#I had such a vivid image in my head when i was reading chapter four i had to | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

annarellix · 1 year

Photo

Summer of Love: A Music & Murder Mystery by Paul Martin

It’s 1967 in California’s magical City by the Bay— a bold new era of sex, drugs, rock ’n’ roll…and murder. Graduating from UC Berkeley just as the Summer of Love begins, twin brothers Jack and Bobby Doyle forge two different career paths. Jack heads off to Vietnam to serve his country, while Bobby remains in the Bay Area, immersing himself in the world of music journalism. As the summer progresses, both brothers witness death firsthand for the first time, Jack on the battlefield and Bobby on the drug-infested streets of San Francisco’s Haight-Ashbury district.

Their experiences are equally shattering, with Jack losing newfound comrades-in-arms and Bobby enduring the murders of two women he’d grown close to. Bobby’s traumas become as threatening as Jack’s daily perils when he falls under suspicion in the murder investigations. Conferring with Jack by letter, Bobby tries to discover who actually committed the crimes. As the Summer of Love draws to a close, stunning events overtake the entire Doyle family.

Book Links: Amazon | Goodreads | Level Best Books

My Review: An intriguing mix of historical fiction and mystery, more history thant mystery to be honest. I liked it as it's a well-researched and vivid depiction of an age and of two different situations: the Vietnam War and San Francisco Summer of Love. It's a complex era, a lot of light and darkness. Great music, lots of sex'n'drugs'n'rock on side and a war that was part of the international political games but hard to understand. The story is told by Jack, who's serving in Vietnam, and Bobby, working in the world of music journalism. Their voices talks about their experience and what they're living. Their voices will solve the puzzle. This is a good historical mystery, both Jack and Bobby are suffering from what they are experiencing and I liked their voice. The author did an excellent job in researching this age and I liked the style of writing. If you love music there's plenty to love in this book that should come with a playlist. It's a compelling, a bit dark, and well plotted story that I strongly recommend. Many thanks to Paul D. Martin, Level Best Books, and Partners in Crime for this digital copy, all opinions are mine

The Author: External image Paul Martin is a former book and magazine editor with the National Geographic Society. His writing assignments have taken him around the world. The author of twelve books of fiction and nonfiction, he has also edited or contributed to a dozen other books on history, science, and travel. An amateur luthier and onetime vineyard owner and winemaker, Martin lives near Washington, D.C.

Catch Up With Paul Martin: www.PaulMartinBooks.com Goodreads BookBub Facebook: @paulmartinbooks

Get More Great Reads at Partners In Crime Tours

Excerpt

Chapter 1 Berkeley, California, May 1967 People said that Jack and Bobby Doyle were as alike as…well, those two proverbial peas in that familiar old pod. Even their friends had trouble telling the twenty-two-year-old identical twins apart. The “Doyle boys” were both six feet four inches tall, with the well-toned physiques of Greco-Roman wrestlers, which was no coincidence, since they both excelled at the sport. They had piercing hazel eyes and thick chestnut hair, which any number of young ladies had either run their hands through or were dying to do.

Besides being good-looking and popular, Jack and Bobby were intimidatingly brainy. They were the sort of fellows that ordinary guys hated, while secretly wishing they could trade places with them. Conversations occasionally faltered when one of the twins walked into a room and flashed his dazzling smile.

When they were younger, the twins sometimes played tricks on the unsuspecting by switching identities, a ruse that occasionally fooled even their relatives at family gatherings in their Beverly Hills home. They never fooled their parents, of course, or anyone who truly knew them, for Jack and Bobby Doyle’s similarity ended with their physical appearance. In terms of personality, they were as different as chalk and cheese, as the quaint British saying put it.

Jack Doyle—John Hardy Doyle, according to the name inscribed on the bachelor’s degree he’d just been handed by the chancellor of the University of California, Berkeley—was the older of the twins by seventeen minutes. It was an inconsequential interval, but it seemed to set the pattern for the relationship between the two boys. Jack was always the one who took the lead, as in his frequent campaigns to support worthy causes. It had been Jack who’d decided to venture north to UC Berkeley rather than attend UCLA, which was only a few miles from their house. At Cal, he’d majored in political science, the first step toward his goal of attending law school. After that, he planned either to join his parents’ Los Angeles law firm or dive into the shark-infested waters of politics. The sky was the limit for smart, handsome, ambitious Jack Doyle.

Bobby—Robert Lorenzo Doyle—had always been content to ease along in his brother’s tailwind. He’d never felt the need to be the center of attention, to seek out honors, or run for every office that came along. And while he’d earned top marks in all of his classes, Bobby didn’t really care if anyone knew how smart or accomplished he was. The fact that he was seldom beaten at chess and was a wizard on the classical guitar were private pleasures for him, not something to add to a list of accomplishments for others to admire.

When Jack first touted Berkeley, Bobby simply said sure, why not. He’d heard good things about the highbrow school in the liberal town just north of blue-collar Oakland. For his first two years, Bobby had taken random classes he found interesting. It wasn’t until his advisor pointed out the need to declare a major that he’d settle on English, a choice prompted by his love of literature. He’d gradually moved in the direction of writing, which led to a stint on the Daily Californian, Berkeley’s independent student-run newspaper. He and his fellow reporters covered every issue roiling the campus, from the Free Speech Movement to antiwar protests and draft counseling. He’d also connected with the East Bay music scene, writing about the local bands and making several friends in the process.

As Bobby strode to the podium to receive his diploma, he glanced out at the thousands of parents and relatives packed into Memorial Stadium, home of the Golden Bears. The outdoor setting was a relief from the cramped old auditorium in Wheeler Hall, the fifty-year-old building where Bobby had attended most of his English classes, alternately sweltering or freezing, depending on the season. The steely blue waters of the Bay glittered in the distance above the rim of the stadium. Even if Berkeley hadn’t been one of the top schools in the country, the campus views alone would have been enough to warrant coming here.

Bobby even loved the fogs that shrouded the Bay, both the dense, drizzly clouds of winter and summer’s billowy drifts, which often seemed thick enough to walk on. He’d always wondered why those famous summer fogs appeared so regularly. It turned out to be simple physics. When warm air rose inland, it created a low-pressure area that pulled cool, moisture-laden air from the Pacific through the Golden Gate, like giant lungs breathing in. The Bay really was a living organism, something you could study all your life.

Bobby had no chance of spotting his father and mother in the crowd. In a smaller setting, Donovan Duncan Doyle and Maria Ricci Doyle would have stood out. In their late forties, they could pass for thirty-five, a prototypical power couple with the smart wardrobes and polished mannerisms of top-tier attorneys. The two had met in law school at Stanford and married soon after graduation. Maria’s father, a honcho at Columbia Pictures, had paved the way for their connection with the movie industry. Now, Donovan and Maria spent their time hammering out contracts between the studio and representatives of the stars.

In the Doyle household, dinner conversations were often laced with references to “greedy bastards,” “prima donnas,” and “delusional fools”—attributes applied to agents and actors alike. By the time Jack and Bobby were in high school, Hollywood had lost much of its mystique.

After the members of the Class of ’67 received their diplomas, everyone settled in for a half-hour of platitudes courtesy of acting University of California president Harry Wellman. Wellman had recently replaced the dynamic, popular Clark Kerr, a man too lenient with student protestors to suit the state’s newly elected “gubnor,” Ronald Reagan—the former actor whose very name tended to make Berkeley liberals turn blue in the face. One of Reagan’s campaign promises had been to “clean up the mess at Berkeley,” a school he regarded as a hotbed of “beatniks, radicals and filthy speech advocates.”

The new graduates assumed a look of polite attention as Harry Wellman spoke about their admirable academic achievements and bright futures, although their thoughts were far away. The anxious young folks had their minds on job searches, returning home, avoiding the draft, or continuing their educations. They were also thinking about how they’d be celebrating in a few hours, after the obligatory photo sessions with family members were over. There’d definitely be an abnormal amount of drunkenness and fornication in the East Bay on this cool spring night.

The spectacle of his sons’ graduation led Donovan Doyle to recall his own undergraduate years. The tall, handsome attorney had attended the University of San Francisco, a private Jesuit school where he was fondly known as “3D” by his friends, not only because of initials but also because he seemed to stand out from the crowd, just as his sons did now. USF didn’t have the cachet of UC Berkeley, but as far as Donovan was concerned, it was on the proper side of the Bay. Donovan was a dedicated San Francisco enthusiast, had been ever since he was a kid growing up in nearby San Mateo. Donovan’s connection with the city was forged by his Irish ancestor Hardy Doyle, who landed in San Francisco in 1849 after the discovery of gold on the American River at Sutter’s Mill.

Donovan had studied the history of his beloved city at USF. He enjoyed reading about the heroes and rogues of the old days, men like Joshua Norton, an immigrant commodities trader and real estate speculator who made and lost a fortune during the years of the California Gold Rush. Norton not only lost his money, he apparently lost his senses as well. In 1859, he proclaimed himself Emperor of the United States. In 1863, he tacked on the title Protector of Mexico. San Franciscans winked and went along, and from then until his death in 1880, the zany Emperor Norton roamed the streets of San Francisco decked out in a plumed top hat and military uniform with fringed epaulets, issuing proclamations and handing out worthless promissory notes to pay for the free meals and drinks he cadged.

Then there was Sam Brannan, California’s first millionaire. Brannan ran a general store in the Sierra foothills near Sutter’s Mill. He was the one who trumpeted the news that set off the Gold Rush, and he made a fortune selling supplies to the resulting flood of prospectors. For the next two decades, Brannan lived the high life, gallivanting around San Francisco, opening banks and a flurry of companies, buying up huge chunks of land, and creating the Calistoga hot springs resort. But booze, a bad temper, and lawsuits did him in, and he died a pauper, buried in an unmarked grave. For Donovan Doyle, old Sam Brannan embodied the San Francisco spirit, a rakish attitude of make a million, spend a million—and have a grand time doing it.

One of the city’s heroes Donovan remembered reading about was Jonathan Letterman, the Union Army surgeon who revolutionized battlefield casualty management during the Civil War, saving thousands of soldiers who might otherwise have died of their wounds. After the war, Major Letterman settled in San Francisco, where he practiced medicine and was elected city coroner. The army hospital at the Presidio was named in his honor. The Letterman Army Hospital treated tens of thousands of sick or wounded soldiers during the Spanish-American War and World War II. Even now, American boys injured in Vietnam were being treated there.

Donovan also recalled the tragic figure of Ishi, the last surviving member of California’s indigenous Yana tribe. In 1911, Ishi wandered onto the grounds of a slaughterhouse near Oroville. The half-starved Indian had been living by himself for years in the surrounding foothills after all the other remaining members of his tribe perished. Anthropologists from UC Berkeley rescued Ishi and escorted him to the Hearst Museum of Anthropology in San Francisco, where he lived out his days in comfort, teaching museum staff about his vanished way of life—the last Stone Age man in America.

For Maria Doyle, this afternoon’s ceremony evoked a different set of memories. The statuesque brunette with the Sophia Loren cheekbones and voluptuous lips was thinking of her sons’ childhoods. Jack and Bobby’s Irish-Italian heritage had blessed them with extended families of loving relatives who gushed over their every accomplishment. Their aunts and older female cousins never failed to pinch their cheeks and tell them what special little boys they were. Maria often thought about how proud her immigrant grandfather Lorenzo would have been to see his American great-grandsons, but the 1918 Spanish flu pandemic took care of that. Her parents, Frank and Gina Ricci, had made up for any lack of attention, showering the twins with presents and praise. It was a blessing that the boys emerged as sensible adults with their egos in check.

Maria reflected on how the different temperaments of her sons had played out at Berkeley. Jack had joined the ROTC, not a very popular organization given the school’s polarized political environment. His decision may have been an extension of his Boy Scout days, when he advanced to the rank of Eagle and earned more merit badges than any other boy in his troop. Jack had joined Berkeley’s debate team, and he’d captained the four straight-A students who appeared on TV’s College Bowl, a squad that retired undefeated after five games. Jack had also won NCAA Division 1 All-American honors in wrestling. It was an impressive resume he’d put together, one that would no doubt help him on his seemingly inevitable march to the top.

Bobby, on the other hand, had seemed more interested in having a good time than buffing his credentials. He’d connected with clever individuals instead of networking with members of official campus organizations. Maria smiled to herself as she contemplated Bobby’s scalawag personality. While Jack was busy organizing worthwhile projects as a boy, Bobby was usually involved in adolescent hijinks, such as the time he tried to sign up their neighbors in the “UFO Welcoming Committee,” a group he started after reading about the flying saucer controversy in Roswell, New Mexico. That was Bobby through and through. Truth be known, though, Bobby had probably made more lasting friends at Berkeley than Jack had, even though Jack’s associates were all destined for success.

“Thank God that’s over,” Donovan whispered in Maria’s ear as Harry Wellman wound up his address with a rhetorical flourish. “Let’s get a picture of Jack and Bobby in their caps and gowns, and then we can all take a break before we get together for dinner.”

Ernie’s was one of San Francisco’s top restaurants, a satin-and-pearls eatery where the martini-swilling gent at the next table might be British playwright Noel Coward or the free-spending Maharaja of Baroda. Director Alfred Hitchcock kept a private stock of wine at Ernie’s while he was in town filming his 1958 movie classic Vertigo. Hitchcock filmed scenes all over the city, from the Mission Dolores cemetery to the Legion of Honor museum in Lincoln Park, although he created a soundstage version of Ernie’s plush red interior. That was where Kim Novak swanned through the crowded dining room as Jimmy Stewart ogled her from the bar.

The real-life restaurant was located downtown on Montgomery, a street named for Capt. John B. Montgomery, the officer who raised the Stars and Stripes over the village of Yerba Buena on July 9, 1846, staking America’s claim to the fledgling port. Captain Montgomery would probably keel over if he could see his namesake street, with its swarm of pedestrians, honking autos, and ranks of sun-blocking skyscrapers. Since Montgomery’s time, the city had spread westward across the seven-mile-wide peninsula, taking in a similar swath north to south—a rumpled patch of land with a diverse population of dreamers, schemers, and average Joes, Josés, and Jiangs. Locked in by water on three sides, the compact forty-nine-square-mile city had avoided the urban sprawl of Los Angeles.

Donovan and Maria Doyle’s Yellow Cab navigated the heavy evening traffic and pulled up in front of Ernie’s at 7:55 p.m. Donovan climbed out and offered his hand to Maria, who emerged into the soft spring night dressed in a severely elegant black-and-white Geoffrey Beene design. She looked more glamorous than some of the stars she dealt with at Columbia Pictures.

Inside the restaurant, the tuxedo-clad maître d’ greeted the Doyles effusively. He wagged a finger at them. “It’s been far too long since you paid us a visit.”

“Hello, George,” Donovan replied. “It’s good to be back. The old place looks the same, thank heaven.”

The maître d’ waved to the head waiter. “Pierre, please show Mr. and Mrs. Doyle to their usual table.”

“I’m sorry,” Donovan told the waiter, “but first we’ve got to find our boys. They said they’d meet us here at eight on the dot.”

“I think you’ll find the two young gentlemen over at the bar.” The waiter nodded in that direction.

As they walked past the bar on the way to their table, Donovan slipped up behind his sons and laid a hand on each of their shoulders. “Aha. Gotcha.”

“Hey, Pop,” Bobby said with a grin, brushing his long, dark hair out of his eyes. “Who’s the good-looking chick you’ve got there?”

Maria Doyle snorted and poked her son in the chest. “I know what you’re up to, buster. Trying to score some brownie points, huh?”

Bobby leaned over and kissed his mother on the cheek.

“And what about you, young fellow-me-lad?” Donovan said to Jack. “What have you got to say for yourself?”

“Evening, Dad, Mom. Thanks for inviting us. This place is something else. That’s Orson Welles sitting over there, and we saw Mayor Shelley earlier.”

Donovan glanced around the room. “Jack Shelley? Where? He’s a fellow USF alum.”

“He left just as we arrived,” Jack said. Unlike his brother, Jack wore his hair short. He looked like one of the Kingston Trio, the clean-cut folksingers who got their start here in the city at the Purple Onion, the tiny Beat-era hangout in North Beach.

The waiter led the Doyles to their quiet corner table. Donovan ordered a bottle of champagne, and after it arrived, he proposed a toast. “To the two of you. You don’t know how proud you’ve made your mother and me. And we want to hear all about your plans now that you’ve got those sheepskins tucked away.”

The twins exchanged glances. “Why don’t you go first,” Jack said.

Bobby toyed with the silverware for a moment. “I’m thinking of pursuing my writing,” he said. “You know that I’ve always dreamed of becoming a novelist, and I enjoyed working on the campus newspaper. I’ve made a few contacts here in the city. I’m hoping I can latch on with one of the smaller papers and work my way up. I’d like to write about the music scene. There’s a lot going on around the Bay these days. It would be fun. I know there’s not much money in journalism, but it would help me develop as a writer. Maybe someday I really could take on a novel, or even give screenwriting a try.”

Maria laid her hand on Bobby’s. “I think you’ll make a terrific writer. You’ve always been good with words. I remember the poems you used to write in grade school. Some of them were amazing, especially for someone that age.”

“Thanks, Mom.” Bobby glanced at his father. “What about you, Pop? Do I have your blessing?”

“Good Lord yes, son. You’ll only be successful if you do something you love, and we all know how much you love literature. I remember you read Crime and Punishment when you were just a kid. Heck, I could barely plow my way through that tome in college.”

Donovan hesitated for a moment. “Of course, there’s another factor at play. What about the draft?”

Bobby and Jack again exchanged glances.

“Yeah,” Bobby said. “The bloody draft.”

Maria tsk-tsked.

“Sorry, Mom, but just thinking about the draft gets me going.”

Jack leaned forward with an intense look. “Like I keep telling you, you’ve been hanging out with too many campus radicals.”

Bobby rolled his eyes. “Oh boy, here we go again.”

“I might as well lay it all out right now,” Jack snapped. “I don’t care what the naysayers think about the war in Vietnam. As far as I’m concerned, if your country asks you to serve, then it’s your duty to do it. That’s why I enrolled in ROTC, and that’s why I’ve applied for my army commission. I’m going on active duty next month.”

Maria gasped. “Oh, Jackie. Please tell me you won’t be going off to that awful war. What’s the point of it all?”

Donovan took his wife’s hand. “I’m sorry, dear, but if that’s Jack’s decision, then we should support him. I’m afraid I don’t agree with this war either, but I’m certainly not going to try to talk anyone out of it if their conscience tells them they should go.”

“Thanks, Dad,” Jack said soberly. “Actually, there’s no way of knowing if I’ll be sent overseas. I could end up at an army base right here in the States.”

Maria sighed. “At least that’s something to hope for.”

“That still leaves my question to Bobby about the draft,” Donovan said. “Any notion of where you stand, son?”

“I’ve been thinking about enrolling in graduate school at USF. They’ve got strong writing and communications programs. I believe I could handle school while working as a stringer on one of the local papers, especially if I take the minimum course load for a full-time student. That would put off the draft for another year or two. Maybe this lousy war will be over by then. And don’t look at me like that, Jack. Not everyone thinks that getting embroiled in a conflict in a miniscule country hardly anyone had ever heard of is vital to our national interests. Besides, I agree with what Muhammad Ali said—‘I ain’t got no quarrel with them Vietcong.’”

Jack started to say something, but Donovan headed him off, knowing a full-blown argument was in the offing. “If you’re interested in writing for San Francisco papers, that fellow over there could give you some advice.”

Donovan pointed toward the bar, where San Francisco Chronicle columnist Herb Caen had just taken a seat. Caen was a dapper man with a ready smile. He’d been the virtual spokesman for San Francisco ever since he started writing about the city in 1938, churning out daily columns filled with witty insights into goings-on around town. He could also be serious or scathingly critical when the subject called for it, but even his barbs revealed a concern for humanity. He roamed the city of seven hundred thousand by day and by night, gathering anecdotes like a fisherman hauling in his net, and no fish was too small to capture his interest. He wrote about everyone from bigwigs to bootblacks, visiting starlets to local harlots. And always, his love of the multifaceted, multicultural city—his Baghdad-by-the-Bay—shone through. “San Francisco, the gorgeous mess,” he called it.

Donovan had read Caen’s columns for years. He still subscribed to the Chronicle, along with the Los Angeles Times, the Chicago Tribune, and the New York Times. Donovan had beamed with pride the first time Caen mentioned him in the Chronicle. He’d been in San Francisco to confer with Lloyd Bridges and his agent, and Caen had spotted them having lunch at the Old Clam House, the oldest restaurant in the city.

Donovan agreed with nearly everything Caen wrote, except for the man’s campaign against calling the city “Frisco.” Donovan had never understood the widespread distaste for the nickname among locals. For him, it called to mind the city’s bawdy past, when ships from around the world docked along the Embarcadero and slumming gentry rubbed elbows with riffraff in the saloons and bordellos of the Barbary Coast. He could just imagine Dashiell Hammett’s cynical shamus Sam Spade tossing out “Frisco” while roughing up a two-bit hood in a gin joint down in the Tenderloin or grilling a gum-chewing floozy in a greasy spoon where people ate with their elbows on the table. Caen could object to the nickname all he wanted, but what did it matter? He was from Sacramento, where the most colorful characters had always been the sleazy white-collar crooks in the state government.

“C’mon,” Donovan said to Bobby. “I’ll introduce you before we order dinner. It couldn’t hurt to know the most famous journalist in San Francisco.”

Donovan led the way over to the bar. The ever-alert Caen spotted the pair before they were halfway across the room. “If it isn’t Mr. Tinseltown, himself,” he said as they walked up. “Long time no see, Don. Your old stomping grounds not good enough anymore?”

Donovan shook the man’s outstretched hand. “Hello, Herb. You’re right. We don’t get up here as often as we’d like.” He laid a hand on Bobby’s shoulder. “You remember Bobby. He and his brother Jack just graduated from Berkeley.”

“Ah, good old Berserkly,” Caen remarked with a mischievous twinkle. He swirled his drink and eyed Bobby. “Been in any exciting demonstrations lately?”

“Only to cover them for the Daily Californian, although I’m more interested in music than politics.”

“Yeah, that’s a lot safer. I’d stick with it if I were you.”

“Bobby’s considering going into journalism,” Donovan said. “I thought maybe you could give him a few pointers.”

Caen finished his drink and smacked the glass on the bar. “Rule Number One. Don’t go into journalism unless you can’t find a job on a fishing trawler. The pay’s better on those boats, the scenery’s superb, you won’t get mugged, and you’ll never go hungry—unless you happen to hate seafood.”

Caen glanced over at the Doyle’s table. “I see you brought along the Mrs. If you’re busy while you’re in town, I’d be happy to squire her around. Show her the sights, you know.” He eyed Maria like a lecherous Groucho Marx.

Donovan chuckled. “We’re heading home in the morning. Besides, I’m not sure she’d be up to it. She still talks about the place you took us to the last time we got together.”

“Hey, I thought that was a sedate nightclub. How was I to know the waitresses would be half naked?”

Caen fished a business card out of his pocket and handed it to Bobby. “If you’re serious about this journalism thing, gimme a call. I’ll show you around the office, introduce you to a few of my fellow ink-stained wretches.”

Chapter Two Marin County, California, June 1967 Eddie “The Rat” Ratner liked what he saw. The crowd gathered for the two-day Fantasy Fair and Magic Mountain Music Festival on Mount Tamalpais was ripe for the plucking. To the Rat, the tens of thousands of mellowed-out rock fans, nature lovers, face painters, and kite fliers were just a bunch of chumps looking to get high and get laid. He could accommodate their first wish. He had enough merchandise in his beat-up canvas shoulder bag to get the entire 49ers football team stoned—pot and acid for the candy-asses and coke, speed, and horse for the hardcore.

The slump-shouldered dope dealer with the orange fright-wig hairdo and high-heeled Beatle boots could always spot a prospective mark. He simply looked for anyone with darting eyes, like a drunk searching for his next shot of rotgut. If a pusher couldn’t make a good living here in the Bay Area, the Rat said to himself, he ought to consider another line of work. The man’s pointy face puckered into an obscene smile, revealing his prominent yellow teeth. He looked like he could gnaw his way through a tin can, just like a voracious rodent.

Eddie Ratner definitely made a good living at his trade, although you couldn’t tell it by his appearance. From the condition of his navy surplus bell-bottom dungarees, anyone might think he’d spent the night sleeping in an alley. Despite the wads of cash the Rat had stashed away in his fleabag Haight-Ashbury apartment, he constantly worried about keeping his customers. The competition was tough. The last guy who tried to push the Rat aside ended up in a ditch on a lonely stretch of road in the Santa Cruz Mountains south of San Francisco. The hulking Hells Angel the Rat hired to help him take care of the problem had cut off the interloper’s right hand before he tossed his body. Some sort of message, the Rat supposed, or maybe the biker just liked cutting off body parts.

Yeah, the Rat knew how to protect what was his. As he said to the fellow who asked him if he minded his unflattering nickname, “Rats are survivors, baby. Rats and alligators. When humans finally wipe themselves off the face of the planet, the rats and the alligators will still be here. If I was from Louisiana, I’d wanna be called Gator.”

Raul Pitman was far from his usual beat. A reporter for the Berkeley Barb, the East Bay’s two-year-old underground newspaper, Pitman normally wrote about heavyweight subjects that appealed to the emerging counterculture—antiwar marches, civil rights demonstrations, Free Speech rallies, and the like. His crusading newspaper was filled with psychedelic art, nudity, profanity, and antiestablishment cartoons. The staff delighted in outraging the straights, and they did it with insightful aplomb. Their mission was simple. They wanted to change the world, and if you didn’t agree with them, get out of the way.

Pitman was an authentic intellectual, with the requisite Van Dyke beard, black beret, and black leather sport coat. He was so cool you could almost get a chill standing next to him. He’d decided to cover the fair and music festival after hearing about the stellar lineup of bands. They included a long list of Bay Area groups, headlined by Jefferson Airplane, Country Joe & the Fish, and the Steve Miller Blues Band. Several groups from Los Angeles had made the trek north, including the Byrds, Canned Heat, the Grass Roots, and the Doors. The festival was sponsored by San Francisco’s KFRC radio station, and at two dollars a head, the admission was a bargain, with all the proceeds going to a local child care center.

Pitman had a feeling the gathering would be something special—the first big outdoor rock festival—and he wanted to be part of history. Getting here, however, had been an adventure. After driving from Berkeley across the Bay Bridge, traversing the busy streets of San Francisco, and crossing the Golden Gate Bridge to Marin County, he then had to abandon his car and take a yellow school bus up Mount Tamalpais. A fleet of buses had been chartered to haul musicians and fairgoers up the narrow scenic road leading to the Cushing Amphitheatre, an open-air performance space high on the 2,500-foot-high mountain’s southern slope.

The trip was turning out to be well worth it. As Pitman looked around, he saw couples strolling through tawny sunlit meadows set off by the intense greens of the surrounding woods. Youngsters and grownups swayed in tree swings and slid down a grassy hillside on sheets of cardboard. Long-haired, bearded artisans from nearby Sausalito were selling handmade rugs, pottery, jewelry, and other craft items. Food stalls were doing a brisk business. A giant inflatable Buddha and a geodesic dome light chamber provided touches of the offbeat. The overall atmosphere was that of a happy, peaceful Renaissance fair.

The organizers of the festival were lucky to have such a beautiful day. The fair was originally scheduled for the previous weekend but had to be put off because of bad weather. That was the Bay Area—sunny and warm one minute and foggy and chilly the next. The region really only had two seasons—winter and summer. The cool, rainy winters lasted roughly from November to March, with April through October being warmer and drier. The cold California Current that flowed offshore usually kept San Francisco below seventy degrees even in summer.

To add to the uncertainty, the weather in different locations around the Bay could vary wildly on any given day, thanks to the region’s diverse topography. Even within San Francisco, it could feel like winter in one part of town and summer in another on the same afternoon. Today, the glittering waters of the Bay and the Pacific Ocean vied with the cloudless sky for the purest shades of blue. The clear air bore the fresh, spicy scents of oaks, firs, and madrones. Raul Pitman had lived in the area for five years since moving here from the somnolent Midwest, but he’d seldom experienced a finer day. And there was music and pot to boot.

Sonny Anders was pissed. He was supposed to be chaperoning the Charlatans, and now the boozy, druggy gang of renegades had disappeared again. This wasn’t going to get Anders in tight with his boss, Bill Graham. The impresario of San Francisco’s Fillmore Auditorium, Graham was the city’s biggest rock promoter and agent. A man known for his tantrums, Graham was liable to toss Anders from a stage—just as he’d once done to the Charlatans when they failed to show up on time for a benefit concert. One of the Bay Area’s first psychedelic cult bands, the Charlatans had plenty of talent, but their unpredictable streak was making it harder and harder for them to land gigs. Anders had tried to motivate the band, but they seemed bent on self-destruction. If they don’t show up before long, Anders said to himself, they could go to hell as far as he was concerned.

Anders chewed on the ends of his droopy mustache, a sure sign he was agitated. A lanky man with unruly blond hair, he had plans for making it big in the music business, and he had no patience with anyone who held him back. He was one of the earliest to recognize what was happening in the San Francisco music scene. Bands that had once performed for modest crowds in the city’s clubs were being elevated to national prominence. Jerry Garcia and his gang of rowdies had helped build their fan base with free jam sessions in Haight-Ashbury. Now, the Grateful Dead, Jefferson Airplane, Big Brother & the Holding Company, and other local bands were being courted by major record labels. Serious money was being tossed around, and Sonny Anders intended to grab his share.

Bobby Doyle worked his way through the amphitheater’s crowded seating area until he was as close to the stage as he could get. He looked up at the intimidating figure of Bob “The Bear” Hite, lead singer of Canned Heat, the L.A. blues group that took its name from a song by early blues great Tommy Johnson. “Canned heat” referred to Sterno, which desperate alcoholics guzzled when they couldn’t lay their hands on anything better. The hulking, bearded Hite was belting out the Robert Johnson–Elmore James classic “Dust My Broom,” one of the songs the group had just recorded for their debut album. Driven by Henry Vestine on lead guitar, the song rolled along like a runaway freight train. With a backdrop of trees and psychedelic banners, the setting was like nothing anyone had seen before. A rock show amid nature, a new combination.

Bobby tried to scribble a few notes, but after being constantly jostled by the dancing, flailing, head-bobbing crowd, he gave up and decided to enjoy the show and trust his memory when he got back home to write up his account. This was his first outing as a stringer for the San Francisco Chronicle, thanks to his visit to Herb Caen’s office in the newspaper’s venerable gray building on the corner of Fifth and Mission Streets. The columnist had kindly introduced him to Ralph J. Gleason, the Chronicle’s music critic. When Gleason learned that Bobby wanted to write about music, he grilled him on his knowledge of every genre from classical to jazz. Bobby must have passed the test, because he came away with a promise that Gleason would take a look at his writing. It was Gleason who suggested that he cover the Marin County festival, so here he was.

After Canned Heat rumbled through a few more blues classics, a procession of other acts followed. Pop singer Dionne Warwick wowed the crowd with her stylish, compelling vocals, although her songs seemed at odds with most of the rock numbers. Eventually, the Doors, another Los Angeles group, took the stage. The Doors had released their self-titled debut album in January, and the LP took off when “Light My Fire” was released as a single. Despite having a hit song, this was the group’s first large live show.

Besides “Light My Fire,” the Doors performed “Break On Through” and other songs from their album. Bobby was impressed by the band, except for Jim Morrison staggering around the stage like a drunkard. During instrumental breaks, Morrison kept writhing and carrying on to keep the focus on himself. The handsome lead singer gave the impression of being a self-infatuated exhibitionist, someone who stared at himself in the mirror to perfect his bad-boy glower. But you had to give the guy credit. He could put on a memorable performance, even though he was only a so-so singer in Bobby’s opinion.

Bobby was exhausted by the time the last of over a dozen groups finished its set. As he made his way toward the parking lot to hop on one of the school buses for the trip back down the mountain, he spotted Raul Pitman up ahead. Bobby had often crossed paths with Pitman when they were both student reporters at UC Berkeley, and he liked the fellow, theatrical getup and all. He knew that beneath the hipster exterior was a friendly, down-to-earth guy who grew up on a Kansas wheat farm. He also knew that Pitman’s first name was actually Paul. He’d started calling himself Raul after he arrived at Berkeley, grew a beard, and bought himself a beret.

Bobby caught up with Pitman and grabbed the sleeve of his leather coat. “Hey man, where’re you headed in such a hurry? Off to someplace immensely important as usual?”

Pitman high-fived him and flashed a sheepish grin. “You always manage to poke a hole in my image, Doyle,” Pitman replied. “I may have to start smoking a pipe to add to my aura. To answer your question, I’m on my way back home to write up the show. How about you?”

“Same thing, although I’m living in San Francisco now. I’m stringing for the Chronicle, and I’ve enrolled in grad school at USF.”

“Bravo on both counts. Nice way to hone your writing chops and thumb your nose at Uncle Sam. Lucky for me, I’m 4-F. Weak eyes.” He adjusted his rimless glasses and pretended to be feeling his way along.

The two acquaintances continued toward the parking lot, discussing the various performances they’d witnessed. After they’d clambered onto one of the buses and found their seats, Bobby asked if Pitman was coming back for the second day of the festival.

“You bet, man. Jefferson Airplane, Steve Miller, the Byrds, the Grass Roots. Wouldn’t want to miss that lineup.”

Jefferson Airplane had already reached cruising altitude by the time the band walked onto the stage on Mount Tamalpais. Their first album, Jefferson Airplane Takes Off, had debuted the previous August, but Signe Anderson, their female singer, quit the band shortly afterward to stay home with her new baby. Marty Balin, the band’s mastermind, recruited singer Grace Slick as her replacement. Slick brought a new energy to the band, which was on full display when she performed “Somebody to Love” and “White Rabbit,” two of the songs that had made the group’s second album, Surrealistic Pillow, a hit, lifting Jefferson Airplane to international acclaim. “White Rabbit,” written by Slick, epitomized the drug-fueled essence of psychedelic rock.

The popular Bay Area band Country Joe & the Fish added notes of strangeness and whimsy to the show before Steve Miller, backed by his old pal Boz Scaggs, shook up the audience with the pulsating “Mercury Blues.” The sets by the Byrds and the Grass Roots demonstrated the wide spectrum that rock encompassed, from the Byrds’ mind-bending “Eight Miles High,” with its jangly Jim McGuinn guitar solos on his twelve-string Rickenbacker, to the Grass Roots’ recent hit “Let’s Live for Today,” a poignant love song that fit the uncertain times. None of the groups imparted greater joy than the 5th Dimension. Their buoyant new song “Up, Up and Away” lifted the crowd along with it. Even the puffy newsboy caps the gorgeous Marilyn McCoo and Florence LaRue both wore added a lighthearted note.

Late in the day, Jefferson Airplane returned for a second set. While they were performing their mellow folk-rock ballad “Today,” Bobby noticed a pretty girl dancing by herself off to one side of the amphitheater. Sunlight illuminated the girl’s long russet hair and the garland of yellow flowers she wore. The girl spun slowly in time with the music, waving a filmy shawl over her head. Her diaphanous dress floated around her as she moved. She looked like a woodland nymph. It was the most indelible image Bobby would take away from the festival.

A couple of the things that Bobby didn’t see would have soured his day. In the staging area behind the amphitheater, Sonny Anders vented his frustration on the hopped-up members of the Charlatans, while in a shadowy, out of the way spot in the woods, the skulking Eddie Ratner plied his trade. With today’s crowd, the Rat’s hottest sellers were tabs of acid and nickel bags of weed. The sunshine kids at the festival weren’t into the hard stuff, to the Rat’s disappointment, since he made a greater profit on the coke and heroin he could cut with baking soda or laundry detergent. Most marks didn’t know the difference, unless they were dead-enders who failed to get their usual buzz. In that case, the Rat simply blamed the bad dope on his suppliers. “Hey, what can you do?” he would say with a weaselly smile.

Bobby had no time for dope peddlers. It wasn’t that he was a prude, but when it came to getting high, he usually stuck with a couple of cold bottles of Dos Equis or a shot or two of pungent Barbancourt rum. He had smoked pot on occasion, and he’d even tried LSD, although he didn’t like the experience. He didn’t think it was worth surrendering control over his mind just to see blurry colored lights or people’s faces melting. And reading about kids on acid leaping to their deaths from buildings because they thought they could fly didn’t enhance the drug’s appeal. No, what he hated were the scumbags who ruined people’s lives with hard drugs.

After the last notes of the day’s final song echoed away over the hillsides, one of the festival organizers made an announcement over the PA system. “We’d like to thank all of you for coming out to share in this beautiful event. Bless you, and have a safe trip home. As you make your way down to the parking lot, we ask that you deposit your trash in the receptacles around the grounds. We want to leave this place as pristine as we found it. Peace and love.” Surprisingly, the festival-goers did put their trash in the bins, making this not only the first outdoor rock music festival in history but also the tidiest.

Bobby Doyle tried to order his thoughts as he shuffled down the hillside. The two-day barrage of music made it difficult to summarize the festival, although to his mind, the most lasting impression was the sheer variety of musical styles. There was psychedelic intensity of Jefferson Airplane and the straight-ahead rock of the Grass Roots, the foot-stomping blues of Canned Heat and the lilting pop sounds of Dionne Warwick and the 5th Dimension. He’d have to sharpen his pencil to capture it all in his piece for the Chronicle. He was beginning to glimpse how different—and subjective—this new role of music journalist was going to be compared to the unglamorous news reporting he’d done for the Daily Californian. It was definitely a challenge, one he was sure he’d enjoy.

