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kaibacorpintern · 3 years

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the wound

word count: ~2500

summary: kaiba has some pointed thoughts about yuugi’s recent cooking injury. platonic rivalshipping. post-DSOD

a/n: a woman has too many unfinished one-shots in her google drive so i’m making time to finish them instead of overthinking them (and never finishing them.) yes this is about cooking and yuugi and kaiba and depression. yes i have already written about this. whatever man. enjoy.

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Same time as usual. Two in the afternoon, on Saturdays. Same place as usual. The picnic table under the massive oak in the park, two blocks away from the Kame Game Shop and twenty minutes by subway from the station under the Kaiba Corp tower. Seto took the subway mostly out of scientific interest, taking a professional curiosity in the world Atem had wanted to live in, and because Atem had told him to enjoy it. What had he seen here, in the faded orange seats and bright pastel advertisements and the quiet scattering of human-not-Puzzle bodies? What had he felt, as the subway swayed around the curve in the tunnel, unseen in the darkness and known only by its momentum, making everyone sway with it? Hands curled around handrails and books. Fingers on phones. The train burst into daylight. The side of that girl’s head against the glass, watching Domino slide by with an equally glassy look in her eyes. Two layers between her and the city. Missing someone? Or just bored of life?

He slunk off the subway, unnoticed and unknown, in an immaculate white hoodie and aviators, stainless steel water bottle dangling from one hand. Yuugi was waiting for him at the park entrance, as usual, wearing some kind of fashionable belted dark purple romper, with the usual tote bag full of games hanging from one hand. On the other hand, something unusual: his fingers stuck out from a half-formed mitten of gauze, giving his slender hand a clumsy, snub-nosed silhouette. He was having trouble holding his iced tea, thumb and fingers alligator-clamped around the lid. Someone had drawn a pair of flowers in pink marker across the back of the mitten, a bumper sticker of cheerful admonition: 🌺 BE CAREFUL! 🌺 Not Yuugi’s handwriting.

“Hey,” Yuugi said. “How’re you doing? You sleeping better?”

Seto pushed his sunglasses to the top of his head, over his bangs, crown-like.

“On and off,” he said, which was true. His nights were now vast, tossing oceans of insomnia between shores of just good-enough sleep. Last night he’d simply given up trying to swim and instead, for the first time in years, read a book for amusement instead of education. Some sci-fi novel Yuugi had mentioned and Seto bought on a lark from the bookstore in the subway station. Most of his amusement came from correcting the bad science in the margins, until he woke up at dawn with his glasses bent and his bed linens blotted like calico cats with black ink. “What happened to your hand?”

“Oh, this?” Yuugi said, lifting his mitten-hand. “So, I was making a ceviche yesterday…”

He told the story as they walked through the park to the oak tree: the protagonist was a ripe avocado, its tough, disingenuous alligator hide concealing a soft, buttery-green flesh. The arc of the conflict: avocado against knife, a natural antagonist. The climax: the knife, ignorant of its own bluntness and made arrogant by the shine of its own steel, slid off its trajectory like a failing rocket and plunged at speed through plant skin and plant flesh straight into human skin and human flesh. The resolution: two identical cuts, a half-opened avocado and a half-opened hand. Man versus fruit.

"There was so much blood Otogi almost fainted," Yuugi said, thumping the tote bag onto the wooden table and straddling the bench sideways. "So we went to the ER and they stitched me up, and then when we got back home I finished making the ceviche. What game? You pick."

"Hive," Seto said. He couldn’t stop looking at his bandaged hand. It drew his attention like a glitch on a screen, an inescapable aberration. “Does it bother you?”

“I mean, it hurts, but whatever, you know?” Yuugi said, digging into his tote bag for the drawstring bag of wooden tokens. He spilled them onto the table in a clattering cascade of wood against wood. They rapidly sorted them out. “It’s not my first cooking accident.”

Seto raised his eyebrows. It was a testament to the amount of time they’d been spending together lately - every Saturday afternoon for a handful of hours, until he made some excuse to leave, and Yuugi accepted it not because he was gullible but because he knew Seto had a battery and it ran low - that he didn’t even need to ask a question, and Yuugi simply provided an answer, with examples.

“So, here, I was frying onion rings for Jounouchi, and I splattered hot oil all over my arm,” Yuugi said, lifting his hand and pointing out a haphazard constellation of white scars over his forearm. “Then here - I was baking cookies for Shizuka’s birthday and touched the tray fresh out of the oven with my bare hand, like a moron, I dueled Jounouchi after and drawing my cards was like, ow - ” he waggled his fingertips - “and this one is another burn - ” a long white ink-stroke across his wrist - “from when I was making ramen for Anzu, ‘cause she was home from New York. And this one - ”

More interesting than how and what were who. This burn for Honda’s birthday barbecue, that cut for Otogi’s game night. A violent kiss between blade and fingers behind a frothy veil of soapy water, cleaning up after a movie night. Another spray of oil splatters, frying tempura for his mother. A lot of meals for her, his grandfather, Jounouchi. Every scar Yuugi showed him had a name attached, almost all of them below the elbows, as though collected there for easy reference. Seto frowned as Yuugi's fingers flew over this map of friendships and family, their routes landmarked by midnight breakfasts, lazy brunches, beautifully-wrapped bento boxes. Something about it tasted sour to him, his tongue held tight and bitten between his teeth. All of his own scars had only one name.

“You probably think I’m a klutz,” Yuugi said, with a sheepish smile, sliding one of the wooden tokens into place around their hive.

“I told you to stop doing that,” Seto said briskly. “I’m not some dumpster for all your insecurities. You think you’re a klutz. You have no idea what I think.”

“I - ” Yuugi started, and huffed, with another smile, his chosen defense against causing offense. “Sorry, force of habit - ”

“Forget it. You don’t ever cook for yourself?”

“Duh. Of course I do. And I eat what I make with everyone else. It’s not like I make a pizza for all my friends and just sit there watching them while they eat it,” Yuugi said. “But I like cooking for people. I love... nourishing them. Knowing they’re not going to go to bed hungry or anything, and I can make something for them that makes them feel good.”

Seto tapped a wooden token on the table, under the guise of thinking about the game but really thinking about the kind of friends Yuugi made, and how he made them. Jounouchi. Honda. Atem. Himself.

“Did you ever cook for Atem?” he said, because he couldn’t help it, and braced against the soft look that came his way, with a default smile, a pre-emptive look, I'm fine. this didn’t hurt me smile.

“Yeah,” Yuugi said. “I did.”

Like what? Did he like it? Did he help cook or did he just watch? Just the two of you or with everyone else? Tell me. What did you nourish him with? What do you think he’s eating now? I ate pomegranates when I was there. Bread and honey and figs and garlic and beer. Nothing I ate makes me spend six months with the living and six months with the dead so instead I trade off day and night. Sometimes I leave for a few minutes, mid-afternoon, and I can hear my own name clattering through me as Mokuba calls me back. Seto kept all these comments to himself. There was only so greedy he could get with Yuugi’s grief; only so much he could share of his own.

He slid his wooden token into place around the honeycomb of pieces. Yuugi swiftly countered. Seto lapsed back into thought.

Yuugi took a quiet slurp of his iced tea, gave it a shake, rattling the ice until it settled, and took another, watching ducks paddle into the reeds at the edge of the pond and paddle out, a portrait of calm patience. It had taken him some time to get comfortable with Seto’s long silences. In concession, Seto made the effort to shorten them.

It was the kind of day where stepping into the shade made a difference. The air was darker and cooler under the trees and the flowering bushes that lined the park paths, while the rest of the earth baked in a cloudless dry heat. Seto made his move and pushed the sleeves of his sweatshirt up to his elbows.

“How about I cook for you sometime?” Yuugi said brightly, nudging another wooden token against the others with a single fingertip.

Seto scowled, not at the suggestion but at the way his thoughts splintered apart, like two halves of a wooden log split by an axe. He had no doubt Yuugi would pull out the stops for him, slave and sweat for hours over some seventeen-course feast of modern art finger foods. Or maybe something cozy that made him feel like he was just nineteen instead of nineteen and exhausted. Whatever it was, Yuugi would put in the effort. But.

“No,” he said, and made sure to clarify this refusal before the clouds finished gathering over Yuugi’s face in a dejected overcast grey: “I don’t need one of your scars named after me.”

“I - what?” Yuugi said, flashing him an uneven, sideways smile, and Seto felt a flicker of irritation. Atem would’ve understood immediately. But, in fairness to Yuugi, he was being a little obtuse.

“You have a way of suffering for your friends,” he explained. “And I think part of you likes it.”

Yuugi straightened up in his seat, suddenly electric.

“What the hell? It’s just cooking,” he said, with a stormy flash of lightning in his violet eyes. “You’re reading into this way too much. I cook because it’s fun and artistic and I like feeding people, not because I like… self-flagellating or something. Seriously, you can’t just spout off - ”

“You misunderstand me,” Seto countered. “There’s no reason to… hurt yourself on my behalf. If you want to eat together, I’d rather go to that kitschy little ice cream place down the block and get a fucking waffle cone. I don’t want you unable to duel because you burned your hand trying to pan-fry a steak for me.”

Yuugi opened his mouth, brows furrowing together… and scoffed, a surprisingly affectionate sound. He rolled his eyes around the park, his gaze swinging across the sunlit grass, and looked back at Seto.

“Okay. First of all, I've mastered the art of the pan-fried steak, and you should try it,” he said. “Second of all, what makes you think you’re not someone worth suffering for?”

Seto snorted, masking his inwards flinch. Mokuba already suffered enough, thank you. And for what? A ghost of a brother. A black hole, a perpetual collapsing. Things went in and they crossed the event horizon and the pressure squeezed them for eternity without ever letting them reach the center and nothing ever came back out, as much as it wanted to. The scientific term for such distortion of effort, stretched to an immeasurable length without breaking, was spaghettification. Even a black hole needs to eat!

He slid one of his tokens back and forth with his fingertip, short, scraping jerks of wood against wood, thinking.

“Direct attack on my life points,” he muttered.

“Yeah, you also got me pretty good,” Yuugi chuffed. “Let’s call it even. But relax. It’s just cooking. I love the process, and I love the result, and I love doing stuff for my friends. It’s not some big… metaphorical… symbol of something. This - " he lifted his mittened hand - "doesn't mean anything except I mishandled a knife. It’s not like… you and Duel Disks.”

But Seto also loved the process and the result and more than once he'd injured himself, machining parts or fiddling with wires that, like all wild living things, bit back in fear of his touch. He splayed his hand over the table, watching blood drip onto his work station, knowing he should get up, clean it, bandage it. But it was only two in the morning and there was work to do.

“The Duel Disk is a symbol of Kaiba Corp’s future,” he said, closing his hand into a fist. "I know what you've done for your friends. I’ve seen it. Doesn't that merit the same... mythology?"

Yuugi gave him a funny look, half skeptical, half knowing.

"That’s nice of you, thank you," he said, and an uncomfortable blush crawled up Seto’s neck. Sometimes he did understand. “Are you sure you don't want me to cook for you?”

Seto opened his mouth, closed it, folded his arms on the table. He felt like he was trying to explain the feeling of the color blue, or the arguments for why numbers do or don’t exist, or what it was like to dream. Well, you see, the last time I saw Atem, he told me - correction: the last time as in the most recent link in a chain of time, not the last time as in the end of the line, because he also told me we’d see each other again - he told me to enjoy this, and you know me, I never do what I’m told. And I can’t do what he told me to do because he was my friend, and if friendship is just getting caught in a great sticky web of small cuts and large cuts and burns and bruises and tears and suffering because they’re here and suffering because they’re not, then just go ahead and let the spider drink me up and dump what’s left of me in the dirt. I am so sick and tired of pain. Mine. Yours. Ours.

But he did enjoy these afternoons. He was enjoying the process of making this: he had more with Yuugi now than he ever had before. He reached across the table and took Yuugi’s bandaged hand between his own hands, running his thumb carefully over the inked warning. Yuugi's hand relaxed in his. Yes, Yuugi was wrong. It was the same as Duel Disks. In any act of creation there was pain, there was power, and there was glory. What difference was there between a hologram of a dragon and a steaming bowl of soup? Both nourished something. Both were an answer to hunger. Discovering an emptiness and filling it.

“Okay,” he said, releasing Yuugi’s hand. “Alright. Cook for me.”

“Yeah?!” Yuugi said, with rising excitement, beaming. “What should I make? What do you like?”

“Make me a steak,” Seto said, smiling. It felt good to see Yuugi smile. His hypothesis neatly undermined. See? It’s not all damage. “No. Surprise me.”

#fanfiction #intern memo #rivalshipping #a lite snack... once i've written up a few more i'll cross post to AO3 #okay good Night i am. wiped the fuck out

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apprentice-lex · 4 years

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Thank you so much, dear anon! That’s incredibly kind of you 💜 It’s no trouble at all, and I would also like to use this opportunity to wish all my lovely followers (and the wonderful Courtiers fandom) happy winter holidays! ✨ Best wishes from Valerius, Valdemar, Volta, Vlastomil, Vulgora, and myself!

Winter holidays with your favorite Courtier(s) under the cut; enjoy! (sfw, fluffy, and long)

Valerius

He is familiar with holiday celebrations, but... why would you want to spend the holidays with him? He still has trouble believing you want to spend this time with him, aren't you meant to spend it with your loved ones, friends and family? Surely, someone better than him, someone who deserves your time more. He won't say it out loud, of course, but it's obvious from his careful, hesitant behavior that he expects you to tell him to go away. Before he met you, he would of course receive invitations to holiday parties, but he'd inevitably spend the holidays shut in his study, working, secretly envying all those people who were well-liked enough for someone to want to be around them. And now you're here, with that genuine smile and that look in your eyes that tells him he's worth it and you want to be around him and he just doesn't know what to do with that. Everything must be perfect. The decorations you put up together, the food you make... he's such a perfectionist that you have to stop him in the middle of decorating, take his hands in yours, and tell him to stop worrying because, yes, you want to be there with him and he is someone you care about deeply. He'd blink the tears away and try to salvage what remains of his dignity with some wry comment. But, from then on, he is much calmer, you catch him genuinely smiling - so often as no one can remember him smiling before. He commissions artists to make sure your decorations are the most beautiful in Vesuvia; some whisper that even the decorations in the palace are lackluster compared to yours. Some of the palace cooks are whisked away with the promise of much higher wages. But what surprises you the most is the evening he invites you to his estate, and there isn't a servant in sight; just Valerius alone, putting the final touches on decorations. He turns around when you enter the room, smiles, and wordlessly holds out an ornament for you to take - an invitation to help him. Of course, you happily accept. Later, he takes you to the kitchens, and for the first time ever you see Valerius try his hand at cooking. Of course, it's rather disastrous, but filled with laughter and spilled flour and icing sugar in your hair; but when it's late in the evening and you and Valerius twirl around the dimly-lit kitchens to some unheard song, laughing together, a smudge of icing on his cheek and a spoon still in his hand - but the look in his eyes is one of deep, genuine happiness - you realize that this is it. There's no other way you'd rather be spending the holidays. Tomorrow, you'll be seeing all your friends and, knowing Valerius, there will doubtlessly be a pile of outrageously expensive presents waiting for you... but tonight, just the two of you, seeing this side of Valerius no one else gets to see, the two of you dancing like this with nothing to distract you but firelight and candles and the smell of cookies in the air... that's the best gift.

Valdemar

They're not usually one to celebrate - or pay attention to - such silly things as human holidays. They have far too much to do. But for you? Oh, for you they'll try their darnest to make these the best holidays ever. And what does Valdemar do when they feel they're unprepared? They read, of course. At first, you are surprised to find a book on "DIY decorations" among their medical encyclopedias, but you ascribe it to their eternally curious nature. However, it doesn't stop there. The week after, you find one on woodworking, one on paper sculptures, and a cookbook, of all things. When was the last time you saw Valdemar eat? You decide to confront them. They don't even try to hide what they're doing from you. Instead, they seem so proud to explain in detail the various projects they started; their smile wide and sharp, their crimson eyes glittering with inhuman focus and poorly subdued joy. It's not the holidays, you realize, it's the fact that they're doing something for you. They do need a bit of guidance; catching them poring over a book and muttering "hearts, yes, easily done, I do have several no one is using anymore..." you have to explain it's paper hearts, and not actual ones, but they're a fast learner. And they do so enjoy planning, so their staff all receive a detailed schedule and meticulously thought out arrangements, what pieces of furniture go where to make room for decorations, what times the meals are to be served... They approach the whole affair like they're planning a siege, stockpiling food and giving orders for their estate to be decorated like they're planning its defenses, and not holiday decorations. All the while they wear that wide smile and that obvious joy in their eyes; it's endearing, if eccentric. So, instead of stopping them, you join them, the two of you become a a force to be reckoned with, extending your efforts to the palace. When it's time for the holiday meal, everyone shows up - and you realize that the usually solitary Valdemar extended invitations to all your friends and loved ones, because it would make you happy. So as you sit at the table together, you hold their hand and smile at them, which they return. When you have a moment to yourselves, they wordlessly hand you their gift - it is a book, with a neat, dark cover; you open it to see pages of narrow, orderly writing. It takes you a moment to recognize their handwriting. You have no time to read it with all your friends around you, sharing food and happily talking. But you see enough to understand - they gave you their journal, started on the day they met you. People misunderstand too often, thinking that because the outward displays of affection aren't as prominent in your relationship, it is somehow lacking. Those people couldn't be more wrong. In your hands, you hold pages upon pages of all the things Valdemar loves about you. You are surrounded with the proof of their affection, their dedication. "Volume one," they explain, their eyes lingering on the tome in your hands before they settle on your face, and their sharp smile widens with sheer joy. "The first of many to come." And tucked between the final pages, crafted with otherworldly skill - a little paper heart.

