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caffeinewitchcraft · 2 years

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Cinderella Doesn’t Believe in Fairytales (pt. 1)

Summary: Cinderella is too old for fairytales. But when one is her only chance at escape, she may have to start believing again. TW: child abuse, child neglect

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Once upon a time in a land far away, a girl lived with her stepmother and her two stepsisters. Though they were a family, the girl had to do all the chores so as not to overtire her new family. She rose at dawn everyday--

It starts like this:

Cinderella’s parents teach her to love with open hands. It’s in the way her mother sets aside the watering can the moment her father’s carriage rolls past the gate. It’s in the way her father peels the last bills of their family’s fortunes from his billfold and hands them to the doctor. When Cinderella starts stepping on ants in the garden, upset that they’d made a butterfly their meal, it’s in the way her mother tells her to let them take the wings, the antennae, the body.

It’s in the way Cinderella is given the duty of mopping her mother’s clammy brow, barely eight-years-old and smelling death in the air.

“Everything,” her mother wheezes, “everything will be okay.”

They are strange last words. Cinderella ponders them as her mother’s face pales and each breath comes more and more labored. Did that mean her mother was going to be okay? Did it mean her father would come back from his merchant trip soon? Or was it something bigger than Cinderella could yet understand?

“It doesn’t feel okay,” Cinderella whispers. She feels empty inside. The doctor left even when she begged him to stay. Nothing more to do, your father will understand. She squeezes her mother’s hand with both of hers. “Nothing feels okay.”

“Okay takes time,” her mother says. Her eyes are fever bright but she squints through the collapse of her own body to make eye contact with her daughter. Her colorless lips form a tremulous smile. “Be patient, darling. Be kind and everything will be okay.”

Cindrella has been lying awake for long nights, promising the world too many things. She promised she wouldn’t step on the ants in the garden anymore, not even by accident. She promised she would rake the leaves from around the oak tree without being asked. She promised to only think nice thoughts from now on, even when her father went on trips with no end dates and her mother stared out the window for hours on end. She promised so many things in the hopes that one of those promises contained the magic words that would save her mom.

Cinderella watches the breath rattle out of her mother for the last time. The hand she holds between her own cools. A wind with the bite of winter rolls through the window, making the bedcurtains shiver.

Okay takes time.

Cinderella waits for one of two things to rise. The sun or her mother.

The sun wins.

---------------.

Stepmother and her daughters move in too quickly after that. Cinderella doesn’t remember when her father brought them home. Was it the day he found her in the master bedroom? Or was it weeks later when Cinderella could finally tear herself away from staring out the window?

“This is your new mother,” her father says. He kneels in front of Cinderella and cups her cheek with one broad hand. He scans her with worried eyes. “Okay? We’ll be a family now.”

Cinderella wants to scream. Her fingers tangle in the front of her dress and her toes dig into the ground through her shoes. She keeps thinking of her mother’s hand in hers. And now she has a new one?

“Cinderella,” her father says. He squeezes her shoulder with his other hand. “Okay?”

“Okay,” she says. Her eyes dart to her stepmother standing behind her father. “I-it may take some t-time, but…”

“And we will have time,” Stepmother says. Her voice is the very opposite of her mother’s, high and lilting where her mother’s voice was low and round. She smiles at Cinderella. “Thank you, my dear.”

“We will be a family,” her father says. He stands so he can wrap one arm around Stepmother. He puts his hand on top of Cinderella’s head. “A very loving family.”

------------.

A very loving family.

Things are taken from Cinderella slowly. A pretty ribbon goes to Drizella when Stepmother notices her daughter’s envious stare. Her room is given to her stepsisters’ governess when she’s eleven. A textbook goes to Anastasia when her governess runs out of material to teach.

“Father,” Cinderella says from the door of her father’s study. She’s embarrassed that her ankles are showing from under her dress, the sleeves falling short of her wrists, her golden hair knotted on one side of her head. She’d only learned of her father’s homecoming an hour ago when Anastasia called for him too loudly. “May I speak to you?”

Her father doesn’t look up from the reports in front of him. He mutters as he runs numbers over and over and over again, scratching each calculation out with the quill Cinderella gave him last year. The sight of the quill gives Cinderella comfort.

He loves me still, Cinderella thinks as she waits for his attention. She’s too old to tangle her fingers in her dress now, or so she’s learned from eavesdropping on her stepsisters’ etiquette lessons. So she folds her hands behind her back and holds her spine as straight as she can.

“What is it?” her father asks at last. He pushes away his papers but, rather than focus on Cinderella, pulls a ledger in front of him. “It is late.”

“I’m sorry,” Cinderella says. She is sorry. The sun has been done for hours and here is her poor father working away. She bites her cheek. “I—my room. Stepmother said the governess would need it and I would need to move for the duration of her stay.”

“Yes?”

Cinderella’s heart stings. He knew. She breathes in deeply. “It’s only—well, she’s been here for two months now.”

“And she will be here for many more,” her father says. He turns the page of the ledger and freezes. He frowns as his eyes skim the same line over and over again. “Is there a point, Cinderella? I’m busy.”

“I’ve been told to sleep in the kitchen,” Cinderella blurts out. She can see soot on the hem of her nightgown and she steps back to hide the stain in the shadows. “If I could have some space in the servant’s quarters, maybe…”

“It’s temporary,” her father says. He stands without taking his eyes off the page. Sweating, he dabs at his forehead with a handkerchief her mother embroidered for him and waves her off. “Go to bed, Cinderella. It’s late. We will talk in the morning.”

Be patient, Cinderella thinks. She wraps her arms around herself. The cold stone floors bite at her bare feet. Think kind thoughts. Rake the leaves around the oak tree.

Her father is gone in the morning on another trip.

He does not come home.

-----------------.

When Cinderella thinks positively, her life is like a fairytale. The kitchen hearth is warm and she never lacks for company between the birds that sing in the branches of the oak tree and the mice that snatch up crumbs before the ants can get to them. Her father is a dashingly handsome man on a mission to save their family from total ruin. The last letter he sent (over a year ago) detailed a harrowing trip over the seas to a new land in hopes of trade. He’s an adventurer. He’s a hero.

When her life is like a fairytale, Stepmother is only cruel to protect Cinderella from the Curse. She’s never decided what the “Curse” is, but it feeds on happiness. Stepmother piles chores and chores onto Cinderella so Cinderella is too tired to be happy and the Curse is held at bay.

Her stepsisters don’t make fun of Cinderella’s soot-filled hair or her tattered clothes. No, they tease as all sisters do. They happily eat what Cinderella cooks for them and, though they don’t say it out loud, they are always grateful to Cinderella.

Cinderella is patient. Cinderella is kind. The governess leaves without ever directly giving Cinderella a lesson. Cinderella’s room becomes a closet for her stepsisters and that’s okay. It’s okay because she loves them and she wants them to have room for their belongings.

Stepmother has her move to the attic instead. It’s nicer there than in the kitchen. She has a bed and a dresser and a little window that looks out over the driveway. She thinks it’s a turning point in their loving family and she’s finally been patient enough--

Stepmother starts insisting Cinderella answer to the call of a silver bell at all hours of the night. She thought Cinderella would hear the ringing better from the attic than from the kitchen. Cinderella, come here. Cinderella, move faster. Cinderella—

Cinderella rakes the leaves under the oak tree and stares down the driveway, wishing for her father to come home.

---------------.

Cinderella turns 17. It’s been six years since her father left on his quest and four years since his last letter. The money in the estate is drying up and Cinderella’s chores grow as their finances dwindle.

Cinderella feels the walls caving in a little more each day. Like she alone is sinking further and further underground and the collective weight of the earth around her attic bedroom is the reason the wood creaks a little more each passing storm.

Be kind, her mother told her.

But what is kindness when she is disintegrating in front of the the people who were supposed to love her? Her face is hollowed from understanding smiles. They love you, they just don’t know how to show it. Just be kind a little longer and then everything will be okay. Be patient—

So she ties her hair up in scraps of cloth leftover from mending the tablecloth and she goes out to face another day. The list of chores she must complete stretches until the sun goes down. She presses her hands into abrasive water and scrubs, scrubs, scrubs. She collects the silverware and polishes it (though it does not need to be polished). She sweeps and mops and prunes the roses.

She dusts the great, creaking carcass of a manor her father left behind and wonders for how much longer she is expected to be its beating heart?

Be patient, your reward will come, maintain your kindness and open your soul, carve out what you can spare —

Cinderella is growing too old for fairytales.

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She writes her father one last time on the last full moon of her nineteenth year. Cinderella feels so much older now and so young at the same time. The chill of fall permeates the attic and stiffens her fingers, but her heart is beating very hard.

I’m leaving, she writes. Her quill hovers over the next line. She could end the letter here, but she doesn’t want to. Her father has been absent, he may be dead, but she loves him still. She wants to share her elation with him even as it breaks her heart to leave behind what he built.

I’m leaving. Once my birthday comes, I plan to take a carriage into the city. I have a reference from our old gardener, and I will find work. I can’t stay here anymore, Father, waiting for letters that may never come. Thank you for everything you’ve done.

Cinderella stares at the letters. Thank you. The joy she’d felt earlier is dying under those words.

The truth is, Cinderella doesn’t feel thankful. She feels…raw. Tired. Like leaving is her last ray of hope and, without it, her world is darkness. She’s spent so many years making her life into stories to keep herself from breaking.

Once upon a time, there was a girl who lived under a terrible curse. Luckily her stepmother was clever and determined. Though she did not want to, she made herself be cruel to Cinderella in order to stave off—

Once upon a time, there were three sisters. Though the older two teased the younger, they loved each other very much—

Once upon a time, Cinderella worked hard enough and her new family realized they should have loved her all along—

She is tired of being kind. It hurts. Hurts like sleep in front of the hearth for years, hurts like the chill clawing through her attic room, hurts like remembering her mother’s last breath rattling out of her chest.

Telling her father thank you is kind. If he really is off trying to save their family from ruin, he is owed thanks. But Cinderella can’t give it. She is selfish in the end. Cruel and unkind. That’s why the family who was supposed to love her never could.

Cinderella presses quill back to parchment.

If I must suffer, I would rather it be from my own choices. There is no future for me here any longer. I will carry the memories of Mother in the garden for the rest of my life. I will remember the dinners we had at the dining table. I will think of the oak tree we used to sit under as a family. I hope you return to your new family safely and I hope you do not think of me when you do. I think we parted when Mother died. I must start my new life so this is goodbye.

Goodbye, Father.

She signs her name and seals the envelope before she can falter.

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A month after she sends her letter, a messenger arrives from the castle.

“A ball,” he says, handing the invitation to her stepmother. He frowns at the cobwebs along the ceiling and eyes the high polish of the ebony banister. “Open to all noble ladies of suitable peerage.”

There’s doubt in his voice when he says the word noble. Cinderella, eavesdropping from behind the closed door of the parlor, silently agrees. It’s been years since she thought of her father’s title of Baron. As part of the landless nobility, it rarely came up and, with her father’s absence, there’s no one to care.

But Stepmother cares. As soon as the messenger leaves, she’s celebrating with her daughters. “We’ll order dresses,” Stepmother says, clapping her hands together. “New dresses that will make my daughters shine brighter than any Duke’s daughter.”

“I want to wear green,” Anastasia says. She sighs dreamily. “They say the Prince’s eyes are green.”

“I want to wear black,” Drizella announces. She presses a hand to her chest. “The Prince and the King both have black hair. It will be to honor them.”

Stepmother does her best to hide her grimace. “Darling, black is…for other occasions. How about you try a nice lilac? Purple is for royalty.”

Drizella grins happily.

Cinderella slips back up to the attic. This speeds up her plans a little bit. The ball is three months away, but that is still a month before her birthday. A ball means the house will be empty. Cinderella will leave the night of the ball and, with any luck, it will be days before Stepmother even thinks to ring her silver bell.

Cinderella has work to do.

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The ball affords Cinderella more opportunities than she thought. Stepmother keeps a strict inventory of the pantry, so Cinderella must collect her rations little by little to avoid detection. When her family goes into town to visit the seamstress, Cinderella leaves behind her chores. She picks her way through the woods behind the manor, eyes scanning the sides of the path. She can dry mushrooms or can berries if she finds them. Foraging is a faster way to fill her rations.

Cinderella likes being alone in the woods. The sun is high overhead and the light that shines through the canopy turns the leaves bright green. Birdsong drifts through the air and there’s a small scuffling from the ferns to her right as some small animal searches for fresh shoots. It feels like the woods are the only place she can be herself without worrying about kindness or unkindness.

She remembers a time when she hated it. One winter, they did not have enough firewood. Stepmother sent 15-year-old Cinderella into the woods in search of twigs and branches. She remembers the fear that still winter night built in her, the surety that she would either freeze to death or be eaten alive.

She’d wandered further and further from the house, desperate to complete her task so she could return to her attic. Her fingers had nearly frozen even tucked into her sleeves. The trees were stripped bare by the weight of the snow and ice. The moon had been barely bright enough to light her way and, looking back, there was no way she would have been able to collect enough firewood to make a difference. She was going to die before she completed her task, or so she thought.

Then she found the clearing.

