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romanoffswifey · 3 years

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Point Blank Part 2

Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Summary: Natasha struggles to deal with the aftermath of that night, and life still has a few surprises left to throw at her.

Contents/Warnings: mentions of serious injury, some angst (but don’t worry too much)

Words: 2,280

AN - As promised here is the second part to Point Blank. I’m so sorry that it took me so long to get this out (uni came along and kicked me in the head) but I hope that you still enjoy it

PART 1

Natasha stares into the bathroom mirror, barely recognising the woman who gazes blankly back at her. All bloodshot eyes and puffy eyelids, her face red and blotchy as loose strands of hair cling to the slightly damp trails that mar her cheeks.

She swallows thickly against the soreness of her throat and raises a shaky hand to her reflection. The skin of her fingers raw from where she had scrubbed at them. As if she could simply wash away the feeling of your blood on her hands.

You had started to feel so cold when Steve had finally pried you from her arms, he and Tony quickly rushing your limp form from the room. Leaving her frozen there. Watching as her world imploded around her, haunted by the knowledge that she’d been the one to cause it.

The muscles in her jaw and hands clench as realisation washes over her again. Her vision blurs as tears well in her eyes, and she draws back her fist, letting out a grief stricken roar as she slams it into the wall in front of her.

She has no idea how long she stays there, weeping quietly, before Wanda’s hands wrap around her arm. Gently taking her hand away from the web of cracks she’d just created and pushing it under the stream of water once more.

The redhead tenses when she’s led back into the main part of the room. A wave of nausea hitting her as she catches a glimpse at just how much of your blood now stains the bed sheets.

The younger woman notices her reaction and hurriedly guides her down the hallway to her own room, knowing that the redhead wasn’t going to stay in your shared room any longer but certainly not trusting her to be in her spare room alone.

Natasha spends the rest of the night laying awake next to the brunette. Staring at the ceiling as silent tears run down her face, as every time she closes her eyes she’s back there. Reliving that moment over and over again.

Morning comes, and a small part of Natasha is glad for Wanda’s grounding presence as Tony leads the pair to the labs. A warm hand on her shoulder helps to calm her when he begins to place machinery around her head, the billionaire hoping to discover the cause of her actions.

It turned out that when she was separated from the team during your last mission, she had actually been captured by a set of Hydra operatives. The agents deciding to try out their latest form of brainwashing on her. A type of subliminal suggestion.

Clearly they had underestimated her skill as she had put up one hell of a fight, even while under the influence of whatever they had given her. This, combined with the approaching battle from the rest of the avengers, meant they had been forced to let her go before they were finished. Only managing to implant a small piece of their directive into her mind.

But a piece is all they had needed.

To take out even one avenger would be a win for Hydra, and you were the obvious target. Your relationship with Natasha meant that it was normal for you to be in close proximity with each other and for you to have your guard down around her. All she had to do was stick by your side as usual and the programing would kick in and do the rest.

This knowledge did nothing to lessen the pain and the guilt that filled her. Did nothing to change the fact that she had been the one to pull the trigger.

She can’t stand the looks of sympathy that the others keep throwing her and the way they don’t seem to hold her accountable. So she avoids them. Choosing to forgo team meals and quickly dismissing their offers of company.

But she doesn’t go down to see you either. She thinks whatever is left of her heart would crumble if she saw you now. How could she sit next to your bedside when she was the one who put you there in the first place? She’s not sure you would even want her there if she did.

Over the last 5 years you had provided her with everything she had searched for her whole life. Giving her all your love and support, and helping her believe that she was deserving of it. She felt like she was where she belonged when she was with you, like she had found her home. You were the only person she’d ever had the desire to spend the rest of her life with, and she had repaid you by putting a bullet in you.

When the day drags into evening Wanda gets fed up with watching her self destruction and puts her foot down. The Sokovian forcing the redhead to get something to eat or drink before she makes herself sick.

Natasha now sits quietly at the kitchen table, her dull eyes fixed on the grain of the wood as Wanda busies herself off to the side. The sound of bubbling fills the silence followed shortly by the clanking of metal on ceramic.

Careful hands come to adjust the blanket around her shoulders, and a mug is placed in front of her. The scent and colour tell her what it is immediately; Yorkshire tea, milk, two sugars. Your hot beverage of choice.

She finds it laughable that she should seek comfort from your favourite drink while you could be fighting for your life right now. And yet, some traitorous part of her still does. The familiarity of it ghosting soothingly over the ache in her chest.

Her gaze remains drawn to the rising steam but she’s aware of the way Wanda moves to join a couple of people by the door. A small hint of anger flaring within her as she registers the happiness in their hushed tones. Her annoyance grows after she hears only two sets of footsteps walk down the hall. Leaving her with the feeling of being watched by whoever stayed.

“You know, I was a bit upset that you didn’t come and visit me at first.” Natasha’s head snaps up at your voice. “But then I realised that you’re probably stuck in that beautiful ginger head of yours.”

“How?” is all she manages to rasp. Gaping at you as you stand leaning on the doorframe like nothing had happened.

You walk over to her, not missing the rough quality of her voice or the way she still squints slightly against the soft light of the room. Your heart twinges at how small and broken she looks as she sits there.

Green eyes watch intently as you kneel in front of her and pick up the tea, humming at the taste as you take a sip, then blowing gently over the brim before offering it to the other woman. Your lips quirk into a small smile when her fingers brush over your own as she takes it from you.

Natasha has to admit that it does feel nice against the scratchiness of her throat.

“How are you up here right now?” she asks a bit easier this time, setting the tea back down and hesitantly reaching out for your hand.

“Well, it turns out that enhanced physiology and the best medical treatment a billionaire can buy are very useful when you get shot,” you explain with a half-smile. “In fact, they said that I'll be perfectly fine and left with minimal scarring.”

You place a kiss on the back of her hand and push it under your jumper, guiding it up towards the tender spot at the top of your abdomen. “See, it’s not that bad.”

Through the bandages and the gauze that lay across your skin, the redhead can feel a small rough patch. It’s barely bigger than her finger tip. But she still frowns as she traces over it.

“I’m sorry,” she chokes, dropping both her gaze and her hand, “I’m so sorry.”

Your brows furrow this time. “What have you got to be sorry for, dorogoy?”

“I did this to you, Y/N. I was supposed to protect you and I shot you! You should hate me! You should want nothing to do with me, not be sat here calling me darling!”

“Hey, look at me.” Her teary eyes reluctantly meet your own as you cup her face. “Hydra did this to me, not you. We both know how their brand of mental warfare works and I’m not going to let you torture yourself over it. I love you too much for that.”

“But I still hurt you. I could have done something to stop it and I let you down,” she argues.

“No you didn’t. You tried to fight it. You knew that something wasn’t right and tried to warn me.” You let out a huff of amusement. “Even subconsciously you did try to protect me, just like you always do.”

Her eyes become more focused and her ragged breathing slows down, showing that she was listening to what you said.

Natasha stands and you follow suit, watching quietly as she studies you for a moment before pulling you into a fierce hug. She buries her face in the crook of your neck while her fingers dig into the thick knit of your jump, clutching at you tightly as she breathes in your scent. She sighs softly as you begin to rub comforting circles across her back.

The pair of you stay like that for a few minutes, just enjoying the embrace. Glad to be back in the other's arms once more.

When she pulls back, you bring your left hand up to caress her face and a small glint catches her eye. The Russian finally noticing the ring you’re wearing.

“You found it,” she murmurs as she runs her finger along the metal band.

You flash her a sheepish smile. “It was an accident I swear. And in my defence, for a super spy you do sometimes pick terrible hiding places.”

The place she had chosen to hide it was not the best, she had to give you that, but at the time she was kind of freaking out. She had known for a while that you were the only person she wanted to be with but the actual purchasing of the engagement ring had been a spur of the moment decision, and once she’d returned to the compound the panic had set in.

Despite the fact she had long since learnt that everything the Red Room had spouted about love was a lie, she couldn’t help the hint of fear that rose in her at what her desires meant. What that ring represented. And then there was the worry that you wouldn’t actually want to spend the rest of your life with her. Even though you had been with her for so long already. After everything that had happened recently, the latter of her fears only seemed to grow.

She looks away, nervously picking at the edge of the blanket as she voices her thoughts. “Would you even want to?”

“Would I want to what?” you ask, biting the inside of your lip to keep from smiling as you try your hardest to play dumb.

Her eyes flick back to yours. “Would you want to...get married?” she trails off quietly, finally saying the words you were waiting for.

A bright grin appears on your face, and she can’t help the way her own lips tug upwards as she rests her forehead against yours.

“Of course I want to get married, moya lyubov.” You bump your noses together playfully. “Though, I’ll only do it on one condition.”

Natasha hides the flash of panic that runs through her. She’s not entirely sure she can cope with any more emotional turmoil.

You pull away slightly so you can reach into your pocket, pulling out a small velvet box that you hold up in front of you. When you open the lid the redhead lets out a little gasp at its contents. “That condition being that you, Natalia Romanova, would be my wife.”

For the first time that day the tears that well in her eyes are ones of joy.

Placing one hand over the ring you’re holding and winding the other around the back of your neck, she pulls you into a bruising kiss. The passion behind it makes you weak in the knees and you can’t help the moan that escapes as her tongue pushes into your mouth, brushing over yours in a way that has no business feeling as good as it does.

After a while she releases your lips with a soft pop, leaving you both breathless and not quite able to open your eyes just yet. You can still feel her smirk though.

“I take it that’s a yes then,” you murmur against her lips.

She chuckles and responds by drawing you into another kiss.

Later, once you’ve made sure she’s eaten properly and she’s helped you with a very relaxing bath; you lay in bed together. Natasha wrapped around you protectively while you read a dog eared copy of your favorite book.

She hums contentedly into the side of your neck as she presses herself closer to you. Her smile widens when she glances down to where you’re absentmindedly playing with her fingers. Knowing that soon you won’t only have each other’s hearts, but each other’s names as well.

Natasha L/N-Romanoff had a nice ring to it, and she has a feeling it’s the one that she’s finally going to keep.

#natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff imagine #black widow x reader #black widow imagine #natasha romanoff fanfic #marvel imagine #avengers x reader #marvel

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javier-djarin · 2 years

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Son of the Medjai: Chapter 5

Osiris’s Curse: Book 1

The Mummy AU

Ship: Pero Tovar x Aria MacKenzie (OC)

Rating: M

Word Count: 4,594 Words

Warnings: Language, Fluff, Mild Violence

Masterlist

Gif by @javier-pena

Summary: Aria processes the day’s events with some unwanted help. The camp is attacked, and Pero and Aria grow closer.

A/N: With the holidays and new year, I sort of fell out of routine with this story. But I am back with a new chapter! Shout out to @rebelscumlena for being my beta! I honestly don’t want to think of what this story would be like if we hadn’t started working together. Please let me know if you want to be on my taglist and what you think of the fic! If there is a strikethrough in your name, Tumblr wouldn’t let me tag you. Any Translations will always be found at the bottom of every chapter.

Aria sat, staring into the fire with her arms wrapped around her waist. So much had happened in the short time they’d been in Aten, and she nearly admitted that Pero was right: it was a mistake coming here. They had been trapped in the burial chamber for hours before she’d found a hidden latch on the opposite side of the room that released the door. Naturally, everyone was irritated that the solution was so simple; Pero especially so. Now they were free and had discovered the Americans had found their own small treasure. Aria was finally able to sit alone and process the day while Murphy made wagers with the other party and Pero stayed close to make sure he didn’t lose all of their money.

She’d hardly eaten the dinner Murphy had fixed them as she was haunted by the images of Nabil’s body in the hallway. The Americans’ diggers had taken care of it like Pero promised, but she couldn’t stop seeing the movement under his skin after he’d collided with the wall. His screams echoed in her memory, following her out of the chamber. She watched the diggers carry his body far away from the city’s walls. She said a silent prayer for him before attempting to return to her meal.

Once Murphy wandered over to the Americans’ camp with Pero reluctantly joining him, Aria set her plate in the sand next to her. She’d convinced them that she was fine and just wanted time alone. Pero waited a few seconds, watching her gaze into the fire before letting her have a moment’s peace. She offered him a meek smile and a small nod, telling him to go with Murphy. With only the sound of the fire crackling around her, she was able to process on her own. That was, until a figure began approaching her. She knew who it was without having to look up from the flames. “I missed you at dinner,” Beckett said as he sat next to her.

She glanced at him. “We were a little preoccupied,” she replied, offering him a polite smile, “besides, Murphy cooked, and I had to make sure that he didn’t burn down my tent.”

Beckett looked at the plate next to her and chuckled to himself. He gazed at her again, noting the empty stare on her face as she watched the flames flickering in front of them. “I’ve seen that look before,” he added, “when I looked in the mirror after my first time here.”

“I appreciate your empathy,” she coldly replied.

He moved closer to her, his shoulder brushing against hers. “When I was in your shoes, I would have appreciated someone there to let me know I wasn’t alone.”

“I don’t feel alone,” Aria replied, turning her head to look at him, “I asked them to leave me be. I can’t stand it when my brother hovers, especially when he thinks something is bothering me. He thinks I need someone to take care of me every minute of the day.”

Beckett chuckled. “I do enjoy your spirit. Most women back home -”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Please spare me the ‘you’re not like other girls’ line. For starters I’m Scottish, of course I’m not like the British women ‘back home.’ Additionally, you’re insinuating that all other feminine qualities I possess are the things you like least about me, which in fact I find insulting and sexist.”

“Duly noted, Aria,” he conceded, “I do apologize. Let me rephrase. I appreciate that you are not as timid as many of the women I have encountered. I’m someone who respects those that are open with me in conversation and straightforward.”

“It comes from growing up with my brother,” she said, “and practically raising him after my parents died.”

Beckett shifted again so his hand was resting in the sand behind her, and Aria stiffened, turning her attention back to the flames. “My mum was Scottish,” he admitted.

Aria smiled wryly. “Is this where you tell me I remind you of her?”

He returned her grin. “You can see me coming a mile away, can’t you?”

She laughed and shook her head. “You’re not as smooth as you think you are, Mr. Beckett.”

He raised an eyebrow at her with a devilish grin before lightly holding her chin in his hand. He leaned closer to her, and Aria felt panic flow through her veins as she thrust her hand to his chest. It wasn’t enough as he closed the gap between them, kissing her. His tongue toyed with her bottom lip for more, but Aria kept her lips firmly sealed. She leaned away from him, only for him to follow. She pushed hard enough on his chest that she broke them apart, and she could see the lust in his eyes as he gazed down at her with the same grin he’d had only moments before.

***

Pero hated leaving Aria alone at the fire, but he could tell she wanted nothing more than just that. At least he and Murphy weren’t far away, and he could still keep any eye on her should she need anything. Then again, he was starting to come around to the idea that Aria was very capable of handling herself. She was brilliant in the tomb. He could sense her anxiety while they were trapped, but she’d managed to keep a level head while they attempted to find a way out. Of course she was able to find it.

He glanced over at her again, and instantly stiffened when he saw Beckett had joined her at the fire. For a while, he could see that she was holding off his advances, but then he saw him move closer to her - too close. It was when Beckett’s hand grabbed her chin that Pero felt his feet start to move in their direction. But then Beckett was kissing her – Pero saw red as he marched even faster. He made it to the opposite side of the fire just as Aria shoved Beckett away. But it didn’t matter that Aria had pushed the Brit away; Beckett’s triumphant gaze turned to Pero, and the Spainiard was filled with more rage than he thought was possible for a human to feel. Meanwhile, Aria’s eyes darted up to Pero as she noticed his arrival, and she was at a loss for words. Pero ignored her, stepping around the fire to grab Beckett. But all three froze when the sound of gunshots and screams filled the air.

“Aria,” Pero said.

She didn’t need further instructions as she instantly moved to his bag, grabbing a shotgun and ammunition belt out of it for him. “Knife and handgun,” he ordered, and she grabbed one of each for herself.

She clung to his side. “We’ll finish this later, Beckett,” he growled, pulling the shotgun up to his shoulder.

He knew it was a matter of time before the Medjai raided their camp, and he was honestly surprised they waited this long. Beckett immediately took off–typical– as Murphy ran back towards the duo, having seen the advancing raiders at the farthest end of the camp. “What’s going on, Tovar?” he asked.

“Medjai. Arm yourself.”

They were pushing themselves through the camp, killing a few of the diggers on their way through. “Aria, when there’s an opening-”

“I’m not running away,” she replied.

Pero took an annoyed breath and fired his weapon, knocking a rider from his horse. He could hear the Americans firing and yipping. Just like on the boat, they were having a field day with the violence. Burns and Quincy were the most enthusiastic. Pero shepherded Aria over to her brother as he charged into the thick of it, reloading his shotgun before shooting again, and taking out another Medjai. Two riders were headed right for him, as he calmly reloaded. But then one of the riders, Shakir Fahmy, started to deviate towards where Murphy and Aria were clustered together. He took his aim at Shakir, but the other rider was heading his way, swinging a sword at Pero. He dove out of the way, but the rider leapt from his horse to attack. Pero quickly jumped to his feet as he prepared for an attack. He prayed Murphy could hold off Shakir long enough until he could get to them. He blocked the slash with the barrel of his gun before hitting the man in the face with the stock, breaking his nose. He fell to the ground unconscious.

Murphy, surprisingly, was holding his own against Shakir. Aria had managed to hide on the other side of her tent, away from the brutality. Pero sprinted as fast as he could, straight into the side of Shakir. Murphy moved to Aria’s side, forcing her behind him while they fought it out. Shakir had pulled two knives from his robes and readied himself. Pero did the same. Shakir swiped, and Pero blocked. Pero stabbed, and Shakir perried. The wound on his forearm burst open again as he nearly avoided a deeper gash from one of his opponent’s attacks. Finally, Pero had had enough and tackled Shakir into Aria’s tent. They were tangled in the canvas and ropes, but not enough for Shakir to be trapped. He rolled over and pinned Pero to the ground, a knife at his throat. “I told you to leave and never come back,” the man spat through his litham.

Aria panicked and left her brother’s side, running to them as Pero struggled beneath him. “No!” she shrieked. “Please!”

Shakir applied enough pressure to hold Pero in place as he glanced up at Aria, and then it was like he’d seen a ghost. “Laqad eadat!” He quickly backed away from Pero. It was almost as if his men sensed his movements and stopped the battle. They all dropped to their knees, echoing his cry. “Laqad 'atat litunqidhana jmyean.” They echoed him again, placing their foreheads on the ground.