Another part of the story was the variety of people who’d attended. Bobby had seen mothers with babies and guys in loincloths, uniformed cops nodding to the music and blissed-out flower children blowing soap bubbles. There were slick Berkeley hipsters like Raul Pitman and scruffy, sandal-wearing artists from San Francisco and Marin. Nowhere among them was there the slightest display of animosity. The festival had been an enchanted island of goodwill. There was a spirit of sharing, of being surrounded by friendly souls who all cared about the same things. Even the rock stars mingled with the crowd, enjoying the show as much as anyone. The fair’s organizers had expected twenty thousand people, but probably twice that many showed up.

Bobby thought of the russet-haired girl he’d seen dancing by herself. “The Girl on the Hill,” he decided to call her, as if he were naming a painting. He pictured the jubilant, ingenuous smile on the girl’s face as she swirled about in the brilliant sunshine. He hoped she’d be able to retain that unaffected joy for as long as possible.

***

#historical fiction #mystery #San Francisco #Level Best Books #Partners In Crime #Blog Tour

0 notes

mrows-fan-works · 2 years

Text

I call this "When Legend Finally Snaps and Embraces the (Wars) Tiddy." @ageless-soul-au

EDIT: I screwed up and finished coloring the boots. Sorry guys. I can't wait to see them hug in canon. this is very self indulgent

#I know ya'll said he had some of the best tiddies in the chain but DAMN #that description in chapter four...#i have to keep this in mind when drawing them n the future #Alt title: Legend has a Particualrly Bad Day and Snaps.#I have to keep this in mind for Twi and Hilda #I had such a vivid image in my head when i was reading chapter four i had to #asau spoilers #asau chapter four inspired art #/pos #i am smitten with them /p

31 notes · View notes

charzard-lord · 2 years

Text

You’re The Mystery I Need To Solve (Doctor/Reader) Part Eight END

Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings: Drama, angst, fluff, language, brief mentions of blood and needles, minor moment of negative self talk but nothing too serious

Key: 🎭💣😋❤☂️

Pairings: Eleventh Doctor/Reader

Summary: You've had several dreams about a madman with a box and when you finally meet him in real life, you realize that something is very wrong. For some reason, the TARDIS doesn't react well around you. In fact, it seems to completely stop working and turns into a regular police box. The Doctor is terrified yet fascinated, and completely determined to solve this mystery.

Part One - Part Two - Part Three - Part Four - Part Five - Part Six - Part Seven - Part Eight (you are here)

Taglist: @iloveangstposts

A/N: AHHHH!!!! IT’S FINALLY DONE!!!!! And I’m posting a little early as a special treat. I’m so excited for you guys to read this chapter! I’ve really enjoyed writing this story. I might come back and edit these parts eventually, just to make the syntax and grammer better, but no promises. Thank you so much for reading this far and for all your support! I hope you enjoy reading this part as much as I enjoyed writing it! Sending you lots of love! (P.S. I will start working on the last requests I got now that this story is finished. I still won’t be taking any new requests for the time being, but I will work on the ones I was sent.)

You toss and turn. Vivid, nightmarish images greet your eyelids each time you close them. Terrifying creatures, big needles, excessive amounts of blood, and all other kinds of violent things are all that you see. Sleep will be nearly impossible at this rate.

With a defeated sigh, you move to get up, only to realize that you are still in massive pain. A silent whimper escapes your throat as you realize how helpless you truly are. You want to call out for someone, but you’re afraid the Doctor will show up, and that would be way too awkward right now.

Seeing no other viable option, you decide to take a chance and call out for Amy, hoping she is somewhere nearby. Lady luck must be smiling down upon you, because no more than 30 seconds later, she comes running into the room.

“Is everything alright?” she looks a bit frantic, obviously concerned for your wellbeing, and you smile. It’s nice to be cared about.

“Yes and no,” you reply, as Amy moves to take a seat next to your bed.

“How so?” she asks.

You explain the troubling images that you see every time you try to rest your eyes, and the way your whole body still hurts like hell. You purposefully leave out your conversation with the Doctor, not wanting to think about that at the moment.

She listens intently and nods, thinking hard, before an idea seems to pop into her head. Her eyes light up and she stands quickly, saying she’ll be right back. She exits the room in a hurry and you’re left sitting there, completely dumbfounded.

She returns a few minutes later with a small glass bottle, filled with a strange liquid. She pushes the bottle into your hands and you take it, examining it curiously.

“What is it?”

“It’s this incredible medicine the Doctor bought for me at an alien market. It doesn’t heal you instantly, but it speeds up the recovery process a lot. I had forgotten about it until now. I once broke my wrist during one of our trips. I drank a bit of this and I was completely healed in a week! It was amazing!” she grins with excitement, clearly wanting you to give it a try as well.

“How much do I need to drink?”

“Just a small sip will do,”

You unscrew the lid and sniff the contents. It smells surprisingly fruity.

You glance at Amy, who is still smiling encouragingly, before taking a small swig. It’s sweet, with just a hint of bitterness at the end. It’s not bad, for a supposed medicine.

Almost instantly, you feel some of the tension melt away. You still have some pain, but it seems a bit duller than before. You also notice how much more relaxed you feel.

“Wow, I feel…”

“Really chill, right?”

“Yeah, super chill,”

“That’s one of the side effects. It makes you relaxed. Also, some people have good dreams as well. I thought it’d be worth a shot,”

“Thank you,”

“Of course! Anything for a friend,”

A warm feeling builds in your chest. You’re not sure if it’s the medicine or just knowing that you have a friend as amazing as Amy, but it feels almost euphoric.

You smile at her and she returns the gesture, before suddenly, you feel very sleepy. Amy seems to notice and gently takes the bottle from your hands, says goodnight, and leaves the room, just as you fall into a pleasant dream.

***

You wake feeling happy and refreshed. You’re not nearly as sore as you were last night and your thoughts are in a much better place. In fact, you don’t feel any pain at all. You make a mental reminder to thank Amy again when you see her.

You get up without any hindrance, a huge smile on your face. Throwing on a light sweater, you make your way down to the console room. There is a definite pep in your step, so much so, that you’re almost skipping. You feel incredible!

“Good morning!” you exclaim, greeting both the Doctor and Amy, your smile still ever present.

“You seem to be in a good mood,” Amy says, walking over to you. The Doctor gives you a passing side glance but remains silent.

“Yeah, that medicine you gave me is wonderful! I feel completely fine! No more soreness or pain anywhere,” you bounce happily before the Doctor is suddenly in front of you.

“May I?” he asks, reaching out for the bandage on your neck. You are slightly surprised at his abrupt appearance, but you nod your head in confirmation. He avoids your gaze, instead choosing to focus intently on studying your neck.

He tenderly removes the bandage and examines the area, his eyes widening in shock. He moves back slightly before coming closer and running his fingers gently along where your wound was. You shiver involuntarily at his touch, causing the Doctor to briefly meet your eyes. He looks away just as quickly and steps back, clearing his throat awkwardly.

“You’re healed. Completely. No trace of the wound at all,” he makes his way back to the console and continues working on whatever it is he was working on when you entered the room.

“What? But how is that possible? I mean, I know the medicine I gave them is powerful, but there’s no way they could’ve healed that fast,” Amy is astonished (as are you) but the Doctor seems mostly unfazed.

“I don’t know. I’m guessing it has something to do with their extraordinary abilities,” he turns to look at you as he continues with,

“You keep finding new ways to surprise me,” his expression is almost melancholic, but he looks away before you can get a good read on him.

The next few days pass rather uneventfully. The Doctor monitors your condition and you spend time with Amy, reading, talking, and drinking lots of tea.

You’ve just finished having a ‘tea talk’ moment with Amy, when the Doctor calls out your name, beckoning you to the console room. As soon as you enter, he starts rambling like mad, still refusing to look you in the eye.

“And so basically, I think I’ve created a way to keep you off the radar,” you really weren’t listening to anything he said, but his last line catches your attention.

“Off the radar?” you repeat and the Doctor nods his head, grabbing something from the console and making his way over to you.

“Yes. I still don’t fully understand your powers, but I think I’ve learned enough to create a dampener of sorts that will prevent other ‘interested parties’ from tracking you down,” he looks up at you for a brief moment while simultaneously reaching for your hand, as if silently asking for permission. You nod in approval and he delicately slips a silver band on your ring finger.

“Oh,” is all you can say, heat rising to your cheeks at the implications of him putting a ring on your finger.

“And I’m sure now,” he continues, meeting your gaze, “I’m in love with you,” his words make you draw in a sharp breath. You’re certain your face is as red as a tomato at this point.

“Oh,”

Is that really all your brain can muster up? He just confessed his love for you and all you can say is ‘Oh’? You want to smack yourself.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he says, seeming to sense your shock. “I don’t expect you to return my feelings, I just wanted you to know,”

You simply nod your head, not trusting your own voice. The Doctor gives you a small smile before returning to the console to work on… whatever it is he does at the console.

For a moment, you’re frozen in place, unsure what to do next. Bless the stars that Amy decides to make an appearance at this very moment.

“So,” she says, as soon as she walks in, “where are we going next?”

***

For the next three weeks, you train intensely to hone and manage your powers. The Doctor works with you to make a specialized training routine and it’s actually helping a lot. You have a lot more control than you did when you started. Now, you can do almost anything with ease. You’ve even traveled in time on your own and navigated your way back safely.

You’ve also discovered a number of other things you can do, from teleportation to creating new matter from nothing. You can even manipulate objects with your mind. On top of all that, you have a ridiculous amount of stamina and you’ve become extremely agile, strong, and incredibly fast. You’ve discovered that you can lift up to 230kg and run up to 96 kph. Basically, you can do just about anything. If you can think of it, you can probably do it.

It’s another full day of training, this time back on Earth, and things are going well. To be honest, you really don’t need to do any more, but you like the routine and the way it distracts your mind.

“997, 998, 999, 1000!” you finish the last push up and collapse onto the ground, feeling accomplished, yet hardly tired. You’ve barely broken a sweat.

“Wow, you broke your time record too. 1000 pushups in 30 minutes. Good job!” Amy congratulates you as she hands you a water bottle.

“Where’s the Doctor?” you ask, before taking a long drink.

“He went to get snacks. He should be back any-” Amy is cut off by the sound of an explosion nearby. The ground shakes, causing both of you to momentarily lose your balance. You share a look with her for only a moment before you take off running, telling her to stay put.

You round the corner just in time to see the Doctor being forcefully taken away by some strange looking creatures. He struggles in their hold, trying to assure them that it’s all just a big misunderstanding, but they pay him no mind. You hide behind a nearby wall, watching as they load him into the back of what looks like a military truck, with a dull green canopy stretched over the trailer.

You close your eyes and imagine all four tires popping, all the air quickly being sucked out of them. Not even a second later, you hear the sound of rubber bursting and you open your eyes to see that your manifestation was successful. You smirk as you watch the aliens scramble to figure out what happened, using the opportunity to sneak over to the back of the truck.

Just as you are about to look inside, the Doctor pops his head out. You both shriek in surprise before shushing each other. You stare at one another for a moment before suddenly bursting out in quiet laughter, giggling in glee as you make your escape.

You are able to find your way back to the field undetected, and you all decide to call it a day. You head back to the TARDIS, ready to kick your feet up and relax.

“Well, I’m gonna go catch some Z’s,” Amy says and yawns. You say goodnight and she retreats to her room, leaving you and the Doctor alone in the console room.

The two of you sit in heavy silence for a long while. You haven’t really been alone with him at all since… well, since he put that ring on your finger.

Your emotions have been all over the place since then and you’ve thrown yourself into training to avoid thinking about it. Honestly, you think you feel the same, and that terrifies you. You’ve never really been in love. Not like this, at least. This love is overwhelming and all consuming. It’s almost too much to bear.

“You alright, love?” the Doctor’s voice breaks you out of your trance and you jump slightly at his close proximity. He is standing right in front of you. When did that happen?

“Uh, yeah, yeah I’m fine,” you try to brush him off, but he doesn’t move away.

“You sure? Because you seem on edge lately. I’m worried about you,” he reaches out to gently caress your face. Without even thinking, you lean into his touch, letting out a breath you didn’t even know you were holding.

You meet his eyes and suddenly, something comes over you. You reach out, wrap your arms around his neck, and pull him down into a passionate kiss. He seems a bit surprised at first, but quickly melts into you.

By the time you pull away, you’re both gasping for air. Neither of you says anything for a while, simply enjoying each other’s warmth. Finally, the Doctor breaks the silence.

“Where did that come from?” he asks, still slightly out of breath.

You struggle for a moment to find the right words, simply gazing at him in awe.

“I- I think- no- I know that,” you start, stumbling over yourself. You pause and take a deep breath before blurting out:

“I love you,”

The Doctor just stares at you like a deer in headlights before a smile slowly spreads on his face.

“Do you mean it?” he whispers, leaning his forehead against yours.

“Yes,” you whisper back, and this time it’s his turn to capture you in a kiss.

The two of you kiss for what feels like an eternity, before he finally pulls away to look at you.

“Say it again,” he says softly, and you instantly know what he means. Even still, you want to tease him a little.

“It again,” you smile and stick your tongue out at him, causing a small laugh to bubble up in his chest.

“No, you know what I mean,” he lightly pinches your sides and you giggle, deciding that you like this game.

“You say it first,” you swear you see a blush rise to his face, but his smile never falters.

“I love you,” he says it with ease and you feel your heart soar. You resolve to let him get what he wants, just this once.

“I love you, too,” you say and his smile grows, shining as bright as the sun.

You and the Doctor. Your Doctor. Forever and always.

< Previous Part

#eleventh doctor x reader #doctor who #doctor who x reader #eleventh doctor #11th doctor #11th doctor x reader #fanfiction #reader insert #angst #drama #eventual romance #gender neutral reader #original work

101 notes · View notes

teawaffles · 3 years

Text

The Fugitives from the Fire: Chapter 1

T/N: Takes place before Chapter 39 of the manga (“The Dark Night of London”). Also, in order to appreciate a certain plot point to the fullest, I would recommend reading Book 2 Story 4 (“It Happened One Night”) before starting this one.

TW for this story // All the elements you would expect from a murder mystery: injury, blood, mention of suicide, violence, death

——The moment Miss Hudson opened the door to his room, Sherlock let out a long, long sigh.

It sounded as if he was squeezing every inch of air out of his lungs.

“What is it, Miss Hudson.”

Sherlock was sunk deep into his armchair, newspaper in hand. As if she could feel a headache coming on, Miss Hudson pressed a hand to her forehead.

“Every single time — what’s going on in this room, Sherlock?”

Frowning, she looked around the flat this great detective shared with his assistant. As always, it was thoroughly in a mess. But as always, Sherlock gave his typical response.

“There isn’t anything to get that upset about, is there? Besides, I’m not doing any scientific experiments right now.”

“I can never understand your concept of hygiene: how do you manage to live among all this without batting an eye……? Anyway, at the very least, make sure it’s clean enough that you’re not embarrassed to let people in. In a sense, we are in the service industry, you know.”

Standing tall and firm in the doorway, she began to lecture Sherlock, when an enigmatic grin broke across his face.

“If a client turns away just upon seeing this, then doesn’t it reflect the triviality of their request? In other words, I’m trying to screen my clients as soon as they enter this room.”

“If you quibble on like that, you’re the one who’s going to get screened out by your clients and lose your income. I certainly detest the idea of allowing someone with no earnings to live here.”

She launched into a scathing rebuke of those lazy words, and Sherlock raised both hands in a gesture of temporary surrender.

“Alright. When John comes back, we’ll tidy up together,” he said, looking out the window.

At that perfunctory remark, Miss Hudson placed both hands on her hips.

“John-kun, John-kun — you never stop talking about him. At least, when it comes to cleaning, I’d like you to do it yourself even without anyone else telling you to. My heart truly goes out to your future wife.”

“No need to worry: I consider myself married to my work.” [1]

“……So that means, I’m going to have a bachelor living here for the rest of my life?”

She thought of herself in her old age, briskly caring for an elderly detective; at that unpleasantly vivid image, a chill ran down her spine. [2]

And so they went on and on like this, as they normally did — when all of a sudden, a knock came from the ground floor entrance. From Sherlock’s experience, a visit at this time was usually linked to a “riddle”.

“Yes yes, please hold on just a moment.”

Breaking off their conversation, Miss Hudson pattered down to the ground floor. Sherlock put his newspaper on the table, and listened as she answered the door.

Then, as he’d intuited, after they exchanged a few words at the entrance, someone promptly came up the stairs — he could hear it creaking — and a familiar face appeared at the open door.

Sherlock flashed him a bold grin.

“——Hey, Lestrade. Tough case?”

It was Inspector Lestrade from Scotland Yard. Sherlock had brought up a “tough” case as a matter of course, and to that, Lestrade gave a solemn nod.

“Exactly, Holmes. It’s a bit of a tricky one — I need your help.”

“Details?”

Skipping the pleasantries, Sherlock lit a cigarette, as he was wont to do. But Lestrade’s expression turned grave.

“Sorry, but it’s urgent: I don’t have time to fill you in right now. Can we talk in the carriage?”

“Wha? Hmm……”

Looking out the window at the street below, Sherlock began to sway restlessly.

“What’s wrong? Is there a problem?”

The detective didn’t have an immediate response, and as Lestrade questioned him, Sherlock began mumbling to no one in particular.

“Look, can’t you see John’s not here? ……Goddammit, seriously — where did he go?”

“…………”

Lestrade kept his expression sombre, but for a split second, even he nearly broke into laughter at that line. This eccentric man, who lacked scruples about troubling the people around him, had just admitted to feeling an ordinary emotion like loneliness — and it did feel a little odd.

Standing to the side, Miss Hudson also broke into a smile. For the man known as Sherlock Holmes, it seemed John H Watson had already become an inseparable part of his life.

Seeing their reactions, Sherlock narrowed his eyes in confusion.

“Oi, why’re you two smiling away? Did I say something weird?”

“Nothing, it’s nothing,” Lestrade replied. “It’s just, that was an unexpected line coming from you, so I couldn’t help it. I wasn’t making fun of you. It’s good that you have such an irreplaceable friend.”

“That’s none of your concern…… Though, is there really no time to wait for John?”

In a flash, Lestrade’s expression reverted to its grim state.

“Sorry, but yes: I want to get going as soon as we can. However, if you need Dr Watson, we could wait a while longer……”

But Sherlock quickly waved his hand, interrupting Lestrade’s compromise.

“No, it’s fine. Anyway, I don’t know when he’s coming back. There’re times like this too.”

Saying that, he stubbed his barely-smoked cigarette in an ashtray, dressed himself and got ready to leave. Uttering a quick word of apology, together with the detective, Lestrade headed to the Brougham four-wheeled carriage waiting outside.

Placing one foot into the vehicle, Sherlock waved to Miss Hudson as she stood at the entrance.

“So, Miss Hudson: I’ll attend your marriage counselling session when I get back.”

“I don’t recall having ever mentioned such a thing?”

She smiled at Sherlock’s joke, concealing within it a quiet rage. As if fleeing from her terrifying presence, the two men set off in haste.

Footnotes:

[1] Oh yes I saw my chance and took it — this is a BBC Sherlock reference |ω･)ﾉ But to be super-precise, I’ve dug into the exact translation in the notes below.

Aside: There was another small reference back in Book 2 Story 1, when Sherlock told William that he was “flattered” :3

[2] This is actually hinted at in the original stories: when Sherlock retired in Sussex, he said he was living with his old housekeeper (Wikipedia)

Translator’s notes

That line about marriage

I took some liberty with that translation, so here’s a more pedantic version of it. The reference comes from Season 1 Episode 1 of BBC Sherlock (“A Study in Pink”), when Sherlock and John were having dinner in an Italian restaurant while on a case.

The line as written in the book: “俺にとっては仕事が嫁さんみたいなもんだからな”

(Because) to me, my work is like my wife.

The line from BBC Sherlock’s Japanese dub: “ジョン、僕は仕事と結婚したつもりだ。” (source)

(It’s a literal translation of the original line below)

The original line from BBC Sherlock: “John, I consider myself married to my work.”

Aside: The “flattered” reference comes from the line immediately after this one — “…and while I am flattered by your interest…”

#moriarty the patriot #yuukoku no moriarty #yuumori #english translation #the girl who sees rainbows

75 notes · View notes

queerbrujas · 3 years

Text

then it vanished away from my hands (part three)

pairing: nate sewell x eva navarro rating: T word count: 4k (10.1k total so far) warnings: angst (with no happy ending, though there’s a lot of comfort in this chapter). discussions about mortality and loss of agency. murphy trauma and flashbacks.

After discovering the reason why she can't turn, Eva tries (and fails) to come to terms with it.

part one | part two | read on ao3

this fic was originally meant to have three parts, but uh, that didn’t happen. current plan is to have it be four or five, depending on how the writing goes.

—

part three: my sense of self I lost somewhere

Eva’s eyes squeeze shut.

She’s all out of tears.

How long has she been sitting here?

This is—this is not working.

She can't be alone right now.

She can't be here right now, in this place that was once home to her and where there is nothing left that is familiar or comforting. Nothing but void, a shell filled with what’s left of the covered furniture she couldn’t get rid of.

The only thing here is—

is—

fuck.

The only thing here that seems alive and vivid is the image playing behind her eyelids of the apartment flooded with bright red smoke, the sounds of crashing and breaking, of Rebecca telling her to run, of Nate—

And a cold, cold voice that rings in her head, louder than every other sound.

She’s back outside in the rain. It soaks her to the bone, makes her shiver.

You are rather special, after all, Detective Navarro.

Why, why the hell did she think of coming here, of all places?

I do so prefer the quiet ones.

There isn’t enough air, she’s not getting enough air. She tries to gasp for it, to take deep breaths, but it’s not enough. When she opens her eyes the white walls of the apartment are closing in and her vision is blurred, hazy (not smoke, it’s not smoke, it’s not). A trapped scream tries to fight its way up her throat.

She wants to let it out. Scream. Thrash.

Tear her skin apart and climb out of her body.

This is not working.

This is not working—this won’t work.

She’s not going to be able to make it out of here on her own. Not out of the apartment, not off of the goddamn floor.

The sudden moment of clarity, tenuous and brittle as it is, spurs her into action.

Her phone. She pulls her phone out of the pocket of her jacket: her hands are still shaking, and it takes her at least three attempts to get hold of it. Once she has it, it slips between her fingers and clatters to the floor.

She flinches at the noise. She’s going to start sobbing again.

She flexes her fingers. Breathe. Breathe.

Eventually, she manages it.

For just a split second, she considers calling, then decides against it. That won’t do. She doesn’t trust herself to speak without bursting into tears again.

I'm at my old apartment. Can you come over?, she writes, hits send. Then a second text: Please.

The reply comes before she’s had time to lock her phone again: there in 2 seconds.

She loses track of time again after that, closes her eyes and would not be able to say, later, how long she spent like this. What is left of her rational brain tells her not more than a few minutes can have passed before Farah is already there in a whirlwind.

Alarm is evident in the way her eyes shoot wide open as soon as she sees her, in the way she's kneeling down by Eva's side faster than her (human, human) eyes can register.

“Hey, hey.” The words tumble out of her quickly, blurring together. “Eva, what happened?”

Farah has seen her cry before, she’s seen her desperate and distressed and upset, but she’s never seen her like this.

She examines her, the way she’s sitting on the floor with her knees held to her chest, the sorry state of her—clearly looking for signs of physical injury. When she seems satisfied she’s found none, she takes a breath: the alarm fades, but the concern deepens.

“What’s wrong? Did something—” Farah interrupts herself, purses her lips and waits for Eva to answer.

Eva’s throat feels raw; her thoughts scrambled, paper-thin. Connecting them, stringing them into something so complicated as language seems a monumental, almost impossible task. Just the thought of it makes her throat start to close up again.

She shakes her head. “Don't want to talk about it.” Speaking hurts, physically—even more than she thought it would.

Farah nods, as though having been expecting it.

She knows her well, after all.

They all do.

Farah reaches out, slowly, and lets her hand hover just over Eva’s knee. She doesn't touch her, knows better than to touch her, but it's close enough that Eva feels the warmth through her clothes.

“Do you want me to just sit here with you for a while? We don't have to go back home yet.”

Eva barely manages to choke back a dry sob at the mention of home, but unexpected relief washes over her all the same. Relief and gratefulness to Farah for putting into words what she certainly wouldn't have been able to think of. Not now.

She gives a quick nod. “Please,” she croaks.

Farah attempts a smile that manages to be warm despite the evident strain in it. She moves then, with a grace that Eva has envied before and which makes something in her chest constrict now, to settle more comfortably on the floor, legs crossed under her, facing Eva.

“Then we’re not going anywhere until you say so,” she says.

Soothing. Calming. Farah always knows how to be comforting.

“Thank you,” Eva sighs. Farah hums her assent.

With her here, real and solid in front of Eva, the red smoke and the crashing sounds and the voices seem to fade little by little into what they are: a distant memory, years old by now. Not real. Not something that can hurt her now.

(Except it lives under her skin, the consequence of it, the result of it, she’ll never be free of it—

Stop.

Stop, stop, stop.

Stop that thought dead in its tracks.)

A while later, Eva’s breathing still hasn’t gone back to normal. It’s still quick and ragged, shallow.

“Hey,” Farah speaks quietly, a low whisper that barely breaks the silence.

She waits for Eva to open her eyes—when had she closed them? How long has it been?—before speaking again.

“Give me your hands?” She says it as one would a question, extending her own, palms facing up.

Eva hesitates for a second—but only for a second.

The hesitation is instinctive, but the action is conscious. She places her hands in Farah’s, and Farah smiles at her.

With the warmth of the touch she’s reminded of the few times she’s done this before, in other circumstances.

Farah taking her hands and teaching her to dance, despite her initial, half-hearted protests.

Farah dragging her to celebrate her birthday because it was on the same day as hers and of course they needed a celebration; no, sneaking away with Nate to the library did not count, what part of it’s our birthday and we should have a party did she not understand?

Farah helping her stand up after a bad injury she’d sustained during a mission, the fear in her eyes eclipsed by the quick resolve to get her away.

She’s reminded of this, of all this. Of Farah’s liveliness and warmth but also of the way she always seems to understand how she feels, long before words are spoken.

Eva doesn’t quite manage to return Farah’s smile, but her lips twitch a little.

“Good,” Farah says. Her thumbs rub circles on the palms of Eva’s hands, and something soft in her eyes seems to make them glow golden, brighter than their usual amber. Something soft and sad and old, because as young as Farah seems, Eva is all too acutely aware (especially now, especially here, with a sting that doesn’t seem to go away) that she is still close to three times her age.

“Breathe with me?” Farah asks, before Eva’s thoughts can spiral too far in that direction.

Eva nods.

Farah breathes. Eva breathes.

It’s a deeper breath than any she’s taken since she got here.

They spend a while like this, until exhaustion finally settles in, weary and bone-deep. Until she’s staying here out of pure stubbornness, and when Farah quietly asks “home?” Eva does nothing but squeeze her hand and nod.

—

She tries then, she tries to adjust to the new information.

To move forward.

It’s what she’s always done. It’s the only thing that can be done.

She lets the rest of Unit Bravo know about the results (thinks for half a second about not saying anything, but she could never hide anything like this from them) and then refuses to discuss them at all.

It is what it is. If there is nothing that can be done to change it—and it has been made very clear to her that there is nothing that can be done, not about this—then there is no point in wasting time and energy thinking about it.

Because if she starts thinking about it, she’s not sure what she will do.

If she starts thinking about it, it’ll be back to the apartment, back to the rain, back to that other warehouse.

And if she starts thinking about it, she’s going to have to think about how all the reasons she had for wanting to turn in the first place are still there. They have not gone anywhere, except that now she has no way to deal with them.

She’s not sure if she feels numb or if she only wishes she did.

She thinks about it, anyway, whenever her gaze falls on the faint, jagged marks on her wrist, paler than the light brown of her skin.

For years she’d almost forget the scar was there, the memories associated with it pushed back to the deep corners of her mind. Now it seems to exert a gravitational pull of its own, drawing her sight to it without her permission.

She thinks about it whenever she remembers—and she remembers it often these days, can’t seem to pull the thought from her mind—that the blood in her veins is not her own. The whole of her body has been made into a foreign object; unrecognizable, enactor of violence upon itself.

The nightmares are worse than they’ve ever been.

—

It takes three days for Nate to bring it up: he’d been waiting for her to do it first.

He does it as gently as ever, as softly as ever. With a kiss to her forehead and hands seeking her skin, brushing down her arms. Perhaps hoping his touch would soothe the sting.

He seems almost apologetic, as though she could break at any moment.

Who’s to say she won’t?

“Joonam,” he whispers. “Will you tell me what’s on your mind?”

(Joonam, he calls her.

He calls her many things in many different languages, but this is the one he always, always comes back to.

Mi vida, she calls him.

Not as often as he does—she was never one for pet names—but often enough.

The thought forms before she can crush it: it seems almost cruel, now, that they’ve dug so deep to call each other my life when he will outlive her by an infinite amount.)

And the look in his eyes makes her want to cry all over again. He’s pleading with her, keeping the emotion from his voice but it’s clear in the way he looks at her.

Fuck, this won’t work.

She can’t keep doing this. She can’t do what she always does, not with this.

Because being with Nate has never been easy.

It has been many things—it has been love and passion and comfort and truth, but it has never been easy or painless. It has never been natural or effortless or uncomplicated.

They don’t fit together like that.

What it has been is a choice, constant and conscious. A choice to go against her instincts—her instincts that tell her to hide, to never stop moving, to raze what’s left and never look back—and open herself up in ways that leave her raw and exposed but so vibrantly, painfully alive.

(A choice that she’d been willing to make for the rest of eternity, even if it never got easier.

A choice that he makes for her, too.)

Poke around in the wound to dig the bullet out.

Her instincts tell her to pull back, and there are words on the tip of her tongue that she swallows down.

Slowly, she takes one of his hands in hers, brings it to her mouth to brush a delicate kiss against his knuckles.

“I will,” she says, eyes closed. If she opens them the words might not come out. “We’ll talk about it, I promise. Just—give me a little time, please. Just a little time.”

Nate breathes out a sigh that sounds like relief drowned in concern.

“Of course,” he says. “Anything you need.”

—

The water in the bathtub has cooled around them; the steam dissipated long ago.

Even in the cooling air, they have not moved in a while: Eva leans back against Nate’s chest with her eyes closed, his arms wrapped loosely around her as he presses sweet, barely-there kisses to the birthmarks on her shoulders. He follows paths he has mapped and memorized countless times before, ones that feel familiar on her skin.

Ones that should be soothing.

As slowly as ever, Nate lets his kisses trail up the side of her neck. They are soft, featherlight; his lips ghost over the multiple marks that have accumulated there before lavishing her with an attention that makes her shiver.

For the longest time, this was something he would not allow himself.

For the longest time, he would shy away from Eva’s neck as though burnt, and the first time he let her see the fear in his eyes as his fingertips traced the line of her throat is a moment that remains imprinted on her mind.

(She took his hand and pressed it more firmly against the side of her neck, against the beating pulse there. Gentle, almost as gentle as he always was with her—and always offering him the choice to draw back. He almost stopped breathing, but his eyes never left hers, and that single instant stretched out into moments, into something she still struggles to name.)

A lifetime seems to have passed since then.

He does not shy away from it now. Not now.

“I wish we could stay like this,” Eva murmurs.

Just this, right here.

A single moment, endless. One where nothing else matters or even exists. One where the thoughts that have been plaguing her have no power or importance.

“We can,” Nate whispers in return. His breath is warm, still close to her skin, and he follows it with another kiss directly over her pulse. “As long as you want to.”

She lets out a sigh. It would be so easy.

God, so easy.

So easy it’s terrifying.

The temptation to never talk about it again hasn’t gone away.

But thoughts become corrosive. They seep into every last piece of her sanity that she’s tried to keep safe. Into every dream and every waking moment until nothing, nothing remains untainted.

The way she flinches when she sees the scar, when she barely paid attention to it before. The way she looks at herself in the mirror and finds flaws she hadn’t noticed, the way she sometimes wants nothing more than to open her skin and drain out the blood to get it all out. Maybe that would help.

No, it would not be that easy.

“Not that long,” she forces herself to say. The words are always stuck in her throat, and they will not come out on their own. “Not forever.”

Nate’s kisses stop, and the briefest moment of tension tightens his embrace—something Eva might not have noticed if she didn’t know him like she does. But he speaks into the crook of her neck, tenderness the only thing in the softness of his voice. “Do you want to talk about it now?”

It has only been a few days since he’d mentioned it.

“I don’t think I’ll ever want to talk about it,” Eva admits. “But I have to stop acting like it’s something we don’t have to talk about.”

She sighs again, sinking further against him. Her own hands come to rest on his arms, wrapping them more tightly around her. “I just don’t know what to do. Where do we go from here?”

Nate hums, a soft sound she’s come to recognize as a contradictory mix of subtle exasperation and patience, tempered by love and concern. She’s been on the receiving end of it more than a few times. “We’ll get to that part. Let’s take it one thing at a time.”

Unspoken: For now, just tell me how you feel.

Also unspoken (because it has been spoken too many times): You don’t have to solve everything by yourself. You don’t have to solve everything right away.

He knows her too well.

It makes her want to cry, that he knows her this well.

“I just never thought about this.” Didn’t think it wouldn’t work. “I didn’t even consider it.” Her voice is barely above a whisper. Small. So fucking defeated.

Because if she can’t do anything—

“None of us did,” Nate says, and that cuts deep, too.

He does not have defeat in his voice like she does, but the barely concealed pain is enough to make her eyes sting.

The fact that he’s trying to conceal it at all.

For her sake.

Dammit, Nate.

Because if she can’t do anything, then what’s left?

(“Nate, I don't get to have a normal life.” She’d been trying not to raise her voice, to rein in the tremor in her words. Trying, and failing. “Not with this blood, not with these scars. Not with everything that's happened to me already. Do you think anyone can be normal after that?”

One of the many times they’d argued about this. He had tried, wanted to show her value in humanity that she could never see.

He’d turn back, he’d choose to be human, to be mortal, if only he could.

“Even if I could have that,” she’d added, more quietly. “I don’t want it. If this all went away, what do you think would be left of me?”)

She shifts in his arms, turns around until she can face him.

“I wanted this, Nate.” She lifts a hand to close her fingers around the pendant that hangs from her neck, the one she never takes off, the one he gave her. She closes them so tightly her nails dig into her palm. “I wanted us, like this, forever. I wanted it so much I don’t know how to be anything else anymore. Nothing else makes sense even if I try.”

Nate covers her hand with his own, both closed around the pendant. He hesitates before speaking, examining her with eyes that betray the depth of feeling in them, but eventually, he does. “I know nothing can dull the pain of having the choice taken from you,” he says, careful, too careful. He’s been through this. “I know that. I would give everything I have to spare you that hurt.”

“But I’m—” A soft breath escapes his lips, something that is not intentional, something that is far less controlled. “I’m not going anywhere. I will make that promise a thousand times over. It will still be… it can still be forever, for you. You still have us. You still have me.”

“And you’ll just watch? You’ll watch me get older, weaker, god knows what else? You’ll be okay with that? With watching me die?”

The questions leave her mouth like bullets, one after the other.

Harsh. Too raw. The things neither of them wants to hear.

She’s the one panicking, now.

She’s said this before.

And Nate flinches, flinches at the bluntness of it—she wants to take it back at that, even when she knows it has to be said—but it does not make his voice waver when he speaks. “I love you,” he says, as though that answers all her questions. “Nothing can change that. Every second you’ve chosen to give me has been something precious, something I have treasured, and it will continue to be, no matter what.”

One of his hands moves to tangle in the wet locks of her hair. To hold her in place, staring into the depth of his brown eyes, eyes that reflect back the same hurt she feels even if he will not say it.

“Before we talked about this, before you decided to turn, I—I knew I might not have you forever. I didn’t dare to hope I would, didn’t dare to think of it. But loving you is worth any pain that might come from it.”

Her throat constricts, and the emotion in Nate’s voice dulls the edge she’d imparted to her words. Of course Nate would say this. Of course he would think this, would feel this.

He would break himself to keep her.

He would break himself for her, without even a hint of hesitation.

(I won’t do that to you. She’d said that.)

She looks away, blinking to get rid of the tears that prickle at her eyes. She fixes her stare on the edge of the bathtub: gleaming, burnished copper misted over with condensation.

Instead of following that line of thought—she doesn’t trust herself to—she grasps at something else. Something that stabs with equal force at her chest.

It sounds like someone else speaking when she says, “I don’t want to be less than you.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees the way he frowns.

“Being human doesn't make you less, Eva.” Nate is resolute, his voice firm even in its warmth, echoes of a recurring argument neither of them had ever won.

“But it does,” she counters, voice cracking and desperate, turning her face back to meet his eyes. “Don’t you see it? It does, and it will always feel that way. I already have to try so hard just to keep up. What happens when I can’t anymore? What happens when my body gives up, when I'm too slow, too weak to go on missions?”

Why won’t he see it?

She has tried. Tried to make up for her lack of abilities, for her humanity. She has tried to attenuate it, to make sure it does not become a burden.

She has learned combat from Morgan and Adam, spent hours upon hours in the training room with them until she can barely stand, until Adam smiles at her after a well-placed hit, until Morgan throws a towel for her to catch and there’s nothing but pride in the look she gives her.

She has studied the supernatural world in every way she can; submerged herself in it, let it coat every cell of her body and every neuron in her brain.

It is what she breathes.

And she’s been forced out of it.