She steps out of the treeline and into that same clearing now.

The woods are dense behind the manor. They trees that grow here are too hard for most loggers, ancient and gnarled in appearance. When she first stumbled into the wide, circular meadow, she had thought she was imagining things.

Even on that snowy, terrible winter, the clearing was green and warm.

Wildflowers peak out through grass as high as Cinderella’s knee. She wades through it, never fearing sharp stones or unexpected holes. In all the years she’s been coming here, she has never twisted her ankle or torn a hem. The clearing is like stepping into a picture, everything as soft as a brushstroke.

In the center of the wildflowers is an oak tree. From her studies, Cinderella estimates it to be twice as old as the one in the manor’s garden. Perhaps three or four hundred years old. The base is easily as big around as a carriage and the tree stretches a good dozen feet higher than the forest’s canopy.

There won’t be any mushrooms here, or at least not the kind Cinderella can eat. But it’s been so long since she’s had the chance to come here. She heads for the oak tree and sits against its trunk with a sigh, titling her head back against the bark. The warmth coming from the tree eases the tension from her shoulders. She’ll have to be careful lest she fall asleep. She’ll need to be back before Stepmother returns from the seamstress…

“You were gone a long time.”

Cinderella hums and folds her hands over her stomach. The boy’s words are accusatory, but Cinderella knows him well enough now to hear the undercurrent of worry in his words. “I had a big decision to make.”

The boy in the tree never shows himself. He may be the tree for all Cinderella knows. She’s never looked for the source, sensing that her friend may never come back if she asks too many questions. So, like always, she keeps her eyes shut as the boy’s presence grows all around her.

“About what we talked about last time?” he asks.

“Yes,” Cinderella says. She thinks of the letter she sent to a father who probably won’t read it and sighs again. “You’re right. I’m old enough to leave.”

The boy’s presence – his aura – brightens in her mind’s eye. She doesn’t know what he is, but she thinks fairies in fairytales move like this. Moving in short bursts, flashes of light, and sensations of warmth. “You’re coming to the Capital?”

Coming? Cinderella shakes off the odd phrasing. “Not quite.”

The boy is confused. “Then you’re not leaving?”

“I am.” Cinderella stretches out her legs in front of her. “I don’t know anyone in the Capital. Someone who used to work for my father gave me a reference that will be good in the next town over. That’s where I’m going.”

“You can’t!” The boy is in the tree now and it surges with heat as his temper flashes. “You can’t go there!”

“Why not?”

“Because we won’t be able to see each other anymore,” the boy says. The leaves of the tree rattle together. “I can’t get to that town.”

Cinderella sits up straight. “Wait, I could still see you in the Capital? That’s why you want me to go there?”

“Why else would I suggest it?” the boy asks. His voice softens. “You do still want to visit me, right?”

“Of course,” Cinderella says. She opens her eyes. There’s a sheen over the world, like she and the tree are being held separate from everything else by the boy’s presence. She watches rainbows drift through the air. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”

“We are.” The boy nudges her. “Close your eyes, you know it’s not good to look at magic too long.”

Obediently, Cinderella closes her eyes again. The boy is always saying that, but Cinderella has never felt any ill effects from looking at the rainbows. “I’ll get to the Capital eventually. But I do need to go to that town first.”

“Why?”

“I need to work,” Cinderella says. “If I’m going to the Capital, I definitely need money.”

“I can give you money.”

Cinderella doubts that. She doesn’t see why a fairy would have human money. “I still can’t go right away. My stepmother and sisters will be there for a while.”

“They’re coming—going there?! Why?”

“The Prince is looking for a bride,” Cinderella says. She shrugs. “A messenger came a while ago to invite us. That’s why I could come out today. My family is at the seam—Whoa!”

The wind picks up all at once, a warm and gentle gale that sweeps Cinderella’s hair up into the air. When she peeks, the rainbows are dancing.

“You got invited to the ball?” the boy asks. “How? Why?”

Cinderella furrows her brow. “All nobility is invited, even the children of barons who haven’t been seen for nearly a decade, apparently. Why are you excited? Do you even know what a ball is?”

“Do I—of course I—” The boy falls silent. When he speaks again, he’s using a much calmer voice. “I’m just excited that you could be in the Capital so soon.”

“I’m not going,” Cinderella says. She crosses her arms. “This is my best chance to leave. I’m not giving it up just so I can play servant to my stepsisters when they attend the ball.”

“You were invited too, right?”

“I wouldn’t actually be able to go,” Cinderella says. She can see the way it would play out. They’d bring her along to satisfy the messenger’s invitation and that’s it. “I don’t have a dress and, even if I did, my stepmother would force me to stay at the inn. I’d just be brought along to curl Drizella’s hair and patch Anastasia’s dress when she inevitably tears a hole in it.”

“That’s not fair,” the boy says. She gets the impression he’d be scowling if he had a face. “That’s not what the Prince meant to happen when he invited all noble ladies. He meant all of them had to come to the ball, not just the Capital.”

Cinderella can’t help it. She laughs. “It’s not fair, true. But I’m tired of waiting for the world to be fair. I’m sorry, but I won’t be going to the Capital just yet. I’ll come and find wherever your tree is as soon as I get there. Maybe in a year?”

The boy is silent for a long moment. At last he says, “If I could get you to the ball without your family knowing, would you go?”

Cinderella blinks. “I just said that I need to get a job right away—”

“But if I could,” the boy presses, “would you?”

Sometimes Cinderella forgets how naïve the boy is. He’s always talking like that, as if anything is possible. “But I can’t,” Cinderella says gently. “Even if you could get me to the Capital, I’d need a place to stay.”

“I could—”

“And a dress,” Cinderella interrupts. “And I’m sure I’d need the invitation and Stepmother would never let me have that. Even if I did go, what then? How long would I have to wait until I could leave again? Not to mention if my stepmother ever found out…”

“What if I got you a way to the Capital, a place to stay, a way for your stepmother to never find out, a dress, and a guaranteed way to stay in the Capital?” the boy asks. His aura shivers with intensity. “What if I promised you that I could do all that? You could go to the ball and still escape and you’d be somewhere we could still see each other.”

“That’s a lovely dream,” Cinderella says. She’s irritated now. Of course, that sounds wonderful. Cinderella has never been to a ball and the idea of having everything taken care of for one night sounds divine. But Cinderella is too old for fairytales. “Of course, if it were possible, I would do it! The truth is that it’s not possible—”

“Come back the full moon before the ball,” the boy says. His presence jerks up towards the canopy of the oak tree. “At night. Bring your things as if you were leaving. Alright? Promise me!”

“I don’t—”

“If it doesn’t work, you’re not any worse off. You’ll still be able to leave for the next town and we’ll see each other again in a year. But if it does work—”

“If what works?” Cinderella cries.

“Magic,” the boy says before disappearing completely.

Cinderella blinks rainbows out of her eyes. It’s suddenly too bright in the clearing and her head is spinning. Magic? What magic?

“I’m not going,” Cinderella says out loud. The boy isn’t there to hear her. She glares at the meadow. “This isn’t a fairytale. Magic won’t fix anything.”

Cinderella stands, dusts off her dress, and goes looking for mushrooms.

——-

Thanks for reading!

Part two is already posted on my Patreon (X)! If you’d like to read it a week early, please consider supporting me on there :)

See y’all next week!

#long post #my writing #Cinderella #fairytale retelling #twisted fairytales #writeblr #short story #third person

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astarion-approves · 9 months

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drabble req? :) would love to see some astarion working on comforting or patching up tav/reader — there’s a lot of hurt/comfort in the other direction out there but soft!astarion is so cute :’) love your work btw! <3

Astarion x GN! Reader drabble (695 words)

SFW, Astarion POV, third person POV, Fluff, shitty pep talks (which I am also not great at,) no patching up but it's kinda cute anyway. A touch of jealous Gale

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“Astarion,” Gale began, the human always tiptoeing around him since the beginning. “Could you…” He shook his head, the man looking unsure with his next words. “Could you check in on Tav?”

Astarion sighed and closed his book, his eyes flicking to the fireplace where Tav sat alone and poked at the fire. “And just why would I do that?”

“Look,” Gale clenched his teeth together, looking over his shoulder to where Tav sat before looking to Astarion once more. “They obviously have feeling for you—“

“Hah! Well that's no surprise. After all, no one can deny my charms—“

“And you obviously have feelings for them.” Gale’s tone was firm, his eyes harsh as he glared back at the vampire, a tint of jealousy swimming beneath it.

Astarion tossed his book into his tent, his arms coming to cross over his chest as he glared right back at Gale. “And so what if I do?!” Now he swung his hands in front of himself, gesturing past Gale and to where Tav still sat. “What the hell do you expect me to do!? Go over there and tell them everything is going to be okay?! That all of the evil in the world will never get to them because I’ll protect them from it?! That these fucking tadpoles in our brains mean no harm and that we’ll all live happily ever after?!”

“Yes,” Gale replied. “That is exactly what I expect you to do.”

Astarion dropped his arms to his sides, pouting at Gale’s answer. He sighed. “Fine!”

Shoving past Gale he made his way to Tav, rubbing his now injured shoulder. He may have overreacted just a tiny bit, but the way Gale stumbled from his shoulder check was worth it.

“Hello, Tav,” Astarion sat down beside them without an invitation.

“Hey.” They gave Astarion a small smile but turned their attention back to the fire.

“I think it’s best if we’re just honest with one another here,” Astarion said with a shrug. “Being friends and all.”

Tav only hummed in reply.

For a moment Astarion let his facade drop. Usually Tav would be eager to chat with him, truly, about anything and everything. To see them pay more attention to the fire than his gorgeous self— something really was wrong.

“What’s wrong, Tav? Tadpole hosting a private party in your skull?”

Tav snorted, another smile gracing Astarion and giving his heart a little flutter knowing that he managed to earn a real smile from them. “Everything?” Tav answered. “Just… everything.”

“Well-“

“And you don’t have to tell me that we’ll live happily ever after.”

“Look at you! Eavesdropping on a private conversation? I’m so proud.”

They didn’t reply this time, just focusing on the flames as they danced in front of them, burning down the pile of wood and sparking as Tav added another log.

“No, things won’t end happily ever after,” Astarion broke the silence as he spoke, his voice soft. “I think that much was obvious the moment we were abducted by fucking mind flayers.”

“Some pep talk—“

“Give me a moment, I’m not accustomed to cheering a person up!”

Tav laughed, but gestured for Astation to continue. “Okay, sorry.”

“Apology accepted.” Astarion bumped their arm into Tav’s. “Now, where was I—“

“Happily ever after, or lack thereof.”

“Right, our eventual demise.”

“Astarion—“

“Look, I’m not good at this, clearly. We’re all bound to die some day, but it’s how we spend our days before the end that matters. You can’t give into these feelings of darkness that haunt you, the urge to give up when things get tough. I’m here for you, everyone in this strange camp of weirdos is here for you— and if you’re hurting all you have to do is say something and we’ll do what we can. Shitty pep talks included.”

Tav nodded and tossed their stick into the fire, no longer playing with the flames that beckoned them. “I’m hurting.”

“I know, darling,” Astarion said and put his arm over their shoulder, pulling them closer. “I can’t change the world, all I can do is be here for you… and I hope it’s enough.”

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chlerc · 1 year

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last night ; charles leclerc

— summary; in which he shows up right at her doorstep although he swore that he wouldn’t come back here again, and there he was yearning for the comfort of her arms.

pairing — charles leclerc x f. reader ( third person story )

word count — 796.

content — friends with benefits but charles broke it off between them, he said he wouldn’t return yet he was back there asking for a forever.

NAVIGATION + author’s note: first drabble and i have no idea how to end it off so please bear with the ending 🙏🏻

THE LAST TIME HE said it was over and he wasn’t coming back was a weekend ago. Yet, here he stood in front of her with his gray hoodie and black sweatpants. The hood of his hoodie hides the way his face usually glows in the bright moonlight, illuminating the perfect facial features he had.

“What are you doing here at half past 3 in the morning? And you shouldn’t be seen here at my doorstep, you’d be on the front page of every sports gossip page tomorrow!” Her voice comes off as a whisper, her eyes droopy as she rubs at it.

His cherry red lips clash against her luscious ones, savoring the slightest taste of her chapstick present. Charles pulls her by her waist, closer to his chest than it already was before. The pieces of her heart that had been struggling to fit into the world became so quiet when in his embrace ; it was as if they had found peace, as if they needed his glue to bridge their gaps and connect.

She pulls away, tugging at his sleeves for him to enter, just in case anyone actually followed him here. Everything was a contract, or a relationship in summary, friends with benefits. One gets needy, they have fun, and they leave but come running back again. He was different, the one that sticks out like a sore thumb from others. Charles would stay till the next morning and she’d be woken up to the fragrant smell of pancakes drizzled with maple syrup and coffee.

They’ve been friends since too long, she was his source of comfort when he came running to her with his arms wide open for comfort and anger from a fucked up race weekend. Neediness got the better of him every night he had landed back in Monaco, leading to many other nights before this and the pair of best friends agreed to be solely friends with benefits.