Pero slowly stood, looking between Aria and Shakir. He pulled her to his side, his arm wrapped tight around her waist. “What does he mean you’ve returned?”

“I-I don’t know,” she whispered back, leaning into him.

Shakir bowed low to her. “We were promised you would return one day,” he said, removing the fabric from the lower half of his face. Aria noted that he was a handsome man, his facial hair neatly trimmed around his mouth and jaw. He had small symbols on his face that told Aria they were sacred marks of the Medjai. His dark brown eyes softened when they met hers, and something told her he meant her no harm.

Aria moved to step around Pero, but he wouldn’t allow it. “What do you mean ‘return’?” she asked.

“Forgive me, my lady,” he said, bowing again, “you are Nefertari. Come to pass judgement and destroy the tomb for good.”

She shook her head, forcing herself away from Pero and closer to Shakir. “The Lost Dynasty’s queen? You believe I am her?”

He nodded. “We were promised she would return with Ausar,” his gaze flashed to Pero, “and together they would destroy The Cursed, bringing peace to this land once again. So long as The Cursed’s body remains on this earth, he will plague the city and all those who dare to enter the catacombs.”

She glanced back at Pero, who was standing stiff as a board behind her. “I-I can’t be,” she began, turning her attention back to Shakir.

“Isis has come to find Osiris and defeat Set once and for all,” he added, “it is fate that brought you to us. Destroy the tomb without waking the beast.”

“You must be mistaken,” she softly replied, though she knew deep down this was true. As outlandish as it sounded, this was the only explanation for everything she’d experienced in the last several days. It was something she had yet to wrap her head around, but Pero - no Ausar had called her Nefertari in her vision.

“You travel with,” he paused and glanced at Pero, “one of us.”

“Shakir,” Pero warned.

“One of us that was born to protect you,” he added.

“Pero, what is he saying?” she asked, without taking her eyes off the Medjai.

He sighed and moved closer to Aria. “He thinks I’m Ausar, or I was in a past life.”

She looked between the two men. “You said…”

“It’s insane, Aria,” he breathed, resting his hands on her shoulders. “Reincarnated Egyptian royalty? You can’t honestly say you believe him!”

“We will set a perimeter around your camp. You must destroy the Ouroboros,” Shakir said, signaling his men to leave.

“Wait,” she called after him, “how can you be sure that I am her?”

He turned to her with a smile. “In a far more ancient part of the city is a carving predicting your return.”

She glanced over to Pero, who rolled his eyes and shook his head. “I want to see this carving.”

Shakir moved to join his men. “The entrance can be found on the eastern edge of the city’s limits. You will see the symbol of Osiris above the chamber door.”

“And why do we have to destroy the tomb?” she asked, stepping forward.

“Only the ones he betrayed can destroy him,” he replied.

Aria looked back at Pero and Murphy, who looked just as confused as she did. When she turned back, Shakir and his men were gone. Murphy approached Aria, moving past an annoyed Pero. “Aria,” he muttered, looking in the direction Shakir had gone, “what is he talking about?”

Pero answered for her. “Ausar and Nefertari.”

Murphy glanced at him. “How do you know about them?”

He sighed and crossed his arms, giving Aria a stern glare - almost as if he were asking are you sure you want to tell him? She returned the glare before looking at her brother. “You’re going to think I sound insane,” she sighed.

“More insane than what we just heard?”

She took another deep breath and moved past her brother. “I want to see this carving,” she said to Pero, “it’ll be the only way to convince Murphy that what we’ve seen is real.”

“Aria,” Pero snapped, “I said to let it go.”

She frowned at him and pushed around her brother. “Seriously? I think we are past the point of ignoring what we’ve witnessed since this whole thing started!”

“Will one of you just tell me what is going on?” Murphy asked, desperate for answers.

She spun on him, fire in her eyes. “Shakir only confirmed what I’ve been suspecting since you found that damn key,” she roared, “I’ve heard and seen things, Murph, that have had me thinking I was certifiable. That is, until we met Pero.”

Murphy blinked several times, absorbing the information. “You-you believe that man?”

“I told her several times to let it go. It’ll only bring us more trouble than what it’s worth,” Pero grumbled.

She let out a frustrated growl as she stormed away from them, heading to the east part of town. “Aria!” Murphy called after her. “Aria, don’t go alone!”

“I’m going with one of you, or I’m going alone!” she exclaimed without turning to look at them.

“At least wait until the morning!” Murphy ran after her, standing in her way. “We’ve had a long day. Get some rest and start fresh tomorrow. We will look into what that man said after we have slept.”

“I need answers, Murph,” she pleaded, “I’ve been losing my mind over all of this for days now.”

“What is eight more hours?”

She glanced back at their camp, seeing Pero kneeling as he attempted to right her tent that he had toppled. A breeze flowed through the city streets, almost pushing her back to him; as if fate was happy they had been reunited after millenia apart. Ausar will die, a voice said. She felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand, and she could tell by the look on Pero’s face that he’d heard it too. Aria’s heart dropped into her stomach. Whether he wanted to believe it or not, Pero was hearing a ghostly voice tell him he would die. He wanted to ignore it, hoping that the voice would be wrong.

Aria felt it first, something beneath the sand shift as it moved towards their campsite. Pero sensed it as well, jumping up and moving away from whatever was coming towards him. He’d seen this before. “Pero!” he’d heard her exclaim.

Sand moved over and around him, pulling him down as the ground loosened beneath him. He stumbled, struggling to get back up. He felt his heart race, but he remained calm. The last time this happened, he’d hardly been buried by the sand. He covered his nose and mouth with his shirt. It lasted for only a few more seconds before everything stopped. When he turned back to see if Aria and Murphy were okay, he saw Nefertari, holding a babe with a group of Medjai surrounding her. She was calling for him. He reached for her before collapsing.

Aria ran forward with Murphy close behind her. She knelt down next to Pero, pulling him into her lap. “Water, Murph,” she ordered, wiping the sand off his face.

“Right,” he said, grabbing a canteen from their sack and running to the well nearby.

She held his head in her hands and lightly ran her thumb up and down his cheek. “Pero,” she whispered, “wake up. Please, wake up.”

She brushed back his hair, shaking the sand loose from it. Murphy returned with the water, and she held it to his lips, pouring a little into his mouth. He drank more, waking up enough to hold the canteen on his own. He sat up slowly and looked around before his eyes landed on her. “Maybe we should look at that mural tomorrow,” he admitted.

Aria stood, helping him up out of the sand. They looked at the area around them, noting the shape that surrounded them: The Ouroboros. Pero swore under his breath. She glanced back up in his eyes, wiping more sand off his face. “What happened?”

He shrugged. “I felt all the air pull from my lungs before everything went dark, but I saw-” he paused, refusing to admit.

She nodded. “I saw it too, except you were surrounded by the shadows, disappearing before my eyes.”

Murphy stared at them in awe. “The two of you can’t be serious,” he muttered.

“We can’t explain it,” she said, without taking her eyes off Pero, “but there’s no way we can both be experiencing the same thing and it not be real.”

Pero moved away from her and grabbed his satchel. “I need to clean up,” he said.

They watched him walk away with his things, no doubt heading to the well to wash. Aria blushed at the thought of him stripping down out in the open, the heat rising in her cheeks and turning them a bright red. She thanked God for the cover of night, so Murphy couldn’t see the obvious signs of her discomfort. She turned back to their destroyed campsite as a distraction, hoping to salvage what she could of her tent. Pero’s attempt didn’t provide much progress thanks to being pulled down by the sand. She picked up the canvas, noting the damage that had been caused by Pero and Shakir. Sighing, she pulled out her bag and pallett, moving it close to the fire between Murphy’s and Pero’s. Occasionally she glanced in Pero’s direction, hoping he’d be returning soon, growing worried that something else happened.

When several minutes had passed, and they’d finished reestablishing their camp, Pero returned, completely refreshed. Aria and Murphy had found Nabil’s scotch bottle and were two glasses in when he’d claimed a seat next to her, joining them. He drank in silence for the most part, staring into the fire and frequently stealing glances at Aria. The memory of her as Nefertari was permanently etched there, like a veil had been lifted, because she had never looked more beautiful than she did right now with her skin glistening around the fire. He looked at his glass and smiled to himself, wondering if it was the alcohol making him feel this way or making him admit to the feelings he’d tried repressing since first meeting her. He pictured her wrapped in his arms, her mouth on his as they slowly lost themselves in each other, forgetting Nefertari; forgetting Ausar; forgetting Aten. Honestly, since kissing her at the prison, he’d thought of nothing else.

As she and Murphy loosened up and laughed together, he sat in silence. Listening. He would on occasion add to their conversation, but instead he soaked in her laughter. It was when her hand brushed across his after pouring him another drink that he felt his heart skip a beat and he realized he was done for the night. He abandoned the small tin cup in the sand next to him, forcing himself to sober up. It didn’t take long for Murphy to fall asleep. As for Aria? Pero was impressed that she was still sitting up with him, though he had no idea how much she’d drank from the bottle that Murphy now cradled against his chest. He felt her eyes on him, watching him for some unknown reason. “I’m sorry,” she slurred.

He turned to her with an eyebrow raised in confusion. “What for?”

She let out a small hiccup and immediately covered her mouth. She giggled a little before turning serious again. “I’m sorry for Mr. Beckett -”

“Aria,” he stopped her, “you don’t need to apologize.” His head was spinning the longer he looked at her. His eyes drifted down to her lips before they met her eyes again. “He stole that kiss from you, much like I did.”

She leaned in to him. “You didn’t steal that kiss from me,” she grinned, “but I’m sorry that I didn’t try to push him away more.”

He reached up and moved a piece of hair behind her ear. “If he touches you again,” he whispered against her lips, “lo mataré.”

Aria reached up and held his face in her hands. “A promise I know you’ll keep, my fierce protector.”

He gazed at her, hesitant to move closer. "No one will touch you unless you want it."

"And if I want them to, how should I ask?" Aria grinned, biting her bottom lip. That drove him mad as he watched, wanting nothing more than to taste it himself.

"Nothing has ever stopped you from getting what you want," his breathing picked up pace, "just tell me where."

"You?" Her voice suddenly became more sultry.

"Unless you did want that British bastard," he said, giving her a sinful grin that she knew only meant one thing.

"I've had enough of British men," she said, running her thumb across his bottom lip. Aria took the initiative to close the gap between them, giving him a chaste kiss. Pero wanted more, but knew the alcohol flowing between them would allow them to make decisions he knew they’d both regret later. So for the time being, he relished in the feel of her lips on his until she pulled away. He released a breath he didn’t know he was holding as she looked into his eyes with a wide smile. Never had a woman had so much power over him. It was then he knew they were brought together for a reason, that she was meant to be a part of his life. "I-I thought," he could tell she was blushing while she grasped for the right words.

"Were you hoping for fireworks?" He nervously laughed.

She raised an eyebrow at him and grinned. "I was hoping you'd coax me for more than just a peck," she replied, "like you did the first time we kissed."

Desire overcame him as he pulled her in for a more passionate kiss. Without hesitation, he felt her open her mouth for him to deepen his embrace, and soon he was drunk on her taste. The soft moan she released echoed through him, stirring something that desperately needed to remain caged. His hand trailed to cradle the back of her head as their tongues danced across each other, tasting every inch they could. He felt her lean back, pulling him with her. He yearned for her, but kept his craving on a tight leash. This was not the time or the place to ravish her. When her nails started lightly tangling through the curls at the base of his neck, he knew it was time to stop. He pulled away, watching her plump lips part enough to let her catch her breath as she sat up with him; her chest heaving a little as the heat, no doubt, flushed her face. She placed a hand over her chest to calm herself as she bit down on her bottom lip. Her gaze finally met his, as he felt himself leaning back in for more. He stopped. “Good night, Miss MacKenzie,” he breathed.

She was taken aback by his formal address. “Good night, Mr. Tovar,” she replied.

He rolled over onto his pallet, facing away from her and knowing full well that he would not sleep at all tonight. If he did, he would dream of her touch, of the taste he would never get enough of. Shit, he thought, you managed to completely fuck up this job, Tovar. He reached up to rub the bridge of his nose in frustration. Pero knew the second they arrived back in Cairo this romance would be over. He was certain she’d never experienced anything with a man, let alone heartbreak. And he would be damned if he was the one that broke her heart. Stop this before something more happens.

He could hear her rustling around, trying to get comfortable behind him. She would not sleep tonight either, but not so much because of the intimate moment they just shared. Instead, Aria was dwelling on everything that had already happened and things to come. He wanted nothing more than to pull her into his arms to make her feel safe, but he knew when they woke up in the morning, Murphy would have his hide. He smiled. He’d love to see Murphy try, even if he’d seen how he’s fought to protect his sister. “Pero,” she murmured softly.

He rolled over to look at her. She was on her side, legs tucked in tight as she rested her head on her arm. She was the picture of endearing. He longed to touch her, envelope her with his body. I can't drink on this job again, he thought, and it's clearly been too long. Indeed, it had been a while since he'd felt a woman's touch, but right now wasn't the time to imagine it.

She cleared her throat and looked at him with wide eyes. “What if we are meant to destroy The Ouroboros, or whatever this mural describes?” she asked, fear flowing from her gaze.

He sighed and gave her a small smirk to comfort her. “Then, I guess you’re stuck with me a little longer.”

Pero’s heart stopped as a smile crept across her face. Her eyes slowly closed as she replied, “Then I hope Shakir is right,” as she drifted off to sleep. He hoped she would remember everything from tonight, but knew the scotch would wipe her memory the second she opened her eyes in the morning.

Translations

Laqad eadat. - She has returned.

Laqad 'atat litunqidhana jmyean. - She has come to save us all.

Lo mataré. - I’ll kill him.

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#son of the medjai #SotM #The Great Wall #The Mummy AU #Osiris's Curse #Pero Tovar x Aria MacKenzie #Pero x Aria #Pero Tovar x Fem!OC #Pero Tovar

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gryffindors-weasley · 3 years

Text

Distractions

Draco Malfoy x Reader

Summary: A rainy Sunday evening is spent with Draco.

Warnings: minor injury, brief mentions of blood, mentions of the dark mark, fluff

(not my gif)

It was a rather dreary Sunday evening, rain pelting fast to the ground as it had done all day. Although it wasn’t the kind of weather you’d want to be caught outside in, it was perfectly ideal for the place you were headed. The greenhouse.

You followed a pace or two behind Draco, his hand enveloping yours and a book held in your other as you walked in comfortable silence. The trip there could be done blindfolded at this point, the same path down the near unfrequented halls every Saturday and Sunday at five o’clock in the evening. It was a routine that first started halfway through fifth year, though his fondness for it dates back farther than that.

Every weekend Draco can be found tending to every plant that resided in the large glass structure, a responsibility Professor Sprout bestowed upon him without reluctance. Granted, he wasn’t very gentle or mindful of the delicate greenery and herbs in his early years, which is something he regrets looking back at it. But when he showed up unannounced outside her classroom door after hours a few years later, she had a sneaking suspicion the Slytherin wasn’t quite as insufferable as he lets on.

Despite his fondness and growing interest in the vast varieties of magical plants and the potions they can be crafted into, it’s a piece of himself he wants to be kept secret. Not that he’s embarrassed of such things, but as time goes on he finds it better to leave things of sentimental value out of the public eye. That being said, should anyone cast a lingering glance his way on his route, he’s quick to shoot them a defensive glare to stave off prying eyes.

Now, in just under a year and a half, he’s become one of the finest caretakers of her beloved plants she’s ever seen.

The moment you stepped into the greenhouse the downpour became more apparent than before, creating a steady tapping against the old glass. Condensation beaded on every windowpane it could access, and the puffy gray clouds were visible at every angle, creating the perfect ambience to read your book.

Draco set off to work almost immediately, shrugging off his robe and handing it to you with a kiss on the cheek before reading over the checklist Professor Sprout had made for him.

He started off with watering the herbs she’d listed, spraying their leaves first before watering at the base. He quickly found that to be a more effective way of doing things, giving the remaining water to the select few that could use more hydration.

It was a trick he’d seen quite a few gardeners use on his mother’s garden at the Manor, and the meticulously placed flowers and shrubbery seemed to respond well to the technique. That amongst many other things were something he observed in his days spent at home on the summer break. The acres of well manicured landscaping providing ample opportunities to escape and spend his time around something other than the four walls of his bedroom.

Once finished, he moved to clean up around the place, giving you a sweet smile any time he passed by you even if you hadn’t seen it. But the times you did catch his eye, the tips of his ears would burn a pale pink.

He picked up a couple pairs of gardening shears left out and a few brooms that lay knocked over from messy second year students, putting miscellaneous dragon-skin gloves back in their rightful cabinet with the others. Some might consider this to be rather boring, especially on a weekend where there were better things to be spent doing on the short break from schoolwork. But the distraction was something Draco needed and it was one he enjoyed, something he found he could use a bit more of lately.

Repotting mandrakes was last on the very brief list. They weren’t used very often anymore, not like they had been in second year. But if the need arised should anyone be petrified, it was good to have a few on hand for potions.

He undid the buttons on the cuffs of his white dress shirt before shoving the slightly wrinkled sleeves up to rest at his elbows. However, he seemed to have briefly forgotten the mark swirling across the pale skin on his forearm, promptly yanking that sleeve back down before grabbing the ceramic pots and a new bag of soil with a frown. He tried not to let it cloud up his train of thought and sour his mood.

Meanwhile, unbeknownst to his inner turmoil you had long since made yourself comfortable perched on a vacant spot on one of the old wooden tables, book cracked open in your hands. It hadn’t taken you very long to become immersed in it, as books usually do to its readers. And you could’ve sworn you might’ve heard Draco’s voice, whether or not it was directed at you, you were unsure.

A minute or two later he finished his preparations and glanced over his shoulder at you, sighing at the sight. The earmuffs he’d asked you to put on just moments ago still sat where he’d set them down on your lap, your eyes fixed on your book as his robe sat wrapped around your shoulders to combat the chilly evening weather. He walked the few feet over to you, picking them up.

“Sometimes I think you choose to tune me out, love,” Draco says, placing your earmuffs on your head gently, smiling when you lifted your head from your book. You offer a smile as your cheeks flush a soft pink.

“Sometimes,” you remark with a soft laugh, gaze returning to find the line you left off at. Truthfully you were beginning to lose focus anyway.

He set off to the task at hand with a smile, making short work of it though there’s only so much those earmuffs can do to filter out the shrill cries of these plants. It was a dreaded detail he hadn’t forgotten in his second year, always wondering how such a small creature could produce such a deafeningly fatal sound.