“That still wouldn’t make you less, nothing could.” The affection, the love in his voice burns. “There is so much more to you than what you can do.”

She shakes her head.

“I swore I wouldn’t be a burden to this team. And you know how I am, Nate, I couldn’t bear—I don’t want to get left behind. And I will. You’ll keep on being who you are and I… won’t.”

The tears aren’t pricking at her eyes anymore. They are falling.

The words aren’t stuck in her throat anymore.

“Everything I told you I didn’t want, all of it, that’s going to happen and there’s nothing I can do about it. And I have this thing inside me that’s making it all happen and my body isn’t mine anymore. I don’t get a say in any of it.”

She leans forward to rest her head on his shoulder, seeking the comfort of his touch even when it won’t, it can’t be enough. Not for this.

She is instantly enveloped in his arms, drawing her closer against him.

“I’m sorry, mi vida,” she whispers against his skin. “I just don’t know what to do.”

“I’m sorry, too,” he answers, quiet, almost too quiet, into her hair.

And there is a thought.

Because if there is nothing she can do—

But this is one she refuses to even entertain. To acknowledge.

I won’t do that to you.

She’d said that.

#the wayhaven chronicles #nate sewell #oc: eva #qbwrites #qbwritestwc

53 notes · View notes

lizziestudieshistory · 3 years

Text

Books of 2021: The Way of Kings - Brandon Sanderson

I have a few things to acknowledge here before we get into the proper review - this is REALLY LONG and VERY CRITICAL. I promise you I do genuinely love The Stormlight Archive, but if you are someone who doesn’t like to see criticism of Sanderson or Stormlight, then please don’t read this.

This review has spoilers for The Stormlight Archive - you have been warned.

I’ve made no secret of my love for the Stormlight Archive - it’s my favourite ongoing fantasy series. I’ve also avoided reviewing it, and I’ve been putting it off since I first read it back in 2016 (could be 2017? It was a while ago.) How could I review something I love so much? How do I approach reviewing a 1,100 page epic fantasy novel? I just didn’t know. To be honest, I still don’t. I adore this series, it’s become part of my identity - if you asked any of my friends what’s Lizzie’s favourite book they would probably say Stormlight. Maybe Lord of the Rings but that’s a different kettle of fish.

I’ve reread The Stormlight Archive annually for the last five years. I promise myself I won’t reread it and let myself come back in anticipation for the next book. I’ve failed miserably every year. And these aren’t small undertakings - they’re each 1,000 pages and there’s four of them now! For context I usually only read 2,500 pages a month.

So, I’ve finally decided to review these doorstoppers dressed up as fantasy novels. These reviews are mainly for myself, they’re going to be self indulgent, long, and focus on what I want to discuss like characters, structure, and prose - rather than reviewing the things I should probably talk about (like the actual plot…) I want to work through all the things I love about this behemoth of the modern fantasy genre, but also focus on its flaws. The praise for Sanderson is everywhere, so I want to work through my honest opinion of these books, work out why I love them, and I’ll invite you on this journey of self discovery with me.

Structure

I’m yet to work out why I’m starting with structure but we are, I guess it helps with the framing. In case you’re reading this having not read The Way of Kings, each book in the Stormlight Archive is made up of 5 main parts that follow major viewpoint characters, and the parts are split up with small interludes that expand the worldbuilding, follow important secondary characters, or foreshadow future moments. Everybook is centred on a key character - in The Way of Kings it’s Kaladin - who we follow in the present day as a major viewpoint character and explore their backstory through a flashback sequence. Each book also has a prologue which retells the assassination of the Alethi king, Gavilar Kholin, and an epilogue from Wit.

Firstly, this book takes FAR too long to get going and even longer to get into as a reader. I’m not joking when I say there are FIVE introductory chapters: the prelude, a prologue, Cenn’s second prologue (technically the first chapter but it’s a prologue), Kaladin’s introduction, and Shallan’s introduction. It’s too much. We’re jumping around, nothing really makes sense, and we’re not sure how these characters are related. They could be taking place in different worlds for all you know on a first read.

When I first read this book I was a lot more patient with long introductions and multiple false starts - I had the time to dedicate to getting into the story. I could, and did, forgive the THREE false starts to this story before we get to Kaladin’s first chapter. However, the opening structure of this novel is a mistake. If someone gives up in this section I honestly don’t blame them - if I was reading this for the first time in 2021 I probably would too.

The prelude and prologue are both excellent. The prelude in particular is weird and confusing but also sets up a clear mystery and sense of the sheer scope of this story. Szeth’s prologue, the first time we see Gavilar’s assassination, is flawed but still wonderful. The fight scene needed a bit of cutting, for my tastes, and I think the introduction to the magic system is clumsy - there’s far too much obvious info dumping and it needed some serious editing, especially as the complicated use of the magic that Szeth uses is barely relevant in this book. However, I think the Herald’s giving up the Oathpact and a magical assassin is great! They’re a bit weird and you’re not sure what’s going on, but it’s engaging.

Then there’s Cenn. Poor, innocent Cenn. I’m sorry but he’s completely unnecessary. Independently of the rest of the introduction to the Way of Kings Cenn’s chapter would be a pretty good prologue as he’s there to set up our main hero Kaladin from an outside perspective. We love Kaladin and Cenn’s chapter is fine for establishing him as a typical fantasy hero – he’s a warrior, cares about the people, and so forth.

However, Cenn’s chapter in the context bogs down the opening too much. It’s too long, not particularly relevant, and adds yet ANOTHER prologue to this already enormous book. Cenn’s chapter offers nothing to the reader that we don’t learn later on in the text when the content of Cenn’s chapter makes more sense. We even see the exact same sequence of events from Kaladin’s perspective in a flashback! Not having Cenn’s chapter would add more interest to Kaladin’s character and add more weight to the flashback sequence because we wouldn’t have met Kaladin at his peak (sort of…?)

Kaladin’s flashbacks aren’t that engaging as it is, he’s a fairly standard fantasy hero from a small village who ends up leaving his happy family to go to war. So leaving a small mystery around him in addition to ‘how did he become a slave’ would help with my engagement. It would leave me wondering how reliable is Kaladin as a narrator, is he really as good with the spear as he claims? I wouldn’t know but Cenn’s chapter removes all the mystery apart from ‘how does Kaladin become a slave’. It needs to go to make Kaladin more interesting and cut down on some of the unnecessary page count.

While we’re at it… Just cut out ALL the interludes in this book, except for the Szeth through line. I KNOW they are here for the Cosmere connections and to foreshadow things much later in the series. However, new readers and Stormlight only readers don’t know this and, quite frankly, they SUCK. In later books the interludes make sense but here they add so much tedious, pointless crap to an already bloated book. They’re too much and add next to nothing – other than seeing Szeth lose it as he kills people, that was fun (in a disturbing, creepy way… Can you tell I like Szeth?) Either this stuff needs to be relevant to the book we’re in now, or painfully obvious that we’re coming back to this stuff in later books. I still don’t know why we got Ishikk’s interlude with the Worldhoppers, and I completely forgot Nan Balat had an interlude. I’ve read this book 5 times… THAT IS HOW POINTLESS THEY ARE! Sanderson should weave the necessary foreshadowing into the main text, intersperse the perspectives we do need for THIS story into the main sections, or cut them out. When I get to the interludes I physically sigh and sometimes put the book down - now I just skip everything but Szeth - but on a first read they’re really off putting.

To finish up with my complaints about the structure, and this is a big one for me - why do we have huge chunks of this book without major viewpoint characters? I’m biased here but Dalinar is probably the most important POV character in the story because he introduces the real stakes of the story. He has the groundbreaking visions of the past, he is the viewpoint we get into the politics of the war, he is the character who does and continues to have the most impact on the development of the story on his own.Yet, we don’t meet him until we’re 190 pages in…

Sanderson alternates Shallan and Dalinar’s chapters between the five different parts and that means they vanish for 400 pages at a time. Why? I ended up caring about them right as we’re about to lose their viewpoint again for the next part. We needed to see the three major POV characters interwoven together throughout the five parts, not randomly dropped and picked back up again. The structure of this book was a mistake.

Okay, I promise I do actually like this book…

Worldbuilding

Something I do love is the worldbuilding of Roshar, and I usually don’t care that much about worldbuilding. I can really appreciate good worldbuilding, especially on the history side of things, but for most novels it’s just fine? If I roughly know what’s going on with the world then we’re good, I can just get on with the story and not worry about it. However, Roshar is genuinely beautifully built! It takes A LOT to get me to visualise a world as I’m not a visual reader. I can feel the atmosphere, get to know characters, but can I imagine a face or setting? No.

There are three fantasy worlds that have allowed me to actually see the world and it’s landscape: Middle Earth, Discworld, and Roshar. The bleak, storm weathered landscape of the Shattered Plains is so embedded in my mind it’s ridiculous, the only place I can picture more is the Shire – and Lord of the Rings has a film to help it!

Now, to be fair it’s hard for me to separate the worldbuilding in The Way of Kings from the rest of the series, so I now have 4,000 pages worth of worldbuilding in my head… However, it’s certainly strong and I distinctly remember having a vivid image of understanding this world, the atmosphere, landscape, and so forth, on my first read. Although it did take me until Oathbringer to realise that everything, except humanity, was basically a crab… (I think that was just me being dense.)

I do think Roshar needs much more of its history to be expanded on. We don’t have much between the Last Desolation (don’t ask me to spell it's in-world title!) and it shows at times. I don’t expect something on the level of The Silmarillion for Roshar, however, I do think we need to see something more substantial in the period between the Desolations and the present day. We know about the Recreance, the attempted takeover of the Vorin Church, and the Sunmaker? That’s 4000 years! To put it into context it’s the distance between us and Jesus’s birth TWICE, it’s like we know about the end of the 11th Dynasty of Egypt, the Reformation, and the British Empire in our own history... We need to find a balance, especially as we get so much development of science in the later books. More history please - but this is a personal issue and a series wide problem, not just The Way of Kings.

Magic System

Now, this is controversial for Sanderson, but I’m going to skip this for now. This review is already well over 1,000 words long and I’ve not even started on the meat of the novel yet. The magic system isn’t really fleshed out in The Way of Kings, we only really know stuff about the Windrunners (in an abstract kind of way) and the very basics of the Knights Radiant in general. So I’m going to discuss the magic when I get around to reviewing Words of Radiance, Oathbringer, and Rhythm of War, basically whenever I have the energy and more space.

Safe to say I actually really like the magic system in the Stormlight Archive. I usually dislike hard magic systems (I think I’m the only person who dislikes Mistborn’s Allomancy - while very well developed, it’s a bit silly and is far too much for my tastes...) as they often take some of the wonder, mystery, and excitement of fantasy out of the story for me. However, I think surgebinding is a fun system and there is a lot more of it for use to discover, preserving some of that mystery. Oh and, if you were wondering, I would be a Skybreaker!

Prose

Okay if you read the structure section and were wondering - why is this woman still reading these books, you’re in for another head scratcher.

If you’ve ever talked to me about literature you’ll know that there are two things I look for in a really good book: characters and prose. Now characters are something Sanderson does phenomenally well in the Stormlight Archive, but that’s not something you can tell 100 pages into a 1,000 page tome. You have to sit with the characters for a long time and give the author some page time to familiarise you with the people you’re following. If you trust him, Sanderson pulls off some stunning character arcs, especially in the long term and I’ll talk more about characters later on (or you can just skip this section? Up to you really!).

However, prose is something you notice immediately, and Sanderson’s is…utilitarian at best. At worst it’s abysmal. These days I’m very picky about prose, a utilitarian style is fine but a book is unlikely to become a new favourite of mine without good writing. This doesn’t mean I want or expect the writing to be flowery or elaborate, but it does mean I want, and appreciate it when, the prose suits the tone of the narrative and world. I must acknowledge that I’m in a (vocal) minority here, a lot of people either don’t notice Sanderson’s style or like it - I certainly didn’t mind it when I first read ther series - so this is definitely a subjective opinion but one I’m certainly not alone in.

Nevertheless, for me Sanderson’s prose is overly simplistic, repetitive, and very American. Okay so the American is probably only noticeable if you’re not American. However, I’m used to fantasy having a certain Britishness to the writing style, even when the author isn’t British, but to me (as a Brit and fantasy reader) the Americanisms are painful at times… There is no way in hell I’m ever going to acknowledge that aluminium is aluminum no matter how many times Sanderson uses it!

Yet it goes beyond a spelling issue because, let's be honest, in this day and age American English is widely spoken and regularly used in fantasy literature - you can’t escape from it as much as I want to. It’s in the style of writing and construction of sentences. The entire narrative reads like an American has decided to tell me a story using their colloquial, everyday speech. It’s a deliberate choice on Sanderson’s part to make things accessible and digestible, and for some people this works. I do think he has a fantastic style to get readers in, especially readers who are getting to grips with high epic fantasy as it’s one less barrier to entry in an already difficult novel. But it does mean rereading isn’t always the best experience and sometimes the writing can jar me out of the story.

In places it’s too simple and colloquial, so much so the writing becomes clunky, clumsy, and unrealistic to the world he’s creating, especially in descriptive passages and dialogue. It reads like Sanderson could have used more lyrical or formal writing but deliberately chose not to - at the detriment of the prose. This is particularly noticeable with characters like Jasnah Kholin. Jasnah is a princess, brilliant scholar, and political mastermind, she’s known for her poise, elegance, and intelligence. Yet she often speaks like an everyday 21st century American and other characters who haven’t had the same education or training as she has? I can’t believe this for a moment, her dialogue is so egregious in places that it’s like I’ve been hit over the head with my own book! I physically cringe when she says things like ‘“scoot over here”’ (chapter 70, p.1083). WHY is Jasnah talking like this?! It doesn’t make sense to me – Shallan maybe, but Jasnah? No. It doesn’t fit with what we’ve been told about her character.

(Just as an aside, I loathe the word ‘scoot’ – it should be burnt from the English language as an abomination!)

Part of the issue with this is Sanderson usually doesn’t distinguish between the character's voices, both in the dialogue and prose. Most of the time if you dropped me into a random section of the Stormlight Archive with no context I honestly couldn’t tell you who’s speaking or narrating without the signposts Sanderson gives us. This isn’t a huge issue as he’s writing in third person limited, and with context and the chapter icons we know who we’re following. However, it does mean we don’t have any idea of character voice – in the general prose, internal narration/thought, or speech. What’s the difference between Kaladin’s dialogue and Jasnah’s? I have no idea from the sentence construction or speech patterns. Certain descriptions of how characters speak help to differentiate (Jasnah is commanding, Shallan squeaks, Kaladin grunts, etc.) but from their speech patterns I wouldn’t have a clue.

All of this comes back to Sanderson’s overly simple and Americanised style. It’s his choice and it does work for many people, but personally it doesn’t always work with the characters or story. I’m not expecting him to write like Robin Hobb or Guy Gavriel Kay, but some finesse and awareness of character would be appreciated, especially if it helped to differentiate character voices.

I’m also going to throw this out as a very personal issue because I’m not sure where else to put it… Sanderson has the worst sense of humour I’ve ever had the misfortune to read. The comedic moments are occasionally amusing… However, Shallan’s puns are worse than my Dad’s jokes. Every time she says something apparently ‘witty’ and someone else remarks how clever and funny she is I want to hit them... At best she’s mildly amusing, at worst she’s cruel. It’s never funny. (This only gets worse with Lift, I almost DNFed the entire series because of the Lift interlude in Words of Radiance. And don’t get me started on Lopen.)

Characters

At last! Something I genuinely love and the reason I read these books! Sanderson has created some of the best characters in modern fantasy in this series and they are the only reason I’m still going. I like the worldbuilding and plot, but I adore the character work in this book and the series as a whole. The characters are generally so good that, even when I dislike them, it's because I dislike them personally, not that they’re badly written characters! Usually I love Sanderson’s characters though, even when they’re incredibly flawed (looking at you Dalinar!) because he’s particularly good at complex character arcs.

Szeth – I love Szeth, slightly irrationally for how much he’s in both this book and the series as a whole, but he’s one of my favourite “secondary” characters in the series! Szeth is actually the character who made me fall in love with the series in the first place, which feels weird to say because he only has five or six chapters in the entire novel. However, a magical assassin with a strong, if morally dubious, sense of duty and obligations? Sign me up! The opening prologue from Szeth’s perspective is wonderful - it’s far too info-dumpy but it’s highly engaging and one hell of a way to open the series.

What really intrigued me about Szeth was his role as the interlude throughline character for The Way of Kings. His internal conflict between his obligation to follow the Truthless’ laws and his personal morality is fascinating. Szeth’s character development has been one of the highlights of the entire series for me, especially as we explore his personal morality, questioning of power, and commitment to law and justice. This conflict is one of the reasons I love the Skybreakers in general and I sincerely hope we get to see more of this (and their conflict with the theoretically similar, although realistically very different, Windrunners) in book 5. However, Szeth is a promise that Sanderson hasn’t kept yet. So much has been built up around his character and we haven’t explored him properly (as of Rhythm of War) and I’m mad about it! He’s an incredibly interesting character, morally and thematically, and I hope Sanderson can live up to the hype he’s built up around him in the first four books of the series.

Kaladin – Okay the real reason we’re all here, the shining beacon of the Stormlight Archive, everyone’s favourite heroic bridgeman: Kaladin Stormblessed. Confession time – I didn’t love Kaladin the first time I read The Way of Kings. Don’t get me wrong I liked him but I’m generally not a massive fan of underdog superhero narratives. (I’m still not a fan of Bridge Four in general for the same reason, I would apologise but I’m not sorry…)

Kaladin spends most of this novel running bridges for Highprince Sadeas on the Shattered Plains. Unjustly enslaved by a corrupt member of the aristocracy, Kaladin is fighting to keep himself and his bridgecrew alive during one of the most pointless “wars” I've read in a fantasy novel - the pointlessness isn’t actually a criticism. He’s facing systematic oppression and disregard for human life, as well as battling his own depression and forming a bond with a spren named Syl (I absolutely adore Syl! But I want to talk about her in my review for Words of Radiance.)

So… I’ve always been frustrated with Kaladin’s fundamental drive to save people and take responsibility for people’s deaths, even when there was nothing he could have done to save them. This book is probably the worst for it out of the four currently published and I just found it a bit much because I personally struggle to relate to his attitude. This level of personal responsibility is a completely alien concept to me, at least to this level, and it’s Kaladin’s entire thing - his driving personality trait - and I just didn’t get it. Kaladin and I are very different people and for a long time I really struggled to relate to him on the same level everyone else seems to in this book. It also didn’t help that the main plot around Kaladin running bridges, struggling with his depression, and trying to keep his men alive is very repetitive… So when you’re in the midst of it and struggling to connect quite so deeply with Kaladin this book can become a slog - yet, the pay off for his struggles is so satisfying and it is very much worth it for making the end feel earned.

However, my issues with connecting to Kaladin is definitely on me and this is by no means to say Kaladin is a badly written character, I’ve always admired how well Kaladin is drawn in this book. Within a few chapters I understood who Kaladin is, and really loved the conflict he had with his depression and role as a fantasy hero. It's beautifully painful to watch and, even when you’re a bit ambivalent about Kaladin, you really care about whether he and Bridge Four are going to survive the bridgecrews – and the climax sequence with Kaladin becoming Stormblessed again at the Tower is still one of my favourite moments in the entire series!

However, on this reread of the series I had a completely different experience to what I’ve had on previous reads, and a lot of this is down to Rhythm of War. I don’t want to say too much here because it’ll involve spoilers for Rhythm of Warm but having seen Kaladin confront his, as Ron Weasley would say, “saving people thing” and really struggle to keep functioning as Stormblessed, I was so much more on board with this book. Rhythm of War’s much more personal approach to Kaladin really helped me understand him as a person, not just the underdog hero. The struggle with his sense of self, the way his depression impacts his ability to act, and the way he’s moving forward in Rhythm of War let me appreciate the character work for Kaladin in The Way of Kings. The struggle, graft, and determination, especially given his mindset, is much more admirable when I can strip away the focus on doggedly protecting everyone no matter the personal cost.

Kaladin and I are very different people, but that’s okay and I’ve come to appreciate him a lot more in the last 7 months. Now I can happily adore him alongside everyone else, and not just nod along with the rest of the fandom because I understand he’s objectively a well written character. Also Kaladin’s mental health rep is some of the best I’ve seen in an epic fantasy series. However, I would approach this book, and series, carefully if you’re sensitive to depression.

Shallan – confession time round two: I hate Shallan. I really loathe her on a deeply personal level. And I’m still bitter about it because I used to love her, when I first read this book she was my favourite character! This was partly due to relating to her and partly due to my frustration with Kaladin. However, as I read Words of Radiance I grew uncomfortable with her and by Oathbringer it became a full on HATED of her…and it’s never gone away.

I first met Shallan when I was a shy 18-year-old, budding historian and scholar. I got Shallan, I loved her plotline, and found Khabranth a lot more interesting than the endless bridgeruns with Kaladin (sorry Kaladin!) I connected with her because she represented (projected) a lot of what I was at the time - and still am today, just an older version of that person. She was the main character that really drew me into the story - yes I loved Szeth and thought he was brilliant, but Szeth is largely absent from this novel and Shallan is the main female lead.

And then I got hit in the face by the infamous Words of Radiance “Boots” chapter, and I immediately got iffy vibes, then there was the Chasm sequence, and so many other moments that made me uncomfortable. I’ll avoid spoilers and, for now, just say I got hit in the face by Shallan’s innate privilege, her causal abuse of social rank, and complete lack of social and self awareness. To top it off the narrative gives her no consequences for this and even rewards her for her behaviour, rather than making Shallan work through the issues around classism (something I, as a Brit, am hyper aware of and it SHOULD NOT under ANY circumstances be ignored, especially with Kaladin’s narrative running parallel to Shallan.) However, this is later book issues and a major dropped theme that I’m fuming about, but I still found I liked Shallan in THIS book when I reread the series.

Not this time.

There are moments in The Way of Kings where we can already see Shallan’s privilege and complete disregard of anyone who is remotely lower than her in the Vorin hierarchy. The scene with the book merchant stands out. No one in that scene is innocent, and I’m much less annoyed by it than I am at the “Boots” scene, however, it shows an early form of Shallan’s complete inability to reflect on her own behaviour towards those with less power than herself. She’s casually abusive and manipulative, but no one really calls her out on it. The few moments when someone does confront Shallan about it, and the narrative consistently forgives her because Sanderson allows her to come across as the victor in each of the arguments. This isn’t to say Shallan’s causal abuse of the Vorin social system shouldn’t be present in the book. It’s actually very realistic, in our world white people (especially white women) have behaved like Shallan for centuries. However, what does matter is the narrative framing. However, I’ll dig into this when I get to reviewing Words of Radiance because a lot of my planned review for that book is centred around this issue.

I’m also resentful that Shallan’s character in The Way of Kings is a complete lie – we don’t know her at all, but not in the same way as Dalinar? We KNOW something is off with Dalinar, we KNOW he was a terrible person and a warmonger from the way people talk about the Blackthorn – but Shallan’s reveal largely comes out of nowhere in some respects and I HATE that the person I loved so much 5 years ago was a complete lie. I’m a bitter person and I will continue to hold a grudge until Shallan dies or the series ends, whichever comes first.

Jasnah – my problematic QUEEN. Is Jasnah a shitty person? Yes. Do I love her anyway? Yes. Difference is I knew Jasnah was shitty from the start… I like problematic characters, I just hate being lied to (*cue insincere smile at Shallan*)

Jasnah is a difficult character to talk about in this book because we don’t know much about her other than her public persona, however, she’s a large part of why I love it so much. I just like brilliant women who would kill me, okay? It also helps that she's an historian, I have a soft spot for murderous historians. I’ll talk more about Jasnah when I review Oathbriner, hopefully that won’t be in another 5 years…! I just wanted to highlight that I do love a female character in this book!

Actually on the topic, Sanderson is still a shitty author for female friendships – he has included more female characters in Stormlight but why are there no female friendships that aren’t rooted in backstabbing and lies?!

Dalinar – if Jasnah is my problematic Queen then Dalinar has to be the problematic King. Dalinar is my favourite Stormlight Archive character. I could wax lyrical about what a BRILLIANT character he is. You may not like Dalinar, you may not forgive him, but you have to admit he is the best written character in ANYTHING Sanderson has written, and one of the best in modern fantasy. Nevertheless, much like Jasnah I’m going to wait until I review Oathbringer before I talk about Dalinar because I can’t do him justice without his flashbacks. However, I will tell you a story about the time I first met Dalinar Kholin.

So, I first read The Way of Kings on my commute back and forth to Worcester Cathedral because I had a work placement in the Cathedral’s archives. I’d been doing this commute for months and reached the point where I knew when to get off the train by feeling, no need to check the stations (this is relevant).

I was on my commute home, and as I was walking to the train station I started part two. I met Adolin and he was fine. I was a bit confused because this was a whole new perspective and set of characters, but I was doing okay. (Yes I was walking and reading, no I do not recommend this arrangement for health reasons.)

And then I met Dalinar. As I got on the train we got into his own head, with the mystery of the visions just starting, the hints towards his complicated relationship with Elhokar, and the amazing fight with the Chasmfiend. Bearing in mind I was automatically doing my commute through this – I’d become so invested in Dalinar, I missed my transfer on the train. I’ve never done anything like this before in my life. I’m paranoid about it! But I was so engrossed in this aged general, who was potentially going mad, that I missed the stop on my train and didn’t even notice until we hit Birmingham New Street.

I was so in love with Dalinar Kholin that I travelled to the wrong city… And my love for him has only gotten stronger*.

Conclusion

Overall I have a complicated relationship with The Way of Kings, and The Stormlight Archive in general. I love this series, I particularly adore the characters and character work Sanderson is doing as the books continue. However, it is severely overhyped. There are a lot of flaws in this book, especially with the writing and structural aspect of this novel. It’s poorly paced, clumsily written, and lacking finesse. For me Sanderson is an okay writer but a wonderful storyteller. As a storyteller he’s made a huge contribution to the fantasy genre and I’m here for the major improvement he’s made in popularising more complex character work and the inclusion of mental health representation. We’re just seeing the start of this shift in the fantasy genre and I’m excited to see where Stormlight and fantasy are going to go with this movement.

However, as a writer he has a long way to go in improving his craft of writing. These are big books, and I will often forgive mistakes with narrative structure in books of this size because they are so huge. However, this doesn’t mean we shouldn’t acknowledge them when reviewing the novel. Mistakes were made, especially in The Way of Kings, and are still being made but Sanderson has been slowly improving with the later books.

There’s a lot to love in The Stormlight Archive - the worldbuilding is insane, the characters are incredible, and the plots are gripping. I love them, and I will continue to eagerly await the next installments! But they’re far from perfect, and that’s okay. Sanderson has captured the imaginations of thousands of fantasy readers and I would highly recommend you give these books a go, despite my critical review. This is a fabulous time to be a fantasy reader and The Stormlight Archive is one of the most exciting reasons to be reading the genre!

*Dalinar and I are going to be on thin ice if Sanderson continues with his character as he did in Rhythm of War, but again I’ll address that when I review Rhythm of War.

#the way of kings #the stormlight archive #brandon sanderson #cosmere #book review #kaladin stormblessed #dalinar kholin #jasnah kholin #szeth son son vallano #not tagging a certain character because last time I had really nasty comments #i promise i really do love this book #i'm just critical of everything I read these days #especially when I've read it five times

26 notes · View notes

gravelyhumerus · 3 years

Text

Criminal Minds College AU - Chapter Thirteen

Fandom: Criminal Minds

Title: “I may just take your breath away” Relationship: Jemily

Rating: Explicit Summary: Foxes, lattes, churches and resolutions.

Slow-burn Jemily college AU where they live across the hall and despite all odds, the universe pushes them together. AKA they’re silly gay babies who pine after each other for months.

Read it on AO3

Tumblr: One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten, Eleven, Twelve, Thirteen, Fourteen, Fifteen, Sixteen, (bonus scene), Seventeen, Eighteen, Nineteen, Twenty, Epilogue

The first thing she noticed was the snow. It was falling down on her, hitting her skin with pinpricks of ice cold. She wandered through the bookshelves, searching for something. She wasn’t sure what for.

It didn’t normally snow inside the library, but that didn’t seem to matter to her.

The snow crunched beneath her feet as she turned down another row of books, past the history section and stepping over a stack of books on the floor that was left there by some other student. To her left was a row of empty desks. It was just Emily and the books.

But, Emily didn’t feel peaceful. Something inside of her told her that she couldn’t wait around, she needed to do something, find something.

Emily trudged through the snow. Was she searching for a spot to sit and study? Was she searching for a book? When she found it, she would know.

She turned down a corridor, looking up and down the tall bookcases, her eyes skimming along the spines. They were old leather bound tomes, in rich oranges, blues and reds. They looked as if they hadn’t been read in decades. She searched for something she recognized, but nothing made sense to her as she couldn’t make out the titles or authors.

Out of frustration, she turned away to stomp back down the row, but something stopped her in her tracks.

Emily blinked at the image in front of her. It was a fox standing in the middle of the fiction section, looking at her expectantly. It was as if he had climbed out of one of the books and materialized before her eyes.

“Bonjour,” Emily said, kneeling down before the animal.

“Bonjour,” said the fox.

Emily looked around, confused at the appearance of the animal. What was a fox doing in a library? When she looked back, he was gone.

She looked around.

“Je suis là,” came the voice, from between two books, announcing his presence on the adjacent shelf.

“Qui es-tu?” Emily asked, wondering who he was—or what he was—and what on earth he was doing here in her college’s library.

“Je suis un renard,” said the fox. He was a fox. No shit.

She blinked at him, trying to figure out what she was remembering. The fox was familiar. She had seen him before… or read about him before.

It was just like out of Le Petit Prince—the book that JJ had given her for her birthday. The book was a classic children’s novel, one that Emily had read many times. It was as if the character had simply stepped out of the book.

The book was about a little boy who lived on an asteroid and was in love with a rose. He went on an adventure through space before landing on Earth. There, he befriended a fox. Emily could picture the simple watercolour illustration of the small boy prince speaking to the fox. She could almost feel the pages of the book between her fingers. She smiled as she thought of JJ’s excited face as Emily unwrapped the present a few weeks back.

This fox, like in the book, was speaking to her. She racked her brain for what she was supposed to say.

“What am I doing here?” Emily asked, this time in English.

“Je ne puis pas jouer avec toi,” said the fox, which was not the answer to her question, since he had told her that he couldn’t play with her. “Je ne suis pas apprivoisé."

I am not tamed, he said. He has not yet been tamed. Emily remembered now what she must say.

“What does tamed mean?” she asked, in French.

The fox jumped down from the bookshelf and walked through the library, his small paws leaving prints in the white snow. He was bright red against the ground and easy to follow through the familiar stacks. Emily noticed that she wasn’t cold, despite the weather, even as her breath came out in puffs that lingered in the air.

“It’s something that’s been too often neglected. It means ‘to create ties’... but you know this.”

Emily remembered this part, he was right. In the book, the boy doesn’t know what taming means, how to create ties with the wild animal. He does not yet know the meaning of friendship.

The novel was filled with layers of metaphor. It spoke to childhood, love, loss and the power of the imagination. Emily’s copy sat next to her bed, and she had been looking through it before she fell asleep that night.

The fox crept through the seemingly endless bookshelves, his tail swishing back and forth as he walked. Emily tried to keep up, but he seemed to weave through the library with a practised ease.

The fox stopped. He hopped onto a desk and curled his tail in front of him. He cocked his head and looked at her expectantly.

“Your person has run from you, correct?”

Emily stared at him. This part was not in the book. She nodded after a moment.

“I ran from my boy at first, too.”

She remembered this part: in the novel, the young boy wanted to befriend the fox. But he was impatient. The fox explained that it would take time, that the boy would have to return over multiple days to build his trust. The boy would begin sitting far from the fox, not even making eye contact. Over time, he could move closer and closer until they finally could play together. Their friendship could only be forged over time.

“Were you scared?” Emily asked.

“At first,” he replied. “But he was patient. And persistent.”

The fox swished his tail, then continued: “At times, my heart was not yet ready to greet him.”

“How did the little prince finally tame you?”

He did not answer the question, as she already knew the answer, instead he said: “Words are the source of misunderstandings.”

“Was it all worth it? Even though he left you in the end?” Emily asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

He nodded, then looked off into the distance, almost wistfully.

“Here is my secret,” he said. “It’s a very simple secret: it is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye."

“On ne voit qu'avec le cœur," Emily repeated. She knew this line by heart. It was better in French.

The fox disappeared into the books and Emily was left alone in the empty library. His words filled her mind.

Words are the source of misunderstandings. It is only with the heart that one can see rightly.

Emily woke up to the sound of her alarm blaring in her ear. She was curled up on her bed, on her side. Her blankets had fallen onto the floor, and she was close to shivering in the chill air. She slammed her hand onto her phone and fumbled until she turned off her alarm.

It was a dream. A vivid dream. She didn’t normally get those.

She stretched, her neck sore after sleeping at a weird angle. She shook her head, trying to get rid of the convoluted dream that was still clear in her mind. Somehow, even after all she had done to distract herself, JJ still was a key figure in her unconscious brain.

Emily needed to move on from that, focus on school. She couldn’t dwell on what she couldn’t control. She was an expert at pretending everything was okay; she had held herself together through worse.

She stared out the window. Instead of the white snow that had been so crisp and bright in her dream, outside was grey and dreary. She couldn’t see any hint of precipitation, frozen or otherwise, just dead grass and wet asphalt. The trees were bare as the leaves had fallen and been raked up last month, and there was salt on the roads in anticipation of the freezing temperatures.

Emily methodically dressed, donning a pair of jeans and a dark green button up shirt, pulling a sweater on top to combat the chill. She then played some music on her laptop. She focused on the lyrics, allowing her mind to go blank.

She sat in front of the mirror on her desk, carefully applying her makeup. There was something about a swoop of liquid eyeliner that made everything feel okay. At least, more okay than they used to be. If she looked put together, maybe she would feel like it, too.

Emily rarely remembered her dreams and she really wasn’t used to having to think too hard about her subconscious. All that was very Freudian, anyways. She wrote the dream off as her sleep-deprived brain mixed with reading before bed.

She donned her warmest leather jacket, the one with sherpa lining on the collar and tugged a mustard yellow beanie onto her head. Then, she lifted her tote bag onto her shoulders, and put her headphones into her ears, turning the volume up high, hoping that she could drown it all out.

During her lecture, Emily didn’t retain a single word her professor said. She mindlessly typed her notes, completely zoned out the entire time. She wondered if the words on her screen made any sense, but decided that it must be an issue for a future version of herself. This was probably a bad idea, as it was just about finals season and her exams were fast approaching.

Her mind was elsewhere: thinking about the blonde who lived across the hall. At times, Emily thought about their kiss, or imagined holding her hand, or holding her body. Then, as her daydreaming gave way to reality, she remembered the anxiety as JJ ignored her texts. She remembered JJ ending it one day, then coming back from a hookup mere days later.

Every day that week, as Emily walked down the hall, a part of her wanted to knock on JJ’s door, like she used to, just to say hi. Beyond everything else, Emily missed JJ. She missed laughing over dinner, studying French, or even lounging in one of their dorm rooms, doing nothing and talking for hours. She missed the way she smelled and her soft touch and her big blue eyes. She missed JJ’s kindness, how she would remember little details about Emily, and how she would knock her shoulder against Emily’s to get her attention. Emily missed her friend.

But the hurt was still there, and it overpowered her longing. The hallway reminded her of JJ’s words, her breaking it off, the tears in her eyes.

Emily hadn’t seen her since, with JJ doing an amazing job at avoiding her.

As soon as her class was over, she walked off of campus, heading straight to her favourite cafe downtown. It was usually busy this time of day, but she hoped the crowd would keep her from wallowing and make her focus on her work. Campus was inextricably tied to JJ. The field reminded her of JJ’s soccer games, the library of their study dates, the cafeteria of their group dinners and even the quad made her think of the time she almost ran JJ over with her skateboard when she was distracted.

Emily sat at the long sandy wood table and sipped her latte as she opened her laptop.

Members of the Prentiss family were extremely talented at pretending things were normal, that everything was fine, and Emily was no exception. She had tucked all the hurt, all the confusion, into a neat little box in the back of her mind. Storing it away until she could deal with it.

She typed away at one of her essays, only taking pauses to sip her coffee. She was busy finding sources and working on integrating quotes to develop her argument. She enjoyed the sound of her keyboard clacking, adding to the din of the cafe.

Her phone was tucked neatly away in her pocket. While there was a noticeable silence in their group chat—the one with both Emily and JJ in it—Emily’s phone seemed to be constantly pinging with messages. Derek was checking in on her, Penelope seemed to be trying to distract her, even Hotch had sent her a message to make sure she was ok. If Reid had a cellphone, she knew he’d be doing the same. Sometimes she got messages from Penelope’s number that was signed by the younger boy. Somehow, the whole world seemed to have known exactly what had happened between her and JJ.

The sun was setting faster and faster these days, and by five, it was creeping below the horizon. At this point, she had most of her essay drafted, so it felt like a good enough time to call it quits. Anyways, her back was starting to get sore from the minimalist chair and all she really wanted to do was curl up in her bed again.

Emily packed up her bag, depositing her empty mug on the counter, nodding at the barista before leaving.

She took the long way home, walking along the river and listening to her music, trying to clear her mind. She pulled her hood up against the cool air.

She walked for five minutes before slowing as she came upon a church that she had passed before. Instead of continuing along her way back to her dorm, something made her pause.

