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comfortwriting · 3 years

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Best Friends Brother Part 3 - G.W

Masterlist, Requesting Rules, Writing Prompt Masterlist

This is part 3 of ‘Best Friends Brother’ please read part 1 and part 2, want to be tagged? let me know!

George Weasley x Fem Reader slow burn

Warnings: mention of food and eating, swearing,

The moment your lips touched, fireworks went off around you, George wrapped his arms around you and pulled you close to him - all of your worries withering away, all you could feel was happiness and pure bliss.

George pulled away from the kiss and slowly opened his eyes, you were in shocked and couldn’t believe who’s lips had collided with yours moments before.

Opening your eyes slowly, you stared into George’s brown ones, his gentle hands holding yours and squeezing them softly.

“T-Thank you for tonight” you blushed, letting go of one of his hands, tucking a stray hair behind your ear nervously “It’s been wonderful.”

George smiled softly and nodded “it has” he paused for a moment, his thumb tracing circles into your palm “same time next week?” he asked, sounding quite nervous.

You squeezed his hand back in excitement and nodded “I would love to” you beamed.

Your three month anniversary was hanging around the corner, you had planned a whole day out on Saturday once George finished Quidditch practice, your heart fluttering in excitement and skipping beats, causing you to squirm in your seat - giggling out and squealing, confusing those around you, especially Ron who thought you were going barmy.

Despite seeing each other every day, the two of you were keeping things secret, you weren't ready for anyone to know - George knew his little brother all too well and so did you, Ron would be far from happy.

“George didn’t say anything to you after he, you know?” Ron asked, acting quite shifty in his chair.

“No he didn’t” you replied, “he’s not interested in me Ron, he just hates creeps.”

“Where were you last night?” Ron asked over breakfast, staring at you questioningly.

Shit! Think of something! I totally wasn’t kissing your brother, no, not at all.

“I went for a walk” you lied “I just had so much energy and needed to get out, I found an injured little owlet and was up all night nursing it, he’s helping me get over Penny.”

Ron believed you and nodded slowly “are you sure you’re ready for another owl?” he asked, trying to sound as caring as he could.

You sighed “I think it’s about time, yeah” you replied “It’s been almost over a year so I figured why not.”

So instead, you wrote to each other a few times a week, you had to admit, you quite liked the schedule; Wednesdays and Sundays nights were for the love letters, Saturdays were for dates unless he couldn’t skip Quidditch and the rest of the week you barely spoke and only engaged in eye contact if you were in the company of others - if not, you would hold hands and kiss in empty broom closets or even in the astronomy tower, but it was rare as Fred was never far behind from his twin.

Dearest Y/N,

Although we see each other every day and go on dates most weekends (when Ron isn’t on your back, or when I’m in detention like now) writing to you feels just as good as the real thing - but still bloody ridiculous.

Fred keeps asking what I’ve spent my Galleons on, told him it was for an experiment to do with our products we’re testing - he’s suspicious but believes me after I made myself sick to get out of Quidditch, oh the things I do for you, Y/N.

I think Gideon is the perfect name for the Owlet, mum will be so heart warmed and honoured when she finds out - but don’t bring the galleons into it of course, not until the joke shop is up and running with great success!

Seeing you last night up in the Astronomy tower was nothing short of the highlight of my day, I wish we could do it more often, but not to worry - one day we won’t need to meet up in private at all.

Anyway, I better get back to some homework before the greaseball comes over and reads this - detention with him always drags.

The next one will be longer, I promise, love.

Lots of love,

Georgie.

Dear George,

You should be focusing, get your head down and do your homework if you can bear it, I swear George, the day I receive a letter from you that wasn’t written in detention will be the day I wink at Snape - it’s silly I’m even asking you knowing that it’s never going to happen.

Your letters always cheer me up, Georgie, I can hear your voice as I read, feels like you’re sitting next to me and it’s good enough for me at the time being, I’m so thankful that we aren’t hundreds of miles away from each other.

Hey! You can’t be skipping Quidditch for me, you plonker! Gryffindor team need you and you’re a bloody good Beater - unbeatable in fact but stop skipping! we can make up for a lost date another time, I’ll try not to miss you too much I swear.

Thank you for gifting me Gideon, he is the sweetest little owlet and I cannot wait to watch him grow and to teach him like I did Penny - if his mother will let me that is. I won’t say a word to anyone, no one will know that you did such a thing although I want nothing more than to tell everyone, your kind-heartedness should never go unnoticed.

The joke shop will sweep you up off your feet and I can’t wait to see Weasley wizard Wheezes everywhere I go.

Thank you so much for last night, please don’t forget to send me your Christmas list - please don’t get me anything - Gideon is enough.

Focus on your bloody homework!

Speak soon and lots of love,

Y/N.

Looking over and your Owl, now named Gideon who had grown so much he was no longer a tiny owlet, you stroked his head and giggled at him as he nibbled on your finger.

“Alright, alright, but don’t be out too long” you whispered, opening your bedroom window, Gideon flapping his wings, leaping out and soaring into the night sky.

You beamed at your treasure, flying away to get some food for the evening, climbing into your bed as quietly as you could, hoping you wouldn’t wake up Hermione or your other roommates. Sliding your hand under your pillow, you patted around for the love letters from George you were hiding from everyone.

Your fingers grazed the corners of the crinkled parchment, lifting up your pillow you retrieved his most recent letter, taking it with you as you dive under your covers, shielding you from your roommates and giving you some privacy.

“Lumos!” You whispered, a beam of light stretching out from the tip of your wand, your cheeks flushing again upon seeing George’s handwriting.

Dearest Y/N,

Thank you for the heads-up, saved me and Freddie a lot of trouble, I swear one day Mr Filch and that bloody cat won’t know what’s hit them - if it wasn’t for you, we would’ve lost all of our plans and The Marauders Map, so thank you again for saving us all that trouble.

These three months have flown by so fast, I can’t believe it, I know this seems rather daft - a tall prankster being all lovey-dovey like this, but you really make me happy and I can’t wait to spend more time with you.

If you ever want to test any puking pastilles or fainting fancies, let me know and I’ll be able to look after you, love.

Looking forward to seeing you on Saturday so we can actually speak face to face - if Ron asks, you already know what to say.

Wrap up warm, it’ll be quite cold in Hogsmeade.

Looking forward to seeing you,

lots of love,

Georgie.

“Where are you off to so early? We never see you anymore over the weekend!” Ron complained, a mouthful of bacon.

“Oh get some manners, Ronald!” Hermione hissed, knitting her eyebrows together and grimacing.

You stood on the spot and stared at Ron, trying to plaster the most obvious expression on your face to make him feel stupid. “I’m off to spend some quality time with Gideon, he’s only a few months old and I want to make sure he’s as stable as Penny was at her age - I won’t be able to trust him to send letters long distances otherwise.” you lied.

But in all honesty, you weren’t really lying completely, next weekend was the end of term and the start of the Christmas Holidays - you wanted to make sure Gideon could deliver George’s letters to the burrow, you wouldn’t be able to hide them around for him to stumble across and pick up any more, and the two of you already discussed the problems of trying to use a device which muggles called a telephone.

“I’ll write you letters every week” George whispered, standing next to you in the corridors swarming with busy students, Fred chasing after Angelina outside “look in the middle of your textbooks, I’ll slide them in the middle of the pages.”

Opening up your book, a piece of folded parchment slid down and fell into your lap, you quickly stuffed it into your pocket, looking around to see if Ron noticed - luckily for you who he was copying Hermione’s classwork.

Ron looked lost for words, swallowing his bacon and thinking about your owl and how much you truly loved them “Alright then, well, see you later.” he replied,

You raised your eyebrows and smiled, waving goodbye to him, Harry and Hermione, walking out of the Great Hall and getting ready to meet George in Hogsmeade.

“She spends too much time with that bloody owl if you ask me” Ron muttered, stabbing some peas with his fork.

Hermione sighed “I think it’s quite sweet actually, she’s quite similar to Hagrid.”

Harry grinned and started to laugh, Ron rolled his eyes.

“Except the fact that she’s not a giant and she only flocks to birds of prey, not dragons or creatures that could kill us!”

“Well, at least you know where she’s going” Fred called out, walking past his brother “George never tells me where he’s off to and what he’s up to on a Saturday, he’s skiving Quidditch practice again and I get in bothered for it - I can’t check either because he’s got that sodding map with him!”

George wasn’t wrong, this time of year, Hogsmeade was freezing - your fingers changed colour and you could feel the ache and tingle against the freezing air that nibbled on your exposed skin.

You embraced yourself in one of the jumpers he had given you, one you were wearing under your fluffy winter coat which matched the colour of the snow. Looking around the small Village, you noticed George waiting outside The Three Broomsticks, looking slightly nervous as he scratched the back of his head.

You walked up to him, as you got closer you couldn’t help but blush at his red nose that had been attacked from the harsh winter air “Hello, George” you smiled softly, pulling him into a hug after clearing the coast of possible students.

George held you in his arms for a moment, taking in your scent and the feeling of your face against his chest, your hair under his chin as it rested on your head. “shall we get a drink, love?” he asked softly.

Following him inside and getting sat down in a quieter area of the pub, George ordered you and him a butterbeer and held your hand over the table, casually checking the map every now and then, checking on his brothers.

“It’s so good to see your face” he smiled, his starry eyes getting lost in yours.

You blushed and smiled widely, your drinks being placed down on your table, “It’s so good to see you too, can’t believe it’s been three months already!”

George took a sip of his butterbeer, the butterscotch warming up his tummy, you mirrored him, leaving behind a white foamy moustache. George smirked and leaned over the table, carefully avoiding spilling his drink as he wiped away the foam sitting on your top lip with his thumb, his index finger lifting up your chin.

The two of you exchanged a quick, risky kiss, remembering you needed to tone things down despite how hard the temptation was to snog him. George leaned back in his chair, sucking the foam off his thumb.

“I’ve been training Gideon” you beamed, the butterbeer warming you up “he’s finally got the hang of flying long distances and coming back in one piece.”

Meeting George in the small and squashed broom closet, he examined your tired features, looking slightly concerned, his hand resting against your face.

“Are you alright love?” he asked, “you look exhausted.”

You nodded and replied “I’m fine” suppressing a yawn “been up all night with Gideon, he’s growing so fast and he won’t allow me to baby him forever - he’ll be big enough to deliver letters soon.”

George felt a part of him fall in love with you all over again, the picture of you and Gideon in his mind made his insides got all warm and fuzzy - more so than his drink.

“So now he’ll be delivering you letters over Christmas!”