“You can’t just show up here like nothing happened, like whatever you said last week didn’t matter and then proceed to kiss me, Charles.” He leaned against the door, hands tucked in the pockets of his sweatpants and his expression made it hard for her to read him. “One last time please, I had a bad weekend and I just need one more night with you.” She knew she would agree to whatever he said, zero doubts and hesitation. He was her weakness.

Her heart felt fireworks in them whenever he was near her, yearning to be released from the rib cage. Her heartbeat keeps a steady rhythm until the thought of Charles running to her apartment after a horrible weekend, then its tempo raises into a new genre all together. Butterflies occupied her stomach at the slightest thought of him, burning pink cheeks whenever she welcomed him. She was in love, and she knows she shouldn’t be, after all they were just friends with benefits, before he broke it off.

He had a way to her heart, like a key unlocking a lock and before she knew it, she was nodding at his request. Horrible weekend? As if she hadn’t been awake, watching him take pole position and race winner for the weekend. “Horrible weekend but you won the race and clinched pole position, Charles. What are you talking about?” She watches as he takes a step forward, embracing her in his arms.

“Horrible weekend because I knew you weren’t at home waiting for me to celebrate with you. I know I said last weekend was the last time I’d be here, and honestly? I don’t know what I’m doing here, I just know that I want to be in your arms tonight.”

His words tugged at the strings of her heart, looking into his eyes, the window of a soul. He was handsome from the depth of his eyes to the gentle expressions of his voice. He was handsome from his generous opinions to the touch of his hand upon her own. She loved the way his voice quickened when he sparkled with a new idea, or was so enjoying one of hers that he lost himself for a moment and quite forgot the mask he wore for others.

Charles brings his hand up to her cheeks at her silence, stroking them with his fingers as he gazes into her eyes. His eyes steady on her as they were filled with nothing but a longing desire. He had told himself it’d be the last time he would show up here, yet there he was in the comfort of her arms.

“Mia cara, nothing matters more than you. I want to keep coming back here to you after every race weekend. Would you let me do that?”

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redlittlefoxari · 4 months

Text

To The Ends Of Faêrun : Chapter Twelve: Binding

This series is book two of a fanfic I have already written called Astarion Epilogue: An Adventure in Making Life

Master List Here for Books One, and Two

*List includes a prequel that is essentially one-shots of their adventures over the fifty years after the battle at the end of the game*

Warnings: Blood, Sex, Violence, NSFW 18+, Smut

Summary: Tav, Astarion, and Apple all come face-to-face with the goddess Angharrad about little Apple’s binding contract and what happens if they refuse to answer the call of adventure.

Comments are always appreciated! I always think my writing is shit.

Tav and Astarion pounded their way upstairs, Apple in his arms. She cried into his chest, not fully knowing why she was in so much trouble but just knowing that she had done something wrong. Confusion and fear rattled through her while Astarion and Tav only felt fear and anger at what had been done to their child. She had been used to satisfy Angharradh’s cruel ends and get Tav to submit to the deal by forcing her child to accept.

How Anagharradh found out what Tav’s answer would be was easy enough to guess. The tattoo acted as a conduit between her and Tav. Linking them together and allowing her to listen in on anything she wanted a lot, like the eye Wyll once wore when Mizora was his patron. She had probably been listening to Astarion and Tav's whole conversation about the deal.

They cleared the top of the stairs and made their way to the master bedroom. Not stopping, they flung open the glass doors leading out into the cool night air, and Tav held out her forearm to the moonlight. There was a hum of power as the moon's light kissed her skin, and another wave of anger washed through her.

“Angharradh!” Tav screamed her name. “Come out from wherever you are hiding!” Her chest heaved as her white-hot rage took over.

In a flash of blinding light, Angharradh appeared with a coy smirk on her face. She glanced over the three of them, taking in the rage that was flowing from Astarion and Tav. Frowning at the sobbing Apple in Astarion’s arms. Her eyes locked with Tav’s as a smile appeared back on her face.

“What have you done to sweet little Asteria?” Angharradh chided. “When I saw her earlier, she was beaming with happiness; now look at her.” She motioned towards her. “She’s a sobbing mess.”

“You son of a bitch.” Astarion put down Apple and charged towards Angharradh, stopping a few steps in front of Tav. “Let her out of whatever deal you made with her! She is too young to understand what it is that you asked of her.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.” Angharradh let an innocent smile spread across her face. “She already signed the contract.”

Sparks danced between Astarion’s fingers as he flexed and then closed his fist tight into a fist. “If you do not let her out of the deal this instant, I will add you to my slain gods!” His eyes darkened as he bared his fangs, ready to strike.

“A vampire, Tav?” She clicked her tongue. “Such disgusting pests.”

Astraion lunged at her, fist cocked back, ready to spring forward. Angharradh rolled her eyes at his temper getting the better of him as she raised a shield. His fist hit solid air, stopping him in place as he screamed and fought the invisible force that prevented him from connecting. With a flip of her wrist, Astarion was sent flying back his body, only stopping once it made contact with Tav’s. Knocking the wind out of her. Tav caught him before he hit the ground, his body shaking with barely contained rage. She stood behind him, as Astarion crouched, trying to get a handle on the fury that ripped through him.

“And you want to make more children with such a beast.” Angharradh looked down her nose at him. “It’s a wonder how young Astaria came out such a polite little girl.”

“Daddy!” Apple ran to Astarion, pressing her face to his chest.

“I’m alright.” He wrapped his arms around her, kissing her gently against her soft white curls.

Tav moved in front of Apple and Astarion, using her body as a shield. “She’s six.” Tav ground out. “You made a deal with a six-year-old.”

“She seemed more than happy to help her mother, and after what I heard last night, I’m glad I came to her when I did.” Her eyes darkened. “Before you did something you would later come to regret.”

Apple sobbed into Astarion’s chest as Angharradh fixed Tav with a cool stare. She scoffed and rolled her eyes as she took in the sight of the three of them. Tav could feel Astarion’s rage building as Apple continued to cry against him, and the goddess looked at them with disgust.

Tav’s jaw ticked with anger. “Let my daughter out of the deal.”

“No.” She gave Tav a cruel smile. “What’s done is done; the only way out of the deal is to finish it.” Angharradh looked annoyed. “Find my daughter and bring her home.”

“And what if we refuse?” Tav grasped at something to get her out of the deal. “What stops us from staying at home where we are?”

“If my request is not fulfilled, then your daughter belongs to me.”

Tav’s blood turned to ice in her veins at the Goddess's words. “What does that mean exactly?”

Astarion picked Apple up off the ground and pulled her closer to his chest, turning away slightly from the goddess. His eyes dared her to try and take Apple away from him. Eyes full of hate and murderous intent if she so much as tried.

“I mean just that.” She sounded like she was suggesting something as simple as a change in the weather. “I will take Astaria and raise her as if she was my own.” She looked to Astarion, who was glaring at her. “She signed the contract.”

Angharradh produced a scroll that glowed just as she did and unfurled it. At the bottom of the parchment was a signature written as if a child had done it. Apple’s full legal name sprawled out on the paper. Tav felt like someone had kicked her in the stomach. As far as she could tell, this was binding, and Apple had sealed hers and their fates to the quest.

“What if we kill you?” Astarion spat. “Would that break the contract?”

“You could certainly try.” Angharradh leveled him with a challenging stare. “I wouldn’t recommend it, however, based on what just happened to you. I could still wipe you from the face of this planet like the leech you are.” Her voice dripped with venom as she produced a piece of parchment.

Tav shook with fury as she read the contract that was in front of her. Apple had signed her life away in order to fix her. Her sweet girl was just trying to help, and this Goddess had taken advantage of her to get what she wanted in the end. If they tried to break the deal, Apple would be taken away from them. Bile rose in Tav’s throat as she stared at her little girl's unsure signature.

I, Asteria Ancunin, hereby swear my life in service to this quest to find and return the Goddess Mielikki to her mother and, in doing so, reap the rewards requested of the Goddess Angharradh, queen of the Arvandor. These rewards are the ability to lift the limitations bestowed upon elven kind for my mother, Tav Ancunin. To produce new elven souls from her womb. If I fail in my duties, I will return to Arvandor with the Goddess Angharradh and serve her until my dying breath.

Astarion furiously read the contract, looking for any loopholes, cursing as he read every line. Reaching deep within his mind to pull out every scrap of knowledge he could remember about contracts and law from his time as a magistrate. From what he could tell, it was binding and could only be broken if the quest was completed or one of the two listed in the contract died in some way, shape, or form. Undiluted loathing bubbled up, filling Astarion with more rage than he had felt in recent years. Angharradh had trapped his child in a contract she didn’t fully understand, and he couldn’t help but remember when his old master, Cazador, had asked him to become one of his spawn. He, too, had omitted many details that, if he had known, Astarion would have never agreed.

“I’ll rip your throat out, witch.” Astarion took a step forward, and Tav stopped him. “What are you doing? We can’t let her do this?”

“We can’t win against her Astarion, not when it’s just the two of us.” Tav felt powerless. “We are unarmed.”

“We can certainly try!” Astarion snarled, leveling Angharradh with a look that could kill. “I’m not just going to lie down and submit.” Astarion snarled. ”I’m not giving up our child.”

“I never said we were going to!” Tav shouted back. “There's only one thing we can do, and I know you’re not going to like it, but if we want to get Apple out of this deal, it is our only option at the moment.”

“I know what you’re going to say, and you’re right. I don’t like it.” Astarion cradled the back of Apple’s head and kissed her on the side of the face.

“Astaria is going either on the quest or with me. The choice is yours.” Angharradh was starting to sound impatient. “Give me your answer.”

“Shut up!” Tav rolled her eyes and spat at her. “You will have your answer in a moment.” Tav took a few steps towards Astarion and closed the distance. “We have to.”

“I read the contract, and it’s binding.” Astarion blew out a breath in frustration.

“We’ll need Gale and at least Shadowheart.” Astarion frowned. “Wyll and Karlach are too old to go on adventures, and bringing Gale is pushing it.”

“He’s at least an archmage, so time works for him a bit differently.” Tav let out a heavy sigh. “So we have no choice.” She looked at him with desperation in her eyes. “Are we doing this?”

“Yes.” Astarion bit his bottom lip. “I guess we are.”

“I look forward to Mielikki's safe return.” Angharradh smiled.

“Fuck off.” Astarion cursed her.

“And with that, I will depart.” Angharradh bowed and then vanished.

They all stood in silence for several moments, processing what just happened. What Apple had just bound herself to? Tav started to think about what their next move would be where they would start with their search for Mielikki. While Astarion thought about all the ways he was going to kill Angharradh for what she had done. Apple just held her face against Astarion, waiting for the punishment she knew would be coming.

“Apple, you won’t be going to school for a while.” Tav broke the silence.

“How long?” Apple’s voice was horse as she spoke.

“Probably not for a few months,” Astarion answered. “And we are going to have a nice long chat about not accepting contracts from gods, goddesses, demons, or devils.”

“I know you were just trying to help, honey, but this is not how we help.” Tav walked over and patted her back. “Next time, maybe just do the dishes or show Mommy some magic.”

“Okay…” Apple pouted as all her tears had dried up.

“We’ll need a few days to gather supplies and ask the others to join us.” Astarion started to make his way back inside.

Tav followed close behind. “Right, let's finish dinner and then head over to Gale’s; we’ll need to tell him right away that Apple won’t be in school for a while anyway.”

“Why don’t you go talk to the old wizard while I finish dinner and talk to this one.” Astarion continued down the stairs.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go?” Tav looked at him with a puzzled look.

“I’m sure.” Astarion seethed. “I’m already in a foul mood, and listening to Gale prattle on is not going to help matters.” He stopped at the bottom of the stairs and placed a kiss on Tav’s lips before continuing. “It will just lead to one dead wizard.”

“I can talk to him tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow is a Monday, and he will be busy with whatever he does regarding running that school.” He cut her off. “Go now and come back as soon as you're done. We'll be here when you get back.”

“As long as you are okay with that.” She gave him a sad smile.

“Can I go with Mom to see Uncle Gale?”

“No.” Tav and Astarion spoke at the same time.

Apple shrank down as small as she could get in Astarion’s arms. This was the first time in her life that she had indeed done something that landed her in trouble, and she had no idea what for. She didn’t understand what she had done wrong, and Tav could see that in her sad eyes. She thought she had done the right thing in accepting the quest because it would help Tav.

“Listen, honey, I know you thought you were doing the right thing, but sometimes doing the right thing and what we think is right are two completely different things.” Tav patted her on the head before waiting for her to respond.

“I don’t get it.”

“Well, you’re six, so that’s understandable.” Tav gave Astarion a kiss before moving past him towards the linen closet. “I’ll be no more than an hour any longer than that, and please come and save me from Gale’s ramblings.”

“Will do, Darling.”

Astarion carried Apple towards the kitchen, stopping to watch as Tav opened the door to Waterdeep, and purple tendrils of the weave enveloped her. Drawing her in and swallowing her into the void.

“Now, my sweet Apple.” Astarion shifted his attention towards Apple. “We are going to have a long chat about all things we do not agree to without a parent present, at least until you are no longer living under my roof.”

