes, small enough she could use him as an armrest. Now he towers over her, looks at her with patient eyes, all that skin filled out, that sharp edges softened.

She collapses onto the stool. “How did you pull it off?” she asks before she brings a spoonful of eggs into her mouth. They’re not bad, certainly worse than she could have made but they might as well be the best thing she’s tasted in years. They’re not yet cold, at least.

He copies her, then takes a sip of his tea. “I didn’t,” he says, shrugging with tense shoulders, which is a contrast that she can’t find strange, not on him. “Sirius did.”

Andromeda is suddenly grateful that she’s sitting down. Her knees might have gone out from underneath her otherwise. Finding out that Regulus is alive is one thing but to know that Sirius, who has despite her best efforts to convince herself and others the opposite always been her favourite family member, is the one responsible for the survival of her entire family, the only thing she still cares about in this wretched world, feels larger than life. She's spent years of anger at the betrayal he seemingly so carelessly executed, not only at her but at his friends. It hurt more than finding out about Bella’s admittedly expected affiliation with Voldemort or Cissy’s marriage into the Malfoy family. She's never been able to put a finger on why exactly.

“Let’s talk,” Regulus says, giving her a soft smile that she might have once thought shy or unsure. “There are so many things you don’t know.”

***********

Andromeda gets used to the old house slowly at first, then quicker every day. It was always a warm, welcoming place but it was slowly falling apart when she last saw it. Uncle Alphard, always a bit eccentric, had never had much interest in keeping a house elf or keeping up the house himself—a trait that was later only amplified by his years-long sickness. But now, with Regulus as the main resident, the house has been fixed up, the rooms put to good use and all of Alphard’s peculiar collections thoroughly sorted through. Andromeda enjoys finding the unfamiliar in the familiar, the little changes that tell her that the shelter of her childhood has become a haven of her adulthood.

Regulus, however, demands a little more adjusting. Andromeda learns quick enough that any change she might have thought superficial at first goes deeper than she could even imagine. There aren’t just the wardrobe change and the growth spurt in play. He’s still distant and considerate, but there is a new sense of strength in him, like his spine has become unbreakable, like it’s been coated in steel and tempered in fire. He dotes on Dora, redresses her wounds, coaxes her to drink her potions and is nothing but patient with her. He’s more reserved with Ted but no less respectful, no less mindful of his newly-obtained injuries – broken ribs, gouged face, cracked spine – and Andromeda can only marvel at the kindness, the one that has despite his mother’s best efforts always simmered inside him, he can so freely give now; there was a time she never would have dared to hope of such a kind fate for her little cousin.

He has his secrets and, as he always has, guards them well, with smooth, easy-flowing movements and an impassive face but Andromeda still manages to catch little glimpses of dark books and large maps he pores over early in the morning or late in the night when he thinks everyone else is asleep.

She doesn’t mind, is quite used to it after years of having to keep secrets herself and even finds comfort in the fact that this is a part of Regulus that hasn’t changed, a part that she still—quite ironically—knows.

*********

Dora, wedged between Andromeda and Ted in the large bed, is just drifting off to sleep when the door to the cottage bangs open. Andromeda’s first thought is that Dora was finally, finally calm enough to have fallen asleep and she is going to kill whomever just woke her up. Then it occurs to her that she might actually have to.

She jumps up and is out of the room before she remembers to grab for the wand Regulus found in the old study. It’s not fit for her at all but it’s better than nothing, especially in a situation like this one.

Ted calls out after her, unable to follow her, but Andromeda ignores him. She trusts him to keep Dora safe while she deals with the intruders or if it comes to the point where he has to take them on by himself. She’ll be damned if she lets her family get hurt again just because her sister has some kind of a desire to get rid of everything she considers to be tainting her past.

But it’s not Bellatrix or even a barrage of Death Eaters that stand in the living room. At first glance, Andromeda almost mistakes the tall, lean man for Regulus; but his hair is too long, his face too pale. He is swaying on his feet and he is much too thin under the cloak he’s taking off. The spike of recognition is more pain than relief.

“Sirius,” she breathes, her wand lowering with the frantic beat of her heart.

Sirius gives her a slow, small smile, an alien thing on his hollow face that was so full of life the last time she saw him. Years have passed since then, long, difficult years for him; she shouldn’t be surprised that he is so, so different now. “Hi, Dromeda,” he says, voice scratching against the walls of her heart. “How have you been?”

Andromeda takes a breath, then another. In between, Sirius throws off his robes with shaking limbs, revealing a white shirt underneath. A white shirt that is, from the side of his ribs down to his hipbone, stained red.

“Sirius,” she chokes out, taking one staggering step forward.

“I know,” he says, glancing at her before he rips the shirt off as well, grey eyes glassy.

For a moment, all she can notice is the ribs pressing up through the too-pale skin, the scars littering the expanse of his torso and his arms, white on white, blades of grass through paper. Then she sees the long, narrow gash down his side, streaming red, and it’s so much worse.

Sirius coughs, a dry, heaving thing, and sways back on his feet. He’s always been a steady boy, unperturbed in the harshest of conditions, resilient where all others failed. It’s the first time Andromeda thinks that that strength will fail him, that he might crumple in on himself.

Funnily enough, that’s what snaps her out of the trance she’s fallen in. She steps forward, wand once again poised but with a different intention this time. “Let me help you,” she says.

Sirius huffs a laugh but he doesn’t stop her as she taps her wand against the wound and murmurs a low incantation, pushing against the will of the wand as it seeks to evade. The gash simmers at the edges, the flesh almost knitting together, but then spreads further back, the blood more like a river now. A leaden ball settles in the pit of Andromeda’s stomach.

“Hardly can be helped,” Sirius says, looking down from the wound towards her with dark eyes. If possible, his face has paled. “It’s cursed, probably.”

Before Andromeda can say he should have told her that before she made it worse, the door bangs open again, this time indeed announcing Regulus with flushed cheeks and wind-tussled hair. His eyes take the scene in within seconds, his hands already throwing off his cloak. “What happened?” he asks, calm despite the situation. He reaches for Sirius and catches him just as Sirius’s knees buckle.

“Bloody Dorcas,” Sirius rasps as Regulus deposits him on the sofa. The plush soft-blue material is dark with blood within seconds. Sirius bares his teeth in what might be a self-deprecating smile, the sound that escapes him almost a laugh. “Knew she’d get me back for Marlene eventually.”