George went quiet and scratched behind his head like he did when he stood outside the pub, he paused for a moment and pursed his lips, licking them. “About that..” he trailed off, staring at his now half-full glass of butterbeer.

Your insides started to sink suddenly but your hopes were lifting, trying to figure out what he was going to say.

Is he staying at Hogwarts for Christmas with me whilst everyone else goes home? Am I unable to send him letters over Christmas if he goes back home?

“What is it?” you asked, both curiously and nervously.

George broke out into a smile, quickly glancing at the map again, then looking back into his favourite pair of eyes.

“Well, I was wondering...” he paused again “if you would like to stay at the burrow over Christmas, with me, everyone else of course but-”

“Yes!” you squealed, getting excited “oh George I would love to!”

George broke out into a grin, so relieved you were willing to come and spend some more time with him, a chance for the two of you to try and get some private time together, in the comfort of his own home.

“I had to ask mum ‘on behalf of Ron’ so if she says anything, just go through with it” George said quietly “Ron wouldn’t remember asking me to do such a thing anyway - his head is that clouded with Hermione.”

You swallowed down the rest of your drink, remembering to wipe away your foamy moustache this time “This is going to be wonderful, George” you smiled, squeezing his hand over to the table “Two whole weeks that we can just.. just be ourselves together!”

George smiled but remembered to remind you “We still need to keep everything on the down-low, it will be a full house and if we disappear it will be obvious we’re together - we’ll just need to wait for everyone to go to bed or go for a walk when they’re too busy to notice.”

You nodded your head, remembering that you would now be under not just Ron’s watch, but every Weasley who wouldn’t approve of your budding relationship.

George kissed your hand and looked down at the map once more, his smile dropping.

“Shit!” he panicked, getting up out of his seat.

“What is it?” you panicked, following him to the back doors in the pub.

He stared down at the map, his eyes following the group of feet storming into Hogsmeade “Fred, Ron, Harry - everyone’s heading this way - to this bloody pub!”

You swallowed hard, the butterbeer churning in your stomach, George’s drink rising up into his throat.

“When we can get away I’ll head to the owlery!” you put your coat back on, pulling the zip up quickly “you go hurry to Honey Dukes or Zonko’s when you get the chance, you’ll find your letter folded in your Quidditch jersey!”

George nodded, looking up from the map and quickly kissing you on the lips, the look in his eyes expressing the most sympathy you had ever seen.

Keeping things a secret would only get harder, harder than you and George were expecting.

Tag list: @amourtentiaa @reeophidian @inglourious-imagines @alwaysnforeverfangirl @horrorxweasley @sebby-staan @xmalfoyweasleyx

#george weasley #george wealsey x reader #george wealsey imagine #george weasley fanfiction #George Weasley one shot #fred weasley #fred weasley x reader #fred weasley fanfiction #fred weasley x you #fred weasley imagine #ron weasley #ron weasly x reader #ron weasly imagine #ron weasley oneshot #ron weasley fanfic #harry potter #harry potter fanfiction #Harry Potter fanfic

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oneshotstomyheart · 5 years

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The Switch

So I have been on a Weasley Twin high, inspiring this lovely one-shot. Hope you enjoy!

Fred Weasley x OC One Shot

Warnings: semi-smutty, not too bad.

As smart as everyone knew she was, Ellie could be a real idiot. No matter how many pranks he pulled on those poor first years, no matter how loud he was, and no matter how touchy he was, third-year Ellie Holland had no idea Fred Weasley even existed. This was the year he finally summed up enough courage to talk to her, yet Fred couldn’t even get her to look at him to initiate a conversation. He was running out of ideas, and George was running out of patience.

George couldn’t understand why Fred wouldn’t just walk up and talk to the girl. For some brilliant reason, Fred thought if he pulled the funniest pranks, told the best jokes, and grazed her back a few times when pushing by that she would automatically fall in love with him. Therefore there was no need to start a conversation. “Ridiculous”, George thought. But it seemed his twin was truly smitten, therefore the ridiculous schemes went on.

Day after day, Fred dragged his brother into stunts in front of the oblivious doe-eyed girl. Yet always failing to grab her attention.

Finally, George had enough and decided to take things into his own hands. Grabbing his twin’s sweater with the big F sewn in, he threw it on. Leaving behind a snoring Fred in their room, he made his way down to the dining hall.

He had everything planned out in his head, and success was the only outcome. He was sure of it. He knew from Fred’s rambling that she was an early bird, so surely it wouldn’t be too hard to find her. However, it seemed more people than usual were awake and it took him a minute until he finally spotted her hunched over a book at the end of the table. Not understanding how Fred could so easily spot her all the time with how well she blended in, George made his way over to the girl.

“Hello, Ellie!” George spoke, I mean Fred, as he sat down across from her. Startled, Ellie’s head shot up to the person intruding in on her reading time. “Oh, hello there.” she smiled softly, seeming to glance around as if to look for someone. Quickly understanding he was alone, her eyes shone with a hint of disappointment. “Is there something you need?” She questioned, marking her place before closing her book.

“Yes actually, I need you, Ellie, to go on a date with me, Fred,” George spoke firmly, leaving no room for questions. Ellie's eyes widened, shock filling her eyes as she stuttered out, “w-what?”

Feeling his initial confidence start to lessen at her reaction, George quickly decided that it was best to just get out before anything else is said. “It’s settled! I’ll meet you at Hogsmeade this weekend then!” George blurted out before jumping up and running out of the dining hall, leaving a very shocked and confused Ellie behind.

Much to George’s dismay, Fred was already awake when he slipped back into their room. “Hey, where have you been? And why do you have my sweater on?” Fred questioned, eyebrows furrowing when George hesitated before pulling the said sweater over his head and tossing it to his twin.

“No reason, just quickly threw it on when I went down to the common room to grab the potions book I left.”

“Where is it, then?” Fred questioned, motioning to an empty-handed George.

“Oh, bullocks! Left if there again!” George shouted out nervously, throwing on his own sweater this time before sprinting out of the room.

+++++++

The rest of the day got even stranger for Fred, normally he’d see Ellie in the hallways between lessons. However, today she was nowhere to be found. ‘I hope she’s alright.’ Fred thought to himself, thinking to himself if he should check the hospital wing just in case something happened.

He never got the chance though, since at the end of the day he was intercepted by the very girl herself.

It was when he was walking to the quidditch field for practice, and Fred was pondering over why George seemed to be acting so weird that day. First, it was the lie from this morning, then George didn’t speak to him much all day, and now he was coming late to quidditch practice because he had to study! ‘Since when did he study?’

All thoughts left his head however when he saw Ellie from the corner of his eye walking toward his direction. Coming to a halt, Fred stood in shock as the girl of his dreams came to a stop in front of him.

“Hi” Ellie spoke softly, a light blush gracing her features as she stared up at the tall handsome ginger. Fred, like an idiot, just stood there. Completely frozen and completely forgetting every word in the dictionary. Scrambling to not look as dumbfounded as he felt, he muttered a quick hello while struggling to maintain eye contact. ‘Beautiful’ he thought to himself, unable to hold her gaze for too long, feeling intimidated by her beauty.

“My name is-”

“Ellie. I know.” Fred blurted out, eyes widening in embarrassment.

Ellie smiled, looking down for a second to seemingly gather courage. Twiddling her fingers, and switching from foot to foot, Ellie finally lifted her head to speak.

“So, something happened this morning that struck me as quite strange. And I tried to rack my brain all day for a reason, yet I cannot come up with one. I was hoping you could help me.” Ellie brushed her hair back, missing a piece that fell back in front of her face. Fighting the urge to push it back himself, Fred tore himself away from his inner monologue once he realized what she said.

“Of course. I’m here anytime. Always. Whenever you need me!” Fred rambled on, forcing his mouth shut when Ellie let out a small giggle. Enamored by the sound, Fred couldn’t do anything but smile at her.

“Was George serious when he asked me out this morning?”

Fred was so caught up in her smile that it took him a good 10 seconds to realize what came out of her mouth. Fred’s face turned as red as his hair, and if it wasn’t for his crush standing right in front of him he would have most likely used some choice words that his mother would frown upon.

“He..did..what?” Fred gritted out between his teeth, losing all shyness.

Ellie’s eyes widened for a fracture of a second, one hand going up to nervously twirl a piece of her hair. “Uhm well, he sort of came up to me out of nowhere at breakfast and told me to meet him at Hogsmeade, quite aggressive about it he was if I must say. Left abruptly as well, after claiming to be you.” Chewing on her lip, Ellie risked a glance at Fred’s face.

Fuming from his very core, Fred immediately realized what his brother did. Letting out a big sigh, Fred put his face in his hands and wished the universe would just swallow him whole.

“I can’t believe he did that” Fred muttered into his hands, connected the dots between his sweater and George’s weirdness.

“Yes, it was sort of unbelievable. I was just hoping you could let him down gently for me.” Ellie pleaded, looking up at Fred. Fred felt his heart sink, if she was turning down his twin then she would have certainly turned him down.

“You see, I’m afraid I’m in love with his brother.” Fred’s head shot up, convinced his ears betrayed him.

“Which one? Is it Percy? He’s got a right stick up his arse I’ll tell you!” Fred fumed, jealously consuming him as he thought about which possible brother captured her attention.

Ellie started to giggle before it turned into a full-blown laugh. Grabbing Fred’s arm for support while her other went to hold her stomach. After a minute or two, she managed to compose herself enough to stand up straight and look at Fred. Realizing how hurt he looked, Ellie stood up on her tiptoes and pressed a quick kiss to Fred’s cheek.

Fred stood there for a few more moments just staring at her in shock before a big grin broke out on his face. “Me? A-Are you sure?” Fred stuttered out, secretly reaching down to pinch himself to make sure he wasn’t in a dream.

“Are you trying to change my mind, Fred Weasley?” Ellie smirked, before turning around to head to the quidditch field. Stumbling to catch up, Fred ran up beside her with a shit-eating grin. Grabbing her hand and intertwining their fingers, Fred asked, “Wait a minute. How did you know it was actually George and not me who asked you out this morning?”

Ellie pulled them to a stop, grabbing Fred’s tie and pulling his face down to her. “Now, if I told you all my secrets before we even have our first date, what will we ever talk about?” She smiled secretively, before laying a passionate kiss on him. Fred immediately reacted, kissing back fiercely while wrapping his hands around her waist and lifting her up. Spinning her around, Ellie broke the kiss laughing.

“Let me go!” she laughed, tightening her arms around his neck. Slowly coming to a stop and putting her back down on her feet, Fred looked deeply into her eyes. ”Never”, he said, the most serious he’s ever been.