You decided any quality reading wouldn’t be achievable beyond that point, especially not with the humidity curling and warping the pages you tried to read from. It definitely was not because of the blonde who stood paces away from you, the very same humidity turning his once formally styled hair to mussed waves of platinum. Regardless of the reasons or their importance, you closed your book and made your way over to him.

“Do you need a hand with anything?” You ask, looking over the vast array of greenery before looking up at him. He pondered for a moment as he set the scrap piece of parchment down and rubbed his hands together to rid them of dirt.

“Could you take those extra pots to the storage cupboard?” He asks kindly, pointing to the two spares that sat untouched. You nod, grabbing the set from the table. “Thank you, darling.”

The frequently used name had still managed to make your heart flutter, your flustered distraction having you trip on the leg of the table. The pots in your hand were sent flying unceremoniously to the ground with a clatter, cheeks reddening from your blunder as you instinctively grabbed for them. As your finger ran along a sharp edge you quickly recoil with a surprised gasp, Draco tugging you to your feet in concern of the situation before you could fully hit the ground.

“Careful, Love!” He scolds softly, pulling your arm from your chest gently to see just what kind of accident he was dealing with.

Draco was quick to rush off to a cabinet on the far end of the greenhouse, freshly stocked with medicinal potions, some of which he’d gotten to make himself. He returned shortly with a small glass bottle, and he gently blotted at the fairly superficial cut running along the length of your pointer finger.

“What is that?” You ask softly as he gingerly holds your shaky hand, depositing a few drops over it. It stung a bit unexpectedly and your eyes widen a fraction as you watch it quickly heal as if nothing was ever there, curious gaze bouncing up to Draco. You tried not to pay any mind to the blonde strand that stuck adorablely to his forehead and focus on his words.

“It’s Essence of Dittany. I’ve just made this batch last week and it seems to be quite satisfactory,” he says, a small yet proud smile on his lips as he inspects your newly healed finger.

“I didn’t know you could do that,” you say with a soft laugh.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” he quips, earning himself a pointed stare as you raised a questioning brow at him. He laughs as he puts the tiny bottle back where he got it, the shards of terra-cotta easily piecing themselves back together with a simple motion of his hand. “I’m only kidding, my love.”

You settle as he pulls you close by a gentle grip on your hands, releasing one to tuck your newly frizzy hair behind your ear. It was true, you were the only person to know most everything about him. Not one person in his social circle, not even his mother, knew his ins and outs like you and the thought both terrified him and comforted him all the same. But he knew you’d never cast an ounce of judgement his way. Not even for the mark ghosting over his arm that haunted his very thoughts the moment it was formed.

His calloused hand came to rest on your cheek, thumb brushing over flushed skin as his gray eyes took in every feature. The freckles that could only been seen in a close proximity, the curve of your lashes, the natural shade of pink coloring your bare lips. Soon he dipped down and kissed you, unable to refrain from doing so a moment longer. He always finds himself unable to resist it. You seem to enchant him, stronger than any love potion or magical spell could ever manage to evoke. And while true love is a scary thought, he doesn’t have it in him fight the very grip it has on his racing heart.

He parted from you reluctantly upon the sound of unfamiliar footfalls approaching, grabbing your hand with a laugh as the two of you run off towards the other exit hand in hand. The forgotten rain came as an icy shock once you ran out into it, but such inconveniences weren’t important when he pulls you in for another rain soaked kiss.

#draco malfoy #draco malfoy fluff #draco malfoy imagine #draco malfoy x reader #draco malfoy x you #draco malfoy fic #harry potter fic

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downywrites · 3 years

Note

Hey! I really like your writing and was wondering if you could do some ler!wilbur wrecking Lee!chlatt in the afterlife 💗?

Like maybe Wilburs getting him back for all the times he wrecked him 😃 (and maybe Mexican dream joins in because I mean why not 😏)

Bird tried. Bird has the disclaimer that there is a wee bit of body horror and, well, Schlatt. Enjoy.

I’m back with more content, but this time I’m doing it bass boosted with the power of caffeine. Anyways- have fun :)

Wilbur was done. He had dealt with a lot of shit. He had dealt with his actions, did his time. He had dealt with the loud, incessant noise of Mexican Dream and Schlatt arguing over the smallest thing. He wasn’t kidding when he told the others that he was going to destroy them the next time they pissed him off. And Schlatt’s incessant screaming at six in the morning was the final straw.

His piercing bleats cut through the air, shattering the tranquil peace of the sunrise. Wilbur rubbed his eyes, cursing loudly. He got out of his bed slowly, tossing the sheets aside reluctantly. He floated to the windowsill of his home, looking downwards and scanning for the screaming ram-phantom. When he saw the faint wisps of ectoplasm catch his eye, he phased through the stairs, too lazy to actually walk down it himself. He fell through the floors quickly, world a blur around him, before the ghost slammed to a halt right at the reception. The ghost-receptionist at the counter screamed silently, a look of utter nonchalance plastered on her face.

“And how can I help you, sir?”

“I just need to check out really quick. There’s an annoyance outside. Don’t you care?”

She shook her head slightly, ghostly fire burning at her hair in a nonstop endless loop. Her mouth opened impossibly wide, cheeks ripping open noiselessly. Her eyes, however, portrayed her utter boredom with her work and the actual scale of pain she was feeling. Her voice came out of her voice box this time, mouth too wide to make proper noises without some technological help. “Nah. I hear it all the time. I’m surprised that one doesn’t sound like he’s in any pain, though. High pain tolerance, eh?” Wilbur sighed quietly, shaking his head.

“No, not really. Only thing he gets is some low-quality heartburn. Heart attack.” The receptionist giggled a little, covering his face for a moment with her gauzy sleeve. “You look so annoyed with him. Don’t be. It’s normal for the afterlife here, you know.” Wilbur paid her no heed, walking out the door as quickly as he could to halt the irritating noise. He slid open the glass door, growling under his breath. The rest of the area was absolutely stunning.

Flowers bloomed like stardrops among an emerald green sky of grass. Water burbled like a singing brook in a fountain nearby. Birds flew by and landed on ghosts’ clothes-hangers, chirping quietly and adding to the gentle din. If it were any other day (specifically without the screaming ram), Wilbur would have sat himself down and played a little music outside. Schlatt screeched again, making Wilbur roll his eyes. “Schlatt, you piece of shit! Come on, it’s fucking six in the morning!” The ectoplasmic ram phased through a wall, appearing in front of Wilbur with a deadpan look. He rubbed at his horn absentmindedly, glaring daggers at the ghostly musician. “Hey, Wilbur. How’s it hangin’?” “I would say I’m doing well..if you didn’t wake me up at six in the goddamn morning.” He narrowed his eyes at the ram hybrid.

Schlatt scoffed, turning some of his attention to a discarded liquor bottle. He scooped it up, shaking it to see if there was any liquid in there, before tipping the bottle’s contents into his mouth smoothly. Once he had finished, he tossed the bottle over his shoulder, wiping his mouth with his other hand. Wilbur winced at the resulting sound of glass shattering behind him. “You,” Schlatt burped loudly in the middle of his sentence, making the musician wince, “are just a pussy. Look, your other ghostly friends don’t give a shit. Why don’t you? Does my screeching hurt your sensitive little musician ears?” He wiggled his own ears slightly, raising a single eyebrow questioningly.

The musician had heard enough. He grabbed the man by his scruffy suit collar, lifting him up with ease. He slammed him against the wall behind him. The cold feeling of concrete pushing on his back made Schlatt yelp a little. The ram snorted derisively. “If you wanted to fuck me, you should have said so.” Wilbur’s nose wrinkled at the statement. “You’ve been absolutely disgusting lately. I’m going to handle that.” “Which just backs up my statement. Like I said, if you wanted to fuck-” Wilbur glared at him, pushing his collar with even more force than before. “I. Don’t. Want. To. Have. Sex. With. You. Why are you so absolutely annoying? Like, you’re already dead. You don’t need to make sex jokes!” He dropped Schlatt to the ground unceremoniously. He flopped to the floor, making a small ‘oof’ noise upon contact with the cobblestone pavement.

“Besides, you didn’t even have anyone to do that with! Oh my fucking god!” Schlatt smirked from his position on the floor. “I know. But I sure as hell can still try anyways.” He got up from the floor, wagging his fluffy tail behind him. “Anyways, I’m off to go find some more booze. I don’t think what I drank was booze in the first place.” He began to walk off, hooves clopping harshly on the bumpy road. A hand on his shoulder stopped him in his tracks. “Oh no. You’re not going anywhere.” Schlatt turned to look at him, ears flicking back in mild fear. Wilbur glared back with a look of ire so intense it would have melted iron. Wilbur grabbed his hand and ran towards the hotel area, phasing through the glass door. Schlatt yelped and closed his eyes, hoping he would phase through it as well. No luck for him.

He slammed into the glass at a high speed, making a resounding ‘pang’ echo through the lobby. The receptionist burst into bright, breezy giggles again. “Is your ram friend okay?” Another ghost called out, concerned. Wilbur opened the door for him, smiling sheepishly at the irritated drunkard. He rubbed his nose, pouting at the taller of the two. Wilbur ran past the receptionist to the staircase. The receptionist yelled behind him. “Mr. musician, we cleaned your room for you. Sorry if it smells like tide pods, I let one of the younger ghost-hands clean it!” Wilbur shouted back a quick thank you, already huffing from climbing up the carpeted stairs so quickly. Schlatt floated behind him, unamused by the stamina of his friend. Flight after flight, Wilbur scanned the numbers and saw nothing. “Curse this stupid haunted house! Why the fuck would there be ten flights of stairs… to nowhere?!?” “Beats me.” When they finally reached Wilbur’s room, the musician was close to passing out. He flopped onto the bed, sighing loudly. Schlatt immediately scoped out the alcohol, downing a few beers in a matter of minutes.

Wilbur glared halfheartedly at the ram. “You piece of shit.” “But you love me, don’tcha?” A wine bottle popped open. “Why would you-” The sound of wine pouring onto the carpet made his eyes snap wide open. He got off the bed quickly, grabbing the wine bottle before any more damage was done. “What the fuck! Schlatt, you bastard!” The bastard in question lounged on a chair, glass of wine in hand. He tipped his head mockingly, horn embedded deep in the wine cork. “It’s a ghost apartment. Stuff like this happens all the time. What’s got your panties in a twist?” Wilbur strode up to him, plucking the wine cork off of his horn. “Ow.” “This is my room, dipshit! You know what.” He growled at the ram, turning to look at him fully. Schlatt’s ears pinned back again at the sound of his voice. “Uh...yeah?” Wilbur took a step closer to him, eyes promising murder. “Run.

” Schlatt would deny the resulting scream that came out of his mouth as he scrambled to get away from Wilbur. “Get the fuck away from me!” He slammed the door open, spruce making a loud creaking sound as he ran. He maneuvered through a large room, most likely a ballroom repurposed to be a storage room. He hopped over the small clusters of boxes, hoping that it would slow the musician down or at least give him some time for him to release his anger on something else other than him. He cursed when something got caught on his horns as he ran through an extra stock of clothes. Wilbur didn’t miss a beat, jumping over the same areas as he did with relative ease. He ducked through the clothes easily, looking for the telltale sound of panicked hooves clopping on the floor.

Schlatt’s undead heart beat loudly in his ears. He ducked into a closet, closing the door as quickly as he could, he stood inside of the small area, whimpering quietly. The sound of Wilbur’s shallow breathing outside of the piece of furniture made him want to make a run for it. But logic persisted. Silence pervaded the area for what felt like hours, before Wilbur’s footsteps faded from his hearing. Schlatt waited for the footsteps to go completely silent before he opened the door. The creaking noise made him wince. He stepped carefully out of the splintering appliance, hoping that Wilbur’s ears weren’t as sensitive as they were when he was alive. He peeked out of the storage area, looking down the hallway for the irate musician. A hand on his horn made him freeze. “Gotcha.” Before he knew it, he was on the floor. “Uh...h-hey, Wilbur...fancy s-seeing you here!” Wilbur looked unimpressed.

He ran his hands through his hair, kneeling over the fellow smp ghost menacingly. “You know, you’ve been causing a lot of problems for all of us. I think we need to solve that.” Schlatt whimpered a little in fear. “I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to teach you a lesson.” He traced the curve of one of Schlatt’s horns, making him giggle softly. “Whahat are you…?” “I know you’re not that ticklish. But I know firsthand that getting tickled is embarrassing, especially if I tease you like this. I mean, I’ve been waiting to get my revenge on you ever since that incident while we were still alive and kicking. Remember that, hmm? Because I sure do.” He scratched at the base of the horn, making Schlatt laugh a little louder and buck slightly. “Whahahait a mohohoment! Ihihihi’m sohohorry fohohor thahat! Dohohon’t!”

Wilbur smirked slightly at him, flustering the ram even more. He turned his head away, horns slightly covering the light blue blush forming on his face. Wilbur’s skilled fingers scratched gently at all the right places, making the ram curl up as much as he could. From his vantage point, the musician could see the speed at which his smaller friend’s tail was wagging. He couldn’t help but point it out. “Aww, Schlatt! Do you like this?” Schlatt squeaked a little, blush deepening. “Nohoho, noho I dohon’t! Cuhut it ohohout!” His other hand scratched lightly behind his ears, making him melt into the floor slightly.

“Aww, who’s a cute little ram? You are! You are!” Wilbur scratched a little bit harder, making Schlatt melt into the floor almost completely. All protests forgotten, he pushed his head into the musician’s hand instinctively, giggling loudly. He blushed deeply at the baby talk, ears flicking back and forth. “Hehehey...dohohon’t…” He attempted, batting halfheartedly at the hand rubbing at his horns. “Don’t what, hm? Do..this?” He rubbed firmly at the base of his horns before he could react, making the ram’s laughter go up an octave for a moment. After a few more minutes of watching the flustered ram weakly push at his hands, he decided to up the ante a little. He scratched lightly at the ram’s hip, making him yelp a little. Schlatt bucked a little more at that, efforts to escape much more focused now that the other had stopped stroking his horns. “You pieheheice of shihihit!” Unfortunately, in his flustered state, even his most focused efforts were all but naught in the face of the much bulkier musician. (He wasn’t the strongest ram out there, that was for sure. And the only way he ever managed to trap Wilbur was with the power of Sam’s machines.)

Wilbur cocked his head teasingly. “What do you mean? Am I a piece of shit? But you look like you’re enjoying this! Look at your little tail.” At the mention of the traitorous appendage, he covered his face, cheeks burning a soft cobalt color. Wilbur grinned in triumph at the poor man’s reaction. He moved to his sides, fingers digging into soft fluff that tufted slightly where his hips and tummy met. He squeaked from behind his hands, head shaking from side to side. “Wihihill! PleheheasE-”

Chocolate brown eyes widened in surprise.

“Your ribs are ticklish now? Since when?” Schlatt opened his mouth to answer, only for an incessant stream of laughter to come out of his mouth instead. “Yohohou cuhuhuhut thahahat thehehe fuhuhuck ohohout!” “No.” Wllbur’s smug voice would have made Schlatt so utterly pised if it were any other moment, but he had no time to dwell on the slight feeling of annoyance twinging deep in his chest before the feeling of someone digging his nails into his ribs had him squirming. He pushed at Wilbur’s chest, protesting loudly through his laughter. “Ohohokahahay, ahahahactually! Stohohop, yohohohu suhuhupid muhuhusician!” Wilbur nodded, lifting his hands away from the panting ram. With a quick movement, he tased his sides one last time, making the other bleat in surprise and glare at him with lidded eyes. “For the record, this is payback.” Schlatt was too busy rubbing away the last tingling sensations to disagree with that.

Once the subsequent after-giggles had subsided, he pushed himself from off the ground shakily, legs wobbling slightly. Wilbur followed suit, towering over the ram and looking down on him with a smile. Schlatt glanced at him, then at the floor. “You know….that wasn’t half bad.” His smile widened. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” The smaller of the two kicked slightly at the ground, scuffing his hooves nervously. Wilbur repeated the question, excitement filling his body like an extra shot of adrenaline. Schlatt grabbed his hand, cheeks a light cotton candy this time.

“Come on, you emo spaghetti noodle. You need to ask the screaming lady for some cleaning supplies.” The musician bounced on the balls of his feet in triumph. “I’m going to take that as a yes.” He jumped slightly, catching himself in the air and floating a few inches off the ground. He moved ahead of the ram, scanning the area for the way out with a bit more pep and energy than before. Schlatt sighed in slight defeat, looking at his floating friend with slight jealousy. “Whatever you say, you bastard.” They walked down the several flights of stairs quietly, making small talk as they went. (“What the fuck is a bonbon?” “Did you live under a rock?”) Once the duo made contact with the reception floor, the receptionist beamed at them with her eyes. “So, did you two have fun?” They froze in their tracks, Schlatt holding his leg out midstep. “Wh-what?” She looked at them, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Well, I mean, we can hear everything that goes on in this house, you know. Afterlife things. Your laugh is cute, little goat man.” “I’m not going to deal with this right now. Nope. Nope, nope, nope. Wilbur, you deal with this shit. I’m going to go refill your booze.” The sound of his hooves clopping echoed through the entire floor, making a jackal hybrid lower his newspaper and look for the source of the din. His gold-rimmed eyeglasses drooped slightly. Schlatt bluntly avoided making eye contact as he power-walked his way through the lobby.

Wilbur stifled a laugh at the comedic way the man walked. The receptionist didn’t. “Pfft. I hope we see you again, Mr….Schlatt, was it?” A quiet “Nope!” made her burst into sweet laughter again. Wilbur smiled warmly at his receding back. “I’m sure he’ll come back. He’s that kind of ghost.” Wiping her tears slightly, the lady smiled with her eyes at the man. “I can see that.” He walked over to a chair, pulling one next to the jackal. The dark-furred hybrid paid no heed, continuing to read the Daily Ghost.

Wilbur sank into the cushion of the chair, letting his eyes flutter shut. ‘Maybe I could deal with Schlatt a little while longer.’ He let himself sit there for a while, the soft sounds of the receptionist writing and the jackal turning the page lulling him into a light slumber. The moment felt perfect, like a large, undisturbed pool of water, completely calm and collected. The water made no noise, like a smooth pane of glass tinted a light shade of ivory from the light of the moon. Everything was still. Everything was as it should be. Wilbur felt himself slipping deeper into slumber. He let himself go, feeling the feeling of blissful unconsciousness begin to pull him in deeper….