Lights lit up the facade: a red brick building that stretched up into the sky with a pointed bell tower in the centre. Columns graced the front, standing strong on either side of the large, wooden doorway.

Emily stared at it. It was simultaneously familiar and foriegn. Emily had spent almost every Sunday in church, be it Sunday school or mass with her mother. No matter where they were in the world, there was always at least one church in the city that they could attend.

In Rome, their visits had only gotten more frequent, as after school, she and Matthew would wander the Renaissance churches around the city, admiring the architecture and discussing theology and morality and free will.

Something came over her in that moment, and she found herself wandering up the steps, trying the door to see if it was unlocked. The door swung open easily, and for a moment Emily thought about walking in. She thought about kneeling before the cross and going through the familiar motions of prayer.

She thought about asking God about JJ, about what was going on, praying for guidance on what to do. She could picture the way the light would dance through the stained glass window, she could feel wooden pew under her knees, she could almost mouth the words of her prayer.

She thought of St. Georgia, her confirmation saint. She thought of her life of solitude, and how that almost sounded nice. Young Emily had thought the same thing.

She thought about the mass that she sat in her pew, with tears in her eyes, as the priest talked about how being gay was a sin. She thought about how her mother repeated those words when she came out at sixteen.

She let the door close without entering, before walking away, longing for the feeling of the wind on her face instead of the dusty smell of incense.

It had been years since she had set foot in church. The last time had been in Rome, the day she walked in with Matthew, before… well there was no before. It just was. Her pregnancy had triggered something in both of them, questions about the church that could not be prayed away.

Emily clenched her fists, her short nails digging into her palms. She remembered the way Matthew had held her hand at the doctor’s, and held her as she fought back tears, and walked arm in arm into the church in defiance of the priest.

After, their questions hadn’t subsided. Matthew read and read and read and the more he learned, the more the church transformed the place of safety and solace to something neither teen could stand behind.

Still, she missed her childhood certainty. She missed the feeling of a power greater than herself watching over her. She missed the singing—though she would never admit it—she had really enjoyed being in the choir. She missed how her mother would sit next to her, how it was often the longest time she got to spend with her busy mom.

Emily shook her head, fighting back the memories, and turned up her music and continued her walk home. She dug around in her backpack for a lighter and her pack of cigarettes. Fumbling for a moment, she lit one and breathed in the dark smoke.

The wind was biting and her leather jacket did little to keep the cold from creeping into her bones. As the sun was setting, Emily began to shiver.

After dragging her walk out as long as she could, she finally went back to her dorm. Her hands were iced cold and she was shivering. She dropped her backpack on the floor before collapsing onto her bed. She checked her phone to find a missed call from Derek.

She called him back, knowing that he was likely to pick up from only down the hall.

“Hey,” she said. She felt suddenly tired, and wondered whether he would pick up on that.

“Hey Prentiss,” Derek said. “How’s it going?”

“I’m fine,” Emily lied.

“No you’re not,” his voice came through the phone, and from the hallway, and he knocked once before opening her door.

Emily sat up, looking over to him in surprise. As if he owned the place, Derek walked over and sat down on her desk chair, letting it spin with the motion of his body.

“We’re ordering take out,” Derek said, “You can’t survive on coffee.”

“I can try,” Emily muttered.

“Pizza?” Derek proposed.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Bullshit,” he said. “You’ve been avoiding the cafeteria.”

Emily crossed her arms. Derek was good at making her feel better, pushing her to take care of herself without forcing her to talk about her feelings. He was a private person, and so he never went too far, knowing that there were lines that neither of them crossed.

“Thai?” he said with a sly look in his eye, he knew she couldn’t refuse.

“Ok fine,” she gave up, “You know what I like.”

“That I do,” he said, dialling his phone and calling the local family-run Thai restaurant for delivery.

Forty minutes later the two of them were eating curry and watching The X-Files on Emily’s laptop. They were sprawled out on the floor, both scooping rice into their mouths as they discussed the plot of the episode—aliens—and whether or not they actually believed in them.

Emily didn’t realize how hungry she had been and struggled to remember the last full meal she had eaten.

After she had finished, she felt slightly more human, slightly less out of it. Still sad, but being sad on a full stomach, sitting next to her best friend and watching her favourite tv show was a bit more bearable.

“I just don't get it,” Emily blurted, surprising herself as the words fell out of her mouth.

“Yeah,” Derek replied, “What’s the point of probing? Don’t they have good enough technology that they could just scan someone and know what’s up?”

“I mean, yeah,” Emily said with a laugh, “But I was talking about JJ.”

She paused.

“Did I push too hard?” Emily mused, “Was it my fault?”

Emily didn’t plan to vent to Derek. She hadn’t really told him the details yet, as she was still embarrassed after Thanksgiving weekend. Telling Derek’s entire family about how she had a girlfriend and then immediately getting dumped was not great for the ego.

She learned early that it was safer keeping things to herself.

Emily had done just about anything to fit in when she was younger. She was desperate to be normal. To be someone that wasn’t the weird queer girl that moved around a lot. She learned languages, learned cultures. She learned how to wear the right clothes, say the right thing. She tried so, so hard to be normal, and yet she never seemed to do it right.

In her senior year, Emily finally gave up. She dyed her hair, did her make up in a way she knew enraged her mother, and dressed the exact opposite of what the other kids did.

Since then, Emily was trying to focus on being herself. Derek was her first friend to really accept her for her, and over the past year and a half, she felt herself beginning to relax around him. In her second year at college, she was no longer the new kid.

She had started to feel comfortable with him, and all of their new friends, so she was kicking herself for letting things with JJ blow up in her face. She should have known this was all too good to be true.

“Em,” Derek said, “You can’t blame yourself. There’s definitely more going on with her that we don’t know.”

“Did Pen say something?” Emily said hopefully.

“I don’t know,” Derek said, rubbing the back of his neck, “She hasn’t said anything outright, ‘cause, y’know it’s all so complicated. We’re friends with both of you. But she made it seem like it wasn’t just you.”

Emily gulped at the guilt she felt when she thought of how all of this with JJ must be hurting her friends. They had all gotten so close this semester, and she hated the thought of ruining it for everyone.

“It’s not you, it’s me,” Emily said with a sardonic laugh.

“Essentially,” he said.

“Look Prentiss,” Derek said, “I think this is just a hiccup. You’ll figure it out. You two just need to talk and stop running from each other.”

“How do I get her to stop running from me?” Emily asked, her dream vivid in her mind once again.

“Wait it out,” he said, “She’ll come back to you eventually. For now, eat some mango.”

He offered her the dessert, some mango and sticky rice that they had gotten to share. Emily took some with a grin.

She could wait. JJ was worth waiting for.

———

Emily was almost ready for bed when she heard a knock at her door. Derek had stayed for most of the evening, watching tv and talking for hours to keep her mind off of things. He had wandered out around nine, as he had an early practise the next morning.

She was just about to get undressed after brushing her teeth and washing her face. She stood in the centre of her room with her fly half undone as she heard the sound. She zipped her pants back up and walked to her door, unlocking it, expecting to see Derek returning for something that he had forgotten. Instead, she was face to face with Jennifer Jareau.

“Hi,” JJ said. “Can we talk?”

In JJ’s hands was a large tin filled with homemade chocolate chip cookies. They were piled high in the tin, perfectly baked with picturesque chocolate chips still warm from the oven. On JJ’s face was a nervous expression as she held out the gift for Emily to take.

Emily stood and stared at JJ, wondering if she was real or if she had finally snapped and was hallucinating.

A moment passed. JJ smiled nervously at her, big blue eyes boring into Emily’s own.

Emily took the cookies.

#criminal minds #cm #criminal minds tv #jemily #emily prentiss #jennifer jareau #jemily cm #jj x emily #emily prentiss x jennifer jareau #fanfiction #fanfic #jemily fanfiction #gravelyhumerus cm college au #my post #my writing #sweater weather au #sorry for the delay!!!!#life got in the way

81 notes · View notes

sirensumbra · 3 years

Text

Chapter 2 - Impasse

Nothing.

He had found nothing.

A few abandoned camp sites and cold fires was the only evidence that someone had been in the area. He kicked at the ring of coals with the toe of his boot. Small bones, likely from a bird, skittered across the rough stone ground like pebbles across a pond.

From his pocket Azriel pulled a worn, folded piece of paper loose. The handwriting across the page was tight, neat. Bending at the knee, he rubbed a bit of coal against the pad of his thumb. With a single swipe he crossed the last marked location off, the scrawl beneath disappearing.

He’d read Gwyn’s handwritten notes over and over the last few weeks. Unable to sleep, tired of watching the stars, he’d read the lines until they were memorized.

Azriel had missed nothing. Neither had Gwyn. She was concise. He’d found himself drawn to the small footnotes and occasional quick sketches she’d inked in the margins.

There were moments, evident in her scrawl, where she’d taken breaks, or hesitated. He could see it in the varying thickness of her pen strokes. What had she been thinking? What had given her mind pause?

Heaving a deep sigh Azriel tucked the parchment back into his pocket. Wrapped in shadow he left the Illyrian mountains, winnowing through dark umbra until he was far enough from the camps. The rest of the distance he covered in flight, enjoying the sting of rain against his cheeks.

The townhouse was dark, quiet. His mind, however, was restless.

It took only moments for him to drop his things and grab his throwing knives. The archery stalls outside the House of Wind were empty when he arrived moments later. As he knew they would be.

Azriel raised a blade, pulling his arm back. As the knife passed his ear everything around him disappeared, leaving only the flex of powerful muscle, the thin steel against his palm, the air in his lungs.

He relaxed, exhaling, arm extending forward and wrist snapping. The blade shot through the air, then a thud of impact.

“You’re as good as Adir.”

Azriel glanced over his shoulder as he pulled more knives from his holster. His brother crossed the distance from where he’d winnowed in, stopping a few feet away. Dressed in casual attire, he squinted against the light looking toward the target at the far end of the stall and the dagger embedded at its center.

Keeping two blades tucked against his palm, Azriel raised his arm to throw another. His hand barely passed his ear before he loosened the weapon. Flipping the other knives, he pulled back and released, then snapped the last one. All three hit the center with consecutive sound.

“Think I’ll ever surpass him?” Azriel asked, sparing a few moments to think about the old Illyrian who’d first taught him to throw.

Rhys shrugged. To anyone else the question would have sounded self loathing, but Az was genuinely inquiring.

“In throwing, maybe,” his brother answered, starting forward.

Rhys followed him across the stall. Four blades pierced the target, plunging through the red center. Azriel pulled them free, checking their tips for damage.

Rhys watched him as he freed the knives. Azriel didn’t feel like he’d worked off any tension that had driven him here in the first place. He eyed the board, pondering whether he wanted to sling a few more.

“Did you find anything out there?”

“You know I didn’t.”

Rhys nodded, saying, “Do you think this is a waste of time?”

“Probably.” Azriel swung around to face him, leaning against the target. “Your concerns are warranted, though. There were signs of activity around the western edge of Ramiel.”

“We need to learn what Koschei wants.”

The name of the ancient being - arguably a powerful primordial creature - sent a thrill of nerves down Azriel’s spine.

He shook his head. “I know.”

Rhys leaned against the other side of the target, absently picking at the straw. “Why haven’t you been by the River House? Feyre misses seeing you.”

“You know why,” Az snarled.

“It wasn’t my intention to push you out of our lives, brother,” Rhys pleaded, pain slicing through his expression.

Turning the knives over in his hands, Azriel exhaled. He met Rhy’s violet gaze, the intensity there identical to his own.

“What are you not telling us?”

The words were a whisper, floating between them. Despite their shared eye contact, Rhys gave nothing away. He was the one fae Azriel couldn’t read. At least, not well. Partially his own fault, though. He’d sat with Rhys for hours working on controlling his tells.

When he didn’t answer, Azriel opened his mind. Rhysand’s presence was felt immediately - a washing calm, like tranquil night, spilled through him.

Most described the high lord’s power as wrenching claws - but not Azriel. He found comfort surrounded by his brother’s dark presence. Each detail from his search over the last few weeks was plucked and observed.

“What are you afraid of, Rhys?” Azriel tried a different angle, watching the other males expression for anything that might give his inner turmoil away.

“What do you know of the codes the Illyrian war camps use to communicate with one another?” Rhys asked, removing his presence from Azriel’s mind.

“Not much, that’s Amren’s arena, not mine,” he lifted a shoulder in a disinterested shrug. “I overhead some soldiers saying Devlon has been avoiding some lords, while reporting to others.”

Rhys nodded, gazing up at the overcast sky.

“We’ve gotten our hands on correspondence,” he started, eyes dropping to meet Az’s once more. “The letters are coming from Devlon’s camps. They’ve adapted the way they’re coding their messages.”

“How did you get the letters?”

“Balthazar.”

“The boy from the Blood Rite?”

Rhys nodded. “He’s been feeding us information.” He held up a hand as Azriel opened his mouth. “He came to us. After the girls returned from the Blood Rite, the war camps were boiling,” Rhys growled. “Balthazar was concerned about the rhetoric. He’s been handing over information for a couple weeks.”

“And you trust him?”

“Yes, for now.” He smirked. “He’s young - feels passionately. He wants to help.”

Companionable silence settled between them and Azriel was left thinking of their last conversation. He didn’t regret his words, but he regretted his anger. Rhys was the only one who could withstand the brunt of his temper. Even Cassian, for all his battle savvy, waved a white flag a the thought.

“Rhys,“ Azriel started.

His brother waved a hand in the air. Their gazes caught.

“You were right,” Rhys conceded.

The admission stole Azriel’s breath and the two males stared at one another.

“My intentions to protect Feyre were grossly innopropriate,” Rhys went on to explain. “I let my fear cloud my judgement. Again.”

He let loose a drawn out sigh and Azriel’s heart softened at the sound. It wasn’t that Rhys was incapable of being wrong. Frustratingly, he was often always right.

But his High Lord worried. A lot. As any high lord should, but Azriel worried the affects it was having on Rhys. His father had grown paranoid in the last few years leading to the his death - seeing enemies at every turn. Azriel refused to see Rhys head down that same path.

The last few weeks of camping in the wilds that surrounded Mount Ramiel Azriel had spun his brother’s words over and over in his mind. Recalling Solstice, his frustrations, Rhys’ response. Elain.

In the end Azriel knew he was wrong for wanting what he’d planned on taking that night and the regret was festering inside him. He wanted. Ferociously. His entire life he’d been robbed…

“So were you,” Azriel admitted, shame flooding him. A playful smirk hitched Rhys’ lips, pulling them at one side.

“An impasse then,” he questioned smoothly.

“So it seems,” Azriel replied, carrying them into another stretch of silence. “Has Gwyn found anything else? In my absence?”

Something in what he asked made Rhys smile. “She’s rather frustrated trying to break this new code and Amren hasn’t been much help,” he explained, smile growing. Azriel’s shadows pulsed steadily, sensing a trap. “You could, though.”

“I can’t think I’d be much help, Rhys.”

“She could use some guidance with translating some of the Illyrian language-“

“Rhys-“

“And I’ve been told the two of you meet regularly for private training-“ The emphasis on training had Azriel’s shadows twirling. All of which those vivid amethyst eyes didn’t miss.

“Is this an order?”

“You can’t disobey an order if you haven’t received one, yes?” Rhys’ eyes glittered in unrestrained mirth.

“Solid strategy,” Azriel relented, suppressing his own smile. With flourish, he placed his daggers back in the leather holster strapped to his chest. “Then I guess I’d better get it over with,” Az said as he pushed away from the target. “See you later.”

“Will I see you later?” The High Lord teased after him, knowing that Azriel would continue to stay away.

He swung by the townhouse to drop off his throwing knives and wash. Having headed straight to the training rings on his return, he still wore the stink of travel.

Once finished he reluctantly ventured to the library beneath the House of Wind. Despite the quiet, various priestesses hurried about, arms laden with books or papers. None bothered to look his way as he stepped toward Clotho, half hidden behind her desk.

Hello, shadowsinger.

Her note greeted him as he approached.

“Hello, high priestess.”

Gwyneth is upstairs in her workroom. I ask you not to disturb the other priestess as you go up.

“You were expecting me?”

Our High Lord told me days ago to expect you. I’m glad you’ve offered to help. The poor girl is close to pulling her hair out.

Days ago? Azriel bristled. He felt the tickle of shadow over the back of his neck. An image filled his mind, a slender, freckled hand, fingers combing through molten strands.

“I’d best not keep her waiting then,” Azriel forfeited, pushing the strange image from his mind. His earlier frustrations with Rhys bubbled again to the surface.

Leave your anger at the door, lord Azriel. There is no place for it here.

Clotho’s warning was a bucket of snow over his head. She was right, but the rising dark within him was unsettling. He could feel Rhys’ presence, always watching, waiting, to see if this would be when his infamous spymaster would finally crack and his dark umbra spill out across the world.

“I’ll behave,” Azriel said studiously and turned toward the staircase, tucking his wings tightly behind him.

He didn’t belong here. Priestesses passed him, some greeting him politely. He offered them quick nods in return. He would rather happily jump out the nearest window then have to linger amongst their pain.

It was in the way they darted their eyes away, turned their faces. Each of these women had experienced terrors he wished he could say he was unfamiliar with. But he wasn’t. He shared in their trauma not just because he’d witnessed it first hand by his own family - he’d also dealt it out.

A weapon of war. Tool of torture. Filthy, foul magic that hurt, terrified, destroyed. That’s what he was.

As another priestess avoided his gaze, skittering around him, Azriel jammed his hands into his pockets and walked faster. This is why when he usually came here it was during off hours when the stacks were quiet and empty and he didn’t have to resist the urge the paint the world a vengeful red.

He’d spilled so much blood in his long life that he wondered if the killing would ever end. If his search for euphoria was a circling path with no conclusion, then he was doomed.

At Gwyn’s workroom, he paused, realizing he’d gathered enough shadow to almost disappear from sight. He took a moment to reel his emotions in before raising his fist to tap against the door before swinging it open.

The priestess sat against a worn couch, a weathered book held in her hand. Golden light shimmered from the window, spilling down the wall and catching in her shimmering, chestnut hair, which she combed gently with long, slender fingers.

“Why are you upside down?”

Gwyn tilted her head back, peering over the book that hovered barely an inch from her face. Azriel strolled further into her small work room, eyebrows high above glittering bronze eyes.

“You should knock,” Gwyn shot back.

This was her private space, the one place in the tower she could call her own. Across the hall from Merrill, it served as an assitant’s office - not that it looked like one.

She lay upon a plush couch, legs up and off the back, head dangling beyond the seat. Books piled high in every corner. The desk pushed under the window was barely visible for the clutter of papers strewn about.

All the furniture, even the bookshelves that lined the walls all seemed pulled from different places and time, a collection of things no one cared for anymore but Gwyn adored. His shadows purred against him, vibrating in the priestess presence.

“Do you know all the sorts of things you can learn about a person when you walk in on them unexpectedly,” Azriel returned, unapologetic, ignoring the undulating shadows bobbing up and down at his shoulders.

“And what have you learned about me, shadowsinger?” Her eyes caught his, the turquoise depths dark with mischief, before darting to his shadows. She waved her book in the air. To his utter shock, they waved back.

“That looking at something from a different angle helps you think.”

Gwyn sighed and sat up, pulling her legs from the back cushions.

“Am I so transparent to you,” she huffed, tossing the book at him, which he deftly caught with a single scarred hand. “Why are you here? Aren’t you supposed to be stalking around Ramiel?”

“I don’t stalk, Gwyn.”

“Yes, you do,” Gwyn remedied. The twist of her lips was daring him to argue with her further.

To emphasize her point, she glanced again at the shadows that had covered him so thouroughly he was barely visible. The light had all but been absorbed, blanketing Azriel in rich, undulating dark. Maybe she had a point…

Azriel ignored her teasing gaze and opened the book she’d thrown, glancing curiously at the pages. “What language is this? It looks like gibberish.”

“It is, unless you know how to read it.”

Azriel snorted. “You’re translating something from this?”

“Trying to figure it out, yes,” she corrected. Moving from the couch she stepped before him, plucking the book from the spymasters hand and dropped it onto a table. “What brings you here? Certainly not to discuss books written in jibberish.”

“Actually that’s exactly why I’m here,” Azriel replied. As he spoke he internally cursed Rhys’ name and he swore he could hear his brother laughing from the River House. “Did Rhys not tell you? I’ll be helping you with… this.” He waved his arm around her very messy room.

Gwyn’s mouth curved in a half smile but her eyes were guarded. Azriel wasn’t sure what to make of it.

“If you’ll have me,” Azriel remedied.

Gwyn blinked in surprise, a blush blooming in her cheeks, then barked a laugh.

“I guess I have no choice.”

He huffed agreeably, reaching for the wood chair at her desk, spinning it so that he could sit down without crushing his wings. Propping his elbows on the back, Azriel braced his chin on his palm.

“This place is a chaotic mess,” he murmured, glancing around. “How do you find anything?”

A shadow darted out, bobbing along his shoulder and then danced above his head, as if fascinated by his hair. Gwyn watched as another fluttered against his cheek. He blew a puff of air at it, sending it scurrying away.

He settled against the chair, the runes covering the knife at his thigh glinted in the glowing light. She had no fireplace. The room was lit with what he would describe as a dangerous amount of candles.

Glancing around as if noticing the state of the room for the first time, Gwyn’s blush darkened further.

“I’ll have you know,” she told him pointedly, “I happen to know exactly where everything is.”

She dropped to the thick rug that covered nearly the entire floor and leaned back on her hands. Azriel peeked at the papers on her desk. She was pretending to ignore his curiosity, busying herself with the way her robes lay across her legs. Yet Azriel didn’t miss the way she nervously bit her lip or the way her heart raced.

“So, show me what you’ve learned so far.”

“Yes, ok.” She answered, picking at the invisible thread on her robes. “Could you hand me that notebook behind you?”

“Sure.”

“Not that one. It’s the red-“

“This?”

“That’s the one.”

He passed the book to her outstretched hand. Pulling her legs beneath her, she thumbed through the pages, her thoughts wandering about the room like lingering ghosts. Before her, Azriel sat studying her features, a dark imposing shadow impossible to ignore.

“Illyrians,” Gwyn began, “have lots of secrets.”

“Yes. That’s the point of this is it not,” Azriel deadpanned.

“Listen,” Gwyn huffed, sitting up straight. Her gaze was sharp, challenging, and Azriel wondered if anyone had every looked at him in such a way.

“Gwyn, I’m-“

“Let me finish.” The command in her tone had Azriel’s shadows snapping to attention. There was no fear tightening her expression. Her chest rose and fell quickly - the only other sign of her agitation. “If you have something to say about this situation, just spit it out. Otherwise, let me explain, which, by the way, you asked me to do.”

“All right, priestess,” Azriel spoke calmly, wary of the crackling power that danced under her skin. His shadows curled against him, warning him of her rising ire, not that it hadn’t been obvious in the way her eyes flashed at his condescending tone. “Tell me about the coded letters.”

The fiery expression she’d garnished faded. With trembling hands she picked up her book and began reading to him various bits of interest she’d discovered during her research.

Azriel was content listening to her. The rise and fall of her voice was smooth as the Sidra. Even her eyes sparkled like water.

In comparison to Rhys, Gwyn was an open book. There was no need to study, examine. She moved with purpose, inflection, sincerity. Even the way her hands clutched at her book as if it were some precious thing worth protecting. Azriel found, for the first time in a very long time, he felt at ease.

His shadows played along her desk. Even so bold as to venture down the rug to where she sat, like attentive children at reading time. Azriel pondered their curiosity. It was if they enjoyed her voice, her presence… He found it utterly baffling.

As Gwyn spoke they whispered to him; wondering at her trembling hands or the way she kept biting her lip. The former was ever present, at least when he was around. Her hands shook during their first few sparring matches after he’d agreed to train her.

Did he make the priestess nervous? Perhaps he should have met her somewhere more public.

“Are you listening,” her voice was shy, soft, as if she were worried about startling him.

“Sorry,” Azriel shook himself. “I am. Just a bit tired.”

Her summer eyes narrowed at his lie but she said nothing of it. Gwyn had so disarmingly accused him of finding her transparent that he worried maybe she saw through him just as easily.

“Oh, I have to show this to you!” Her exclamation sent a wave through his shadows, some jumping into the air - not startled… excited.

Azriel watched as she plucked a piece of paper from her desk, having pushed up from the rug so fast it had rendered him still. As she brushed past him to reach, the smell of rose and amber washed over him. Feminine. Sweet.

“Ok,” Gwyn stood before him, hands held out to him in offering. “Hear me out.”

Her mouth quirked, curling at one end into an appeasing smile. Azriel nodded, gesturing for her to continue. A creeping blush spread across her cheeks as a returning smile graced his lips. He found himself so engrossed that he hadn’t the wherewithal to consciously remove it.

8 notes · View notes

theweasleyslytherin · 3 years

Text

i knew you (ron weasley x reader) part 13

part 1/masterlist

summary: Ron inexplicably broke up with Cassiah Black of Slytherin house just days before their final year at Hogwarts, leaving them both with broken hearts and no future plans, but too stubborn and too proud to fix things. Will they find their way back together before the year ends, or will the end of their time at Hogwarts be the last time they ever see the each other?

general fic warnings: smut, drug/alcohol use, language

CHAPTER 13 - screaming color

But it's not forever But it's just tonight Oh, we're still the greatest The greatest ___________________________

Ron had avoided hanging out with Cassiah for a few days after the naked Quidditch incident. Frankly, he couldn't shake the image of her naked body out of his head and he knew he'd start blushing tomato-red from head to toe the moment he looked at her. Cassiah knew him so well and was so good at reading people that she would have known instantly why he was flushing. Just the idea of that brand of embarrassment had Ron's face flaming.

He recovered from his funk fairly quickly though, aided by copious amounts of bud and extensive, vivid sexual fantasies about imaginary women. Embarrassing? Yes. Effective? ...Also yes, apparently.

Just in time, too, because there was another Potions test coming up that week and after his humongous flunk on the last test, he needed Cassiah's help more than ever to bring his grade back up. She was such a good teacher; she was always so patient with him. In the past, she'd rewarded correct answers with kisses or by removing articles of clothing, but Ron had a sneaking suspicion that was off the table this time.

The point was, no matter how smart Cassiah was and how easily this stuff came to her, she never for a second made Ron feel stupid. On the contrary, she made him feel confident. She was the first person to ever make him realize that he was smart; he was a great communicator and very intuitive. Just because he wasn't a good tester didn't mean he wasn't intelligent. Cassiah had told him that he was smart in ways she could never be. That made Ron feel good.

And if Ron did a little advanced reading before their scheduled study session just to impress her... that was nobody's bloody business.

Despite the fact that he'd spent the last few days completely entranced by the thought of Cassiah, Ron actually felt pretty relaxed on his way to the Slytherin dorms. Even when there were underlying and confusing thoughts, things felt natural between them. There was an organic quality to their dynamic that he didn't even realize himself and wouldn't have been able to describe even if he did. All he knew was hanging out with Cassiah was easy and fun.

_____

Cassiah was surprised to find that Ron had beaten her to the dorms. She could see his ruffled red hair from down the hall, waiting out in the hallway for her to let him in. While Cassiah knew the password to the Gryffindor dorms ("Quidditch" wasn't super difficult to guess), Ron had no idea what the Slytherin passcode was. Because of Ron's never-ending feud with Malfoy, they hadn't hung out in the Slytherin dorms often enough for her to bother telling him.

They always studied at night, after the library was closed, so common rooms were pretty much the only option. This time around, however, they were meeting in the Slytherin dorms because Cassiah really didn't feel like running into Ginny or Hermione sober. This left Draco as the more amicable option, and he'd agreed to basically vacate the premises or hide in his room while Ron was there, and make sure the others did the same. The promise that he wouldn't get called a blood traitor by any random students really eased Ron's nerves about coming to see Cassiah in the dungeons, and he'd agreed.

And now this was going to be their first time hanging out alone since the breakup.

"Hey Ronald," she said in greeting, bumping into him lightly. "You weren't waiting long, were you?"

"Only a couple hours; don't worry," Ron deadpanned in return. She punched him in the arm – a very hard, muscled arm – for his sarcasm, but she also couldn't help but laugh. He never failed to make her laugh.

"Shut the fuck up," she shook her head, but she was smiling widely as she leaned in and whispered the password.

"No way! Your password is Quidditch, too?" Ron gasped with excitement as they stepped into the common room.

Cassiah looked at him like he had seven heads. "Merlin, no. Are you hard of hearing, Weasley?" she teased, "It's in Latin. It's practically impossible to guess unless you speak the language. Which I clearly don't, based on my marks in that class."

"Bloody hell, Cassie. You got a B–. Plus, we were fourteen. That was four years ago. Quit it with the melodrama," Ron rolled his eyes but his tone was playful so Cassiah knew he wasn't actually annoyed. She could probably count on one hand the number of times Ron had been genuinely annoyed with her.

Cassiah huffed and placed her books down on the coffee table, organizing them in neat stacks: "Just sit before I change my mind about tutoring you."

"Yes, sir," Ron joked, carelessly dropping his beat-up book bag onto the floor beside the couch and scooping out the contents before plopping them haphazardly onto the table. Cassiah winced at the pile of crinkled papers and bent notebook covers. Ron was so messy sometimes.

Cassiah wasn't a neat freak herself, but she liked to keep most of her belongings in pristine condition. She squinted and was pretty sure one of the notebooks had "PENIS" scrawled across it in Ron's abominable handwriting and then "BOOBIES" in Harry's neat block-print. But what else could she expect? Sure, they were in their last year and not children anymore, but Ron and Harry were going to be like this forever, probably.

"Where do you want to start?" she asked Ron, flipping through her notes quickly. They were color-coordinated.

"Everything," Ron grumbled, "I don't get the whole lot of it. Even when Neville and I are paying attention, I only remember the stuff when I'm doing it, and then I forget it the moment we walk out the door."

"Must be all the weed," Cassiah teased. But she was also probably just the slightest bit right.

"Very funny," Ron snorted, "Seriously, though. I have some notes, but I just never can tell what the important stuff is going to be, so I just end up copying almost the entire thing and I'm back at square one."

"Okay," Cassiah leveled with him, "Then we'll start at the beginning of this unit and just try to decide what's going to be important enough to be on the test. We'll focus on actually remembering the stuff later. Now c'mere."

Ron scooted closer to her on the couch and leaned over to share the textbook. They worked quietly for about forty minutes, completely focused. They had always worked fairly well together. Ron even corrected Cassiah on a few things, which made his chest swell up with pride.

After they finished one of the chapters, Ron leaned back against the couch, exhaling heavily. "I'm getting hungry. Do you have any study snacks?" he asked. When Cassiah just looked at him for a moment, he shrugged his shoulders, "Nevermind, I brought my own."

He reached into his bag and produced a whole array of sweet and salty snacks, spreading them out on the coffee table on top of the notebooks. "Snack break?"

"I guess it wouldn't hurt," Cassiah wagered, "Oh! Do you have–"

Ron beat her to it, holding up a bag of butterbeer popcorn. "Of course I do," he grinned.

She squealed with delight, grabbing the bag and opening it immediately. "Mmm," she murmured as she popped the first one into her mouth, "I hardly ever have these but Merlin they're good."

"Oh, trust me. I know," Ron agreed, stuffing his hand into the bag on Cassiah's lap, causing her to shriek and giggle as she batted his hand away.

"It's so good to be hanging out again," Ron said after Cassiah's laughter died down, "I really wasn't sure if we ever would after everything that happened."

"Well, we were friends first, right?" Cassiah gave him a half-grin through a mouthful of popcorn.

Ron scoffed. "Yeah, but I wasn't sure if you were going to ever want to be friends with me again after the fit I threw over you and Malfoy," he explained, and then fell silent. After a moment, he asked cautiously, "Whatever became of that anyways? When I asked him about it he just gave me some vague, non-answer about your relationship not being what it appeared to be."

Cassiah was floored. "You talked to him?"

"Long story. But answer my question!"

She sighed. "Well, I guess his answer was right. Draco and I were never like that in the way that you thought. We're just friends – entirely platonic."

Ron furrowed his brow, clearly perplexed, "So you guys never...?"

Cassiah snorted, burying her face in her hands in embarrassment. "Merlin, no, Ron. Nothing romantic ever happened between us. Or sexual, for that matter," she reassured him, and then added, half under her breath, "Nothing sexual has happened for me in a looong time."

"Hah. Me neither," Ron groaned, leaning back in his seat a little bit.

Cassiah's eyes widened a bit. She wasn't entirely expecting Ron to hear her. But to hear that he hadn't been with another girl was definitely an interesting surprise.

Ron must've been thinking the same thing: "I kind of would've thought that you would have, you know, been with someone. Malfoy or MacMillan or someone. I mean, guys were always hitting on you even when we were together. You have plenty of options."

She raised her eyebrows and grunted, "No opportunities have really presented themselves, unfortunately. It's just me and my lonesome."

Ron chuckled at that. "Bloody hell, tell me about it," he murmured. He waited a second, considering, and then said, "It's really hard, you know? Going from have sex every day or at least once or twice a week to just... nothing."

"Yeah, I'm sure it's really hard," Cassiah joked and Ron shoved her in the arm for her pun. "But I know what you mean. Sometimes it drives me crazy. I got so spoiled that now I feel like I need sex and I can't have it."

Cassiah looked up from her lap to see Ron's face aflame, suddenly aware of how close together they were on the couch. Ron was clearly caught off guard by how candid she was being about her needs. She knew she normally didn't talk like this, but he'd started it and it felt good to just vent.*

"That was never our problem, was it?" Ron said. The sentence itself was a joke but his tone was completely serious. "Sex, I mean..." his tone was gruff, almost a whisper.

Cassiah felt the energy shift in the room and her nerves start tingling. "No," she manages to squeak out, "Definitely not... You knew me in that way like nobody else."

She could've sworn she heard Ron let out the smallest groan. He always liked the praise.

Cassiah looked up at him through her lashes, feeling her heart pounding in her chest and hearing both of their breathing become a bit ragged. Ron was staring back at her with a look in his eyes that she couldn't quite comprehend. Needy but also controlled and–

"Oh, fuck it," heard him mutter and suddenly his hands were grabbing her face and his lips were crashing into hers and bloody fuck this time it was real, not a dream or a memory.

His hands on her face and gripping the back of her hair were rough as his lips slid against hers, his tongue licking against hers.

"Oh, Ron," she murmured into his mouth immediately and he let out a loud, unbridled groan at the sound of his name on her lips. That sound sent heat straight in between Cassiah's legs and she rolled her hips into the couch.

"C'mere," he growled, his voice gruffer than she'd ever heard as Cassiah felt his big hands grab onto her waist and roughly guide her into his lap. She let out a low whine when she could feel his length already hard and pressing up against her core. She rolled her hips down and shocks of electricity sparked through her body as she felt his hardness brush against her through the crotch of her leggings. The friction was so delicious that she kept rolling her hips again and again with Ron's hands on her waist guiding her in the figure eights he always used to like.

"Bloody fucking hell. I didn't know how long I've been wanting this until now," Ron panted, thrusting his hips up to make contact with the apex of her thighs. Cassiah ground down against him, coaxing a long, low moan out of him.

Ron reached up and moved his hands from her hips to her breasts, squeezing roughly and kneading his fingers into her flesh through her bra. He pulled the hemline of her shirt up to reveal her bra and then pushed her bra down as far as he could. He licked a circle around her nipple before roughly sucking it into his mouth, flicking his tongue over it again and again. Cassiah tangled her head in Ron's hair, panting heavily as she watched him. He was looking up at her with big blue-green eyes as he sucked her nipple into his mouth.

And then she was tugging his head back up to her mouth, reconnecting their lips briefly before pulling away again to say breathlessly, "Get me ready for you, Ron."

Rom growled, and Cassiah felt him throbbing at the mere thought of being inside her again after so long. She felt his lips trail over to the nape of her neck where he began sucking a harsh mark in just the right spot to send shivers down her spine. He licked a thick stripe over the mark before quickly turned to suck the lobe of her ear into her mouth.

"Ah," Cassiah gasped, the combination of his tongue and his hot breath on the shell of her ear making her wetter by the second. She could feel her slick forming a wet stain on the lap of Ron's slacks but she knew he'd love it when he realized. There was never anything that turned him on more than seeing how wet she got for him.

Cassiah didn't let up on the rotation of her hips on his thick length. She could feel him hot and ready in his pants. She had half a mind to climb off him so she could unbutton his pants and take him into her mouth so she could hear him completely lose control, but she wanted him inside of her even more.

She reached down in between them and cupped him over his pants, causing him to hold his breath. She gripped his length and gave it a squeeze. It felt huge and hard even through the fabric and Ron sucked in a breath at the contact.

She kept rubbing him in circles through his pants, pressing her thumb over where she knew the tip was every now and then.

"Harder. More. Tighter, fuck, Cassie, please," Ron was chanting, his lips still attached to her neck, which was covered in huge, dark bruises by now. Just the thought of that had her growing slick.

She pressed harder against his length, now running her hands up and down his shaft through his pants. She couldn't stand the tension and heat in her core anymore and started grinding down against his thigh as best as she could.

"Bloody hell, are you getting yourself off?" Ron moaned and when Cassiah gave him a wicked smile in response, he gripped onto her hips hard enough to bruise and let his head fall back as he let out a long, quiet "fuck yeah."

"You're so dirty," he continued, his voice ragged and rushed as Cassiah kept rubbing him faster, "So fucking desperate for me that you're fucking yourself on my thigh. I'm gonna make you feel so bloody good, Cassie."

His filthy words sent fiery heat all over her body and egged her on.