Ellie stared back, happiness and love in her eyes, “Good.”

Fred grinned, grabbing her hand once more and led them away from the quidditch field.

“Hey! What are you doing, you have practice!” Ellie laughed at his playfulness.

“I just got the girl of my dreams. Practice is the last thing I care about.” Fred spoke while sending a sweet smile over his shoulder. Ellie blushed, tightening her hold on his hand.

Sneaking up to the Astronomy Tower, they spent the rest of the day up there talking. From their families to their interests, to finally something that bugged Fred all day.

“Ellie,” he started, “I’m just confused.” Pausing from where she was running her fingers through his hair, she looked down at his head laying on her lap. “What about, love?” Hearing the new nickname she seemed to assign to him, he grinned and sat up to face her completely.

He looked down nervously, for the first time since they got up to the tower, causing Ellie to furrow her eyebrows in concern. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, yes of course. Never better in my whole life actually.” he grinned, gathering her hands in his and pressing a kiss to them. “I just want to know, why you never seemed to notice me before. No matter what I did, I felt like I never had your attention. It’s why I tried so hard this year, I pranked more than ever, all so I could get you to look at me. You never did though.”

Ellie blushed feverishly, letting out a laugh at the red-headed wizard. “Fred, I actually think I stared at you way too much. So much so that my friend told me I was being creepy and to knock it off. I’ve loved you ever since you dyed that Slytherins hair pink for bullying that first year Ravenclaw. Or maybe I fell for you when I saw how kind you were to the kitchen elves. It also could have been when you tried to give a sixth year a canary cream, only you ate it yourself because you saw me going for it. Of course I saw you, Fred, you're the only one I have ever seen. I will admit this year I sort of gave up, I never assumed you’d go for someone like me so I did my best to avoid you.” Ellie finished shamefully, gazing down at their intertwined hands.

“What made you change your mind? I mean, you seemed awfully confident before. Not that it wasn’t a complete turn on, believe me, it was.” Fred wiggled his eyebrows, all the worry lines leaving his face, leaving complete trust and utter happiness.

“Believe it or not, George did. I sort of connected the dots when he asked me out, claiming to be you. Your reaction only confirmed what I already suspected, and while I must admit seeing you angry was a huge turn on itself, I just wanted to kiss you. It was all I could think about.” Ellie licked her lips as if reimaging the moment. Fred’s eyes darted down to her lips, a sudden new hunger coming over him.

Pouncing on top of her, he attacked her lips with a burning desire. Hands-on her waist, he let out a noise of surprise when she flipped them over. Laying her hands flat on his chest, Ellie broke the kiss for air.

“Speaking of this afternoon, we aren’t just going to let George get away with his meddling, right?” Ellie spoke in a surprisingly semi-evil tone, kissing her way down Fred’s neck. Moaning from her tone and actions, Fred sat them both up and grabbed a fistful of her hair. Pulling her head back with it, he placed open mouth hot kisses down her neck in return. Finally finding her sweet spot, he bit down and swore he never heard a sexier sound than what came out of her mouth.

Muttering a few curse words, Ellie ground herself down onto him, relishing in the moan she elicited from him that mixed with her own. Fred could barely get the words out, and Ellie truthfully forgot she had even asked a question.

“Oh, we will be getting him back, alright. He’ll never see it coming.” Fred grinned at her, pulling her down for an unforgettable kiss to go with their soon unforgettable night.

++++++

Should I do a part 2??? I have some ideas on what they could do to get George back, but I felt like I wanted at least this first part to be about them getting together.

Let me know what you think! :)

#fred weasley #harry potter #harry potter fanfic #fred weasley fanfic #fred weasley imagine #george weasley #one shot #fred weasley one shot

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shirosquared-old · 6 years

Text

Timeless

Happy @sheithlentines, @starry-shiro! I tried to combine two of your prompts, I hope you like it!

Chapters: 1/1 Words: 3244 (3.2k) Fandom: Voltron: Legendary Defender Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: None Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron) Characters: Keith (Voltron), Shiro (Voltron) Additional Tags: Reminiscing, Marriage Proposal, Pre-Kerberos Mission, and after, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort Summary:

The war has ended. The Galra Empire's reign is at an end.

Keith reflects on his journey, through the Garrison and to the present, that he's shared with Shiro.

Keith still remembers their late nights, spent on the roof at the Garrison or in Shiro’s dorm. Shiro had agreed to help Keith focus on his studies more, and through that the two inevitably grew closer.

“Hey, Shiro?” Keith asked, watching the stars. “What else do you think is out there?”

Shiro looked up from his astronomy assignment, humming in thought. “Life. I don't know what exactly, but I know there's something. There's no way we can be the only intelligent life in the entire universe.”

[Read it on AO3]

Shiro is a lot of things.

“Hey, Shiro?” Keith asked, watching the stars. “What else do you think is out there?”

“Maybe you'll find it soon. When's the launch, again?”

“In June.” Shiro’s fingers tapped across the keyboard again, his eyes flitting up towards the sky every so often.

Keith sighed. “That’s so close. Only a month away…”

“We’ll be back before you know it,” Shiro promised. “It's just a few months.”

“What if you really do find aliens out there? Then what?”

“Then we do what’s necessary and follow standard protocol.”

“There's a standard protocol for meeting aliens?”

“Of course there is. We’re exploring for signs of other life, there'd have to be some kind of protocol for if we actually met them.”

“If you say so.”

Shiro sighed, closing his eyes as the wind gently shifted his dark hair. “I'm gonna miss you.”

Keith’s eyes teared up. He hated it, quickly blinking away the water as he ducked his head. “I—I’m gonna miss you, too,” he murmured.

Shiro smiled. “Look, see that constellation?”

Keith followed Shiro’s outstretched hand, finding the constellation in question. “Isn't that Andromeda?”

“Yeah. Look a little to the right of it. There's the Andromeda Galaxy. We’re gonna get there, someday, and even beyond that. You and me.”

Keith grinned. “Definitely.”

Keith remembers the pain of losing Shiro to the Galra, he remembers demanding answers and getting kicked out of the Garrison. He remembers the voices, the wind howling and whistling and whispering. He remembers the strange urge to search.

Keith stormed out of the front doors, clutching to a bag slung over his shoulder. He kept his head high even as his emotions threatened to drag him under, his mind a mess of Shiro’s gone and What do I do now? His jacket whipped in the wind, its collar tickling his neck as sand obscured his vision before settling. He closed his eyes and let the wind be his guide, following the way it blew past his hair and throwing it into his face. He didn’t know where he was going, but as long as it was away from the Garrison he was fine with it.

He followed the gusts of wind and didn’t look back.

After about two days, he stumbled upon a run down shed with a red hoverbike parked outside of it. He took another sip from his canteen, knocking on the door before heading inside of the shack. It didn’t look like anyone had lived there for a long time, so why was the hoverbike there? A set of keys rested on the counter, placed like they’d been thrown in a hurry. Keith picked up the ring, testing out each of the four keys. One locked the front door, one started the hoverbike, but he still didn’t know what the other two did.

Keith spent the next few days feeling a tug. He didn’t know what caused it, but his gut whispered to him. He needed to search. Search. Search for what?

He packed a bag and took the hoverbike, following the whispers in the wind and a strange energy in the air. What was going on? His gut led him to an outcropping of rocks, mountainous and stretching hundreds of feet into the air. The whispers were louder, here. Unintelligible, incomprehensible, whistling and resonating with his very soul, his very being. A cave revealed itself to him.

Keith walked inside.

He sucked in a breath. The walls were covered in carvings, some art and some of an unfamiliar script. It didn’t look like anything that could be found on Earth. What the hell was this? Keith felt the grooves in the stone, depicting several people in some kind of diagram. He pulled out his phone and took photos of each carving, up close and in its relative position. He made sure to get several of the lettering, hoping he could try and decode it somehow. The ground rumbled lowly beneath his feet, almost as if in slumber. Keith could almost make out the whispers in the air.

“Voltron,” the air whispered, leaving Keith shivering in its wake. “Paladin.”

The air stole Keith’s breath, holding his voice captive. These whispers sounded familiar, like someone he knew. “Find us.”

“Save us.”

“Free us.”

Keith ran. It was a monumental effort, but somehow he managed to tear himself away from the trance he’d slipped into and ran.

The words remained ingrained in his mind even after Keith shut the door to the shack and shuddered. His bones remembered the chill of the cave.

Keith remembers decoding the symbols. He remembers setting up his board in the shack, filling it with post-it notes along with his photos and possible theories. He remembers the date of that fateful night.

Explosions rocked the air.

Garrison vehicles quickly dispatched towards the source, away from the quarantine tent. Keith drove into the shadows and snuck past them, reaching the entrance of the tent. His hoverbike stayed outside, keys in his pocket while he pulled his bandana over the lower half of his face and walked inside.

The scientists were easy to knock down. A few kicks and punches left them unconscious, and Keith lept over one as he went to the table in the center. Tonight had been the fateful night, and an unknown ship entered the atmosphere to crash outside of the Garrison. Who was inside?

Keith froze.

“Shiro?” The name slipped past his lips, parted in utter shock. He pulled his knife from its sheath and sliced through the straps holding Shiro down, picking him up and ducking under one arm to support his weight.

What had they done to him?

That didn’t matter at the moment, though. All Keith cared about was that moment on the desert hill, putting a hand on Shiro’s shoulder.

“It’s good to have you back.”

And Shiro had smiled, even if a ghost of one, and relaxed with the sun ahead of them casting a warm light.

“It’s good to be back.”

Keith remembers forming Voltron. He remembers falling into an easy sync with the others, all working for a common goal.

Sendak’s tractor beam tugged at the lions, pulling them up towards the bay. Someone shouted, maybe it was Keith. All he knew in that moment was the connection of their minds, all focused on one goal.

The Red Lion’s screens shifted as its body transformed with the others, each lion connecting with Black until they were completely in sync. Keith could feel the minds of the others brushing against his own, curiosity and determination and loyalty all rolled into one. It was overwhelming, and yet at the same time Keith had never felt closer to home.

“How are we doing this?” Lance. Lance’s confusion and exhilaration, flowing through the bond and affecting all of them. Keith fought the urge to laugh, giddy with excitement from everyone in the bond.

“I don’t know,” Shiro, determination and hope burning bright, “but let’s get that cannon!”

Keith relished the shared satisfaction when Sendak’s ship crashed to the ground, the thrill of winning their first fight. Maybe they could really do this.

With a connection like that, it was hard not to miss when they split back into individual lions.

Keith remembers losing Shiro again.