”HOLA, COMPADRE! JUST CAME FROM THE BARRIO, MAN!” “wHAT THE FUCK-” Wilbur’s eyes shot open again, a disappointed sigh escaping his mouth. “Are you kidding me right now.” He got up from the chair, walking towards the doors briskly to slap the shit out of Mexican Dream. But deep down, he knew that he cared for both of them, just not in the same way as he did from his family. After all, what would he do without them? (Probably a lot more. But he was trying to reason with himself, so he tried his best to avoid that answer.)

#downywrites #dsmp tickle #mcyt tickle #my writing #ler!wilbur #lee!schlatt #i am fueled by monster energy and coffee right now forgive the bad writing #sfw tickling

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ellewritesathing · 3 years

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Infernal VIII

Summary: In your sleepy little town of Greendale, nothing ever slept for long. And ever since October, everything felt like it was waking up. Everything except for you, that is. One teensy trip to Hell (and an infuriatingly cute guy) later and suddenly you felt wide awake.

Word-count: 3.4k+

Masterlist Prev. | Part 8

Ever since you were eleven years old, you’d been going to the Paramount once a week with Theo to share a large popcorn with m&ms poured over the top, two large sodas, and the biggest bag of Sour Patch Kids that money from dog walking, tutoring, and scrounging between the couch cushions could buy. The dark was a blanket of safety and anonymity for an hour or two, and you loved it more than anything. It was two hours of you, Theo, and whatever rerun was showing that weekend. One of only two movie theatres in Greendale, The Paramount stood as a testament to friendship and the enduring power of bad cinema.

Sharing the Paramount and all its memories with Caliban was nerve-wracking.

If he noticed your non-stop fidgeting, he didn’t say anything. He was perfectly composed as he watched stressed out parents corral their screaming children - shoulders relaxed, mouth upturned, and hand easily laced through yours.

“You know, I never cared much for children,” he said. He suppressed a laugh when one of the kids threw pieces of popcorn at their dad. “But I’m starting to think they may not be such loathsome little creatures after all. Given a little direction, they could surpass any of Hell’s torturers.”

You would have laughed at his joke if you’d been listening, but you were too busy watching the specials board light up his face red, orange, and yellow that caught on the edges of his hair. “Is this your first date?” you asked.

Caliban raised an eyebrow as he turned to you and you stammered out an explanation. Impulse control had never been one of your strong suits, and it had been on the decline lately. Putting you out of your misery with a sly smile, he said, “Yes.”

“Wait-” you tugged on his hand slightly as the two of you moved forward in the line “-does that mean I’m your first kiss?”

Caliban laughed and ran a hand through his hair. “My first kiss was with a succubus.”

You weren’t sure what kind of answer you were expecting, but that particular one caught you off guard. “Oh. That’s pretty cool. Do you guys keep in touch?”

“Are you in touch with your first kiss?” Caliban asked, throwing another smile at you as the two of you walked over the counter. He let you order and pay in peace, but he asked again when you were flavoring the popcorn, clearly amused by your awkwardness.

You were in the middle of explaining that your first kiss had been on a dare at one of the worst, least supervised birthday parties you’d ever been to when someone bumped into and spilled your popcorn all over the floor. They kept walking.

They only cleared a few feet before the Darkness lashed out and you yelled at them. “Hey! Are you going to apologize?”

You recognized them once they turned around. He was one of the kids from the lacrosse team who’d bullied Theo back in freshman year. With possibly the fakest smile you’d seen, Charlie said, “Chill. It was an accident.”

“Apologize.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“Say you’re sorry.”

His body relaxed and his eyes took on a familiar glassy, hollow quality as he mumbled an apology. You smiled.

“Good.” You took a step forward to close the distance between you. “Now give me your wallet.” He did so without a word, the charm overwhelming any reservations he may have had. He faltered slightly when you took out most of the cash, but you told him to be quiet. With a smile, you handed his wallet back to him. “Enjoy your movie.”

Charlie blinked twice, slowly, but then he nodded. “You too,” he said uncertainly. He stumbled down the hall and looked at you again as he rounded a corner, completely dumbstruck.

You waved at him, turning back to Caliban with a smile. “Ready to watch the movie?”

The easiness from earlier was gone; Caliban’s jaw was tense and his eyes were narrowed. He didn’t move from where he leaned against the wall. “What was that?”

You shrugged. “I wanted him to apologize.”

“Are you sure that’s all you wanted?” he asked, pushing himself off the wall. His movements were easy, but his words were strained.

“Yes,” you lied, unclenching your fists. When you stole a glance at your palms, they were coated in a thin layer of darkness, smudged around the area where you’d dug your nails in to keep from knocking the false smile off Charlie’s face.

---

“Wait, so you’re like … Hannah Montana if she was a teenage witch and he’s like- what is he? Your Jesse?”

Out of all the reactions you’d imagined after telling your friends that the mother you’d spent your whole life looking for turned out to be a literal demon, a Hannah Montana comparison hadn’t even made the top ten.

“Harvey, don’t you think you’re being a little-”

To be fair, they’d handled the news about Lilith better than expected. Harvey was confused, Theo was happy you found your mom even if she’d tried to kill them all before, Sabrina helped smooth things over, and Roz admitted to having her suspicions for a while.

“What? I’m just trying to understand why the guy that tried to rule Hell and enslave us all is sitting on my couch.”

It was only when things came to Caliban that their understanding faltered. Even Sabrina, trying her best, didn't quite understand.

“I’m sitting on your couch because I was invited, Huckleberry Finn.”

After defeating the Darkness and unbinding your powers, you’d gone to Sabrina’s with a tub of ice cream and explained everything. A weight that had been slowly crushing you was lifted off your chest that night, but it came back in full force with every angry word from Harvey. It wasn’t like you’d expected him to understand, but you’d hoped he would at least try.

“Okay!” Standing up, you let out a weighty breath and held out your hands to stop them from speaking. “Will you two stop antagonizing one another for five minutes?”

Reluctantly, Caliban nodded as Harvey collapsed back in his chair and grumbled, “Fine, but I still don’t like him.”

“You don’t have to like him. You just have to respect that I like him,” you said. Harvey didn’t seem convinced, so you sighed and tried to come up with a new strategy. Finally, you stopped pacing and turned to Harvey. “Do you know what it’s like to feel like a piece of you is missing?” To Roz, “Like there’s something wrong with you because you just don’t fit in with everyone else?” To Theo, “And then you figure out what it is and you can’t tell anyone because you don’t think they’d care about you anymore if they found out?” You wiped your face haphazardly and stared at the Smashing Pumpkins poster peeling off the back wall. “It fucking sucks.”

“And I’m sorry you had to go through all that,” Harvey said, standing up and blocking your view of the poster. “I am. But you can’t expect me to be okay after finding out that you spent the last three months lying to everyone and dating that asshole.”

“I didn’t want to lie to you!” You felt the Darkness rising in your throat and did your best to push it down. Taking a deep, shaky breath, you looked back at Harvey and tried not to cry. “Is it so hard to believe that I was scared to tell you, or did you forget when you cut Sabrina out of your life when she told you?”

Harvey frowned. His hand twitched at his side as he glanced at Sabrina. “That’s not the same thing.”

“Yeah, I know, because she was the most important person in your life and I’m just the kid that lives next door.” Your voice broke and Harvey stepped forward to give you a hug. The Darkness lurched at the movement and you stepped back to keep it from hurting him. Taking another step back, you started gathering your stuff. “I can’t do this right now.”

“Hey, just hold on a second, okay?” Harvey tried to grab your wrist to stop you, and you couldn’t stop the Darkness from lashing out this time.

“Don’t touch me.”

Harvey frowned, his hand outstretched and frozen, and a familiar, glassy film cloud covered his eyes. The air was sucked out of the room as Harvey blinked and tried to recover. His hand still hung in the air. Your heart broke.

“I need to go,” you rushed out, scrambling for the door. You didn’t care about the stuff you dropped or the fact that Caliban was sitting on the couch the last you saw - all you cared about was getting out before you did anything worse. Still, you froze in the doorway. Over your shoulder, you mustered up all your courage and said, “I’m sorry.”

You weren’t sure if any of your friends heard you over their concern for Harvey or if they just didn’t want to respond, but at least Caliban caught up to you in the silence. He didn’t reach out for you for the rest of the night, all he did was stare at you with stormy, unfathomable eyes.

---

Hilda Spellman was the closest thing you’d ever had to a mother; she was warm and inviting, and always made your favorite cupcakes if you were having a bad day. She made sure that your dad always had something on the table for dinner. She took you shopping every year before school started. She let you stay in their house for almost a month when you were convinced that your bedroom was haunted. Hilda Spellman deserved nothing but happiness.

So why couldn’t you suck it up for one day and give her the perfect wedding that she deserved?

Because, despite your best efforts, you were still upset at how things had unfolded with your friends. While Theo and Roz forgave you for lying and accepted you for being a witch, they weren’t sure they could give Caliban a chance after he lashed out at Harvey. Talking to Harvey might have solved that problem, but he was pretty much set on avoiding you. You didn't blame him after what you did to him, even if he didn't know what exactly it was you did to him.

All this drama might not have been an issue otherwise, but they were the only people you knew at this wedding. So far, the only other people to show up were witches that were preoccupied with either the Uninvited or the incubus on the loose.

When you noticed Nick had disappeared from door duty, you finished your drink and set the glass down. Sliding in next to Sabrina, you bumped her arm with your elbow and held your hand out for some of the programs. “Need a hand?”

“Not really, but I’ll take the company,” she said with a smile. She handed you a stack of creamy pink programs and laughed wistfully. “Nick was supposed to help me with this but he’d rather get busy with Prudence in the coat closet.”

You tried not to laugh as you handed a program to a very solemn-looking witch. “Yeah, well, at least he’s talking to you,” you said, watching the witch disappear into the steadily growing crowd.

Sabrina rolled her eyes. “Harvey will come around,” she said, pausing to smile as she handed out another program. “He’s just scared of losing you in all this.”

“You know, Caliban actually said something similar after we left the other night.” This time, you didn’t bother hiding your laughter. Sabrina didn’t bat an eye at taking on an eldritch terror, but the possibility of Caliban having a valid point seemed to shake her to her core. “He said that I shouldn’t be so hard on Harvey because all he wants is to keep me safe, but this is the one thing that he can’t protect me from. The magic and … getting my heart broken.”

Sabrina tried to reign in her surprise, but she still seemed stunned as she handed out another program. “That … actually makes sense.”

“Weird, right?” You stole a look at the line forming outside the church and your heart ached when you saw your friends lugging their band equipment through the parking lot. It was going to be a long night.

Sabrina followed your gaze and sighed. “So ... where is Caliban? You RSVPed that you were bringing a plus-one but I don’t see him anywhere.”

You tore your eyes away from the band to hand out another program. Shaking your head, you said, “I was going to bring him, but then I figured that this was Hilda’s special day and she didn't need a fistfight between her lead singer and a plus one.”

“Well, I think you should bring him,” Sabrina said. “What? Just because I’m going to be sad and alone the whole night doesn’t mean you have to.”

So, after a quick check with Hilda, you invited Caliban. He agreed to come, if you promised to talk to him about your lesser angels creeping in.

You could feel Harvey staring at the back of your head throughout the whole ceremony, but Theo sat next to you and Robin said he’d save you guys a seat at the reception. Things were starting to look up, even if they were a little weird.

As awkward as the ceremony had been, the reception was great. Caliban was as charming as ever, winning over Theo and Robin and making witches swoon left and right. Despite all your time together, you’d never seen him this comfortable around others. A room without demons or humans, it seemed, was where you found common ground.

Until Sabrina’s toast.

She lost credibility before she even opened her mouth by stumbling up the stage steps. Opening with a joke, she had a solid two and a half seconds before she started drawing attention to every couple in the nearby vicinity - starting with Harvey and Roz, glossing over Theo and Robin to mention you and Caliban, and eventually landing on Nick and Prudence. Sabrina tried to save the toast by circling back to Hilda, but it was too late. She crashed into the drums, said she’d be single for a century and a half, and was dragged off-stage by Zelda while the Fright Club scrambled to perform their set.

Amidst the chaos, Caliban ducked his head closer to yours and brought his drink to his lips. “You know,” he said, pausing to take a sip, “If you’d told me how much fun these gatherings were, I would have come with you a long time ago.”

Rolling your eyes, you took his drink and shifted in your seat so you could lean against him. “Does that mean I can sign you up for the book club?”

“That depends. What are we reading?” Caliban asked. He looked away from the stage to meet your eyes.

“The Feminine Mystique.”

“Oh, okay.”

Laughing, you tilted your head up to kiss his jaw. Settling back into your seat and intertwining your hands, you said, “Well, if it counts for anything, I’m glad you’re here now.”

If you thought the worst part of the night was Sabrina’s toast, you were totally and completely unprepared for the incubus attack. It jumped from Theo to Harvey to Melvin before landing in the Uninvited. Their eyes were wild for a moment, but then the Uninvited shuddered as their eyes returned to a deep, empty brown. They’d eaten the incubus, and moments later they bit into Dorian’s heart like an apple.

There was something unbearably sad about the Uninvited, and the Darkness within you ached to fix them. It didn’t matter that they toasted to the end of all things, all that mattered was that they were alone. You started reaching out for them when Caliban took his hand in yours and pulled you closer to him.

“I am the Herald of the Void. I feast on the hearts of those that reject me. And someone here turned me away, therefore, death to you all.” The Uninvited smiled and downed whatever had been in their glass.

Tipping your glass towards the Uninvited, you drank to their toast as Hilda apologized for turning them away. She tried to invite them, but the Uninvited said it was too late. They’d already been turned away.

Nick stepped forward as the one that had turned the Uninvited away to sacrifice himself, but Sabrina tugged him back by the edge of his sleeve. Prudence was one step behind, holding Nick close to her chest as Sabrina offered the Uninvited a heart of sorts. She explained that she’s been wandering a cosmos of her own lately, feeling hopelessly alone, and just wanting to belong somewhere with someone. If they got married, the Uninvited would have her heart and a place to belong, always. Forevermore, they’d be the Invited.

The Darkness grew unruly as the Uninvited considered her proposal, and for a moment you thought they’d do as the Darkness wanted and rip Sabrina’s heart from her ribcage. Instead, all they did was nod.

---

Cold bit at your fingertips as you sat, knees pulled up to your chest, on the wall outside the desecrated church, but the stolen Mother’s Ruin kept your stomach warm. The sun had disappeared somewhere between the fake wedding and trapping the Uninvited in Sabrina’s old dollhouse, October chill coming in with the night sky, but you welcomed the change. Indifferent sunshine to apathetic stars.

Pouring out a bit of gin on the dead flowers below, you said a silent prayer for the Uninvited. Not for forgiveness, but maybe understanding. Hoping it would make the Darkness subside.

The crunching of dried grass underfoot interrupted your thoughts.

“This seat taken?”

You shrugged but moved over all the same to make space for Harvey. He threw a lanky leg over the side of the wall as he let out a deep breath. When he was settled, you offered him some of the Mother’s Ruin but he shook his head.

“No, uh, I’m good. Thanks though.” Harvey drummed uncertainly on the sides of the wall, watching carefully as you drank his rejected share of the gin. “So I was thinking about something the Uninvited said back there - about wandering around all alone until the terrors welcomed them to their club?”

Raising an eyebrow, you asked, “Are you about to call my boyfriend a terror?”

Harvey laughed, a deep, unsure sound, and looked down at the wall again. “Well, he is, but no.” He sighed and tried to get back to his point. “Look, I know I’m not the best at handling change. When Sabrina … I don’t know. It just- it kills me that you felt like you felt so alone and didn’t think you could talk to me.”

“Harvey-”

“Wait, let me finish.” Harvey took another deep breath. His nose was red, either from the cold or because he was holding back tears. “I never ever wanted to be the reason why you got hurt. But I was, and I’m sorry that I made you feel like that.”

You slid your hand over his. “Thank you,” you said quietly.

“I’m still not done.”

“Of course, you’re not.”

Harvey choked out another laugh and smiled. “Don’t tell Theo but you’re my best friend. And if Caliban makes you happy then … I kinda owe it to you to give him a shot.”

“So you’ll stop antagonizing him?” you asked, sitting up a bit straighter and pointing the bottle of gin at Harvey’s chest.

“Well, I never said that,” Harvey said dramatically. He laughed and pulled his other leg over the wall, taking the bottle from you and pulling a face after he tasted it. “Okay, what stars are we looking at tonight?”

You threw your legs over the side and let out a deep breath as you leaned against Harvey’s arm. “Fuck if I know. Tommy was the one who remembered all that stuff.”

“You just wanna make some up?” Harvey asked. He put his arm around your shoulder and handed the bottle back to you.

Hugging the bottle to your chest to keep the Darkness warm as it slept, you looked up to the sky and pointed to a cluster of stars. “That one’s you because it’s ugly.”

Tagged: @caliban-is-my-girl @t-a-i-l-o-r-m-a-d-e @music-movies @miss--moose @marrypuffsstuff @harryscarolinaa @igorsbby @foji2000 @hxlalokidottir @artaxerxesthegreat @thxmagic @luquincy @strawberriesandknives @xealia @hotmessindisguise @acciomaximoff @reheated-coffee @olivia-west-allen @shelby-x @perseny-blog @millie-753 @luneerius @shizzybarnaclee @lettherebelovex @drrramaaaqweeen @throughparisallthroughrome @ietss @thebookwormlife @mechanicalanimalz @mariamermaid @nqbmf @roxytheimmortal @shephard17895 @andie-kathleen @clockworks-world-to-fandoms @blondeeee-e @piensa-bonito @supportstudies @bookishaficionado @perfectlysane24

#Infernal #caos #caos rewrite #chilling adventures of sabrina #Caliban #caliban x reader #caliban imagine

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robynsaurr · 3 years

Text

Goh comforts Ash (fanfic!)

Authors note: hello cherries :) This fic discusses a lot about depression/mental health. Depression is something I suffer with, and a coping mechanism I use is venting out my emotions through writing. As always, there won't be anything too heavy in this fic. Enjoy :) Goh couldn't entirely place when the change in Ash happened.

One moment he was the loud, excitable and happy kid Goh was used to. His smile was enough to brighten anyone's day, his laughter was enough to light up the every star in the sky.

But one day it all seemed to change. That shine in his eyes hollowed, always appearing dark and haunted. He smiled less, and whenever he did his eyes wouldn't light up. It looked forced.

At first he'd tried to make an effort, although even getting out of bed appeared to be exhausting. His voice become monotone and emotionless.

Maybe it was a good thing Ash wasn't the best at acting or nobody would've known he wasn't okay.