Volta

The changes to the Procurator's personality in the few weeks leading up to the winter holidays are... alarming. Where you'd once be invited to almost every meal - and several picnics - throughout the day, these few days she's been... reclusive. "Otherwise occupied," her servants tell you. Worried about the Procurator, you resolve to confront her and find out more about what has been keeping her so busy. You are a guest at her estate so often that the staff treats you as if you lived there... and maybe you do, with how much time you and Volta have been spending together... but you wander the long, cluttered hallways without anyone questioning your presence there. Her staff - mostly comprised of cooks and other kitchen staff - are busy with the upcoming meal. They always are. But Volta is nowhere to be found... until you hear the familiar sound of her footsteps from a long-disused hall. Covered furniture looms in the semi-darkness - the fireplace is the only source of light. Chests and shelves and piles of clothing from ages past, from every corner of the world, fill the otherwise cavernous room. And there, amidst all those things, is Volta - her dress is stained with paint, and she is running an unfinished, gold-embroidered, translucent shawl through her hands with an anguished expression on her face. You call her name quietly and she almost jumps - like you'd caught her doing something forbidden. You do not have to insist much - she shares everything with you willingly, so she shares this, as well; try as she might, she could not find the perfect gift for you. So, she tried making one. Slowly, you take in the chaos around you - half-finished portraits, done by the Procurator's own hand. Half-finished garments, hundreds of hours of focus and effort gone into the stitches. Half-finished poems and unfinished recipes, sculptures half smooth lines and half rough clay. "Nothing," she confesses, her smile tearful and trembling as she looks up at you. "Nothing is good enough. And there is no time, anymore." Wordlessly, you embrace her; she'd spent so, so many hours crafting, sewing, painting, creating with you on her mind. You were, judging from her attempts at art all around you, her sole muse almost from the day she met you. None of the works are expertly made, but all are clearly made with love. Uneven brushstrokes of a loving hand, after all, make for a masterpiece much greater than a loveless heart could ever produce even if it belonged to a master artist. Embracing her, you realize that Volta had already given you a rather priceless gift; her love, her loyalty; and, through her art, countless hours with nothing but you in her thoughts. She has given you her trust. Her hope. Her heart.

Vlastomil

He starts worrying nearly two months in advance. Others fail to notice, but you notice how the Praetor has become distracted, sweeping papers off his desk when you enter his study, stopping on your walks to talk with merchants. It becomes clear what this is about, when you enter his study in search of him one day - he isn't here, but the window is open and the wind carries several sheets of papers right to your feet. You pick them up, scanning the neat, looping script in his handwriting, and the world spins when you realize this is a list of gifts - every single thing you mentioned you wanted, even in passing, no matter how ridiculously expensive. Usually, you'd not pry into whatever you come across in his study, but this? You have to confront him about this. You bring it up that evening, while you're having tea, and the moment you pull the paper out, his silvery eyes widen anxiously, darting from the paper in your hand to your face. He's... afraid? What could Praetor Vlastomil possibly be afraid of? With much - gentle but firm - insistence, the story comes to light: yes, he has been keeping a list of all the things you mentioned wanting, and yes, he commissioned and ordered many of those things, because he absolutely cannot find a gift worthy of you, and oh, he thinks you deserve the world. Besides, he isn't really... used to celebrating holidays, with people not usually wanting to be around him... Taking his hands, you smile and you explain to him that you don't need those things, that you need him. He's at a loss for words. But the next day, you find out from palace servants that the Praetor announced he would be unavailable all throughout the winter holidays - because he is spending them with you. And indeed, you spend those days at his estate - the decorating and cooking has all been taken care of by the staff, as Vlastomil wants no distractions. He wants to share all his hobbies with you, and he wants to learn all about yours - as well as to try new things together. You try your hand at painting, at playing the piano - Vlastomil spends more time holding your hand than playing - you read a book together in the evenings, and you make sure to pick a hilariously inappropriate play just to see him blush reading his lines. It finally sinks in what he's doing - your gift-related plea was heard, and what Vlastomil is trying to do is give you something that can't be bought. The things he is adamant you deserve - his time, his attention, his care. He is sharing with you endless gardening tips and worm care trivia because he wants to share with you all those fundamental things that make him, well... him. And he wants to learn about you. In truth, you've never seen the Praetor so vulnerable, so open, so enthusiastic; his smile so genuine and the look in his pale eyes one of sincere adoration. Of course, you still received way too many expensive gifts, but the greatest one? Curling up with him under a blanket, in front of the fireplace, with a book in his hands and a faint blush on his cheeks every time he looks at you as he reads a line where the hero speaks of love. He repeats that line. But this time, he puts the book away.

Vulgora

"You LIGHT THINGS ON FIRE? I LIKE THIS!" You smile with endless patience and more than a little amusement. "You light candles, Vulgora." It's been like that ever since you expressed the desire to spend the winter holidays with them. No wonder - Vulgora lived and breathed battle. And so, all the efforts they put into decorating and preparing for the holidays were just that - war. "Our decorations shall be a thousand times more brilliant than Nadia's." When they first made that solemn promise, their gauntleted hands clenched into fists and their golden eyes narrowed, you did not take it seriously. The next morning, you woke up to the entire estate covered with decorations - Vulgora elected to decorate instead of sleeping. The same thing happened with food - they were standing in the middle of the kitchens like an avenging angel, hands on their hips, issuing commands to the kitchen staff like a general on the battlefield. The large ladle they brandished like a weapon made more than a few of the servants wince, and you were at the very least grateful the ladle wasn't sharp as you gently pried it from their hands, laughing. Vulgora set out to give you the best possible holidays with single-minded determination, and they ran their estate like a monarch would run an army. You could do nothing to stop them - not that you wanted to - so you elected instead to follow them around, laughing good-naturedly at their unshakable determination. When the holidays finally arrived, passers-by would stop to look at Vulgora's estate in open-mouthed wonder - they seem to have acquired almost every single decoration available in Vesuvia. The stockpiles of holiday food were probably enough to feed a small army, and you could do nothing but laugh at Vulgora's brilliant, sharp, proud smile as they presented their accomplishments to you. Well, the holiday meal could always be moved from the palace to Vulgora's estate, you mused. That winter - with you at their side - was the first one Vulgora didn't spend alone. As the last guests said their goodbyes you found yourself alone with Vulgora; they took your hand to lead you out onto the balcony, crisp night air stinging your cheeks, but Vulgora's cloak was warm around your shoulders. There, they wordlessly handed you yet another gift - a box, beautifully carved and made from some dark red wood. The blade it contained wasn't a surprise, as beautiful and masterfully made as it was, breathtakingly expensive, its hilt decorated with gold and rubies. What surprised you was how well it fit your hand, how incredibly light it was - and yet by merely holding it you could tell it was deadly. It was a symbol as much as it was a weapon. The laughter, their bluster, was gone; replaced with something you couldn't quite define - a quiet determination. You gazed into Vulgora's golden eyes, understanding dawning on you. They didn't need to speak. You shared the silence in the falling twilight. But you understood what the blade in your hand meant. They were the blade, and you the hand that wields it. They were the will and you the purpose which drives it. You were their hope now. Their why. Without the other, both of you would feel so woefully incomplete, now that you knew there existed another who felt like the other half of you. Tugging their gauntlet off, they quietly intertwined their fingers with yours.

#Arcana imagines #Courtier imagines #Courtier headcanons #Consul Valerius #Quaestor Valdemar #Procurator Volta #Praetor Vlastomil #Pontifex Vulgora #Valerius x reader #Valdemar x reader #Volta x reader #Vlastomil x reader #Vulgora x reader #my writing #answered asks #food cw #I still have a few WIPs but this was a time-sensitive one #thank you for the kind words once more anon #also Vlastomil will always be my baby

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kassies-take · 5 years

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Thorul Over Luthor (Part 1)

A/n: you’re Lena’s step sister, your father married her birth mother but Lena still lived with the Luthors. When she takes an adventure to learn more about her birth mother she ends up with a sister (Earth 37)

Warning: abuse & cancer

Lena Luthor x StepSister!Reader

Word Count: 1219

Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3

As the youngest Luthor she has always thought of what ifs. What if Lillian treated her better? What if Lex never went crazy? What if she wasn’t taken away to live with the Luthors and stayed with her mother in Ireland? The last one has been in her mind for the past couple of months. The CEO took matters into her own hands and scheduled a flight to Ireland.

The moment her plane landed in a field, she hopped out leaving the CEO persona behind. She let the breeze caress her skin, the warmth of the sun hug her and the songbirds serenade her. Lena cancelled her car rental wishing to enjoy and explore the island in the North Atlantic. (Ireland looks like a bear, my opinion though.)

Lena didn’t mind the two mile walk, she had forsaken her impractical footwear the night before. She reached a cozy town and decided to stop by a coffee shop, hopefully getting some L-Corp work done before exploring her home.

She frowned however when she walked in and the customers had their eyes on her, the Luthor ignored it though. She wanted to try something new and asked the barista to surprise her. To her surprise it was the perfect brewed tea she has ever tasted.

When Lena sat down the room erupted with life as a girl in her early twenties entered the shop. The two made eye contact before the younger skipped her way towards the Luthor.

“Hi! Welcome to Ashford!” You placed your hand out in front of her. “I’m (Y/n) Thorul. You look just like her.”

“Lena Luthor,” Lena raised her eyebrows in question. “Who do I look like?”

“Oh sorry.” You pulled your hand away from Lena’s grip. “You look like my step mother. Kieran Thorul.”

“K-Kieran?” Lena’s heart pounded with excitement. “Do you think you can take me to her? My middle name is Kieran and Lionel said that it was after my mother. I’ve started to forget her and I wanted to see her again. It doesn’t even have to be today I’m here for a week. Or I can comeback when it’s okay.”

“You got that from mom,” you smiled before you tilted your head to point towards the door and walked backwards.

“W-Wait we’re going now. B-But I reek of sweat and my clothes are dirty. I-I’m not sure what I even want to say,” Lena’s eyes widen and her feet unconsciously brought her into motion.

She continued to follow you while having a nervous breakdown and before she took in her surroundings, the two of you made it to your front porch.

“Hey,” You turned around and placed your arms on your sister’s shoulders. “Calm down. Breathe with me.”

In that short moment Lena composed herself like the CEO she was. It amazed you to see Lena in person and actually be human. Lena looked around, as you grabbed your step mom from the kitchen.

“You know I don’t like it when a meal is unfinished,” your mother scolded you while she wiped her hands on a towel. “This better be good!”

“It is! Ma, meet Lena, Lena Luthor.”

Both Lena and Kieran froze before they both burst into tears.

“My beautiful girl,” Lena’s mother and her shared a tearful reunion and the rest of the evening catching up.

You got stuck with dinner duty but truthfully you didn’t mind. It was hard to distinguish who was who with the mother-daughter duo laughing and crying in the living room. After dinner the two continued conversing when Lena looked around and noticed family portraits of you and her mother.

“(Y/n) said that you are her stepmom, where’s her father.”

“In jail where he is suppose to be!” You said spitefully.

“(Y/n), don’t take it out on Lena. She did not do anything.” Your mother warned.

“Sorry let me rephrase that, he was an ass who couldn’t handle being in a lower tier of work and took it out on me.”

“I thought (y/n)’s father was the greatest man in the world, he treated me greatly and I would’ve never known how abusive he was, until I came home early from work one day.”

“What did you do?” Lena asked obviously intrigued by her mother.

“She got a divorce and filed for custody. Obviously she won.”

“And that is why her name is Thorul,” your mother smiled. “Hey (y/n) can you stop by the winery and get the most expensive one for Lena?”

“Can’t we give Lena one from the basement?”

“No,” your mother raised an eye.

You sighed, grabbed your coat and headed out the door.

“I was fine with basement wine,” Lena chuckled.

“I sent her out to ask a request from you.”

“What is it,” Lena sat up.

“I need you to watch over, as a big sister.” She held Lena’s hand. “A couple of month ago I went to the doctors for an annual check up and they found a tumor in my brain.”

“L-Corp, owns many facilities. I-I can fly in great doctors around the world and-”

“Lena, the doctors say I have already lived well over my expected time.”

“T-Then it’s a miracle. I can find an excellent neurosurgeon for you.”

“I am only alive, because of the magic in our veins.”

“M-magic doesn’t exists.”

Your mother raised her eye brows and Lena can feel herself shrivel under that gaze. A look that means she knows something. “I know you’ve been getting dreams about your life with me, which promot you to come to Ireland. It is not a coincidence that these dreams started a couple of months ago when I received news of my tumor.”

“It is a coincidence. There is no way it is magic.”

“Lena, you live in a world filled with aliens. Why is magic harder to believe? I’m sure you felt the fire in your veins, the urge to scream and to light things on fire. Our blood line dates back to Morgana Pendragon.”

Lena laughed in disbelief. “Like King Arthur? That’s rich.”

“Leohtbora,” your mother chanted as the fire place lit up like an explosion.

Lena stares mindlessly into the fire, her lips slightly ajarred. Lena was a woman of science she was coming up with any excuse in her head. This couldn’t be her life, everything had a purpose and a scientific reasoning.

“I can see those gears turning in you head,” Lena’s mother teased. “It took me a while to get use to it too. But I sent those dreams in your head, so I could teach you before it is too late.”

“This is insane.” Lena shook her head as her ponytail swung back and forth.

Lena stood up and headed towards the door. Your mom did everything to make Lena stay, but Lena was so hell bent on leaving the place that she didn’t pay attention.

The Luthor’s eyes flowed orange and she was engulfed in a ring of fire. She panicked as her hands shook and her eyes began to water.

The front door opened with a wine bottle in your hands.

“Oh so you do have magic,” you smiled amusingly.

“Mom will help you manage it. And it’ll be like you’ve always had it. Welcome to the family Ms. Thorul.”

#lena luthor x sister! reader #lena luthor x female!reader #lena luthor x you #lena luthor imagines #lena luthor imagine #lena luthor x reader #lena luthor #supergirl x reader #supergirl imagine #supergirl imagines #morgana pendragon

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ghostbustermelanieking · 4 years

Text

snippets from an msr historical au

cleaning out my 2019 fic closet lol. this is excerpts of a historical au i did, based on a short au prompt i wrote in june here. it takes place in 1850s new york where scully and emily are irish immigrants who befriend mulder when he offers to tutor emily. i wrote these snippets months ago and it'll probably go unfinished, but i liked it too much to not share. so here is my scattered sense of world building.

---

Melissa had been the one to suggest the name. She had been there in the birthing room, the only one left after her mother had traveled to America with Bill and her father was gone and Charlie was in England. Daniel had been elsewhere, of course, it wasn't proper for husbands to be in the birthing room, and he upheld tradition stronger than she did, so it was Melissa and her friend the midwife, Melissa holding her hand, Melissa handing her the squalling babe. She had passed out from the pain and felt a rush of relief when she woke up again; she had feared she wouldn't wake up again after it was all over. She knew many women who had never met their children. Melissa had brought the baby back, the tiny child with their mother's eyes and a patch of bright hair, and Dana had filled with relief. If she had no one else in this marriage, which had long grown sour, she would have her daughter.

Melissa had suggested Emily because she loved Wuthering Heights, recently republished under the true name of its author. "It's a beautiful name, Dana, and perhaps, if she's lucky, she'll receive even an ounce of the creativity that comes with it," she had said, clutching the tiny hand in hers. "What a wonderful thing that would be."

That had been enough to convince her. Emily Margaret, she'd said, for her mother, far away in the heartlands of a country she would never see, and for her stepdaughter, who hated her fiercely, though she didn't live with them anymore. The girl hated her, for taking the place of her mother, but Dana saw it as a chance to make peace with the both of them. It did not work, though; Maggie had not had any interest in her sister, or in her stepmother, and Dana had long given up trying. Given up on the whole family, her husband included: he took little interest in her or his daughter, and when he did, it was in a possessive sort of manner that made her skin crawl. The medical lessons she'd received as a young woman were long gone, and he saw her only as the keeper of the house and of his child. He wanted more, but she refused.