Keith ran. His mind oddly quiet, he couldn’t focus on anything other than the icy spike of fear deep in his chest.

“Shiro!” he shouted, sprinting at full speed towards the Black Lion. It laid flat in the hangar, limp and unresponsive. “Shiro!”

He charged up the ramp and into the cockpit, freezing at the sight of the empty chair. Where was Shiro?

“He’s… gone,” Lance murmured, almost as disbelieving as Keith felt. What happened in that fight that made Shiro just… disappear? Had it even been the fight? What if it was those wings that caused it?

Keith wanted to be sick.

Nobody could ever replace Shiro. They’d just found each other again, only for Shiro to be torn away yet again to an unknown world in some part of the universe.

Keith’s heart felt like it snapped in two, and his eyes prickled with tears.

He’d lost Shiro for the second time, and he had no idea where to even start looking for him.

Keith remembers finding him, that sense of relief and something else that he’d felt.

The Black Lion’s console pinged, revealing the location of a ship. Black purred in Keith’s head, a simple message: He’s there.

Keith didn’t need telling twice. A quick data transfer and the Castle opened a wormhole. Keith charged into it without heading back into the hangar, approaching a deactivated Galra fighter as the Castle trailed behind. With the help of the others, Keith boarded the Galra fighter and pulled out a nearly-unconscious Shiro.

His heart had skipped a beat when he first saw the sight, automatically assuming the worst, but when he got closer Shiro’s eyes were still partially open and the scanners still showed him as alive. So Keith had carefully picked up Shiro, bringing him back to the Castle and sitting with him through Coran’s medical exam.

Shiro had been weak and unkempt, but all that mattered was that he was alive and here with Keith. For now, all Keith wanted to focus on was the familiar weight and heat from Shiro.

They could figure everything else out later.

Keith remembers confessing on a quiet night, watching the stars from the Castle window.

“It’s hard to believe.” Shiro leaned forward on his pillow, pressing his face to the glass. “All of these stars and planets used to be under Zarkon’s rule.”

Keith smiled. “They're beautiful, aren't they?”

“Absolutely. Hey, look, that one almost looks like Andromeda.”

“It does.” Keith hesitated before speaking, leaning in as if he were telling a secret. “Though, I do have to say, none of them are as beautiful as you.”

Shiro’s eyes went wide. “You don't mean that,” he said after a moment.

“Of course I do.” Keith smiled for a moment before it fell. “I… I like you. A lot. I don't know if you feel the same way, but… I know how I feel.”

“Keith…” Shiro’s eyes were still wide, staring at him in shock.

Keith hesitated. Had he messed something up? Did Shiro hate him now? He started to pull away, started to open his mouth to make some excuse to leave.

“I like you, too.”

Keith remembers Shiro leaning in, their eyes falling shut as their lips met in an easy rhythm.

“You ever wonder what our lives would be like if none of this ever happened?” Shiro asked.

“Sometimes.” Keith closed his eyes, listening to the soft whir of the engines and Shiro’s arm. The sounds comforted him, filling the otherwise silent air with white noise.

Two months had passed since they first began dating, but they hadn’t had much time to actually “date” with constant diplomatic missions and Galra attacks. It became exhausting, after a while, so much that they tended to split up whenever possible. It allowed for more to be done, which meant a bit more downtime.

Now, though, the lights were dim with the artificial night cycle. Keith and Shiro had snuck up to the bridge, pulling up the star map and watching Earth in their home system.

“It’s hard to believe how far we’ve come,” Shiro said eventually. “I wouldn't give any of this up for the world, but… sometimes you just wonder, you know? Do you think all of us still would've met each other?”

“It really is,” Keith agreed. “I wouldn't give it up, either. And I’m not sure, but I think we would still meet.”

Shiro smiled fondly. “We’re certainly all stubborn enough for it. I'm glad I met you, at least.”

“So am I.”

Shiro hesitated, watching Keith closely. After a moment, he started to slowly lean in. Keith met him halfway, closing his eyes as their lips met. Shiro’s hand rested lightly on the back of Keith’s neck, a comforting pressure. Keith could still pull away if he wanted, but he really didn't want to.

His head felt like fireworks, like something right slotting into place and completing the puzzle. The kiss itself was chaste, and too soon Shiro was pulling away and resting his forehead against Keith’s. But they’d talked about this, and Keith respected Shiro’s wishes to go slow.

Even though Keith was quick and impulsive, he could slow down for Shiro. It would always be worth it.

Keith remembers dismantling the foundation of the Galra Empire, finally removing the corruption from the universe.

The Coalition had become enormous. Spanning across several systems, several galaxies, there had to be hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of people in open rebellion against the Galra Empire. The thoughts of the five paladins bled together, as they usually did when forming Voltron, and Keith could feel all of their hope and determination as it traveled through the bond.

Voltron drew its sword, acting on all of their desires as they charged forward. The blade struck deep into Zarkon’s Central Command, strikes from the coalition aiding where they weren't. Matt’s rebel organization dealt with the swarms of fighters that threatened to overtake some of the coalition ships, while even Lotor used his Sincline ships to cause as much damage as possible. The Blade of Marmora snuck into the ship, killing the power and overall causing as much chaos as possible.

The Voltron Coalition had chipped away at the Empire’s boundaries for nearly a year before performing another feat like they had on Naxzela. They'd taken back a line of planets, effectively cutting off all of the territory behind it, and after that the coalition quickly drove the Empire out of that sector.

Allura had engaged the Druids in battle, using her own magic to distract them and prevent them from targeting Voltron or the paladins.

Red purred in Keith’s mind. It was time to end this, once and for all.

Several explosions occurred inside of the ship, destroying all of the power generators as well as the engines. The weapons system was next to go, exploding in a fiery blaze of blue and green that was quickly swallowed up by the black void of space.

“Yeah!” Lance cheered.

Shiro inserted his bayard into the Black Lion at the same time Lance, Pidge, and Hunk did.

Voltron’s sword grew until it resembled the one they had used on Taujeer, long enough to cut through a battle cruiser with ease. With the addition of Shiro’s bayard, quintessence sparked along the blade and supercharged it. The paladins fell deeper into the bond with each other and their lions, breathing in the same scents and sharing the same eyes.

In that moment, they were one being.

In that moment, Voltron struck.

The quintessence from their sword transferred to Central Command, overloading the ship’s systems and Haggar’s crystals in its purest form. All of them saw through each other’s eyes, heard each other’s thoughts, worked in perfect sync.

They all saw when Central Command shuddered and broke apart from the onslaught of weaponry and sheer determination.

Zarkon’s robeast had been destroyed, and with it his life had ultimately ended. No amount of quintessence could save his life.

For a moment, the comms and their bond went silent in shock.

Then everything exploded at once, people celebrating and cheering. Keith let himself be swept up in all of it, giddy even as they removed their bayards and split into lions.

Zarkon’s reign was at an end.

Keith remembers Shiro lowering himself to one knee, asking those four words that made Keith’s stomach do flips and his heart pound.

“Hey, Keith… do you have a minute?”

Keith turned to face Shiro, the wind blowing gently through the grass. “Always. What's up?”

“It’s been a while,” Shiro started. “I mean, a few years ago, we were still back at the Garrison trying to make ends meet. Now we’re Paladins of Voltron, something so much bigger than just us. We haven't had a lot of time to spend together because of it, even after we got together. It's been a year and a half since then. Almost four years since the Kerberos Mission launched, almost three since we first formed Voltron. And I've… been thinking.

“This is something we’ve decided on continuing with, now that the war’s over and even Earth joined the coalition. With the tech they've gained, they're really becoming a force of their own. But this isn't about them. I wanted to talk about us. So…” He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just bear with me, okay?”

“Take all the time you need,” Keith answered.

Shiro gave him a grateful smile. “Okay. As I said earlier, we decided to keep doing all of this for the universe’s sake. But for a moment, I want to just… focus on us. Even all those years ago when I met you in the Garrison, you caught my eye and took my breath away. And on top of it, you’re so… honest, you say things how they are rather than lying and I wish I could do that, sometimes. But I don’t need to, because you’re here with me.

“I… I appreciate it so, so much. I’m so glad I met you, Keith. Remember a while back, I asked you if you ever wondered what our lives would be like if none of this ever happened?” Keith nodded, and Shiro continued. “I stopped wondering as much. Even though we went through a lot of things, we all had each other. That night we started dating, I asked you to take it slow, and I just… I appreciate it, a lot. I love you, Keith. To the moon and to Kerberos and to the ends of the universe. So, I have a question for you.”

“What is it?” Keith asked, his heart pounding loudly in his chest and his mind racing from Shiro’s speech.

Shiro hesitated for a single second before lowering himself to one knee, removing a small box from his pocket. Keith’s heart skipped a beat and his eyes widened. Shiro opened the box, revealing a simple band. “It’s not exactly what you’d consider a ‘standard’ engagement ring, but I figured you wouldn’t want it to be flashy like that.” Keith could only nod, his mind struggling to form a coherent thought.

“So, officially… Keith, will you marry me?”

Keith’s eyes prickled with tears. “I—yes. Of course. God, yes.”

Shiro’s resulting smile dimmed the sun in comparison as he slipped the band onto Keith’s finger, getting to his feet and pressing a kiss to his lips.

Keith wants to make every second of their time together something to remember for the rest of his life, even between their work for the coalition and visits to Earth.

Keith leans in and presses his forehead to Shiro’s, closing his eyes.

In this moment, they are truly intertwined.

“I do,” he murmurs, a smile gracing his features.

#sheithlentines2018 #i love this fic so much #it's my baby #sheith #reblog #brii writes #mine #fic #text

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robronsecretsanta · 6 years

Photo

Scarlet and Emerald

A Robron Hogwarts!AU for @nvrtickleadragon

Aaron wriggles his feet, trying to get some feeling back into his cold toes. His breath is rising in soft clouds over the top of his thick red scarf as he huffs out little sighs. His position on the stone steps of the Astronomy tower gives him shelter from the swirling snowstorm outside, but the room does little to stop the icy wind whistling through, the air bitter against his exposed cheeks and fingers.

That’s not where Aaron’s mind is though, because he can still feel the flickers of irritation flaring inside. Ross bloody Barton had been shooting his mouth off over dinner in the Great Hall, rubbing salt into his and Adam’s wounds after the defeat the Slytherin quidditch team had inflicted on Gryffindor the previous weekend. Adam had been knocked out by a nasty bludger ten minutes into the game, leaving them reliant on their reserve seeker who couldn’t even catch a cold. It didn’t matter how many goals Aaron and his fellow chasers scored, they had no chance of catching the elusive snitch.