And Goh hurt because Ash was hurting. Because he bottled everything up inside and wouldn't tell a soul about what was going on in his head.

He almost felt hurt that Ash wouldn't tell him what was wrong. They were best friends now, why couldn't Ash trust him?

But then this is Ash we're talking about. Goh recalled the day Ash had become sick. He didnt say anything all day, until he eventually collapsed.

Ash was just like that, anything about Pokémon battling and he wouldn't shut up for days, but it seemed like he'd rather be shocked ten times in a row by Pikachu's thunderbolt rather than talk about his feelings.

It was nearly 5am on a Tuesday morning, and Goh had just woken uo after a disturbed sleep, tossing and turning as he thought about Ash.

He didn't have to be up early. Usually the alarm would sound at 10am. But Goh couldn't sleep.

He got dressed and brushed his teeth, then walked over to Ash's sleeping form om the lower bunk.

Goh gently shook his shoulder.

"Ash. Ash!" He whispered loudly.

Ash groaned, waking up more easily than he usually does. The amber sunlight shone in through the crack between the curtain, hurting his tired eyes. "Goh, it's early" he grumbled.

"So? You were barely asleep anyway. You never wake up that quick" Goh watched as Ash rapidly blinked his eyes, waking up properly now.

"What is it?"

"I need to talk to you. Get dressed, We're going out"

Confused, Ash reluctantly pulled a shirt and a pair of pants out his drawer. He got dressed, cramming his hat down on his knotted, messy hair.

Goh took him by his wrist, leaving the room. It was just them, Pikachu was still asleep on Ash's bed.

They both walked silently, past the town, into a more desolate area. It was a small grassy cliff by a large tree that looked over the town. The sky was lit up by a soft morning glow of ambers and oranges as the sun began to rise on the early winter morning.

It was truly beautiful, Goh and Ash stood by eachother, just taking in the scenery.

Ash turned his head to look at Goh. "Why'd you take me here?"

"I just wanted to watch the sun rise"

For a moment or two, there was silence, and all they felt was the cold winter air stinging their skin.

"And I need to talk to you, Ash"

Ash swallowed, suddenly feeling slightly nervous. "About what?"

"You. You've been different lately. Please, just tell me what's wrong"

Ash opened his mouth, but Goh cut in before he could protest.

"And don't tell me its nothing because I know it's not!"

Ash nodded, and he was quiet for a moment. After a long pause, he shut his eyes and sighed.

"I-I have something wrong with me"

He had his eyes closed. His cheeks were burning with shame and his fingers were curled into fists.

Before Goh could question him, he continued.

"It started happening two years back. Whenever winter came round... things just got worse. Getting out of bed was hard... I couldn't eat, I just felt so sad all the time. All I wanted to do was cry..." Ash had his head turned away from Goh, staring into the distance.

"I could hide it at first. Until it began to get worse... I told my mum. She took me to a doctor" Ash swallowed, taking a deep breath. "He said I had something called seasonal affective disorder. He gave me pills for it, although they didn't really do much. No one else knew apart from Mum. It felt embarrassing, shameful, I d-didn't want anyone else to know..."

"Ash..." Goh put a hand on his shoulder. "Is that all it is?"

Ash blinked, stunned. He still had his head turned, like he was confessing a deep, dark secret.

"It's okay. It happens, people suffer from these things. It's not shameful, it's not a bad thing." Goh paused, looking at Ash, who had tears brimming in his eyes. "It's a part of life. And it's not a nice thing to feel, but if you talk to people... we can help you. People care about you, Ash. I care about you. And we want you to be okay"

Tears were spilling down Ash's cheeks.

"Ash..." Goh continued. "I don't want the Ash who fakes a smile. I want the real Ash. You don't have to fake anything anymore. I'm here for you"

Ash didn't move. He was stunned by Goh's words. He hadn't expected them at all.

He thought he'd laugh at him, tell him he was an attention seeker. Or think he was weak or a coward.

Goh tilted Ash's chin up with his hand. Ash looked up into his eyes.

"Th-thank you”

Goh wrapped his arms round him, and they stood, wrapped in eachothers embrace for several minutes.

"Ash? Let's take a break from research or training today. We can look around the shops for souvenirs and go to the beach together instead"

Ash smiled, his first genuine smile in weeks.

"Sounds good.

Authors note: I am sorry for the lack of quality in this fic! i wrote it as a coping mechanism so it's not the best, but i still hope you enjoyed. much love <3

(also yes i wrote “mum” instead of “mom” im sorry sadly i am british 😔✌)

#journeyshipping #fatedencountershipping #firstfriendshipping #ash x gou #ash x goh #satoshi x gou #satoshi #ash #Ash Ketchum #goh #gou #pokemon #angst #anipoke #fanfic #fanfiction #hurt #comfort #satogou

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quazartranslates · 3 years

Text

Welcome to the Nightmare Game - CH112

**This is an edited machine translation. For more information, please [click here]**

[<<< Previous Chapter | Table of Contents | Next Chapter >>>]

-----

Chapter 112: The Dream of the Holy Nun (II)

"So Ning Zhou is there with you now?" Miao Li asked as she roamed Qi Leren’s dream.

Qi Leren kept having unwanted dreams whenever he nodded off, but thanks to Miao Li's intrusion, he had been woken from the nightmare he had been having just now. His dreams of continuous death only made him more tired.

Miao Li yawned: "That's great, we’re still busy with the follow-up for the Slaughter Secret Society."

"Isn't it all over?" Qi Leren asked.

"Over? No, no, no, this task is much more complicated than you think. Although you’ve performed the most critical part, there are many other things besides this..." Miao Li pushed her glasses up. "Do you think sending you into the Slaughter Secret Society undercover is the only thing we did? It took a lot of effort for the Illusionist to cover up your tombstones on Undead Island. He’s very curious about you."

Tombstones? Qi Leren suddenly remembered that when he’d recognized Luo Yishan, Luo Yishan had also recognized him. If he sent someone to investigate the identity of 'Qi Leren', then those amazing tombstones on the Undead Island…

Wait a minute.The Court knew about his tombstones? Qi Leren was stunned.

"You thought no one knew about it? In a few months, the whole Twilight Township will know that there’s a player named 'Qi Leren' who has died many times. This kind of bizarre news always travels quickly," Miao Li said with a smile, seeming to see what he was thinking.

Qi Leren suddenly had a bad feeling. He didn't want to get into any trouble: "Is there any way to cover up my tombstones? For example, by digging them out?"

For the sake of confidentiality, Qi Leren would not hesitate to dig his own graves.

"...Your idea is really interesting, but the Nightmare World is different from reality after all. Even if you forcibly dig out your tombstone, it will be refreshed after midnight. The Undead Island is like a game log, recording the names of players since the birth of this world. What qualifications do we have to delete the game logs when we’re only players?" Miao Li said with a slight irony. "So we just sent an Illusionist to temporarily cover your tombstones on the Undead Island after confirming that you needed to go undercover. Now the Illusionist has removed the illusion, and your secret can't be concealed for too long. As long as one person finds out, a secret is no longer a secret. You should be glad that there aren’t many people who have grave-sweeping as a hobby."

It was unfortunate. If the Illusionist had covered the tombstones earlier, he wouldn’t have been distracted by the mountain of death records. It seemed that you should use your real name less when walking outside. If there were onlookers, he would be afraid of someone trying to take advantage of his ability to resurrect himself... This had already happened and would continue to happen. Speaking of which.

"The Slaughter Secret Society’s believers were caught, right? Luo Yishan... Lie Yang knows my real name. At that time, I failed to kill him in the field," Qi Leren asked with a frown.

"He’s dead, died of the seed of slaughter’s outbreak and blood loss. Now the Village of Dusk’s enchantment has been closed, only in not out. The connection attached to the memento ring can track the identities of people who have entered the field, and basically all believers have been either arrested or will be soon. However, there are still several believers who were not in Dusk when the incident occurred, and two other believers escaped before the enchantment closed," Miao Li gave a brief account of the situation.

"Who escaped?" Qi Leren suddenly had a bad feeling.

Miao Li gave him a deep look and seemed a little sympathetic: "Two people you know very well. Mrs. Kathleen, and her subordinate Ashley."

"..." The sense of foreboding always came true. Qi Leren couldn't say what kind of revelation this was.

"Let Ning Zhou train you, maybe it will be useful one day," Miao Li said.

The depressed Qi Leren looked indifferent. Ning Zhou didn't speak kindly when he trained him. He couldn't remember how many times he knocked him to the ground even when he was prepared. Even if his psychological quality was better, he would soon have a psychological shadow from falling into a sprawl all the time.

"Oh, another thing about Slaughter, go to the Trial after you finish your first compulsory task and set aside at least one week of survival days. We’ll help you take out your ticking timebomb," Miao Li said with a smile and walked out of his dream lightly.

It was already morning when he woke up. Although it was still sunset outside the window, the countdown of survival days told him that another day had passed. Qi Leren struggled to get out of bed, washing and thinking about today's mission.

Ning Zhou gave him a daily training menu, and he was also responsible for sparring with him for some of the contents that required a partner. Therefore, Qi Leren took the initiative to prepare the "coach"'s three meals. At present, the two people got along well - considering that so many embarrassing things had happened between them, this harmonious relationship was even more commendable.

There was a faint warmth when he remembered the scene of them eating together in the warm sunset.

However, Ning Zhou said yesterday that he would be absent today and Qi Leren didn't bother to ask him where he was going, so he was the only one who enjoyed breakfast today.

Compared to a large number of procrastinators and lazy parasites in modern society, Qi Leren was a very self-disciplined person. After entering the Nightmare Game, he consciously exercised himself. Now that he had this scientific tutorial, he cherished this opportunity very much. Although every day he was drilled so black and blue that he had to crawl to bed at the end of the day, and when he fell asleep he was haunted by nightmares from time to time, the next day he would still grit his teeth.

Ning Zhou was not here, so the training schedule was cancelled. After training in the afternoon, Qi Leren had some rare leisure time. Out of camaraderie among friends, he specially copied a training menu for Dr. Lu. In the private clinic, he saw Dr. Lu lying on a soft sofa enjoying dessert and hot drinks. He warmly invited Qi Leren to share in the afternoon tea.

After learning about Qi Leren’s recent training menu, Dr. Lu showed the expression of "My little friend is so masochistic he would scare a baby to death" and only reluctantly agreed to jog for two kilometers every day after being persuaded by Qi Leren. However, when he saw his criminal record of falling flat after running only two steps - which Dr. Lu repeatedly explained was because his cerebellum was naturally uncoordinated and his balance was worse than the average person - Qi Leren didn’t believe he would last for long…

After coming out of Dr. Lu's clinic, Qi Leren also saw a player who spoke with an accent talking with his friend: "There’s a female doctor here whose medical skills are very good! There’s just a few more rules. "

"Really? Is she beautiful?"

"He's a man."

"Didn't you say it was a female doctor?"

"Oh no, it's Nu (woman)."

The window on the second floor suddenly opened. Dr. Lu poked his head out and said maliciously, "My last name is Lu! I don't treat people with accents!"

After asking for forgiveness, the two people found that the doctor was hard-hearted and they immediately took up evil thoughts, wanting to threaten violence. Worried about Dr. Lu’s safety, Qi Leren, who hadn’t left yet, simply practiced his recent training results and was pleasantly surprised to find that one or two players weren’t a problem.

The two players didn’t even dare to trash talk as they escaped. Qi Leren watched the two disappear at the intersection and then reluctantly looked at the helpless Dr. Lu: "Now that you know how important exercise is, let’s teach you a few tricks."

Dr. Lu opened his mouth and exclaimed: "I’m used to you having the aura of a mysterious soft girl, you’re as easily bullied as I am. I’m surprised to see you’ve improved so much. It’s really hard to look at you now, you were so cute before..."

Qi Leren’s hands itched to beat him. What is this mysterious soft girl aura?! Who the hell is cute? Although that one task forced me to be a girl for a few days, I’m still a man normally. I just sent two seven-foot men packing!

"Have a good time training yourself. If you can’t run at least two laps, what will you do the next time someone makes trouble? If you can't beat them, you have to run for it," Qi Leren said earnestly, too lazy to care.

"Don't I have a skill card, [Here, We Will Have Free Wi-Fi]? When equipped, everyone will slowly forget my existence and do their own thing. If the duration of the skill is up, I'll either admit defeat or call the police. If it truly doesn't work out, there'll always be passersby who will help me at the crucial moment," Dr. Lu said firmly.

"...Do whatever you want." Qi Leren said tiredly. As someone with E-level luck, he didn't quite understand the confidence of someone with EX luck, so he left in a disgruntled manner.

It was still early, so he could go somewhere else. Qi Leren made a trip according to the addresses and information given by Chen Baiqi. There were two players who were good at manual work and could be used to make chargers. As a result, when he came to the doors that matched the addresses, one had gone out to do a task and wasn’t at home and the other house was empty, which should mean he’d died recently.

Qi Leren was in a state of melancholy. It seemed he would have to come back another time to see if the player who had left to do a task had come back alive.

As he had plenty of time, Qi Leren simply checked the main task again. Ever since he’d entered the Nightmare World he would go see if the key NPC Rudd, who triggered the task, was present, but he deliberately didn't trigger the task for fear that he would die again. He just wanted to see if anyone knew about it.

Following the remembered route, Qi Leren came to the Twilight Township’s NPC settlement, which was close to "Red’s" home where he’d been staying while undercover with the Slaughter Secret Society. Qi Leren was afraid he would meet some believers who hadn’t been arrested, so he put on his cloak for safety.

Under the setting sun, a large amount of water vapor gushed out from the rusty iron pipes on both sides of the road, seeming like smoke when seen from a distance.

There was a tavern in the depths of the alley near a garbage dump made of scrap iron. The iron waist-high iron gate couldn’t keep out the noisy sounds coming from the building. Men played cards, drank, and chatted loudly, making this remote tavern seem very lively.

Qi Leren pushed open the waist-high iron gate and walked into the pub.

The tavern owner recognized him, the man with short curly hair asking enthusiastically, "I haven't seen you in a long time, Qi."

"I’ve been busy with some things recently," Qi Leren answered and looked around.

The NPC Rudd he is looking for wasn’t here... This was unusual. Every time he’d come here before, he was drunk in the corner of the pub. According to the plot, if he bought him a drink, he would recount his memories with a face of snot and tears, the tragic battle where mankind's Holy City was overtaken by demons more than 20 years ago, and then he would go to the churchyard to pay homage to his comrades.

"Where's the drunk?" Qi Leren asking, pointing to the corner of the pub.

"Oh, him. Just now, a man in a cloak came to have a drink with him and then they left together. Before leaving, the guy even paid off the wine bill he owed. I’m really grateful," said the boss.

Qi Leren's face changed instantly: "What did the man look like?"

"I don't know, he was also wearing a cloak. I couldn't see his face clearly," the boss said. "But I haven't seen him here before. I don't remember his voice... Hey, don't you want your wine?"

"Keep it!" Qi Le rushed out of the pub and headed for the abandoned church not far away without looking back.

The main task’s next step was there!

-----

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Allegiance - Chapter 1 - The Forbidden Forest

It was dark and cold and oppressing and oh-so-familiar … Harry knew exactly where he was despite not being able to see. The Forbidden Forest. Again. Fuck.

He instantly recognised the tingling of the green burst of light all over his body, from his toes and his fingertips to the scar on his forehead, which was hurting like hell. It felt like being struck by lightning. How very ironic, he thought, that the great Harry Potter was to meet his end as he had started – with a bolt of lightning.

There was some poetic mirroring there somewhere, he was sure, and his subconscious may have enjoyed torturing him further on the issue, but his ears were now buzzing loudly, refusing to let his mind drift. It didn’t help either that he could still hear the echo of the Killing Curse that had just hit him square in the chest, resonating within him like the soundwaves of a bass.

Harry knew this was a dream. One of the many similar dreams he had been having since the War had ended a month ago.

There was something quite comforting about knowing that what he was experiencing wasn’t real, at least not anymore, but reliving his death on repeat was far from a pleasant experience and not something he would wish on anyone, not even Draco Malfoy, he decided.

He was falling backwards from the force of the curse, his eyes tightly shut and his hands clenched into fists, waiting for the impact he knew would come. Thankfully, any minute now he would hit the hard ground and wake up, as he always did. He just needed to wait.

But, for the moment, he was falling, his mind focused on trying to keep calm.

Just another few seconds, he told himself, clenching his jaw tightly to stop his teeth from chattering.

He wasn’t complaining though; he liked to feel his scar again. Not that he would ever admit it, but it had always been something he could rely on to give him a sense of direction. Since Voldemort’s death, his scar had not hurt once, and although it had been a relief during the first few days, it had quickly turned into a void, a feeling of unease, as if a part of him was missing.

He hated to think about what it all meant, but the truth was that he missed the sense of purpose it had afforded him in the last seven years, even if it had been a doorway to the most dangerous dark wizard of their time. He knew it sounded ridiculous, but it didn’t change that fact, and this was his nightmare after all.

When he thought that he had waited long enough, he instinctively flung his arms behind, waiting for the familiar ground to crush against them and miraculously wake him up, but there was nothing there to meet his flailing hands. He was still … falling.

What the hell is going on? His strained inner voice screamed as he threw his arms sideways to try to reach out for something, anything. His mind was racing at an alarming pace when he failed to hit the ground after what now felt like … well, way too long …

Time in dreams really makes no sense at all, he thought. For all he knew, time could have stopped altogether. The idea of being stuck in time, dying forever on end, was terrifying, unbearable. A Groundhog Day joke made especially for him. He grimaced: irony again.

Panic engulfed him as his throat tightened and his hungry lungs began to desperately gasp for air, small spots of light flickering into his vision. When his hands frantically moved to his throat, however, fear morphed into detachment and a chilling thought whispered to him: Why fight it? It should have been the end then … You know that … In fact …

As the idea formed in his mind, Harry felt a pressure in his chest which had nothing to do with lack of air. He let the familiar feeling roll over him, seep through his soul until he was enveloped in nothingness.

I want this. This time, don’t let me wake up.

As the thought lingered, he felt a small, bitter smile pull at the sides of his lips and tears of relief run into his ears and hair.

Let it be the end. Please.

Just as he was about to let go completely, however, another voice burst into his head, full of dread and something akin to … hope.

“POTTER?!”

He would have recognised it anywhere, but it didn’t make any sense.

“Malfoy?” he mouthed, as his awareness kicked in again. A choked cry escaped him when he heard the boy scream in what could only be the same intense pain he had felt so many times himself.