“Talented witch,” Regulus murmurs, turning Sirius onto his side, fingers skimming along the edges of the wound. He reaches for his wand, hidden in the inner pockets of his robes, but Andromeda catches his wrist.

“Magic makes it worse.”

Regulus blinks, swallowing as he tucks the wand away again. “Blood-replenishing potions,” he mutters instead, then gets up and disappears into the kitchen.

“Andromeda,” Sirius says as his eyes flick away from Regulus and towards her, clearing and blurring almost in time with his breaths. He presses his hand over the wound, blood seeping through his fingers. His voice is steady despite all of it. “Right pocket of my robes. There’s a book. Get it.” He coughs, his chest heaving with it, and adds, “Please.”

Andromeda’s eyes burn as she reaches for the robes, blindly digging through the pockets until she grabs a leather-bound book. The thought of losing Sirius just as he’s so close turns over her stomach. She makes to give it to Sirius but he shakes his head.

“Page 23.”

She dutifully flips it open, finding the pages filled with a familiar, elegant script. There are sketches, too, quick but precise, more beautiful than Andromeda would have managed to draw in her entire life. She looks back at Sirius. “These are spells.” Newly invented spells, from the looks of it – Andromeda has never heard of any of them.

Sirius nods, swallowing. “Healing spells, mostly,” he says.

Regulus appears back in the living room, levitating a number of potion vials beside himself. He grabs a dark red one and shoves it at Sirius. “Drink it.” He glances at the book in Andromeda’s hands. “What’s that?” he asks as he hands another potion to Sirius.

“A spell Andromeda will try out on me,” Sirius answers between gulps of the potion. He makes a face and leans his head back against the armrest. His hair lies plastered against his forehead, perspiration gleaming down his neck and chest.

Bile rises in Andromeda’s throat, her fingers shaking. She closes them around the book, refusing to be anything but useful here. She cannot afford to be anything else. “You mean to tell me you haven’t tested it yet?” she asks, managing to keep her voice even.

“Not that one, no. Haven’t had the time.”

“Sirius,” Regulus says, locking his jaw as he glares down at Sirius. They look so alike in the bright room, the lines of their regal faces nearly matching, both of their mouths set in a stubborn frown. “You can’t.”

“What is it going to do?” Sirius shoots back, lifting his chin as far as he can in his reclining position. His voice trembles but his eyes on Regulus’s remain steady. “Kill me?”

*********

After, Andromeda sits by Sirius’s bed, watching the rise and fall of his chest, tightly bound with Muggle bandages. She fiddles with the book, fingering the pattern pressed into the soft leather to set herself at ease; it’s a beautiful, intricate thing – a stag, a dog, a wolf, and a rat, standing side by side, the moon arcing high above them. It’s nearly as peaceful an image as the one before her.

Sirius’s breaths are slow and deep, his heartbeat steady. He is in no danger of dying, at least not from this wound, but Andromeda can’t bring herself to walk away. It’s been so long since she saw him, since she heard his laugh, since she listened to one of his stories. She only now notices the gaping hole in the side of her heart that has existed since she first heard the news.

In the months after Remus and James stopped by for tea, with darker bags under their eyes than Andromeda had in the first year of Nymphadora’s life, Andromeda stayed up for hours at a time, finding ways to berate herself for not having foreseen it, for not doing more to stop it, for not helping Sirius. She was just a renounced heiress back then, struggling with relying on anyone but herself and discovering the difficulties of having a child, but there had been so many occasions Sirius had found the time for them, for her, and she never repaid the favour. The guilt tore its way through her for a long time before she found a way to check it, burying it underneath her love for the only family she had left.

To know now that that was all an illusion is a relief but the guilt has broken through the dam she so carefully built around it, the one that remained firmly intact even after Regulus told her everything, and it now burns like acid, clawing its way into every crevice of her body.

Andromeda takes Sirius’s hand. It’s long-fingered and elegant but even the back of it is flecked with tiny scars. She bows down low over it, forehead touching his wrist, and murmurs, “Je suis désolé, Sirius.” The tears are not unexpected but they feel wrong somehow, too hot and heavy for someone who did so little to help at all. The tightness in her chest eases, though, and her next breath is easier to draw in. So she lets them spill over, lets the acid burn and hopes that tomorrow she can begin to make amends for her mistakes.

*********

Sirius more or less sleeps for the next few days. He wakes intermittently, sometimes murmuring names Andromeda can’t decipher but mostly reaching for the refilling glass of water they deposited on his nightstand. He just lies there, filled to the brim with various potions Regulus practically had to force down his throat, looking more dead than alive even on the best of days.

Dora glides by his room most of the time, drawing back at the smallest of sounds Sirius makes, and Andromeda’s heart aches with the knowledge that her daughter would have been the first to spend her nights watching over her uncle only a week ago. Now, she is just a girl whose normally vibrantly pink hair has remained short-shorn and dark brown since the night she had the misfortune of meeting her older aunt.

She inches her way into the room after a couple of days, drawing herself up against Andromeda as soon as she’s close enough, and watches as Sirius’s eyelids flutter in his sleep. He looks, for a lack of a better word, different than the last time Dora, only five years old then, saw him but when she reaches out to touch the ends of his hair, dark against the white pillows, Andromeda knows she remembers the boy who used to upend her by her ankle and make her shriek with laughter, who spent hours listening to her babbling and answering every one of her concerns with utmost honesty.

“Will Sirius be alright, mum?” she asks quietly, curling into the warmth of Andromeda’s arms in the small armchair. She smells like the sea and chamomile tea Regulus must have just made her. She'll have to remember to thank him later for so diligently taking care of her daughter.

“I hope so, sweetheart,” Andromeda answers, curving her body around Dora’s, and presses a kiss to the top of her head. Here, in the quiet, in the dimness, the memory of Dora’s small body, broken and beaten, is clearer than the daylight skies. Andromeda shudders. She cannot lose another person she loves. She will not. “We’re doing everything we can to help him and Papa.”

*********

There is a tapestry of the Black family tree in the dining room. It is reminiscent of the one at Grimmlaud Place, with the vastness and the pompous names, but this one has no scorch marks. It is strange to see her own name, written out in a slanting, copperplate script, right between Bellatrix and Narcissa’s. She can’t imagine that its twin was so lucky.