When he'd died on the voyage over, a small, shameful part of her had been relieved. She would not have to pretend to love him anymore, to feel the same way as she had all those years before. But she had feared so greatly for her daughter, that the illness would take one of them, too. She knew life would be hard without a husband, as was the cruel and unfair way of the world (her mother had told her as a little girl as she braided her hair), but it would be impossible for Emily without her. She would end up alone in some horrible orphanage, neglected and abandoned. And Dana could not imagine life without her daughter now, imagine being alone in the city she'd heard so much about. She could not go out west alone, and she could not survive alone. She remembered lying in her small, cold, hard bunk, holding Emily's small figure close, her lips to her hot forehead and murmuring a prayer. And God had heard her prayers. Her daughter had lived, and she looked more and more like Melissa every day.

Emily often has questions about this, the family she will never know. When the two of them are lying in their bed, behind the makeshifts wall John had built to separate their tiny space from the rest of the equally tiny apartment (he and Barbara sleep in a bed on the other side, adjacent to the stove, and their boy Luke sleeps in a pallet on the floor), she will whisper questions about her father, her half sister, her aunt and her uncles and her grandparents. But it is often Daniel and Maggie, the family she will never know. "Did they love me?" she whispers. "Was Papa kind? Was Maggie beautiful?"

Dana offers some truths and some falsehoods, knowing she will never see either of them again, and therefore her stories will never be contradicted. Yes, Maggie was beautiful, although she mostly remembers a girl not ten years younger than her calling her a whore and a witch and a false mother. Yes, they loved her. No, Emily will never know her sister, because though she did love Emily (although Dana does not know if this is true), she did not feel the same for Dana. There is a picture that Daniel had made before they went, of Maggie, her hair combed nearly and gathered up, wearing her best dress, her cheeks thin, and Emily sitting on her lap, her face twisted with displeasure at having to sit still for quite so long. Emily loves to look at it, and of the faded portrait of the two of them on their wedding day, though Dana does not feel the same. But she allows Emily these frivolities. She cannot give her much more than that.

---

She meets him by accident one Sunday, her one and only day off from the factory. She and Emily go to Mass every Sunday, of course, and then she spends much of the day helping Barbara to clean, cook, do the laundry (she always does hers and Emily's, at least; though Barbara has the time in the day to do it, she will not accept the favor). She takes a rest, sometimes, or she spends time with Emily, playing jacks or cards (Luke Doggett taught her to gamble, and she cannot shake the habit), or with the worn rag doll she and Melissa had made for her in Ireland, or reading to her. Her favorite is a newer one by a man named Melville. Dana relishes the time alone with her daughter, as she is often too tired to do anything like this after work. She has meant to teach Emily to read and write herself, considering that she's too young to start school yet, and John claims that most children already know a bit before they begin school, but she's barely had the time to teach her more than a few words. Sometimes on Sundays, they have a brief lesson, but there is so little time in the week.

One Sunday, after Dana has hung the laundry, and scrubbed the floor, and washed the dishes, she decides to go and find Emily, thinking they can read another chapter of Melville, perhaps. (She likes the book, she will admit; it reminds her of her father and his stories of the sea.) She expects to find Emily on the tail of Luke and his friends—they are much older than her, but her lonely girl still follows her around like he is the brother she'll never have—but Luke claims he has not seen her. She finds her, finally, on the steps of the building, an old reader Luke had kept open on her lap, squinting furiously at the page. A man is sitting beside her, pointing out the words on the page, speaking in a calm and patient voice. Dana recognizes the man immediately as their neighbor, Mr. Mulder, a schoolteacher who she has spoken to in the hall before. She's seen him occasionally playing with the young boys in the building, or talking with the men and women about books, plays, politics, scientific discoveries. She'd had a particular long discussion with him once on the effects of anesthesia in medicine, which Daniel had commented on several times.

"Emily," she says, and Emily scrambles to her feet and runs to her side, beaming with excitement. "Mama, this is Mr. Mulder, the schoolteacher," she says in a rush, tugging at her skirt. "He saw me trying to read and he offered to help!"

"He did?" She strokes the top of her daughter's head, messy from where she's taken it out of her braids, stealing a look at the man.

"My apologies, Miss Scully," Mr. Mulder offers, getting to his feet. "I didn't mean to intrude… I only wanted to help, if I could."

"It's not an intrusion," Dana says, but she is still wary. "I have been trying to teach her, but I often cannot find the time, and she's so desperate to learn. She's still too young for school yet." And privately, Dana worries about what Emily will go through when she enters school, considering the anger New Yorkers have for immigrants. There is a Catholic school she's looking at, simply because it seems like the best option, but it still is too easy to worry.

"Mama," Emily whispers, tugging her skirt again as if she finds her embarrassing.

Mr. Mulder smiles a bit. "Your daughter is very intelligent. She should have no trouble catching up."

"I'm six years old," Emily informs Mr. Mulder, her back automatically straightening as if to look older. "In a year's time, Mama says she can put me in school."

"I'm sure you're very excited," Mr. Mulder says, without even a hint of indulgence in his voice. Emily nods, a little shyly. Mr. Mulder seems to be thinking a bit on the subject, but he speaks soon after. "Perhaps if your mother permits it," he says, speaking as much to Dana as to Emily, "I could tutor you in my spare time. Teach you your letters and give you a head start on reading."

Emily's eyes light up, shyness forgotten, and she tugs pleadingly on Dana's skirt. "That would be wonderful!" she breathes. "Please, Mama, can't I do it?"

"I don't know, Em… I wouldn't want to impose on Mr. Mulder's time." The man certainly seems smart enough to educate her daughter, but it seems too large a favor to ask of a complete stranger. It is also worth noting that she doesn't know the man very well outside of polite conversations in the hallway. She offers Mr. Mulder an apologetic smile.

"It's not an imposition at all," he says. "I would be glad to do it."

Dana bites her lower lip, her hand on her daughter's boney shoulder. "I-I could not afford to pay you anything," she says softly, although that may be obvious. None of them are wealthy—that is why they live here. But she may be a step down from the rest, staying in the corner of a friend's apartment with a screen instead of a wall, using her meager earnings to buy unsubstantial meals and pay a portion of the rent. If she had the money, she would get Emily and herself their own place, but she's got something of a disadvantage in that area. There isn't much she can do to rectify it.

Mr. Mulder shakes his head immediately. "No money is required," he says, his voice full of sincerity. "I would be glad to do it as a favor."

"I could not ask that of you…" she tries, but he halts her protests quickly. "Do not worry about it," he says. "When I was younger, my little sister was not allowed to go to school as I was, and she wanted to learn as badly as Emily. I tried to teach her, but I wasn't very good at it." He offers a rueful little smile. "I would be glad to be able to give someone else the opportunity where I couldn't give it to her."

Emily tugs at her skirt again and whispers, "Please."

Dana chews her lower lip again and sighs. "If you are absolutely sure it would not be a problem, Mr. Mulder," she says. "I know Emily would appreciate that very much."

Overjoyed, Emily bounces up and down on her toes with excitement. Mr. Mulder smiles at the both of them widely. "I can assure you it won't be a problem, Miss Scully," he tells her. "It will be my pleasure."

---

They practice reading each night, at least for a little while. Even when Dana is so tired she can scarcely keep her eyes open, they spend a few minutes going over Mr. Mulder's lessons, if nothing else. Emily has always been a fast learner, and within a couple of months, she is able to stumble through a page or two of Moby-Dick. Dana is incredibly proud. She can remember her own lessons in reading and other forms of education: her father had taught her often when she was younger, alongside Billy and Melissa, but the lessons had more or less stopped at a certain point. Past that, she had more or less taught herself with books of her father's, watching Bill and her father as they worked, more books still from Daniel's vast library. She never wanted that lapse in education for her daughter; it may be inevitable at some point, but she'll do what she can to prevent it.

Emily seems to adore Mr. Mulder as much as she does the lessons. "He is funny, Mama," she tells her in the second week, after she's retrieved her and thanked Mr. Mulder profusely. "And kind, just like John is. Much kinder than the other men in the building. Luke says he's the best schoolteacher he's ever had, and he's very smart and fair to the other children."

"He sounds very nice," says Dana, swinging their hands between them.

"He is." She looks up at her with Missy's eyes. "Was Papa like that?" she asks.

Her voice is so high and innocent, it makes Dana want to cry. No, she thinks, biting her lower lip. She says out loud, "I-I could not say, Em. I don't know Mr. Mulder well enough to make a comparison between him and your father."

Emily nods, her face serious. She looks down at her shoes, almost self-consciously. "I would like to believe that Papa was like Mr. Mulder," she says softly, and Dana squeezes her daughter's hand tightly. "I-I imagine him reading to me some nights, and helping me read. Y-you could take turns. And he could buy me pretty things, perhaps, and teach me all that he knows, like John does for Luke. Do you think he would have, Mama?"

"I know he would have," says Dana. It may be a bit of a lie, but that hardly seems to matter as much as her daughter's happiness.

---

Mulder had done it, originally, because Emily Scully reminded her of his sister. He'd seen her as often as the other children in the apartment building, sometimes hovering after Luke Doggett the way that Samantha had followed him. But more often, he'd seen her by herself, playing alone on the front steps with a ragged doll in hand, or trying desperately to read, hunched over a ragged old reader and struggling out loud to sound out words, dress muddy, pigtails unraveling. And he had thought of Samantha, sneaking reading lessons in the back of their immaculate library, trying to climb up a tree and ripping a hole in her stockings. It had been enough to cause him to offer up free tutoring, on an impulse, remembering his sister and how frustrated she used to get whenever he would leave for school and she would have to stay home. He hadn't been lying about that.

But a part of it was because of his admiration for her mother, Miss Dana Scully, who he'd seen in the halls often beforehand. She is beautiful, and intelligent, and there is something about her that simply draws Mulder to her, in a way he cannot explain. He is sure it won't go anywhere past friendship—Emily has reported that her father died only a few years before, on their trip over from Ireland, and Mulder himself has never particularly expected to be married—but he still enjoys any opportunity to spend time in her company. Particularly the talks they have when she drops by to retrieve Emily after shifts at the factory; they often last long, while they discuss books or plays or scientific theories, anything of the sort. Sometimes, he will ask Emily and Miss Scully to stay and share in his supper, sparse as it is; other times, Miss Scully will invite him to share leftovers of John Doggett's, or whatever cooking she has done herself. Sometimes, he fears he is bothering her, but other times, it seems as if she might like him a bit, too. He cannot tell for sure.

He tells himself it does not matter. He is here mostly to save money, so that he can travel. He hears there is opportunity in the west, but he would be fooling himself if he cited that as the reason. It does not matter to him where he ends up; all that matters is that he finds his sister and brings her home, after all of these years.

But still, he enjoys tutoring Emily. She's a bright young girl, a quick learner, and sweet. He does not know anything of her father aside from his death, but she still undeniably resembles her mother in every way he can see. He teaches her a bit of mathematics after she's gained some talent in reading and writing, and she enjoys that immensely. She has a load of questions for him every time she sees him: about stars, about history, about how things work and why they happen and where places are. Sometimes, Miss Scully will answer her before he can even open his mouth, blushing a little after and looking at him as if to see if he minds. He never does.

---

She shows up at his door after midnight, her face white, shaking. Emily at her side, curled into her with a blanket wrapped around her shoulder, her face hidden in Miss Scully's skirt, crying softly. For a second, Mulder doesn't know what to do, what to say. "Miss Scully, is… is everything okay?" he stammers, clutching his door in one hand. He sees a sudden splotch of red on her dress, alarming and bright. "Are you hurt?" he stammers.

She's shaking her head. "No, no, Mr. Mulder, it's not that, it's just…" She swallows hard, her eyes wide and helpless. "I-I need you to take care of Emily. I need to leave her here. Please."

Emily seems to clutch Miss Scully's skirt harder at that, shaking her head and crying more frantically. She mumbles something that sounds a bit like, "Don't leave me, Mama, don't leave me."

Mulder takes a sharp breath and opens the door wider. "Come in, come in," he says, and Miss Scully does, stroking Emily's mussed hair with quivering fingers. "W-what has happened, Miss Scully? Perhaps I can help."

Miss Scully clenches her chin and shakes her head, her face turned down towards her daughter. "I-I cannot… I do not have time for this, Mr. Mulder. I… Please. Please, Mr. Mulder, I have to leave, they will be coming for me."

"Who?" On an impulse, he reaches out and takes her free hand. It is cold and soft, and as he draws it closer, he sees the same glimpses of red, red crescents under her fingernails. "Who is it, Miss Scully? Who is coming for you?"

Emily's sobs are heart wrenching, even muffled by Miss Scully's skirt. Miss Scully looks to be on the verge of tears herself. She does not pull her hand away. "The… the police," she whispers.

"The police?" Mulder's mind tightens in fear as he remembers something suddenly, something he has often forgotten: the Irish are not well liked here. He wonders if these prejudices have somehow found the Scullys. "What has happened?"

Miss Scully bites her lower lip before lifting her chin so that her clear, blue eyes meet his. "There… there was a fight at a bar," she says tentatively. "John's son was involved, and so he intervened, and was injured. They followed him home. I… intervened, and I… harmed a man in an attempt to protect the Doggetts and my daughter." Her chin quivers once, steadies. She presses a hand over her daughter's head, spreading her fingers over her scalp. "He's dead," she whispers. "And he… he was police. So they'll be coming for me, to arrest me, and I… I will not find mercy here. I have learned that much."

His mind racing, he stammers, "But that… that is not murder, Miss Scully… that is self defense. A-any jury would see that."

She laughs bitterly. "But who can prove it? Emily did not see, and Barbara and John had already slipped down the fire escape. The only witnesses are the men who would have me arrested. And I will be convicted. Americans do not have any sympathy for women of my background." She swallows again, her pale white throat, a bruise blooming underneath her jaw. The sight of it makes Mulder furious. He is still clutching her limp hand. "S-so I am begging you, please take my daughter," she whispers. "She adores you. Take her, a-and take the money I have saved, and you can send her west, to my brother's house… I have to go. If they catch me, I can't let them get her. And if I escape…"

"Please, Mama, please don't go," Emily whimpers, drawing back, her cheeks smeared her tears. "Don't leave me alone, Mama, please."

"I have to, sweetheart." Miss Scully leans down to kiss her daughter's hair. Mulder can see her tears falling, glistening in the candlelight. "I must. But you will be safe here…"

"I cannot do this," says Mulder, speaking abruptly, almost without thinking.

Miss Scully's eyes widen with horror, and she pulls back her hand as she looks up at him. "You… you will not help me?" she whispers furiously. "After everything, I-I thought you cared for my daughter… cared for me, as a friend…"

"N-no, Miss Scully, y-you misunderstand," he stammers, his eyes wide. "I will protect Emily, of course I will protect Emily, but I… I will not leave you to be arrested."

Her eyes widen in surprise. "You are foolish to offer this," she whispers. "If they catch me… you cannot hide me here, Mr. Mulder."

"I cannot," he agrees. "But I can get you out of the city. You and your daughter both." His mind is racing, full of ideas. "I-I have friends I trust, a house I could take you to tonight. And tomorrow, we-we could go to my mother's house, in Massachusetts, for the time being. The two of you could stay there until… until we figure out a way to get you to your brother's."

Miss Scully is quiet, her eyes wide. Emily, leaning into her mother, is looking between the two of them curiously, like she is hopeful that this will happen. "You will be safe," Mulder adds. "Both of you. I promise you that."

"I could not ask that of you, Mr. Mulder," Miss Scully whispers. "It is too much."

"It's not." Mulder thinks of the money, put aside to search for Samantha. Enough for three train tickets north at least, if not a little left over after to fund a trip to wherever Miss Scully's brother is. A part of him is reluctant to spend the money he has been saving for so long—part of him feels like he is abandoning his sister, his family—but the rest of him is remembering Samantha at seven, at eight, more caring and compassionate than anyone in his family. She rescued animals (kittens, baby birds, piglets from the barn), knitted things with their mother to send to the local orphanage, shared her food with the servants on occasion and stole food from the pantry for the family down the road who never had enough food. She would want him to help them; he can still picture her wide, teary eyes, her weepy voice prodding him to help them, help them, Fox. And he wants to. He looks at Dana Scully and her daughter, the best companions he's found in the past few months, and he knows immediately that he must help them. He has no choice.

"I have money," he says out loud. "I can get you out of the city. I can help you. Both of you."

"Please, Mama, you must come with us. We can't leave you all alone." Emily hugs her mother hard around the waist, sniffling loudly. "I need you, Mama, please."

Miss Scully looks to her daughter, and then back to Mulder. Her eyes are still wide with fear. She sighs a little, tensely, and whispers, "I'll need to pack some things. My savings…"

"If you tell me what you need, I'll go and get it. You should not have to go back there."

Miss Scully rattles off a list in a quivering voice: clothes for the both of them, a knife that her father gave her, her bundle of coins underneath the bed. Emily tugs on his sleeve and adds softly, "And my dolly, please. And the picture of my sister Maggie, and of Mama's family. There's two of them."