"O- Cassie, I-" Ron stuttered bucking his hips against hers. "Stop stop stop stop, I'm–"

But she didn't listen. His whines and his hot breath were too delicious and sinful for her to just stop. She never wanted him to stop making those greedy little sounds. It was rare he completely lost control like this.

And then she felt him go completely rigid, his fingers digging into her waist and his head falling back as he let out a choked "Ohhhh" and squeezed his eyes shut.

She didn't realize at first and kept pumping him through his pants until he rushed to say, "Merlin. Stopstopstop, just– Give me a minute, bloody hell..."

That's when she felt the rapidly growing wet spot on the front of his pants, and it wasn't from her. She stared down at it in shock. That had certainly never happened before.

When she looked up, Ron's face was flaming red. Before she could say anything, he was grabbing the blanket off the back of the couch and shoving it over his crotch as best as he could with Cassiah still on his lap. "B-bloody hell, Cassie, I'm so sorry. You know I never do that; it's just been so long that I just couldn't hold off. I-I tried to tell you to stop but–"

"Ron," she soothed, giggling softly, "It's okay."

"It's bloody humiliating. I'm a grown-ass adult and I just shot a load in my pants."

"Felt good though, didn't it?" she asked, and Ron nodded enthusiastically. "Plus," she added, "You know you'd think it was hot if I did that. And I happen to find it unbearably hot when you can't control yourself because I make you feel so good."

Ron stared up at her, the mischievous glint beginning to return to his eyes.

"Prove it."

Cassiah grabbed his hand from where it was resting on her waist and took two of his fingers in her own. She guided his hand down into her leggings, slipping his fingers under her panties. She shimmied a bit and then swiped their fingers through her sex. He groaned when he felt that she was dripping for him between her legs, his fingers becoming coated in her slick. They brushed against her swollen clit as he removed them from her panties and Cassiah let out a needy, high-pitched whine.

Ron locked his eyes with her and he brought her fingers to his lips, sticking them in his mouth and sucking them clean of her juices. That visual paired with the intense eye contact had Cassiah's sex throbbing between her legs.

"Wh-" she started, her voice shaky, "Why don't you take care of me until you're ready for round two?"

"If I fuck you after I just came I'm gonna last–"

"I know," Cassiah blurted out and blushed, ducking her head in slight embarrassment at the memory. There was a time over the summer when they'd gone for a second round immediately after Ron had finished and he'd lasted so long that she'd come about four times before he'd finished and she'd actually been crying from how oversensitive and fucked out she was.

"You naughty little slut," Ron murmured, his eyes bright with admiration, "I'm going to make you scream."

Before she could even respond, he grabbed her and swung her around, pressing her back into the cool leather of the couch as she pinned her wrists above her head with just one hand. She struggled against him, loving the thrill of the fact that his one hand could hold her down.

Ron roughly pulled her leggings and panties down in one motion, leaving them pooled around her ankles as she wrapped her legs around the back of his head.

She crawled up so her core was aligned with her face and he stared at her wetness with a hungry, animal look. He licked his lips and groaned, "Fuck, I missed this pretty pussy."

He delivered a tiny slap to her dripping lips and clit before running a finger through her slick and spreading it over her swollen clitoris. She was already a needy mess under him, whining and whimpering.

"How fast can I make you come for me?" Ron wondered aloud, "No one's touched you like this in so long." He circled his finger over her clit at an agonizingly slow pace and she rotated her hips, signaling for him to spread up.

"Have you been touching yourself?" he questioned her and she nodded quickly and desperately, wanting to answer his question so that he'd pick up his pace and give her a release.

"Merlin, you're so bad, Cassie. Such a bad girl, I fucking love it. I'm gonna fucking destroy you," he promised and she moaned.

Ron sped his fingers up to a torturously fast pace and Cassiah felt herself hurtling towards the edge. Her legs started to shake uncontrollably and her thighs clenched around Ron. Her back arched and her head shot back as she chanted, "Ronronron, bloody hell, I'm coming, I'm coming Ron..."

He kept stroking her through her climax until he could tell her was done, completely spent and relaxed back against the couch. But he wasn't even half done with her, and she knew it as he loomed over her, shucking off his stained slacks and his wet underwear.

He stroked over his aching cock as he towered over her, already hard and leaking at the tip after she'd made him come just minutes ago.

"On your hands and knees," Ron demanded, pumping his thick length expertly in his hand. Cassiah felt her heartbeat between her legs at the sight of him touching himself and immediately moved to follow his orders.

Cassiah braced herself on her elbows, leaning to arch her back and push herself closer to him. She looked back over her shoulder and saw Ron shifting to move up behind her. She bit her lip and looked up at him.

"Fuck," Ron murmured at the sight. "Get ready, baby. I'm not going slow with you," he said as he linked his tip up with her entrance.

"Would never want you to," she countered, pushing back against him, silently begging him to put it in.

Without any warning, he thrust into her in one push, giving her no time to adjust and as a result earning him a winded, shrill, "Ron!"

She could hear him chuckle slightly behind her and knew he smiling as he palmed the thick flesh of her ass in his hands, kneading it between his fingers as he caught his breath.

"Merlin, Cassie, you f-feel tighter than ever," he stammered as he started moving his hips, keeping up his promise of not going slow with her. His thrusts were short and rough. When he hit the right spot deep inside her, Cassiah cried out and pushed back against him to take him deeper and he kept up angling for that spot, earning the same reaction every time.

"Merlin, Ron, right there," she begged, circling her hips, "Please don't stop. Keep going."

"I couldn't stop if I wanted to baby. You feel so good," Ron responded, the loud smack of his hips slamming into her over and over echoing throughout the room.

Cassiah began to whine almost non-stop, obviously losing control, and he quickened his pace and went even harder on her than before, knowing from experience that this was just what she needed to come.

He leaned over her, his chest hovering just over her back so that he could place sloppy kisses along the back of her neck and her shoulders. She turned her head to kiss him but Ron had reached underneath her to begin playing her clit and instead, her mouth fell open and her eyes rolled back into her head. She came hard with a sob, her walls pulsing around.

But she knew Ron wouldn't be done with her yet. He started back up with slower, more thorough thrusts, pulling almost all the way out every time before pushing back in at an agonizing pace, but still just as hard as before. Their bodies jerked with every movement.

Ron fathered Cassiah's hair in a fist behind her head and yanked, pulling her head back and coaxing a sharp cry out of her. He was finally able to kiss her, and he pressed his lips sensually to hers. She moaned as he licked into her mouth, just as needy as she was.

She could feel her third orgasm coming on and knew that she wouldn't be able to hold out or handle another afterward. She clenched around Ron, circling her hips in rhythm with him, and panted, "Come for me, Ron. You know you want to. You've made me come twice, you're gonna make me come a third. You deserve it."

She knew his praise kink would take him right over the edge and it did. He let out an earth-shattering groan and cried out her name, finishing inside her and giving a few final thrusts before going still and collapsing on top of her back. They stayed there for a moment, no sound but the sound of them catching their breath for several moments.

"Bloody hell," he panted, peeling himself off of her sweaty back and sitting back on the couch.

She gingerly sat up too, still over-sensitive, and faced him. "You can say that again," she murmured.

"Bloody hell," he repeated, and Cassiah barked out a laugh, weakly punching him in the arm and telling him to shut up.

"You're so right," she conceded, "We may have had little disagreements every now and then, and you had to do what was best for you and end things but... Sex was never our weak point."

"Definitely not," Ron agreed, pushing his sweaty hair back off of his forehead before starting to get redressed. "Merlin, can we please keep doing this? I don't think I'll be able to handle it going back to my hand after this. I had no idea how much tension had built up until now," he admitted – more like pleaded.

"One hundred percent. Trust me, Ron. You know I always needed this just as much as you did," Cassiah said, fully dressed and pulling her hair on top of her head in a messy bun. "We just have to be cool about it. Friends can definitely have passionate sex and then be just that – friends," she explained to him, but it felt more like she was trying to convince herself.

"Totally," Ron was quick to agree, staring forward in a sexed-out daze.

"So long as nobody finds out, there will be no weirdness. Just two friends who also happen to enjoy having sex with each other in secret."

"Amazing, mind-blowing sex," he added.

"Uh-huh," Cassiah agreed, still not entirely recovered, "So it's deal."

"Yes," Ron finalized it, "It's a deal. Now let's get out stuff and get out of this common room before they get tired of being holes up in their dorms and wander in here. We've already pushed our luck enough."

Cassiah nodded, grabbing her books, "I suppose we have. But what about the test? We didn't finish studying."

"Cassie," Ron answered earnestly, grabbing her hand, "I don't care if I never pass a test again if I'm having sex that good."

______________

MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!!!

i think this is the most sinful, blasphemous thing i've ever written in my life and i really hope you guys enjoyed it lol.

all my love! xx

tag list: @ickleronniekinsemotionalrange @girl22334 @mariellelovescupcakes @lateautumn @heartofcanvas @gloryekaterina @mackaywhore

Published on my Wattpad and my Tumblr (theweasleyslytherin).

39 notes · View notes

bruh-haikyuu · 4 years

Note

A miya osamu scenario where he’s having a quality time together with fem s/o in a quiet little coffee shop 💕💕💕 Thaaaaanks

A/N: miya osamu. your hand in marriage. now. ALSO SPOILERS IF YOU HAVENT READ UP TO CHAPTER 378 OF THE MANGA.

apricate. | miya osamu

word count: 2040

warnings: MANGA SPOILERS, slight hints of sexual content

(v.) to bask in the sun

The silver band wrapped around your left ring finger glittered warmly at the amber beam of light streaming from the tiny shop’s window. From behind the mosaic counter adorning the back of the cafe, the aroma of caffeine and freshly baked fruit tarts poured between the tables in the room. At this hour of the day, the establishment was unusually quiet, but you weren’t exactly complaining about that—

“Osamu, I wanna go home.”

You were almost apologetic that your husband was into his third sigh of the day. At some point of time, you would be the reason behind his slowly settling wrinkles. “Y/N, it’s only been 5 minutes since we’ve sat down.”

It wasn’t like he could blame you for it. You weren’t just upset, you were distressed. A parent to three rambunctious children, and you had left them with the family shop on their own. Though it was only for the day—and seeing that they had demanded that the both of you “go and enjoy your day off”—you didn’t get much of a wink of leisure.

“A-Are you sure it’s alright to leave Setsuko to take care of her younger siblings?” you rattled, a soft image of your precious ten-year old daughter forming in your head. “Oooh… what if Eiji causes her too much trouble and insists that he keeps workin’ instead of eatin’ ? And ‘Samu, did you remember to tell her where Kaori’s diapers are kept? M-maybe, I should call her just to check…”

As you unclasped your purse to look for your cell phone, your face paled at its obvious absence from where it should’ve been. When you looked up to meet Osamu’s lax face, his expression had said it all.

Raising your “missing” phone in his hand, he crossed his arms and shot you a smirk that said: I took precautions.

“Y’know, if Secchan’s been pesterin’ us to get out of the house for so long, she knows exactly what you’d do to her if we came back to the house up in flames. Plus, Eiji and I had a talk the other day about over-workin’ himself, so rest assured, he ain’t going to be doing that for a loooong, long time… And yes. I did tell Setsuko that Kao-chan’s nappies are on the bottom drawer of her room. ‘S all good. Anything else, Miya Y/N-san?”

Now it was your turn to sigh. “They’re my children, ‘Samu. Can’t help it.”

“Hey, I’m also a part of the family. Why ain’t I stuck on your mind all the time too, huh?” he said gruffly, a tone reserved to cheer you up whenever you needed it.

That’s right, you could never help it. They were your babies, the angels that were growing up too fast for your liking. It felt like it was just yesterday that your firstborn Setsuko, now at a double-digit age, was curled in your arms. Practically attached at your hip 24/7. The moment she’d bashfully asked you to stop plaiting her hair for her, you swore you could hear your heart shatter.

Moreover, it didn’t help that eight-year old Eiji (despite still being pegged as a “Mama’s boy”) was becoming more and more of a carbon copy of his father—too hard-working, but too oblivious. You weren’t one to scold your children about their grades, but with Eiji’s frightful progress at school, the lingering thought of your son saying that he’d consider dropping out of school to “be an adult” so Osamu would let him work full-time at the shop hindered you from any good night’s sleep.

But Kaori… Oh, your darling treasure Miya Kaori. Just a year old, fresh from your womb. Like so, “Kao-chan” was the apple of your older children’s eyes and the jewel of her father’s heart. The lone salvation of your livelihood was her innocent youth and you were desperately begging the gods to keep it that way. As soon as Kaori would start tying her own shoelaces and everything, you were sure you were going to turn into stone.

Your knees bumping under the picturesque, wrought iron table, Osamu gave you an endearing smile. “Relax. We have Fuji-san to keep an eye on ‘em in the shop, right? That guy’s got more nerves than his own body. If we’re worried about anythin’, it’s that the kids would get bored with him telling them to sit still.”

Your mind drifted to the thought of the young but unusually high-strung college student who’d been working part-time at the onigiri shop for two years. Osamu did make a point though. The bespectacled Fujiwara Chiaki was probably more dedicated to working than your own husband—a trait that he had likely passed on to your only son Eiji. The idea was concerning, but not to the extent where your head throbbed from it.

“They say if you think too much, you’ll grow old faster,” Osamu poked teasingly, while pushing a plate of a fragrant confectionary towards you. “You didn’t even notice that I’d brought back your favorite cheesecake.”

At the mention of the dessert, your eyes shot downwards to the platter. It looked just as sweet and luscious as it always did. From the first time you had it in high school as a “thank-you gift” from Osamu for helping him study for his exams, down to your wedding party where your friends had surprised you with an entire tower of it. You were sure Osamu would’ve been sick of tasting the velvety cream for 20 years and counting, but there was another suspicion you had that he’d feel gratified whenever he got it for you.

Holding out a forkful of cake, he said smugly at your twinkling gaze. “Open sesame, Y/N-chan.”

You didn’t hesitate for a second. When was the last time you got to enjoy yourself without any sniffles or pleading demands from your children? They’d inherited you and their father’s affinity for eating after all; a meal would never go untouched when it came to the Miya household. And if you’d brought this cake home, you know they’d bulldoze it down before you could grab a slice for yourself.

“So good…” you murmured, savoring the lightness of the dessert. Tangy and tethering on the border of being sweet and too sweet, this was indefinitely your next favorite thing after your family.

Osamu chuckled as you ate, tucking the loose strands of hair behind your ear. “Ain’t this getting too sugary for you? Y’know, I only gave you this the first time because I’d felt my teeth would fall out if I ate a bite of it.”

“You practically bribed me with it so I’d date you. If you think about it, you used this to bribe me into a lot of things!” your pout did not mask your amusement at all.

“Like how I used this so you’d finally catch a break from coddlin’ Secchan and have a better ‘time’ with your lovin’ husband? I’d say that it was a profitable compromise, my dear.”

You scoffed. “Profitable until you learn that having a second child was harder that you’d thought. How’d it feel tryin’ to feed Eiji the first time, huh?”

“It was a coincidence that Eiji just had to be a picky child growing up,” he shrugged. “Should I point out that you made it harder with spoilin’ him rotten, Mama Miya?”

You gave him your best, dramatized expression of offense. Oh, two could play this game. “Excuse you, Papa Miya. But who was the one who bought Setsuko an entire 50,000 yen-pretend kitchen as soon as she gave them one small tug on the sleeve?”

“C’mon, Y/N, you knew if I could afford it I’d buy it for her, no questions asked! The face she pulled when we brought it home could add ten years to my lifespan. There’s no way I would want to miss it,” his cheeks flared a vivid crimson. Hiding a snicker, you wondered how long it had been since you’d last seen that look on him.

“Miya Setsuko, the heiress of Onigiri Miya, already interested in the way of the stove at four years old! I couldn’t believe it. Ain’t she pretty darn cute in that apron we got in the set? Nah… that’s probably because Secchan’s pretty darn cute herself…” He was rambling now, eyes glossed over at the image of his daughter. Six years ago, she’d happily hopped into his lap when he’d finished tying up the frilly, daffodil-yellow apron, and gave him a hug that nearly pushed him to tears. Oh, how you wished you were there to see it.

“Osamu… Your gap moe* is showin’.”

“Oh, hush!” he spat, averting his gaze from yours as your leaned back on your chair, nearly doubling over in laughter. Though part of his face was covered by the large, ornate coffee mug, you knew he was smiling through and through.

The soft tinkling of the fake crystal chandeliers in your wake, your insides felt tingly in a way you haven’t felt for so long. What felt like hours, you spent talking with your husband about your little family, the shop, his brother (though this was quickly interrupted by another conversation about what Kaori’s first word would be), and all the things you’d never had the time to talk about since you were both so busy. It was just like high school all over again, only less melodramatic and more… wrinkly. But just as colorful as it always had been.

However, when Osamu fell silent, you knew something had gone terribly wrong. Setting down your fork, you leaned over the small table to observe his wallowing features.

“Osamu, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”

As if he was being forced to shove an entire rock down his throat, he whispered, “… I miss ‘em.”

You stared at him, then did a double take. “S-sorry, say that again? Didn’t hear you.”

With reddened cheeks, he repeated himself anyway. “ I miss ‘em! All this talk about the kids… I know it’s only been a couple of hours but I miss Secchan already! M-my baby. My princess. Y-you know what it’s like, right, Y/N?”

You felt like a colossal force had lifted from your back. Grabbing your husband’s shoulders from across the table, you shook him while exclaiming, “Me too! I miss ‘em too! God, the entire time I was wishing I was feedin’ this cake to Eiji instead of myself. The way his cheeks puff up when he chews something… I have to see it…! And especially—”

“Kao-chan.”

“Kaori.”

And just as the planets aligned, your cell phone that had been sitting in Osamu’s coat the entire time rang. Taking it out of his pocket, he showed you the screen, displaying the name of the caller. Fujiwara Chiaki.

With your husband pressed close to your side, both cramped on one dainty seat of the cafe’s chair, you listened closely to the other side of the phone. “Hello? Fujiwara-kun?”

Chiaki’s meek but strangely jovial voice responded through the speakers. “Ah, Y/N-san, you picked up. The children wanted to speak with you about something. I think you’ll like this—”

“Chiakiii! You’re takin’ too long on the phone~ Hi, Mama! Can Papa hear me too?!”

Looking at your husband, you exchanged a smile. Eiji. Leaning his head on your shoulder, he cooed at your son. “I’m right here, Eiji.”

“Great! Because we have some ultra, big, super, important news to tell you—!”

A pop, a crackle and Eiji’s exuberant voice turned into Setsuko’s huffy, light one. “Eiji, Mama and Papa put me in charge so I’m gonna tell ‘em! …Mama, Mama, Mama, you won’t believe what happened!”

“Oh? What happened, Setsuko?” you giggled, heart softening at the lilt of your daughter’s voice.

“Kao-chan said her first word today!”

Literally swiping the phone from your grasps, Osamu, practically gleaming from the announcement, excitedly quivered as he spoke. “R-really? She did that, Secchan? What did she say? Was it ‘Papa’ or ‘Mama’?”

“Hmm… I think it was—”

“Second thought, don’t tell us. I want to see and hear it for myself.”

That was your cue. Unravelling your right arm into the air, you shot the waitress your biggest smile. “Check, please!”

══════ ⋆★⋆ ══════

Glossary:

gap moe - when someone does something that is the complete opposite of their habits

#haikyuu!!#haikyuu #haikyu #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu scenarios #miya osamu #miya osamu x reader #miya osamu imagine #miya osamu scenario #inarizaki x reader #sfw #osamu x reader #bruh haikyuu writing

263 notes · View notes

halothenthehorns · 3 years

Text

All in the Family

Chapter 137: Horace Slughorn

Regulus crashed headfirst into a toilet with a knitted cover on the lid to soften the blow. He still cursed and grumbled for it while looking around and found the rest of the décor matching. A knitted stuffed cat on the sink by the soap and a box of crystalized pineapple, unopened. There was a walk in shower, as well as a pile of knitting pattern magazines for reading leisure in a wicker basket he'd knocked over along with the book, its silver spine standing out in here.

Not exactly tempted to sit on the toilet to read, he exited into the hall to find pictures on the wall that weren't alluding to an easy hint of where they were, an array of kids of various ages in frames down to the stairs. He stopped to admire them for a moment, taking a second to realize he could only know they weren't wizards because they weren't moving, but otherwise there was no clear difference. How fascinating, Mother always spoke as if there should be something. He no longer tried to convince himself he just wasn't seeing it, but maybe there just wasn't anything inherently 'different' about them either, aside from the lack of magic.

The entire house was still silent though, not a stair creaked as he went down into the dimly lit living room where a scene of total devastation met his eyes. The others were frozen in place, as if afraid to move once more and find something they shouldn't. Surely their landing hadn't caused this destruction, and his pulse quickened with worry.

The door was blasted off its hinges, a grandfather clock lay splintered at their feet, its face cracked, its pendulum lying a little farther away like a dropped sword pointing right at where Evans was still on hands and knees. A piano was on its side, its keys strewn across the floor, Peter tangled up in the wires. The wreckage of a fallen chandelier glittered nearby, Longbottom and Smith still had bits of it in their hair and clothes. Cushions lay deflated, feathers oozing from slashes in their sides, the Marauders weren't even at fault judging from the stark white faces; fragments of glass and china lay like powder over everything, and there were even chunks and gashes in the walls. Regulus immediately lit his wand and raised it high, giving illumination to something darkly red and glutinous spattered over the flowered wallpaper.

When Peter saw him at the foot of the stairs, the streetlights outside glinting off the bright cover of the book even before he'd lit his wand, and completely unharmed he couldn't help a relieved sigh. He'd done a quick count as always and hysterically wonderd for a moment if Regulus had just been blasted to smithereens from this recent slam. Instead, as he hovered on the last stair with the book in hand and a white face, he quietly whispered as calmly as he could, "start getting us out of here please?"

He swallowed convulsively, eyes still flinching to every corner looking for something none of them wanted to see again, but finally opened and read the chapter title that illuminated some horrible answer to this.

"What the hell has he been up to in this future?" Potter quietly demanded, getting slowly but steadily to his feet. Nothing attacked him like Moody's place, so the others cautiously began doing the same, but nobody wanted to answer him.

Dumbledore and Harry had no idea what they were fixing to walk into with their pleasant little evening stroll, destination this place. He even read right over the passage on Inferi like that was nothing in the face of this. They all felt beside themselves Harry was fixing to just be brutally reminded of the casualties of war even with the headmaster there for him this time.

So when the ruse was revealed, nobody could quite blame Potter shouting at the top of his lungs, "that arse!"

Regulus was so disgruntled at his near heart failure being a trick himself he gave the book an ugly toss into the mess and heavily contemplated for a moment jabbing his own wand into every available bit of furniture just to be safe. Still muttering some of Kreacher's favorite foul tongues, he went over to the piano and began helping disentangle Peter.

The others all went to scatter away in frustration from here, Alice and Longbottom heading towards the kitchen, Sirius and Lupin going up the stairs, but the other four stayed uneasily in the mess, an answer still more tempting to them even if they would have given their potions teacher a good whack upside the head for it.

Evans finally went for the book again with a look of distaste like she used to give Potter all the time. He still watched her avidly for a few moments before an odd look passed his face and he went jogging up the stairs. Regulus's stomach was still twisted into a painful knot of unease for this abrupt turn around of their environment being all a farce and glared at his retreating feet. At least Sirius was making an effort, he wouldn't be surprised though if Potter went up there and encouraged Sirius to stay the hell away from both of them at this rate.

Peter watched too in fascination as that was the first time in his life he'd ever seen Prongs purposely turn away from her when he had no good reason to. He was tempted to follow and ask, but still he hesitated.

Sirius had offered him a bridge, back there in Malfoy's room, but it wasn't just Sirius' continued attitude that was putting him off trying to coexist with the other three. Remus and James had never been so vivid in their reaction to him, but he still felt it sometimes. Like the chunks missing from the wall. The place still stood around them, but even when it was fixed as it was in the book, he doubted he could ever get the image from his mind again of how that betrayal felt he'd never want to cause. It still felt safer then to never let it go that far at all. He still wanted to try and be friends, just maybe not best friends anymore. Like Neville he supposed, he could stay on the fringes and still be on good terms with them, right?

Instead, he turned to Regulus and gave an explanation he knew was owed, now that there was no chance of a dead body being around. "Sirius is worried about you, by the way. In case you were wondering."

Regulus looked startled at the abrupt change of topic, but then smiled in a way Peter so rarely saw as he glanced at the stairs.

"He was apologizing, for back in the Forest, said he was sorry for getting in the middle when he knows he hasn't been helping before that. Well, in his own way," Peter finished with an awkward laugh. "It's pretty funny to watch someone roll their eyes when they're closed." He tacked on for levity.

Regulus just watched steadily for the rest, that didn't feel like something Sirius wouldn't say in front of him.

"Okay yeah," Peter relented, "he also tried to ask what we were talking about, but I wasn't telling him what you told me. Not unless you want me to."

"Thanks," Regulus whispered in surprise, though he didn't know why he was, he knew Peter was good at keeping secrets. It wasn't even really a secret he was so afraid of this future, but nobody had ever given him the option before to decide who knew what about him.

He was tempted to go find Sirius now and talk to him, but Peter told him quietly, "maybe give Sirius a moment? You probably don't want to bother them messing around here."

Regulus didn't quite get the odd tone but believed him. He'd waited this long, he could wait a bit longer to try talking to his brother, they had plenty of time left and he was still plenty curious to pay attention to this.

Remus shivered in distaste for the room he wandered into, despite its clear opulence. The silk sheets and plump pillows spoke of a well rested bed, but he quickly bypassed that for the window despite the fact he could feel well enough there was no full moon, but the mist clung to these very streets as well. He made nonsense patterns in the dew and thought hard about how he could get around his stupid promise to Sirius about telling James and yet knew full well all secrets had a way of coming out eventually, Slughorn hadn't been able to avoid Dumbledore for long- Then someone grabbed him from behind.

"Stop screaming you idiot, it's still me."*

"Sirius, I rarely find that less of a reason to scream," Remus tried to laugh, but Sirius didn't seem in the talkative sort of mood as his hands dropped to his waist. "Are you insane?" He giggled even as he flicked his wand and the door locked. Not permanently, obviously, but it would give them some warning. "This isn't just a bit weird?" He still half expected Slughorn to pop up any moment after that heart attack moment, he'd never look at furniture around that man the same way again.

"It's on my bucket list to do this in a teacher's office," Sirius breathed into his ear. "This is the next best thing. Not up for it?" He pressed his lips down hard on Remus's throat and moaned when he felt Remus swallow convulsively.

'Ask you idiot, now, before this goes any further,' he tried keeping a straight head even as he let himself be pulled towards the bed, shamelessly helping Sirius out of his clothes with every step. "This um, list of yours-" he was panting already, what the hell did it matter again what this meant to Sirius so long as he kept doing that with his lips? "What, um, I mean who," he'd already forgotten his question anyways as Sirius sunk onto the bed and grinned up at him.

"Relax Moony, I'll give you a break when we get back, I wouldn't peg you for wanting to do half the shit I get up to anyways," he laughed as he coaxed Remus on top of him.

He'd only been half listening as he eagerly straddled him, nipping at his neck and jaw while palming him through the last of his clothes, but froze suddenly as what he said really sunk in, and a flair of possessiveness caused his hand to constrict.

Sirius gasped eagerly, but Remus' voice came out more clipped than he'd ever believe while holding Sirius like this, "what does that mean?"

Padfoot didn't seem to hear the warning, that wild, addicting laugh inches from his lips, his legs nudging him into a rocking motion as he teased, "I'll let you see the rest later. You really want to talk about this, now?" His breath was whiney and nearly pleading by the end as Remus hadn't yet moved again.

'Yes,' he knew he should have said. "Nope," he whispered, eagerly succumbing.*

It was far enough back on his neck even Sirius had to twist in the mirror to see it right. Nobody should be able to do the same, his hair covered it well. Sirius checked himself one last time as he smoothed the long black locks back perfectly to hide the mark, deciding he only looked as rumpled as everyone else for this near constant ricochet through reality before finally exiting the bathroom, prize now in his bag. Who kept sweets in their bathroom besides this lunatic? Remus probably would if he got his own house...He licked his lips longingly as he looked back towards Slughorn's room, but knew better than to go back, telling himself he'd risked enough for now. Moony needed a break and would understand if he just didn't come back, maybe he really did just want an alone moment Sirius wasn't giving him.

He'd pretty effectively blocked out Evans's voice as Slughorn already tried reminiscing to Harry about his old position, but the only thing he cared about for this anyways was that Snape should now be gone. He certainly hoped so, it was the only plausible reason he'd allow for this old walrus being back in school, none of the Marauders particularly liked him, so it wasn't at all surprising when he found Prongs behind a secret wall and rummaging through several jars of potions unabashedly, a golden vial flashing about, a strong smell of chocolate lingering in the air as he uncorked something and then quickly put it back.

"Moony okay?" He asked without looking away, he clearly wasn't that concerned with the small yelp of fright he'd caused Remus before muffling the door. "Heard something, what were you guys doing down there? Found this shit though-"

Sirius grinned in delight as he leaned against the wall to see him holding a glass flask full of a thick, mud like substance up curiously with a look Sirius was already on board with. "Fancy a swig Prongs?"

"Yeah, actually," he grinned remorselessly as he pulled the stopper out. "Care for a wager Padfoot?"

"Whoever gets caught first owes the other a galleon," Sirius instantly agreed.

Everybody would surely enjoy the laugh once they realized what the two had pulled, and this was a harmless spot of fun! Sirius grabbed up two dusty but waiting glasses and blew on them impatiently as James pulled out the cork and let the disgusting semi-liquid squelch out a shot into each.

James pocketed the rest and casually plucked a few hairs from his head and dropped it in. It looked almost as if it was pulsing in the cup, the thick maroon concoction was quivering along the edges just waiting for something to happen. He reached a finger out and traced along the edge with an amused smile, he was tempted to drink it himself no matter the uselessness of the action. He glanced curiously at Sirius to see him hesitating though and snorted in amusement as he was running his hand vainly through his hair. "Not going to make me drink your toenails are you prat?"

Sirius was quite tempted to spit into his just to lord that over him, he knew James would still drink it anyways, but ah, do to recent activities, he wasn't sure how much of it would be his own. So glaring at the arse, he delicately plucked at one precious lock, and winced with little pain as it came loose but watched eagerly as he dropped it down.

It was the brightest of scarlets, like if the sun had struck a ruby just right and dumped the color into his cup. He swirled it about like a fine wine and pursed his lips to stop the urge from licking it, but finally swapping cups and grinning like the loons they were as they tossed them back.

The two gasped in unison for how unpleasant the whole thing felt, but thankfully it was over quickly enough. They were shaking their heads though, still unintentionally mimicking each other as they held their new hands in front of their faces.

"Glory Prongs, it's a good thing you haven't lost your glasses. You'd be even more useless without them." It was so weird to hear his own voice, the deer nickname coming from his throat. James decided he didn't really like it as he figured out why the world was blurry and painful to focus on, removing them and passing them wordlessly along. His nose felt weirdly light and bare despite the fact Sirius' should feel no such thing.

Finally though he could properly see, himself. He briefly wondered for a moment if this could be sort of like looking at his son later, before quickly reminding himself like he had downstairs to knock off those kinds of thoughts now.

The two wordlessly exchanged clothes and kept uncomfortably flexing their shoulders and stretching, but by the time they were done it felt almost bearable.

"Don't know how that Crouch Jr. freak managed this for a year," James grumbled, still disturbed to not hear his voice come out and be staring at himself. "This is weird."

"Well thankfully the effects aren't permanent," Sirius sniffed, scratching oddly at his bare neck. "May the best man win!"

"I intend to," he said at once, fighting back the urge to pull Sirius' hair into a ponytail, it was heavier than he'd expected and he felt flush. Though after running his fingers uncomfortably through it for a moment he admitted to himself he had no idea how and he'd probably just hurt himself and either cause Sirius to piss himself with laughter or threaten bodily harm, either was likely.

The book had still been going, and Sirius grinned eagerly as he made his way towards the living room, at least that was a familiar expression on his own face. He obviously thought he could last longest around Evans, and he was probably right, he'd just have to stand there looking at her, the git. There was no fun in that though, and while Sirius was probably more concerned with winning and bragging rights, James wanted a challenge, so he went off in the direction he'd seen Remus go.

He found him quickly enough in Slughorn's room of all places and tried not to look too pleased he found him fidgeting with his shirt and a contemplative look on his face. The bed was all kinds of messed up like he'd been jumping on it for some reason. He had to remind himself not to try and falsify his voice when Remus glanced up. "What's on your mind Moony?"

"My treat," he sniffed. "Where's that pineapple you promised, I'm withholding round two until then."

James silently cursed himself and instantly regretted this, clearly he had missed a conversation between them and had no idea what they'd been up to. Still, he was nothing if not adaptable, and stepped forward to try and sooth out, "you'll get that crystal pineapple when I get mine."

At first he'd thought it might have worked, Remus got a smirk in place that always meant he was up to something, but then he whispered, "is that a challenge?" His hand moved to rest on the inside of James' thigh.

He jumped back like he'd been electrocuted again, accompanied by a high-pitched yelp that he would deny upon death he could ever make. He heard distantly something dropped in surprise in another room, his nose scrunched up in involuntary disgust as he watched Remus in concern. "The hell mate?"

"What-" he looked as confused as James felt now, but then he scrutinized him for several long seconds and demanded, "James?" His own face puckered with some anger and grotesque now.

"Yeah?" It took a moment for him to remember why his voice still sounded odd, and it wasn't all shock. He'd honestly forgotten he was in Sirius' body there for a moment. "How'd you know it was me?" He was only minorly distracted as he realized he lost and still watched his hand wearily, though it had fallen back into his lap.

"Because Sirius has never in his life done that," Remus said stiffly, and James froze in surprise as Moony's eyes flickered up to his own hand, which had been unintentionally ruffling up his hair with nerves. He cleared his throat awkwardly and smoothed his hand down the long main instead, but he knew the gig was up.

"Right," he muttered, far more concerned than anything still and not trying to play it off. "Found some Polyjuice Potions in Slughorn's stores, thought we'd have some fun, sure you didn't find anything you shouldn't have drunk? Like Essence of Insanity?"

Shock quickly collapsed down on Remus, he surged to his feet with a look of pure terror. "Oh shit, James? Um, look, we, I mean I, he was going to-" his eyes began darting to the door and back to him and changed to cussing fluently and backing away from him nearly to the wall.

"Hey, Remus, relax," James quickly soothed, taking a step towards him without even thinking. "I'm not angry, alright, breathe mate. Just, what the hell?"

Remus took several shaky breaths and still wouldn't even look at him, and James was starting to feel really bad. In his defense, that had come out of bloody nowhere, but Remus obviously hadn't done it on purpose, right? Maybe he'd been trying to grab at Sirius as a weird joke or whatever, hell is that what they kept whispering about, had Padfoot figured it out? They'd made weirder werewolf jokes to each other if so. He didn't at all want Remus to think he'd care if the guy was gay, he half suspected it sometimes as he showed such little interest in the girls back at school.

"Everything okay in here?"

The two jumped and turned around to see Evans of all people standing in the doorway, a look of genuine concern on her face as she watched the two. "There's been shouting." She clarified when the silence persisted.

"Um, yeah," he thought he grinned believably enough. He now had to fight off the compulsion with more effort than ever not to rumple up his hair in delight at the mere sight of her and was almost grateful for Moony catching him at that.

She still hovered, and both suddenly realized the book had been silent for quite some time, but there was still some kind of raised voice they'd been blocking out, and maybe it wasn't 'Sirius' shouting she'd meant. "Might want to check on your mate," she finally said, and confirmed as she shrugged and walked back off.

The two exchanged a very concerned look, what the hell had Sirius gotten himself up to? James went after her at once, beckoning to Remus without a second thought and filing this away for later. Moony thankfully followed without hesitation, even if he was a few paces behind than was natural.

She'd only got about halfway through the chapter and was feeling quite dispirited their teacher was on the run from Death Eater's in this Muggle neighborhood, but at least he'd agreed to come back. Dumbledore had been stepping into the broom shed back at the Burrow when Potter came in. There was an odd air about him, he kept scratching at the back of his neck and rotating his shoulders as he went and sat on the floor watching her with a stupider look than usual on his face.

Regulus and Pettigrew had been having some quiet kind of conversation about this new development and all it entailed for Hogwarts staffing. It didn't seem Potter was going to participate, until Pettigrew turned to him and asked, "What do you say Prongs, would you swap Vector out for anyone or take our chances?"

"Um," Sirius stuttered for only a moment. Damn, he hadn't taken Arithmancy with those three idiots, but he'd heard them complain enough over the years he could get along. "Guess we'll keep her around and avoid her, we've enough practice."

Regulus gave him a rather testy look he couldn't begin to guess at, he really didn't know his brother at all anymore.

One bridge at a time, he amended in his head. He still wasn't even clear on Regulus' loyalties. He was asking questions now and clearly trying to loosen up, but still defending the house-elf that got him killed and he still could not separate from their parents no matter what Regulus tried to say.

Peter kept going in an off-hand kind of way of forced casualness still, "look, I'm sure you're curious what Sirius was saying-"

"Not really," Sirius grinned.

Peter looked floored and a little hurt, so Sirius quickly gave himself a mental kick and redirected, "it's between you two." He stopped there and bit his tongue, he wasn't going to speak for Prongs and say everything was all good. James had been the one to convince him to even start at forgiving Peter, but he wasn't going to assume that meant he was all good either.