It’s the first time Andromeda has even been in the dining room since she came here. She usually avoids it like the plague because she nearly suffocates with the memory of long, stuffy family dinners she had to endure in here but it is the fastest way from the kitchen to the small wooden terrace in the back where Ted and Dora are and she stepped right into the rabbit hole of their beloved family. She readjusts her grip on the tray with tea and glances at her name again, eyeing the golden thread proclaiming her death to have been in 1982. She has yet to step beyond the border of the Fidelius charm guarding the house so it might as well be true, for all anyone in this world knows. Although only a few steps away, the prospect of it seems daunting now that she’s got used to this small haven, unaffected by the war raging on outside.

“I was all for painting over the damn thing but Regulus insisted we keep it,” says a voice from her left and she whirls on the spot, miraculously managing to not slosh the tea all over the place. Sirius stands in the doorway, half leaning against the frame, dressed in a loose shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He grimaces as he pushes off of the frame and steps further into the room, adding flippantly, “Something about tradition and legacy.”

“Sirius,” she says, pausing long enough to put the tray down on the table. She turns back around to find she has no idea what to do next. She’d like to hug him but she doesn’t know how well he would take it, or if at all. The few feet between them feel like a chasm, started by war and gouged by time.

Sirius saves her the trouble and positions himself next to her, shoulder-to-shoulder. She can feel the rhythm of his breathing, just a tad quicker now that he is awake. “At least this one is complete,” he murmurs, reaching out to touch the names of the people whose faces had been burned off in Grimmauld Place. Isla. Phineas. Marius. Cedrella. All names the two of them spent their childhood searching, if only to know what things they had done to have earned to be cast out of their family. Their findings only ever offered a horrible insight into what kind of family they had been cursed with. Andromeda had barely been able to look at her father for weeks after.

Sirius’s finger touches uncle Alphard’s name and stills.

Andromeda’s hand trembles and she clenches it into a fist, tight enough to hurt. Her favourite uncle, the dearest soul she has ever known. “He left me some money,” she says, then adds unnecessarily, “In his will.” She chances a glance at Sirius, finding his jaw firmly set. “Is that why—?”

Sirius nods. “Cygnus flew into a rage when he found out. It was the last straw for him and mother dearest wasn’t about to disagree with him. She didn’t waste her time either.” He scoffs, though the corners of his mouth turn up with it. “Alphard left most of the money to me but he wasn’t about to go out of this world without one last dig at the two of them.” He taps his finger against the tapestry, once, twice, then drops his hand. “Stubborn man,” he murmurs, looking all over the tapestry with dark, grey eyes; eyes that, now that they are not closed or glassy with the haze of pain, Andromeda can barely recognise.

“How are you?” she asks softly. She reaches out a hand and hesitates. She keeps it still mid-air for a moment then decides to damn it all and puts her hand on his shoulder. “Sirius, comment tu te sens?”

Sirius glances down at her. He’s been taller than her for some years now, even before they last saw each other, but he seems small now, stooped over in the kitchen where they spent some of their best years, finally, finally not just groomed to be scions of the House of Black, but allowed to be children. He touches her hand, lightly, with the tips of his fingers. “Ça va.” He looks out the window, his chin lifted as he watches the clouds roll past. “I should go,” he says, the words like a splash of cold water in her face; his duties don’t end here, not by a long shot, and she cannot save him from them. “They’ll be wondering where I’ve been.”

Andromeda doesn’t let herself look down at his forearm where the mark rests, dark and too alive across the veins rising against his thin skin. “Not right now.” She grabs his upper arm again and doesn’t let go as she levitates the tea tray with her other hand. “Come outside, for a little while.”

“Are the others there?”

“Just Dora and Ted. I think they’d both like to thank you while you’re awake.” She pulls at his sleeve gently, bites back the urge to beg him to stay. She’d go in his stead if she could. “Come on.”

Sirius glances at the window again, then sighs and lets her lead him out into the sun. He seems a stranger to it.

*********

Regulus doesn’t settle for days after Sirius has left. He is quicker with his movements, more intense when he studies his books, constantly looking between them and the door from the couch he’s nestled himself in.

“It’s been a hard couple of months for Sirius,” he explains softly when Andromeda nudges him. “I always fear I won’t see him after he goes.”

“Not hard years?” Ted asks from where he’s stretched out on the couch. Like this, underneath a red blanket, he looks nearly as he once did, content and dozing in the afternoon, not confined to the couch and a prisoner in his own body.

Regulus looks up at Ted, his hand almost absent-mindedly reaching up to touch the scar resting across his throat. His fingers move when he swallows. “Not like this.” He taps the corner of a small, dark book resting on the coffee table. “He lost a lot.”

And Andromeda finally sees something that she can recognise in Regulus – the fall of his eyes, stubbornly firm, the way he pulls his mouth to the side as if he’s biting the inside of his cheek; guilt has always been easy to notice with Regulus and she can do little to hold down the wave of her own that whirls up at the bottom of her stomach.

“He’ll be back, Regulus,” says Ted. His eyes are dark and gentle, even with a boy that he never met before two weeks ago, and Andromeda’s chest feels tight with the appreciation for this kind, patient man she was thankfully not stupid enough to let go. “He still has you.”

“Yes,” Regulus agrees softly. “Yes, he does.” He readjusts himself when Dora slots onto the couch between him and Andromeda and only once she’s safely curled against the two of them does he add, “I just hope he knows that, too.”

*********

Sirius comes back, of course.

He puts his hand on Regulus’s shoulder when he comes into the kitchen, quiet and unassuming; he moves like a ghost sometimes, half-there, half-alive, trapped between two worlds and welcome in none. Though Andromeda has seen ghosts who suffered a kinder fate. He goes to draw his hand away but Regulus turns toward him, giving him a slow, sad upturn of lips, and puts his hand over his, squeezing it once, quickly.

“Alright?” Regulus asks after he’s let go.

“Alright,” Sirius says, nodding. He reaches around Regulus to steal a piece of bacon from his plate and bites off half of it. “Bella is still on a rampage so they were all sufficiently distracted.” He looks at the remaining piece of bacon, frowning, then up at Andromeda. “Did you make this?” he asks.

Andromeda nods, still not finding the right words to say anything else, too busy scrutinising Sirius. He seems better and worse at the same time – he’s paler than he was when he left but he holds himself upright now and doesn’t grimace anymore when he moves.