Mulder slips out of his apartment and into theirs and finds it all, bundling it into a ragged carpet bag. He grabs their coats, too, and the family Bible under the bed, and a pistol he finds in John Doggett's part of the apartment. He tucks the pistol into his waistband and goes back to his apartment, where he finds the girls sitting on his bed, Emily curled up asleep in her mother's lap. "There is no need to wake her," he says when he sees Miss Scully moving to do just that. "I can carry her. It may be easier if she is asleep."

She nods, taking the carpet bag from his hands. "I… I cannot begin to thank you, Mr. Mulder," she whispers, shifting Emily off of her lap and standing.

He's begun to gather his own things, shoving his feet into his boots, retrieving his own savings. He puts a few books he cannot bear to part with into his bag, and a drawing he's held onto for years now, a portrait his father commissioned of Samantha. Photography was not in fashion when he and his sister were growing up, and so this drawing is the only memory he has as to what she looked like. "There is no need for thanks."

"You've done too much for us," Miss Scully whispers. She's put on her coat, and Emily's coat, and now she is tying a piece of cloth over her head—he assumes, to hide her bright hair. Her voice, soft as it's been all night, sounds a little different, as if she's trying to sand off the edges of the accent, attempting to sound different. "I… will find a way someday to repay you."

"It is not at all necessary." He shoulders his bag, grabs his hat and pulls it onto his head, before leaning down and scooping up Emily. She is a bit tall to be carried, but much lighter than he expected, barely weighing anything in his arms. She stays asleep, her coat and the blanket hanging off of her lightly. He shifts her in his arms and turns back to Miss Scully. "Shall we go?"

Miss Scully nods, her fingers rushing to button her coat. She grabs her carpet bag, clutching it to her chest, and trails out of the apartment after him.

---

She was twenty-one the first time she was married, at the end of the famine that had plagued her teenage years. She remembered being frightened, if only a little bit. She'd met Daniel a few times beforehand, and though at the time he'd seemed kind and honorable, she found it bizarre that his young daughter was only seven years younger than her. Practically the right age enough to court her younger brother. She hadn't wanted it for herself, it was the last thing she'd wanted in a way, and yet she could not protest. She could feel her mother watching Melissa as she helped her to get ready, and knew she was thinking about the disappointment Melissa had given her by refusing to marry, even driving away potential suitors. Her sister was going to have the life she wanted, and Dana was going to take her place as the honorable daughter, the one who did what she was supposed to do and did not argue. She wasn't marrying Daniel Waterston for herself, but for her father, because it was what he wanted, and she could not stand to let him or her mother down. Her father walked her down the aisle, and she wore the veil her mother had worn when she'd gotten married, and she'd wished to be somewhere else.

Now here she is again, in front of an altar with a man, but her father is dead, and she hasn't seen her mother or sister in years, and her daughter sleeps in the room upstairs, and she is twenty-eight and grimy and dressed in a dress that is too large for her because her own dress has bloodstains on it. She does not feel like a bride. The only good difference, she thinks, is that she knows her husband-to-be better than she perhaps ever knew Daniel. She knows he is intelligent and kind, and willing to protect herself and her daughter. And no matter the reason for this impromptu, inconvenient marriage, she is glad for at least that.

Mr. Mulder is holding her hands, so gently in his, and he's not quite meeting her eyes, but she can still see kindness in his face. She doesn't quite have the courage to look at him, either, and so she looks down at her boots. Mr. Frohike, their witness, stands in the corner. The preacher, a friend of Mr. Frohike, stands before them without asking questions. He simply opens the Bible and says the words, all the right ones. Dana and Mr. Mulder say what they are meant to, too, and then it is done. They do not kiss, not even chastely. There is no music or flowers or white dresses. Dana could not care less.

Just before the ceremony, Mr. Mulder leaned down to whisper in her ear, saying, "I promise you I will be a gentleman, Miss Scully. This marriage is for the safety of you and your daughter. It doesn’t have to mean a thing."

She blushed immediately, heat rising on her cheeks, and looked to the ground. "I cannot thank you enough, Mr. Mulder," she had said softly. "And you need not worry. I trust you."

When she looked back at him, he was smiling. "Perhaps we should do away with the formalities, Miss Scully."

"Perhaps," she had agreed, a bit amused. "I won't be a Miss anymore, after all." She offered him a small smile back, still unbelieving that he was helping her so much, that he was willing to hide and marry a murderess. A man she barely knew. "Shall I call you Fox?" she asks.

Mr. Mulder had flinched, just a bit, and shook his head. "Perhaps… just Mulder, if you do not mind. I have never liked my first name, and most people I know call me Mulder."

It's unusual, but it's no more unusual than the rest of this situation. Dana smiles and nods. "Well, you may call me Dana or Scully, I suppose," she said lightly, unsure of why except that he has always called her Miss Scully, like she has always called him Mr. Mulder. "Whichever appeals to you."

"Which appeals to you more, Miss Scully?" he'd asked, teasing, and then the preacher had been ready, and now here they are.

Once, she had believed she would never get married again. Now, she is married, and she has no idea whether or not it counts.

Mr. Mulder—Mulder—keeps hold of her hand as they go back upstairs to Emily. It's the first time anyone has held her hand in years, and she is surprised by how nice it feels, his warm and callused fingers wrapped around hers. Daniel's hands had been cool, his touch unyielding, his voice the same faux-polite sound it always was as he talked to everyone but her. Mulder's hands are gentle, holding her hand carefully—not as if it is fragile and may break, but as if it is something precious, something he cares for. She knows this is not quite the case, it cannot be, but it is nice to pretend, for just a moment, that this is a true marriage, that she and Mulder love each other as a husband and wife should.

#i miss writing for this fandom sometimes... it and asoiaf are fun but this is so comfy #xf fanfic #i wrote this

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ninetyfivepercentstress · 4 years

Note

im tryna read mcpricely stuff, any recs?

hey! im surprised i got this ask over here instead of on my sideblog lol but i definitely have a lot of recs!

first, you definitely have to read the bible: A Portrait of Kevin Price as Young Mormon by neverbirds. This is by far the most impactful fic in the fandom. Rent out a couple of hours on the couch and read it straight through. I first read this years ago, and my last reread was about a year back? And I still think about this shit at least once a week. After that, read the author’s companion fic: A Sketch of Connor McKinley. It’s the missing scenes from A Portrait from Connor’s perspective.

Reading anything adele neverbirds has written is a good bet tbh, but quite a few of her fics are unfinished. Read those at your own risk bc you will become obsessed with them and will be driven mad by the lack of an ending. Even so, this fandom owes neverbirds the world.

Little Syncopations by deliarium is also a great starter fic. Classic 5+1 fic from Connor’s perspective. I think this one established a lot of well-known tropes in the mcpriceley fandom that we all joke about.

There’s also this really, really long running fic called Four States, One Journey by strengthsbasedmediocrity. I haven’t been able to bring myself to read it yet because it’s long, heavy, and I’m not emotionally stable enough to embark on this journey yet. But it’s one hell of a fic from what I’ve heard. If you’re looking for a well-balanced meal and maybe some emotional catharsis, this one’s up there with A Portrait.

A huge fav of mine is also miserably, honestly, imperceptively by cherryfizzies. Just the summary alone is iconic, another trope-establisher in this fandom: oblivious!kevin and emotionally-mature!arnaba.

Just about anything on this list of @appleflavoredkitkats‘s is iconic. This is dedication tbh, here’s the list. I’ve found so many of my favorite fics through that list.

Ok idk how old you are so idk how appropriate this is but it wouldn’t be complete without mentioning greerian ‘s contributions to this fandom. I think we collectively cancelled him a few years back bc of some of the fucked up borderline torture porn he was writing (he was also here on tumblr under the same name), but he’s got the most iconic smut and angst fics around I think. Another major trope establisher, this fic here The Size of Orlando, Florida is the origin of praise-kink!kevin, which everyone assumes is canon these days. There’s a companion fic to this one as well, With a Sunflower Tie. Just steer clear of the pricingham and Soul-Eater and you’ll be fine. The fact that I can name Soul-Eater by name when I only read like two paragraphs of it two years ago is a testament to how overwhelmingly dark it is. If you have any sort of sexual trauma, stay away from it.

Mirimea is also an iconic smut writer of the first-gen BOM fans, with classics like It Is Now and Slow Hand, both of which have reread value. Mirimea also gave us As It Is, which is one of my favorite soulmate AUs for any fandom ever.

As far as other tumblr users go, i recommend @elderkevinmckinley and my mutual @statsvitenskap xx. I believe they’re also on AO3 under the same usernames. Definitely check their stuff out too!

If you thought this whole post was too long and you don’t want to read any of it, PLEASE READ THIS RIGHT HERE. Because you are missing out if you don’t read ESawyer’s works. She’s here as @e-sawyer as well and I owe her all the rights. She writes a lot of multichapter stuff, as well as one-shots. I don’t think she’s written a single fic that didn’t knock all my expectations out of the park. She recently finished Loveth His Children, which is from Jack’s perspective (I’m a sucker for fics from OC/very minor characters’ POV) which was so so so good omg I can’t recommend it enough. A couple of her other iconic multichapter works are There's Only Good Things Ahead of Us Now, Kev, The 11 Things That This Gay Ex-Mormon Will Achieve, and this series In Darkness, Light. She’s also got this series of masseuse!connor fics which i adore: Magic Hands. She’s also got this iconic smutty one shot Unholy Matrimony if you’re interested in nsfw stuff. Another legendary one-shot: 2:00 AM. Also she just started this new multichapter fic that centers around the Price family dynamics against a McPriceley backdrop and I’m already obsessed with it: Cardboard Mother. This turned into a really ugly ramble but she’s literally my favorite author in this fandom right now. Love your work ma’am xx

Anyways if I think of any more I might add them later but gjhdfhgkjdsf. Stan ESawyer and neverbirds and have an excellent day anon

#the book of mormon #mcpriceley #broadway #musicals #fanfiction #fanfic #musical theater #fic rec #vous me posez une question #recommendations

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tatselk · 4 years

Text

The Tichy Trident Inn

Description: My entry for the Reddit Bi-Weekly Build Challenge, Week 101: Lodging with Spirits; Haunted Hotels & Spooky Staycation Spots: “Known as the oldest surviving hotel in Windenburg, the historic Tichy Trident Inn offers characterful rooms, hearty meals and a handy location to explore the nearby Ancient Ruins. But just beware of the various, ahem, long term residents of the inn!”

Key Elements of Challenge: • Spooky, dark atmosphere. • Original/vintage furnishings with unique room styles. • Historical property with ghost-lore galore! There should be at least one supernatural presence.

Requirements of Challenge: • One entry per person. • Must have at least 5 bedrooms. • Residential, rental or commercial properties OK (NO apartments!). • No Photoshopping images. • CC allowed.

Gallery Link: The Tichy Trident Inn

Pictures:

Good evening and welcome to The Tichy Trident Inn Ghost Tour!

This evening, you will learn about the past of Windenburg’s oldest surviving hotel and explore areas of the inn which are generally not accessible to the public.

Perhaps you may even be able to see for yourself whether The Tichy Trident Inn lives up to its reputation as the most severely haunted building in Windenburg.

Now let’s head inside to begin our tour!

Let me begin by telling you a little about the inn’s history.

The first recorded history of there being a building on this site was from about 800 years ago when the Ancient Ruins were mere Ruins and the inn was just a pub.

This is the oldest part of the inn and formed the entirety of the pub which was on this site 800 years ago.

The pub served as the first port of call for many a weary sailor (or smuggler) who arrived in Windenburg.

This extension was added when the pub was converted to an inn around 600 years ago.

Back then, Windenburg was a powerful maritime hub and its port bustled with activity day and night.

The inn was further extended about 400 years ago to cater to the many travellers who passed through Windenburg to reach the newly-opened University of Britechester.

Due to the age of the inn, it was one of the first buildings ever to be granted the Simsonian Heritage Award. You can see the plaque right here in the lobby!

We are now in what was the bar room of the original pub on this site.

It currently serves as the bar/ dining room of the inn.

Back when the inn was a pub, there was a sailor who practically lived here and had to have 10 drinks each night he was here.

The sailor reportedly liked sitting near this window so that he could watch the comings and goings of the street outside as he drank.

One night, before the sailor could finish his 10th drink for the night, he was called away by someone. The sailor was never seen alive again.

Soon after, glasses were seen flying across the bar room, furniture in the pub were smashed to bits and patrons complained of being nudged out of their seats by unseen forces.

These incidents stopped when the then-pub owner decided to leave a drink near where the sailor used to sit and drink.

About a century later, a particularly cost-conscious pub owner decided to stop leaving these free drinks out to cut costs.

Havoc ensued and the pub nearly went out of business.

Since then, every sensible proprietor of the establishment has left a drink here every night.

And returned in the morning to find an empty glass.

Now let’s return to the lobby and head upstairs for the next part of our tour.

The Tichy Trident Inn boasts 5 charming suites.

A single suite.

A family suite.

A twin suite.

A double suite.

And a honeymoon suite.

Each suite offers its own en-suite bathroom, coffee and tea making facilities, complimentary cookies, a writing desk and complimentary use of a slablet.

But for the purposes of our ghost tour, what is key is that paranormal activity has been reported in nearly all the inn’s suites. We will be visiting each of the supposedly haunted rooms in turn.

A previous guest of the inn’s single suite was a promising young violinist, Madelina Martinelli, who came to Windenburg in the hopes of becoming a court musician at Windenburg Castle.

Unfortunately, before Ms Martinelli got the chance to attend the audition for court musicians at Windenburg Castle, she succumbed to the then-fatal Llama Flu which was sweeping through Windenburg.

Ms Martinelli’s violin remains in the suite for the use of current guests.

However, guests are warned that if they play the violin poorly, the violin’s original owner may give them an, uhh, impromptu violin lesson in the middle of the night.

Featuring enough beds to fit 4 Sims (including a bed for toddlers) and a toy chest, the family suite of the inn is very popular with families and nearly always booked throughout the year.

What these guests may not know is that the toy chest was placed here to appease the spirits of some children who perished here in the Great Fire of-

Uhh, that toy wasn’t there just now, was it?

Ok, who put that toy there when my back was turned?

Did anyone put that toy there? Did anyone even touch the toy chest at all???

(faint giggling of children from all 4 corners of the room)

Let’s… Let’s just… move on then, shall we?

Back in the landing, I note that that door leads to the twin suite which is the only suite in the inn that does not have any ghost stories attached to it.

This is supposedly thanks to the model ship of The Tichy Trident beside the door, which is made from wood sanctified by the Venerated Watcher.

The records of the inn show that this suit of armour was installed after a series of guests’ complaints about the theft of items from their rooms.

Since then, the inn has not encountered a single incident of theft.

But guests seem to have instead taken to complaining about the sounds of creaking metal in the corners of the corridor...

Does anyone need a quick bathroom break before we continue with our tour?

Anyone at all? No? Alright, let’s move on then.

We are now in the inn’s library.

It was set up to cater to the many academically-inclined travellers who passed through Windenburg on their way to study or work at the then-newly opened University of Britechester.

No known ghost stories about the library.

Although that computer in the far end there HAS been known to be rather erratic, especially at night…

The inn’s double suite used to be occupied by the bestselling horror novelist, Lady Daphne Rice.

It was in this very room that Lady Daphne produced many of her most well-loved books like “Conversations with the Ghouls”.

Lady Daphne initially came to Windenburg for about a month to seek inspiration at the Ancient Ruins for her upcoming novel. Lady Daphne ended up loving Windenburg so much that she spent the rest of her life here.

Indeed, some say that Lady Daphne never left Windenburg or the inn.

On certain quiet nights, one could almost hear the distinctive clittering and clattering of Lady Daphne’s typewriter in the corner…

In the height of its prosperity about 200 years ago, the inn added a small but excellent picture gallery to its facilities.

In exchange for giving him a far lower rental rate, the then-owner of the inn even managed to get Mr Brian Leighton, the artist who painted the portraits of Lord and Lady Shallot in Von Haunt Estate, to replicate those portraits for the inn.

More on Mr Leighton later…

We will now move downstairs to visit the final suite in the inn.

Mr Leighton, who painted the Shallots’ portraits, once lived in what is now the honeymoon suite.

The honeymoon suite was created to pay homage to Mr Leighton’s, uhh, many romantic exploits.

Guests are welcome to use the easel on which Mr Leighton himself painted.

However, they are discouraged from leaving their unfinished paintings on the easel overnight. Those who have disregarded this have found their work, for lack of a better word, vandalised.

We will now head into the basement to explore a small portion of Windenburg’s famed labyrinthine network of underground tunnels.

Nobody knew who first built these tunnels or how many of these tunnels there are.

Archaeologists estimate that we have only excavated at most 10% of all these underground tunnels.

But in any case, since time immemorial, people have lived, worked and died in these tunnels.

In the basement of The Tichy Trident Inn, we have discovered what appears to be a shrine of some sort.

This mysterious glowing tree appears to be able to grow without any known source of nutrients.

Note the neatly arranged rows of urns surrounding the tree.

It is unclear whose remains are in the urns, who placed the urns here or why the urns were placed here.