"He listens to you though," Peter tried to keep going, "and I was just hoping you could tell him-"

'Oh crap,' Sirius tried right then to give it up, he was not going to let Peter think he was talking to James and cause another fight later for this stupid prank! "Hey Wormtail-" Peter was already looking so annoyed, how had this gone so wrong so fast?

"Would you let me finish real quick-"

"No, really mate, I'm not-"

Regulus snapped.

He admired Peter was trying to keep going now around the obnoxious bloke still not taking a hint, but he couldn't just sit here and watch this anymore. "Can you not let him finish one bloody sentence without your opinion! I am so sick of you thinking you know what's best for everyone around here, no one elected you leader!"

He did not hear the thunk of something being dropped in the kitchen, nor realize Evans had lowered the book and was looking at them wearily before getting up, probably to finish reading in another room, though he doubted he'd take in a word of it now.

Peter felt too floored to notice any of it either, fighting down the urge to get between Regulus and James any second, but James didn't go for his wand. He didn't even seem upset or angry. Instead, there was some mingled look of pity, almost regret on his face which didn't at all track with the way he kept side-eying Regulus lately.

Sirius watched, half in fascination half in guilt as he let Regulus tear into Prongs, wincing for each blow his little brother dealt and glad to be taking this for James regardless.

"Ever since Sirius came home that first bloody summer all he's talked about is your bloody opinion on everything and I'm sick of hearing it!"

Sirius was starting to get annoyed by that point, he wasn't some mindless yup like his little brother and let Prongs speak for him, but he forced himself to hold his tongue and let Regulus get it all out now, he didn't even notice the other three coming back down the stairs.

James sure as hell wasn't going to allow the same when he took the scene in. He wasn't going to let Sirius' new passive approach to the two of them allow them to dog ear his best mate like that, and he immediately shoved Regulus. "Back off you bastard, now!"

Regulus looked stricken for just a moment before his face settled back into that cool mask of indifference the Black's carried so well. Sirius felt a pang in his heart the kid managed that at his age, his little brother even twitched for his wand, but Sirius forced his way between the two, snatching the vial out of James's pocket before this could escalate.

"Listen, we swapped bodies, okay! James and I, we found some Polyjuice Potion, we thought it would be fun! Merlin, how long you been holding that in Reg?" He still didn't really regret it when Regulus gave the both of them a look of deepest loathing and stormed up the stairs, slamming something up there. He didn't want to know what Prongs really would have said to him if he'd been down here this whole time.

Evans gave them a scathing look as well and turned quickly away to finish, muttering about their idiocies and stupid pranks again. Even Moony wouldn't meet his eye and Longbottom and Alice were watching from the kitchen with slightly open mouths like they still couldn't believe the stupidity they got themselves into.

Only Peter was left actually looking at them, and he was biting his lip to hold back a smile. Little shit. Whether he actually found the whole thing funny or was laughing at them neither could really be sure, and that was as irksome as Regulus' reaction.

The two gave each other exasperated looks, Sirius finally saying, "think we should hold off trying to get the others to laugh for now Prongs?"

"Guess there's no point in a prank if no one's going to laugh, not even us," he huffed in agreement, still eyeing the stairs with great dislike Sirius was far too used to seeing on his own face regarding his brother, but for the first time realizing James hadn't just been defending him, or himself, whichever. There was something else in what had just happened.

Evans watched them for a few more moments before saying with a guilty look upstairs the chapter was done and finishing good as her word.

HPHPHPH

You didn't really think I could go the whole book without some sibling drama did you? I wouldn't know what to do with myself at this rate!

* Porn will be posted in a separate post shortly.

#Harry Potter #fanfiction #reading the books #HBP #HP #Jilly #Wolfstar #Marauders #James Potter #remus Lupin #Sirius Black #Regulus Black #Peter Pettigrew #Lily Evans #Frank Longbottom #Alice Smith #Horace Slughorn's House #ish

3 notes · View notes

shypotato-translations · 3 years

Text

QTVW Chapter 2

Future* President's Fiancee (II)

----

After An Mu Lan met Ling Xihan, the expression on Father An’s face when he turned his head to look at her was three parts disgust and seven parts satisfaction

Father An's attitude changed all because she analyzed the plot and memories, took the initiative to talk to him these days, and made some changes in line with the original owner's character.

After her father told An Mu Lan about the marriage, she took the initiative to approach him that night, expressing her gratitude to him for 'raising her' and expressing her remorse for always confronting him in the past.

She said that she would change her ways, worried about her father and would help him.

This conversation improved the relationship between the two, which changed Father An's attitude towards her a little bit, and these days, she also had an advantageous benefit, as she received strong support from him financially.

The first thing she did after this was to respond positively to the marriage.

In the past few days she has been ordering girly clothes, taking the initiative to dress herself and making the often cold room look warm and sweet. Some of her actions were changed to suit her father's preferences, in accordance with her tutor's teaching.

She did all this to project a good and obedient image to set the stage for her next move.

Because of these factors, Father An’s attitude towards her was more satisfied and valued, she only heard him say,

"I have something to discuss with Ling Xihan, you go back to your room and pack your luggage first.”

A father's advice to his daughter is evident in his words.

An Mu Lan had learned about this from the original owner's memory, so she didn't show too much reaction to hearing this, but answered obediently,

"Yes, father."

She watched the two go upstairs to Father An's study. She had only just returned to her room, packing her bags and reminiscing about their first meeting.

The villain, Ling Xihan, has not been written much in the novel, and was chosen as the character for this mission because the system selected her based on the criteria for defining a villain - powerful, complex background, ruthless tactics, protagonist's aura, strong luck, entanglement with the hero and heroine, and many other factors, after a multi-level selection process.

In the original owner's memory, there were a few impressions of her, plus today's personal contact, which let Mu Lan know that the subject of this mission was a woman whose joy and anger were not visible, and it was hard to let anyone see her mind. As for the task of raiding her, An Mu Lan could only take one step at a time and act like this for the time being.

As mentioned in the plot, by this time, Father An had made the news of the marriage public.

The fact that Ling Xihan is the fiancée of the youngest daughter of the An family has been reported in all the major media. And mostly under the title 'A millennium-old family joins forces with a rising economic power'

It was because of this that Father An was so angry when the original owner and Ling Xihan broke off their marriage. Because it's not just about marrying his daughter, it's about uniting the interests of the family.

The current An Mu Lan naturally won't choose to break the marriage, and her move to Ling Xihan’s residence will make it easier for her to raid the villain.

She quickly finished packing her luggage and ordered the maid to carry it downstairs, then she sat quietly on the sofa in the living room with her hands folded in her lap, looking very serious as she read a book on women and women's marriage.

After waiting for about half an hour, the sound of two people talking came from a distance, An Mulan was the first to stand up and looked up the stairs, she saw Father An with a cheerful and satisfied expression, every now and then he glanced at Ling Xihan, in his eyes, there was satisfaction and regard for her.

When Father An walked into the living room, he warmly invited Ling Xihan to join him for lunch, he ordered the kitchen to prepare a big meal and told the butler to call all the young masters back for dinner. Then he turned his head, lowered his face to look at An Mu Lan and said to her,

"Let's have a meal before we go, and you take Ling Xihan to your room to rest a bit. Xihan, what do you think?"

The corners of Ling Xihan’s mouth curled, and her clear, cold voice was on the low side as she said,

"I will listen to you, father-in-law, and I would like to spend some quality time with Mu Lan."

Hearing this, Father An became even more satisfied with Ling Xihan, he gestured with his eyes to An Mu Lan, who immediately answered,

"President Ling, my room is over here, please follow me."

An Mu Lan leads Ling Xihan towards her room. When Ling Xihan walked into her bedroom, what caught her eyes was a princess room decorated in pink and girly colours, Ling Xihan swept her eyes across the room and looked at An Mulan with a slightly unexpected look in her eyes.

An Mu Lan smiled nonchalantly and said,

"President Ling, this is my room, please have a seat."

As she said that, she guided Ling Xihan to the sofa in front of the window and sat down, while she herself knelt on both knees on the cushion beside the low table and asked her with a tilted head,

"Does President Ling like to drink tea or coffee?"

Ling Xihan sat on the backlit sofa, unable to see her expression, and only her cool, emotionless voice could be heard, saying,

"Tea, just fine."

An Mu Lan nodded, making tea with a smooth hand, her long, thin fingers curving as she demonstrated the art of tea. Her look is warm and focused, full of the charm of an Eastern woman.

When the tea was brewed, she immediately poured a cup of tea and pushed it in front of Ling Xihan, saying to her,

"It's done, you can taste it."

She took a sip of the tea and then leaned over to take a look at the young girl in front of her.

An Mu Lan's cheeks reddened under her gaze, she pulled open the cupboard of the low table with soft eyebrows, took out a biscuit box from it, handed it to Ling Xihan and said in a soft voice,

"President Ling, these are the complementary desserts for tea, they taste delicious, would you like to try them?"

Ling Xihan nodded, although she wasn't interested, she made a rare move to be different in the face of such a girl who was to her liking. She took a biscuit and ate it, the sweet taste filled her mouth, she looked up at An Mulan and saw that she was looking at her with a smile, two deep dimples at the corners of her mouth, she looked extraordinarily good and pretty, pure and soft.

Ling Xihan's heart fluttered, she had always liked girls like this. She thought it was a temporary business alliance, a union of interests, but she never thought it would bring her such a big surprise. She looked at the girl's smile and just felt that the other girl was sweeter than the taste of a biscuit in her mouth.

Ling Xihan lowered her eyes and took a small sip from her tea, the white smoke obscuring her expression as she said,

"Miss An, you can call me Xihan, after all, we are in a fiancée relationship and, as you are about to live with me, we, will have a more intimate relationship."

After she finished, she put down her tea and sat up straight, the corners of her mouth curled up in a rather amusing smile, which added a bit of vividness and beauty to her cold face, and she looked exceptionally attractive.

An Mu Lan's heart jumped and her cheeks brushed red as she hastily admonished herself, she's the one who's going after the villain, not the villain who's going after her! Hold on! Don't fall for the villain's beautiful tricks!

As she warned herself, she shyly lowered her head, hiding the look in her eyes and making a not-so-shy face, but still speaking graciously and fluently,

"Xihan, you can call me Mu Lan, the Mu of a wood to the right of the three dots of water and the Lan of orchids."

Seeing her earnestly saying her name with an indescribable naivety and delicacy, Ling Xihan arched her eyebrows and called out,

"Mu Lan."

They were meeting for the first time, so naturally, most of the conversation revolved around An Mu Lan. When Ling Xihan brought up the topic a little, An Mulan had already revealed her own situation, all to Ling Xihan.

At noon, reminded by the housekeeper's knock on the door, An Mu Lan and Ling Xihan went to the living room for lunch.

There were dozens of exquisitely shaped dishes on the dining table, from here we could see how much Father An valued Ling Xihan, and it was the first time An Mulan saw the entire An family at the dining table.

Her four older brothers, the eldest and second are already working in companies, the third is studying art and is a well-known artist, and the fourth is still at university and goes to the same school as An Mu Lan.

All four are excellent, the eldest is austere, the second is graceful, the third is literate and gentle, and the fourth is dashing and unrestrained. Powerful characters in the maid's harem.

But now An Mu Lan looked at them as if these people were just NPCs on her way for revenge, part of a mission.

After lunch, Father An walked Ling Xihan to the entrance of the An residence, and naturally her four brothers accompanied him all the way.

An Mu Lan secretly surveyed their expressions, and saw that the eldest and the second had masks on their faces and were emotionless, while the third had a sad frown, and the fourth had raised eyebrows and was clearly angry.

An Mu Lan knew that the video of the maid and her four brothers, which had been uploaded to the campus website, had still had a partial impact on these people.

This gave her great satisfaction and it seemed that all she had done before had not been in vain.

After today, she will move in with Ling Xihan, the An family's wild storms are no longer too relevant to her, and the four brothers can't find out the truth, and in the end, they will only push this matter to their rivals. Even if they suspected her, they would take into account her performance these days, focusing on the marriage, and the lack of motive to clear her of suspicion of committing the crime.

An Mu Lan was in a good mood as she said goodbye to the An family and took a car to the other side of the city, to Lings Xihan's villa.

Ling Xihan now lives in a villa area on the outskirts of the city, and from its residence, it fits perfectly with her emerging president's status, which is unremarkably low-key.

Within this villa of hers, there are no servants or housekeepers. Because Ling Xihan is a person with a strong sense of privacy, she does not like others to come near her territory, so there is no sign of outsiders in this villa, except for the occasional assistant who comes over to take care of the rooms.

Ling Xihan took her inside the villa and arranged a room for An Mu Lan near her bedroom, explaining,

"This room is yours."

After that, she left the villa in a hurry.

An Mu Lan surveyed the room, which had taken two days to set up neatly, during which time Ling Xihan had been away on business and had not returned home.

When Ling Xihan had finished the business at hand, she returned home at night and opened the door to see, wearing a pink nightgown with an apron, An Mu Lan, carrying a plate of home-cooked food, walking out of the kitchen.

#shypotato #yuri #transmigration #QTVW2 #I don't know what to tag #world hopping

13 notes · View notes

ohblackdiamond · 4 years

Text

little t&a (gene/paul, nc-17) (part 29 of 29)

part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5 part 6 part 7 part 8 part 9 part 10 part 11 part 12 part 13 part 14 part 15 part 16 part 17 part 18 part 19 part 20 part 21 part 22 part 23 part 24 part 25 part 26 part 27 part 28 part 29

Four weeks before KISS gets back on tour, Gene discovers that Paul’s been cursed by a groupie. For the sake of KISS’ finances, Paul’s comfort levels, and Gene’s libido, this crisis must be resolved. Sexswap fic. In this chapter: One last temptation, and one last conclusion.

Notes: As this story draws to a close, I wanted to go ahead and thank everyone who's reviewed or even just read for their support. It makes my day, every day.

I would like to thank a couple people in particular: @baycitystygian, who read/commented over an early draft of the last chapter, @tanookikiss, who read/commented over several chapters, sometimes multiple times, and finally, most particularly, @planet-neun, who offered suggestions and advice (particularly on the final sex scene) on nearly all drafts from chapter six onward, and endured my various complaints and concerns over this story with an unfathomable amount of patience.I would also like to thank helena_s_renn over on Rockfic for her sticking with this story this entire time and providing amazing feedback every single chapter and step of the way.

He was back at his parents’ old apartment, watching T.V. Same station, different airing. Hollywood Squares instead of Neil Armstrong. Paul Lynde rattling out some campy zinger. Beyond, in the next room, he could hear his mother on the phone, her tone low and worried, but he couldn’t tell what she was saying.

Marbas was sitting next to him again on the couch, languid, nearly casual. No pretenses, no masks of Julia or Carol or any of the dozens of other girls who’d wandered in and out of his life. Paul tried to focus on the T.V. set, only daring to look at Marbas in fleeting, sideways glances, as though full acknowledgement would be too much to bear.

“You took your time,” the demon said simply.

(i guess it’s done now)

“If that’s what you’d like.”

(carol said—)

“My powers are hardly dependent on a child’s understanding. You performed the ritual. But the end result is up to you, Stan.”

(i’m going back to normal)

(i’ve got to)

“Why?” Marbas didn’t look surprised. Those yellow eyes were glinting with nothing but mild interest. “You took to the curse readily enough, once you saw what it brought you.”

(i—)

“I said you’d have been no different if you’d always been this way. I said you’d never have given yourself up to him. But I was wrong. You did all that was required.” His teeth glistened with spit. “You enjoyed it. You could keep enjoying it.”

(i don’t—)

“What’s a body to you, Stan? Something imperfect. Something to despise.” Marbas’ fingers reached over and lifted a curly lock of Paul’s hair, right at his temple. He felt the air on the remnant of his right ear, and cringed, trying to pull back. “Your insecurity makes you so malleable. What ties you to that other form? Nothing but familiarity. You’d be anyone at all as long as it gained you favor.”

(you’re wrong)

(i’m not like that—i’m myself, i have a self, i—)

“You hate yourself.”

Paul didn’t answer.

“I could give you less to hate.” Marbas’ human hand cupped the stub of his ear without actually touching the cartilage, just the surrounding skin, pushing against the side of Paul’s face, easing his line of sight completely towards the screen. Paul inhaled sharply, unable to turn his head away from where Marbas was tilting it. His eyes were fixed to the television screen in front of him, the image fuzzing out, becoming his own. His face smiling at him. Only his teeth onscreen were straight and white. The longer he stared, the more changes he noticed. Subtle ones. Nothing that made him unrecognizable, just pushed him past sort of attractive and maybe almost into beautiful. More delicate, symmetrical facial features than he really had. A better figure, one with an actual waist and ass to go along with the tits, and a thinner frame overall. The kind of girl that Gene would want to have on his arm. The kind of girl that Gene was used to having on his arm.

(gene said he didn’t want a playboy playmate)

(gene said he wanted me)

“Are you so sure about what he wants?”

(he proved it)

“He slept with you once.” Marbas’ voice was low and strange. “Would he have done that in your old body? Would he have ever considered it?”

(no)

“What makes you think he’ll consider it now?”

(because he)

(because he said there might be something after, that’s why)

“He couldn’t make a guarantee.” The words seeped thick as honey, sticky against his soul. Nothing he wasn’t aware of. Nothing he could fault Gene for. “I could make it for him.”

(we completed the ritual. y-you said so.)

“Take a closer look, Stan. You might find something that appeals to you.”

The girl on the T.V. tugged a hand through her curly dark hair without hesitation, pushing it away from her face, back behind a perfectly normal right ear. Better than any result he’d ever seen in those cosmetic surgery leaflets. Confident. So confident. The way everyone else was. The way everyone else must feel, all the time, with nothing to hide, nothing— and part of Paul was horrified at his own aching desire.

(but—)

(you can’t, there’s no way—)

“Do you want to try it?” Marbas didn’t wait on an answer. His fingers, still curved around the remnant of Paul’s right ear, began to stroke it. Paul’s breaths were coming in short, sharp bursts, and this time was different, this time the stub of cartilage was shot through with sensation. It felt like far too much, the tingling, prickling feeling radiating outward, across his face, slipping in deeper, past his skin, all the way to his bones. The sensation traveled down his neck, spreading all the way through his chest and limbs, leaving him gasping, crying out.

(what are you doing?!)

(please, please stop, it hurts, it hurts!)

Marbas let go of him, hand returning to rest on the back of the couch. Paul could move again, and he reached with shaking, disbelieving fingers to his ear. The folded-over stub was gone. It felt just like his left ear. And there was sound, clearer than he’d ever heard before in his life, more encompassing, more surrounding. Almost too intense and vivid to be believed. The whir of the fan on the floor, the buzz of the T.V., even his mother on the phone in the kitchen sounded so much more distinct— he could hear what she was saying, though her voice was strange and low—

(are you okay)

as tears started to sting his eyes and drip down his cheeks. Oh. Oh.

He wanted to get up, to play every record in his collection and find out what he’d missed, what subtleties he’d lost out on. Catch all those intricate melodies and sound layerings in a way he’d never, ever been able to before. He wanted to go to all the parties he’d been too afraid to attend because he couldn’t distinguish the conversations. He wanted to play his guitar. He wanted to go onstage and fully hear that crowd for the first time in his life. He wanted to tell Gene—

(paul?)

His mother was still calling out from the kitchen, oddly questioning. Couldn’t have been speaking to him. She never called him anything but Stanley. He ignored her, stumbling off the couch, one hand still on his ear. A glance down at his breasts only briefly dampened his excitement.

(what about my family? what about my career?)

Marbas didn’t answer, but Paul knew it in his heart. They’d be forfeit, or altered so heavily they might as well be forfeit. He’d never be able to see Ericka again as her uncle. He’d never be able to reconcile with Julia. Never even be a son to his parents.

Then there was KISS. But a price had to be paid for everything, didn’t it? He didn’t think Ace would fault him over it, once he knew why. Peter, either, not really. And— and besides, if he made the choice, he wouldn’t just be getting a normal body. He’d get a normal relationship with Gene. Nothing under wraps, no open secrets. He could really be with Gene the way he knew Gene had to want him. Comfortable. Happy.

His parents’ old apartment spun and dissolved to nothing, Marbas disappearing with it. He was lying on his side on a bed. It wasn’t his own, but it smelled faintly of his cologne. It smelled like Gene, too— Gene, who was beside him, a little worry on his face.

Paul tried to say his name, but couldn’t quite get the word out, throat thick and heavy. His face was still wet, he realized.

“What’s the matter?”

His head felt like concrete, almost impossible to shake. He managed it, just barely. His fingers tightened around his right ear, hiding it from view, tracing helplessly across the cartilage. Gene reached over, touching his wrist.

“Does it hurt?”

Paul shook his head one more time.

“You sound… you sound so good, Gene.”

There was nothing to hide anymore. He knew it. Nothing wrong with that ear at all, and yet Paul dug his fingers into his scalp anyway, tugging a couple curls forward to cover it before wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. Gene’s expression softened.

“I’m glad.” His lips met Paul’s, brief but warm. “You look even better.”

Paul glanced down reflexively. He was in a black, lace-encrusted teddy. He’d barely glanced at those when he’d looked through the lingerie section of the boutique. Not just because of the uncomfortable-looking clasp at the crotch, either; he knew a teddy was all wrong for the way he was built. Even as a girl, he had a certain boxiness to his figure, his breasts the only thing of consequence really breaking up his torso. Now it was different. He filled the lingerie out properly, the thin fabric clinging to every newly-pronounced curve. His waist was smaller, and the bit of stomach fat that had carried over so hatefully from his male body had evaporated entirely.

He ran his tongue across his teeth. They were straight, perfectly even. His hand shifted from his hair to feel around his face. He couldn’t really tell a difference there without a mirror, but that didn’t matter much. The rest of his body had given him a damn good idea. He looked like the girl on the T.V.

Beautiful. Whole. He’d never been either of those things before, not in his entire life.

“You haven’t gotten used to it yet.”

“I—no. I-I guess not.”

“Does it bother you?” Gene didn’t elaborate, and Paul wasn’t sure how to answer.

“Being like this?” Paul hesitated. He didn’t know how to put it into words at all. He didn’t feel badly about it; he couldn’t possibly. This had to be the ticket, more bafflingly generous than he’d ever be granted otherwise. He’d—he’d gotten elevated. He’d be someone else entirely now. Not just physically. He’d throw off all the insecurities and neuroticism that had plagued Stanley Eisen and Paul Stanley, because all the reasons for them had disappeared. He’d be the person Gene had to want him to be, in and out of bed. He’d be better to everyone this way, even to himself, especially to himself. He’d be happy.

“Yeah.”

“No. It doesn’t bother me.”

Gene started to smile.

“Okay.” He snapped one of the drooping straps of the teddy. “Might wanna get dressed sometime. We’re supposed to be negotiating your advance from Casablanca today.”

An advance from Casablanca. So Gene had gotten him in somehow. Gene and all the guys, probably. A solo deal. He’d still be able to sing. He’d still have an audience, even if he never got the crowds he had with KISS. Even if none of them ever did. Paul’s stomach cartwheeled with his own selfishness.

“You’d… you’ve done all that for me?”

“It wasn’t that hard. We got all the songs you’d started, made some demos… Bill thought you were great.”

“He always has.” Paul watched Gene start to skirt a hand across his thigh, and he batted it lightly away before Gene’s hand could get between his legs. “Hey, I thought you said I should get dressed sometime.”

“Sometime has about two hours of leeway. And you’ve got to get undressed first.” Gene’s hand wandered back like an unrepentant puppy, and this time, Paul let him get a grope in. Gene cupped his ass, not even half-contained within the teddy, fondling and squeezing it lightly. “... You sure you’re okay there, Paul?”

“Yeah. I’m fine.” He hesitated. “Gene, things are good, aren’t they?”

“Things are good.”

“Things with us, I mean. I mean— you’re happy, aren’t you? You don’t resent—”

“There’s nothing to resent.”

Gene slid his hand up from his ass, slowly stroking his way up Paul’s back through the thin fabric. Paul closed his eyes, trying to relax into the touch.

“But the band. I know I cost everyone so much money, not… not going back, you can’t say there’s nothing to resent when I pulled that kind of stunt—”

“I know why you did it.” Warm, steady fingers massaging his shoulders, then urging him closer in. Paul found himself closing the rest of the gap between them willingly, helplessly, pressing himself against Gene’s chest. “It’s all right, Paul.”

The words didn’t ease his mind as much as he’d hoped. Paul opened his eyes, shifting slightly, pushing a kiss to Gene’s mouth. Gene didn’t deepen the kiss immediately, a surprise, given how he’d been fondling him earlier. His hand just coursed up past his shoulders and neck, tangling through Paul’s hair. Not just stroking it the way he had before. He was trying to smooth and push it back, fingers inching towards his right ear. Paul jerked away with a start before Gene’s fingers so much as brushed against it.

Sorry was on his lips, but he couldn’t manage it. His face was burning. Gene didn’t look surprised at all, only resigned.

“You always worry so much. You don’t need to anymore.”

Paul didn’t say anything. Gene reached for him again after a bit, arm draping over his back. It should have been soothing, but it wasn’t. He knew too much. He understood too much. Paul’s gaze drooped down to the lace edging the bottom of the teddy, down further, to the long, tanned legs that were and weren’t his, and then he finally managed to speak again.

“I haven’t changed at all, have I?”

“Paul, what do you mean?”

“Just what I said. I-I thought that… I thought I’d be better.”

“You’ll get better. This is still new for you.”

Paul shook his head.

“I got it all fixed.” His heart felt like it was being tugged and twisted, warped out of recognition. “I got everything fixed up and I’m… I’m still myself.”

“Paul—”

“It’s no good. I’m the same. Don’t you get it?” The pressure of Gene’s arm around him seemed lighter with every word out of Paul’s mouth, though he hadn’t moved at all. “It’s no good at all.”

“Paul, wait—”

“I don’t want it.”

The last faint touch of Gene’s skin against his back faded into nothing. The whole scene melted out in front of him, Gene’s bedroom replaced again by his parents’ apartment, Marbas sitting beside him on the couch. His expression hadn’t shifted.

(i’d be no different)

(i’d be no good)

“Would you have to be good for him?”

(you don’t understand, this isn’t all about him)

All his life trying to belong. All his life, knowing there was something he was missing, that he couldn’t hope to achieve but tried to snatch at anyway. Self-confidence he’d only been able to mimic onstage, draped in leather and feathers, done up in high heels and lipstick. Brightness he’d only been able to reflect, never possess on his own.

None of that would come from just having this body. All the old foibles and fears wouldn’t be banished. They might even be magnified. A girl had a whole other set of worries, one he’d mostly been protected from. A whole other set of expectations he couldn’t meet. He wouldn’t be any more at peace with himself; he’d be struggling to put on in a dozen new ways and still find himself lacking.

No magic pill. No wish upon a star, no becoming a real girl for him; it would still be skin-deep at best. He couldn’t erase the parts of himself he despised. There wouldn’t be any inherent reinvention in getting a better body and guaranteeing Gene’s interest. Guaranteeing Gene’s love. And even that was only according to Marbas himself. No guarantees anywhere, that was what Ace had said. It didn’t matter. He couldn’t run away from himself.

(that’s okay, stan)

The words seemed to come out of nowhere at all. Not the T.V. screen, not Marbas, not his mother on the phone. That familiar, clear voice that enunciated everything so carefully. Gene.

Paul actually turned around on the couch, expecting to see Gene there. He felt stupid as he stood up, bare toes digging into the thin carpet, and started to look around the room, as if anyone but the demon was there with him.

(gene?)

(you’re okay)

Gene had said that seven years ago, on a cold wintery afternoon, to some shy, fat teenage boy he must have brought along out of pity. He’d said it, and Paul had never stopped craving that reassurance, never stopped wanting Gene for it, the longing warm and heavy in his heart. He’d said that when Paul had nothing at all to offer him, not talent or money or a pretty face or a body he could’ve wanted. He’d said it, already knowing the worst of Paul, already knowing all the parts of himself he’d tried to keep hidden. All the parts he’d wanted to be rid of. All that, and Gene had still found something to accept.

(you’re okay)

The sentence draped over him like a boxer’s medallion, empowering as a mantra. There was a fullness in his chest, in his throat, that for once, even his own neuroses couldn’t break through. Though he wasn’t enough for himself, he’d been enough for Gene all that time ago. He’d be enough for Gene now, even if they never slept together again.

The demon finally spoke up from the couch, lifting his head to look at Paul. His amber eyes were unreadable.

“He’d take care of you if you stayed this way,” Marbas said quietly. “He’d take care of you the rest of your life.”

The air in the room was suddenly swelteringly thick. Like those dirt cheap hotels and motels down South, from before they could afford places with air conditioning. For a brief moment, he thought he felt Gene’s hand brush against his face.

(he already does)

(he already will)

Gene lay there with Paul’s head resting on his chest. Paul didn’t move at all for a long time. His breaths were so rhythmic and perfectly even that it was eerie. An enchanted sleep.

Gene remembered the old monster movies he used to watch on T.V. as a teenager. The Wolfman, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, all that. The frame-by-frame shifts from human to creature and back again. It was probably going to be profoundly bizarre, and in a way, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to watch—but on the same token, he didn’t want to leave Paul alone, in case the transformation ended up hurting him.

So still. After half an hour without any change, Gene gingerly sat up. Paul’s head lolled back; his whole body seemed boneless. Gene rustled a bit, struggling to pull some of the covers they’d been laying on over them both, deciding Paul’s dignity was more important than his own curiosity. Gene wrapped an arm back around Paul, and kept waiting.

Almost over. Gene wasn’t sure how he’d feel. No. No, that wasn’t quite true anymore, if it ever had really been. Drawing the contours of Paul’s face had solidified what he’d already known, deep down. Paul didn’t resemble his sister nearly so much as he resembled himself.

Paul shifted, finally. Those fidgety movements he had always been prone to in his sleep, like those nerves of his never really got a moment to ease up. He’d nudged his knee against Gene’s thigh. He was mumbling under his breath, something Gene couldn’t decipher. His eyes opened.

Gene’s stomach felt like it was dropping to the floor. God, Paul’d woken up without turning back at all.

“Are you okay?” But then, staring at the blank look in Paul’s expression, the total lack of response, Gene realized he wasn’t awake, for all his eyes were watering up. “Paul?”

He started tapping Paul on the shoulder, then squeezing his hand. No response. Paul’s eyes shut just as quickly as they’d opened—Gene wiped at them with the back of his hand—head slouching to the side, face pressed against Gene’s shoulder, the pressure burning hot and suddenly strange. For a second, Gene almost swore he could feel the shift of bones against his arm, the gradual, weird sensation of stubble scratching against his shoulder, before he fell asleep himself, into a nap as short and dreamless as any other.

He woke up to exactly what he’d expected. Paul was still lying there beside him. His breaths against Gene’s skin were natural now, not that almost metronomic regularity. Gene didn’t even have to move the sheets to know he was back to normal. He still had an arm around Paul; he could feel the difference just in the width of his shoulders. Paul had moved more in his sleep, too, facedown against Gene’s chest again, the scruff on his chin and jawline insinuating itself there, all smoothness gone. He thought he’d mind that much more than he did.

Instead, he just reached over with his free hand, tentatively stroking his fingers through Paul’s curls. He was going to have to dye his hair again before the tour, Gene realized mundanely; the jet-black had started to fade out around the roots to his natural dark brown. He’d probably been meaning to get a touch-up right around the time he’d been cursed. Paul was like that, noticing flaws way before anyone else did.

Paul was like that.

He started to stir right around the time Gene’s fingers caught and tugged against a tangle a little too hard. Slowly, with a small grunt, Paul raised his head off Gene’s chest, turning to look at him, eyes half-shut and squinty. The slightly softer, more delicate female face Gene had woken up to for the last several days was gone. In its place was Paul’s face as he’d known it for eight years now. Paul as he really was.

“Welcome back.”

Paul opened his eyes fully. For a second he didn’t quite seem to react. Gene watched as he threw off the covers and looked down at himself, tracing a trembling hand down the right side of his face, then his flat, hairy chest, breaths hitching as his fingers coursed over one hip, to his stomach, finally to his cock, confirming it was all there. Everything restored.

He didn’t quite expect Paul’s arms around him, tugging him in tight, inadvertently pinning him against the bed. Broader, stronger arms than what he’d gotten used to lately. No softness to his chest. Less give overall. The pressure was so different, different but familiar. The scent of him, too. He wrapped his arms around Paul in return, almost on automatic, his fingers making small, brief circles against Paul’s skin. The side of Paul’s face was buried against Gene’s neck, and he was still breathing hard as he spoke.

“Gene, Gene, w-we did it. We did it!”

“We did it.”

“We—we can go on tour. I can go see Ericka, Gene, I… you don’t know how much this—I don’t know how to… how to thank you.”

“Nothing to thank me for.”

“There is. You’ve got no idea. You wouldn’t believe it. I can’t…” Paul shook his head rapidly, his hair brushing Gene’s lips. Guileless in his own relief. Like it still hadn’t quite occurred to him that he was straddling him naked. “I couldn’t have gotten back without you.”

“You could’ve.” Gene smiled despite himself. “Give yourself more credit than that.”

“But it would’ve been awful.” Paul seemed like he was struggling for the right words. “You don’t understand. You made me feel… like I was all right. You always have. Nobody’s ever…” Paul stopped, shaking his head again. “You’ve been so good to me.”

“I really haven’t—”

Paul kissed him. The motion was quick, almost apologetic. Two seconds at best of Paul’s mouth pressed against his, the slight scrape of his stubble against Gene’s skin as he pulled back. It didn’t feel the same, being kissed by him. It wouldn’t be the same.

“I’m sorry.” Paul seemed to realize it, too, abruptly climbing off of him and sitting up on the bed. Gene sat up, too, back against the headboard. “I know you couldn’t promise anything.”

“Paul.”

“I’ll just get dressed. I’ll call the guys up in a minute.” Paul hesitated, then swung his legs off the side of the bed. He didn’t get up, just sat there, running his fingers down his own arms and chest, as if he were cold or something, or else getting his bearings. Maybe he was just trying to feel around for himself, make positive there wasn’t any residual trace of that female body left��but Gene didn’t think that was all of it.

“Are you really going to leave it at that?”

Paul stiffened. His eyes darted towards him, then back towards the covers. His teeth were sunk into his lower lip. Gene had seen that mannerism so many times. The fragility and insecurity that were a part of him, regardless of his body. No faith in himself. That was all right. Gene had enough faith for the both of them.

“Leave it at what?”

Gene scooted over until he was sitting next to him on the bed, bare feet on the shag carpet. He reached over, resting a hand on Paul’s thigh. Paul glanced at him again, quickly, hesitantly, before finally placing his own hand on top of Gene’s. The way he’d done in the car, on the way to Central Park. His hand was broader, larger, but just as warm, and just as much his as he laced his fingers between Gene’s. It still seemed to belong there. Even more when Gene turned up his wrist, to hold Paul’s hand properly in his, squeezing it tight.

“I missed you,” Gene said. “I really missed you.”

Paul shook his head, made a sound like a laugh. Trying to protect himself even now. It hurt to hear it. But his hand stayed clasped in Gene’s. He wasn’t pulling back. Gene would never give him a reason to, not now.

“C’mon, I know you liked me better…”

“I like you better happy.”

“But I—” Paul swallowed. His expression was open, vulnerable. He looked like he wanted so badly to believe. He looked a little afraid. “I’m not what you want anymore.”

“That’s not true.”

“It’s true. I know it. I-I figured all along it wouldn’t turn out. I really did.” Paul took a breath. “I don’t blame you. I mean, look at me, I’m not—”

“I’m looking at you. I’ve been looking at you this whole time. ” Those same big brown eyes, same slightly crooked chin and full lips greeted him as all those days ago on the front porch. The same soul. Gene let go of Paul’s hand, reaching out and cupping the left side of his face, tracing his fingers down from his temple to his jaw, to the pulse of his neck, all the way down to his flat, hairy chest. Everything he’d explored before. Every touch was different now, but the same warmth and want was spreading through him. It hadn’t gone away. Hadn’t faded. “I’m looking at someone I wanna be with.”

“Gene—it’s just not gonna be like it was, you know that.”

“I know that.” Gene moved his hand, tracing one nipple before sliding his palm directly above it. Paul’s heartbeat was pounding beneath his hand. “It’s gonna be better.”

“I’m a lot less cute to wake up to this way.” Paul started to try and smile, mouth wavering. His brows were furrowed. For a second, he raised his hand like he was going to push Gene’s hand away, but instead it rested on top of it again, Paul’s fingers pressing down against the back of Gene’s hand. No full, heavy breast to squeeze and toy with anymore. “I-it’s a real bad trade-off. I’ll wear out all your razors.”

“You’ll have to do better than that to talk me out of you.”

Paul faltered, and he looked away. Gene let his own gaze shift from Paul’s face to his bare shoulder. No dress strap to fix anymore, either. But the same handful of small moles were still there, the rose tattoo just as sharp and clear as ever against his skin.

“I’d… you couldn’t be seen with me, not… not like in the Park—you like that, don’t you, showing some pretty girl off, I couldn’t—”

“I love you, Paul.”

Four words. Four words he hadn’t managed before. Not in the basement, dancing to that old record. Not when he’d first kissed him at Studio 54. Not when he’d taken him home from CBGB. Not in the rowboat, and not those few hours ago when Paul himself had finally said it. But it had been true even then. He realized that now. Paul had his heart all along.