“It’s good.”

Regulus glares up at Sirius. “Are you implying mine isn’t?

Sirius shrugs. “I’m not not implying it,” he says and Regulus shoves him.

*********

Sirius and Regulus filter in and out of the house from then on. Regulus, who used to disappear for scraps of time during the day, now stays away for hours, although he always comes back before the dark has settled in, usually smiling softly at himself or humming under his breath. On some days, even both.

“He has someone,” Sirius says on one of the rare days he’s with them. He’s gone for days at a time and unlike Regulus, rarely spends the night and even then, he is gone before the sun has risen. He spends most of his time with Regulus and his books and parchments, scribbling in the margins, or with Dora, playing chess with her or showing her various wand tricks to entertain her. He is always kind, always patient, but the scars and wounds underneath are visible even on the best of days. Andromeda wonders sometimes if he sees Bellatrix when he looks at Dora with her dark hair and high-cheeked face, or when he looks at Andromeda herself; she doesn’t blame him for getting lost in the pain sometimes. “He won’t tell me but I see him.”

“Are you sure?” Andromeda asks. It seems unimaginable, not because Regulus would be incapable of forming such a relationship, but because it seems almost bizarre that he might allow himself such a comfort, such a liability when he and Sirius are clearly mixed up in something that goes beyond Sirius’s affiliation with Voldemort.

Sirius nods, dragging on the cigarette he’s lit. “I don’t blame him for it,” he says, puffing out the smoke, his voice caught with it. “I had things I didn’t tell him about, too.”

There are so few things Andromeda thinks Sirius has left to keep to himself, to cherish. She cannot imagine the pain he must have felt leaving his friends in the dark and with every loss after it – there can’t have been just a few of them. Her heart aches with the thought of how alone he must have been that first year before Regulus joined him.

“He’s happy,” Sirius says, pressing his shoulder against Andromeda’s briefly. “I can never resent him for it.”

“I’m glad,” Andromeda says and pushes the question bubbling up her throat back into her lungs, squeezed between her ribs, storing it for a day she might get a satisfactory answer. Are you happy?

*********

Days bleed by, then weeks, during which Andromeda learns to exercise a degree of patience she has never known before. It takes hours to put Dora to sleep sometimes, days to help Ted master a new level of mobility, but Andromeda never for one second wishes it were any different; she has them still and that is more than she can ask for.

Sirius examined Ted the second time he came back and his diagnosis, coming from someone who Andromeda has known to be exceptionally talented at healing, offered little hope; but Ted is trying with everything he has, religiously doing all exercises and drinking his potions—the results are defying all expectations.

Currently, he’s learning to use the wheelchair Sirius has procured and magically enhanced for him, using the wheels to propel himself backwards and forwards, back and forth, back and forth. “This is quite nice,” he says, smiling up at Andromeda with tired eyes, set strangely into his thin, scarred face. He’s always been a bit on the stout side, but he’s lost a lot of weight during his recovery, his rehabilitation; it’s not a bad change but the reasons for it are. She misses, sometimes, her cheerful husband and her bubbly daughter but always catches herself before she wishes to go back. There are so many things she has gained now that she would never have managed to see otherwise. It is hard to be resentful of that. “Come on,” he proclaims as he tugs on her hand and then lets go to push himself forward, past the kitchen and towards the front door. “Let’s take it out for a test drive.”

Andromeda follows, opens the door and steps out. It’s a beautiful day, cold but not unpleasant, the sun shining high up in the clear sky. She hasn’t made it a habit to remind herself of it lately.

Ted is a bit unsure in the wheelchair, rolling over the grassy knolls and dips, but it is wonderful to see him enjoy the outside world without having to rely on anyone’s assistance, to be self-sufficient, if only for the time being.

She stands next to him once he’s stopped and reaches for his hand on the armrest. “I love you,” she tells him. “And I’m sorry I’ve caused you so much pain.”

Ted smiles at her, wide and unrestrained, but weak around the edges. He wraps his fingers around her and brings their joined hands up to his mouth to kiss the back of hers. “My Dromeda,” he murmurs. “You’ve only ever brought joy to my life.” He pulls on her hand until she gives and climbs into his lap, curling into his firm torso, into his smell of chamomile and healing potions. He wheels them forward, slowly and unsurely, but Andromeda trusts him enough to keep her eyes closed until he stops. He’s brought them all the way to the end of the path leading to the village below, where Regulus has taken Dora, heavily masked, for the day.

It takes her a moment to realise that they’ve crossed the border of the Fidelius charm and there’s a painful tug in her chest, an old panic finally rearing its ugly head; but it’s Ted and she trusts him. So she noses against the curve of his neck as he wraps his arms around her and she breathes him in, lets the sunrays wash over them. With him by her side, she isn’t afraid.

*********

“How’s Cissy?” she asks Sirius when she finally dares.

He looks up from a parchment, depicting strange, mangled creatures. He and Regulus have been becoming more open with their research, leaving them to lie on the table even if they’ve left their spot for longer than a minute; she thinks they might tell her what they’re up to soon. “Good,” he says, grey eyes unreadable. He takes a bite of the sandwich she’s made him and it seems almost absent-minded or at least not deliberate. Regulus told her Sirius practically has had to have food forced down his throat for months, if not years. “Surviving,” he adds after he’s swallowed the bite; then, even softer, “She fears for her son.”

Andromeda thinks back to the family tree in the dining room, the gold thread tracing down from the line connecting Narcissa and Lucius. “Draco,” she says and he nods.

“He’ll be two soon,” he tells her, a distant look crossing his face; it seems at once caught between reminiscence and regret. “I’d help her if I could but Lucius would kill her before he’d let her go and she won’t risk Draco.”

Andromeda’s throat burns, a familiar sensation by now, older even than Sirius’s servitude. It’s been a constant companion since she last closed the door of her childhood home. Bella, she had little qualms about leaving behind, but Cissy, pliable Cissy who would do anything to please their parents and Bella; she would have taken her with if she had been able to. She cannot blame Sirius for having the same conflict within himself, for failing to come up with a solution when his circumstances are so much worse.

“I’m sorry you’re alone,” she says, leaning back against the counter, gripping the old, hideous wand like it’s her lifeline; she hates it, its history, its character and everything in-between—but it’s all she has right now and it has to be enough.