But archaeologists note a particularly important point: the remains in the urns are all from different eras ranging from 1,000 years ago to 50 years ago. This suggests that somebody has been collecting them systematically over the years. HMM.

Alright, alright, that’s enough scaring ourselves for one night.

Let’s get out of here.

Nearly there.

Up those stairs and we will be out of here!

Well, not quite. We have one final stop on our tour.

This is the former office of Mrs Bernadette Beecham who ran the inn like clockwork for over 50 years.

When the current owners of the inn took over the management of the inn, they attempted to remove this office in order to create a bathroom for the staff on the ground floor.

However, after numerous… incidents occurred during the renovation, the current owners gave up on their plan and roped off Mrs Beecham’s former office to prevent anyone from touching the desk.

No incidents have been reported since then.

This is a portrait of Mrs Beecham.

Strangely, there have been reports of a staff member who looks just like her wandering around the inn and tidying things up in the middle of the night…

And now we are back at the lobby where we started the tour.

Before you leave, do check out the books that we have on sale in the inn.

“The Tichy Trident Inn: Its Ghosts and Roasts” is an especially popular read!

We have come to the end of The Tichy Trident Inn Ghost Tour.

Thank you for joining us, and good night!

#redditbuildchallenge #windenburg #hotel #inn #haunted #spooky #scary #tudor #historic #traditional #moo #nocc #ghost #ghost tour #the sims #the sims 4 #the sims 4 challenge #ts4 #ts4 build

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cph-dreaming · 4 years

Text

Extract from An Epilogue

She was used to being awake for hours without end. Having finished her medical exam going through years upon years of hard studying coupled with endless night shifts at the hospital, she thought she knew all there was to know about sleep deprivation. But this was different from anything she had ever experienced before. Of course it was.

She looked up at the sky through the glass roof of Daddy’s studio at the top of their fathers’ house in northern Copenhagen. Outside the sun was slowly setting, painting the few clouds in orange and pink tones. Through the open window she could hear the blackbirds sing goodnight to the tune of the fragrant scent of lilacs in Papa’s garden. It had been a beautiful spring, her husband had told her. She would have to believe him. To Emma Ijzermans Driesen there was nothing beautiful about the spring of 2060.

Her eyes wandered from the skylight around the room. The walls were filled with Daddy’s sketches, photographs and half finished paintings. Some of them were mere studies of the garden, others images of her and her three siblings, but all around the room stuck in between all other motives were the familiar portraits of Papa. As it had always been through her entire life. Wherever they had lived, in whatever room of whatever house or apartment, there had always been at least one of Daddy’s pictures of Papa.

Scattered around the studio were the remnants of their evening meal, half filled wine glasses and unfinished plates on top of whatever surface available. Papa had insisted on trying to at least keep up the appearance of normality. It’s what Daddy would want us to, he had said. So aunt Zoë and uncle Milan had cooked for all of them, and they all had tried to eat and keep on living around the one that could not.

Papa was sitting on one side of the bed, laughing at a story uncle Jens shared with him, aunt Zoë and uncle Milan. On the other side of the bed Daddy’s sister, aunt Laura, discussed something seemingly important with Robert and Hanna. Emma could see that her brother, the oldest of them, was struggling. Of course he was, they all were, but this evening they had to deal with emotions that couldn’t easily be described by one of his usual advertising one-liners, that had become his fame and fortune. Hanna, looking more and more like the old pictures of their grandmother Mama Ijzermans, would probably bottle everything up as she always did with any tough emotion in life.

Next to Emma sitting at the end of the bed was David, the youngest of them, holding aunt Noor’s hand and smiling bravely at what she told him. His eyes, so alike Daddy’s, were sunken. He hadn’t slept in days either. Poor David. He was not only the spitting physical image of Daddy, unfortunately he had also inherited his fragile mind. Well, she would deal with it in the month to come, as would they all. David was the talisman of the family, and all of his older siblings would make sure, he’d be able to go through this. But what about Papa? She looked at her father again.

#wtfock #wtfock fanfic #robbe x sander #is it too much?

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soon-deh-ray · 5 years

Text

short fic thing??

so you may or may not have noticed, but I decided to discontinue my fic since I just wasn’t feeling it anymore and wanted to move on to writing other stuff. however! back in june, I did write one chapter from later on that I never posted on ao3, and since it works as a standalone, I’m gonna put it here. it’s a little under 2k. hope you like!

(quick tw: this is a flashback to the prince and vanessa’s relationship, so there’s some abuse involved. just be aware!)

Once upon a time, there was a Prince, and where there was a prince, there was a Princess.

The two of them had known one another from near-birth, as their families were very close. By the ages of ten, they had spent countless nights staying up together, telling one another stories of knights that would carry pretty girls away from danger in their arms, and of dragons who guarded troves of gold and precious gemstones. There would be talk of playing pranks on kitchen servants and looking for hidden passageways behind bookshelves. They would swap dresses, tell secrets, chase one another in gardens full of fruits and flowers, taking in the sights and smells of childhood, unbothered by the idea of growing up. The possibilities of youth seemed to stretch on until the end of time.

The Prince had clung to the Princess as if she were his protector. People were so confusing to him; they said things that they didn’t mean, and meant things that they didn’t say. The Princess offered solace and straightforwardness. He could count on her. They were friends, and they loved one another, although the idea of romance escaped them until several years later.

The Princess was devoted, and would have defended the Prince with her life. She swore to take care of him through all things, and to stay by his side forever and ever. She promised to be his knight.

***

The Prince had been told from a young age that when he fell in love, it would be like nothing he had ever known. Warmth would blossom in his chest. Birds would sing. He was told that it was the most wonderful thing a person could ever hope to experience, and that, once he knew who he wanted to spend his life with, he must never let go.

The Princess was told the same.

***

Around the time that the two friends had turned fifteen years old, the Prince revealed to his mother that he was a boy.

Though he had feared rejection, his mother instead kissed him on the forehead and told him that she was proud of him. His father, while stoic, expressed a similar sentiment. They had new clothes tailored for him; suits, trousers, and all other manner of boyish outfits. He was allowed to have his hair cut. He was given new tutors for new subjects. He was encouraged to begin courting young women. He was startled by how quickly and how readily his life had changed to suit him, but for the most part, he didn’t mind. He particularly took an interest in his law course.

The Princess also began to change around him, and it wasn’t long before her touches began to linger more than they used to, her hugs growing a little tighter. When they were sixteen, she began to hold his hand, intertwining their fingers everywhere they went. When they were seventeen, they would sneak out to have picnics by the light of the moon. One night, she kissed him softly and told him that she loved him more than anyone else ever could.

When they were eighteen, she promised to be his bride.

***

Alright, so it wasn’t exactly as the adults in his life had told him, but as far as the Prince was concerned, being in love was rather nice. No sparks flew when they kissed, and his feet didn’t float off the ground when they held hands, but he loved his Princess, and was fairly sure that he always had. Being around her felt good, and as far as he told himself, that was all that he really needed.

The Princess would have disagreed. She knew that her Prince was the only one for her, and that she was the only one for him. When they kissed, she felt that sparks did indeed fly, and when they held hands, she felt as if she was above the clouds. She loved her Prince, always had, and always would. It was unconditional. It was timeless. It was the stuff of fairytales and of dreams. She knew for a fact that it was the kind of love that only came around once in a lifetime, and only to the very luckiest of people. Nobody would ever be able to tell her otherwise.

She tried to convince her Prince of this. Eventually, she began to succeed, though she frequently sighed and pouted and pulled her hair when she was concerned that he may not feel the same way. She would furrow her brow and fidget, allowing him to look upon her and see the unhappiness he was causing. He would stumble over his words, apologize, kiss her, tell her he loved her and that he always would.

She told him to swear on his life that he was telling the truth.

He swore.

***

Throughout their late teens and early twenties, many unfortunate things occurred, but through it all, they stuck together, as they had said they would. The Princess would go on to become the Queen, and while the Prince would attempt to assuage her grief with soft words of love, she only grew more upset. It would have seemed that she did not find “Queen” to be as endearing a title, though the Prince did not realize this, and she never did tell.

Once, the Queen sewed extensions into her Prince’s hair and bleached it, convinced that their matching styles would cement them as lovers with a defining trait. When he awoke, he was horrified. He immediately locked himself in the bathroom, cutting his hair far shorter than it had ever been, choppy and unrefined, desperation clear. He had remained in there for hours, feeling sick and reminded of the long hair he’d had as a child. The Queen waited outside the door the entire time, begging him to let her in, telling him that she was sorry, that she hadn’t meant to upset him. She insisted that she had only wished for them to look as close as they felt, that he was worrying her, that he needed to open this door now and let her know everything was alright, because otherwise she didn’t know what she would do. When the Prince did eventually emerge, she embraced him, crying into his shoulder, remorse consuming her. He hugged her back, weakly muttering his own apologies, sapped of strength.

It felt like his natural auburn took ages to return.

***

When he told the Queen that he was leaving to study abroad, she took her dinner plate, hurled it onto the floor, and stomped into the bedroom. The Prince sat there for several minutes, his meal still unfinished, as a servant swept up the shattered china. He excused himself to no one and went to sit on the front porch of the manor, where they had made their winter home.

It was freezing out. The Prince hadn’t taken a jacket. He sat for hours anyway, unable to cry.

It felt like it had been quite a long time since he had last cried.

He contracted a cold that night, which led to pneumonia, delaying his trip by about a month. The Queen had said, unconcerned with hiding her glee, that it was a sign. That he should stay, and that they should finally be wed. The Prince, who was feverish, said nothing. He only smiled faintly.

She was disappointed beyond words when he arranged to go on the trip anyways.

He was to further his study of law, and, hopefully, attain his license to practice within the next year. He promised to write.

She didn’t say a word to him the day that he left.

The next several months were spent in a country that the Prince found to be much warmer, though try as he might, he couldn’t stop thinking about the Queen’s sad face. He wondered what she was doing without him. If everything was running smoothly while he was gone. If she was happy, and healthy, and everything else that she deserved to be. Less than a week after he arrived, he wrote to her of what he had been doing at the Academy, and of his kind and patient tutor.

That was to say nothing of the street corners and plazas where produce he had never heard of, except in books, was sold, he wrote. The sun was hot, which took him some getting used to, seeing as the manor had been so cold, and people walked about with their arms and legs out in the open, which was hard to imagine during even the warmer months in Subcon. When it rained, it poured, and when the sun shone, it felt as if the ground itself were a stovetop.

The Queen hardly read any of it. She seethed, curled up against the bone-chilling walls of the manor, torn pages and spilled ink on the floor. When she responded, her letters were curt, and often spoke of their engagement. The Prince assured her that he loved her. The Queen did not acknowledge it.

The only books he spoke of were those that dealt with the law. She missed the days where he would join her in composing narratives far more fantastical.

Six months into his long excursion, the Prince finally wrote to her that he was planning to return. Summer was ending, and autumn was beginning. The Queen was elated. She wrote to him of how it had felt like decades since she had last looked upon his face, and how she would be waiting with bated breath for his return.

A week later, for the first time in a while, she left the manor to check up on the citizens of the village. They had been doing well for themselves, and were pleased to see her out and about. One child commented that she looked lovely. The Queen smiled and bit back the urge to respond that only her Prince could say such things, and that if he found out that the comment had been made, he would surely be furious at the child’s insolence.

She decided to stop by some of the shops and see if there was anything her Prince might like her to purchase for him as a “welcome home” gift of sorts. Perhaps she could have a portrait of herself framed for him to take back to the Academy, so that he could see her face whenever he was lonely. She decided to first scope out the flower shop, reasoning that he may appreciate a bouquet of their favorite flowers.

When she peeked through the entrance, she was not prepared for what she saw.

Her Prince was holding the hand of the florist. She swallowed dryly, staring at their smiling faces. Her Prince laughed.

He was holding the hand of a whore, and he was laughing, and the Queen witnessed every second of it.

She fled back to the manor, sobbing.

***

The Prince had not cried in such a long time. To do so now was the most liberating thing he had ever experienced.

His heart was broken, and his shoulders weren’t quite in the correct places, and his tears were frozen to his cheeks, but it did not matter.

He had sworn on his life that he would always love her, and now his life was being taken from him.

He was finally free.

***

Her Prince had gone.

Vanessa wept.

#this is old so it's not very great but if i'm not planning on finishing my fic i was like 'eh may as well share this'#long post //#fic #op #the prince #queen vanessa

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moocha-muses · 6 years

Photo

House 6 of Achilles Alley - The Nicest Guys

Darren Dreamer -

Item: A half finished portrait of Cassandra Goth, drawn in a fictionalized state of déshabillé, hidden behind a portrait of a fully dressed Cassandra Goth, commissioned for the Goth portrait gallery by same

Item: Several unfinished canvases piled in the corner, beginning to gather dust

Item: A stack of unpaid bills

Item: Dinner cooked by Dirk Dreamer. His mother’s meatloaf recipe

Item: Bag of groceries purchased by Dirk Dreamer with money from his part-time job

Item: Permission slip for Dirk Dreamer’s school taped to the fridge. Due yesterday. Unsigned

Item: Open carton of milk left on counter

Item: Receipt for new sweater and dress shirt in Cassandra Goth’s favorite colors

Item: Receipt from bookstore, for mystery novel mentioned by Cassandra Goth at last sitting

Item: One stack of handwritten love sonnets, addressed to Cassandra, Calliope, My exquisite Muse, etc.

An excerpt: An ill-choice, not an ill-wind/this one blows well/for us/for you/for my forgiveness/for my touch/for my kiss/on every inch/of your exquisite skin/I have waited/I am waiting/I have never felt such bliss/oh, how certain we will be/when you leave him for me

Item :Cardboard box containing photos of the late Darleen Dreamer, pushed under the bed. Decidedly dusty

Item: A shoe box containing, among other things, a coffee mug with a plum lipstick print and a comb with several long, black hairs in the teeth.

Item: Large drifts of used tissues. The lower strata are are tear-stained. The top layers are . . . not

Andrew Martin -

Yeah, well, I still remember the last blind date you set me up on.

Okay. Fine, fine. Tell me about him. Widower, huh? One kid? Super nice? He lives with who? Is he at least related . . . seriously? . . . and it’s their house? Well, I guess I can understand him still needing some extra support during the mourning period - how long has she been dead? Watcher. I bet they do all his laundry for him.

Is this one at least employed? Gold Farmer? That’s not a real job. No, I don’t care. No, it’s not a real job. What’s the next level, Professional Luigi?

Gold Farmer. Isn’t that when you like, play WOW all day and sell your fake money to people? Do people even still play WOW? I mean, I guess this guy does.

Do you at least have a photo?

. . .

Is he wearing a fucking baseball cap?

Marcel Jocque -

Beautiful. Almost his exact type. Strong, square jaw, blue sky eyes, soft sweep of blonde hair framing that little freckled nose. His palms were sweating. She was fucking adorable.

“You guys do a lot of great work for the school! I’m not one of those guys who looks down on the school team, you know. You work really hard! The least we can do is show our appreciation with a few homemade brownies.”

“Fudge brownies are my favorite, too. Sophia. Marcel Jocque. You know, I saw you play the Cows last week, Your form’s amazing. Whoa, slow down, girls. There’s enough for everyone. Hey, Sophia, what’s your second favorite dessert?”

. . .

“I just can’t believe you asked me out. I mean, I was happy just being friends. You’re way out of my league. Ha! League, get it? I’m glad you did, though. Are you seriously ordering a salad? Oh, come on, this place has the best sandwiches in town. Treat yourself! There’s this one with two kinds of ham and fries on top . . .”

“- but there’s always next year, right? You’re the one who said new recruits don’t own themselves. You’d be on the road all the time . . . Don’t you think, right now, that the most important thing is for us to be there for Violet? I mean, at this stage in her development, she should really have time with both her parents. Besides, I we never see each other any more. The last thing I want is even less time with my gorgeous wife! I know money’s a little tight right now, but I think I really have a shot at getting the loan for this new restaurant. Whatever it lacks in local sports teams, Desiderata makes up for in foodies. Hey, how about we go out for dinner tonight?”

. . .

“Is that what the coach said? Baby, you can’t listen to that kind of thing. You should do what makes you happy. He just wants you to look skinny for magazine covers. You know how he is. Look, put that whey powder right back down and let me fix you one of my famous grilled cheese sandwiches.”

. . .

“I knew this would happen. You were always too good for me. Honey, please. I - I know how you feel but I can’t live without you. You’re my perfect woman. I love you so much. I know we’re struggling right now, and fry clerk isn’t the job I promised about, but I treat you well, don’t I? I’ll be so good to you, Sophie, I swear. I’ll do anything for you. It’ll kill me if you leave.”

. . .

“There’s my girl! Thank you for setting the table, Vi, but let’s try to be on time for meals, okay? You know how important family dinners are to Daddy. Here, hon, have some more potatoes. I made all your favorites.”

#ts2 #the sims 2 #ts2 gameplay #achilles alley #the nicest guys #the first thing both andrew and marcel did was try to tickle darren #he did not go for it #aa darren dreamer #aa marcel jocque #aa andrewmartin #darren dreamer #andrew martin #marcel jocque #these just get longer every time #also creepier #oh well!