Apple swallowed hard as Astarion started his lecture.

Tag list:

@ofmyth-andmagicart @lunaredgrave @littlekidsteve @omnia--mea-mecum-porto porto @ayselluna @myreadingmanga123 @kismet-of-the-divine @nicalysm @justlilpeaches21 @five-salty-bitters @lenarosic88 @caydevakarian @supervrgnsokay-blog @ravenswritingroom @kalypsoox @foxiecelery @wisteriaofthegraves

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eruwaedhiel-in-an-impardis · 5 months

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Just read an interview with Third Person where they were like "yeah so seasons 1 and 2 were made in our off-time so they're not our Best Effort but now we got Critical Role as our sugar daddy we can work on Midst full time and so season 3 is Lit AF" and I'm like

BITCH it's ALREADY like stepping off a glass cliff into the endless abyss and finding yourself walking on a liquid black void upside down WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU GOT EVEN SMUGGER SHENANIGANS AND HORRORS IN YOUR PANTS

#midst #midst podcast #third person

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mfedits · 13 days

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Guilty as sin?

Rafe Cameron x Pogue!Fem!Reader

(reader is not described in detail)

this is a little blurb i wrote in the notes app, enjoy!

warnings - smut, pure smut straight out the gate, hair pulling, thigh squeezing, jealousy and possessiveness.

“What if he’s written ‘mine’ on my upper thigh, only in my mind.”

———————————————

18 + fic! Minors DNI - you will be blocked if you are a minor and interact with this fic.

———————————————————————————

A hand shoots down to thread its fingers through short, dirty blonde locks, her thighs squeezing his head between them. “R-rafe!” She squeals as his fingers squeeze the smooth flesh of her thigh, he looks up at her from in between her legs his lips glossy from her sweet slick.

A smirk plastered on his face as he takes in her wrecked features, she leans back on her elbows so she can meet his eyes. She whimpers as the breath from his nostrils fans across her soaked center as he parts his lips to speak. “I’m not done reminding you who you belong to, little pogue.” He says before diving back in between her thighs, he groans, moans and sighs into her cunt. His tongue tracing his name into her clit over and over until she repeatedly comes apart for him.

Note : this is my first ever fic! please go easy on me 💗

full size fic coming soon!

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midstpodcast · 3 months

Note

What’s the body count of all the major characters? Both versions, sex and murder.

🔮: I feel like that might be spoilers. How about I give you three numbers: one for sex, one for murder, and one just to confuse you, but I don’t say which is which, and they’re in a random order each time. (Disclaimer: This is a joke [unless it’s not?!?] and I’m posting it before the other narrators can stop me)

Lark: 98 | 12 | 6

Weepe: 2,918 | 352 | 27

Phineas: 0 | 16 | 3

#midst #midst podcast #third person #q&a with third person #🔮#lark #moc weepe #phineas thatch

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caffeinewitchcraft · 2 years

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Berthe the Green Witch

Summary: Traditional witches and green witches don't always see eye to eye. With a life on the line, Berthe is very persuasive.

The egg timer in the window over the sink ticks busily. Berthe watches it from the table, her hands wrapped around a mug of fresh basil tea. She made the mug a few months ago with clay she refined from the creek running through the backside of her property and the basil is from her garden.

She sighs into her tea, eyes closing. The wind rattles her kitchen window, the oncoming storm announcing itself by throwing the first dropped leaves of fall against her house. The air is sweet and spiced - apples in her creaking oven covered in sugar and cinnamon.

She’s meant to answer letters today. They’re sitting on the other side of her crème table, the pile teetering. Notes asking for advice, missives from Councils she doesn’t remember joining, well wishes from former coven sisters who’ve gone on to build their own covens far away.

Her eyes open a moment before her besom - made from the twigs of her oldest apple tree - chatters against the wall and flings itself across the foyer.

“Oh,” she sighs, setting her mug aside, “there’s no reason to be so dramatic about it.”

The besom rolls over until it can tuck itself under her shoe bench.

Her doorbell chimes and, with a sigh, Berthe rises. She dislikes company on storm days, though she shouldn’t have expected any different. If Clayman visits her, he visits her on storm days. No exceptions.

Ring ring ring

Berthe falters, looking between the shadow behind her stained-glass door and the egg timer. Clayman hates being kept waiting, but her apples can be very delicate…

“One moment!” Berthe calls over her shoulder. She turns off the timer and bustles over to the oven. “I just need to pull something out of the oven!”

“Seriously?” Clayman’s voice is muffled by the door, but no less incredulous. “Berthe!” He knocks again.

Carefully, Berthe pulls the sheet pan from the oven. Red apples cut thin, laid in a spiral, with spices and sugar dusted over the top. A thin layer of puff pastry shows golden at the edges and she hums in pleasure. She loves when she gets the timing right.

Knock knock. “Berthe!”

She transfers the tart to her cooling rack and, after some consideration, moves her breadbox in front of it. Clayman’s gaze can be rather cold. She wouldn’t want all the warmth and care she’s put into her treat to go to waste.

Clayman is knocking constantly now, and muttering. Her wards don’t react so she knows it’s not a spell, but she frowns anyway. There he goes again. On someone else’s threshold no less!

She wipes her hands on her apron, dusting off flour and cinnamon, and opens the door.

Clayman is a scarecrow. She doesn’t think so because he’s tall and thin, though he’s both. It’s not because of his straw-colored hair, neatly combed away from his face and held in place with rosemary oil. It’s not even because of his coat, a long duster-like affair done in softened leather.

It’s because, as soon as she opens the door, the man is smiling. He is always smiling, his eyes mellow and shoulders loose, no matter his tone of voice. It’s as if the expression is painted on his face, forever fixed. She thinks that he’d cry smiling.

Unsettling.

“Berthe,” Clayman says. He takes off his wide-brimmed hat and holds it to his chest. “May I come in?”

“Be welcome in my home,” Berthe says, stepping aside to let him in. He has to duck a little to avoid the dried rosemary she has hanging over her doorway. A full head shoulder, Berthe doesn’t need to show such consideration. “I have coffee brewing.”

Clayman hangs his hat on the hooks above her shoe bench. He knows she doesn’t drink coffee. Smiling, he asks, “And you still couldn’t come to the door any faster?”

The cuckoo clock upstairs crows in protest. Berthe shrugs. “I suppose not.”

“Hm,” Clayman says and follows her into the kitchen.

He’s able to keep any further needling to himself as Berthe clears him a spot at the table. She sets her daisy coaster down - to lighten his mood - before she places a steaming cup of coffee in front of him. His mug isn’t handmade. SHe got it on sale at the grocery store. It says Bright and Early on one side. On the other it reads Unfortunately.

Clayman drinks so the Unfortunately is pointed at Berthe. “Thank you for the hospitality.”

“My pleasure,” Berthe says. And it is. Under normal circumstances. Despite his prickliness, Clayman is a friend to her even when he denies it. But these are not normal circumstances. “There hasn’t been any improvement?”

“No.” Clayman accepts the sugar Berthe slides to him. He always insists on taking one sip without any sweetness. Then he dumps nearly half of the sugar in the tin into it. “Ms. Rayne is dying.”

Berthe presses a hand over her heart as if to soothe the sting. The Rayne family may not favor her magic, but they have always been kind to her. “I am so sad to hear that, Clayman.”

Clayman smiles, like always. But his aura is distinctly sluggish and tinged a faint blue. Rachel Rayne is his student. “As am I.” He breathes in deeply. “I got permission to have you see her.”

“Oh,” Berthe says. Then, when it sinks in, “Oh.”

The Raynes are a traditional witch family, despite having not produced one in two hundred years. They proudly trace their roots back to 16th century Italy. All of their beliefs and teachings come from grimoires older than their name and alchemical texts that have to be translated by scholars to be read.

Clayman, a traditional witch, is the man they go to for spells. They tolerate Berthe’s practice so long as she keeps her actual workings to her house and her orchard.

“I’ll get my bag,” Berthe says, standing. She feels like her eyes are spinning. She never thought she’d be invited. There are poultices and salves to make, herbs and petals to collect, wands and crystals to choose. She dives for the drawer closest to her and pulls out her favorite wooden spoon. “Do they have pine incense? Should I bring some pine incense?”

“You’re going?” Clayman asks. When she turns, he’s not smiling. His mouth is dropped open in shock. “After what they’ve said about your practice, I expected to have to convince you.”

This is why she doesn’t like traditional witchcraft. So many grudges! So many perceived debts! She’s never called Clayman her friend to his face. She thinks he’d combust.

“Of course I am,” she says waspishly. She dumps her spoon and several jars onto the table in front of him. “Check these to see if they’ll clash with the Rayne estate’s wards, will you? I need to run upstairs.”

Clayman is smiling. “Are you asking me to cast magic in your house? I always knew you were crazy, I didn’t think you were stupid.”

Berthe dashes upstairs without answering him. He may think her stupid for her trust in him, but she knows he’lol follow her orders anyway.

“Ouch!”

Berthe grins. Of course Clayman’s mug didn’t take kindly to his snide words. It has a tendency to heat up something awful whenever Berthe is insulted.

————.

The Rayne Family Estate is massive. Situated on top of the only hill in town, the driveway winds through wild oaks and pines for a good half of a mile before reaching the house. The house looms over the town like a castle, white walls and slate roof and black curtains over the windows.

The woman waiting on the front steps is like the house. Severe and colorless with gray hair pinned securely under a white handkerchief, black blouse tucked into a long, black skirt. Her weathered hands are folded neatly in front of her and her dark eyes track Clayman’s car as he pulls up and parks.

“Hello!” Berthe hops out of the car, waving with one hand. The other is full of the apple tart she’d grabbed at the last minute. “I brought a tart!”

“Berthe,” Clayman says out of the side of his mouth. “Shut up.”

“It’s apple,” Berthe says.

“Berthe Steighart,” Mrs. Rayne says through thin lips. “We’ve been expecting you.”

“Yes,” Berthe says. Mrs. Rayne makes no move to accept the apple tart. Berthe shoves it on Clayman and bustles around to get her bag out of the trunk. “I suppose you’d like to get straight to the point then? Clayman’s already checked my things. Is Ms. Rayne upstairs?”

“There are rules in this house,” Mrs. Rayne says as if Berthe hadn’t spoken. “We believe in the pure magics, those that come from study and self-reflection. There will be no calling on - on beings while within these four walls.”

Berthe throws her bag over her shoulder. It’s an old carpetbag she forgot she had and she sneezes when a plume of dust puffs off of it. It’d been the only bag big enough for her things. “Beings? You mean gods? Or other? I don’t have a patron god currently, so that won’t be a problem!”

“Currently?” Clayman asks.

“Never close off future possibilities,” Berthe says. She weaves past him and squints up at the house. “Is that Ms. Rayne peering out the window up there? Hello, Ms. Rayne!” The young girl with hair as black as a raven’s wing ducks back behind the curtain. Berthe frowns. “She looks very pale.”

She is dying, Clayman said. It looks like he wasn’t exaggerating.

“What I am about to tell you is a Rayne family secret,” Mrs. Rayne says. She turns on her heel and, lifting her skirt slightly, climbs the stairs to the house. “It must never leave the walls of this home without our permission.”

Berthe follows the older woman into the house. It’s as austere as its owner. The foyer is minimalist, a dully patterned carpet running the length of the hall to the grand staircase. There are paintings of ancient witches and confusing landscapes of places that can’t possibly exist on earth.

“I will not intentionally reveal your secrets,” Berthe says. Mrs. Rayne is moving quickly without looking behind her. Berthe huffs and focuses on keeping her heavy bag from dragging along the carpet. She eyes the main staircase with some trepidation, but says nothing. She already gave Clayman the tart. She can’t give him her bag too. “I swear.”

With a sigh, Clayman plucks her bag from her hands. “I vouch for her, Madame.”

Madame? Berthe has to work very hard not to laugh at that. It’s 2022 and he’s calling his employer madame.

“Rachel has magic,” Mrs. Rayne says. She stops in the middle of the stairs to glance at Berthe pointedly. “Significant magic.”

“Oh,” Berthe says. That’s it? She knew that much since Clayman is Rachel’s teacher. Clayman told her so himself - oh. He wasn’t supposed to tell her. Something warms in Berthe’s chest. Maybe Clayman does see her as a friend after all if he’s sharing secrets with her. “Congratulations, Madame.” She shoots Clayman a warm look.

Clayman hisses. When Mrs. Rayne isn’t looking, he darts up the stairs so he can whisper in her ear. “It’s not what you think.”

Berthe grins and winks.

Clayman’s eye twitches. “It’s not—“

“We are very proud of Rachel,” Mrs. Rayne continues. She takes them down the right hall and past several busts of important looking ancestors. “Perhaps we were too zealous with her power. She’s been training since she was young in the ways of witchcraft.”

Berthe sobers. “How young?”

“I first became Rachel’s teacher when she was ten,” Clayman says. His voice is even more mild than usual when he says, “I am her third teacher.”

Ouch. Alchemists probably. Witches like Clayman at least know enough about magical cores to wait until they develop before testing them. Alchemists are always so barbaric about it.

Berthe can’t show her disapproval here. She hums. “She must be very accomplished then.”