“I wasn’t always,” Sirius says, the long, elegant lines of his face shifting as he reaches up to touch a small carnation pendant resting just below the hollow of his throat. She has the sudden image of the boy he was, rising from the stool at the Sorting, equal parts elated and terrified. She really thought that he was safe then, that he would get away. “But I am now.”

*********

Regulus teaches Dora to fly on a broom, leading her high up into the sky and guiding her through easy manoeuvres. It makes her laugh, makes her giddy with excitement and she comes back into the house rosy-cheeked and with shining eyes.

Ted reads bedtime stories to her, has her tucked against his chest until late in the night, until she’s been asleep for hours and not mere restless minutes. He kisses her hair and tells her he loves her and doesn’t let go of her unless she asks him to.

Andromeda sings her lullabies until her throat hurts and brushes her hair and plays with her. She shows her all the wonderful things Alphard kept in his house, all the knowledge he kept in his books. She teaches her to dance every ballroom dance she remembers and doesn’t once mind any antiquity Dora breaks.

But Dora’s hair remains dark, her features familiar and painful not because they remind Andromeda of a past she’d rather forget, especially now, but because they are not her daughter’s, who has made it her personal mission to be her own and no one else’s since the day she first figured out how to control her abilities. They are a reminder that Dora lost something – that she was robbed of it – she can’t ever get back.

Then Andromeda goes for a glass of water in the middle of the night and she finds Sirius sprawled out on the couch, a thin blanket over him. He rarely goes to his room to sleep, instead preferring to crash in the living room; Andromeda hasn’t dared to ask him why yet. His chest is rising and falling steadily, his breaths blowing his hair away from his face. He has his arm around Dora, who is snuggled into his chest, her own arm barely reaching up to be wrapped around him. The embers in the fireplace cast a soft, warm light over the two of them, just enough that Andromeda can see that there, just above the swell of Nymphadora’s ear, her short hair glows pink.

*********

Snow melts under the relentless onslaught of the sun and gives way to blooming flowers. The days grow warmer, longer.

Andromeda starts tending to the old garden and Dora, with her hair a beautiful, beautiful pattern of pink and brown, joins her. They work while Ted sits in his chair nearby, reading or simply watching them. Sometimes he tells them stories or jokes; on other days, they are all content to stay in silence, to enjoy all the things that they nearly lost. Here, in the small world they’ve built for themselves, occupied and protected by people Andromeda loves most, they start healing.

*********

The newspapers grow darker and Regulus’s eyes become stormier, his face worn with frowns. He stays inside day and night, digging through old texts that probably haven’t seen the light of day for decades.

Sirius doesn’t come home for weeks.

*********

It’s nearly June when he does. The garden outside is blooming, bright with colours and life, but the house doesn’t light up until he bursts through the door.

“I got it!” Sirius yells. He’s smiling, honest-to-god smiling, when he barrages directly into Regulus and knocks the two of them off-balance, nearly onto the floor. “I got it, Regulus,” he says into his shoulder, muffled and fuzzy with the shock. He’s still grinning when he pulls back but now, so is Regulus.

“How did you get it?” Regulus asks, reaching out a hand.

“I convinced Narcissa.”

It’s not until Regulus takes the small black book from Sirius’s hands that Andromeda even notices he had it. It’s an old, unassuming thing but Andromeda spent nearly half her life in houses where she learnt the hard way that most things weren’t what they appeared to be; even just looking at it makes the hairs on the back of her neck stand up, her chest heavy with the weight it has brought to the room. Whatever it is, it isn’t harmless.

“What is that?” she asks.

Regulus and Sirius exchange a dark look, an old sort of connection she remembers the two of them sharing since they were children; they have always known best how to exclude others from their conversations without even trying. Sirius’s face remains for the most part impassive, but Regulus’s mouth twitches to the side.

“I’m not stupid,” Andromeda tells them, which they should already know. She was the mastermind behind most of their pranks in their youth, after all. “You’ve already done it now.”

Sirius sighs, a deep, long thing that seems at once strange and usual for him. “Fair enough,” he says, sweeping his hair out of his eyes with practised ease. It’s getting long again; Andromeda should make him sit down and cut his hair. “You should sit down.”

*********

Sirius brings a dagger that Andromeda’s seen in one of the display cases in the study and offers it to her. It’s goblin-wrought silver, he tells her, coated in basilisk venom, a thing a friend of his managed to procure for him. It is one of the few things that can destroy the soul inside the diary.

“Your honours, Dromeda,” Regulus says softly, standing against the wall next to the fireplace. She only now notices the golden chain of the locket resting against his chest, the shape of it obvious underneath his white shirt now that she knows what to look for.

“This is how we end it?” she asks, looking between him and Sirius, unsure at whom the question is directed.

But it’s Sirius, with his eyes like shards of ice, his back like a pillar of steel, that says in a firm, cool voice, “Yes.”

Andromeda nods, steeling herself, grips the dagger and stabs it into the middle of the leather diary. Black ink bleeds out, pulsing in time with the shrill, dull screams that tear out of it. Andromeda dives to the side, the dagger clattering to the ground as she covers her ears. Sirius catches her, pressing her against his chest with a quiet, soothing murmur, the sensation unfamiliar after so many years but Andromeda can’t look away from the horror before her, knowing that it’s a piece of someone’s soul dying, something she caused. Voldemort was, despite everything, human once, too.

The diary heaves one last spurt of black blood, then goes silent and lies there. The weight in the room lifts.

*********

“What else could be a Horcrux?” she asks Regulus the next morning. Ted and Dora are still asleep in their rooms and there’s no one else to overhear them.

Regulus looks up from his breakfast, swallowing before he answers, “Anything. Voldemort seems partial to sentimental items – his diary, Slytherin’s locket, Hufflepuff’s cup, his family’s ring.”

“Items relating to Hogwarts?” Andromeda muses, taking a sip of her tea. “Sword of Gryffindor?”

Regulus shakes his head, eyes sharp. Andromeda doesn’t doubt that everything she might come up with he has already thought of. “Only a true Gryffindor can get his hands on that one.”

“Ravenclaw’s Diadem?”

“In theory. But it’s been lost for centuries.”

Andromeda knows, of course, so she nods and doesn’t mention it again; but something trickles against her mind, an old memory, a passing thought, and it doesn’t let go.