Paul was staring at him, eyes wide, color spreading on his face. Gene leaned in, fingers curving around his chin, meeting Paul’s parted lips with his own, nothing brief or cautious, but full. Trying to impart all he couldn’t manage to say, all that would spill over and be meaningless if he tried to give it words.

At first, Paul only seemed to yield to the touch. But then his mouth pressed back against Gene’s, warm and wet, as his arms found their way around Gene’s waist.

Each kiss felt more certain and firm than the last, each movement more fluid, their bodies fitting and molding against each other just as easily and naturally as before. Gene was swept up in it, almost overcome, every touch its own affirmation as he explored the contours of Paul’s body with his hands and mouth. So much to discover, now that he had more than that single chance to be with him. Everything that was and wasn’t new at all, there for both of them. Paul seemed braver now, too, steadier than he’d ever been. Far more sure of himself now that he was himself again. That physical disconnect Gene had only ever noticed in passing was gone.

Paul tugged Gene back down with him to the mattress, both of them on their sides. Paul didn’t straddle him. He just held him there for a long time. Long enough that the cadences of their heartbeats almost seemed to match up; long enough that Gene could fully catch the scent of him, how it had changed. Still Aramis and the remnants of hairspray, but the musky scent of his sweat and body was markedly different, stronger and maybe a little earthier, almost, but plenty intoxicating. He breathed it in eagerly, letting himself get enveloped in Paul as readily as Paul was getting enveloped in him.

The only other sound was the dull tick of the clock on the nightstand, until even that was interrupted by the phone ringing. Gene just made a grunting noise, too comfortable to want to move. Paul, though, scooted a bit, murmuring quietly.

“It’s probably Ace. I told him I’d call him back.”

“Let the machine get it.”

“Nah.” Paul unraveled himself from Gene, reaching over him to grab the phone. The cord ended up draped along Gene’s chest. “Figure I’ve got plenty of good news for him. No tour delays, no summoning up demons or paying off witches…”

“And no putting you in a cute costume.” Gene paused, amused glint in his eyes, pushing the phone cord behind him.. “Well, not onstage, at least…”

“Not offstage, either.” Paul tapped him on the shoulder with the back of the receiver, His cheeks were going pink as he put the phone to his ear. “Hello? Ace? Yeah, I’m all fixed up. Yeah. No—shit, Ace, I just got back, I haven’t made sure everything’s…”

As the conversation trailed, Gene shifted, one arm around Paul’s waist. Paul smiled, and Gene felt Paul’s ankle catching his leg, tangling them back together, secure and warm in the shape of each other.

#kiss the band #kiss fanfiction #gene simmons x paul stanley #gene simmons #paul stanley

19 notes · View notes

jasperwhitcock · 4 years

Text

02. DISTRACTIONS

i’ve decided to continue with the au of bella as a vampire & edward as a human inspired by a post from @bellasredchevy, so here’s another installment (you can read the first chapter here). if anyone has thoughts on if it’d be more preferable for me to post this fanfic on wattpad/fanfiction.net/another website rather than posting it on tumblr, let me know :-) if not, i’ll continue to post here & figure out some tag to make it easier to find!

The boys had left for a hunting trip, so I found myself falling victim to what Alice liked to call a “sleepover”. It was a ridiculous name for this kind of occasion. An unfortunate part of what we were consequently lost us the ability to sleep and thus, dream. I had found this to be something I considered an advantage when I was first changed. I had so much extra time I could devote to reading! Unfortunately, the excitement didn’t last very long. I still enjoyed the benefits of all the ample time, but I did miss the creativity of my subconscious that allowed me to live in other worlds unrestricted by the more sentient, aware parts of my mind. I missed escapism.

I even missed the nightmares at times. I had been such a vivid dreamer.

Additionally, it was even further ridiculous to refer to this as a sleepover when we spent every night together. Without the sleep and the ‘over’ aspect of spending the night away from home, this was definitely the worst sleepover I’d been to in the course of my existence.

Although, as a bonding time amongst the women of the Olympic Coven, with the exception of some of Alice’s ideas for activities, I enjoyed this kind of night very much. I’d have gone with the boys to hunt if I had any intention of returning to school tomorrow. I’d owe them an explanation when they returned as for the tension that filled the car as we drove home from school. I hated to be the center of attention, so I was appreciative when Alice and Rosalie agreed to keep the horrific encounter a secret for now. I didn’t want the scrutiny of their concern nor the dramatics of the situation.

I was lucky that they had plans with Carlisle. Rosalie was able to convince Emmett and Jasper to begin their night early by allowing us to drop them off at the hospital – much to the dismay of my bulkier brother who had spent his day eagerly anticipating our rematch. My other sister easily dismissed their suspicion of our motives. Nobody questioned Alice twice. I was glad to have more time to mull over what to say to Carlisle. As much as I wanted his guidance, if I could put off growing the audience to my moment of weakness for another couple of hours, I’d gladly take the distraction of Alice braiding my hair into a long plait down my back while she blasted music in the garage where Rosalie worked.

Typically when we had nights like these, we each selected an activity to do together. Alice made the choice – unfortunately for me – to sort through all of our closets and rid them of items she no longer deemed wearable. With the exception of a few favorites, we rarely wore the same things twice, so it seemed like a waste of time. That is until I realized that this was all just a ruse to chastise me for the items of clothing she stocked in my closet that I didn’t wear. My small, voyeuristic sister was pleased with Rosalie and Esme, creating a nice, substantial pile of clothing to donate, whereas my closet ended up acquiring even more clothing than before. I was far too moody to care to protest.

Esme arranged for the four of us to paint together while some french movie played in the background. As an added challenge, she had Alice describe a vision to us, and we all attempted to capture the image on our canvases. Rosalie simply wanted our company as she continued her ongoing project of restoring yet another classic car that she’d eventually gift as an item for a charity auction. My activity of choice usually was the same: I’d select a book for us to read, and we’d have a book club to conclude the night once we’d all finished.

Tonight, however, I wasn’t feeling entirely up for it. Although I definitely wouldn’t mind the fictional escape away from Forks, I didn’t have it in me to sincerely participate in the conversation that would follow.

I wanted to move beyond the events of this afternoon already. As much as it disconcerted me, I didn’t want to be so severely consumed. I was growing irritated with the feelings of disappointment that preoccupied me. I had taken my ease in this life for granted.

Although I knew it wasn’t his fault, I found myself becoming frustrated with the Masen kid. When I began to see eyes materializing in the green brush strokes of the trees of my painting, I unintentionally destroyed my canvas. Something about the perplexity in his shockingly perceptive irises and the intelligence that marked his thick eyebrows when they pulled together was inexplicably haunting me. The irony of feeling haunted when I was the undead creature was not lost on me.

“I’ll grab you another one, dear,” Esme soothed, exchanging worried glances with Rosalie and Alice before disappearing to bring me another large square of coarse, woven white fabric to vandalize.

When the lyrics of the song Alice sang along to as Esme handed Rosalie the tools she needed began to creep into my head and develop new meanings I didn’t want to hear, I abruptly sprang from the driver's seat of Rose’s convertible and ran from the garage. I wanted to unravel in peace.

I stopped when I reached the large, grey stones of the riverbank.

The forest was peaceful. It was nearly dawn; a pale, purple-grey tinted light cloaked the scenery before me, the orange and pink hues of the morning sun that should fade into the navy-black of the night sky were hidden behind a thick layer of rain clouds. The water of the river flowed sinuously by as some birds sang far in the distance. The greenery was enveloped in the fallen rain of the night, droplets of water clinging stunningly to every blade of grass, every needle of pine of the lush vegetation like crystals and diamonds. A cold mist intimately caressed the river, enveloping the landscape in a fresh haze. I could now see the vision Alice described a few hours prior come to life. Here I stood now, quietly, amongst the skyline of trees in daybreak.

I closed my eyes to the muted beauty of this morning, indifferent to the ephemerality of the moment. How many mornings had I seen like this? They were all already cemented in my infallible mind. I breathed in, the cold air whistling deliciously down my throat. On my tongue I could taste the minty, rain-kissed evergreens, the warm streams of blood pumping the tiny, fluttering heartbeats of the smallest animals, the earthy, sweet brooks leading back to the river. The wind softly stroked the sparkling spring water, and as I focused on the faint whisper of an insect’s fluttering wings, I heard the lithe, recognizable stride of my adopted mother approaching. With her came new scents and sounds – white gardenia, freshly baked bread, honey, peach blossoms, a whisper of lush silk, a hiss of air, a gentle nuzzling of fast footsteps on glossy moss.

She arrived by my side but said nothing, joining me in my silent reverie.

“You have nothing to say?” I asked after we stood there for some time, Esme watching what I assumed was the faint hint of the sun rising beyond the clouds, lifting the overcast view into lighter shades of blue-grey. I could feel the slight difference in temperature against my skin.

“Is there something you wish for me to say, sweetheart?” Esme asked gently.

I finally opened my eyes, turning to meet her topaz eyes full of love and patience.

“Not really,” I half-smiled, feeling guilty.

Her beautiful mouth widened into a smile, lighting up her heart-shaped face. She seemed to find some humor in my honesty, letting out a peal of laughter that frightened some distant creatures into silence at the unexpected sound of bells. Her caramel-colored waves of hair shook lightly with the motion.

“Oh, my Bella.” Instantaneously, I was enveloped in her warm, velvet arms. “It is absolutely valid to feel such despondency, but we must celebrate that we are not mourning the loss of another life! For that, I am very proud of you. And I’ve been so relieved that in this life you’ve never had to grieve the mistakes that even I have made...but we would never feel differently towards you if you had. Nor do we feel differently that you’re experiencing a struggle much more strenuous than before.”

She paused before continuing more fervently, “it makes you no less strong, and you will have the strength to resist...I believe that with all my heart. Please don’t feel so disappointed with yourself. You must give yourself some credit and patience and forgiveness. It pains me to see you so cheerless!”

“I’m sorry I seem so...down,” I sighed, resting my head dejectedly on her shoulder. “I guess, to be frank, it just...sucks to feel like I don’t have the super sense of self control that I thought I did. I’m beginning to feel bad for Jasper now,” I snorted bitterly.

She laughed again at my colloquial choice of words.

“Perhaps you owe him an apology. You and your brother have given him an awful lot of trouble for how he struggles,” my mother accused me teasingly, stroking my hair just as my sisters had. The comfort was nice, but I also felt irrationally remorseful to have any need for it.

“Yeah, maybe I do,” I frowned, thinking of having to put aside my pride.

She pulled away to hold me at arm’s length, cautiously studying my face.

After a moment, she pulled me against her again in another embrace.

“I will leave you alone now. It seems you would benefit from some more time by yourself to think without your sisters’ futile attempts to distract you.”

I could tell she was smiling from the way the words left her mouth. “But I won’t allow you to wallow in pity forever.”

Esme released me from the hug and reappeared four yards away from me, the expression on her perfect face stern. “So take the time you need to process how you’re feeling. But only be alone if you need to be. Don’t let yourself be lonely. That’s very important...You know where we will be.”

With that, she was gone.

I couldn’t understand why I was so inconsolable. Of course, I valued her words and the sentiment. My family’s understanding and support were wonderful to have, but I couldn’t shake the upheaval the boy’s blood had wreaked on my thoughts. It seemed to me a cruel joke, that after all these years of so naturally adjusting to this life, I now experienced the true, macabre consequences of this form. Would I have traded the ease that had accompanied me until now if it meant I’d never have experienced a magnetism as strong as the sweet scent that lingered just beneath the Masen boy’s frail skin? Would I have chosen to struggle more the entirety of my existence if it meant I’d have avoided the ferocity of that moment in my suddenly not so banal biology class? Maybe I would have.

This must be some kind of punishment from some god somewhere. Why else would I experience such effortlessness only to be met with an unendurable, unassailable call to reject everything good about my existence? I never gave much thought to religion in either of my lives. I suppose that after I’d been changed, it’d seem like a far more interesting subject because what could be the implications of an existence such as mine? Did my being a monster provide more validity to the existence of a god? If mythological evil creatures plagued the earth, then couldn’t a supernatural deity who created the universe exist as well? Or did my being a monster provide evidence that there was no god – because who could create such a despicable creature?

It had been far more evocative a topic to Carlisle who had spent much of his life after his transformation pondering these questions, but in all truthfulness, it never bothered me much. I adjusted well to this life. I understood why I was changed and didn’t long for my humanity the way some of my other family members did. Of course, I hated the risk I posed to human life, but my conscience felt clear as my record remained clean. I never endured any self loathing for what I was.

Only now did I question myself. Only now did I wrestle with the ramifications of my immortality. Only now did I feel in its entirety – I had experienced strong desires for human blood before but never like this – the true shame of lusting for the end to someone’s precious life. Only now did I truly feel like the monster I was.

I was finally recognizing the wrongness within me.

I was mistaken to feel resentful and angry with the human boy. He did not make me this way. I had always been this way. I had just been blind to the fact for all these years. I had been naive.

He was entirely innocent and deserving of the life he would live. One where his future would not be stolen in a high school biology classroom as his body emptied. One where he would graduate and go on to better schools. One where he would have a successful job in something he was interested in that provided him with purpose. One where he would meet someone smart and kind. One where he would marry, have a family, and grow old surrounded by his progeny.

I suddenly experienced a strange sensation. A feeling I hadn’t felt in years – jealousy. Though I’d never envied a human before, I envied the possibilities this boy had. I never mourned the choices that were no longer available to me. I graduated countless times. I held countless jobs. I felt fulfilled in providing to the world with our philanthropy and loving my family. In that, I found purpose. I didn’t care to have children.

But did I care to experience romantic love?

I loved romance, but I never minded that it was unattainable to me beyond the pages of a novel. I’d met other vampires, but were the odds in my favor to find a soulmate amongst such a rare kind? I didn’t think so, and I was fine with that. I was happy in my solitude. At times, I was the odd one out in my coupled-off family, but I had often felt like the odd one out in my previous life. It wasn’t a new experience, so I never cared. But in thinking of this human boy’s life, free of monsters, free of me, I came to the realization that unlike myself, he could have anyone he wanted. He was not bound by anything other than maybe his own inhibitions. He had the luxury of choice in every aspect of his life but also in love. He had simply the luxury of love itself.

Why were these thoughts coming to me now? I had so much time to ponder my existence, and suddenly this encounter had me incomprehensibly considering inessential things.

I take back my previous feelings about the boy’s innocence. He is stupid and culpable. He’s inspiring stupidity in me.

He’s very fortunate that I have a conscience. I could just as easily murder him in irritation of the havoc his existence is inflicting on my life.

I refocused my thoughts on the scenery before me, longing for the previous morning where I watched the verdant motion of the trees outside the car window after Emmett’s silly destruction of the novel I still had yet to fix. Somehow, it seemed like a long time ago.

In that memory, I eventually found a small moment of peace again.

No painted eyes could haunt me here.

And yet, I was left with a sense of uneasiness, feeling as if my life thus far had been a long exposition, and I had just encountered the inciting incident. I was feeling – though I’d been irrevocably altered once before – as if something would soon change me forever.

we all know stubborn bella wouldn’t yeet herself to alaska like edward’s dramatic ass. hope y’all enjoy hehe <3

#twilight fanfiction #twilight renaissance #twilight au #twilight saga #the twilight saga #bella swan #edward cullen #jasperwhitcock #esme cullen #alice cullen #rosalie hale #vampire #equinoxjw

95 notes · View notes

pixelatedrose · 4 years

Text

Soulbound Part Seven

First | Previous | Part 7 | Next

Ao3 link

Masterpost

Word Count: 2,788

Pairings: Prinxiety, Logicality, background Remile

Warnings: Uncensored swearing, nightmares, mention of implied self harm (skip from “It had been another nightmare” to the end of the paragraph.), slight self deprecation, if I missed anything at all please please tell me, and if there’s anything you’d like me to tag, don’t hesitate to ask!

Summary:

Roman Prince and Logan Rose are soulmates. They’re platonic soulmates though. They both have the same Soul mark to prove it. But they both have one other soul mark, binding them to one other person. And when they find Patton Miles, it just so happens that they’re both his soulmate. Logan being his Soulbound Soulmate, and Roman being a platonic soulmate. But something feels missing. And it feels filled, shockingly so, when they meet a certain someone a year and a half after they found each other.

Chapter 7

Logan Rose woke up with a bit of a start. He glanced around his room wildly, everything appearing fuzzy without his glasses. He calmed himself down before pulling the cord on his bedside lamp and examining his arm.

It was bare and pale as always, save for his tattoo that depicted Patton's name.

Despite everything, Logan let out a shaky breath. He knew it was illogical. And that only bothered him more.

It's just a dream, Logan. Nothing is wrong. Logan picked up a book on the ground in spite of himself and began reading. However he found- as he always did- that he was unable to read much further than a few pages.

"It's just a dream...It was nothing but amalgamated memories and images…It wasn't...It can't have been…" Logan took another deep breath to steady himself.

And once again resorted to the only method that ever seemed to work.

He flipped open a small journal and began writing down his dream with as much detail as possible.

It had been another nightmare. He had been sobbing on the floor of a foreign room before dragging himself over to an all too familiar box under the bed where he fished out a pencil sharpener blade and had-

Logan paused for a moment in his writing. He always hated writing about his nightmares. It was necessary for him to fall back asleep, but it was so hard sometimes.

Every once in a while Logan Rose had acutely vivid dreams about ordinarily mundane things that didn't seem to make sense.

Seeing people he'd never seen before at a birthday party he'd never attended.

A dark room that slowly got edgier as time wore on filled with a multitude of different events. Most of them less than savory and quite traumatic.

A kid, taller than Logan, pushing him to the ground and pulling him back up by his hair only to have someone else spit in his face.

These dreams made no sense to Logan. Dreams were supposed to be concoctions of memories, images, ideas, and emotions. Logan's brain should not be able to create such a vivid image of a house he'd never seen before. And yet Logan would have remembered if he'd ever seen the odd house with the strange yellow door that his mind so often brought up.

Logan finished writing down his nightmare in his dream journal and set it down once again, rubbing his tired eyes. He glanced over at one of his many bookcases, sighing at the vast amount of dream journals he had filled up over the years.

He had started cataloging his dreams back in fourth grade when his mother had suggested that writing about his dreams would help him remember them and even sleep better. So now Logan had nearly 6 years worth of journals filled to the brim with dream after dream after dream. Even if he could never remember what he had dreamed that night, he always wrote down that he was unable to recall any details.

Logan lay himself back down to sleep as he quietly pondered his vivid dreams and what they could possibly mean, if anything at all.

That's absolutely ludicrous. Dreams don't mean anything. They're just dreams. As he drifted off once again, Logan found himself with a ghost of doubt cast across his mind.

Just dreams…

Logan Rose fell asleep, his mind conjuring up recipes that called for memories, images, sounds, ideas, and emotions.

~~•~~

Roman woke up to his alarm which he lazily slapped, sending it snoozing. Five minutes later it started yelling again, and this time Roman reluctantly rolled himself out of bed. Quite literally in fact. He had found it always helped him wake up.

He hit the floor dramatically and lay down on the floor for a few minutes staring at his ceiling.

Roman suddenly was struck by a brilliant idea and he sat up straight and got ready for the day as quick as possible.

"Heya Ro-Bro! Sleep like a corpse?" Remus asked as Roman came down the stairs.

"Why would you phrase it like that? Like actually why??"

"Because it's interesting and you're boring so i have to be interesting for the both of us!!"

Roman watched his twin brother sprinkle poptart crumbs into the omelet he was cooking and grimaced. "Well you sure do a good job of that one…"

"Hey, Ro, have you seen the dandelions?"

Roman paused for a brief moment. "Why the fuck are you eating dandelions?"

"You absolute shitheaded moron it's for Brigit."

Roman flushed. "Oh." He had been thinking of Virgil again and his head was still mushy from sleep. "In the fridge…"

Remus turned and pulled out a small bag of dandelions before hopping over to a glass tank which contained a small tortoise. "Roman's an idiot, isn't he Brigit? Isn't he?" Remus cooed at his tortoise, dropping three of the four flowers in along with a small pile of lettuce before looking at the fourth flower and asking out loud. "Hey, dandelions are edible, right??"

And before Roman had time to violently judge his brother, Remus shoved the entire fucking flower in his mouth like the absolute heathen he was.

"Hey, not too bad." Roman's trash-man of a brother said, walking over to his slowly burning food.

"I swear to god I don't know how we're related…" Roman muttered, returning his mind to a much more savory person.

~~•~~

Roman got to school and met up with his friends. He debated skipping a few steps in his plan and looking for him right then, but decided against it. He didn't want to come off seeming like a creep.

So he waited until his third period rolled around and felt his eyes light up as they fell to the emo boy scrunched up in the back corner of the classroom. Something was definitely brighter about Virgil today. Maybe it was the new hoodie he was wearing or the fresh makeup on his face, or perhaps it was the way he looked rested or the fact that he was nodding along to his music and silently mouthing the words, but Roman was unreasonably happy to see Virgil in a good mood.

“Good morning, Hot Topic! You’re looking splendid today!” Roman bubbled, winking at the mass of emo that sat at the table.

Virgil snorted and looked up at him. “Aw, you think I’m hot!”

“On the contrary! I was talking to my reflection!”

“Ah, that makes more sense. I put too much faith in you to think you’d ever stop being self-absorbed!”

“Hey! You’ve only known me for what, two days?”

Virgil shifted in his seat, having taken out his earbuds already. “I tend to be a pretty good judge of character.”

“Is that so?”

“Yep.”

Roman took his chance to strike. “Well I bet you wouldn’t be able to judge my friend’s characters off of one glance!” Roman smiled at Virgil, missing the way the other’s shoulders relaxed when he spoke. “Want to join me with my friends at lunch?”

Roman patiently awaited the inevitable decline. It was part of his plan. He would laugh it off and be charming as ever and continue to pester him until he-

“Sure.” Virgil said casually, a hint of a smile on his face.

What.

“You seem like a cool guy, I guess. Should I meet you by the cafeteria?”

Roman’s head was a jumbled mess and where he had been planning on being charming, he had fallen end over end down the stairs of grace and was drowning in his own pool of poor planning.

“Uh, uhm, n-no I’ll just meet you outside your class!” Roman had just barely been able to save the end of that sentence. He had not expected the emo boy to accept his offer so quickly. He thought the boy was shy and reserved, didn’t like talking to people. Curiosity to know what made the emo boy trust him overtook Roman. “Would it be terribly rude of me to ask why you’d want to come and eat with a bunch of people you hardly know?”

Virgil shrugged. “I dunno. I just kinda…” He turned and pulled up his hood. “Feel like I can trust you. I also don’t really have anyone else, so I mean I don’t have many options.” he lowered his voice to the point where Roman wouldn’t have been able to hear the emo. “And if I at least look like I have friends maybe people will leave me alone this time around…”

It worked and Roman hadn’t heard his breathless whisper. “Oh! Well I’m touched! In fact I think-”

Ding!! Ding!! Ding!!

Damn that bell.

Class began and Roman didn’t get the chance to mention that he and Patton shared a class. A minor detail, but he was irrationally disappointed that he couldn’t keep talking to his newfound...Friend.

Roman thought. Friend? Am I not jumping the gun by considering us friends this early on? What would Virgil think? Would he be okay with it? Would he be disgusted? Roman’s mind filled with the image of Roman calling the boy his friend and Virgil smiling widely, happy to be his friend. Roman let himself smile too.

The period ended and Roman said his farewells to Virgil. Roman pulled out his phone between classes and brought up the group chat.

Hey I’m bringing a friend of mine to come and sit with us at lunch kk

It was just a few moments before his phone buzzed quietly in his hands.

Pat-man: OOOooooOOOooOOoo~~!!

Pat-man: A *friend* you say? *nudge nudge wink wink*

Each of his texts were signed with a series of emojis, ranging from hearts to faces.

Roman typed out a text, leaning against the wall outside his classroom.

Yes Padre, a FRIEND

Nothing more than that! I swear you rwad into things way to much

His Phone buzzed again and Roman looked at the new text.

Pocket-protector: First off, you misspelled 'Read' and second, you used the wrong 'Too'. Third, if you're speaking of the boy you have gone on about for the past two days, then-

The bell rang and Roman silently thanked it for saving him the time to read Logan's perfectly composed letter of a text filled with perfect grammar.

The hours ebbed by anguishingly slow, it seemed the more he wanted to see the pale boy the more the weights the universe attached to time's ankles.

Finally- finally- the hour struck three minutes till the bell and Roman silently excused himself knowing that the abandoned hall pass in his pocket that would free him of suspicion.

He got to Virgil’s classroom just in time for the bell to ring and for Roman to quickly lean himself up against the lockers casually.

Virgil walked out and seemed almost surprised to see Roman standing there before a ghost of a smile adorned his pale face.

“Honestly, you don’t have to skip out of class early just to wait for me.” Virgil said as he walked up to the taller boy.

“I know, but it wouldn’t be very chivalrous of me to leave my new friend wandering through the halls with no guide!” Roman smiled and the pair started walking towards the cafeteria.

“And so that would make you my knight in shining armor?” Virgil teased.

“No, I like to think of myself as more of a prince.”

Virgil snorted back his laughter. “But I thought they gave princes education! They’re doing a miserable job rearing you.”

“Ha, ha. Very funny, Jerky Mcjerk-face.”

“Ouch! Is that the best comeback you have for me, Princey?” Before, Virgil had called Roman by the theatrical nickname in a friendly manner, now his tone was mocking him, a soundless giggle twinkling in his blue eyes.

Roman hrumphed and crossed his arms. “Sometimes I’m not entirely on point with my words! I’m human! Even someone as flawless as me can make mistakes!”

Virgil barked out a short laugh. “Ha!! Flawless! I should bring you up on charges for false advertising!”

“Then maybe I should do the same with you, Surly-Temple! You’re not as shy as you seem, are you?”

“Who ever said I was shy? I just don’t like people.”

“Oh…” Roman internally cursed at his lack of words. He had jumped to conclusions. It was a simple mistake, but it reminded Roman of another thing he should try and fix. He shook it off easily. “Well in that case I’m sure you’ll have no problem introducing yourself to my friends!” He led Virgil through the thick of the now bustling and ever so loud cafeteria to a table in the back near one of the backdoors leading outside. It was a small circular table, like all the others in the room, perfect for a friend group to claim and have no one else intrude.

Patton and Logan were already sitting down and chatting about what sounded like the emotional and psychological repercussions of being torn from your dimension and being thrown into another. A very fascinating topic to say the least.

“Hey, Padre! Pocket protector!” Roman announced as they neared the table. Roman noticed out of the corner of his eye Virgil throwing up his hood. “I must introduce to you all, a one Virgil Sanders!” Roman theatrically bowed and gestured toward the purple haired boy next to him.

Patton stood up immediately and flounced over to the boy. “Hi!! My name’s Patton, but you can just call me Dad!!” He said with a wink as he held out his hand for Virgil to shake. Virgil seemed to relax as he took the sorter boy’s hand in his.

“Virgil. It’s nice to meet you, Patton.” He smiled lightly.

Logan had stood as well, letting Virgil come to him. “Logan Rose. A pleasure.” He said politely, extending his own hand. Vigil accepted it and the group started to settle in.

“You know, Virgil, I think I have the same second period as you!” Patton slipped in as they started taking their seats.

Virgil seemed to think for a brief second. “Oh, I guess so. I guess nice to re-meet you, then.” He slowly took off his hood and faced Patton who was seated across from him. “Sorry I didn’t recognize you, I tend to not pay attention to stuff like that.”

“It’s fine! I think it’s great we have a class together! It means less boring moments in the day!”

Logan was staring at Virgil and he started speaking. “You know, You look familiar to me as well...Do we not share a fifth class together? Ap English in Mr. Evan’s class, if I am correct?”

Virgil blinked. “Uh...Yeah...So I guess I have a class with each of you then...What are the odds?” Virgil gave a small laugh.

“Infinitesimal.” Logan replied before biting into his sandwich.

“Oh speaking of which, do you remember what was taught yesterday? I was trying to do my homework and sort of forgot what he’d said…”

“I remember absolutely nothing but I do remember he was wearing a pink shirt with a green belt and was disgusted, I mean I may not be one for fashion, but even I know that was a horrific choice.”

The table erupted into several different kinds of laughter. A loud booming one from Patton, a softer but clear one provided by Roman, and a light chuckle emitted by Virgil.

Lunch wore on and It seemed like Virgil really connected with everyone.

He was in a brighter mood for the rest of the day as he walked off with Logan, discussing fan theories about doctor who and Sherlock, and then happier still when he met up with Roman in the theater and got to have his older brother teach him for what seemed like the first actual time.

And as Virgil bid his farewells, Roman called out to him.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Virge!!” He yelled across the courtyard, waving happily at his new friend.

“Cya!!” Virgil called back, feeling happy and warm inside.

Virgil had never even had friends before, and for some reason, having only just met them a few hours ago, felt like these friends were ones that were going to last. He felt so right when he was with them. It felt so right when he would hear Logan talking about one subject or another, or when Patton made a dad joke or pun, or when Roman did something charmingly stupid or funny. It felt right being with them.

And for someone who’s never felt right in their life, Virgil felt as though it was all too much to actually be real.

But for once, He didn't worry about that.

Author’s note:

Oh wow! Would you look at that! I’m way early!! I legit thought I wasn’t going to get this done in time because I stopped writing for like two days cause one: I wanted to write a special valentines day mini fic (Link here!) and then two: I was away from my computer and had very tiny motivation. Anyway I hope you guys appreciate my earliness, and note that this probably won’t happen too often. Stay fresh and minty my lovelies!!

Tag list

@anxietea-and-insanitea @ghostboi-bambi @scrunchiescrunchie @badluckkaren @ambrechandra @nadja-chamack16 @athenashipsthings @slitherynchiken @crooked-harmony-student @icequeenoriginal @just-a-hufflepuff @nerd-in-space @sammys-ghostz @nutsanddults @misterteaz @sanderssidesweirdo @dragonheart905 @hitmewiththatfanart33 @iwillsithereandtrytocontribute

155 notes · View notes

btswrckd · 4 years

Text

Hunting a Hybrid V

Black Panther!Hybrid Jungkook x Fem!Reader

Summary: Four years after it’s made illegal to acquire hybrids as pets, you’re approached by the daughter of your former employer to hunt down one that had been gifted to her

Warnings: slight violence, mentions of past abuse, poorly written smut

A/N: A lot is happening this chapter and it’s not as clean as I hoped it would be but tomorrow is Christmas and I really wanted it to be up. As you guys know, I’ve been busy with a new job and didn’t have much time to work on this fic but I’m hoping you guys will enjoy anyways. Also if you’re like me and love to listen to music while reading, I was listening to Can You Hold Me by NF and Dynasty by Miia. Much love!

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

The red and blue lights flickered against the beige house, illuminating it and many others around. People, neighbors, stood along the street in a crowd and a few women breaking off into their own little cliques to whisper amongst themselves. Hands covered their mouths as if they weren’t so obviously speaking of the swarm of cop cars parked outside your home, their husbands off to the side and speculating just what the hell was going on.

Sangchul stood gruff with crossed arms, nodding his head at the information being passed on to him by one of the few officers on the scene. His shoulders stiff at the sound of your voice, scream piercing through the crowd and footsteps heavy as they pounded against the asphalt behind him.

You were late coming home, 15 year old you grumbling and kicking rocks along the path you walked, Yoongi at your side and teasing you for losing track of time. Pouting as he ruffled your hair and said to be careful gathering your things, you shook your head and gave his shoulder a light punch. You noticed him wince slightly and dropped your head in apology; ever since training with your grandfather, both you and Yoongi noticed how strong you came to be, but this is what Sangchul had taught you to be and Yoongi never questioned it aloud. Not that you’d tell him the truth anyways.

“What the hell is that?” You asked, noticing the red and blue flashing lights just up the street. You noticed the mob of people as they turned to look at you with sympathy, anxiety creeping your spine and your stomach dropping to your feet. Bile rose in your throat with each step you took, the chatter and people fading into the back as you neared the house surrounded by police officers and an ambulance. The door looked as if it had been kicked in, the wood splintered from the force, and covered in yellow ‘caution’ tape. Your breath shuttered as you stepped off the curb, taking note of your mother’s car in the driveway. “Mom?”

Yoongi tried to snag your elbow before you went any further but his own father had clapped a hand to his shoulder, shaking his head in response to Yoongi’s glare. His head whipped back around at your shrill scream, the word ‘Mom’ being screeched so loud it made a few cops jump and try their best to stop you from going into the house.

Stumbling as your knees gave in, you allowed yourself to be caught by the officer standing with your grandfather, hot tears streaming down your face when the paramedics stepped out the front door with a gurney and what you prayed was not your mother in a body bag. “Mom!”

The officer winced when you clawed at his arms to break free from his embrace, nails digging into his skin but his hold was strong, tears springing to his eyes at hearing you cry out to your mother like a lost child. His bottom lip trembled at your tear stained face, throat raw from screaming and body going limp with exhaustion, he whispered his apologies into your hair. He knew better than to become emotionally involved but you were still just a kid whose own grandfather wasn’t doing much to comfort you. As he turned to shoot a glare in Sangchul’s direction, his grip faltered and you broke away from him to sprint into the house.

Other officers tried to restrain you, but you were quicker than them, more agile in your movements to dodge their hands. Finally reaching the front door, the bile in your throat came out full force at the sight of blood, too much blood to be just your mother’s. The red splattered across the walls painted a very gory image of what could have happened, your father’s body finally catching your eye and giving you a glimpse of what looked like claw marks.

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

You sat up quickly, short of breath and feeling as though someone had been trying to smother you in your sleep. Sweat clung to your still naked body and soaked your sheets making you grimace and throw them from your body. Leaning over the bed, you slipped on a bra, panties, and a tank top. The rustling of sheets alerted you to Jungkook also coming to and jumping up in panic when he couldn’t feel your body beside his.

“Hey,” His voice was soft and comforting as he felt your nerves on overdrive, your anxiety seeping out in waves. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” You lied, trying your best to calm the rapid beating of your heart and rising from the bed to cross the room, “Just a nightmare.”

“Another one?” Jungkook was understandably concerned, he himself waking with night terrors, but none leaving him as shaken. Even before his parents’ deaths, he had always been treated badly because he was a hybrid so he learned to adapt. But something about your nightmares made him uneasy, the need to protect you from them greater than anything he’s ever felt.

“Kook,” Your voice broke through his thoughts as you faced the dresser and braced your palms against it, “Do you want to know why I became a hunter?”

He held his breath and stared at your back, watching your shoulders tense and arms tremble, signs that you were crying. It left an ache in his chest.

You took in a huge breath before turning to face him, leaning back against the dresser, and closing your eyes to recall that very night so long ago. “The night my parents died, I had been out with Yoongi because I was going to stay the weekend at his house. My dad had business out of town and was forcing my mom to go with him. When I got home that night, there was all kinds of cop cars up and down our block, and our neighbors were standing around outside. They crowded our house...” You couldn’t finish your sentence, the words dying on your tongue and the memories so vivid it was as if it all happened yesterday.

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

“Y/N,” Sangchul’s voice caused a shiver to run down your spine, blood running ice cold at the lack of emotion in his tone. Of course he didn’t care that his only son and daughter-in-law were just murdered. Why would he?

You were on your knees, hands braced on the floor as you heaved, the acidic taste of vomit still present in your mouth. Eyes shut tight and the pain squeezing your chest, you shook your head as if it were going to erase the images.

“Y/N,” Sangchul’s tone was harsh as he tried to get your attention by gripping your elbow tight and tugging you to your feet, turning your body to face him. “Calm yourself.”

You looked at him as if he’d grown two heads, disgusted and confused by what he meant. Hot tears streamed down your face while you scoffed, “Calm myself? Do you see what’s happened here? Are you blind?!”

“Do not,” He hissed and brought your face close to his, “speak to me that way. Of course I see what’s happened. Your parents were attacked by a beast.”

“A beast that looks both man and animal,” Sangchul clarified when your brows drew together, not yet processing what he was saying, “A hybrid, Y/N. One of those things did this to my son and your mother.”

“No,” You shook your head, refusing to believe any of it, “No, one would never. Hybrids...they’re not like this.”

“Yes they are. They’re savages whose violent nature cannot be tamed. Hybrid’s are unnatural and have no place in this world. And one did this to your home.”

“No!” You pushed at your grandfather’s chest hard, bringing your hands to your hair to tug at the strands as if trying to pull them all out. “No, it’s not true!”

Sangchul quickly engulfed you in a hug if only to keep you from causing more of a scene, “Of course it is, Y/N. They did this and we will find it. You will make it pay for what it has done.”

“The p-police will handle it, grandpa,” You pulled back, bringing your hand to your face to wipe away the tears, “can we please just go?”

“The police?” Sangchul growled and placed his large hands on your shoulders, comforting to an outsider but a warning to you, “You think any of these imbeciles will be able to find that hybrid? You think they’ll hold it accountable for what its done? No, Y/N, only you can make it pay. You deserve that much.”

“I don’t want to make him pay.”

“An eye for an eye, Y/N,” He insisted, grip tightening on your shoulders, “blood for blood, you know this. That’s the cardinal rule for hunters and you must uphold that.”

“I don’t want this.” You shook your head with fresh tears leaking down your cheeks and buried your face in your hands. “Please don’t make me.”

Sangchul was becoming frustrated, pulling you close once more to whisper, “You know what happened to your grandmother. You know a hybrid murdered her before you were even born and I never got the chance to see it hurt the same way I did. But you can. You can make it hurt just as bad and you’ll feel so much better once you do. I promise you, Y/N, that when it’s done and over with, you won’t even remember that hybrid. You’ll sleep peacefully knowing you avenged your parents.”