Instinctively, Harry then did something he had never done before – although clearly this nightmare wasn’t like any of the others as Malfoy had certainly never appeared – he opened his eyes. All he saw was a faint flicker of blond hair, an outstretched hand and terrified grey eyes, before everything disappeared and he found himself staring at his wardrobe, his hands on either side of him, sitting up in sweat-soaked blankets, trembling.

It took him several minutes to catch his breath and register that he was in his room at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. He moved his fingers cautiously, then his toes and, when he felt confident that he could feel his body again, he stretched towards the nightstand to feel for his glasses. As he reached out, a wave of nausea swept through him and it was all he could do to pick them up and rush for the bathroom, banging his big toe against the doorframe on the way, before being violently sick.

When he felt that the worst was behind him, he rinsed the sink – he hadn’t made it to the toilet – and looked up at his foggy reflection in the mirror. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and awkwardly placed his glasses on his nose, hands still trembling from the vivid dream and the more recent strain on his body.

It was not unusual for him to be sick after one of these nightmares: in fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he had walked around without a cloud of nausea in the pit of his stomach. He had got used to it, though. It was, he thought, his new normal. He looked at his reflection and frowned.

Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived. The Boy Who Lived Again …

“The Boy Who Won’t Fucking Die!” he spat at the innocent mirror.

His frustration boiling over, he punched the glass with as much force as he could muster. It must have been enough because cracks appeared from the point of impact and the pain in his hand was certainly real. After taking a few ragged breaths, he reluctantly dragged his fist away, warm, red blood dripping into the sink. He half-smiled as he looked at the wound: physical pain was always a relief compared to his inner turmoil. He had become accustomed to these outbursts when he was on his own, even relied on them to keep his mind connected to reality. Why not, when all you need to do is …

“Tergeo,” he murmured, observing with morbid fascination as fragments of broken glass magically removed themselves from his knuckles and his blood started to coagulate.

He had become frighteningly good at wandless healing spells as he never seemed to have his wand ready when his outbursts occurred. Perhaps that’s a good thing, he mused.

He looked up at his reflection, now fractured and uneven, trying to calm his breathing.

Neither can live while the other survives. Trelawney’s voice rattled, unwanted, in his head.

Voldemort’s dead, he told himself for what felt like the hundredth time. Doesn’t that mean I should, I don’t know, be able to live? So why does it feel like I’m just surviving, even more than when I was tied to him? He swallowed with difficulty as the question that kept painfully pressing on his chest formed in his mind: Who am I without him?

The thought of having no answer to that question – or worse, that the answer was that he was nothing at all – was terrifying. A fresh wave of nausea threatened to take over again when a familiar snarl cut through it.

“Who do you think you are, Potter?” His last name was all but spat out with utter disgust. “Wait until they realise you’re not the perfect hero they think you are.”

Harry smiled at the memory of his teenage nemesis confidently taunting him in the safe corridors of Hogwarts, leaving him with an unexplained sense of … Longing, he realised, surprising himself.

“Well, there’s a first …” he said, shaking his head.

A sense of longing was not something he would ever have associated with, well, Malfoy. But so much had happened, and those taunts now had a comforting, almost homely, quality to them. And anyway, he knew deep down that Malfoy had always annoyingly hit the nail on the head when it came to understanding Harry’s insecurities, although he would never have acknowledged it as a teenager, of course. But now was different. He was no longer a child and he would be damned if he couldn’t admit it to himself, alone in his bathroom.

“You’re right, Malfoy,” he said slowly, staring to his broken reflection. “Who the hell am I?”

The nightmare came into focus again, and although it seemed to be slipping away as quickly as it had reappeared, he clung desperately onto the panicked voice, the painful scream, the flicker of blond hair, the outstretched hand and those haunted grey eyes.

Malfoy had always managed to ignite a fire in him, even when his energy seemed wholly depleted – and even if that fire was anger and hate, it was better than the emptiness he now felt, so he held on to the memory with more purpose this time and let his emotions swirl up. To his surprise, however, he didn’t manage to feel the same heart-wrenching hatred he was so used to associating with the boy, and his dream gave way to a real memory this time. Of Harry on his knees, his face distorted by Hermione’s stinging hex, staring into those all-too-familiar grey eyes that looked just as terrified as he felt. He remembered the silent understanding that had travelled between them as Malfoy lied to his father and Bellatrix. The glimmer of certainty he had felt at the time hardened and settled in his middle.

Malfoy had known it was him. He must have.

The unexpected look of disgust the boy had given his father that day flashed before his eyes, and he felt a sudden and overwhelming spark of curiosity.

“Why did you do it?” he whispered.

And that was that: he had to know. He was going to see the bastard even if it was the last thing he did. A thrill of excitement flooded his body. There was finally something he wanted to do. He tried not to linger on the fact that that something had everything to do with his second worst enemy and instead focused on what to do about it.

First, he had to find out when Malfoy’s trial was. Something in the back of his mind told him he already knew, but however much he racked his tired brain, it kept eluding him. It seemed that his short-term memory had been an unfortunate casualty of the War, in addition to his sanity and already limited sense of self-worth.

He looked up at the old clock on the bathroom cupboard, feeling his shoulders tense. Shit, it was only three thirty, not a decent enough time to wake anyone up, let alone a friend. He would have to wait.

Filled with a sense of purpose he hadn’t felt in weeks, he descended the narrow staircase to the basement kitchen – there was no way he was going to sleep again tonight – and made a strong cup of tea whilst cursing himself for forgetting something as important as the War Trials and Malfoy’s testimony.

******

The wall he was leaning against was humid and the cold air penetrating, but it was much better than last time, at least. He smiled to himself, his breath forming a cloud in front of him. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been there, but he knew that time in this place made no sense anyway. The only indication of its passage was how long his toenails had grown since the last time he’d looked down at his bare feet. There was no apparent source of light in the room, but there was an ever-present ghostly glow, barely enough for him to see the long strands of his black hair, but sufficient to feel his way around and make out that there were no openings anywhere. No doors, no windows.

The only objects in the room were a bucket, which would be magically emptied when its repulsive contents started to overflow, and a bowl of soup and crust of bread, which would materialise on the floor in one of the corners of the room. Which corner, however, seemed to be decided entirely at random and he could not discern a pattern to the sporadic arrival of the disgusting yet life-sustaining pittance.

Sometimes, it was hard to know which way was up or down in this place, so he always sat in one of the corners to give himself as much grounding as possible. He had learned the hard way to avoid the centre of the room at all costs: if he spent too long there, he knew he would lose himself forever. The swirling and hissing of the sea wind through every small crack in the walls, floor and ceiling only added to the very intentional sense of disorientation. Everything was made to make its inhabitant feel utterly powerless. Yet, his smile broadened.

Home, but not home. Lost. Alone. Where to go? The One must hide. Must hide. In the walls. Yes, the One knows how to hide. Others will come to find the One. Wait. Patience. But the One is hungry, so very hungry …

******

Harry had been pacing his living room for the best part of four hours when he felt confident enough to fire-call The Burrow. He knew Molly would be up already, busying herself in the kitchen, and he couldn’t wait any longer. As expected, she was putting breakfast on the table when his head popped into the fireplace, and she jumped.

“Sorry, Molly,” he mumbled as she waved her wand to repair the broken plate. “I should have owled …”

He regretted his words immediately when her face turned from surprise to disappointment. “Oh, Harry, what do you mean, you should have owled? This is your home too, you know?” She crouched in front of the fireplace and gave him the most motherly look only Molly Weasley could muster. “I don’t understand why you don’t just stay with us, dear. Why would you want to live on your own in that horri—”

“Is Hermione around?” he asked before she could launch into her now-customary tirade about his living arrangements, which always managed to put him in an even fouler mood than usual.

If she was offended by the interruption, she didn’t show it. “Yes dear, I believe she’s in the bathroom. Would you like me to tell her you called?”

He breathed out in relief, grateful she hadn’t invited him for breakfast this time.

“Yes, please. Thanks. It’s … er … quite urgent. Nothing bad, though,” he added quickly when her eyes widened to the size of two small saucepans.

He should have realised that, to other wizards and witches, “urgent” meant something very different coming from Harry Potter, namely that the end of the world was looming. He bit his tongue, trying to contain his irritation and managed an uncomfortable smile. “Speak soon, then,” he said, before disappearing without waiting for a reply.

Cold guilt seeped through him as soon as he pulled out of his fireplace.

“Why the hell is it so difficult?” he burst out to the empty room, kicking the foot of the coffee table in frustration.

He stared at a patch of burnt wallpaper, waiting for an answer. When it stubbornly stared back at him, refusing to help, he let himself fall onto the old, smelly sofa, his eyes drifting around the room. It was just as dusty, dark and uninviting as it had been when the place had been the Headquarters of the Order, when Lupin and Sirius … His thoughts stopped abruptly there as he felt his throat tighten with the strain of containing a sob. So, for lack of anything better to do, he closed his eyes.

He must have drifted off into a dreamless sleep, because he was suddenly awoken by the sound of someone cursing and kicking their way out of his fireplace, rubbing the top of a bright red mop of hair.

“Why is it so bloody low?” groaned a familiar voice.

“Ron? What are you doing here? I asked for …” He felt suddenly awkward.

“Er, yeah … right. Hermione thought this would be a good opportunity for us to, you know … speak. You don’t have to, though.” He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck uneasily. “It’s a girl thing, they think you have to talk about everything to know you’re still friends and stuff.” He chuckled but it didn’t quite make his eyes. “I know you’ll talk when you’re ready, mate. I just didn’t want Hermione to think I wasn’t trying hard enough … You know what I mean, right?” he added with a look begging for understanding.

Harry knew exactly what he meant. Since the start of his new relationship with Hermione, Ron had become both more and less confident in equal measure, which should have meant that nothing had changed, but that wasn’t how it had worked out. He seemed to have gained confidence in certain areas and lost it entirely in others. From Ron’s uncomfortable shifting from one large foot to the other, apparently Harry had become one of the latter.

“That’s okay …” Harry managed. Although, if he was honest with himself, he didn’t really want to discuss what was on his mind with Ron right now. That was exactly why he’d asked for Hermione in the first place. Unfortunately, there was no calling one without the other these days, as she spent most of her time at The Burrow.

And now, Ron was standing in his living room, eying the sofa longingly; he was not an early riser by any stretch and was fighting a wide yawn. He glanced nervously at Harry, and, after a second’s deliberation, sat down. He seemed relaxed, but Harry noticed that he had sat as far away from him as possible, a small reminder of the unspoken awkwardness that now floated between them. He wasn’t sure when or what had started it, but their friendship, which used to be as simple as breathing, had slowly become a frustrating maze.

Just as Harry’s insides started to smoulder like embers, a flash of green light appeared in the fireplace and a groggy-looking Hermione walked out, putting a shaky hand on the mantelpiece.

“I will never get used to travelling by Floo,” she croaked, with more vehemence than she could physically manage.

Ron jumped as though on fire and gently led her to the sofa.

“Thanks,” she said, gazing up at him with so much love Harry felt he had to look away, but couldn’t quite bring himself to, in some sort of masochistic way. And there it was again, brewing in him … That dark cloud of anger and emptiness he’d become so familiar with.

He had to say something, anything, to distract himself. He couldn’t be that person who wouldn’t be happy for his best friends, for the people without whom he wouldn’t have survived … but, as loneliness clung to him like a leech, all he managed was an awkward smile and a cough.

Using what could only be referred to as a sixth sense, Hermione turned a worried look in his direction.

“Er, Ron, love, could you make us tea please?” she asked, flashing a smile at her oblivious boyfriend.

Only too happy to be doing something useful for her, Ron nodded and left for the kitchen with an air of pride and determination that forced an affectionate smile out of Harry despite his dark thoughts.

Hermione quickly closed the distance between them, looking miserable. “I’m so sorry Harry. He’s been so keen to see you … and I couldn’t face telling him you’d asked to speak to me first …”

“It’s okay … I understand.”

“So … why did you call me?” she asked, her over-eagerness palpable.

He supposed it had been a while since he had contacted them. Looking at her genuine, caring face, he almost wanted to lie, tell her that all he wanted was to spend time with his best friend, but he knew she wouldn’t believe him, not after everything… He settled on the truth and, in any event, he couldn’t hold the question any longer.

“I, er … When’sMalfoy’strial?” he blurted out all at once.

Given the shock now written on her face, it was clear she had had several theories about his reason for calling, and Draco Malfoy’s trial date had not been one of them. “Er, on the first of June I think.”

Harry suppressed a smile at her awkward recovery before the weight of realisation fell into his stomach like a cold stone. “That’s … only two days away, isn’t it?”

He remembered now. Kingsley had told him about it, a week or so after the end of the War, but he hadn’t given it much thought then, not with everything else going on. And a month had seemed like a lifetime away – what with having died and been resurrected all in the space of an hour. Still, how had he lost track of time like this?

Hermione was frowning when he looked up after what must have been a suspicious amount of time.

“Why do you ask?” she queried cautiously. “I thought that after what happened last time, you’d want to avoid the Ministry at all costs …”

He shrugged, trying to keep his voice casual and hide the undeniable thrill of excitement combined with cold dread he was now feeling. “Just curious.”

He must have done a poor job of it because she looked less than convinced, but her next question, if there was to be one, went unasked when a beaming Ron came barging into the room with a tray of steaming cups of tea and biscuits.

They sat in silence for the next ten minutes, Ron lying on the rug and playing with the worn-out tassels, trying to avoid Harry’s eyes. Although they were used to silence – you didn’t go through life and death together without it – it was not the comfortable type they had once enjoyed, and they all knew it. There was an uneasy quality to it that made Harry shift in his seat and Hermione fidget with her jumper, until Ron couldn’t take it anymore and awkwardly rose to his feet, looked around the room and said something about promising a game of Quidditch to Ginny and George.

“You know how he is now … I need to keep my promises, however small …”

Although Harry knew all too well it wasn’t the only reason Ron wanted to leave barely after arriving, he understood completely. There was no need to remind him of the gaping hole Fred had left behind, or of Ginny’s broken heart, both of which were because of him.

And there it was again. That cloud of cold, seeping anger. Why was Ron not screaming at him?

“’Course, Ron.” He forced a smile. “Give them my … erm … best.”

Somehow love didn’t seem like the appropriate word to use right now, at least as far as Ginny was concerned. His friend returned the smile with what looked like relief and turned his gaze to Hermione, who was still staring at Harry, clutching her empty cup.

“You go first. I don’t play Quidditch anyway,” she said in a tone that didn’t leave room for negotiation.

From Ron’s pained expression, it was clear he wanted nothing more than to negotiate, but years of knowing her had taught him it was a lost cause, so he merely sighed and placed his own half-empty cup on the tray. He turned around, waving an awkward hand at Harry and throwing a casual “see you soon mate” in the mix, and then vanished into the fireplace.

Harry stared at the vacant spot Ron had occupied a few seconds ago, his shoulders tense, and waited for whatever Hermione had to say, but what came next was not the torrent of questions he had expected.

“You’re thinking of going, aren’t you? To testify, I mean … You know you don’t owe him anything, right?”

He could feel her eyes boring into him and he knew her well enough to know that it was taking every ounce of her self-restraint to wait for his answer, but when Hermione was determined, there was no stopping her. If he didn’t say something, they would be there for hours, and he had other things to do now that he knew Malfoy’s trial was only two days away. Plus, he could feel the cloud of anger gathering dangerously in his chest at her tone and didn’t want one of his outbursts to rear its ugly head – then she would definitely think he was mental, and that was not what he needed. What he needed was to speak to Kingsley, now.

He looked up at her, unblinking and hoping with everything he had that he would be convincing enough to end the discussion. “He didn’t rat us out when he could’ve. It’s only fair I return the favour by telling the truth, don��t you think?” Although his reply had come out a bit harsher than he had intended, she seemed to have been ready for worse and, to Harry’s disappointment pressed on.

“Is it really just that? Because you know what you’ll be putting yourself through by going there … What if it happens again? And” – she hesitated, not meeting his eyes – “it's only Malfoy …”

The tight lid he had been keeping on himself went flying in an instant.

“Just stop, Hermione, please. I know you’re trying to help but it’s not helping. I know what I can and can’t handle, okay?” He struggled to keep his voice even. “I died and still managed to come back to life, so I’m pretty sure I can handle a few ministry officials, The Daily Prophet and a former Death Eater, thank you very much! And YES, I AM SURE”, he bellowed at her dubious expression, “DESPITE WHAT HAPPENED LAST TIME! I WON’T LOSE IT!”

That, he thought, had definitely come out harsher than he had intended, particularly as he was now standing with his hands balled up in fists, plainly demonstrating her point, but he didn’t care anymore. He didn’t want to act like he wasn’t angry and he trusted Hermione to be strong enough to take it.

“I know you can make decisions for yourself, Harry, and I understand why you’re angry with them, but I’m your friend. And I know you … I …erm … I know.” She overemphasised the word in a tone that reminded him instantly of how she had sounded when teaching Ron to levitate a feather in what now felt like another life. “I know why you really want to do this, and honestly, I’m worried about you!”

“Well, you don’t need to be!” he replied, instinct taking over. “And what the hell do you mean by ‘I know why you really want to do this’? Oh yeah,” he added, sarcasm quivering in his voice, “the famous ‘Harry Potter Hero Complex.’ They should really coin the term and add it to the Magical Dictionary of Unwanted Afflictions of the Mind, don’t you think?”

He was starting to shout again, part of him aware that he was taking it too far, that he was being unfair, but he was just pleased with himself for not having punched the sofa already.

“I didn’t mean that, Harry ... Forget I said anything. I just thought—”

“Well, you thought wrong!” He cut off with more confidence than he felt.

Part of him was curious about what exactly Hermione had thought she knew. He wasn’t entirely sure he knew why attending the Trials was suddenly so important he had had to fire-call his friend at the crack of dawn on a Saturday morning, with no preamble despite not having so much as said “hi” to her for the past two weeks. His pride would not let him back down now, though, and he had succeeded in pushing her into silence, so he was not prepared to lose the advantage.

Apparently resigned that she wouldn’t get anything else out of him, and perhaps a little scared he would start yelling at her again, Hermione left shortly after, giving him one last half-frustrated, half-apologetic look, as if she could not quite make up her mind which emotion would win.

He ran a shaky hand through his hair, the dark walls closing in around him.

“Two days,” he whispered to the empty room.