“She is,” Mrs. Rayne says. There’s no pride in her voice. It’s a statement of fact. She stops in front of the door at the end of the hall, the one that overlooks the driveway. She looks down her nose at Berthe. “Or was. Two weeks ago, Rachel’s magic began to fail. Her core drained and never recovered. I am told that, when it empties completely, my daughter will die.”

Berthe looks at Clayman.

“I made the diagnosis,” Clayman says, smiling. His aura beats with guilt. “I have tried every healing spell I know, every restoration charm, every ward to catch her magic before it fades. Nothing has worked.”

“Several attempts slowed the progression,” Mrs. Rayne says. To Berthe’s surprise, she sounds like she’s consoling Clayman. She reaches around Berthe to pat him on the arm. “And we are thankful, Clayman. She’s been so happy since you became her teacher.”

Clayman nods stiffly. “I appreciate your words, Madame. And I am grateful you’re allowing me to bring in…unorthodox assistance.”

“Yes,” Mrs. Rayne says, eyeing Berthe’s apron and the flour that still stains it. “Well. Hardly any harm now, I think.”

She opens the door.

The smell of fading hits Berthe full force. Her eyes widen and she steps back into Clayman without meaning to, nearly knocking the apple tart from his hands. The room, like the rest of the house, is bare. A white carpet, black bookshelves, sheer white curtains around the bed and heavy black ones over the window.

The girl sitting in bed - Rachel Rayne - is too weak to sit up on her own. She leans back against a mountain of pillows. She has to be fourteen. Fifteen, maybe. Her gaunt cheeks make her look much, much older.

Rachel stares.

Berthe regains her footing. Blindly, she reaches out to grab Clayman’s forearm, eyes never leaving Rachel’s. “The apple tart.”

“Yes, and I have your bag,” Clayman says.

“Leave the bag,” Berthe says.

“What?”

But Berthe is already slipping past Mrs. Rayne and towards Rachel. “Oh, my dear. How tangled you are!” She keeps her voice as soft as the breeze through the orchard. “You must be having dreadful dreams.”

Rachel’s black eyes widen. She doesn’t protest when Berthe takes one of her thin hands in both of hers. “I am. How did you…?”

“You must tell me all about them,” Berthe says. “Clayman, cut the tart, would you? We can talk and eat.”

“With what?” Clayman asks from behind her. There’s a thud as he sets her bag down.

“There’s a knife in my bag.”

Clayman chokes. “You want me to cut a tart with your athame ?!”

“Traditional witches,” Berthe tells Rachel, rolling her eyes. “Always so formal.”

“You know what’s wrong with my daughter?” Mrs. Rayne demands. She comes up beside Berthe, looming with her hands a knot in front of her. “You can fix her?”

“I can untangle her,” Berthe corrects. She smiles at Rachel and pets the back of her hand. She doesn’t think she imagined Rachel’s flinch when her mother used the word fix. “Now, your dreams. I’m sure you can tell me one while Clayman struggles with a very basic task.”

“It’s a ritual dagger, how am I—“

But his words are interrupted by Rachel.

Rachel’s eyes are glued to Berthe. Her voice is small and shaking and she speaks as if caught in a trance. “I dream I am underground. I am trapped there. I can hear Mom walking on the earth above me. She is calling for me. I try to call back, but there’s dirt in my mouth. I think I’m suffocating but it doesn’t hurt. But the more I try to call out, the colder I get. It’s a cold dream.”

Berthe feels the other two adults go still behind her. They’ve never heard about Rachel’s dreams. Why would they? Traditional witches like Clayman don’t divine in dreams. They have mirrors and flames and pools of water for that. She hums. “That must have been frightening.”

“Sometimes,” Rachel says, “I am in the sky. I think I must be a bird, but I don’t have any wings. I fly above the house and I can see it like a heart. When it beats, the streets in town glow an awful red.”

“Awful?” Berthe asks. She accepts the slice of tart from Clayman. The underside is crispy and still a little warm. She holds the tart to Rachel’s lips. “Try it! It has cinnamon.”

Rachel’s eyes are foggy. She’s still seeing her dreams and, like a doll, she follows Berthe’s command. When the taste of sugar and spice touches her tongue, she blinks. “That’s apple.”

“From my orchard,” Berthe says, chest swelling with pride. “It’s nice, yes? Seven apples from my seventh tree.”

Rachel’s gaze drifts from Berthe to the tart Clayman’s still cutting on her bedside table. She frowns. “There aren’t seven apples in that.”

“It’s the thought that counts,” Berthe says. It’s technically made with three apples, both of which she picked seventh at some point or another. She’s not bothered by technicalities, though she can see why Rachel is. Imagine having Clayman as a teacher! Or, worse, an alchemist. “Now, tell me. Why is the red awful?”

“I don’t know,” Rachel says. She furrows her brow and chews another bite of tart. Warmth is coming back to her face already. “I guess because it’s alive.”

Berthe hums. “Why is being alive awful?”

“Because it’s a town. It’s not supposed to be alive.”

“Why?”

“It—it just shouldn’t be.”

“Why not?”

“Our town is laid out into a magical grid. Workings can’t be made with living things. So it can’t be alive.”

“Why not?”

“Because— because it just can’t!” Rachel cries. “That’s not how magic works. There is no spell that can twist something living and if the town is alive then how is it a magical grid? So it’s awful because it’s not true.”

“But it is true,” Berthe says. She can feel Mrs. Rayne ready to protest so she speaks quickly. “What is life? We do not say that a dead bird is alive, do we? It’s dead.”

Rachel stutters. “Necromancy is taboo—“

“I’m not talking about necromancy,” Berthe says. She squeezes Rachel’s hand. “Every living thing has a body. When it is no long living, it is a body. So what is the living part of it?”

“The soul, but that’s—“

“There is an inert part of all of us,” Berthe says. “We do not know it because we are alive. We claim our bodies and our souls so completely that they become one. The town, however, is not alive in the same way. It has a soul but does not claim its body the way we do. It can’t. It exists simultaneously as a soul and also inert. So why can’t there be magic on its body? It is alive and it has working on it at the same time. Why can’t both be true?”

The silence in the room is loud. Berthe takes the opportunity to eat some of her slice of tart. She got the amount of clove just right.

“What does this have to do with my daughter being sick?” Mrs. Rayne is the first to break the silence. “Dreams and life and bodies— what does this nonsense mean to Rachel?”

“It’s not nonsense,” Berthe says. She sighs and sits back on her heels, not relinquishing her hold on Rachel’s hand. The girl’s skin is only just starting to feel warmer. “It’s magic. A different sort of magic to Clayman. Or, rather, the same but through another perspective.”

“Please,” Clayman says when Mrs. Rayne goes to protest again. “Madame, I understand your opinions on Berthe’s practice. I even share some of them. But she is a witch that I respect regardless and I would like to give her the chance to explain.”

He respects me?, Berthe thinks. But it makes sense in a way. He wouldn’t have come to her if he didn’t.

Mrs. Rayne thinks for a long moment, staring at her daughter. Her lips thin and her dark eyes flash as color comes back to Rachel’s cheeks. Finally she says, “Then explain.”

“Rachel,” Berthe says, “is a green witch.”

“No,” Clayman says immediately, before Mrs. Rayne can do more than scowl. He stands abruptly, his hands fisting at her sides. “No, her core is structured traditionally. I checked when I first came on as her teacher—“

“She was trained by alchemists,” Berthe says simply. Mildly. She smiles at Rachel. “They’re a little rigid, aren’t they?”

Rigid is an understatement. Berthe can imagine the torment Rachel went through, trying to force her young magic to conform to archaic arrays and clumsy runes. Her growing power has been stifled and gnarled by the crucible her studies forced it into.

Berthe herself has never been fond of traditional spellwork. She finds the ritual chants and offerings uncomfortable with the way they bend her magic. And Rachel’s been going through that before her core even fully developed.

No longer, Berthe thinks.

Rachel’s lip trembles. She darts a glance at her mom and then back to where Berthe’s hands are wrapped around hers. “Yes,” she whispers. “I—“

“There’s no such thing as green witchcraft,” Mrs. Rayne snaps. She looks like she wants to tear Berthe away from her daughter but, after a moment of hovering, paces away instead. She stalks from one side of the room to the other. “See, Clayman? This is why I didn’t want to call in this— this charlatan. Our family follows the sacred texts for a reason and I don’t want—“

“Charlatan,” Berthe repeats. She lets Rachel’s hand slide from hers so she can stand and face Mrs. Rayne. Berthe is patient. Berthe is not that patient. “Who are you to call me charlatan? It must be easy considering you have no power of your own to sense me with.”

Mrs. Rayne turns red with rage. “You insolent, horrible charlatan—“

Clayman slides between her and Mrs. Rayne, one hand up and warding. “Berthe, you can’t hold her to her words. Traditional witchcraft is rigid in nature. She means no harm—“

Berthe barks a humorless laugh. “No harm? Her daughter is dying from the strength of her beliefs! Why, no one would blame me if I were to spirit her away here and now.”

“Dying?” Rachel asks.

Berthe sucks in a breath, backing away so she can see everyone in the room. Rachel is already fading without Berthe’s magic, sinking back into her pillows. Mrs. Rayne’s lips are pressed into a thin line and Clayman’s smile looks robotic. “You didn’t tell her?” Berthe asks. She looks at the other witch in the room, the one who knows what a crime it is to withhold such information. “Clayman.”

“I didn’t think it was her core,” Clayman defends. He rubs a hand over his straw-colored hair. “I would have if I’d known. I thought it was a curse. Maybe a sickness I didn’t know of.”

He means he thought it was something irrecoverable. He thought it kinder to leave Rachel in the dark as her magic drained, her soul emptied, her body withered.

Traditional witches, Berthe thinks with carefully disguised disgust. Always seem to need an essay to know what’s in front of their face.

“You’re not going to die,” Berthe tells Rachel. She dusts her hands against her apron reflexively, the way she does when she’s finished kneading bread. She lifts her chin, daring Mrs. Rayne to contradict her. “You’re coming into your magic. All we need to do is untangle you before the new moon and you’ll be right as rain by the next full.”

“The new moon is tonight,” Rachel says.

Berthe blinks and then grins. “Oh! And there’s a storm tonight, how perfectly lovely. We can go to my orchard, it’s far enough from the city that the light pollution--”

“No!” Mrs. Rayne thrusts herself between Berthe and Rachel, holding out her hands as if about to throw a spell at Berthe. Her black eyes burn. “No, there will be no going anywhere! My daughter is sick. She needs rest not to go gallivanting about your orchard chanting made up spells and- and eating grass!”

“With all due respect,” Berthe says, “that’s exactly what’s going to happen.” She pauses. “Except for the eating grass part. Where on earth do you traditional witches get things like that?”

“Berthe,” Clayman says. He’s hovering beside Mrs. Rayne now, eyes nervously flicking from Berthe to Rachel and back. As always, he’s smiling. It is particularly ill fitting now. “You were invited here to help. Maybe if you explained a little more, we could come to an agreement on Rachel’s treatment.”

“No,” Mrs. Rayne says. “Clayman, that’s enough--”

“Madame,” Clayman says. His eyes don’t leave Berthe but he addresses Mrs. Rayne. “I beg you for a bit more of your understanding.”

Mrs. Rayne must trust Clayman an awful lot. She settles back on her heels with a huff, arms crossed tightly over her chest. “Very well.”

Berthe studies Clayman. There’s a faint sheen of sweat on his upper lip. He’s saying the right things for Mrs. Rayne. He doesn’t want her to panic and do something silly like attack Berthe. But he knows that there aren’t any other options. Rachel is a green witch.

They both know who has jurisdiction here.

Berthe sighs and props her chin in her hand. She cocks her head to one side and clicks her tongue. “What part of my explanation did you not understand, Mrs. Rayne? Perhaps it would be better to start there.”

Clayman covers his eyes with his hands. “Berthe…”

“The part where my daughter is anything but a Rayne,” Mrs. Rayne says. She gestures to Rachel. “She is a pureblooded Rayne! Her powers manifested in the traditional manner.”

“Which is?”

“Telekinesis,” Mrs. Rayne says proudly. “She was two and lifted one of her toys into her crib.”

Of course the woman thinks the most common way to manifest is traditional. “That may be so,” Berthe says, “but the power of a child is pure. It doesn’t have a preference or a shape. That comes later or, in Rachel’s case, now. She is a Rayne, but her magic is green.”

“Green witchcraft isn’t--”

“Your daughter dreams,” Berthe interrupts, losing patience. Truthfully, she isn’t as kind as Clayman. She doesn’t understand why she needs to explain herself to a human. “She dreams she is in the soil, like a seed. Well, it’s time to sprout. She must sprout before the winter chill freezes the ground and she suffocates.”

Clayman’s smile is pinned in place. “Berthe--”

“Mrs. Rayne,” Berthe says, propping her fists on her hips. She glares at the older woman. “The matter is very simple. Your daughter is dying because of the teachings you enforced on her. That’s fine. You’re magicless and you thought you were making the right choice.”