Ross and the other Slytherins had started the moment Aaron, Adam, and the rest of the team had traipsed into the hall after a late running practice – freezing cold, wet, and starving hungry. Ross had thrown himself off the bench in a poor imitation of Adam falling from his broom, amid howls of laughter from his housemates, causing Aaron to have to drag his best mate away toward their table to avoid a fight.

“Leave it! They int worth it.” Aaron had told Adam, pushing him down onto the bench and shoving a goblet of pumpkin juice into his hand.

Aaron had hoped that would be the end of it when the Slytherins left the hall, but no such luck. As Aaron and Adam tried to head back to the dormitory, they found their rivals gathered on the main staircase.

“Oi Dingle! You want a hand carrying your buddy up to the hospital wing? He looks a bit peaky.” Ross yelled as soon as he saw them approaching.

“I’d retire him for the whole season. He obviously doesn’t have the stomach for it.” Chrissie White said snidely from behind Ross, flicking her glossy dark hair back as she laughed with her sister.

“Move.” Aaron said to the group blocking their path.

“Or what?” Ross goaded, standing right in front of Aaron, chest puffed out aggressively.

“McGonagall.” Said a voice from the back of the Slytherin pack that hadn’t spoken until then, quiet and even, almost bored sounding. Aaron would know that voice anywhere – Robert Sugden. Up until he’d spoke he’d been perched on the step behind his friends, his face impassive and apparently unconcerned about the confrontation.

As Aaron turned to look over his shoulder, he spotted Professor McGonagall exiting the Great Hall with Professor Sprout, which was the Slytherin’s cue to disperse away towards the dungeons, not stupid enough to pick a fight in front of the two teachers.

“C’mon” Adam muttered, his face red and angry.

But Aaron couldn’t help watching the Slytherins’ retreat, his eyes following a head of carefully styled blond hair. Just for a second, Robert’s head seemed to twitch back in their direction, but then he turned a corner and disappeared.

“Aaron, get a move on!” Adam huffed from half-way up the stairs, and Aaron was forced to jog to catch him up.

–

Adam had gone straight up to the boys’ dormitory in a foul mood, and Aaron knew it was best to let him sleep off his annoyance. But with nothing to do except Potions homework, Aaron decided instead to throw on his cloak and head up to the Astronomy tower.

It was somewhere that Aaron had discovered in First Year was a great place to relax and think. It might be freezing cold, but at least it was quiet. This time though, he couldn’t stop his thoughts straying to a certain blond Slytherin.

Everyone knew the name Robert Sugden. He came from a long line of respected Aurors, all of whom had a reputation for being outspoken against the Dark Arts, strong and brave and passionate – Gryffindors to their core – all except for Robert.

Aaron still remembers the day their year was sorted under the sky of floating candles, he can recall the rest of the raucous Dingles hammering on the Gryffindor table as they welcomed him in with them. But he also remembers the ripples of shock and gossip that had erupted when the Sorting Hat declared a member of the famous Sugden family a Slytherin.

Aaron is so lost in the memory and the howl of the wind, that he doesn’t hear the footsteps behind him, so he jumps a mile when he feels two arms snake around his neck.

“Shit! You idiot, you scared the hell out of me.” Aaron yells, his heart-rate still thundering at the shock.

“Sorry. Couldn’t resist.” Comes the amused drawl from behind him, a warm breath behind his ear sending tingles down his back. “I hoped you’d be here.”

That voice is no longer cold and dismissive, but warm and full of humour and affection, and Aaron can’t resist turning in his spot on the step to pull Robert in to sit next to him, tugging on his boyfriend’s scarf as his cold, chapped lips search for a kiss.

Robert’s hand snakes up to cup Aaron’s red raw cheek as they kiss, and lets it linger there when he pulls back, their misty breaths mingling.

“Sorry about earlier.” Robert mutters eventually. “I told Ross he was being a prat, but you know…”

“Mhmm.” Aaron hums, pecking Robert on the lips again to show that he understands, because he does. Aaron knows that Robert can’t be too openly sympathetic to Aaron, because of their houses, their status, and the secrecy with which their relationship is shrouded. The supposedly straight pureblood Slytherin and the out, mixed-blood Gryffindor. They both knew they made an odd couple.

“I wish you didn’t have to go home for Christmas.” Robert says quietly, resting his head on Aaron’s shoulder.

“So do I. But you know what my lot are like… they’d want to know why.” Aaron repeats back automatically. It’s not the first time they’ve had this conversation, but he still feels a pang of guilt every time. Robert, unlike Aaron, is staying at Hogwarts while most of the other students are reunited with their families.

Aaron knows that it’s a sore point for Robert, that he doesn’t feel comfortable going home to his family. He knows about his grief over the loss of his mother, and the animosity with his brother – Gryffindor’s popular head-boy Andy. The truth of what Jack Sugden did to his son when he caught him kissing the young muggle-born lad next door was a secret that Aaron guarded as vociferously as Robert did. Their long hours spent cuddled away in small corners of the castle and its grounds meant that Aaron knew Robert better than anyone – maybe even Robert himself.

“I’ll try and get back a few days early.” Aaron says, determined to try and lift Robert’s mood. “I’ll tell my family that we’ve got extra Quidditch practice or summat.”

The soft affection in Robert’s eyes, as he lifts his head and reaches for Aaron’s hand more than makes up for any missed family time.

“I’d love that.” Robert says, before grimacing. “Your hands are like ice!”

Robert reaches into his cloak pocket, pulling out a pair of thick, green and silver knitted gloves. He slides them carefully onto Aaron’s almost-blue fingers, his own warmer digits brushing gently over the delicate, scarred skin of Aaron’s wrist as he tucks them under his sleeve, kind and reverent.

“Thanks.” Aaron says.

“I can’t stay much longer, I promised Vic I’d meet her in the library to give her a hand with her Charms essay.” Robert says apologetically, but Aaron just waves the comment off.

Most people would never know it, but Aaron knew that Robert was incredibly loving and protective with his little sister, the little second year Gryffindor with a sweet disposition. Vic also happened to be the only person who knew about his and Robert’s relationship, after she arrived early for one of their study sessions and caught them snogging in the Restricted Section. Unlike the rest of her family, she was always supportive of Robert and would regularly carry messages from Robert to Aaron in the Gryffindor Common Room when they were arranging to meet, so Aaron wouldn’t begrudge his boyfriend spending time with her before she returned home for Christmas without him.

“You’re gonna love the present I’ve got you though.” Robert teases, breaking through Aaron’s musings.

“Tell me!”

“Nope.” Robert grins, popping his P. “If you want to know, you’ll have to hurry back to me.”

“I don’t need any encouragement for that, believe me.” Aaron says, realising too late that his voice had missed the blasé tone he was going for, and had landed somewhere between sentimental and downright soppy.

The green of Robert’s scarf makes the flecks of colour in his eyes seem brighter as Aaron pulls him in for one last kiss.

It takes another five minutes before Robert is eventually able to tear himself away to head to the library, but not before calling back over his shoulder.

“Get back to the Common Room. Hypothermia isn’t a good look on you.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow before I leave.” Aaron tosses back, ignoring the jibe entirely.

“Merry Christmas Aaron. I love you.”

“You too.”

–

It’s only as Aaron approaches the portrait of the Fat Lady that he remembers he’s still wearing Robert’s green and silver gloves. He pulls them off, and shoves them deep into his cloak pockets so nobody can see them.

Aaron already knows that he has no intention of giving them back.

#robron #robron fanfiction #aaron x robert #emmerdale

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farplane · 4 years

Text

hunter of hunters

janvier + mars 2020: sairsel, sihtric, and myths that once lived. 4,637 words.

“Are there more stars here than back home?” Sihtric asked.

“I don’t think so, no.”

They’d been silent for a long, deeply uncharacteristic while. Sihtric was a chatterbox on a normal day; after so long apart, he hadn’t been able to make himself stop talking since the dust had begun to settle, and even Sairsel had found himself to be far more verbose than he could usually stand. He hadn’t even taken the time to worry he’d forgotten to talk—to really talk—to someone. To Sihtric.

But the sky had made them fall quiet: the velvet black freckled with silver was a sight whose power Sairsel had been deeply underestimating when it came every night. With the bloated, too-bright, sickly yellow now chased away, the sky seemed even deeper. It embraced the stars, spread their hearts open.

Still, it came as no surprise that the silence shouldn’t last. Light or no light, Sihtric had never really known how to quiet his inquisitive mind.

“It just looks so…” he stopped and took a breath. “So endless, like.”

“I think it looks like more because it had been so long since anyone got to see it here. Water tastes that much better when you’re parched, and all that,” Sairsel said. He swiveled his head as far as it could go in every direction, taking it the vast sea of stars with the wonder of a child. “And you always see more stars in the woods, remember? Less light going into the sky.”

Sihtric nodded. “Yeah.”

The Greatwood smelled like home; her skies gave Sairsel the stars he had been born under. “Look,” he said, shimmying closer to Sihtric so that they sat shoulder-to-shoulder. Safe and whole. It took him all his restraint not to wrap his arms around Sihtric again. Instead, he lifted a hand in Sihtric’s eyeline and pointed to the stars. “Those stars that are brighter, there—like four corners.”

“Wait.”

Sihtric shifted his shoulder so that it was below Sairsel’s arm, then lifted his chin to better follow the line of Sairsel’s finger. His eyes searched the sky, then stopped. “I think I see it.”

“It looks like an archer. Those are his shoulders, and his feet; you can see his bow. And those three, in the center? That’s his belt.”

Sihtric’s hand beat against Sairsel’s arm excitedly. “I see it!”

“Now that, lad, is the Hunter.”

“We have it back home?”

“In the winter months, aye.” Sairsel pointed below the Hunter’s belt. “And his sword, there, it always points south.”

“Here, too?” Sihtric asked. Sairsel could almost hear his mind working, like turning the pages in a heavy grimoire; asking questions about this world that Sairsel had given up on trying to answer.

Sairsel pulled out his compass and placed it in Sihtric’s hand. “Here, too.”

“Huh,” Sihtric said. Sairsel knew he would soon be finding him with his nose buried in books about astronomy and cosmogony—but for now, they had only the stars. After a moment, Sihtric tilted his head and said, “It kind of looks like he doesn’t have a head.”

“Oh, he doesn’t.”

Sairsel remembered his grandmother’s stories; he wished she were beside him to tell this one to Sihtric, with her voice that soared into the night and went quiet as a whisper and put colours into things that couldn’t be seen or touched. She was so far away. When he thought of what loomed over his home, something scraped against his ribcage. He cleared his throat to chase away the ghosts—as his grandmother did with her old memories.