*********

Regulus pokes Sirius, dozing on the couch next to them, while they file through different texts. It’s tedious and gruesome work, Horcrux hunting, and no one can blame him for not wanting to participate in it after having to deal with the Death Eaters for weeks. “How did you convince Narcissa?” he asks.

It makes sense that he would; if Sirius was Andromeda’s favourite cousin, then Narcissa was Regulus’s, the feeling no doubt mutual. Although years apart, they both found solace in the quiet things, the unassuming ones; they have always been the counterweights to Sirius and Andromeda. Regulus must have kept the worry for her despite everything that happened—or perhaps exactly because of it.

Sirius blinks open his eyes, languid. The dark bags underneath them are a horrible sight to behold but not an unusual one. “I mentioned Draco – that it might help keep him safe if she did what I asked.” He makes a face, absent. “I’m not proud of it.”

Regulus glances at him, then back down at the parchment in his hands. “Had to be done,” he murmurs.

“He’s a good kid,” Sirius says, a tinge of fondness creeping into his voice. “Happy.” He adds, to Regulus or Andromeda, she doesn’t know, “You’d like him.”

Andromeda knows he doesn’t mean to hurt them but it stings, the knowledge that he gets to know their nephew, gets to see him grow up while they are stuck here, grasping at dragon’s breath. The darkness rises up in her for a moment, two, then dies down. It doesn’t disappear exactly – but Sirius has sacrificed so much for them and still does, on a daily basis. Having that small reprieve, that one little gift, is the least that he deserves.

He’s happy. I can never resent him for it.

Besides, it is just a matter of time.

*********

Regulus turns twenty-one years old in the hottest week of the summer. Andromeda forgets sometimes, how young they all are, how much they have already suffered.

She bakes him a cake, the cranberry one he so adored as a child. Dora draws him a picture of him, Sirius and the three of them, prouder of it than she ever has been of any other accomplishment. Sirius buys him a set of books and even hugs him, a quick, brief thing that nonetheless makes Andromeda’s eyes sting.

He blows out the candles and Dora asks him, “Did you wish for anything?”

Regulus cradles the back of her head, fingers carding through the purplish hair there. “Oui,” he says, “I did.”

He doesn’t tell them, of course, and Dora is content with that, but he slips out of the house in the evening and Andromeda has an inkling anyway.

*********

Andromeda doesn’t look at the newspapers anymore. She stopped long before Bellatrix came crashing through her front door and the idea is to never start doing it again until she dies or until Voldemort is defeated, whichever comes first—and she’s having her doubts.

But it’s pointless not to look at newspapers when she can just take one look at Sirius when he comes through the door and know how bad it is anyway. Given the fact that most of the media is currently already controlled by the Death Eaters, that way is even more accurate than the Daily Prophet itself. She wishes she didn’t have to know, that she could just curl into the space between Ted and Dora and stay there forever, the rest of the world be damned.

There are people in the rest of the world, though, people she loves, people she knows, people she wishes she could make amends with. Sirius. Narcissa. Lucretia. Her classmates, her colleagues. They’re all fighting, in their own way, she’s sure of it. It seems unfair that she gets to step away from that.

The thing is, she could. Sirius is the Secret Keeper of this house and she knows he would let her if she asked; even if his cover was blown, even if he was tortured to death, she knows he would not give them up and they would all be safe for the rest of their lives.

But at the end of the day, Andromeda knows who she wants under the roof of this house if the worst time comes and it’s not just her small family and Regulus; it’s Sirius and Narcissa and a dozen people in-between. So she covers Regulus with a blanket, kisses the top of his head as he moves and murmurs in his sleep, and brushes Sirius’s hair away from his face, presses a kiss to the edge of the scar across his cheek. Then she settles against them, opens the book again and starts reading.

The war isn’t going to end itself.

*********

“He has the Ministry,” Sirius says with a hoarse voice on a November morning. He came sometime during the night, slept on the couch again. It’s the first thing he’s said since they woke up.

Regulus frowns. “There hasn’t been any indication—”

“Imperius,” Sirius says, shrugging. “Bagnold and most of her office – I don’t know exactly who, though. He didn’t put me on the job.”

“Who then?” Andromeda asks and dreads the answer even before Sirius’s eyes, dull and dark, catch hers.

“Lucius. Bellatrix. Rodolphus.”

“Why not you?” says Regulus. “We wouldn’t—” He rubs a hand across his face, makes a soft, agitated noise. “We were doing so well.”

“I know, Reg,” Sirius says softly. “Believe me, I know.” He worries his lip and sucks his cheeks in; they look even more hollow now, his face as white as death. “He’s sending me to the werewolves.”

Regulus blanches. “Again?”

Sirius’s nod is short, curt, like he’s already resigned. “He wants them ready. He has something up his sleeve, I don’t know what. He’s not telling me. I don’t think he’s telling Bellatrix either.”

One short conversation, a few scraps of information and the world is already infinitely worse than it was mere minutes ago. A lump gathers in Andromeda’s throat. The Ministry being done for was to be expected, of course it was, but it’s worse now that it’s actually happening, when the possibility of the people outside being protected is completely gone, not only because the government has fallen but because Sirius won’t be there either.

“I’ll be fine,” he says, trying for a reassuring smile but his mouth trembles. “They’re not such big bad wolves as they’re painted to be. Preferrable to the Death Eaters, really.”

*********

Dora cries when he tells her, throwing her arms around him and clinging to him long enough that Andromeda has to look away.

Sirius holds her, murmuring soft words to her, shushing and rocking her to the side. “C'est d'accord, ” he says, soft against the wild purple of Dora’s hair. “It’s just a couple months, Dora. I’ll be back before you know it.”

“But it’s your birthday tomorrow,” Dora tells him between sniffles. “I haven’t finished your present yet.”

Sirius blinks, mouth open, and Andromeda wonders if he even remembered – or maybe he didn’t expect that they would remember, that she and Regulus would care enough to tell Dora. Oh, Sirius. “Your presence is present enough, Dora,” he says finally, pulling her into another hug. His head is tucked against hers, his eyes closed, the gentle expression on his face at odds with the strength he’s holding her against him. “Besides,” he says, slowly drawing back, “you can give it to me when I come back.” He pokes her in the belly and that makes her crack a reluctant smile. “Gives me something to look forward to.”