“I may be magicless but my family’s power runs through--”

“BUT.” Berthe stomps her foot and Mrs. Rayne’s mouth slams shut. The older woman doesn’t have time to panic at the silencing spell before Berthe is continuing. “But, it’s not too late to undo what has been done. I will help your daughter untangle herself. It must be today. It must be tonight. Once we do, she will recover her strength and her magic will bloom fuller and deeper than it was before.”

Mrs. Rayne rubs at her throat frantically.

Clayman mutters under his breath, pulling and swishing his oak wand in one motion. With the sound of a bell, he breaks Berthe’s spell. He is not smiling now. “Berthe. I must ask you not to lay workings on my employer.”

Mrs. Rayne is shaking with rage. “You--you dare? I am Elizabeth Rayne, matriarch of the Rayne Family and Coven--”

“And I am Berthe Steighart,” Berthe snaps. “Arbitrator of the Light Council, mediator of the Dark and North American Representative of the Green Witches.” She glares at Clayman from her peripherals. “I do not need permission to silence a human, Clayman.”

Mrs. Rayne squawks. “Human--”

“Berthe,” Clayman says, “I invited you here. She is under my protection.”

Berthe breathes out through her nose. Clayman is brandishing his wand like he’ll actually fight her. What he’s saying makes sense though. Along with being rigid, traditional witches tend to be awfully noble. “She may be under your protection, Clayman, but her daughter is now under mine. I won’t allow a green witch to wilt in front of me.”

“I know,” Clayman says. He lowers his wand and rubs a hand over his face. “I know. No one is trying to stop you, Berthe. I am asking you to have sympathy. The Raynes are an established and well-respected family. Their magic has been dormant for so long that no one would’ve been able to anticipate it would resurface, much less as a green witch. Can you understand Mrs. Rayne’s denial? Admitting Rachel is a green witch is like admitting the Rayne Family’s traditional magic is dead.”

“Nobody,” Berthe says, throwing her hands into the air, “nobody is saying that Rachel can’t practice traditional magic anymore!”

“What?” Clayman asks.

Mrs. Rayne gapes. “Yes, you are! You’re saying my daughter is like you--”

“Her core is, yes,” Berthe says. She pinches the bridge of her nose. Her head is beginning to throb. “The death of a family’s magic, Clayman? Really?”

“Well,” Clayman says. He shifts his weight from foot to foot. “...isn’t it?”

Berthe wants to scream. Sometimes she forgets that Clayman, for all his power, is so young. Berthe was born onto her path. Clayman’s only been practicing for a decade. “Very, very few grimoires are specific to a certain magical core. The Rayne family’s grimoire is advanced, yes, but it’s broad. It’s not that the Rayne family has never had a green witch before. It’s that they’ve never had a witch with a strong enough affinity for it to matter.”

“Ah,” Clayman says. He clears his throat. “I may have misunderstood something.”

Berthe forces herself to calm down. “You’re a very powerful witch, Clayman. Your core is traditional, but that’s unusual. Traditional is usually a practice, not a state of being. Most witches tend towards green, light, dark, or deity magicks. I understand how you made a mistake when evaluating Rachel’s core - she had an unusual upbringing - but now you have the correct information. It’s time to help Rachel now.”

Clayman rubs the back of his neck. His smile creeps across his face. “You think I’m powerful?”

Berthe swats at him.

“Ms. Steighart?”

Berthe turns to Rachel. Oh dear, she nearly forgot the young lady was there. “Yes?”

Rachel grimaces as she adjusts herself against her pillows. “This untangling…will it cure me?”

“Yes.”

“And I’ll be able to use my family’s grimoire after?”

Berthe pouts. “If you want to. But you have such a lovely green soul. I think you should--”

Rachel is already shaking her head. “I am a Rayne. I want to use my ancestor’s spells.”

Mrs. Rayne presses a hand to her chest. “Rachel.”

“Mom,” Rachel says. She reaches out a hand and sighs when her mother grabs hold. “I know it’s against what you believe. What I believe. But if it can help me, I want to do it.” She tries for a smile and ends up with another grimace. “If I’m going to rebuild our family’s coven, I need to be alive to do it.”

Berthe sucks her teeth. “Oh, that’s a good argument. I should have led with that.”

“Plant for brains,” Clayman mutters out of the side of his mouth.

Berthe slaps his shoulder.

--------------------.

Thunder rolls through the sky. There isn’t any rain - yet. Berthe stands between two of her oldest trees and tips back her head. She smells power in the air, lightning and rain and magic. She grins up into the night.

New moon.

“Ms. Steighart?”

Berthe turns. Rachel wrings her hands together, eyes darting nervously from the shivering treetops to the stormclouds to Berthe. Behind her, Berthe’s house is well lit. There are two figures in the kitchen window peering anxiously out to them.

Rachel is dressed in a simple, linen gown. Her long, black hair is loose down her back and, in the dark, the stress of the past few weeks fades away. She looks young (as she should) and alive (as she should). Magic sparks in her aura as the thunder rumbles around them.

“The ground,” Rachel says. She looks down at her bare feet and wiggles her toes in the soil. There’s awe in her eyes when she looks back at Berthe. “The ground is breathing.”

Berthe grins. There is nothing better than a new witch learning to see. She holds out her hand. “Come on, Rachel. It’s starting.”

Lightning cracks the sky and Rachel takes Berthe’s hand.

-----

Thanks for reading! It’s Halloween season which means there will be witches and horror on this blog for the foreseeable future!

Next week’s short story: Marigold Fletcher is a good witch. However, when her dark past comes knocking, her reputation is on the line.

You can read the story now on my Patreon (X) where I post all of my stories a week early!

Also thank you everyone who bought my anthology, Being Heroes, Being Villains (X) and to those who reviewed it! I’ll be making a post this weekend about the reviews which have been so kind :) Thank you!

#my writing #short story #third person #witches #my witchcraft #writeblr #long post

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one-time-i-dreamt · 1 year

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I got chased around a house by a horde of Minecraft zombies but it was in third person and the "camera perspective" per se was like that apocalypse shot of the camera thrown on the ground.

#dream #minecraft #zombies #zombies tw #zombie #game #gaming #house #third person #apocalypse #apocalypse tw #camera #horror #nightmare

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gameofthunder66 · 6 months

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'Third Person' (2013) film

-watched 11/26/2023- 1 [1/2] stars- on Blu-ray DVD

This film didn't make any sense! I was interested in the characters to begin with, but it turned out their lives were crazy and the ending was stupid and confusing to me!!

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eyebawll · 9 months

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𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐈𝐍-𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐍 [𝐒𝐔𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐀𝐋 𝐗 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑] [𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝟏]

First Supernatural fic! A little short (in my standards), may conjure up another part if it goes well. This takes place just shortly after Sam gets his soul back and he's still coping.

SUMMARY: Y/N is a well renowned hunter who keeps to herself. After losing her sister (among many other family members) during a hunt to a devastating monster, she locks herself in for good with nothing but rage pumping through her veins.

It's rumored she holds a weapon that, besides the colt, can kill anything. It's become a big deal in the past, many hunters trying to take it for themselves, only to be cursed, injured or even dead in the process. That was until it was revealed who had given it to Y/N.

What will happen when she runs into the Winchester brothers during a hunt for the very thing that has destroyed her family?

Written in third person, female!reader

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ, ɢᴇɴᴇʀᴀʟ ᴅᴀʀᴋ ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ

Very novel-esque writing. i'm sorry. i got carried away

ʷᵒʳᵈ ᶜᵒᵘⁿᵗ: 4,390

𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄

The forest lay draped in an eternal shroud of darkness, the silvery glow of the moon casting faint, ghostly beams that struggled to penetrate the dense web of ancient trees. The atmosphere was thick with an otherworldly chill, the air heavy with the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves. Tall, gnarled trunks rose like skeletal sentinels, their twisted branches clawing at the heavens in silent supplication.

Eerie whispers, like faint echoes from another realm, seemed to drift on the breeze. Soft susurrations carried the promise of secrets, secrets that the forest had guarded for centuries. These spectral utterances mingled with the rustle of leaves and the faint creaking of branches, creating a symphony of sound that was both mesmerizing and unsettling.

Amid this haunting tapestry of shadows and whispers, a lone figure moved with a desperate urgency. A slim young woman, her breath coming in quick, shallow gasps as her heart pounded in sync with the frantic rhythm of her footsteps. The ground beneath her seemed to tremble with her every stride, her bare feet sore from each scratch and scrape from twigs, rocks and leaves underneath, each footfall a desperate plea for escape.

The forest's inhabitants—creatures of the night and unseen beings—watched from their hidden sanctuaries, their eyes glinting with a luminescence. Yet, none could compare to the ominous presence that stalked the innocent woman.

In the ethereal twilight, illusions took shape like phantoms conjured from the darkest recesses of the mind. The voices of fellow hunters, once allies and friends, one even her own older sister, twisted and distorted into a chorus of accusation and betrayal. Their spectral forms advanced with a relentless determination, a parade of torment born from her own insecurities.

"Disgusting!"

"You're not strong enough! You don't belong with us!"

"You never did!"

"YOU ONLY HOLD US BACK!"

Countless insults and howls, hurls of venom and anger were thrown at the woman. As she sprinted through the labyrinthine woods, the cacophony of voices swirled around her like a tempest. The shadows themselves seemed to coil and writhe, mirroring her inner turmoil. But amidst the maelstrom of chaos, one face emerged from the torment—Y/N.

Y/N's expression was a mosaic of sorrow and anger, anger for all of this to be happening, anger for her sister as this creature manipulates her. Her eyes twin beacons of hope in the encroaching darkness. "Emily, Emily!" The voice behind her cried, far different from the others, "It's not real! Fight it!"

Emily turned around to face the direction of her sister's yells, her body jerking slightly with her movement as she catches a glimpse of Y/N, running with her arm reaching out to her. Quickly, she turned back, hopping over a large boulder she would have tripped over. Panic pumped through her veins, and her heart felt as if it was going to burst out of her chest.

Amid the twisted labyrinth of trees, Y/N's heart pounded in her chest as she closed in on her sister. Her footsteps were swift and quick as if she drifted through the air, each one a prayer to reach Emily in time, to pull her back from the precipice of the consuming darkness. Emily's breath came in ragged gasps, her panicked sobs echoing like haunting melodies of a woman in white through the shadows drenching the forest.

"Emily! Emily, it's me!" Y/N yelled once more, a lifeline of vague comfort in the midst of it all. Her arms stretched out, fingers yearning to grasp onto the fleeting fabrics of the younger woman's clothing. Emily's movements were wild and uncontrolled, her form swaying as if caught in a cruel dance with harsh winds.

Their eyes locked, and Y/N's heart shattered at the sight of the expression on the face of her other half. "Emily, please, look at me. You're not alone. I'm right here." Her voice trembled with a potent blend of fear and nausea, a plea for Emily to recognize how real she is and how fake everything else is.

Emily's cries were a symphony of agony, tears streaking her dirt-stained cheeks. "Y/N, make it stop! Make it stop, please!" Her voice cracked. She reached out with trembling hands, fingers brushing Y/N's arm as if seeking refuge from the torment that consumed her.

Y/N's heart bled as she closed the final distance, her arms enfolding Emily in an embrace. She could feel the violent tremors that wracked her sister's body, the very essence of her being gripped by a bitter chill. "I'm here, Emily. I won't let it take you," Y/N whispered fiercely, her lips brushing against Emily's sweat-dampened forehead.

Yet, even as Y/N held onto her sister, a sinister current coursed through the air. The shadows seemed to thicken, a malevolent presence looming ever closer. Emily's cries escalated into agonized screams, her body convulsing with the force of the darkness that sought to claim her. Y/N's heart raced, every fiber of her being consumed by a profound and paralyzing fear.

As Emily's eyes met Y/N's, a chilling realization dawned – the vibrant blue that had once sparkled with life was fading, eclipsed by an encroaching grayness that spread like tendrils of frost. Y/N's grip tightened, her own voice trembling with a mix of desperation and sorrow. "Emily, fight it! Hold on!"

Emily's voice wavered, words barely audible through the guttural moans that tore from her lips. "It's so cold, Y/N. Everything's so cold...so dark. Make it stop, please..." Her voice trailed off into a pained whimper, the shadows swallowing her words and leaving only the haunting echo of her suffering.

Y/N's fingers brushed against Emily's clammy skin, the chill of the shadows seeping into her very soul. With every ounce of strength she possessed, Y/N fought against the consuming void, her voice a soothing murmur. "I won't let it take you, dammit!" Anger boiled inside, "Get the hell off of her!"

Just as the darkness threatened to claim Emily completely, a distant rustling broke through the sound of struggle. Y/N's heart leaped as figures emerged from the shadows—the real, other hunters, their expressions etched with concern. They had followed Y/N's trail of yells and cries, arriving in the nick of time.

Y/N's voice trembled, a mild wave of relief as she sees the others. "Help her! We need to help her!" The hunters rushed forward, their hands reaching out to lend their strength. Together, they formed a shield against the darkness, a defiant stance against the malevolent force that sought to tear Emily from their grasp.