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the-amour-scientia-series · 6 years

Photo

Stark-white, Cathy noted, glancing over the unfinished paint job of the Premingers' old picket fence. The former pale yellow was still peeking out from under the the few hasty coats, like a lookout being caught before detention. It made their white-and gray mini-manor look like a hospital lab complex. Even the small front lawn was trimmed and dotted with new patches of grass. It was still early afternoon. Mr and Mrs Preminger were both on separate work trips, but Desiree's senior semester wasn't starting until a few weeks from now, and Andrea was busy helping her with her art thesis. But when she rapped on the door upon reaching the final step, she was surprised that it hadn't been either sister. Eric mirrored her shock, his new glasses sliding slightly off his nose. There was the mark of the frame on his temple, as he fell asleep on a table. The crumple on the sleeves of his pastel button-down confirmed it. For a moment he just stood there blinking, as if he just stepped out of the closet and into the morning. Cathy regarded his half-combed ebony hair, no long enough to sweep past his ears and brows. Like curtains coming to a close after a show. She resisted the urge to touch it. Eric never left home with ungelled hair. Over the weeks of her coming over to the Premingers', Eric had always been strangely asleep. Whether in the morning, or lunchtime, or even when she took a chance one 2 am. Andrea would find him crashed on the couch, or a kitchen stool, even after he'd just finished his coffee, minutes before Cathy would arrive. And Cathy would stay nonetheless, watching him dream of things she would never know of. Was he having nightmares too? Regaining composure, he cleared his throat. "Cathy. It's great to see you." "Great to see you too, Eric," she smiled, and without realizing it she had reached out a free hand and touched his arm. It felt desperate, needy, as if he might collapse again at the mere sight of her. It was meant to be a handshake, after all. Catherine Imogen and Deric Preminger always meant business. Eric gave a confused start, but didn't resist. "Just making sure you're really awake," she joked, trying to lighten the mood. "Were you expecting me?" He still hadn't moved. "I was . . . reading a book. I was getting sleepy but your knocking startled me . . . " Cathy's heart lept, and her hand eased off his elbow. Had it worked? "Care to come inside? I think there's still some pesto bread from lunch. I could toast us a few." "Don't---" she quickly ran through decisions in her head. Stay, and she would have to risk answering his questions. Leave, and she might not see him awake again for months. He noticed her delay, and added, "Des and Dea are on a shopping trip til tomorrow. I was hoping we could . . . talk." Of course, the questions. Eric may have slept for months, but he was still the Eric she knew. Charming enough to satisfy his inquisitive curiosity, yet too headstrong to realize his vulnerabilities. She pushed towards him the novel she was holding the whole time, fingertips slightly brushing as he took it and regarded the cover with a strange look on his face. "I actually just came by to give you this," she finally said, folding her hands behind her back and playing with a lock of long hair. "It's a good fantasy-romance. But it's still realism anyway." He leafed through the pages, thumbing a few occasionally. The long-ish black locks stubbornly made him look like a different person. "Have you been the one returning books to me these past weeks?" She sighed. Leave it to Eric to piece everything together. "What have your sisters been telling you?" "An old friend was returning the books she borrowed from me since she was starting to pack for college. But given the amount of fantasy-mystery hybrids I've been getting, I figured there was something going on." "I thought you liked fantasy-mystery hybrids." He crossed his arms. "I'm not so sure. I've been reading them for a connection, and so far there's been none." "None at all?" Cathy felt her smile fade. "Barely anything to keep me keeping volumes of it on my shelf, that is. Listen, if you don't wanna stay inside, at least have a snack while I change. Let's go for a walk." With five simple words, Eric was already alive and inviting. Cathy had spent so much time seeing him curled up so vulnerably, free from the regrets and consequences of the waking world. She wondered if she had preferred he stay that way, rather than his energy, his enthusiasm, set the unpredictabilities of her formerly routinary days. "You're not gonna read the book yet?" she asked, testing the waters. "I can still do it later. Besides, the house is getting stuffy." ========= Eric immediately led her to the kitchen, as if it were the only place she could remain in the house. But Eric's sisters had taken her to the family room, library, and even in Eric's room where he would sometimes sleep through morning and noon. She'd kept vigil over his sleep, stroking his soft hair and wishing for the calm that had stolen him away. That was all she could ask for comfort. Their kitchen was all polished metal-gray and white tile, but the Premingers rarely made their own meals. Andrea was still learning, but she was learning fast. The garlic pesto bread was as good as gourmet. Cathy was on her second roll when she heard the bedsprings give a sudden loud creak. Panic rising into her chest, she shoved the rest of it into her mouth and ran up to his room, crossing the dining hall where Desiree's eccentric paintings hung. She could feel the stuffiness rising from the canvases, an odd sickly heated scent. But Cathy shoved it away as she reached the top of the stairs, breathlessly, where she could see the half-open door, her former rival passed out. He had managed to get into socks and cargo shorts. But the buttons on his polo hadn't been buttoned, and his half-fetal position told her he was doing that just then. He even still had his glasses on. She deliberately avoided creeping. No, she let her heavy footfalls shake the trophies on his shelves, and dropped herself by his knees when he didn't even stir. He was breathing quietly, a hint of frown on his thick brows. And he was warm, so warm. She straightened out his legs and leaned towards his face, shaking his shoulders and calling out his name. He was murmuring and groaning, but didn't wake up. Disappointed, Cathy crumpled to a heap on his arm. His blue shirt-sleeved polo was crisply-clean, but slight perspiration had built up on his skin and formed a scented atmosphere on him, chasing the nausea out his open door. Cathy looked up at him, startled. "Mmmm...hmm..." he was murmuring indulgently. Did he enjoy this...escape? Cathy's nights had been filled with visions: strong ones that left her in cold sweat as she forgot about it in the morning. For the rest of the day, she would be walking on eggshells. Eric's sisters had confirmed his melancholic distance over the past weeks, but whether it was also because of nightmares, she never knew. But he was sleeping like a babe, oblivious to the past the shared and the consequences they had to deal with. It wasn't fair. Cathy cupped his cheek and ran her thumb under his eyes; weeks of oversleeping had erased nearly all his dark shadows. She carefully removed his glasses and set them on the bedside table. Then she saw it. A small stack of portrait sketches, all done in messy but scary-accurate black ink. She recognized every one of them. How did Eric get his hands on these police evidence? Eric shifted position until his arm fell on top of her waist. Cathy dropped the papers in surprise. His breath was warm on her neck, despite the collared cotton shirt she wore all the time. He was embracing her --- in bed, for goodness' sake. Hot and embarrassed, she made to got up. But as if sensing her intention, Eric gave a sudden jerk. He clutched her, burying into her skin. She gasped. She could feel the strangeness of everything, as if she was wearing a new uniform for the first time. Her skin was receiving signals from everywhere: the crumpling of their clothes, the shoulder under her cheek, the coarseness of his legs. Why the hell did she choose to wear shorts today? She felt herself falling off the side of the bed and thought that the noise would wake him up. But she caught sight of the fallen sketches on the floor, and Lorelei half-turned to her with her usual pensive, yet sad expression. She was the one who wanted this. Lorelei had been so madly in love with Eric that she bet on her life just to keep Cathy and him from rivaling. A wave of nausea hit again, this time carrying with it the metallic scent of blood. Cathy turned and buried her face into his chest, where his scent and sweat were so strong thoughts of the past flew from her. Was this how he forgot? Almost in reply, he gave a slight nuzzle on the nose. Yes, it was. Cathy looked at him in awe, imagining how his big brown eyes would open to find her here, exhausted and escaping, just as he did. And when that happens, he'll be a new person, and so would she. ========== (Photo by Matheus Vinicius on Unsplash)

#work in progress #wip #amwriting #writer #writers #writers on tumblr #my writing #mysterious #mystery #lovehate #romance #chemistry

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runenc03 · 3 years

Text

HH - Sean’s third year (part 3)

Writing date: August 2019

Genre: still fluff, actually the entirety of Hogwarts Highlights is fluff tbh.

Warnings: none, except some kissing but I don’t think a warning is necessary :) OH AND BETA-ED CONTENT! Thanks Annie, ily

Word count: 7.4k

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

Summer

Dear Sean

I have so much to tell you that I don't even know where to start! As you know, we're in France at the moment, and I'm honestly having a blast. I even made some new French friends a few days ago! Can you believe that I, small and shy Kaycee Granger, socialised?

Yesterday, mum, dad, Hermione and I explored a small village nearby a little bit. Kylie and Devon claimed that a vacation is supposed to be a period of time where you just lay down and relax, but honestly, that's nothing for me. Anyway, we went and explored a little bit, and suddenly, we came across a boy around our age, with Asian roots, and he was tap dancing on a little platform he'd layed down on the corner of the street. He was really good, so a lot of people put some money into the hat he had put on the ground, but he still seemed to be a bit timid, humble, when he wasn't dancing. He reminded me of you, Sean. Honestly, I miss you. So much. I know that I'm supposed to enjoy my vacation, and I really do, but it's just not the same, away from you. Does that make sense? I really hope so..

"You really care about him, don't you?"

Kaycee turned around, startled by the voice that sounded so close to her. It was Hermione, peeking over her shoulder to read the letter she was currently writing to Sean. Kaycee had thought that it was safe to write him now, because everyone had gone to bed, but apparently, Hermione hadn't been asleep.

"Of course I care about him. Isn't that normal? You care about him as well, don't you?"

A small, knowing smile made its way to her sister's face.

"I care for him, yes, he's my best friend, but something inside of me tells me that you care about him more than I do."

Kaycee didn't like where this conversation was heading, even if she didn't really know why she felt so uncomfortable suddenly. Carefully, she began folding her arms over her letter, so Hermione couldn't read it anymore. She loved her sister dearly, but sometimes she just didn't want an analysis of everything she did. This was personal.

"What do you mean, I care more for him than you do? You're his best friend, Hermione, I think you're supposed to care for him more than I do!"

She was getting irritated, but her sister's little smile stayed etched on her face.

"Nevermind. You'll understand eventually, I'm sure of that. I'm going to go to sleep now, don't stay up too late, alright? We have a busy day tomorrow. Sleep well Kayc..."

And with that, Hermione turned around and went upstairs, leaving Kaycee with a lot of questions and an unfinished letter.

Might as well finish it, then there's at least one thing I don't have to worry about anymore..

Kaycee grabbed her pen again, since she was writing to him the muggle way, and continued where she left of:

It's pretty late right now, so I'm going to make this last bit a little shorter. I just wanted to tell you that I miss you lots, and that I really look forward to seeing you again on the hogwarts express! We're sitting in the same cabin, right? I really want to catch up with you, it's been such a long time since I last saw you...I hope you're okay too. I hope that you're having just as much fun as I have, because you deserve it. You deserve so much Sean. I really can't thank you enough for everything you've done for me in the past, and everything I'm sure you will do for me in the future, because you're such a generous soul. I'm so happy that you came into my life, Shamu..thank you. Really.

I'm thinking about you.

Kaycee

Satisfied with her letter, she put her pen down and folded the piece of paper, putting it in the envelope she'd made earlier. Then, she stood up and went upstairs, to go to sleep. Hermione was right, it was going to be a busy day tomorrow, but she was determined to enjoy every single second of her vacation with her family. Still, a small part of her just wanted to be with Sean. That boy was going to get one hell of a hug when she saw him again..

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

"Hey Sean!"

Sean smiled at the chorus of 'hi's' that echoed Hermione's. They were in the Great Hall, everyone had just finished eating their first dinner of the new school year. Right before the feast, Dumbledore had announced that people were allowed to go sit at other houses' tables after their dinner, and Sean decided to make good use of that offer.

"Ronald, honestly, this is the 5th plate you're eating. Isn't it a bit much? I get nauseous just seeing you stuff your mouth!"

Sean turned towards Hermione, who was now beside him, and laid his hand on her shoulder, trying to calm her. He actually found it hilarious, the way Ron and Hermione always had to bicker so much. They cared about each other, and anyone could see it, except for them, it seemed.

The ravenclaw's smile decreased though, when Ron began growling something at Hermione, clearly not amused with her opinion on his apetite. They all watched him as he forcefully put his fork down, shoved his -still unfinished- plate towards Hermione, who sat opposite of him, and stomped off, leaving Harry, Hermione and Sean behind in the great hall, all shocked by the sudden outburst.

Sean hadn't missed the way Ron had glared at him upon leaving the table, but he had no idea what the glare meant.

"What's going on here? You all look like you've seen a ghost! Although, that's actually not that impossible here. I just keep messing up muggle expressions with magical ones!"

The cheerful, giggling tone of Kaycee brought them all out of their reverie, and Sean couldn't contain a sudden smile from coming up, as much as it confused him. He was about to answer her, but Harry beat him to it.

"Ron stomped off. He became annoyed after Hermione said that he was eating a lot. But he'll get over it, come on, have a seat!"

Kaycee happily took Ron's previous place next to Harry, just as Sean decided to follow Harry's advice to shrug Ron's behaviour off. He sat opposite of Kaycee, and while she engaged in a conversation with her sister, he had all the time to look at her. He didn't even realise he was staring, entirely too occupied, too engrossed in her features to notice what the conversation was going about, or the look of understanding that dawned on Harry's face after looking at his friend for a while. He didn't notice anything, except for Kaycee's curls, gently bouncing when she excitedly nodded at Hermione, or the way her eyes shone, happy to be here again.

And Sean was happy to be here again as well, and it wasn't only because Kaycee was here. Of course it was amazing to have her by his side again, he really had missed her and for some reason, he felt his best when he was with her, but he was also happy to be really here again, in Hogwarts, surrounded by the magic that naturally flowed through his blood. Hogwarts, with its moving staircases and talking portraits, with its floating candles and translucent ghosts.

Hogwarts, where he felt home.

He closed his eyes, smile still evident on his face, and took a moment to take in the atmosphere. He felt the excitement he shared with the other students, to be finally in the castle again. Heart full of emotions, he let the sleepiness caused by his first magical meal wash over him. He'd go to his bed soon, but he wanted to enjoy the warm feeling he had now, sitting with his friends, for a little longer.

His smile increased for the umpteenth time that night.

This was home.

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

Autumn

"Come on Sean, there are Hermione and Ron!"

Sean tried his best to ignore the tingling feeling of his hand, which Kaycee had taken in her own to drag him towards Hermione and Ron, who were already sitting on the bleachers. The first quidditch match was about to begin in less than ten minutes, and it could easily be felt in the atmosphere. The sun was shining its last warm sunrays of the year, and the exciting buzzing of people all around him made him feel really happy. It was a nice day, and even Ron, who had been grumpy for a few days after the confusing incident during their first meal in Hogwarts, was in a great mood because of the quidditch match, judging by the goofy smile on his face.

They barely had time to talk with Ron and Hermione before the quidditch match begun, and soon, the bleachers were filled with the deafening noise of applause and cheering.

Kaycee didn't share the crowd's enthusiasm for long though. The game had only begun about 15 minutes ago, but a few boys suddenly came running into the bleachers. They came to a halt in front of Kaycee, effectively blocking her view.

Now, she wasn't really mad at them, they probably hadn't even noticed her problem since she was really small, but she was still bothered by the lack of view, so she decided to be brave.

"U-uhm, excuse me, could you please move a little? I-I can't see right n-"

"Shove off you baby. We're watching a game."

The boys had rudely interrupted her question, towering over her tiny form and immediately squashing her bravery.

Kaycee sighed, convinced she wasn't going to enjoy this game and might as well go back to her common room to study a bit, but apparently, Sean had other thoughts about that.

"Hey! Shut it! You don't have the right to talk to her like that!"

Kaycee looked up then, taken aback by Sean's sudden anger, but grateful nonetheless. She felt a peculiar warmth spread through her chest, not really knowing what it was, but having a good feeling about that warmth. She smiled at him, trying to convey her gratefulness, and he beamed back at her, dimples showing.

The boys in front of her, however, weren't as impressed with Sean's words. They simply laughed at him, too arrogant to even answer the Ravenclaw.

"Come with me, Kayc. I don't really mind coming to the common room with you. We can study a bit more together for your transfiguration test in two days."

Hermione had barely spoken, when Kaycee's entire form got even smaller, shoulders down, looking defeated.

He didn't want that for her.

He wanted to see her smile, cheering at the quidditch players, having a good time. He wanted her to be happy.

So he did the first thing that came to his mind, afraid that the sisters would be gone by the time he came up with another, probably more sensible idea.

He crouched down.

"Come here Kayc, put your legs on my shoulders, you'll be able to see when I stand up"

Kaycee merely stood there, confused. She hadn't expected Sean to care this much.

"A-are you sure Sean? If I sit on your shoulders, your neck is seriously going to hurt tomorrow.."

But Sean really was sure. He wanted her to be able to enjoy the game, at all costs. If that meant he was going to have a sore neck for the rest of the week, then so be it.

"Don't be silly, I can easily hold you. Now come here"

And so Kaycee did. Somewhat clumsily, she put her legs on both sides of Sean's neck, only feeling safe when Sean wrapped his arms securely around her shins.