“See, the story goes that he was shot by another hunter—right in his eye. He was becoming greedy, hunting too much; he was throwing the world off-balance, and they blinded him to stay his hand. But he couldn’t bear to live like that. So, on the last day of the world—that was before the first Calamity—he swam out as far as he could go, and he let himself drown.”

“What?” Sihtric said, with the shock that could only come of that deep and immediate investment in stories.

Sairsel smiled and went on.

“And the old god that lived under the sea, because all the old gods were waking up to die, took him in her arms as he died and went to meet the sky. And she said, ‘Horizon, my friend, take this hunter of hunters,’ and some more poetic babble.” He waved a hand dismissively. “And the sky put him in the stars to hunt the great serpent that was born of the end of the world so that it wouldn’t eat up all the sky while the gods were dead. Because he was blind, though, the sky-god cut off his head so that it would stay on the earth and not hinder him—so he hunts the serpent with the stars guiding him.”

Sihtric was frowning. Sairsel remembered that he was only a boy.

“Hells,” he said. “Was that too bloody?”

“No,” Sihtric said, firm in his stubbornness. He stared gravely at the Hunter. “It’s kind of sad, though, isn’t it?”

“Aye, I suppose it is. It’s always the sad stories that end up in the sky.”

Sihtric turned those serious eyes of his on Sairsel. “Why?”

He already didn’t like the answer, but he asked in the hopes that knowing more about the world might make him understand it. He still had that hope.

Sairsel hesitated, then laid his hand on Sihtric’s head, flattening the loose waves of his hair. It had grown out in the time they were apart.

“The happy ones don’t need to be put in the stars; they already live forever.”

Sairsel slept of the deepest, darkest sleep since the world around him had been twisted and turned inside-out—but Sihtric was restless. The Light whispered to him. It pulled and pinched at his mind and flowed up and down the staircase of his spine, jumping in front of his eyes only to retreat behind the veil. How could he sleep, when his mind wasn’t his own?

He didn’t know who or what it was that spoke to him. The voice sounded strangely like that man’s—the one who made Sairsel’s gaze wither and his skin crawl—but Sihtric knew it couldn’t be him because something inside that one recoiled at the Light. This voice slipped in between the spaces, flitting with the wings of a bird; it was the man’s knowledge and nothing more.

No. The voice was that of the one who stood at Sairsel’s shoulder, shrouded so brightly in the Light that the in-between ended up belonging to him. Sihtric wasn’t supposed to see him; the way he looked at Sairsel, and the way Sairsel didn’t look at him unless he thought no one would notice, said as much. The way the blessings and the curses wrapped around him—they were weaved from a terrible sadness that Sihtric didn’t know how to understand.

None of them understood. But the voice knew, and it whispered in Sihtric’s dreams until he was waking up with his heart trembling in his chest and his limbs weighed down like his was a body that had been left in the water to rot and bloat.

He pulled himself out of the water, out of the covers, and swam through the night until he was on solid ground, his hands anchored at the edge of Sairsel’s bed. For a moment, he hesitated: Sairsel’s brow was smooth, his mouth a peaceful curve; he didn’t want to disturb him. But then, urgency slammed through him, and the words were on his tongue and they needed to spill out. They needed to be heard.

He shook Sairsel awake. “I know his name. The Hunter’s,” he said, whispering for the sake of the night itself.

Sairsel looked at him, bleary-eyed and trying to pull himself free of sleep. For Sihtric’s sake. Beyond his confused frown, there was a tinge of worry.

“What?”

“The Hunter. In the stars. His name was Orion.”

He didn’t know what he saw in Sairsel’s eyes, then.

II.

Orion’s mouth smiled like a knife.

Even under the mask—when he so deigned to wear it—his smile had the sharp glint of metal, the cold and hungry brightness of it. The blade of him was a mirror, and it made you see, and it cut with calculated precision.

He reflected something in me that hurt my eyes, but I never quite could look away; how could I, when all the other smiles were the same? Blunt and faded and lacking—all of them but the hunters’.

In the last days, everything and everyone was soft around the edges, smudged away like the borders of a dream. Everything but Orion, whose sharp elbows had once bruised me when we would sleep side by side; whose mouth I let open me up like the belly of a prize animal without ever touching me. He never touched me, not the way he would reach into the beasts’ insides and pull out fresh viscera that stained his skin red, but I knew his hands were cold. I wanted to pour my light into them, let him hold it, warm his hands like fire from the heavens.

That was a foolish thing, and I was born to be everything but. And one day, we all found that our time had passed; it no longer mattered, then, that I had ever been a fool.

I no longer remember if I knew. I no longer remember, and I will never know again.

I dared her to loose an arrow towards the shape in the water, so far in the distance that we could not make out its nature. So far that no arrow should have reached it—but of course hers did. I knew it would. That is all I can remember.

The last days had not yet come when Orion still showed his face somewhere that was not Artemis’ woods. It would have been madness to equate his gradual retreat into the wild with the sickness that made the world wither and die, but the two were intrinsically tied, as moon to night and night to moon. As he was to Artemis herself, and she to him.

He would come so long as she came. They had not always been so inseparable, but something brought them together somehow, and his steel shone all the brighter for her silver light. They would wander into gatherings like two halves of something—and perhaps that was what stung most—with the tips of their hair wet from the river where they washed blood and sweat and dirt and the smell of their dogs from their skin and clothes. They would huddle in dark corners and laugh and drag each other into the light to dance to the sweet, familiar music.

And when the gatherings ended, Orion would drape himself over a daybed, smiling, and he would make Artemis laugh long after the wine had run out. With strangers dispersed, they would both let in their dogs—Artemis’ seven sweet bitches, each named with the precision of her arrows, and Orion’s pair of loyal hounds. He had not his friend’s attention to detail; when he wasn’t on the hunt, he was languid and unbothered. His dogs were the big one and the small one—nothing more, and nothing less.

But he loved them. Loved them like he only seemed to love Artemis, and perhaps himself.

More and more, the sun struggled to touch their world, like a corner of a wood so thick with trees that no light could break past the canopy. Nothing but tall, looming trunks that shone silver in the night.

If they were close to untouchable when they still deigned to be a part of the world, they were utterly so when they vanished into Artemis’ woods.

“Who are you?”

The hunter who did not belong in the woods tried to look past Orion’s shoulder. Behind him, the women laughed—Artemis’ women—unaware of the foreign hunter’s presence. His gaze made Orion’s blood boil. He pressed a hand to the man’s chest and walked forward, guiding him away.

“I asked you a question.”

“She is not yours,” said the foreign hunter. “Neither are these woods, and if one man may walk them, there is no reason why others should not.”

“There is every reason,” Orion said slowly. “Do not lump me in together with the likes of you.”

“Curse you for a greedful bastard!”

Orion took the curse without batting an eyelash; he did not know, then, what true powers curses might hold. He simply let the hunter dig into the earth with his words. “How many women must be yours, that no other man may look upon them? What hold have you upon the maiden?”

“I do not look,” said Orion, and then he pursed his lips and whistled. His dogs came close. “And I know that they are hers. As am I.”

Artemis knew the whistle, too—and perhaps it pulled at a part of her soul when Orion said that he was hers. She drifted out of the water and to his side, dripping wet with a knife in hand, and she regarded the hunter who did not belong in her woods with the gaze of a magistrate ready to hand down a sentence.

“Thank you, my friend,” she said. “Let me.”

They were, after all, her woods—and her grasp on magic had always been far beyond his.

Orion smiled and lifted his hand to the foreign hunter’s face, stroking his cheek with the pad of his thumb as though he were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen: prey. Then he turned, made his way to the edge of the river again with his dogs on his heels, and turned his back to Artemis’ girls.

“Do you lay with him?” he heard the foreign hunter sneer.

“Speak to me again and they will be your last words,” said Artemis.

The fool spoke again, spitting out an ugly, hateful word. Orion knew Artemis’ anger, even when the proud line of her back stayed tall and taut as a bowstring. He knew that it was not for the shape of the beast taking him alone that the foreign hunter would never speak again; he heard the dogs deep in the woods, dogs that were neither his nor Artemis’ seven.

The dogs feasted that night.

I was beginning to feel the world unravel. It was like being the sun and feeling pieces of the sky falling away all around me, one by one—stars and nebulae and the whole of the celestial crumbling to dust. I held steady, as I had always been meant to, and so did the moon. We were a comical tragedy of unchanging stillness.

And Orion ran through the woods. He ran from every convocation that called his name, that asked of him to still his feet that the world around him might come into focus—he fled attention and responsibility both, and he kept hunting. The truth was that he did not like being seen, and we were all being stripped bare with each passing day.

He thought he could escape it, the beautiful fool. In his wake, carcasses piled up faster through Artemis’ woods than they ever had, faster than the world could heal; his path of balance turned into an ungly competition against something that I do not think he even knew. Himself, perhaps, or simply time itself—trying to kill beasts faster than the sand fell through an hourglass.

That was his way of unraveling. And while he hunted, people died.

One of Artemis’ girls came to me on a morning thick with fog that barely parted with her passage to warn me of Orion slipping into a trail of blood. She showed herself as a tall, white-throated doe—for Artemis’ lovers never revealed their true forms to men—whose eyes seemed to reflect the mist itself, clouded grey until she stood in front of me. My reflection shone gold-flecked in those big, open eyes.

“I no longer know the soul that inhabits Orion’s body,” she said to me, bowing her head in grief. She sniffed at the wet grass under her hooves, but shied away from it. Blood was sinking into the earth. “He says he hunts to chase the moon. So that she does not fall out of the sky.”

A question pressed at my mind, but the doe was not the one who should answer it; I let her go. I told her to walk only paths that were dappled with sunlight if she must show herself as a beast to Orion. He would not wish to slay one of Artemis’ girls on accident—not the Orion I knew.

I found him, half-dazed in the thickest shade, staring up through the branches at a sky the boughs kept from his gaze. When I called his name, he did not even flinch.

“She’s there,” he said. “Even in the day.”

“Orion.”

“The moon’s faded.”

His voice broke my heart.

“She won’t fall out of the sky, Orion,” I said, and waited for a reply that didn’t come. “Look at me. You don’t need to chase her.”

Orion looked my way, and I wondered if the doe had been right—if some other soul had found his body. It was a hope, I realized, a damned hope for a man who was only losing his grip. He looked at me like I was as familiar as I’d ever been; he simply didn’t care.

“What of the sun?” I asked him, the question burning my lips.