Emily's cries and convulsions intensified, her body wracked by spasms as the battle raged within her. Her hair was etched in a misty black, while her clothing was oozing with the same. Y/N's heart ached as she held onto her sister, her voice a fervent plea as she looked to the heavens. "Please, don't let her go! Not like this!" She sobbed. She held Emily tight, rocking her back and forth. She had lost so much, most of her family was already dead or turned. She'd barely consider other hunters as anything more than allies. She was terrified of becoming too attached.

And this is exactly why.

Silence. No movement, no cries, she didn't even breathe. Emily's petite figure went cold and limp in her big sister's arms, a shriek tearing through the cold air.

"EMILY!"

The veil of unconsciousness lifted, tearing Y/N from the depths of sleep into a realm of disorienting wakefulness. In an instant, her senses snapped to attention, an electric surge of panic and anxiety coursing through her veins. With a sudden jolt, she sat up, her chest heaving as if she had finished running a marathon. The room around her was shrouded in sunlight pooling in through the old vintage curtains.

A strangled cry forced itself through her lips, a raw and primal sound that echoed through the empty walls. It was a cry born of a terror she couldn't quite grasp. Her fingers trembled as she gripped the blankets below her hands, huffing.

Heartbeats drummed in her ears, a relentless rhythm that matched the frantic pace of her thoughts. The sweat-soaked tendrils of her hair clung to her forehead. She drew in ragged breaths, each inhalation a desperate attempt to bridge the gap between the dream and the waking world.

Tears blurred her vision, the remnants of her subconscious torment mingling with the harsh reality of her surroundings. It took precious moments for the room to come into focus, the familiar contours of furniture and shadows coalescing into a semblance of order. Yet, even as the nightmare's grip loosened, a residual ache settled deep within her chest.

"Emily..." The word escaped her lips in a choked whisper, a tremor of grief lacing her voice. The name hung heavy in the air, a fragile thread connecting the terror of her dreams to the ache of her waking heart. She clung to the sheets as if they were a lifeline, her fingers curling into fists against the overwhelming flood of emotions.

With a final sigh, Y/N hunched over with her head down. Her eyes shut, a tear falling into her lap, the drop being absorbed by the thick comforter snug tight over her legs.

Mornings were never easy for Y/N. Each new day dawned as a reminder of the relentless challenges she faced, a testament to her resilience in the face of an unforgiving life. Even on her days off, a lingering unease nestled itself within the corners of her mind, stuck unto the wonders of impending danger. The cocoon of security she had woven around herself provided a shield, but it could never quite dispel the remaining possibility of danger.

She went about her normal daily routine. Eat, bathe, study—it was a day-today cycle she'd repeat without fail. The steady rhythm of these activities became her anchor, a lifeline that kept her tethered to a semblance of normalcy she lacked during her teen hood.

The simple act of nourishing herself felt like a small victory. The warm water during her shower offered a brief reprieve, a blanket of warmth throughout her entire figure. It was possibly the only place she could ever truly let her guard down—ignoring the many knives and handguns tucked away in every corner and crevice. And when she immersed herself in her studies of the unknown, her mind was at ease, eager to learn more like an intelligent child at their elite school.

She'd decided to take a bath that morning. The sound of the faucet turning on was a familiar symphony, the rushing of water a comforting melody that eased her eardrums. The room soon filled with the gentle hiss and gurgle of water as it flowed, a lullaby of sorts to her senses.

As steam gradually wafted through the air, tendrils of warmth caressed her skin. With each passing second, the room transformed into a retreat, the steam swirling like ethereal wisps that danced in the air. She undressed with a easeful grace, each garment slipping off her body and pooling onto the floor in a crumpled heap. The clothing, once a shield against the world's harshness, now lay forgotten as Y/N stepped out of its confines. The act of disrobing was more than a physical shedding; it was a ritualistic release, a shedding of layers that went beyond mere fabric. Each piece of clothing fell away, like a separate piece of heavy armor.

With a swift step, Y/N stepped into the tub. The warm water greeted her like an old friend, pooling around her calves. A sigh escaped her lips as she settled into the depths, the water rising to envelop her in its comforting embrace. Her mind was clouded with bliss, the weight of the stress not yet touching her core.

The water cocooned her body, its warmth seeping into her very bones as she closed her eyes. With each breath, she felt herself surrendering to the serenity of the moment, the rhythmic ebb and flow of her surroundings lulling her into a state of an addictive detachment.

The world beyond the bathroom door seemed distant, the sounds of the day muffled by the sanctuary she had created.

With ease, her fingers trailed along her arms, the soft glide of her touch a soothing ritual that whispered of self-care. The steam-kissed air enveloped her, carrying with it the subtle scent of her favorite from the bath salts that had dissolved into the water. As she reclined against the porcelain expanse, her muscles gradually surrendered their tension, each fiber yielding to the tender persuasion of the tranquil waters.

Slowly, Y/N's legs found themselves lifting, her knees bending as she settled into the contours of the tub. Her feet, once grounded on the porcelain floor, now found their resting place on the opposite end. The gentle swish of water accompanied her movements, a loving chorus that serenaded her senses.

Closing her eyes once more, Y/N let her head rest against the cool edge of the tub, a small sigh escaping her lips. Her mind now ebbed and flowed like the gentle ripples that lapped against her skin. The warmth enveloped her limbs, cradling each contour similar to her mother cradling her very essence in her tender hold from when she was a young child.

Her fingers dipped below the surface, the gentle tug of water playing a delicate dance with her touch. She traced the outlines of her own hands, the pathways of her palms etching stories of resilience and strength from each hunt, each death and heartbreak. The subtle currents tugged at her fingers, a gentle reminder that life was ever-present, a force that moved in rhythm with her own heartbeat.

Minutes slipped through her grasp like grains of sand, a fluid passage of time that seemed to stretch and contract with each breath. Y/N allowed herself to linger in the embrace of the bath, the world beyond the bathroom door fading into the periphery as the symphony of her senses took center stage.

As the soft glow of midday sunlight danced through the window, casting a warm embrace upon the room, Y/N's attention gravitated towards the sprawling tome that lay open before her. However, the once discerning gaze of the seasoned hunter seemed to drift, lost in the labyrinth of printed words that now merged into an abstract mosaic, their essence slipping through the sieve of her distracted thoughts. Within the confines of her mind, conflicting currents clashed - the steadfast determination that usually defined her, and an unsettling undercurrent of restless uncertainty.

Amidst the encroaching mental haze, a sharp ring pierced the air, jolting Y/N from her reverie. Swift and purposeful, she retrieved the phone and pressed it to her ear, her voice shaking from the startling event. "Hello?"

The voice on the other end carried an air of authority, a trusted hunter's tone that brooked no pleasantries. "Y/N," the voice began, a solemn cadence that bore the weight of urgency. "Got a case for you."

Y/N's eyes remained fixed on the open book, her fingers tracing absent patterns on the pages, a rhythmic dance of distraction. "Mirian," she acknowledged, a blend of reverence and intrigue imbued in her tone. The name held weight, signifying that when the hunter spoke, it was time to heed.

"There've been incidents," the hunter continued, unfolding a tale of unsettling attacks that painted a somber tableau. "Looks like the Chimera's up to its old tricks again."

A shiver coursed through Y/N's spine, a subtle reaction that betrayed the gravity of the name. Memories of past encounters surged forth like specters, a haunting tapestry of battles fought and won against this formidable adversary. Especially Emily's death. Mirian’s words wove a narrative of danger and enigma, a reminder of the stakes at play.

Her responses remained poised, a veneer of calm that masked the storm beneath. "I understand," she murmured, her gaze breaking free from the book to meet the world outside the window. "And where did everything taken place?"

Location after location was recited by the older hunter, each name etching a somber mark on the canvas of Y/N's consciousness. She absorbed the information with a hunter's precision, each detail a clue to decipher, a thread to weave into a strategy. As the conversation progressed, an immediate plan unfurled in her mind, a mosaic of tactics and resolve that began to map out her forthcoming endeavors.

"Understood," Y/N finally affirmed, her voice a testament to her unwavering commitment to the task ahead. "I'll take it from here."

The unknown hunter's approval resonated through the line, a nod of satisfaction that lingered in the air. "Good. Other hunters are staying away from this one. Leaving it to you. Be vigilant, Y/N. Take it down for good."

The call ended, leaving Y/N alone with her ruminations once more. Her gaze returned to the open book, yet now, the printed words seemed to regain their clarity, each letter a beacon guiding her purpose. With a heavy sigh, Y/N shut the book, standing herself tall. Her gaze settled on the ancient leather-bound tome, its pages brimming with secrets of old, a knowledge bank she had accumulated over the years. With a decisive nod, she turned away, her steps carrying her towards the intricately carved wooden desk where her arsenal awaited.

Quickly, Y/N began to gather her essentials. She retrieved a leather-bound notebook, its pages filled with meticulous notes and diagrams of past encounters. A sense of reverence accompanied each turn of the pages, a reminder of the blood swear and tears put into every hunt. Beside it lay an assortment of vials, each containing concoctions brewed from rare ingredients, tailored to counteract the unique attributes of queer entities.

Her attention shifted to the polished surface of the desk, where an array of weapons gleamed in the subdued light. Her fingers brushed against the hilt of a knife, its blade etched with protective runes to enhance its efficacy. A revolver lay nearby, silver bullets meticulously loaded.

Yet, the centerpiece of her arsenal rested against the desk's corner—a sickle of exquisite craftsmanship. The black handle was adorned with intricate patterns and symbols, a labyrinth of gold engravings that seemed to dance in the faint light. The handle fit perfectly in her hand, a natural extension of her unequaled wrath. The blade itself gleamed wickedly, a crescent moon of lethal sharpness. Its edge bore the scars of countless battles, slick and sharp—a gift from Death himself.

As Y/N lifted the sickle, a surge of familiarity coursed through her veins. This weapon was an extension of her identity, a manifestation of the strength and purpose that had driven her. Its weight was comforting, grounding her in the face of vengeful intent.

With her arsenal gathered, Y/N slung the duffel over her shoulder and made her way to the doorway. As her fingers brushed against the cool metal of the doorknob, her gaze flickered to a small weapon hanging by the frame. It was a talismanic blade, a last resort concealed within easy reach. The hilt bore sigils of protection, a final safeguard against unexpected threats.

The weight of the sickle at her side was a reminder of her internal hatred, a beacon of hope to finally destroy this Chimera once and for all. Y/N stepped out, shutting the door behind her.

Bobby's house exuded a sense of warmth and home, its well-worn interior serving as a refuge for the trio of hunters seeking respite from the world outside. The worn leather armchairs bore the marks of countless conversations and the shelves lining the walls were crammed with dusty books, relics of knowledge accumulated over decades of hunting. The air was tinged with the aroma of brewing coffee, a constant companion in the dimly lit haven.

Bobby sat hunched over his desk, his calloused fingers deftly dialing a number on his phone. The room seemed to hold its breath as the line connected, and he brought the receiver to his ear. His gruff voice echoed through the room as he spoke, his words carrying the weight of urgency.

"Hey there, it's Bobby Singer. Listen, I've been hearin' about some strange happenings over in Pinehaven. Yeah, it's that little town off County Road 9. There've been a series of deaths – odd ones. People droppin' dead with no explanation, like they just gave up the ghost." Bobby's brows furrowed as he listened to the voice on the other end, his expression growing increasingly grim.

Sam and Dean Winchester exchanged wary glances, their senses heightened by the heavy atmosphere that had settled over the room. They leaned in, their attention fully captivated by Bobby's conversation.

"You don't say... Well, that sounds like a real mess. Yeah, it's been goin' on for a few weeks now. The victims – they're different ages, different backgrounds. Ain't nothin' connectin' 'em on the surface. And here's the kicker – their bodies are all found with these... bizarre markings carved into 'em. Like some sort of symbol."

Bobby's eyes flickered with a mix of frustration and intrigue as he listened to the voice on the other end. "Yeah, I know it sounds like some pagan ritual, but that's where it gets even weirder. There's nothin' in any lore I've come across that matches these symbols. It's like some new kind of nasty is in town."

Sam leaned forward, his brow furrowing in contemplation. "So, what's our next move, Bobby?"

Bobby glanced at Sam and Dean before turning his attention back to the call, hanging up. "Look, I've tried gettin' some hunters interested in checkin' it out, but they're all keepin' their distance. Say it's too risky. Hell, even Garth – and you know he's usually up for a wild goose chase – turned it down."

Dean chuckled under his breath. "Well, Garth's got a point. But if it's got you scratching your head, Bobby, it's definitely worth a look."

Bobby nodded in agreement, a determined glint in his eyes. "Damn right, it is. I've got a bad feelin' about this one. We'll head over to Pinehaven, check out the crime scenes, see if we can find any leads."

Sam and Dean exchanged a nod. "You think it could be witches?" Sam asks.

Bobby scratched his scruffy beard in thought, his expression contemplative. "Could be, given the nature of the attacks and the symbols that've been showin' up around town. But we won't jump to conclusions just yet. Gotta gather more information before we start pointin' fingers."

Dean's lips curled into a half-smile, "Well, you know us, Bobby. We're always up for a good ol' witch hunt."

Bobby chuckled, a gruff sound that held a warm combination of amusement and fondness. "Just make sure you don't stir up trouble before you've got solid evidence. Last thing we need is a town full of pitchfork-wielding locals."