*********

It’s worse, somehow. It’s not like he wasn’t gone before but at least they knew he was around somewhere. Regulus could reach him when the need called for it and it was a matter of days, or weeks, at worst, before he came home. Now, it’s months, an endless stretch of time that only seems to draw on longer with the lack of success their research offers.

Then Regulus says, “A Horcrux can be a living thing.”

Andromeda looks up from her parchment, the image of Ravenclaw’s lost diadem now permanently scorched into her mind, all too familiar, then blinks at Regulus. “What?”

He stretches across the coffee table to hand her the piece of an old text. It’s in Ancient Runes, her brain blanking for a second before it starts translating, but Regulus has already continued by the time she’s halfway through. “The soul can be placed inside a living thing – an animal, a plant, a human, probably.” His eyes are shining when she glances at him. “Sirius said Voldemort found this snake, Nagini. He always keeps her at his side and with his obsession with being the Heir of Slytherin—” He tilts his head to the side, like a cat, giving a slow one-shouldered shrug.

“He made her a Horcrux,” Andromeda finishes, her mouth tugging up at the corners.

Regulus nods, running a hand through his tousled hair. His cheeks are flushed, his eyes twinkling. “We’d have to check— Sirius would have to check,” he corrects, his forehead creasing up, his eyes blinking closed for a second, “but it’s likely.” He takes a quill and scribbles a quick message onto a small piece of parchment lying to the side. He slices the tip of his finger open and presses it to the top of the parchment, leaving behind a bloody fingerprint when he pulls it back. He taps his wand against it, once, twice, then sits back. The parchment disappears in a puff of blue-black smoke.

*********

“What will you do, Andi?” Marina asks, her voice velvet-smooth. She’s sitting on a throne in front Andromeda, leg crossed over the other, her sea-blue dress barely reaching the bend of her knee. Her chest is splashed with red, her brown hair tangled around her bruised face. A tiara rests atop her head, it, too, speckled with red.

Andromeda pushes back the urge to throw up. She’s dreaming, she knows she is, but Marina’s death is still an aching scar; she will never forget the emptiness of her eyes as they stared up at the ceiling painted in her own blood. “I don’t know,” she whispers.

“You? You, Andromeda Black, don’t know?” Marina says with a laugh, a high, breathy thing that sends chills down Andromeda’s spine; it is not the familiar, throaty sound she remembers. “I don’t believe it.”

“You know how you can help. Of course you do.”

“I don’t, I don’t.”

Marina shoots her an unimpressed look, eyes dark. She reaches up to move a stray strand of her hair out of her face, tucking it behind her ear. “Where is it, Andi?”

A sob builds up in Andromeda’s throat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Marina was always a sharp person, a no-nonsense kind of one, but she never demanded more of people than what she knew they could give.

She shakes her head, fingers gripping the edge of the throne until her knuckles are white as bone. “You know,” she says. “Now you just have to remember where it is.”

*********

They celebrate Christmas without Sirius.

Regulus, rosy-cheeked, drags in a Christmas tree, tall enough to reach the ceiling and make Dora jump around with glee, her hair changing colours every time her feet touch the ground. They adorn it with ornaments Ted and Andromeda, despite her wand acting up, manage to conjure up and spend the day before Christmas baking cookies. By the end of the day, they are all so full they nearly forget anyone is missing at all. Come morning, they are all starkly aware of it again.

New Year’s Eve comes around and that passes without Sirius, too. Regulus sits outside on the cliff until they drag him in and even then, his eyes seem hollow, his voice empty when he says, “I forgot—it’s been a year—more than—since—” He puts his face in his hands and whispers, “Evan.”

It’s a sombre affair, New Year’s Day.

*********

Dora’s birthday is looking to be the same kind of subdued when no one is around in the morning—just the two of them, curled up on the couch while Dora opens the gift Andromeda managed to get for her. Ted and Regulus disappeared down into the village a couple of hours ago.

It should be better, Andromeda thinks. It’s her tenth birthday, the last whole year before she’s set to leave for Hogwarts and she deserves better. The knowledge that she can’t give it to her presses down on her chest, too heavy.

“I love you, little one,” Andromeda tells her, kissing the crown of her head. At least she’s happier now, at least she’s safe this year. At least Andromeda can be thankful for that.

“Love you too, Mum,” Dora says back absently, fingers skimming over the Quidditch book she’s unwrapped. She smiles up at her, though, bright and sudden. “Thank you, I love it.”

Dora is not a naïve child, has never really been, but Andromeda sees how much calmer she is now, how much more she considers everything she says or does and it makes her want to get up and find Bellatrix herself – to do to her the unspeakable things that she did to her daughter, to show her that she took away something from an innocent bystander in the name of something as trivial as blood. But it doesn’t matter to Bellatrix, it never has, and it isn’t worth it, not when both Andromeda and Nymphadora would lose so much with it.

“We’re back!” Ted shouts as he wheels himself into the living room, his lap full of presents. He’s grown stronger in the past months, his muscles building back up once he started moving around; but more important than that, he’s happier and not resigned but at peace with this big change life has brought for him.

“We even picked up a renegade,” Regulus adds, following in after Ted and carrying a load of things, the beginning and end of which Andromeda cannot for the life of her figure out. He frowns at someone behind him. “He’s refused to help us carry the gifts.”

Sirius steps in after him, dressed in clean, pressed dark robes, everything about him sleek and polished. He shrugs, his too-long hair falling in his eyes, and says, “I am the gift.”

Dora shrieks and ricochets herself off of the armrest, slamming into Sirius with enough force to make him stumble back a step; and he is. He really is.

*********

Sirius bends down low over Regulus and her, each of his hands on their shoulders. He doesn’t look unwell, not for a man who was supposed to have been dealing with feral creatures for the past few months. “You were right,” he murmurs, low enough Dora and Ted won’t hear. Andromeda thinks Ted probably knows anyway. “Nagini is a Horcrux.”

*********

Sirius is sitting eerily still for someone who could not be forced to calm down as a child. Then again, there are many aspects in which Sirius has changed and settled; this can hardly be any different. He’s letting her cut his hair, which is, although soft and glossy for the most part, damaged enough she will have to cut off at least a half of it.

“Don’t the werewolves have any tools to keep themselves in order?” she grumbles, sniping off half of a strand. Once it falls in place, it just reaches his earlobe.