Orion shrugged his shoulders. “He won’t fall,” he said simply. “He’s not mine to chase. It’s all for her.”

His own words pulled him back into movement; he looked away from the unseen sky, turned on his heel and grabbed his bow. To me, he said nothing else, but he glanced at me like he wanted to reassure me that everything was simply going to fall back into place.

I was angry.

“You must stop this,” I said, pushing past my loss. “This ceaseless hunt. Do not destroy Artemis’ gift to you.”

“These are her woods.” Orion walked past me. “I will stop when Artemis asks me to stop. That is when my chase will have come to its end.”

I called his name again, but my voice was lost. Perhaps I had already faded away, in his mind.

III.

Every night, Sihtric searched for the Hunter.

He had a strange fear in him, as though something might break or fall apart or leave him blinded if that one shape of stars went out of his sight. It wasn’t that he cared much for north or south; it was that the Hunter was more than a guide, or just a story in the sky.

“It’s just a grave,” Sairsel said to him one night, because he was sick and always on the verge of a fever. The words spilled down Sihtric’s spine in a chill.

“Don’t say scary things like that,” Sihtric retorted in a smaller voice than he wished.

Sairsel frowned, his expression shifting with understanding. Some small horror dawned on his face, and it scared Sihtric, too, that he only now seemed to realize what he’d just said.

“I mean they’re only stars,” Sairsel said. He rubbed his fingers over one eye, the motion curving up along the deep shadows drawn under it. “The story’s just a story.”

Sihtric set his jaw in that stubborn way that was becoming increasingly familiar the older he got. “You told me stories were always the soul of something, even if they were made up or they were true once but they changed because too many people told them. That’s what your grandmother said, and you said she knew stories better than anyone.”

“Aye, I did.”

It made him want to cry, seeing how tired Sairsel was in the firelight. The sun gave him some colour during the day, made his skin look a bit less sallow; the night he’d fought so hard for stripped him bare.

But Sihtric knew he shouldn’t cry. When he looked up at the sky and found the Hunter’s sword, he felt some kind of certainty—cold and heavy and uncomfortable, but it made sense, in its own way.

“He’s there, Sairsel. You believe me, don’t you?” Sihtric said, and Sairsel gave him a sorry look that didn’t make him feel warm at all.

He didn’t need to say it: I don’t, but I wish I did. Sihtric heard it well enough, and he didn’t need to hear or see it in the Light, either. Not that Sihtric wanted to pay attention to the Light, lately. Sairsel was sick with it, and that made Sihtric resentful.

“I can feel him,” he insisted. “Orion. The name isn’t a story.”

Sairsel breathed out a slow, soft sigh. After a moment, he gathered himself up, and relented. “What do you think it is, then?”

“I don’t— I don’t know,” Sihtric said, taken by surprise; the admission made him scowl at himself. He wrapped his arms around himself and looked into the fire. It didn’t matter that he didn’t want to feel anything that was in the Light; it was there taking up a part of him whether or not he liked it. “He was whole once. The stars aren’t his shape.”

“No?” Sairsel asked cautiously. He was frowning, too.

Sihtric shook his head. “I think they’re the shards of him. I think he broke and no one can put him back together because he’s stuck in the sky.”

“He’s a story, lad,” Sairsel said, and he said it as gently as he could. Letting him down.

It was only a few days before the golden-white sickness bloated the sky bright enough to blind again, the way it shouldn’t. And when it did, Sihtric felt like he could almost hear Orion shatter, again and again, behind the veil.

IV.

That was now, and this is then.

Water laps at the lakeshore, grazing the tips of Artemis’ toes as she gazes up at the sky, bloated and grey with the ash that falls like snow. Before long, it will be thick enough in the water to turn it as heavy as mud. The current will cease to flow, and the animals will choke, and little by little—beast by beast, insect by insect, root by root—Artemis’ woods will die.

She knows it. She stares out at the water and makes herself smile at the beauty that is left, and the beauty that has begun to wither away. Death in the wood has always been beautiful, but this is not a death that belongs within the confines of the forest and its natural order. It is so far beyond what is natural that she recognizes none of it.

Sunrise upon sunrise have passed since she last killed a beast in her wood; her belly gnaws at her every day as the world dies. She does not hunt, but arrows still find the hearts of deer, of foxes, of birds too thin to feed even a child to satisfaction. They are not skinned or plucked or emptied of viscera. Their meat rots in the sun, their fur and feathers tinged with frost in the moonlight. Each is a great and terrible loss, but the horror that should have burrowed into Artemis never finds her.

They are all dead. For the first time, she sees the end of all things that would have come one day, and now comes too soon. She surrenders to their beauty.

Diamonds of sunlight gleam upon the ripples in the lake. A sweet song drifts with the wind through the trees, rustling leaves and needles and branches with a voiceless melody.

Her woods; his song.

Apollo embraces her from behind, his arm heavy around her shoulders as he presses a kiss to the top of her head. His light is tarnished; it has been for a while now. Her woods have stolen away the brightest parts of him, somehow, when the world began to fall apart. He does not speak of it, and neither does she; they understand their silences as they have since before their tongues could shape words.

On the day the world ends, they will be side by side as the day they came into it.

“Why are you alone?”

“I am not alone,” Artemis says, and smiles as she gives Apollo a familiar shove. He shoves her back.

“You know what I mean.”

Artemis runs a curled finger down the length of her bowstring—faded twists of threaded gold. She takes a breath and tastes the ash in the air.

“I felt that it no longer mattered,” she admits. “That, perhaps, I should let myself fade with these woods. What good is a hunter? I can save no one and nothing.”

“You are all the good that has ever been,” Apollo says. “You are my light and my joy. In times like these, that is all that matters.”

Artemis smiles her sad smile. She knows that Apollo has been wearing himself so thin there is almost nothing left, all to bring light and music and beauty to a world that needs it more than saving. If there is no joy, there is nothing to save; Apollo has seen it, and it is why he gives.

“Stay with me a while, then,” she says.

Apollo stays. He tries to push her into the water; she kicks his legs out from under him. When he scrapes his elbow on a rock, she presses the cool flesh of a thick leaf against his skin. He sits and raises a hand to shield his eyes from the sun and gazes out at the water; the melancholy smile finds his lips as well as Artemis’, but only for a time.

He smacks the back of his hand against her arm.

“Look,” he says, and points a finger towards a dark shape on the lake. Artemis takes hold of his arm and levels her gaze with his hand.

“There’s something out there,” she says, surprised.

“What is it?”

“I don’t know.”

Apollo crosses his arms and glances at her bow with a smug smile, tinged with nostalgia and a more recent hurt. “Whatever it is, I bet you couldn’t hit it at this distance.”

“Surely you know better than that,” Artemis says.

“I know you’re cocky.”

“You’re cocky. You always have been.”

Apollo shrugs. “Show me, then The world’s ending anyway; you won’t suffer your wounded pride too long.”

Artemis shoves him again as she bounces to her feet with her bow in hand. She keeps her gaze on the dark, distant shape and draws an arrow from her quiver. When she fits the nock to the bowstring, something inside her falls into place like a lock. Carefully, she lets the sun guide her; she listens to the song of the wind and raises her bow, tilting back her head to guide the anchor of her arrow, and she looses.

The arrow flies: a lone bird arcing towards the horizon. It finds its mark, and the water ripples as the shape flattens and disappears into the lake. Apollo smiles when Artemis turns towards him with a look so satisfied it may as well be that of a beast. She is a part of the wood, and the wood is hers; she is all that dwells inside it and she is the bosom itself. This place, this way—they are her joy.

Apollo does not ask her if she feels a little emptier now, and she does not wonder why she does.

On the day the world ends, the body of Orion washes up on the shore of the dying forest. There is no one to find him, but Artemis’ arrow pins his eye to the moon-empty sky, and Artemis’ woods keep him.

#from the heart #c:sairsel #c:sihtric

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derrickperegrine · 7 years

Photo

@snakepitnet: obscure characters

don’t you need me, your baby boy? ‘cause i’m so happy without your noise

a sequel to take a slice

(click ‘keep reading’ or read on ao3)

A flickering yellow-white light blinked to life in the grainy atmosphere of the night, thin and painful to look at. It lit a red circle in the dark with a gritty hiss, and then in another blink it was gone.

Peregrine slid the lighter back into his jeans’ pockets. He took a lethargic but deep, starved drag of a cigarette; the slowly disintegrating paper and scorched tobacco crackled as a bitter warmth ghosted its way down from the tip of his tongue to the bottom of his lungs. He leant backwards, until the hunched curve of his shoulder blades hit the rattling rails, and opened his mouth. The greedy pull of the cold night air coaxed the frosty-coloured vapour out of him, and it floated before him like the remnant of a bad dream, something that was supposed to be hateful but he was too drained to fucking care about, something that left him hazy and anonymous, uncertain of who he was.

His shoulders slackened and he flattened his back further against the rails. The evacuation of the smoke left his lungs empty, and the acute, cool city air filled him instead, filling his throat and chest, leaving his bones feeling chilly from the sudden invasion. His listless fingers brought the death stick back to his lips, and he closed his eyes to listen to the coarse rale of cinder again.

The empty soda can rattled like the mad laughter of an unfunny man as Peregrine kicked it down the deserted sidewalk. Another cigarette hung from his lips, quickly staling and fouling in taste, but he couldn’t be arsed to pitch it into the dark. Subconsciously his eyes flicker back up to the sky, but he can’t make out anything through the smoggy clouds of the city. He smiles bitterly, ironically, and it suits the dry, ashy taste in his mouth.

Boredom weighed him down like stones in his pockets, even though all he had on him is a packet of fags, a lighter, and keys to his flat. It hit him worst on nights like this, when there’s nothing to do but watch reruns of unrelatable television series on late night telly, and go out for a smoke to try and relieve some of that heaviness he always carried around with him, these days. It never works.

He considered perhaps calling Montague, putting on a lively tone and blathering some trite, furious bullshit into the receiver, but he was too tired to play charades tonight, even if he was bored; moreover, he’d left his mobile phone at his flat, on his IKEA coffee table, next to a half-eaten bag of crisps and his wand.

His aloneness felt particularly pronounced and pervasive that night, as he walked through Muggle streets devoid of Muggles, a strange land that was depressingly familiar to him. He did not like to reach out to any of his peers -- for some reason he thought that they only saw the sardonic, turbulent Perry, filled with spurring outrage and grasping at solutions, aggressively and desperately hopeful. Not the silent, listless one who stalked through an empty London until his next kill, his next taste of fresh blood.