*****

Today was not a good day, not that any day was particularly good here, but this one was definitely one of the worst ones so far. He had woken up with a dead arm and had tried to move it back into life, when he realised that two of the fingers of his left hand had frozen stiff overnight. He kicked the empty bowl across the floor. It bounced against the opposite corner, spinning for a few moments until it slowly settled on the floor. To his frustration, there was barely any sound, no satisfying clatter – just a dull thud, muffled by the hissing of the constant wind. There was something different today, though: the air was even colder than usual. He looked up towards the dark ceiling and squinted. There was no use, however; he knew it. The ceiling looked just as foggy as the rest of this box. He took in a deep breath and closed his eyes, running a hand through his greasy black hair.

Now, where was I? he thought. Oh yes … half an adder’s tongue, one portion of Galanthus Nivalis, two inches of Boomslang skin (fresh), four drops of unicorn blood, stir clockwise with a wooden spoon on high heat until the contents dissipate into a dark blue liquid, add three live beetles and an ounce of powdered sage, stir ag—

He stopped and his eyes flew open as he felt a presence in the room. He knew that wasn’t possible though, and yet …

“Who’s there?” he said out loud, not recognising his own voice. His throat hurt from being used suddenly after so long. No one answered.

Maybe I am starting to lose it? he thought, as his eyes darted around the empty grey box.

Finally. Tasty food. The One’s favourite food. Desire. Must be prudent. The One cannot be found … Just a taste maybe? The Others will not know.

END OF CHAPTER 1 :)

If you liked it - Read Part 1 of Allegiance in full on AO3 ;) Part 2 is ready and I'll start posting in a few days! Hope you enjoy! https://archiveofourown.org/works/33585556/chapters/83455573

#draco fanfiction #drarry fanfic #drarry #ao3 fanfic #ao3fic #draco x harry

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puddygeeks · 4 years

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Dusk Till Dawn - Dragon Age Inquisition - Cullen/Inquisitor

Masterlist

Rating: Suitable for all

A/N: This is actually my first ever piece of writing from the perspective of an existing character, especially a male so cut me some slack whilst I experiment with this new venture. I also do not tend to write in the 3rd person, so this piece has been a learning curve for me. However, I felt hugely inspired to write a fluffy piece about my fluffy boy, so enjoy! Let me know if you’d like to see more DA based content from me in future.

Summary: Commander Cullen struggles to maintain a professional, working relationship with the Inquisition’s fearless leader. As the realisation dawns on him that his thoughts linger on her, he begins to question whether the feeling is mutual.

Fandom: Dragon Age

Pairing: Cullen Rutherford/Lavellan

My writing is entirely fuelled by coffee! If you enjoy my work, feel free to donate toward my caffeine dependency: will work for coffee

Warnings: Perhaps some mild spoilers?

Standing across the war table, hand placed comfortably on the hilt of his sword, Commander Cullen focused on remaining professional.

Their fearless leader assigned missions and plotted political manoeuvres that would shape the very fabric of all the Kingdoms in Thedas. Despite being plucked from relative obscurity, she rose to this responsibility as if made for it and led the rapidly growing Inquisition with grace and wisdom.

Without warning, her large, almond shaped eyes met his and he felt his very spirit stir at the subtle connection between them. Buried in the deep hue of her eyes, he could always sense some hidden power that was disguised by her petite frame and seemingly harmless appearance.

He felt himself fidget on the spot, an involuntary movement that had escaped his carefully controlled facade and he noticed a slight smile lurking in the corners of her mouth.

There was a hint of playfulness in the way that she viewed him, he thought, before she swept from the chamber, leaving it notably colder by her absence. Surely he must have been mistaken. She was an icon, a force of nature in the crumbling world and would never view him as anything more than her lieutenant.

“My, my. Are you blushing, Commander?”

Leliana’s sickly sweet voice drifted from his side, tainting the drafty space with her sly implications.

It was not the first time that suggestions of this nature had been made about him, but each time caused him to bristle with embarrassment in a manner that was entirely more revealing than intended. He made a sound that almost resembled a scoff at the absurdity of her statement, but it strangely combined with an awkward splutter that filled the bard’s usually pale face with a smug satisfaction.

“I do believe you may be correct, Leliana. Our dearest Commander certainly does seem rather flustered. Why, I could not possibly suggest a cause for such a reaction.” Josephine taunted, her words coated in a barely concealed enthusiasm as she studied him over the top of her papers.

Cullen cleared his throat in a joyless bid to regain some composure, as his colleagues gazed past him at each other with mischief gleaming in their eyes.

“Surely you both have other matters to attend to? Nobles to pamper, or spies to train?” He countered, a poignant lack of authority in his voice, as the women crossed their arms and met his suggestions with a blatant disdain.

The Inquisitor inspired courage and determination in the recruits, each viewing her as a symbol of hope and light in the darkness. For Cullen, however, she was a constant distraction and a trigger for his most regretful, tense behaviours.

As time passed, he found that he was able to recognise traits within her that others were blind to. He was stunned by the depth of her kindness towards him. Regardless of the shame that he felt when presenting his issues with addiction for her judgement, he was always met with understanding and compassion. These were new experiences for Cullen and the emotions that they provoked in him were completely unexplored territory.

On the battlements of Skyhold, he embarked on his regular stroll to examine and assess their sustainability, when an unfamiliar sight caused him to pause in his tracks. Standing by the edge, staring out into the mountains with an intense expression was the Inquisitor, clearly deeply lost in thought.

She didn’t seem to notice Cullen’s arrival, as her gloved hands gripped onto the stone wall and he recognised that the usual strength that radiated from her was absent. In what she believed to be a solitary moment, her defences were lowered and she had allowed herself an opportunity to be vulnerable.

Cullen felt awkward witnessing this, feeling the familiar sensation of invading upon a sacred space as he’d often experienced throughout his youth in the Chantry.

“Are you going to stand and stare all day, or would you prefer to join me, Commander?”

His stomach churned as her words cut through the tense silence and she turned to glance at him over her shoulder with a gentle smile. He blanched at her casual offer, feeling pressure compressing his chest and she returned to her pondering, blissfully unaware of the nerves that her presence summoned in him.

“I apologise, my lady. It was not my intention to intrude, nor to stare.” He managed to force the words out through the block in his throat, but as they left his mouth, he acknowledged the deeply ingrained formality in the way that he addressed her. She smiled fondly at nothing in particular.

There was a stifling atmosphere as he realised that there was not another soul in sight and inwardly, he scolded himself for not recognising the absence of guards earlier. He knew that they had likely already shifted their positions out of respect, to allow her a moment of peace and he felt embarrassed at his perceived social blunder.

“You’re not intruding. You don’t need to tiptoe around me, you know. I don’t bite.” She commented idly and Cullen tightened his grip on his sword in stress.

The instances of flirtatious remarks were mounting, an overpowering suggestion in his already cluttered mind and each new addition increased his difficulty in denying their presence. They were an ever present force, haunting him at all hours of the day with their desire to be acknowledged. He pushed it away, desperately pleading with his heart to allow him to remain focused and appropriate. The Inquisitor regarded him with an amused disbelief, as he remained at his cautious distance.

“Do you ever simply stop patrolling, or working, and allow yourself a few moments of peace? Our surroundings are idyllic. It’s wasteful not to appreciate them.” She urged, gesturing for him to join her and, unable to deny her request for a second time, he reluctantly marched over to her side with his legs feeling as heavy as led.

The view from the battlements was breath-taking, but it was difficult to fully realise it’s wonder beside the simple splendour of her beauty. She sighed wistfully, the pleasant sound causing a flutter in his stomach and he relished the circumstances that allowed him to witness her in a more relaxed state than he’d ever been entrusted with in the past.

Surrounded by snowy mountains and without the usual bustle of demands pressing against them, the silence was no longer tense and Cullen allowed his shoulders to gradually lower into a comfortable slouch.

“We filled this empty shell with purpose and belief.” She began, breaking the silence in a sour manner.

“The halls are bustling with people determined to bring change to our world and the courtyard has become a home to the faithful. Undeterred by all theories to the contrary, we’ve proven it possible to unite mages and templars against a common enemy, under a single, inclusive banner that fights for the freedom of all.” She detailed, as she listed achievements that should have filled her voice with pride, but instead the words rang hollow and her tone remained lacklustre.

Cullen was unnerved by her raw, unenthusiastic demeanour that existed in stark contrast to the invigorating personality that she displayed in the company of her comrades.

“And yet, at the head of this mighty cause is a single elf. Inquisitor Lavellan. Despite all of the titles, followers and respect, I am still merely a Dalish with a strange light imbued in my palm. My value is awarded as a result of missing memories that humans have interpreted as a symbol of divine intervention. Tell me, Commander Cullen, what certainty can you possess that I am worthy of such duty?” Lavellan turned to face him, her eyes alight with a storm of emotions that blazed from the inside and he was lost under the intensity of her doubt.

Words failed him as he floundered in search of an answer that could provide her with the peace that she so desperately desired.

In his heart, he knew that his belief in her was greater than any other within this fortress, or indeed all Thedas itself. He knew that if he allowed himself to be honest, he could list all of the admirable qualities that he had long admired about the awe-worthy being before him.

Regretfully, his terror of unveiling the depth of his devotion prevented him from granting her with honesty. Instead, he beheld her with a barely concealed state of adoration and she sighed in disappointment.

“I’m sorry. I’ve posed a question that you couldn’t possibly answer. I suppose I should know better than to burden others with my own insecurities.” She excused, turning her face from him with an unsatisfied void in her eyes that would remain with him for as long as he lived.

The cool, crisp air tore through the gaps in their defences, carrying the loose sections of her silver hair out behind her like wings and only exaggerated her appearance to him as some kind of ethereal being.

As his gaze explored her features, he noticed that her nose and cheeks glowed in a delicate shade of pink that spread to the tips of her gracefully pointed ears and he wondered how long she had been standing here, allowing her exposed skin to grow cold. He ached to lighten her burden, to remove the knot that formed between her brows as she battled the responsibilities that threatened to crush her beneath their weight and against his better judgement, his answer began to flow freely from his lips.

“In all of my years as a templar, I have followed leaders of many different titles. Each of them possessed their own approach, their own qualities that influenced their choices and shaped their time in power.” He recounted, uncertain of the confessions that might escape his lips as he spoke without restraint.

“Never have I known any other to rise from the ashes as you have, nor for the people to elect them with such fervent belief. They follow you with unshakable faith, as do I, not because of your origins, your race or your rumoured holiness. They follow because of your decisions, because you lead with a grace and wisdom that comes from deep within and is unique to your formidable soul.”

“You are the Inquisitor not because of the anchor that you wield, but because there is no other who could fulfil this duty as you have. You are indisputably, unfathomably, exceptionally more than ‘merely a Dalish’, Lady Lavellen.” He spoke with conviction and with every shred of reasoning, he observed her becoming increasingly humbled by his confession.

Of course, Cullen knew her name, but he wouldn’t dare to address her by it, believing that it disrespected her journey and consequent struggles to earn the title which she now held. Her eyes grew wide and it was clear that she was shocked by the passion of his words, whilst he waited in a terror ridden state, fearing that he had absolutely revealed too much.

“It is incomprehensible to me that you are capable of such earnest insight into others, whilst believing yourself to be scarcely more than a failed ex-templar.” She surveyed him with a sympathetic, yet frustrated expression and as often would occur in her company, Cullen found himself lost for words.

When under her gaze, he felt unworthy of the praise that she often bestowed upon him and could not fathom her unwavering faith in him. Even when he had suggested that Cassandra replace him, Lavellan refused to allow him to relinquish his position and insisted that he could defeat his demons to abstain from the use of lyrium once and for all. There was no doubt in his mind that she made him a better person, but in spite of all his improvement, he still could not even begin to imagine himself as deserving of her fondness.

Lavellan turned from the wall to face him fully, closing the distance between them until she was nearer than he’d ever had cause to be. In such proximity, he could smell the natural scent of flowers and herbs on her skin, admired the sun that glinted in her eyes and his face flushed with a heat that exposed his exhilaration.

For longer than he could ever truly admit, he had laid awake at night, imagining what a privilege it would be to touch her, but he would never be so bold as to attempt such a sin. Involuntarily, he gulped as she pouted her plump lips thoughtfully and his heart pounded with such intensity that he felt concerned that it could cease to function at any given moment.

She leaned forward at a painfully gradual pace and had to shift her balance onto her toes in order to reach him. With ice tinted lips, she placed a single delicate kiss on his cheek, contrasting sharply with the burning of his skin.

Instead of immediately moving away she lingered there, her breath tickling his neck as her mouth brushed his ear.

“Your faith extinguishes my fear, unlike any other.” She whispered, her words burning into Cullen’s mind like a brand from an iron that could never be compromised.

All of his senses seemed to be intensified, as he committed every minute detail to memory for fear that this experience may not occur more than once. When she leaned back into his field of vision, her features glowed with fondness and he simply gawped at her in amazement.

“You put my heart at ease, Cullen. Thank you.” She admitted with a relaxed sigh and without a further word, or any indication that she would explain the meaning behind this statement, she parted from him.

As Lavellan’s delicate steps echoed down the stone staircase, Cullen remained rooted to the spot, obsessively analysing the conversation and wondering if he’d perhaps misunderstood. Perhaps the mountain of comments in his mind that he’d long considered to be indulgent, self-delusion had accumulated into something more significant than he’d ever dared to imagine.

#dragon age #Inquisition #dragon age inquisition #dragon age inquistor #lavellan #inquisitor lavellan #bioware #cullen #cullen rutherford #commander cullen #fanfiction #fanfic #dragon age fanfiction #cullen fanfiction #cullen rutherford fanfiction #inquisition fanfiction #cullen x lavellan #cullen x inquisitor #bioware fanfiction

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luvreyn · 4 years

Text

Manhwa List (2020) Part 11

Hi? How are you all? Hoping you’re all okayyy! It’s such a frustrating and maddening time right now for me but happy to share that i’m now an official adult!! (i just got regularized by my company) so it’s been 6 months of my adultlife and there’s a lot of expectations, challenges and stress and there’s also a lot of manhwas to recommend so on to the list!

The Spark in Your Eyes

Summary:

Erkin, a young pharmacist from the north, was orphaned from the war between the Northern Nations and Mormeratta. After making a name for himself in Mormeratta, he is summoned to treat a mysterious “master of the castle” whom no one has ever seen. He reluctantly agrees, hoping it will bring him one step closer to finding the infamous Witch of the Sun who killed his parents during the war. Little does he know, on his quest for vengeance, the witch may have been by his side all along. What will Erkin do when confronted by his sworn enemy turned friend?

THOUGHTS AND WHY READ THIS

- plot = 4/5

- art = 4.5/5 the fl’s eyes!!

- interesting

- i’m so looking forward to how things will unfold for them given the conflict

- ml is okay and i like that despite his gentleness he’s capable of having dark thoughts

- so far so good

- mc is beauty, mc is grace ~

- honestly she’s described as freaking strong so i wanna see her use her power!!

- overall, good read!

Painful, but Desirable

Summary:

Doyun Cha decides he isn’t looking for 'true love.' In fact, he wants a fake marriage. One fateful night, Hayeon, who's known him since their college club days, confesses to Doyun that she wants in on his passionless arrangement. The problem is... she has a long-time crush on him! Can she convince him to fall head over heels for her? Or will he catch wind of her hidden intentions?

THOUGHTS AND WHY READ THIS

- plot = 3.5/5 you know the feeling that you saw this plot/element in a drama/series before but you also wanna know how the author will play the element in her story?? that’s my feeling with this

- art = 4/5

- the mc is softie <3

- i dont feel the ml yet because of his ~personality~ but they are two dorks who obviously feels attracted with each other

- simple plot but would still haunt you with the what ifs especially if you have an experience with an unrequited love or just love in general

- overall, good read!

The First Night With the Duke

Summary:

A handsome, selfish noble falls for a beautiful, kind commoner -- at least, that’s how the story’s supposed to go. When an average college student wakes up as Ripley, an extra in her favorite romance novel, she resolves to enjoy the luxuries of her character’s status while watching the novel's plot unfold from the sidelines. However, her plans are soon derailed when she finds herself in bed with no other than Duke Zeronis, the novel’s hero! Dodging the villainess’ schemes, the Duke’s advances, and her own feelings, can Ripley keep the story on track and survive beyond the first night?

THOUGHTS AND WHY READ THIS

- plot = 4/5 makes me remember yunifer and ishid minus the ml is assertive in not a ishid way

- art = 4.5/5 this is the first manhwa i think that the manhwa resemble the novel art

- comedic gold

- mc kinda reminds me of latte without all the exaggerated meme faces

- so far so good

- ml is gel ver of claude according to some but papa claude is superior ok

- ml i sometimes like him, sometimes i dont

-overall, a good read!

Acquainted: Encounter Spin-Off

Summary:

What appeared to be a one-time encounter in Spain blossoms into romance when by-the-book CEO Jung Wooseok and free-thinking architect Han Yujin meet again in Korea. The two are drawn to each other, but there’s a catch: Yujin’s the winner of a high-profile architecture competition held by Wooseok’s company. When word gets out that these two are acquainted, will their love be able to survive the public’s scrutiny... and their families’ even harsher criticism?

THOUGHTS AND WHY READ THIS

- plot = 3/5

- art = 3.5/5

- ceo ml who isnt a jerk thank goodness

- the mc is a career woman

- hmm only 4 (or 5) chaps available so...

- so far it’s entertaining

- overall, an okay read ~

Positively Yours

Summary:

To Hee-won’s dismay, the BFF she crushed on and her other BFF are now dating! Seriously bummed, Hee-won decides to go wild just one time, and find solace with a handsome stranger. A very satisfying one night affair has now turned into more — she’s pregnant! Fate brings them together again, and now the regimented Doo-joon is determined to do the right thing and marry her. But they’re basically strangers! Except... their bodies have been very intimately acquainted. What’s this mother-to-be to do?

THOUGHTS AND WHY READ THIS

- plot = 4/5 simple but i still want to read this because of various reasons

- art = 4.5/5 i love the mc

- i love the mc bcause shes a strong independent woman amen

- fictional story that happens a lot in real life (the amount of ppl who disagrees with what she does to her body offends me)

- friends are true and raw in every sense of the word

- all characters are drawn nicelyyy

-unpopular opinion, i dont like the ml. he has redeeming qualities but his intention and all is shitty so it’s a no for me unless he changes his ways

- i know that there’s male leads that has his tendencies (kind of) aka reasons why i dont like him but i guess the reason why i feel strongly about this is because of where the story took place. the story is in a normal world, not isekai, not some story with magic but a normal place it probably doesnt make sense but that’s my take which looks like a rant now

-to conclude, this is one of the new manhwa that i’m looking forward updating

#Positively Yours #I Stole The Male Lead's First Night #I Want to Do It Even If It Hurts #Blinded by the Setting Sun #The First Night With the Duke #painful but desirable #manhwa #shoujo #fantasy #reynslist #Acquainted: Encounter Spin-Off #reyn.manhwarecs

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timelordthirteen · 4 years

Text

Killing Time 24/35

Detective Weaver/Belle French, Explicit

Summary: A Woven Beauty Law & Order-ish AU. Written for Writer’s Month 2019.