Sirius breathes deep. “They live in poverty, Dromeda,” he says, rolling his shoulders back. Through the thin material of his white shirt, she can see a scabbed wound stretching from one shoulder to the other. “They can hardly afford such luxuries.”

Andromeda has, as a principle, made it her main objective in the last decade to be as different from her family as possible. In large part, that involved successfully relearning every ideology Cygnus and Druella had done their best to instil in her. On the rare occasion, however, Andromeda, in her admittedly bull-headed pushing, came to the limits of her own morality, to the grey zone that she could not move out of solely on the basis of being far away from the Blacks’ mentalities. Werewolves and similar dark creatures fell into that grey zone because at the end of the day Andromeda, as a child from a deeply dysfunctional family, felt she didn’t have the ability to make the judgement for herself. She fears such moments most, when she realises that she can escape her family, but some shackles can never be fully stripped away.

Sirius’s voice is soft but rather lost, a boat far out in the open sea. “They’re not bad people, not most of them,” he murmurs into his hands covering his mouth. “Those that are, were bad people before they were ever Turned.”

*********

Andromeda stands in a vast room, with no end in sight. There are piles of trinkets around her, large piles of every little thing Andromeda can think of and yet larger ones of things she couldn’t name to save her life. They are arranged in lines, leaving narrow rows for passage in-between.

She steps forward, down one of those rows, her fingers skimming over the things scattered atop. A book, glasses, a quill. A frame, a wand, a tiara. A piece of string, a wig, a bust.

Marina appears in front of her, dressed as she was the last time, only her hair is woven into a crown of brown and red now, her fingers taut with dried blood. “You are far more foolish than I thought you were,” she says, looking down at her with hooded eyes and curved mouth. “I thought you were the observant type.”

“What are you talking about?” Andromeda asks. She’s tired of these dreams, these nightmares that plague her even in the daylight. If she’s not dreaming about them, she’s thinking of them. She wishes they stopped.

“Where is it, Andromeda?” Marina says, huffing impatiently but not in the way Andromeda is used to. “Where are we?”

Andromeda looks around. The ceiling of the room is high and dark, plain and unassuming, the walls too far away or too covered to be made out. She knows this place, she’s certain of it. She’s been here before. This meant something to her once, once, a long time ago—

And then it hits her. The seventh-floor corridor, the left one—the tapestry with the room that was never not there, the one she hid all the evidence of her relationship with Ted in, then later on of her plan to escape. I need a place to hide my things.

She turns, eyes searching for the thing she should have remembered a long time ago. The wig, the painting, the frame.

It’s resting on a precariously-put set of old, leather-bound books, covered in dust, all the glamour that should have been there long gone; but she knows where it is and what it is. She knows, she knows.

Marina has moved to stand next to her, her breaths steady. The blood has disappeared from her dress, has been washed out of her hair and off her hands. “I knew you’d remember eventually,” she says, fingers curling around Andromeda’s wrist. Her voice is once again the harmony of warm, raspy tones Andromeda knows. “It’s high time the war ended.”

Andromeda is stumbling out of bed before she’s even fully awake.

*********

Regulus grumbles when she shakes him and tries to burrow himself deeper under the covers. The sun is beginning to arc across the sky, far too early yet, but this is important. Andromeda cannot wait when she knows every minute wasted is a minute more that the people she loves have to suffer.

“I know where the last Horcrux is,” she tells him and he’s sat up within the next three seconds.

He looks up at her, grey eyes wide and just the little bit glassy, but his voice is strong. “Where?”

“Hogwarts.”

*********

Regulus sends a message to Sirius, the words smudged with sleep, messy with haste. We know where the last one is. Come as soon as you can.

After it’s disappeared in the burst of smoke, Andromeda asks, “What do we do now?”

Regulus sits down in front of the fireplace and opens a book, the picture of restrained calm. She shares none of it; her body is alive with the need to get up, to pace, to do something. “We wait.”

*********

Hours pass. Then days.

Sirius doesn’t come.

*********

The door to the terrace slips open so quietly Andromeda almost doesn’t hear it. She thinks for a moment it’s Dora or Regulus and she doesn’t even deign to open her eyes. Then she remembers Dora has taken off on a broom, diligently supervised by Ted, and Regulus is sitting next to her, gently rocking the garden swing they’ve settled on for the morning.

She stands up, just a second after Regulus, and whirls towards the door. She’s never felt anger like this before, pulsing in her belly like a fresh seal, scratching against the walls of her throat, as if it might tear them apart if she doesn’t let it out. She hides her trembling hands in the pockets of her dress.

Then she sees Sirius. His hair is a mess, haphazard around his face, his chest heaving with quick, rash breaths. The beat of his heart is not nearly audible but even so, Andromeda can imagine its fast pace just fine. He’s holding their message in one hand, his fingers dark with blood, a stark contrast to his pale face once he brings them up to it.

All the fight drains out of Andromeda.

Regulus doesn’t seem to share the sentiment. “Where have you been?” he asks, voice at once lower and louder than Andromeda’s ever heard him use. “We sent the message nearly two weeks ago.” He pauses, eyes flicking up and down Sirius’s body. “No matter.” He steps forward, grabbing Sirius by the shoulder and shaking him lightly. He cracks a smile, unsure in the face of Sirius’s indifference. “Sirius, we found it. It’s the Ravenclaw Diadem. It’s at Hogwarts.”

That does get Sirius to blink and shake his head, like a dog getting water out of his ears. “Oh good,” he says, voice hoarse. “We can kill two birds with one stone.”

Regulus’s smile fades as he steps back, his arms falling back to his sides. “What do you mean?”

Sirius clears his throat. He looks down at his hands, at the bloodied message, then up at Dora, laughing in the sky. Once his eyes move, they flick towards Andromeda, then settle back on Regulus. “Voldemort has had a spy at Hogwarts since September,” he says, his face crumpling with a desperation Andromeda hasn’t seen on him, probably ever, opening up like a chasm after an earthquake. “He’s going to attack Hogwarts at nightfall.”

#harry potter #sirius black #andromeda black #andromeda tonks #death eater sirius black #not really #but technically #regulus black #regulus black lives #ted tonks #nymphadora tonks #sirius and andromeda #sirius and regulus #sirius and nymphadora #in a world three degrees north

13 notes · View notes