She'd expected to feel scared when he'd get up from his crouching position, automatically distancing herself from the ground, but when it came to it, she didn't feel scared at all. She felt surprisingly safe, up there, Sean's hands on her shins, looking over the rude boys in front of them, clearly seeing all the details of the quidditch game.

She didn't know right now, but for the rest of her life, she would get a big smile on her face every time she thought back to this moment...

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

Winter

Sean's steps were echoing through the corridor. It was quite late already, the time almost reaching curfew, but Sean was distancing himself from his common room with every step he took.

A few weeks ago, the Ravenclaw had discovered the way to the kitchens, and, inquisitive as he was, wanted to go inside to actually understand how the house elves made all the delicious Hogwarts food.

Even though students weren't actually allowed inside the kitchens, the house elves quickly grew fond of the boy and gave him permission to enter whenever he wanted. Some of the house elves even became his friends.

Sean knew Filch would eat him alive if he caught him now, but his current craving for a cup of steaming hot milk overpowered his fear.

He'd been to the kitchens so many times already, that he could probably walk to it with his eyes closed. He was just about to turn the last corner before his destination when something made him halt.

A short sniff, barely audible.

He recognised that kind of crying. When he'd been over to the Granger's for a few days before they went to France, Kylie had teasingly asked them if they still knew what a movie was. They'd all watched 'the odd life of Timothy Green' then, Kylie jokingly claiming that a movie with a little bit of magic would be easier for them to understand, and it had resulted in him and Hermione trying to hold back their tears, and Kaycee bawling on his shoulder. He'd tried to make her stop crying then, secretly quite irritated with Kylie for making her sister cry, and after a while of him soothingly rubbing her back, her bawling indeed subsided to some irregular sniffing.

He would always be able to distinguish her specific kind of sniffling from everyone else's.

He hadn't thought about how he would approach her, what he'd ask her, didn't even question if she wanted him to be near her now. He had to see her and make sure that she was okay again.

He hated it if she cried. He didn't know why he felt so strongly about it, since he wasn't as upset when Hermione cried. Of course he was also worried about his best friend, but there was just something about Kaycee that made him jump in protective mode the second there was something wrong with her.

His feet had automatically brought him closer to the sound. He was in front of a deserted classroom now. Slowly, so as to not immediately alarm her of his presence, he pushed open the door, giving himself a clear sight of her slumped form, still shocking with her sniffling. As always, his heart skipped a beat at the sight of her, but this time it wasn't in a good way.

"K-kayc, what's- do you- can I come in?"

He saw her head turn around quickly, not expecting any visitors so late at night. Her wide eyes were red, and her cheeks were blotched, the patterns of her previous tears glistening in the light the candlelights emitted.

"Y-yeah, sure"

Sean couldn't help but get a sort of warm feeling in his heart when he saw that Kaycee did absolutely nothing to hide the fact that she was feeling miserable. She didn't put up a fake smile, nor did she dry her tears.

She trusted him.

Soon, he was by her side, sitting on the ground next to her. He wrapped one of his arms around her, pulling her closer by her shoulder, while the fingers of his other hand wove themselves through her hair. There they sat, Sean slightly rocking both of them back and forth, remaining silent. He knew better than to speak now, knew she needed her time. She would talk when she wanted to, if she wanted to, and he was not going to force anything out of her.

After a while though, she felt the need to talk.

"It's so stupid Sean, that's the reason I didn't come to you or Hermione in the first place. I-"

She sighed, hesitating, and Sean knew she was contemplating whether she should continue or not. He decided it was time to speak up now.

"Go on then, I won't judge, you know that."

He felt her comforted smile against his neck, but it didn't last as long as he'd hoped it would.

"I just miss my family. And the fact that I do makes me feel so silly. I mean, sometimes, when I'm in my class without you or Hermione, I feel so out of place. All those girls are talking about make up and boys, saying who they're dating and who their crush is while I'm sure they don't know anything about love. I mean, how could they, they're only 12 or 13! I only just turned 13! But I- I don't know. Please don't make me feel silly with your answer on this, but sometimes I just feel...older than all the others in my year. It's like I want to have a serious conversation with someone, but no-one actually cares about serious or meaningful things. They only want to spread rumors or talk about silly things and I'm just not- not into those things. At first I thought that I was behind on my age, but when I talk to you I don't feel like that, so now I just feel old and unappreciated whenever I'm with the girls of my year. But then there are the moments when I'm homesick and I just feel like such a baby, so now I don't really know what to think of myself. I-I'm sorry I'm dumping this all on you, Sean."

He could not believe she just said all that.

He could not believe someone as bubbly and happy as Kaycee had to fight all those thoughts, those demons.

"Kayc...oh dear Lord Kaycee, I wish you'd come to me sooner with this...I had no idea you felt like that. Honestly though, do you really feel like a baby when you miss your family?"

Kaycee only meekly nodded her head, rubbing her face on his shoulder.

"Kaycee, honestly, do you think I'm a baby? Because I miss my family as well. Seriously, everyone here misses their family sometimes. You really shouldn't feel guilty about that! And as for the whole feeling older thing...well, I do as well."

Kaycee promptly lifted her head up from the crook of his neck, looking at him with a surprised expression on her face. Sean, funny, social, talented Sean, had the same problems going on in his head as her? For some reason, that just made her feel a whole lot better. She wasn't the only one dealing with stuff. Problems didn't make her a baby. She felt her usual smile take over, gazing into Sean's brown eyes.

"Please don't ever feel bad about missing your family, or about being more sensible than those other girls. You are unique, Kayc, and that's something to be proud of, not ashamed."

He didn't know why he was whispering, it just felt right. He didn't need a loud voice, Kaycee only being inches away from him, her head slightly tilted upwards to look him in the eyes. He felt it, this moment was special to both of them.

His hand went from her back to her face, slowly wiping her tears away with his thumb.

"Thank you."

She was whispering now as well, as if the delicate moment would be broken by speaking too loud.

He'd kissed her forehead in the hospital wing at the end of last year, swiftly, afraid she would wake up or someone would walk in on that. He'd been scared to show her his affection then, afraid that she wouldn't want him this close to her.

He wasn't afraid anymore.

He lowered his head, slowly, for the same reason they were whispering, and kissed her forehead softly, holding her close to him.

And when she nuzzled her face in the crook of his neck afterwards, her lips that were curved in a smile a warm line against his skin, he knew that this time, with her full knowledge of what had happened, it felt even better.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------- Spring

Kaycee would never have guessed she would sleep so well in the Great hall with all her fellow students cramped together and thoughts of Sirius Black creeping through her mind, but she had. Her sleep had been blissfully dreamless and uninterrupted.

That is, until her friend felt the need to wake her up even though the first sunrays of the day had barely had a chance to seep through the stained glass windows.

"Kaycee Granger, goodmorning!"

The fact that Luna had the decency to whisper did nothing to soften the blow of suddenly waking up from her deep sleep.

"Luna...wha-what's going on?"

Kaycee could just make out the excited expression on the Ravenclaw's face.

"Well, there's nothing really going on, I just wanted to ask you if you want to come with me to feed the thestrals. I've wanted to ask you for a while now, but I keep forgetting to do so when I talk to you during the day and when I wake up and go to the thestrals in the morning, I can't ask you because you're still in your common room. So, what do you think?"

"I think that we're not allowed to go outside yet. Do you remember the reason we were forced to sleep like a bunch of sardines in the first place?"

But Luna merely smiled at her friend's concern.

"No, I've been up for quite a while. I heard professor Snape ask professor Dumbledore if he could allow pupils to go outside, and Dumbledore answered that it was safe again now that it isn't completely dark outside anymore.

Kaycee thought about that for a bit. She had liked to sleep a little bit longer, but she was awake now anyway, she might as well use her time to talk with Luna. She didn't make nearly enough time for that, Kaycee realised.

"Alright then, but keep quiet please, other people won't be as forgiving as I if you wake them up."

Luna nodded her head enthusiastically, and helped her up, so they could go outside.

"Why do you even go to the thestrals so early? It's the weekend, you have all the time in the world, Luna."

"Well, the thestrals woke up just like us, they need breakfast too, it wouldn't be nice of me to only give them food in the afternoon, now would it?

Kaycee wondered if Luna realised they hadn't eaten either, but chose to keep that thought to herself. This was Luna, she probably had a good reason for giving the thestrals their breakfast first.

"Also, I pass greenhouse 4 on my way to Hagrid's hut where I pick up the meat for the thestrals. Neville Longbottom is always watering the plants in greenhouse 4 around this time, so I can see him as well if I go this early.

Kaycee lifted an eyebrow and looked at her Ravenclaw friend.

"Neville Longbottom? Isn't he in Gryffindor, in his third year? How did you start talking to him if you aren't in the same year or house?"

"Oh, but I have never talked to him. Not yet anyway. He seems like a really nice guy though, so maybe I should start making my presence known when I watch him working in the greenhouses. Do you think that'd be a good idea?"

Kaycee shouldn't feel surprised that Luna watched a guy in the greenhouses while never talking to him, she knew she shouldn't, it was Luna after all, but she couldn't help it. She burst out laughing.

"What, why are you laughing? Are the wrackspurts making your brain fuzzy? I should've known that would happen, your brain isn't used to being outside so early in the morning so it's extra vulnerable to wrackspurts. Are you okay, Kaycee?"

Kaycee's laughter had subsided by now, but the smile that seemed to be permanently glued on her face whenever Luna was around, stayed.

"No Luna, no wrackspurts are making my brain fuzzy, it's just the fact that you are so positive about a boy you've never talked to is quite funny. I would go talk to him though, Hermione says he's a nice guy, so I guess talking to him wouldn't hurt you."

And Luna's face lit up even more. It was a beautiful sight to see, really.

"Okay, it's decided then. Tomorrow, I'll say hi to him before I go to the thestrals. Oh, this is going to be so wonderful, Kaycee! I've always had a feeling he'd have a role in my life! I can't wait!"

And while Luna accelerated her steps into skipping, Kaycee concluded that that would definitely not be the end of Luna and Neville's quirky story.

Being normal was overrated anyway.

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

"We can't just do nothing, Hermione!! There has to be a way, and I know for a fact that you have exactly what we need to fix everything! You just don't want to give it to us because there's 'too much risk' but you know what? That's freaking selfish! Maybe we have to take a risk, but if we don't, people will literally die. Do you want to be responsible for that Hermione? Because I certainly don't!!"

Sean sat in the hospital wing, watching how Kaycee got furious with Hermione. He didn't like the direction this was going, Kaycee's red cheeks and dilated pupils reminded him too much of last year, when he'd been at the receiving end of her wrath. He never wanted to have to go through that again.

Hermione stood up from the hospital bed Ron laid in, and Sean held his breath. An angry Kaycee made him sad because he made her mad, but an angry Hermione was simply terrifying.

"I know Kayc, but be reasonable for just a second! We can save some people, but we also risk a lot! I don't want you in danger Kaycee, you're my little sister! In the process of saving lives we could get killed ourselves! You have no idea what you're starting with if you go through with this! And you know what? You can't. I won't let you!"

"So you're saying that you'd rather let Buckbeak die, than take some risk yourself. I thought gryffindors were supposed to be brave, Hermione."

No-one said anything to stop the sisters from fighting, Sean noticed. It was understandable, this was their argument after all, although it'd probably be wise if someone stopped them from scratching each other's eyes out. He was just about to say something, when the big, wooden door of the hospital wing made a high pitched, creaking sound, signaling that they had a visitor.

"Now now, misses Granger, what's gotten you both so worked up?"

The low, warm sound of professor Dumbledore sounded through the room effortlessly, even though he hadn't raised his voice at all. Something inside of Sean told him the headmaster knew exactly what was going on.

Hermione wanted to speak up, but surprisingly, Kaycee beat her to it.

"Headmaster, I know how we can save buckbeak, but Hermione doesn't want to go through with my plan because it holds some risk. I understand that it has some dangers, but aren't multiple lives worth a risk?"

The headmaster's eyes began to twinkle looking at Kaycee, and Sean wondered if he knew what kind of plan Kaycee was talking about. He probably did. The professor turned to look at Hermione, addressing her.

"Miss Hermione Granger, I understand your concern, and I'm not a fan of my students taking unnecessary risks, but considering you made it through the unfortunate events a few hours ago and know what's going to happen, I understand your sister as well. I have faith in you all. I'm not going to force you to do anything about the situation, but if you decide to agree on your sister's plan, I'd suggest you turn it 3 times. Good luck."

And with that, he turned around and exited the hospital wing, leaving Sean, Harry, Hermione, Kaycee and Ron to themselves. It stayed silent for a while.

"Why don't you want to go, Mione?"

Kaycee's tone was softer now, looking at her sister with big, sad eyes. Sean's stomach dropped, seeing those eyes. They were supposed to shine with happiness.

He turned his head, looking at Hermione instead. It was easier.

His best friend sighed, as if tired, but Sean knew better. Hermione was just trying to find a way to convince Kaycee that it was better to not take any risks.

"Kayc, that's not it. I do want to go and help, I just don't want you to go with us. You weren't there, and that's what makes it so much more risky. Please, just understand me. I just don't want you hurt. And before you're going to say anything, I'm not babying you because you are a year younger, this is purely because you weren't there."

And she was right. Kaycee hadn't been there. She'd been with Luna going to the thestrals to visit them. It had become a weekly ritual, Kaycee had once told him, since Luna asked her to go with her a few weeks ago. Because Kaycee had been away, Sean had decided to hang out with Hermione, Ron and Harry that afternoon, resulting in him unintentionally getting involved in the whole affair with scabbers being Peter Pettigrew and professor Lupin being friends with Sirius Black.

It had been quite chaotic, and even though he knew it was for the best, Sean didn't look forward to going there again.

"Okay."

He looked up again, having been so lost in thoughts that he hadn't been following the conversation anymore. The 'okay' was Kaycee's, and Sean had to rack his brain to remember what she was referring to.

"A-are you serious? You're not angry? Last year you were angry for weeks at Sean for not including you...are you sure you're okay with this Kayc?"

But Kaycee only smiled bravely at Hermione.

"I'm sure Mione. If I have to choose between you guys saving lives again or nothing at all, then of course I want those lives to be saved. Just...be careful, please. I love you all so much, I don't want any of you hurt. Come back quickly, okay? I'm going to be worried anyway."

Sean's heart felt like it expanded just a bit, Kaycee's inner Huffelpuff coming through just made him really proud of her. She was so brave for letting almost half of her loved ones go on a dangerous mission. He knew that waiting for people to come back safely was often scarier than doing the dangerous things yourself.

Hermione had stood up completely from Ron's bed now, quickly walking to Kaycee to wrap her in a big hug.

The moment was honestly so beautiful.

"I-uh, I guess it's better this way, with Kaycee staying here with me. I mean, I wouldn't want her hurt."

Sean's eyes promptly shifted from the sisters' embrace to Ron, who was looking quite awkward at what he just said, and from the corner of his eye, he saw Harry shooting his best friend a weird look as well. Normally, Sean didn't care at all when Kaycee's other friends showed affection towards her, she was a very likeable person after all, but something about Ron's tone just made him run cold. He didn't really know why, he only knew that Ron's behaviour towards Kaycee had been really strange this year. He couldn't really put his finger on it, something just didn't feel right about Ron's affection towards Kaycee. He was...too nice?

There wasn't much time to overthink the whole situation though, because Hermione was already taking matters in her hands, and he knew that if she was handling the situation, he should probably pay attention. Her plans were always intricate, she wasn't called the brightest witch of their generation for nothing.

"Okay, here's the plan guys. I have two timeturners. The rules say that you can transport a maximum of two people at once with a timeturner. Ron and Kaycee aren't coming with us, which leaves Harry, Sean and myself. I suggest you guys take a timeturner, and I take the other one. I know how this works so I can do it on my own. If something doesn't work out, at least you'll have eachother. Does everyone agree with this?"

Everyone nodded solemnly.

"Alright. Here's your timeturner. Professor Dumbledore said we had to turn it 3 times to travel to the right hour. You always turn clockwise. Put the chain around both of your necks and close your eyes when you're timetraveling, it'll make you less dizzy when you arrive, okay? Now, good luck. I see you in a minute. Oh and Kaycee, don't worry too much please. It's all going to be alright. I love you"

And before anyone else had the time to react, Hermione had spun her own timeturner and dissolved in thin air.

"Alright, come here Harry. We can't let Hermione fix this on her own, now can we?"

Sean hated the way his fingers were slightly shaking as he put the chain over Harry's head. He wasn't supposed to be nervous for this, he had saved Kaycee out of the Chamber of Secrets while Voldemort was in the same room, for Heaven's sake!

He knew deep down why he was nervous though. When Kaycee had been in danger, his head had focussed solely on getting her out. Now that Kaycee was safely inside of the hospital wing, unharmed, there was time to think the situation through, rather than just paralyzing fear of Kaycee being in danger through his veins.

It seemed that his body had his priorities already sorted out.