Chapter Summary: Belle feels out of sorts, and Weaver makes another crucial discovery.

Notes: For my August Writer's Month prompt #4: Am I dead? Enjoy more flirty investigative idiots.

[AO3]

Belle groaned and rolled over, facing away from the sunlight slanting in through the gap in the blinds and tucking her face into the pillow and sheets.

Weaver pulled a t-shirt over his head, and glanced at her. “Alright?”

She lifted her head and squinted at the clock. It was nearly eight. “Am I dead?”

He snorted softly. “If you can ask the question, then I think the answer is automatically no. Still not feeling well?”

Turning around, he moved to the bed and sat on the edge, reaching out a hand to feel her forehead and the side of her face. “No warmer than usual.”

“My head is killing me,” she mumbled, finally rolling onto her back. “And my stomach is...blah.”

Two days ago, Belle had awakened to a mildly nauseous feeling, but assumed it was the burritos they’d had for dinner coming back to haunt her. It was carried out from a new place down the block, which was always fraught with danger, both in terms of how the food might taste, and the reaction one’s body might have later, but their meal had been delicious, and Weaver had felt no ill effects. Last night, a headache had sent her to bed early, and seemed to have gotten worse overnight.

Frowning, he ran a soothing hand up and down her leg. “Maybe you need to see someone.”

She sighed and pushed herself up. “I have my last follow up appointment today, from removing the stitches. If it hasn’t gone away by then, I’ll bring it up.”

Weaver nodded and stood to finish getting dressed. “When do you see Archie again?”

“After my follow up,” she replied, pausing on the side of the bed to press a hand to her forehead.

“Did you, uh, still want me to go with you?” She looked up, and he shrugged. “Not today, but sometime?”

“Yeah, not - not today.” Then she made a face and then asked, “Can you get me some Tylenol or something?”

“Yeah, sure. And coffee?”

At that, Belle smiled. “God yes.”

Weaver left the bedroom, and Belle forced herself to stand up. After a moment of dizziness, she realized she felt a bit better, and wondered if she had just slept wrong. She was actually looking forward to getting her official, clean bill of health from the follow up visit, and to discussing something particular with Archie - the matter of how to approach her questions with Ian. She had started thinking about the miscarriage in her head, whispering about it to herself in the shower at night, telling the story over and over, and finding that as she did it became easier. A passing reference to such a thing even a few weeks ago would have made her clam up and try to pretend she never heard it. Now it was becoming part of her, much in the same way her mother’s death had, though that had been more of a factor of time and distance than any real effort on her part.

Throughout the morning Weaver seemed to be paying her extra attention, to the point where it was starting to get annoying. Her headache abated before they’d even left the apartment, and her stomach settled with some eggs, toast, and strong coffee. At the office, he was constantly side-eyeing her, stealing little glances, with none of the winking or cheeky smiles that had passed between them in the preceding days. The pressure was back on, and she was sure the stress of the case and the looming court date were the cause of her recent ills.

“You’re sure you’re alright?”

Belle huffed and pulled on her suit jacket. “Yes, I’m fine, and shortly I’ll have an actual medical doctor confirm it. Then you can stop worrying.

Weaver leaned back on the sofa, a file folder open across his lap. “I’m unlikely to ever stop worrying about you.”

She tilted her head and gave him a small smile. His concern came from a place of love, and she had always thought his protective nature was one of his best qualities.

Her purse strap went over her shoulder, with a quick flip of her hair, and then she walked over to where he was sitting. “Then maybe just stop peeking at me every five minutes?”

He reached out and took hold of her hand, rubbing his thumb over the back of it as he looked up at her. “No peeking,” he confirmed. “Got it. How about gazing?”

She snorted and bent down to plant a kiss on the top of his head.

“Ogling?” he offered with a grin. “Leering?”

She shook her head and let him pull her hand in for a kiss before pulling away. “Put your eyes on those records, Detective, instead of my ass.”

Weaver pursed his lips and blew her a kiss as she sauntered through the office door.

Belle tapped her foot against the metal step of the exam table as she scrolled through her messages.

She’d left the office barely twenty minutes ago and there were already more than thirty unread items in her inbox. Most of them were automatic responses to her requests for more of Eloise Tremaine’s records from Nevada. While the online submission system Clark County had was far more convenient than calling around city buildings and being passed from clerk to clerk, the web forms and extra emails were much less helpful than an actual human being. Still, progress was being made, and she was sure that if they could find the tie between Eloise and the Branson brothers, that they’d have exactly what DA Midas wanted.

She sighed and rubbed her left temple, feeling her earlier headache trying to return. She need to take another dose of painkillers before she got to Dr. Hopper’s.

Abruptly, the exam room door swung open and Dr. Whale came in. “Miss French.”

She looked up and smiled. “Dr. Whale.”

“Good to see you again,” he said, setting a tablet on the small counter to the side. Then he slipped on a pair of gloves and lifted her hair out of the way as he eyed the scar left from her head wound.

“Not bad,” he muttered. “There’s still some redness, but that will fade. Have you been using the ointment I gave you?”

Belle nodded. “I used up the tube, but I don’t think I need it now. The skin’s not tender anymore.”

He gave a curt nod and stepped back. “All the other superficial cuts seem to have disappeared.”

“Good moisturizer and concealer,” she said, and he laughed. “But yes, they all healed up pretty quick, thankfully.”

“Yeah, I can imagine.” He sat down on the small stool at the counter and entered a few things into the app on his tablet. “Well, I will have the necessary form faxed to your workplace, and then I won’t have to see you until it’s time for your annual check up.”

She exhaled and smiled, pleased to have at least one thing behind her for now. “Good.”

“So, the nurse said something about a headache?”

“I, uh, yeah, I had one this morning, why?”

“Not frequent, then?”

She shook her head, which caused a mild throbbing wave across her forehead.

“Migraine, or just a regular headache?”

She gave him a look. “It’s just a regular headache, I shouldn’t have even mentioned it.”

Dr. Whale leaned on the counter and regarded her for a moment. “Is it coming back now?” Reluctantly, she confirmed it was. “Any other symptoms?”

“No,” she answered, starting to get annoyed with his repeated questions. Her phone was buzzing in the pocket of her purse, and she was anxious to check it before she went to see Archie. “No, just the headache and an upset stomach. I’m fine.”

“Upset stomach?”

Belle rolled her eyes and hopped down off the exam table. “It’s nothing. I just ate something that didn’t agree with me.”

“When?” he asked, frowning.

“A couple days ago, why does it matter? It has nothing to do with my - accident.”

It was Whale’s turn to give her a look. “Belle, you didn’t have an accident trying to parallel park, you were attacked by a murderer.”

“Serial killer,” she corrected, “and yes, I was, but now I’m all good. Can I go now?”

He sighed. “The headaches can be a sign of PTSD.”

Belle gave him a wane smile. “Yes, I know. I’m - I’m seeing Dr. Hopper about it.”

“Ah. Well, that’s good,” Dr. Whale said as he pushed to his feet. “Look, I think we should do some tests, just to be sure.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What tests?”

“A basic chemistry panel, maybe a blood count, see if you might have an infection coming on.”

She frowned again, the wrinkling of her forehead causing another small wave of pain. “Sure, I guess.”

“I’ll send the vampire in to take your samples, okay?”

That earned him a soft snort and a nod. “Okay.”

Belle waited a few minutes for the nurse, and then several more as she filled up three tubes with blood. Her arm was aching after it was done, and she wondered how she’d explain the bandaid and bruise in the crease of her elbow to Weaver. If he knew Whale wanted blood samples, he’d worry even more and become unbearable. He’d probably insist on packing her off home and waiting on her in bed.

Still, as she left the clinic and stepped out onto the street to walk down to Archie’s building, she was glad she let them do the tests. If she was getting sick, she wanted to know right away so she could be back to one hundred percent to finish out the case well before the trial started.

Weaver spread out the pictures across the top of the conference table, and placed the associated forms beneath.

He wanted to have everything laid out by the time Belle returned from her appointments, so he could show her what he had found. Another break only a short time after the revelation of Eloise’s true surname had him buzzing with excitement. This was what he truly loved about his job, digging out the pieces and putting the puzzle together. The part where they hopefully got justice for the victims was satisfying, but there was something about the mental and physical effort of investigating, the late hours and countless pots of coffee, that was only second to being with Belle.

That he got to do it with Belle again made it even better, and he hoped that things would continue as they had into the future. They had yet to discuss their relationship in any detail, but she wasn’t in any rush to leave the apartment, and the last two weeks had been among the happiest since the early days of their marriage. He wanted to wait until the stress of the case was over before approaching the subject again, but for now everything seemed perfect.

The office door opened and he turned to see Belle, who looked a little worse for wear than when she had left just a couple of hours earlier.

“You okay?”

She sighed heavily as she put her purse in its usual bottom desk drawer, and said nothing as she took off her suit jacket.

“Belle?”

“Yeah, fine,” she replied. “Just tired. Talking to Archie takes a lot of out of me I guess.”

He nodded, but remained quietly unconvinced. She had been out of sorts the last couple of days, which certainly could have been stress related, but Belle usually thrived under the deadline of a trial. Right now she seemed barely able to drag herself across the room to see his newfound evidence.

“Well, maybe this will wake you up,” he said. “I got something on our second victim, Charlie Dunn.”

“Oh?” Belle perked up a bit at that, and kicked off her shoes before padding across the room. “What did you find?”

“This,” he said, giving her a sly look as he pointed to the faded pink carbon copy form under Charlie’s picture.

Her eyes narrowed as she scanned the page, and then she picked it up. It was the cover page to an adoption agreement with Charlie’s name on it from nearly twenty years ago. He would have been about six or seven at the time. What struck her though, was the state seal at the top.

“This is from Nevada.”

Weaver grinned. “Yep.”

She looked at him wide eyed. “Charlie was adopted.”

“From Nevada,” he added, nodding towards the paper.

She set the paper down on the table and looked over at one of the other victim’s pictures. “Just like Molly was.”

“Yep.”

She straightened and turned to him, eyebrows raised. “You don’t think -?”

His grin widened. “Oh, I do think.”

“If the others are adopted too…” she started.

He nodded. “Or were foster children…”

Her mouth fell open as she finally caught on to his line of thinking. “Of Eloise Tremaine.”

Belle jumped forward and pressed a hand to his chest. He could feel her body shaking with the same excitement he’d had at the discovery and what it might mean. Instantly she looked refreshed, and he was glad to see that it was probably the case dragging on and the stress that had gotten her down.

“We need all the foster care records from Robert and Eloise, and we have to pull the paper birth records on all the victims.”

Weaver picked up a stack of papers and handed them over to her. “I took the liberty of filling out all the forms while you were gone. Including the fax cover sheets.

She took hold of the other end of the papers, and beamed at him. “I love you.”

#rumbelle #rumbelle fic #woven beauty #woven beauty fic #my woven beauty fic #fic #lindsay's august writer's month 2020 #awm 2020 #finished this late and didn't want to post too late

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marvelousmatt · 4 years

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The Accidental Comedy of Matt Berry

The star of IFC’s detective-series spoof ‘Year of the Rabbit,’ famed for his booming voice and over-the-top faces, never set out to be funny

Matt Berry as Detective Inspector Rabbit in 'Year of the Rabbit.' Ben Meadows/IFC

If you know Matt Berry from his most famous roles — such as The IT Crowd’s idiot boss Douglas Reynholm, Toast of London’s pompous struggling actor Steven Toast, or the preening and lascivious vampire Laszlo on What We Do in the Shadows — talking to him over the phone is sort of like meeting his un-evil twin. Where his characters are outrageous and inappropriate, Berry is circumspect and gentlemanly. While they pronounce every word as if they’re doing Shakespeare in the Park, with a ponderous theatricality, his signature rich baritone comes over the line from London sounding muted by comparison. It’s as though he’s playing the straight man in a sketch of his own life.

Whatever absurd and profane notions he has rattling around in his head, Berry saves them for his work. His latest offering, IFC’s Year of the Rabbit (a collaboration among Berry, producer Ben Farrell, and writers Andy Riley and Kevin Cecil), is a send-up of the period detective shows that are a staple of British television. Set in Victorian times, it centers on his titular character, Rabbit, a cranky copper who bumbles through every episode but slyly solves the whodunit in the end — a kind of gruff, English Columbo in a waistcoat. In the “why not” fashion typical of Berry’s comedy, the character is missing an eyebrow (a trait the show repeatedly explains away with the intentionally unconvincing line that it was chewed off by a dog last Christmas). He’s named Rabbit — his actual first name, with no surname — not because of any correlation with, say, the Chinese calendar, but because… well, just because.

“His father couldn’t be bothered giving any of the kids any normal names, so he just named them after animals and then left them outside a church,” Berry says matter-of-factly, as if Rabbit and his father are real. Pressed on the matter, he adds, “We have a huge history over here of these shows, Agatha Christie and stuff, and they all have these names, Inspector This and That. I just wanted to do something stupid with that — give him an animal name and not anything else. So he really is as earthy as you can get in that way. There’s nothing fancy about him at all.”

Rabbit is an inveterate boozehound with a colorful vocabulary. He beats up a schoolteacher on career day to demonstrate interrogation techniques to the children. He tells his rookie partner that the way to keep warm during a wintertime stakeout is to piss himself. He describes the London of his day as “a rat eating its own babies. Babies made of shit. And once it’s eaten its own shit babies, it shits them out again.” He is paired, reluctantly, with two bright-eyed and bushy-tailed colleagues to form a crack investigative team, a juxtaposition which only underscores his baser qualities.

“He’s basically trying to hide the fact that he’s incredibly hungover and not firing on all cylinders,” Berry says. “Whereas his younger sidekicks won’t be, because when you’re that young, you know, you get over a hangover by like 10 o’clock in the morning. I wanted him to be dull, in terms of reactions to things, but effective.”

Robert Bathurst, Matt Berry, and Harry Peacock in Toast of London. Photo Credit: Kuba Wieczorek/IFC/CH4

Ineptitude and buffoonery are much more the calling cards of Steven Toast, whose massive ego blinds him to his own failings. He is an oblivious object of mockery at the hands of his voiceover producers, a pair of douchey hipsters named Clem Fandango and Danny Bear, and his mistress, Mrs. Purchase (wife of Toast’s acting nemesis Ray “Bloody” Purchase), looks eternally bored during their trysts. His long-suffering agent has to force him to become a laxative pitchman, yet he complains that she’s not scoring him Oscar-caliber roles.

If Toast is the character closest to Berry’s heart, it’s for good reason. Despite a brand of humor that seems firmly rooted in the British tradition — the surreality and silliness of Python, the cartoonish prurience of Benny Hill — Berry, 45, maintains that he wasn’t especially interested in comedy growing up. He cites as his primary influence not comedic greats such as Peter Sellers or contemporaries like Steve Coogan, but “straight actors, people that normally weren’t trying to be funny.” The more “mannered” and “self-important” the star, Berry says, the funnier he found them. The line to Toast is clear — especially in his puffed-up diction and bizarrely exaggerated pronunciation of ordinary words (such as his praise of guest-star Jon Hamm’s “charismaaaaaaaeeeeeee”). Imagine the famous outtakes of a drunk Orson Welles filming a Paul Masson wine commercial, and you’re on the right track.

Berry’s career in comedy came as a complete surprise to him. He grew up in the hamlet of Bromham in Bedfordshire, about two hours north of London, in a wholly unartistic family who had “normal, decent jobs,” he says. “My mom was a nurse, my sister went into law — nothing like what I ended up doing.” Still, his parents were totally supportive — worried, but supportive — as he stumbled through temp gigs and patches of unemployment as a young man.

He was far more interested in painting and music — and, in fact, today is an accomplished musician who’s recorded eight studio albums (prog rock-ish, inflected with funk) as well as the scores and themes to numerous TV series, including Toast. That show’s frequent musical interludes, gonzo song parodies a la Crazy Ex-Girlfriend, speak to Berry’s true comedic beginnings. In between stints at the London Dungeon — a haunted-house experience where actors play figures from gruesome corners of the city’s past, like Jack the Ripper — he managed to book solo gigs as a singer-songwriter. But he found that spiking his performances with humor won over a crowd.

Natasia Demetriou and Berry in What We Do In the Shadows. Byron Cohen/FX

“I was playing before comedians, and the gigs just seemed to go quicker and better if I put some comedy into the songs or the bits in between the songs,” Berry says. “I only did it so I’d fit in with what was going on after. Then I really got to like it.”

Fellow performers Richard Ayoade and Matthew Holness noticed his act, and cast Berry in a horror/sci-fi spoof they created called Garth Marenghi’s Darkplace. From there, his television career exploded, with recurring roles in several series before his breakout in 2007 with The IT Crowd. Despite a nomination for “best newcomer” at that year’s British Comedy Awards and a 2015 BAFTA for Best Male Performance in a Comedy for Toast, Berry insists he doesn’t have any particular aptitude for the form, and draws a blank when it comes to defining his style. Mostly, he chalks it up to timing (“Whether it’s music or comedy, that’s the most important thing for me”) — as well as a lack of training.

“I’m not held back by any sort of rules and regulations in terms of performance,” he says. “I’ll just do what feels natural, and because nobody’s said in the past, ‘Well you can’t really do that, because of this,’ you just do it. If it works, it works, and if it doesn’t, you just try something else.”

He does acknowledge one foolproof stylistic flourish that may be deeply ingrained: a true relish for the scatological and sophomorically sexual. See: Laszlo’s vulva topiaries, or the preposterously elastic faces Toast makes while he’s shagging Mrs. P (“Hang on — my balls are about to fizzzz!”) or pleasuring himself to old-timey images of women in military uniforms. A key moment in Rabbit involves the inspector having a pocketful of dog poop.

“I suppose that’s the British toilet humorist in me,” Berry admits. “It doesn’t matter where you go in Europe, toilet humor is enjoyed by all. Being from the U.K., it’s in you, like, from birth. You know, if you’re little and people are laughing at something all around you, it kind of sticks. If it’s something that my granddad laughs at and my dad laughs at, there’s a good chance that I’ll laugh at it, too.”

#matt berry #year of the rabbit #what we do in the shadows

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