You never wanted to be that way, never wanted to hate the hybrid race because they were different and your grandfather despised them. You always believed hybrids were beautiful and misjudged simply because their appearance wasn’t of the normal standard. A chance encounter when you were a mere 5 years old convincing you that they meant no harm to anyone. You’d become lost in a crowd during your family’s weekly grocery shopping, becoming frightened of all the many strangers passing by without offering help to a little girl. Scurrying up and down aisles, panic began to settle in until you bumped into a friendly stranger with an even friendlier hybrid. The two helped you find your mother and the hybrid had playfully tapped your nose, making you giggle through the hiccups that developed while crying.

There was a raging hate your grandfather always carried for them and you never thought you could feel the same way...until now. You spared a glance at your father’s body being zipped into a black body bag just like your mother’s and decided...

Hybrids were not beautiful and they were not your friends, they were animals. Beasts that fooled you into believing they could be anything but what they were; feral and dangerous. You were wrong about them and you weren’t going to allow yourself to be blinded any longer.

Sangchul watched what little sliver of light you held die out. A smirk spread across his lips at the darkness swirling in your eyes, your jaw setting and nostrils flaring in rage. It was done; you were finally broken enough to train properly, to track and kill without remorse. You were finally ready to become the hunter Sangchul could never teach Donghoon to be.

“Everything okay over here?” The previous officer asked as Sangchul led you to his waiting car. His hands rested on his belt, studying you for any more signs of distress.

“Everything is fine, officer,” Your grandfather leaned in to read his name badge, “Kim. Ah, a fine name. Now if you’ll excuse me, I really must take my granddaughter somewhere safe.”

“Of course,” Officer Kim nodded but never took his eyes off you, wanting so badly to prevent that from happening. He waited until your eyes finally met his to say, “I’m very sorry, sweetheart. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to call and ask for me, okay?”

He had known your mother for quite some time now after he answered a domestic abuse call some months back. Officer Kim approached her discreetly and asked for the real story, and once the truth was out, he began to help build a case against your father. He was the only one convinced that a hybrid couldn’t do any of this but the evidence suggested otherwise. Something about all of it, including Sangchul’s odd behavior didn’t sit well with him.

“And we thank you for the offer,” Sangchul answered before you could, “But that’s what I’m here for. Come now,” He gathered your hand in his and led you away from what was no longer your home. Glancing back at you, he stopped a long time acquaintance on the force that was on the scene and leaned in close to whisper something into the detective’s ear, slipping a rather hefty roll of money into the man’s hand.

“Where are we going?” You asked when he joined you in the car, eyes peering suspiciously at that same detective stopping officer Kim from getting any closer to the car. “Why did you just slip that detective money?”

“We have to leave town,” Sangchul sighed heavily, “and we won’t be able to return for a very long time. That detective is doing me a favor by making sure we’ll never be found.”

“Why aren’t we staying here to catch the hybrid?”

“You’re not ready,” He explained through grit teeth, frustrated at your series of questions. “Training every once in a while after school isn’t enough anymore. You need more time.”

“And exactly how do you suppose we find it if we don’t stick around?”

“You will,” Your grandfather promised eerily, “once you’re training is over, you’ll find it.”

Twisting around in your seat, you searched for Yoongi, finding him trying to chase the car down with no luck, his legs nearly giving out as your grandfather pressed harder on the gas pedal. You could see him cup his hands around his mouth to shout something, but you never heard what it was, instead lifting your hand to wave goodbye.

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

“My parents,” You continued, “weren’t a happy couple. My dad would beat my mother every night. Just because he could. He liked making my mother feel inferior, making her feel as if she was nothing. Donghoon was a man that strived on the fear of others, especially her.”

Jungkook waited with bated breath, the realization that you were about to bare all for him, your past, finally sinking in.

Pushing away from the dresser, you faced him and caught the pity in his eyes and you almost laughed; Jungkook had very obviously endured more than you ever have and yet he still felt sorry for you. You never shared your story with anyone, not even Taehyung, and a small part of you was ashamed that you’d kept it from him. You trusted Taehyung with your life but why you chose to keep your past a secret was still a mystery to you. You supposed it was more that you never had anyone to share it with until Tae, but could never bring yourself to do so after seeing the fear in his eyes from one of the many jobs you pulled.

“He abused alcohol, my mother, drugs,” You tugged on the end of your hair, a nervous habit Jungkook picked up on, and let out a mocking laugh, “Never me though. No, I...I was too precious to hurt. But my mom, the woman who birthed me, she was okay to toss around like a ragdoll.”

“Did you ever,” Jungkook wasn’t sure what he was trying to ask, just that he needed to speak, “tell anyone?”

“No,” Finally settling on the bed, your hair fell in your face to hide the feeling of shame at keeping it a secret. “You see, just because my dad never hit me didn’t mean I wasn’t scared of him. He had so much power because was so successful in everything he did. Accusing him of something like that...it would have never worked in mine and my mother’s favors. No one would have believed us but I guess that never stopped my mom from trying.”

“Somewhere along the many, many years of abuse, she finally had enough courage to tell someone and started gathering evidence against him. I never found out who helped her, but my dad caught wind of it because my grandfather had ears everywhere. A detective found the file on my father and told him all about it. That night Donghoon went home...he killed my mom. I guess after his rage induced outburst he saw what he had done and for a split second, felt remorse. But then, panic set in and he didn’t want to have to face what he’d done or the kind of questions to come if he were to call the police. So, like a coward, he called my grandfather to cover it up and make plans for us to disappear.”

Jungkook felt sick to his stomach, he’d seen plenty of humans do some disgraceful and vile things but none quite like your father.

“My grandfather said he wouldn’t clean up my father’s mess for him.” Your eyes glossed over with tears, gaze still on the floor and it was like you were in a trance as you told Jungkook everything. “He took that same hammer Donghoon used on my mom and killed his own son. If you thought my dad was awful, Sangchul...he was a different kind of evil. He took a knife and slashed up their bodies to look like claw marks. Any untrained eye would believe the story he told about a hybrid breaking into the house. That night, he was able to convince me that hybrid’s were just things. That they deserved to be hunted just like any other animal.”

“If you knew,” Jungkook tried to process what he’d just heard, tried to understand why you never said anything and feeling a lump forming in the back of his throat, “why didn’t you tell the cops?”

“Sangchul was a master manipulator,” You explained, finally turning to him and bringing your legs onto the bed to rest your chin on your knees, “he always knew just what to say when he felt like I was slipping through his fingers. He was able to cloud my mind enough to hide what he was; a monster. It wasn’t until just after my 18th birthday that he told me what happened that night and what he’d done. He was really delusional enough to think that I would actually thank him. That I was enough like him to believe what he did was a favor. He was right to think I’m just as cruel because really, in a lot of ways I was. Am.”

Jungkook’s ears twitched when your voice dropped to a whisper, “I’ve only ever been taught to be one thing, Jungkook. And that’s never changed. The person I became is the person I will always be.”

His whole body stiffened, tail whipping back and forth and anger building in him. Anger at your father, your grandfather, and even you. Hunters tore his family apart and he thought it would be easy to forgive them, but your confession at being unable to change your habits made him sick. He moved away from you, hair covering his eyes and the way they glowed bright green.

“You have to understand something, Kook,” Your breath hitched at the distance he quickly created, watching his chest rise and fall in uneven breaths. “I kept hunting because Sangchul taught me that I could never trust anyone. Even after I learned the truth, that stayed with me. Those hybrids that I tracked down for people like Hyungsik, I never forgot them, not for one day. But I did what I thought I had to and I regret it all of the time. I know that trying to save them now won’t make up for what I’ve done.”

“Then why even bother trying?” He sneered, canines elongating and becoming visible at his irritation as he began to dress himself. “Most of them are dead already. You won’t be saving many from the prison you put them in. I understand that hunting them was a part of your past, but it doesn’t have to be now. You’re choosing to let it be because you’re scared that this might actually work and you don’t know how to handle being happy.”

Your gaze stayed on the bed sheets as Jungkook strode to the door and stormed out, choosing to stay put in the room and keep your distance. You understood why he was angry and took his harsh words without interruption because he was right. If everything worked and you were actually able to free the hybrids in Nam’s home, you’d no longer have a purpose. Hunting was your everything and without it, you didn’t know what to do with yourself, it’s why you agreed to hunt down Jungkook in the first place.

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

“Oh, you’re up.” Taehyung blinked at Jungkook stewing on the couch, tail bristled and ears flat against his head. He peered down the hall to your closed door as Seokjin came up behind him.

“Are you alright, Jungkook?” Seokjin questioned and shuffled to the panther carefully. “You seem agitated. What happened?”

“We got into an argument.” The younger boy explained simply and felt Taehyung’s defenses rise at the possibility of you being hurt again. “She’s okay. Physically, at least.”

“The fuck does that mean?” Taehyung took a step towards Jungkook but Seokjin put his hand up to stop him.

“Not now, Taehyung,” He kept his voice level so as not to rile either boy up any further, “go check on Y/N and Jungkook and I will head back upstairs for a few days.”

Taehyung didn’t hesitate to turn on his heel and stalk down to your room, not even bothering to knock and instead let himself in.

“She said,” Jungkook began to tell Seokjin, “that she’ll always be a hunter. And that it won’t ever change.”

“Do you expect it to?” His senior asked seriously as he sat on the coffee table across from him, “Y/N has hunted for a very long time. Just as you’re a predator, in her own way, so is she. That nature isn’t easy to forget.”

“She’s not even going to try!” Jungkook huffed and ran his fingers through his long hair and hanging his head in defeat.

“She’s willing to risk her life to free the hybrids in Hyungsik’s home, isn’t she?”

“But will it really be over?” He whispered more to himself than Seokjin, “Will she really just stop hunting because Hyungsik is in jail? If her nature can’t be forgotten...then was I wrong to trust her?”

“Jungkook,” Seokjin frowned and reached to pat the younger on his shoulder, “trusting Y/N will have been the best decision you made in the end. At least for me, it will be. Don’t forget that I too chose to work for Mr. Nam because I was desperate. You still trust me, don’t you?”

“I…” Jungkook struggled to find his answer; he did trust Seokjin, but his feelings for his senior weren’t exactly the same as his feelings for you. He even went so far as to claim you even after you expressly said he needed to be sure, and he was. Is. Isn’t he?

“Come on,” Seokjin rose to his feet and led him to the door, watching Jungkook’s ears twitch at your voice coming from the room and his lips curl into a growl. Opening the door, he made room for Jungkook to stompy by.

Jungkook’s fists curled into balls as they hung at his sides, Taehyung’s voice carrying down the hall explaining that the panther has chosen to stay in the apartment above and your response being ‘it’s what he wants’ causing a harsh pain in his chest. You really weren’t going to fight him on the need for space.

Seokjin pulled a note from his pocket to leave on the kitchen counter with the words ‘I called detective Kim and he said he’s free for most of the week’ scribbled on them before following Jungkook to the elevator that seemed to be taking forever. As he rode in awkward silence next to a pissed off hybrid, he could only hope Taehyung had better luck finding out what happened from you.

Once on the floor above, Jungkook swiftly stormed to one of the empty rooms and flopped down on the bed. Head buried in the pillows, he ignored Seokjin’s questioning knock and the concern in his senior’s voice. He could already feel the pull of his mark coming from Taehyung’s apartment, the desperate need to be at your side burning a hole in his chest. But he wouldn’t go, not yet, not until he had enough time to sort out his thoughts.

Hybrid hunters were notorious for being ignorant about the hybrid race, believing humans were superior in every way and showing it in the way they chose to treat hybrids. Even now after the laws were passed, people still looked down on him and his race, disgust written all over their face. Jungkook was sensible enough to acknowledge that not all humans hated hybrids, some viewing them not as pets but as friends, sometimes even more. Seokjin was one of those people. Hoseok and Taehyung were those people. You, on the other hand, were in between; not hating hybrids but not seeing them as more than animals either, despite your many claims of regret.

Jungkook hissed as his chest burned; you were in pain, upset and possibly crying. There was nothing that he wanted more than to comfort you, hold you in his arms and soothe the pain inside. Tears sprung to his eyes as he resisted the urge to do so, claws sinking into the mattress beneath him as he gasped out his own agony.

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

“How is she?” Yoongi questioned from his side of the phone, the chattering of his bar patrons nearly drowning out Taehyung’s response.

“She says she’s okay,” Taehyung sighed and picked up the paper Seokjin had left, “But I’m pretty sure she kicked me out of the room so she could just cry to herself. You know better than I do that she’s not really going to tell me what the hell happened.”

On his end, Yoongi scrubbed his hand down his face, pushing Hoseok away when his friend all but squished his own cheek to Yoongi’s in hopes of hearing the conversation.

“And Jungkook?” Hoseok blurted out and Yoongi winced at the volume of his question.

“He went back to the apartment upstairs. Seokjin hyung promised to stay with him until this blows over, if it blows over at all.” Taehyung stalked around the kitchen, opening his cabinets to pull out two glasses and set them on the table. He pulled a pitcher of water from the fridge as he heard the door to your room open and close. Trying to hide the frown on his face, Taehyung noted the red that brimmed your eyes, “The detective he talked to said he was going to be free this week so we’ll meet up with him.”

“We won’t be doing anything,” You slumped in the chair at the kitchen table and fiddled with the glass, “I’m going to see if he’s actually trustworthy. You’re going to stay here and out of my way.”

“Why?” Taehyung demanded and set his phone on the table after placing the call on speaker, not expecting Yoongi to chime in and agree with him that you needed backup.

“Because I said so.”

“We’re not teenagers anymore, I’m not as afraid of you as I used to be.”

You rose a brow over the glass brought to your lips, “Tae, if this goes south, I don’t want you or anyone else near it. That’s the deal.”

“No way.” Taehyung shook his head and crossed his arms sternly, “I’m not letting you meet with him alone. It’s dangerous.”

“Yeah, I think out of the two of us,” You waved a hand between you and your best friend, “I’m better at handling dangerous situations. Look, Tae, I’m tired of arguing with everyone, just do what I say and stay here.”

The table shook with the amount of force you put into slamming your hand on the table as you stood up, grumbling under your breath the entire way back to your room.

Taehyung jumped at the sound of Yoongi screaming ‘yah!’ from his side of the phone, trying to get your attention but failing. He sighed heavily and propped his elbows on the table, folding his hands in front of him. “This whole thing with Jungkook is concerning.”

“I’ve been saying that since the beginning.”

“Anymore fighting with him is just going to cause Y/N to distance herself from us more.” Taehyung ignored Yoongi, thinking out loud and wanting to bang his head against the table. He really thought he’d seen a change in you after meeting the panther but now he’s not sure what he should do. Removing Jungkook from the situation wouldn’t help, not with his mark very clearly embedded in your clavicle. Any further distance would only make it harder now that Jungkook had claimed you.

He tugged at his hair, the strands sticking out in every direction before he dropped his forehead to the wood of his kitchen table, groaning in frustration.

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

“The hell do you mean there was no evidence left behind?” Kim Namjoon scolded the forensics team. “You’re telling me this whole scene was wiped clean of everything?”

He stood in the middle of an abandoned house, a lioness hybrid’s dead body separating him from the team. He pinched the bridge of his nose and took another look around what used to be a family room but was now covered in dust and mold. “Find me something.”

“What’s the big deal?” One of the crew scoffed, “it’s just an animal, detective, it’s not like it was anything important.”

“Watch yourself.” Namjoon growled, advancing on the much shorter man and towering over him, “Just because they’ve got animal DNA doesn’t mean they’re to be written off, understood? She may not have been important to you, but somebody out there is missing her, so if you’re done being a fucking prick, get back to work.”

The man shied away from Namjoon’s glare to comb the room once more despite having found absolutely nothing the first time around. Namjoon glanced down at his watch and cursed; they’d already been there too long for his liking, especially given that the whole place had been wiped clean to keep anyone from finding out what happened. He also had another case he was working on, one no one else knew about so he couldn’t exactly just leave the scene without a proper investigation.

“Yo,” His partner and long time friend Jackson clapped his shoulder, “look man, why don’t you head back to the precinct before one of these guys loses his teeth? I’ll handle things here.”

Namjoon smiled at Jackson’s joke and shook his head, “You sure? They don’t seem to be trying very hard and I just want to make sure---.”

“I’ll make sure everything gets done, bro.” Jackson assured him, “I promise we’ll go over this place all day if we have to. Just get out of here before Jay pisses his pants, okay? Dude’s scared of you, so give him a little peace and quiet and he might actually find something.”

“Fine,” Namjoon conceded and let Jackson steer him towards his car where he hopped in and watched his friend march back to the house and basically cling to Jay in order to make sure they were being thorough. He let out a small chuckle at his friend’s silliness and pulled away from the street they’d blocked off.

It was the first body he’d seen in weeks and couldn’t help but wonder if this was a stashed hybrid that the owner could no longer risk being found. She had no form of identification on her and she didn’t come up in missing persons, so he could only assume that she wasn’t a registered citizen, which meant she was being kept away from the public. There was bruising around her ribcage and signs of sexual abuse and he shuddered at the thought of what this poor girl went through.

The drive back to the precinct was quiet except for the occasional chime of the dispatcher coming in through his scanner. Namjoon rubbed at his tired eyes, squeezing them shut as he sat at a red light and felt the obvious signs of a migraine beginning to form at his temples. He needed sleep but the file he’d been gifted from his father lingered in his mind, opting instead to spend his nights under the dim glow of his bedside lamp reading over the death of Y/L/N Iseul. A 40 year old woman whose body was found along with her husband’s in their home, allegedly attacked by a hybrid but Namjoon’s father never believed it.

The case haunted his father and Namjoon remembered the many nights his parents would argue over the obsession his father carried over it. When he was a child, Namjoon didn’t understand the big deal about the case when it had already been closed. As a teenager, he remembered berating his father for being forced to retire much too soon because he couldn’t let it go. Now as a detective himself, the case was indeed strange to Namjoon, especially after it was coupled with another file on the woman’s husband accusing him of long term domestic abuse. The file had never been seen by anyone other than himself and his father and Namjoon found himself thinking about it non-stop.

The loud honk coming from the car behind him startled Namjoon as he jumped in his seat, pressing down on the gas pedal rather harshly after finally spotting the green light.

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

You watched as Namjoon sighed heavily and stalked through the precinct to his office, the distraction of one of the officers needing his signature giving you the opportunity to slip inside.

Closing the door, he felt a slight change in the atmosphere that alerted him to your presence. Namjoon quickly drew his gun, twisting around to aim it smack dab in the middle of your forehead. His mouth parted in surprise at the stoic look on your face, his forefinger curling around the trigger as your hand came up to gently push the barrel of his gun away from you.

“Not very friendly of you, is it, detective Kim?” You smirked as you leaned back against his desk, crossing both arms and legs.

“Not very friendly of you to sneak up on me, is it?” He was cautious, keeping his gun tight in his grip but aiming it at the ground rather than you. “How did you get in here?”

“The door,” You nodded towards the aged wooden door as if the answer was that simple when in reality his question was how the hell you ended up in his office. “Just walked right by desk after desk. Not a very observant precinct you guys got here.”

Namjoon set his jaw, bringing his gun up to you once more, clearly tired of your games and quite rattled by your calm exterior. Anyone able to slip past dozens of armed officers and trained detectives was not to be taken lightly. He watched your tongue poke out against your lips in an attempt to hide your smile; you were amused by something and it chilled him to the bone.

“Relax,” You chuckled lowly, uncrossing your arms to prop them back on his desk, “I don’t think your Captain would be too happy if you shot an unarmed civilian in your office, would he?”

“If you’re who I think you are,” He pulled his finger from the trigger, switching on the safety to his gun and pushing it back in his holster, “then you’re not unarmed.”

“You’re more than welcome to draw your gun again and find out,” Pushing yourself from his desk, you turned and plopped into the chair, listening and using the reflection from the silver picture frames on his desk to watch as he rounded it and sat opposite of you.

Namjoon ran his hands through his already messy hair, smoothing it back before opening the file that had been sitting there long before you arrived. “I didn’t think you’d come to me. From what Jin hyung told me, I didn’t think you’d ever set foot in a police precinct.”

“What Seokjin told you,” Your hardened voice caught him off guard, any hint of playfulness long gone, “Or what you hoped? You know how dangerous I am and it won’t be easy to pass off as simply defending yourself if anything goes wrong. After all, who’s going to believe someone like me could overpower you?”

His hands froze in the middle of turning over a page in the case he was looking over, his eyes locking with yours and he wondered just how long you’d been lying in wait for him to come back. He was surprised to find how cold your stare was compared to a minute ago, the stiffness in your posture suggesting you were done being friendly. “Did you look at this before I got here?”

“No.” You chuckled at his shoulders slumping in ease. “You’re not very prepared, Kim, that’s not a good look for you. Maybe you weren’t expecting me so soon, but you were expecting to run in to me at some point this week.” Resting your elbow on the arm rest of the chair, you propped your chin in the palm of your hand, pursing your lips.

Namjoon let out a frustrated huff of breath, “The file I have here has a missing persons report from when you were 15, but there’s another that says your grandfather took guardianship of you after your parents’ death.”

“My grandfather had powerful friends everywhere,” You offered this bit of information to clear up his confusion, “He didn’t want us to be found so he called in some favors.”

“Until his body was found three years later in the forest of your hometown, allegedly mauled by a wild animal.” He had dug deeper than he first let on, his tone implying there was more to the story.

“Why do you care?” You countered, lips curling into a devious smile once more, “My grandfather had quite the reputation, he was no stranger to criminal activity and if you’ve looked into me, then I’ve no doubt you’ve already gone through his records. You’ve already made up your mind about me, detective Kim, because you believe I’m just like him. And judging by the way you’re yet to look down at the paper in your hands, you’ve committed my file to memory, which means you’ve combed over it for hours. Am I wrong?”

Namjoon was at a loss for words, not expecting you to have been as hyper aware of him as he was of you. He swallowed audibly, truly shaken by your quick assessment, and dropped his gaze to the paper in his hands because he had studied it from the second he obtained it to now. He poured over your grandfather’s activities because his father had left the file to him, comparing them to Donghoon’s file until the night of his death. Not long after Sangchul’s death, his father began building a file on you, but there was no record of your existence after the age of 15 so not much was there. Both he and his father had gone restless nights staring at the investigation report of Sangchul’s death and the autopsy report that was suspicious but not enough to truly be bothered with since his supposed only next of kin was also dead.

“You’re right, you know?” You broke his train of thought, watching as he nearly jumped out of his skin after forgetting you were even there, his head whipping up to observe your face and brows furrowed. “I’m very much like Sangchul, and you’re right to assume how dangerous I am. My grandfather’s death was a godsend, detective. He was an evil and vicious man, and you should really be grateful that he doesn’t still walk this Earth.”

“You killed him,” He breathed out, hands trembling as he debated whether he should draw his weapon again or hear out the rest of what you had to say.

“His son killed my mother so I simply returned the favor,” Rising slowly from your seat, you stuffed your hands into the pockets of the oversized jacket you borrowed from Taehyung. “You can arrest me if you’d like, though I don’t think you’d get very far without concrete proof. The cameras in your office have been disconnected so my confession wasn’t caught.”

“What?” Namjoon glanced around to check the security cameras hidden in the corners of the room to find they had in fact been tampered with. His eyes fell back on you, jaw clenching at having been bested in his own damn office. It suddenly dawned on him that he couldn’t feel the weight of his phone in his back pocket anymore, panic rising as you produced said phone from your jacket, dropping it to the ground and taking care to stomp on it violently. “Fuck.”

“Seokjin said he trusted you,” You kicked the phone across the floor, listening to it glide across the tile underneath his desk until he stopped it with his own foot, “and I’d like to think I can trust you too since we have a common enemy.”

He rose his brow, hands fisting on his desk and shaking with rage, but he stayed silent to allow you to go on. He was tempted to arrest you for destroying his property but he was actually impressed with how you managed to swipe the phone from his person without notice. He always had a sinking suspicion Sangchul had been murdered, not attacked. Sangchul’s case went cold and though it had truly looked as if he’d been attacked by an animal, Namjoon never bought it. Given your particular set of skills, it was quite clear what had really happened. Namjoon wasn’t all that surprised to hear you say your father killed your mother since the file his dad kept hidden documented what kind of person Donghoon really was.

“Nam Hyungsik,” You dropped the piece of paper Seokjin had given you on Namjoon’s desk, “has at least a dozen hybrids still in his home and I’d like to help you get them out.”

“What’s in it for you?”

“I want a specific hybrid to be protected until this is over,” You didn’t hesitate to mention Jungkook, your hand unconsciously coming up to rest on the twin holes in the juncture of your neck. His mark almost burning under your touch, the need to be close to Jungkook becoming desperate. “Dr. Kim and the people you’re about to meet...I don’t want them to be a part of this.”

“What does this hybrid have to do with Hyungsik?” Namjoon skimmed through the list of names on the paper you provided.

“Hyungsik’s daughter hired a few hunters to find him for a pretty hefty reward and I’ve been keeping him safe.”

“Where?”

“Out of sight.”

“Right,” Namjoon sighed and figured he shouldn’t have even bothered to ask given the lengths you were willing to go through to keep this particular hybrid safe. “Are you one of the hunters that was hired?”

You scratched the back of your neck, palm resting against it afterward to massage the tension building there. “Will you help or not? You weren’t exactly my first choice when it came to handling this situation but Seokjin insisted.”

“Taking down someone like Hyungsik won’t be easy, it’ll take time.” He scrubbed his hand down his face, wincing at the bold lettering of deceased next to most of the names on the list.

You nodded in understanding, taking his answer as proof that he’s willing to help. “Hyungsik is under the impression that I’m still looking for this hybrid so we have a window of maybe a week or two until he wants to meet up again if I haven’t delivered before then.”

“Good,” Namjoon nodded and pulled out one of his desk drawers to tuck the papers in it and slamming it shut. He watched your shoulders tense at his not so secret hiding place, “I’m not keeping these here, only while I’m in the office and then they go everywhere with me.”

Turning on your heel, you made for the door, hand on the knob and ready to turn but his voice stopped you, the low timbre making you hesitate as he asked-

“Why didn’t you tell anybody?” He wondered, “If you knew your father killed your mother, why didn’t you say anything?”

“Nobody would have believed me,” You didn’t face him, the memories of that day flooding back and you refused to show him how affected you still were. The image of 15 year old you, desperate and pleading flashed before you, your grandfather’s stone face as you became hysterical burned in your mind, “My father was a pinnacle of society, loving and doting out in public but behind closed doors…”

Namjoon’s features softened as he pitied you for having a rough childhood, something he didn’t quite understand because he’d come from a loving home with supportive parents. He knew that not everyone was as lucky, but he didn’t know how hard it could be for someone else either.

“There was never any record of abuse against my father,” You weren’t sure why you continued, but chalked it up to needing to tell someone the truth after hiding it for so many years, “An accomplished man like him? No one would take my mother’s side if she tried to accuse Donghoon of abuse. He was a drunk, Detective Kim, and one night he simply snapped and couldn’t stand the sight of her, so he killed her. And like a coward, he chose to call his father for help only to have his own life taken by the very man who raised him.”

You still faced the door, body practically vibrating with rage at the memories, grip on the door handle so tight that your hand shook, “My grandfather manipulated every cop on the scene that night and convinced them that a hybrid attacked my parents. His hatred for their race was no secret, so he did everything he could to make sure I hated them too. It wasn’t until Sangchul thought I’d been brainwashed enough that he told me the truth about what happened that night.”

Namjoon caught your eye as you looked over your shoulder, door knob rattling in your grip, “An eye for an eye, Kim. Maybe not for people like you but for monsters like me, that’s how a score is settled.”

His mouth went dry and his stare bore into your back as you pulled open his office door and walked out like you hadn’t just resembled a cold hearted murderer. His fellow detectives and officers all glanced back into his now open office and he waved his hand dismissively to signal that he was okay.

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

“You sure you don’t want anything a little heavier?” Hoseok offered as he set down a glass of water in front of you; he and Yoongi had inventory to go over before opening for the night so they’d spent their day at the bar.

“Didn’t you hear?” You snorted as you lifted the glass to your lips and took a long gulp, “Tae put me on an alcohol ban after a messy assignment a few years ago.”

“He’s just looking out for you.” Yoongi grunted over a couple of cases of liquor he carried in from the back. “You know, since you didn’t allow us to do it.”

You rolled your eyes playfully as Hoseok snickered and made his way to the back room to carry in more boxes. “That wasn’t my choice.”

“You still could have found me after your grandfather died.” Yoongi braced his hands against the bar top, his eyes flicking down to the mark on your shoulder. “How are things with the panther?”

“It is what it is,” You tried to play off your argument with Jungkook but he knew enough about you to call bullshit. He also knew it wasn’t a good idea to push any further because you’d only shut him out if he did.

Yoongi watched your elbow come up to rest on the bar, your chin propped on the palm of your hand. He reached out to tuck a stray piece of hair behind your ear, “You’re so stubborn, little one. The kid’s hurt that you said you won’t give up hunting. Why aren’t you giving it up?”

“Hunting’s all I know,” You swallowed the lump in your throat, leaning into his touch as the back of his hand skimmed down your cheek. “After this is over, what purpose would I have, Yoongs? It’s not like I can just get a normal job.”

“Why don’t you become a bounty hunter?” He suggested, smiling softly at the way your eyes closed in content at his touch. “You’d definitely be the most successful with your tracking skills.”

“I’d have to out myself as a hybrid hunter,” Moving away from his hand, you took another drink from the glass in front of you, “not many people respect us these days, you know?”

“Your knowledge on hybrids is what will make you the best.” Yoongi picked up the bar rag Hoseok had left to wipe down the counter, “As much as those people don’t want to believe it, hybrids are capable of committing crimes. Some of them have chosen to live up to the stereotype that they’re just wild animals.”

Your head lolled from side to side, the tension from earlier becoming too much to hide anymore. A lot of it was because of the separation from Jungkook, but he was yet to speak to you and you weren’t one to give in either. It wasn’t in your nature to surrender and the throbbing pain of his mark should have been enough to send you running towards him but you wouldn’t allow it to control you.

A low whistle coming from the doorway caught your attention, the deep chuckle was familiar as your back straightened and glanced to Yoongi. His jaw was clenched and grip tight on the rag in his hand.

“We’re closed.” He growled as you pulled on Taehyung’s jacket and zipped it up to keep your new company from seeing Jungkook’s mark. “Get out.”

“I’ve been looking for you, Y/N,” Suho’s voice was smooth, relaxed in the way he greeted you. He was always good at keeping his composure and you found it admirable whenever you met on the street. Truthfully, he was the only hunter who was able to stand tall before you without being intimidated as much lately.

As you peered up from the glass in front of you to the mirror behind the shelves filled with liquor, you counted two more people flanking either side of Suho. Tipping the glass to your lips, you gulped down whatever water was left and twisted all the way around on the stool you occupied.

“I haven’t been hiding,” You matched his sinister smile with one of your own, “Your tracking skills were always shit. No wonder you can’t find the panther.”

“You haven’t found it either,” Suho hissed and balled his hands into fists, taking a step closer as his men did the same. “The bounty’s still out for it and believe me when I say I’m going to collect that money.”

“Yeah?” You tilted your head playfully, both mocking and riling him up at the same time. “Good luck with that.”

“I said we’re closed,” Yoongi interrupted before things got out of hand, “Leave, Suho. Xiumin and Kai not tell you about my warning the other night?”

Suho nodded while kissing the back of his teeth in a small ‘tsk’, “With their busted lips and swollen faces it was a little hard to understand so it might have gotten lost in translation.”

“Wanna hear it for yourself?” You stood from the bar stool before Yoongi could grip your shoulder to keep you in place. Tensing as his two goons stepped in front of him, you smirked; of course he wouldn’t go head to head with you. Suho never physically fought with you if it could be avoided, his hand to hand combat skills were nothing compared to yours.

“Damn it,” Yoongi muttered under his breath, listening for Hoseok stumble around in the back and praying he didn’t come out any time soon. He turned to make his way to the back room, trusting that you can handle the situation since getting involved and helping you out wouldn’t be welcomed. “Y/N, don’t make a mess.”

The tall man to Suho’s left you recognized as Chanyeol came at you first, rushing forward and throwing his fist out. You stepped back, gripping his forearm in the process and turning to smash his head into the bar top. He groaned, knees wobbling as he fell to the ground with his hand pressed to his now broken nose.

Suho pushed Kyungsoo forward, cursing Chanyeol’s failed attempt at landing a solid hit. Kyungsoo swung violently, his hands heavier than they look, narrowly missing your face as he threw punch after punch. His footwork was quick and he was able to keep up with you much better than Chanyeol could. Unfortunately for him, his footing became misplaced and you were able to catch him off guard by ducking to swipe at his feet. Kyungsoo grunted as he fell to the ground and quickly tried to scramble up but you were already atop him, knee pressed down on his shoulder with one hand fisting the front of his shirt.

Raising your fist high, you brought your knuckles across Kyungsoo’s face in five solid hits, blood smeared across your hand and all around his mouth and nose. You looked up to his boss, jumping back before Suho could get his hands on you and kicking your foot out to hit him square in the gut and send him stumbling to his knees. You made a mental note to thank Taehyung for insisting you wear your steel toe boots instead of regular sneakers. Chest heaving unevenly, you stepped around Suho and slid one hand up the back of his head while the other cupped his chin.

Suho began to panic after falling to his knees and feeling you take your position, clawing at your arms but your grip was strong. He looked to his members frantically, a silent plea passing between them but they were injured too badly to even move. He felt your breath at his ear and winced when you jerked on his chin slightly.

“You were no match for me when you first got in the game, Suho,” You seethed and looked two his men sprawled on the floor before him, writhing in pain, “and you’re no match for me now. Stay the hell out of my way.” Releasing him, you stepped back to plant your feet and give yourself enough momentum to thrust your knee forward, sending Suho to his hands.

“Bitch,” He spat as if he hadn’t been struggling against you a moment ago. “You think you’re so fucking great, Y/N, but the truth is that you’re worn out. A hunter with your magnitude of skill quitting after the laws were announced? You’re a coward that couldn’t take the heat.”

Rage shot through you like never before as you kneeled in front of him, gripping his chin tight in your hand and bringing his face close, “You used to be so scared of me, Suho.” A wicked grin took over your face before you could stop it, feeling his body stiffen as your free hand trailed underneath his shirt and up to his rib cage. His skin burned underneath your touch, muscles tensing as your finger traced a rather nasty scar along his midriff. The amount of fear you incited in him now that he was on all fours and at your mercy was unmatched when he met with other hunters.

Tears gathered in his eyes, his body shook in your hold, and a single tear slid down his face as you leaned in to whisper against his lips, “Don’t forget who gave you this scar. I was much too nice that day and today. Take your men and leave before I reopen this old wound and gift you a few fresh ones.”

You rose to your feet with your fingers still wrapped around Suho’s chin and heard the sound of the back door swinging open as Yoongi and Hoseok stepped out to see what happened. You caught his eyes flicker to the two men behind you and sunk your nails into his skin, hissing as he grunted, “Don’t make me regret letting you live.”

Suho gasped when you threw his head to the side, hearing Chanyeol scramble to his feet and attempt to wake Kyungsoo. He kept his gaze on the floor and waited for the taller man to gather his friend, turning on his heel to storm out of Yoongi’s bar with trembling hands. Outside, his hand drifted up to his torso where he felt for the scar over his t-shirt; he remembered that night quite well.

“I’m sorry. You’re asking me to what?” You snorted at Choi, hearing the rustling of Taehyung on your right and knowing he was equally amused.

Choi Sungil sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose; he had somehow made the mistake of hiring on both you and Suho for a job and suggested you partnered up instead of rampaging through the city in competition with each other. “Just work together. I can’t afford to pay you both separately.”

You tsked and shook your head, eyeing Suho standing to your left, “He’s a rookie, Choi. You really think he’ll do me any good? He’ll only slow us down.”

“Suho’s reputation is established well enough now. Besides,” Sungil gave Taehyung a once over and sneered, “I heard you were taking strays now.”

“Watch yourself.” You warned through grit teeth and took a step in front of Taehyung as if to shield him from the man’s view before turning to Suho. “I’ll take the newbie but his blood is on your hands if he doesn’t come back alive.”

Sungil nodded in understanding and waved his hand dismissively; he really couldn’t be bothered with what did or didn’t happen to Suho so long as you delivered on your end of the deal. “I want that lion, Y/N, don’t disappoint me.”

Taehyung took your cue to leave but heard your footsteps slow the closer you got to Suho and he turned to see you whisper something into his ear. Most likely a warning for him not to screw up or it was his head.

That night Suho was in charge of staking out the home, making sure the perimeter was clear and there would be no interruptions. You and Taehyung managed to slip inside to secure the lion hybrid for Choi and were close to getting away cleanly but Suho had managed to miss one little detail; the fucking idiot didn’t warn you that the hybrid’s family returned early.

You and Taehyung had been caught and had to fight your way through the hybrids but Taehyung had been injured in the process. Because Taehyung had gotten hurt, you spent the remainder of the night alternating between taking care of him and beating the shit out of Suho for screwing up.

He remembered trying to fight back, remembered the sting of your blade as it pierced his skin, all the while promising that he wasn’t the only going to be paying for what happened to Taehyung.

“Boss?” Came Chanyeol’s nasally question, snapping Suho from his memories and causing the older man to scramble for their car.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here and regroup,” Suho snapped at him and peeled away from the curb.

#hunting a hybrid fic #jeon jungkook smut #bts hybrid au #jeon jungkook fic #bts imagine #bts fanfic #bts smut #jeon jungkook imagine

206 notes · View notes