Sam nodded in agreement. "We'll be careful, Bobby. Promise."

With a satisfied nod, Bobby clasped his hands together. "Good. Now, gather your gear and hit the road. I'll keep diggin' on my end, see if I can find any lore or references that might give us a clue."

Dean couldn't help but interject with a mischievous grin. "Hey, Bobby, remember that time in Oklahoma when you tried to use a hex bag and ended up with green hair?"

Bobby's eyes narrowed as he shot a pointed glare at Dean. "Oh, don't you start with that again, boy. You two idjits were laughin' your heads off, like a couple of hyenas."

Sam smirked, unable to suppress a chuckle. "Come on, Bobby, you gotta admit, you rocked that look."

Bobby let out an exasperated sigh, shaking his head. "Just make sure you boys pack some extra salt. We're dealin' with somethin' that's givin' hunters the heebie-jeebies."

With a shared glance, the two stood, their resolve strengthened. As they gathered their gear and headed for the door, Bobby's voice carried after them, a stern warning. "And no more hex bags, you hear me?"

The echoes of their laughter lingered in the air as they shut the door. As Sam and Dean made their way toward the sleek black Impala, the gravel crunching under their boots, Sam couldn't help but break the silence.

"You really think this case is the real deal? Witches? Haven't seen any Pagan witches lately."

Dean slid his hands into his jacket pockets, casting a sidelong glance at his brother. "Bobby seems to think so. And you know how he is with research."

Sam nodded thoughtfully, his brow furrowing. "Yeah, you're right."

Dean's expression turned more serious as he locked eyes with his brother. "Just gotta stay sharp, Sammy. If this thing's as nasty as Bobby says, we need to be on our A-game."

Sam's gaze held a mixture of determination and concern. "I know, Dean. But something just doesn't feel right. If a bunch of hunters won't go near that thing, it can't be a witch. They woulda already tackled it by now."

Dean's jaw tightened, his gaze distant for a moment before he met Sam's eyes again. "Yeah, I noticed that too. It's like everyone's walking on eggshells. We'll keep digging. But first, let's focus on finding out what's behind all these deaths and disappearances."

As they slid into the Impala's front seats, the engine roared to life with a familiar rumble. The brothers shared a determined glance before Dean put the car in gear.

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chlerc · 1 year

Text

position rose ; charles leclerc

— summary; in which Charles shows up to his apartment with a bouquet of flowers in hand for you, and he realise that it is not just some sort of benign gesture. Will he finally see that it should have been you all along?

pairing — charles leclerc x f. reader ( third person story )

word count — 2301.

content — friends to lovers, f. reader is a football player wow! Mason Mount cameo because I’m a loyal Chelsea fan and he did show up at Monaco Grand Prix 2022, praying he’s there this year. P.s she loves slapping his ass, what would Charles do with the bouquet of roses for you? Celebrate a pole position together.

NAVIGATION + author’s note: in honour of Charles home race weekend nearing its date and Barça champions of Laliga title! also does anyone know how to indent paragraphs 😭

IF CHARLES HAD KNOWN better, the last thing he’d do was to invite her to the Formula 1 Grand Prix De Monaco 2023. Not when she’s right there sitting on his bed, in her jersey with his name and number printed to the back of her football club; it was the custom shirt she had gotten him when she first signed with the club. The athletic shorts clinging onto her thighs didn’t aid him either.

“You’re actually insane if you think I’m gonna let you wear that to any of my races this week. Shit, blue isn’t even our colour, Tesorino.” He complains, mumbling the last sentence out as if he was totally against the idea of her in those tight shorts. “You literally just flew me in from my hotel in Madrid after a match, didn’t say shit about bringing me here to watch the race, Charles. I thought I would have stayed at home to watch because of our schedule clash.”

He kept silent and winced on his part, she wasn’t completely off about that and the fact that he didn’t inform her of it. To be fair, she had known that he had a race this weekend and he would have definitely flown her in. Charles made it a promise to be at every match of hers, if he could and this was one of the matches he couldn’t attend. Not seeing her would kill him either way, it’s a win-win situation.

“Eh but you did win though, a goal and two assists. I’m doing you a favour by letting you recharge by watching me!” He threw her a Ferrari team shirt and black shorts her way as much as he loved seeing her in her own colours, this certainly wasn’t a time for it. “Anyways, why do you have another printed replica of the jersey you got me? Scared you’ll miss me that much huh?”

Rolling her eyes at him as she walked past him, his shirt and shorts in a hand, the other slapping him on his ass. “You need to stop doing that whenever you walk past me! What if they got it on camera? The next thing you’d see is FC Barcelona Femeni Player, Y/n caught slapping Formula One Driver, Charles Leclerc on the ass.” He eyed her as she made her way towards the bathroom.

Shit, he loves her curves of softness. With the muscle of a footballer and those damn thighs, she was the most astonishing girl he had ever met. She had safe eyes, perhaps that's the best way to say it. She had a beauty that made those billboard-princesses look as paper thin as they are, she was something robust and real. That was his girl, it was her before she was his and it was her all of her days.

He knew he shouldn’t be thinking of his best-friend in that light, but growing up with her and watching her mature into what she is today didn’t help. “You’d love that though wouldn’t you? On the front cover newspaper in the sports section and top hashtag on twitter’s trending, that’d certainly boost your Spotify stats and Instagram followers!” She calls from the bathroom, and he pictures her sly smirk on her face.

Yeah fuck, if he wouldn’t love being seen with her although their friendship was already widely known. A shriek escapes her when she runs out of the bathroom, phone in her hand and looking all star struck. “No one told me he would be here!” She shoves her phone up in his face, the Instagram story of Mason Mount by the McLaren garage.

“Mi Tesoro, you literally played against Chelsea’s Women's team in the Champions League recently. Why are you acting all fangirl over him? You didn’t even seem excited to see me by my garage, in my race suit if I must add.” His jaw twitches, watching her bounce around him. “It’s different, I see you almost everyday but I only see him on the pitch when he plays.” Charles hums in response, if that’s what keeps her going then he’s not going to stop it.

“He’s stopping by the Ferrari garage later, I invited him over just because I’m a Chelsea fan too, don’t think I’m doing this just for you.” He watches her jaw drop open and curve up, looking at him as if he hung the stars up for her. But fuck he barely even supported Chelsea, he had never watched a premier league match live even when he was in Silverstone for the race. Well, if that’s what it takes for her to look at him, he wouldn’t mind inviting any Footballers she loves to any other race.

Charles is starting to question if everything he does was for the sake of her smile. The type of smile that reaches his bones, the type of smile that extends to her eyes as the sides crinkles and her dimples on display. “Quit looking at me like that, we have to go if you wanna see your favourite boy on the track and I have a qualifying session to get to.”

“No, you’re my favourite boy for doing this for me.” And there’s a slap to his ass before he knew it, a strangled groan evades his lips as he slips on the Ray-Ban shades. “Will not be doing this for you anymore if you keep slapping my ass, that habit needs to go.” Charles watches as she runs past him, loving the way she donned his team shirt and pants so perfectly that it made him feel something, just a little.

There’s a bounce in her steps when she walks out of the lobby of his apartment, the sun set in the sky as fresh colours brushed upon an artist’s canvas, as if those rays were destined to create a great work of art. The rays dawned upon her, her tan skin illuminated in the hues and Charles watched as she turned around with his cap covering her face from the sunlight.

There was a softness to her appearance, a kind of warmth married to a shyness. “You seem awfully excited about the qualifying session and I wonder why.” He flicks his cap, sauntering past her as they enter the garage, where her eyes had already landed on the English footballer for Chelsea. “You have fun with him, I need to get ready.” Charles bends to leave a peck on her cheek, something he had always done before qualifying or the featured race, he thinks she’s good luck for him.

His fingers hesitated on clicking the Whatsapp icon on his phone and to open the chat with his younger brother. Once in a lifetime thing, it’s now or never and he fears he might never have the balls to do this again.

charles: get me a bouquet of roses on the way here would you?

arthur: lol for y/n? finally getting some pussy aren’t you? 😁

charles: shut up mate, just get them :)

arthur: 👍 but if you fuck it up with her, you’ll lose me as well.

arthur: dude i don’t even know how you got a barça player as your best-friend.

charles: wtf picking my best-friend over your own brother?

charles: she was my best-friend before she became a barça player…

arthur: our best-friend and good luck for quali.

charles: yeah thanks, will do my best.

He shuts his phone off, walking out of his room in his race suit, the custom helmet for his home race in his hand. Greeted by the sight of his best-friend ogling at the footballer beside her with her headset on as he made a beeline towards her. “Hey, nice to finally meet you. Big fan, hoping the team does better next season though.” He pulls Mason in for a hug, a pat on the back before pulling away. “You head back to our home right after qualifying okay? I have a debrief and stuff, it's gonna take a long while.”

“Mhm yeah sure, good luck. Cheering for you always.” She mumbles into the crook of his neck, ruffling his hair before pushing him towards his car. He staggered from the impact of the push and threw a glare her way but never could he get angry at her. Not now or ever.

Sitting in the cockpit with his foot on the throttle, pushing flat out on the last straight before crossing the line with his last attempt of Q3, only two things on his mind. Pole position and roses. Fuck he didn’t even know what he was thinking with the roses. And before he knew it, the static noise from the radio broke his train of thoughts. “And P1, good job Charles.”

His heart was at ease clinching the pole position for his home race, hoping it’d go as smoothly as the featured race tomorrow. One thing off his mind now, the other thing weighed slightly heavier on his shoulders. He’s turning 26 this year, surely asking a girl out would be no challenge for him.

Charles pranced his way towards Max and Carlos, it was a Ferrari front row lockout for the weekend’s qualifying session. Sure he’d love to stick around and celebrate with the team, but not when his prize was right at home waiting for him. “Great work today Carlos, hopefully it goes as well tomorrow.” He clasps the Spaniard by the hand, pulling him for a hug as they make their way towards the Ferrari garage.

“Your flowers, remember don’t fuck it up.” Arthur shoves the bouquet of roses into the right hand of Charles, his left holding on the Pirelli Pole Position tyre. “Charles, I see you finally making a move on the Barça player eh? Good luck mate.” He’s taking the chance to tease Charles, but whatever it takes for Y/n. “Thanks, you’re a Real Madrid fan though, Carlos. Not sure if luck is needed from a Madrid fan…”

He’s in his room, swiftly changing out of his race suit into the team’s attire and attending the quick debrief with the team before leaving the garage. The strides he takes are huge, the roses in his clammy hands, the rapid beating of his heart blaring at his ears. Hell he wasn’t even this nervous during races or qualifying sessions.

Charles is met with the button of the elevator up to his apartment where his best-friend would be sitting on the couch, awaiting him to have dinner together. The elevator was a plain silver box with plain silver buttons and plain silver doors, something he took every day yet it has never felt as confined and as cramped as it was now. Not when his anxiety was eating him alive, everything he had waited for was right in front of him when the elevator doors opened.

The door unlocks with a simple reading of his fingerprint and he sees his favourite girl jumping off the couch and running towards him. Her eyes glued onto the bouquet of roses in his hands, her eyebrows cocking up at the sight. “Which fangirl got this for you?” She nudged him by the elbow, taking a seat on the couch like she was earlier. “Eh, it’s for you.” He hands her the bouquet, craning his neck away from her gaze. “For me? What’s the occasion, or is this some roses your fan girl got you and you give it to me as a donation.”

“No I got it for you, technically I asked Arthur to get it for me so I could give it to you. Anyways, I wouldn’t give you what my fans gave me, are you crazy?” He’s rambling and it’s so absolutely adorable, it’s the fact that he doesn’t know he’s only rambling when he’s nervous but she picked up on his mannerism anyways. “Mhm, thanks Charles. Congrats on the pole today, you were flying out there.”

She rises to her feet, leaving a chaste kiss on his cheek, her arms wrapped around his waist. His heart beating so rapidly and loudly, he’s afraid she might be able to hear it with her head resting against his chest in their stance. This wasn’t just a benign gesture like he thought it’d be, it’s literally a whole love confession.

“I don’t know how to put this but I think I’m in love with you. Okay, maybe not I think but more like I’ve been in love with you for a while now. I don’t think you ever realised how I’ve never been in a relationship, like hell I could have gotten anyone I wanted but it was you I was waiting for, for a long time now if you don’t see it. If you’re willing to give me a chance, I would love to make you the happiest girl alive. So, what do you say? Can I please be your boyfriend, mi tesoro?”

His fingers running through her caramel strands, calms him down a little at her stillness and quietness. “Say something baby, please don’t keep me in suspense.” He’s pleading, and never has he pleaded for anything or anyone. “I don’t know what took you so long to realise the same thing, Charles.”

“Took me Mason Mount and seeing you in my team’s shirt over and over again to realise that.” There’s a huge grin on his face, the deep happiness in the well of his dimples, those dimples that showed her the way home.

“I’d like to thank my brother for the so-so motivational ted talk of choosing you over me if I messed this confession up. I love you, you’re the best-friend I could ever ask for and I promise to be the best boyfriend ever.”

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