"Alright, so we needed to turn counter clockwise, 3 times, wasn't it Sean?"

Harry's voice so close to his ear broke him out of his reverie.

"No, Harry stop! It's supposed to be clockw-"

But his voice slowly faded away, like it stayed in the place the words had been spoken, instead of going with him.

Because he, he was timetraveling.

As soon as his surroundings became steady again, he turned to Harry, who had come down next to him.

"Harry! Are you serious?! It was clockwise! Hermione told us one freaking minute ago!! What did you do now?"

But Harry was eager to get his friend to shut up.

"Not so loud, Sean. I'm sorry, I just...I was still thinking about Ron's strange behaviour and counter clockwise seemed to be logical since we're going back in time rather than forward. Let's go, maybe it all didn't matter that much and we can just go find Mione, okay?"

Sean could only set his worries aside as he tried to keep up with Harry, who had began walking out of the -currently empty- hospital wing.

The familiarity of the corridors they went through made his heart slow down a bit, and he had almost calmed himself down enough to focus on the mission they had to accomplish, when Harry abruptly stopped, right behind a corner.

"Why are we -"

But his voice faded away for the second time in only a few minutes, because another voice boomed through the corridor, a voice which made Sean shake to his core.

"I cannot believe this just happened. Honestly Kaycee, how long has this been going on?"

The voice was low, and obviously very angry. Sean wanted to know who was being so aggressive towards Kaycee. What kind of right did he think he had to treat her like that?

"Sean, stop overreacting. This was the first time this happened, and they didn't have any time to do something to me, now did they? You were fast enough to show them I'm all yours"

Behind the corner, Sean's eyes widened tremendously. Kaycee was talking to him.

And she had said that she was 'all his'. He may be only 14, but that didn't mean he didn't know anything about that kind of stuff: she was clearly insinuating that they were together.

He had to look, couldn't help it. He needee actual, visual proof that it was really him and Kaycee behind that corner. Slowly, he laid a hand on Harry's shoulder, wordlessly alerting him of what he was going to do. After Harry nodded to him, he peaked behind the corner, just enough to see him and Kaycee.

And the sight that greeted him made something inside of him just burst, spreading ice cold streams of shock through his body, followed by a warm, fuzzing glow right after.

There he was, at least a few years older than now, probably around 17, with Kaycee next to him, also around that age. He had grown a lot, Sean noted, he seemed much taller than he was now, since he was towering over Kaycee. His bone structure was more defined, and if he looked very closely, he could just make out a very slight stubble on his chin.

He had grown up.

And then there was Kaycee.

He could honestly say that he had never seen someone as beautiful as the young woman behind the corner. Kaycee had always been beautiful, he realised now, but the person standing next to his grown self was just absolutely breathtaking. Her hair wasn't straightened, falling in rich dark ringlets over her shoulders, highlighting her cheekbones and making her eyes shine just a little more.

So some things didn't change after all.

His older self relaxed at Kaycee's words, smiling now. He wrapped an arm around her and rested his hand on her hip, pulling her closer to him, grinning while looking into her eyes.

"That, you absolutely are, my darling. All mine to love."

The older Kaycee looked up to him, eyes still twinkling. Then, she wrapped her arms around his neck, standing on her tiptoes.

And then, she kissed him.

Kaycee actually kissed him. Full on his lips.

And he didn't seem hesitant to kiss back at all, quite the opposite. He smiled into her kiss, the arm that was still wrapped around her waist pulling her closer to him, his other hand weaving through her curly hair, angling her face so he could reach her better.

He had read some books where writers described moments like these as 'it felt unreal' or 'it didn't register at all'. Not with Sean, no. He was completely, thoroughly aware of what was happening in front of him. He felt it in his body, the little shots of electricity that coursed through him, the clammy hands, the frantic beating of his heart.

This was the future. This was real.

Kaycee pulled back from his lips now, but only slightly.

"I love you Shamu"

It was hard to hear from where he stood, since it was only whispered against his lips, but Sean was sure that's exactly what she said. His older self smiled, dimples showing before Kaycee began poking them, resulting in the two falling into a fit of laughter, clinging to eachother, trying to get at least a little bit of oxygen in between these laugh attacks.

He was so concentrated on the couple in front of him, that he didn't feel the tap on his shoulder the first time. It was only when Harry took a hold of his upper arm that he became aware of his current position again. He looked at his friend, who nodded towards a place behind him. Quickly, Sean turned around, only to be hit with another shock.

There was Hermione, just as grown as the two on the other side of the corner. He actually had to look up, he noted. Hermione had always been at least a head shorter than him, but now he had to tilt his head upwards to look into her eyes. He immediately noticed that her hair wasn't as bushy as it was in his time, but fell down into the same graceful curls Kaycee had, although Hermione's hair had always been a few tints lighter than her sister's. Apart from that, the only thing Sean could register was that she looked stressed.

"Come with me, you two. Hurry!"

She took the fabric of his t-shirt and actually pulled her with him. Trying not to stumble, he quickly followed.

As soon as they reached the first classroom the came accross, Hermione pulled both him and Harry inside and swiftly shut the door behind her.

"First of all: don't ever do that anymore. You have no idea how fragile timing is since you've never used a timeturner before, but I'm telling you now that if it wasn't for me, you would've messed up the timeline tremendously. Am I making myself clear?"

They could only nod solemnly. If possible, Hermione had gotten even scarier when angry through the years.

"Alright. I made sure I would be here on time. You haven't seen anything that'd make such a big difference in time. You both saw Kaycee kiss you, Sean, but we all saw that one coming anyway, now didn't we?"

Her tone was more playful now, her face had softened, and Sean released a breath he didn't know he had held in.

He didn't hear Harry snigger at Hermione's words, too busy paying attention to the older version of his best friend.

"Now, as nice as it was meeting your innocent, young selves again, it's better that you go to your present time as fast as possible, alright?"

She walked closer to them, pulling the chain of the timeturner that was still around Harry around Sean's neck as well. Then, she tapped her wand 4 times on the actual clock of the timeturner, looking very concentrated. She was just about to say a spell -Sean had seen that expression a million times before on her face and would always be able to recognise it- before her head shot up again.

"Oh, Sean, before I forget, one advice for you. Don't worry too much about Ron's behaviour. He seems nuts now, I know he does, but he has no intention whatsoever to hurt you or Kaycee, or your relationship for that matter. He has his reasons to act like he does, truly. Okay, it's really time to go now. I love you both so much. See you in a few minutes."

And before he could answer her or even fully register what she had said, her eyes were focused on the time turner again.

"Tempum quattuor anno verto"

The world was spinning again. Sean closed his eyes quickly, trying to ignore the churning sensation in his abdomen. He wanted to find Harry in this swirling mess, desperately in need of something solid, but his hands could only grasp air, or at least something that felt like air.

And then, as soon as it had come, it was over. His feet hit actual floor and his surroundings became clear again.

For the first few seconds, his mind was solely focussed on making sure that they actually came back to the right time and that Harry had come back to the present with him unharmed. It was only when he sat down on one of the vacant hospital beds and took a deep breath, that everything came rushing back to him, as if his mind had bottled up the discoveries of the last hour and abruptly let these revelations spew out of that bottle now.

His voice. Kaycee's hair. He called her darling. She kissed him.

And suddenly, he understood.

He understood all the jumps his heart made when she was around, the nauseous feeling he felt when she laughed with other boys, the goosebumps that erupted on his skin when she touched him.

He was in love with Kaycee Granger.

#hogwarts #hogwartshighlights #seaycee #seanlew #kayceerice #dance #harrypotter #hermionegranger #romione #ronweasley

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withinthescripts · 6 years

Text

Season 2, Cassette 9: Metropolitan Museum of Art (1981)

[tape recorder turns on]

Welcome to the Metropolitan Museum of Art and its new Harlem Island home. I am Elaine Hara, director of contemporary exhibitions. Thank you for attending “Claudia Atieno: in Memoriam”. This exhibition has been curated by Atieno’s friend and fellow artist, Roimata Mangakāhia, who spent two years with Atieno in her artist commune in Cornwall in the early 1970’s. The commune was deserted in 1972, when Atieno vanished. We know of course that she died, although there is much uncertainty and speculation as to how. We might expect that these paintings or Mangakāhia’s narration would address the rumors of foul play or open windows on Atieno’s story, but we feel there’s little to be gained here. Please instead enjoy this retrospective on Atieno’s known life and work, and join us in farewelling one of the 20th century’s greatest artists.

For membership to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, please see the kiosk located at the Hudson River ferry station at the Saint Nicholas Park dock.

[bell chimes]

I have thought long and carefully about what to include in this exhibition. I have thought about which works Claudia would want included, and what she would have left out. It is not easy to guess at a person’s opinions years after they have gone. It is hard to know if the impressions you hold of them are accurate, or if they’ve been colored and altered by the changes that have happened within yourself.

Perhaps it is for the best that she was unable to provide any input into this exhibition. Creative people are not always the best curators of their own work. When you have been so close to a piece for as long as it takes to conceive it, refine it, and in the end create it, it becomes difficult to see how it might fit into a wider picture.

When you are busy examining the flower in front of you, it is hard to see the mountains in the distance. I hope Claudia would approve of my choices. I wish I could share them with her. She is one of the finest artists I have ever known. And I would very much like to know her thoughts on how I’ve chosen to celebrate her work. [tearily] She’s one of the closest friends I’ve ever had, and I would very much like to again hear her feelings on the world, on art, and on ourselves.

I’ve selected a range of works from various points in her career, including the unfinished painting she left behind when she abandoned her home in Cornwall.

[bell chimes]

One. “House with Yellow Door”.

We’ll start one of my favorite of Claudia’s works. It has a playfulness to it that she rarely shows in her work, although it was pervasive in her life. There is a cliché that artists are moody and unfriendly, malcontents who pour so much of themselves into their work that they’ve got nothing left to the people around them. I’m not convinced that this cliché is very often true. It certainly wasn’t in Claudia’s case. She was warm and lively and welcoming. She liked to talk about anything except herself. She was exceptional at pulling people out of herself and loved to be surrounded by people as much as possible.

This painting, while simple, is imbued with that liveliness Claudia carried with her through her life more clearly than anything else she’s done.

Look at the house and its ordinariness. The ordinary street as well. What do you define as ordinary?

You expect to enter this home and be met with a warm meal and a generous glass of wine, which is exactly the kind of expression Claudia gives as well. No one walks away from her unfed, which is as admirable a quality as any I can think of.

What kind of food do you like? Do you need food to feel comfort?

The people standing outside the house are ordinary people. But they look like people who would care about how you are and offer you a place to stay if you needed one.

Do you need a place to stay? What does caring look like?

It is a portrait of Claudia’s past life, of her childhood, and there’s no way to know whether it’s accurate or not. It is a portrait of her house and her family before she was made to leave them. The house no longer exists, and the family are scattered to the winds.

The vision may be an idealized vision of a childhood that never happened in place of a more painful one, or at least a more imperfect one. Or it may be the reality, a snapshot of a life of bliss cut short by the rebuilding of society. It’s hard to say which idea is the more tragic. Perhaps there’s always loss and pain when we look back at a person’s childhood.

[bell chimes]

Two. “Woman in Bath”.

I have never allowed another artist to use me as a subject. Sitting for an artist is tedious at best and I’ve never had much patience. But Claudia was always persuasive, and every artist should know how the person under their brush feels. So here we are.

I lived with Claudia for a while on an island off the coast of Cornwall. The house had a few idiosyncracies. One of which was a bath tub just off the corner of the living room. It stood on its own clawed feet, not hooked up to any plumbing. Filling it took dozens of trips from the kitchen with pots and pans of water. Emptying it was complicated.

Portraits never show the full bredth of a person’s experience, even when that experience is just one moment captured.

What do you see in a portrait like this? The blackness of the woman’s hair, rising above the curved white edge of the bath tub. The curve of her fingers as they droop towards the floor. The steam rising from the water.

Do you see the conversations that happened between artist and subject? You do not. Can you hear what’s being said? You cannot. Can you hear what’s being left unsaid? What are you leaving unsaid? [chuckling] Why would you do that?

A portrait is always a picture of secrecy, no matter how open and honest your subject. No matter how skilled and perceptive the artist. A portrait always hides more than it tells.

So here is the only portrait ever painted of me by another artist, and you can barely see my face, with no hope at all of knowing what I’m thinking. But are you trying anyway? Please, do not.

[bell chimes] [tape recorder turns off] [ads] [tape recorder turns on] [bell chimes]

Three. “The Empty Pier”.

Claudia painted this long before we met. I don’t know where it is, I never asked and if I had, it’s likely she would have evaded the question, spun it around to ask something about me instead.

The beach is lonely and somehow feels like it’s been lonely for a long time. It is not the loneliness of a beach in winter, remembering the laughs and games of summer, feeling like they will never return, even though they come back every year like clockwork. No, this beach feels like it hasn’t seen a human being in years, maybe ever. It is bleak and quiet.

But for the pier, you would think no one had ever discovered it. The pier itself is weathered, but looks sturdy at first glance. It is not until you look closely that you see how rotten and perilous the struts supporting it are. Stretching, brittle, and weak into the sea below.

The sea also looks at first glance reliable and safe. But below the shimmering green of the surface, a darkness moves. It is a portrait of a storm about to strike, of a ground about to fall out under someone’s feet. It is a portrait of peace about to end.

[bell chimes]

Four. “Unfinished Work”.

I did not see this painting until I began planning this exhibition, although Claudia must have started it while we were both in Cornwall. It is a painting of the house, or of the island, or of neither and both those things.

You can see the northwest corner of the house and behind it, the sloping grass leading towards the sea and the sea fading off towards the south. At least you would have been able to see the sea, had she finished the painting. As it is, there’s simply a thin, pale wash waiting to be built upon.

At the southern edge of the island, there are a few sketched-out lines. They could be the beginnings of a tree, although I can’t remember that any tree stood on that part of the island. They could be a figure, standing at the cliff’s edge.

That spot was a favorite of mine while I lived there. At high tide, you could dive into the sea below and it was like – jumping into oblivion. Claudia often asked me how I was brave enough to do it, but it was perfectly safe at high tide. I encouraged her often to take the plunge. It would release her of every feeling, every weight, to fall so far, for so long. And at the moment you feel you cannot stand the sky any longer, the sea hits you, returns you to the cold shock of birth. Your mind clears, your skin aches, and you cannot climb back up quickly enough.

But as with my suggestions about her art, she did not take my suggestions. This was also the last spot I saw her before she went away. I’d been painting outside, taking my last few moments of the sun, (-) [0:14:22] about the horizon to finish a seascape I had been working on for some time. These were also my last few moments on the island before I would travel to Amsterdam.

It was low tide. The time for diving had passed. It was the only thing I wanted to do, besides leave Cornwall to get away from Claudia.

I passed Claudia on my way in to collect my things and head to the mainland, and we said our farewells. Neither of us has ever been sentimental and our farewells were brief. Plus we both assumed it wouldn’t be long til we saw each other again.

But she said: “Roimata,” and when I turned, she hesitated. She rarely hesitated in her words. “I’m… going to take the plunge,” she told me. I wanted this to be figurative and literal. But I understood she was ready to try diving. She did not understand the tides.

The last reflection of the sun’s arc was below the water now. I think of this moment a lot. I play it over and over in my mind.

There was a moment, you see. There was a moment when I could have told her. I could have told her it was low tide.

Can you hear what’s being left unsaid?

That moment is frozen now, perhaps it always has been, I see it from outside my own body. I watch my face, trying to see there what I was thinking, trying to see myself making that decision. Or failing to make that decision. I can’t see it. My face is blank, impassive, pleasant.

I watch myself in the moment, where I didn’t tell Claudia Atieno not to cliff dive. The moment… where I didn’t tell her the tide was out and the water had given way - to sharp rocks.

This was the last time I saw her and honestly cannot tell you what she did, or or what happened to her a-after that moment. I wasn’t there. I didn’t see. I’d already packed and left for Amsterdam, I’d work at the…

I don’t know if she was brave enough to dive in the end, really. I hope she was. [chuckles] I hope she freed herself from the weight of an audience’s expectations. I hope she threw herself into a moment of brief bliss, but no thought as to how that moment might be perceived. I hope she felt the joy of falling into oblivion.

I hope she felt – reborn.

[tape recorder turns off]

Within the Wires is written by Jeffrey Cranor and Janina Matthewson and performed by Rima Te Wiata, with original music by Mary Epworth. Find more of Mary’s music at maryepworth.com.

The voice of Elaine Hara was Leah Nanako Winkler.

Don’t forget to check out the amazing Within the Wires T-shirts and Claudia Atieno artprint at withinthewires.com.

OK, our time is done. It’s you time now. Time to stop by the museum giftshop, grab yourself a souvenir book of paintings about [my 17-year-old cat Simone]. Pick up a poster featuring [goats whispering to other goats]. And buy a commemorative vase made out of [Boston accents].

#within the wires #within the wires transcripts #season 2 #season 2 cassette 9 #metropolitan museum of art (1981)

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