He never minded being alone, unless it was compounded with stifling boredom. Which was more often than not, these days. He felt a tugging yearning within his chest. God, how he wanted to fly again! To feel the Earth turn beneath his shadow, to follow those familiar paths of his favourite stars. But what a laughable thought.

A bird with clipped wings will never fly again.

Truth be told he wasn’t even supposed to mix with this crowd. Both Peregrine and Adrian were just minding their own business; they wanted no business in this War. They didn’t want to fall in line with the rest of the Slytherins, to proclaim loyalty to that slimy old bugger Voldemort; but they didn’t love Potter either, a bloke who always came across as somewhat unreliable, managing to survive only thanks to dumb luck.

Moreover, none of Potter’s folk loved them. In their eyes, Perry and Adrian were still Slytherins, no matter how much Perry kept to himself and Adrian played nice. In the end, they were lumped together with the rest of the lot, Death Eaters’ children and fearful sheep; self-serving cowards and unthinking idiots.

All because they refused to choose.

A choice is not a choice if you are forced to choose.

Naturally, after the War no one wanted any business with them. With the amount of fucking whinging and mass regret pouring forth from the other Slytherins, Peregrine and Adrian’s accounts of neutrality were interpreted as remorseful retconning, and so they were also shuttered off from the new Potter-era of the Wizarding world.

It infuriated Perry in the beginning. After Voldy kicked the bucket, supposedly everyone was granted a ‘glorious future’; but the victors’ aggressive and specific version of the future dissolved the futures of nearly every person Perry had ever known.

Adrian and Terence -- another boy who chose to remain neutral -- lost their shot at the Quidditch industry. No university would dare admit Perry into their Astronomy departments. And when they tried to leave Great Britain, try their luck somewhere new -- they had thought, perhaps, Italy -- the Ministry promptly blocked their exit on account of ‘suspicious activity.’ Perry nearly killed the official who delivered the verdict; it made the situation much worse but it made him feel a little better.

His life became nothing. He found that he loved nothing anymore; for all he had loved had been taken from him. They took his stars away from him by denying him university enrollment despite his qualifications; they confiscated his broom license in case he tried to leave Britain through more illegal measures. It was still possible to purchase a broom through the black market, of course, but Peregrine did not have the money. After all, he was not a Malfoy, or a Zabini, or even a Nott, a Warrington, with a pile of gold sitting coldly in a Gringrott’s vault.

He moved to London where he could no longer see the stars in the sky, so they would no longer pain him. Unable to find a Wizarding job -- fucking typical -- he held several part time jobs in Muggle supermarkets and corner shops. As he worked through his day to pay for his rent in a godforsaken corner of the city, he simmered with a quiet, persistent anger, always fizzing and too hot if you tried to touch it -- like a chippie’s fryer. On the way ‘home’ he usually had to chase down a cigarette with a beer to keep himself from going mad; but on particularly bad days he’d wander his way through some grimy Muggle club, find some nameless individual, usually someone with a saddening lack of self and self-respect, and shag his resentment into that worthless somebody. It didn’t make him feel much better, but at least it made him too tired to care.

What a laughable wreck had become of Peregrine’s life. As a wizard, he’d never felt more powerless; he felt like he had been drained of his magic, and shackled up in a nightmarish cage of an existence. Several times he sat at the roof of his miserable apartment building, letting his feet dangle along the edge, the gravity pulling tantalisingly at his toes. He’d never loved gravity, but sometimes it made an excellent case.

For some reason he never went through with killing himself. Too unsatisfactory of an end, he guessed; plus what would that really change? The world would still be shite, Potter would still be a god, and the real culprits would still be at large. It was only an easy way out for him. But just as he wasn’t a coward in Hogwarts, he was not a coward now, and he would not simply resign to the lot he’s been assigned in life.

One day, his old classmate Cassius called him on his mobile. Peregrine was startled at first by the ringing -- it hardly ever sounded, really. To this day he still had no fucking clue how Warrington got his number. In that same, posh accent he had when they were both schoolboys, Cassius asked if Perry would like to have a drink. Since he had nothing better to do than watch reruns of Lost, Peregrine accepted the invitation and met Cassius in a more well-to-do part of town.

That’s when Cassius invited him to join the Organisation. Perry was incredulous at first -- he could scarcely believe that someone had managed to engineer this sort of league, with a system of operation and mysterious but reliable intelligence sources on everyone. ‘Don’t kid me,’ he said, but Cassius’ face remained as impassive and serious as ever, like it’d always looked when he was focused on making a goal in Quidditch. He wasn’t playing around.

Perry went home excited that night, his head dizzy with revelation, alcohol, and nicotine. He slept fitfully; and when he finally accepted that he was not going to fall asleep, he messaged Adrian and Terence.

Terry quickly rejected the idea, saying that he’d finally managed to work out a decent life between lying low and slowly redeeming his respectability, and that although it was slow work, he was not going to throw all of it away in order to kill some Death Eaters and get revenge. He looked ruefully at Perry, and turned away from his old teammate.

It was true. Terence always had something to lose. He knew the value of stability; he’d learnt his lesson through that shortened Quidditch career of his. Plus, it was an awfully tricky enterprise -- becoming rogue assassins and taking out ex-Death Eaters is hardly a rational preoccupation, and it was not easy either. But at this point Peregrine had nothing left to lose -- save for his sanity. Even if revenge could no longer save this mess that was his life, at least it would make him feel better; and that’s the best he could hope for these days. To just feel better. He told Adrian his decision, and left as well.

Cassius called him and invited him to their next meeting. When he looked through the door, Peregrine saw Adrian there, too.

The rest is history.

Peregrine could not remember how long he had been in the Organisation. It seemed at least longer than four months, but no more than a year. Time didn’t matter if you weren’t in a hurry to live or die; and he was doing neither. He existed in the limbo between the two states of being, watching the third episode of the second season of The X Files, ‘Blood’, whilst consuming basic sustenance in the form of a packet of Walkers.

Tonight was going to be the closest to alive he’s felt in a while. As Scully performed an autopsy on McRoberts, the dim screen of Perry’s phone lit up with a calendar reminder.

With surprisingly fluid movement for someone who had been watching television all day, Perry got up from the couch and dusted his himself off. He walked to his bedroom and pulled the thin, holey black t-shirt over his head and kicked off his grey sweatpants. He left his clothes in a bundle on his floor, and picked something else out of The Chair, on which he usually left his clothes after he did laundry -- why pack it away in a wardrobe when you’re just going to take it out again, anyway?

He threaded himself through a black turtlenecked shirt, and donned a pair of slim black slacks. If he was going to be the last thing someone saw before they died, he wanted to look at least respectable. So they knew it was a Slytherin killing them, not some random sloven. He clicked the lights shut on his way out of the room, and closed the door behind him.

The time on his phone told him that he was still on time. He slid it into his back pocket. And although he didn’t usually rely on wand magic to do the deed, he still brought his wand; it was always a nice fallback, and he derived a small comfort from the presence of the stick of black walnut in his pocket.

Perry turned off the telly, and put out the lamp. He found his way to the door, and slid on his pair of 1461 Docs. No better shoe for kicking in jaws, he asserted. He then reached for the heavy beater’s bat leaning against the umbrella stand -- it was a beautiful thing, shaped by the maths of aerodynamics, fine-tuned to the his touch and style, stained a rich colour by varnish and blood both. He swung the thing upwards, and rested it against his shoulder. The door creaked open in front of him, and Perry grabbed his keys off the hook he hung them on before he walked out his flat.

The door closed behind him, and the lock clicked shut.

Peregrine whistled as he walked down the dying streets. He was in a good mood tonight; he quite liked The X Files. The city was spluttering on the embers of the day -- people were all about to head home, kick back, and do something mundane. There were men dressed in suits walking hurriedly to the tube station he just passed, and one of him bumped into his shoulder -- the one without the bat.

His brain crackled with the electricity of a legilimency link. ‘Falcon, can you hear me?’ Adrian’s voice sounded between his ears.

‘Loud and clear,’ Peregrine affirmed, a cheerful, almost agitated edge forming around his words.

‘Get on the Bakerloo line,’ Adrian instructed. Peregrine was already on his way over.

Peregrine sank into an empty brown seat on the Bakerloo train towards Elephant and Castle. The train rattled soothingly as they sped forwards in the darkness.

His mark tonight was Augustus Rookwood. He’d escaped from Azkaban twice -- the last time during the mass breakout prior to the Battle of Hogwarts. A slippery bastard, this one was, but no one could escape Peregrine’s hunt.

He leapt off the train at Elephant and Castle, and sauntered into the night. He walked down the streets he had memorised in preparation, until he reached a nondescript ugly apartment building. This one knew how to hide -- in the plainest sight.

Peregrine waved a hand before the lock -- the equations and calculations in his magic finding just the right combination -- and it beeped him in. With a little leap, he started on the staircase and wound his way up to the fourth floor.

The room he had been briefed on was labelled as the residence of one Mister Arthur Rook. Yep, this was him alright; seems like he didn’t put much effort into an alias, though, Peregrine snickered to himself. ‘Focus, Falcon,’ Pucey reminded him through the link.

Peregrine extended a hand and motioned at the lock. His fingers moved as if he were playing piano upside down; and the lock clicked to his instruction. Gently, it popped open, and Peregrine mimed a push; it creaked open more, and he walked in as if he owned the place.

Immediately, a barrage of defensive spells launched themselves at him, but he was more than ready. He looped his fingers through the mazes, rearranged the values into new formulas, and gently broke apart the spells. He didn’t even need a wand for the work; the math was always in his favour.

Politely, Peregrine closed the door behind him. He waved a hand through the air, casting a silencing spell on the entire flat. As the last shimmers of the spell faded into the darkness, Peregrine cupped his free hand to his mouth and called out, ‘Oi, you old fucker! Come out and get your due!’

There was a frantic shuffling sound in the back, and Perry snapped his fingers. The locks on the windows all jammed themselves together, grinding themselves together until the metal was deformed and impossible to break apart. Peregrine heard Rookwood curse, and he smiled, pleased.

‘I haven’t got all night, you know,’ he said with a touch of impatience. He had a morning shift the next day. He put out his hand again, and made a drawing motion; and the chicken-hearted Death Eater flew towards him, as if summoned by an accio. Peregrine grinned maliciously, and slammed his fist into the face of the approaching Death Eater.

There was the unmistakable crack of bone straining and the soft, repulsive shift of flesh beneath his knuckles. Rookwood flew backwards and landed on his arse, whimpering from the pain and spitting out broken teeth. Peregrine walked over to him and loomed over the man, his feet wide apart and the bat still resting on his shoulder.

‘You can’t run anymore, you know,’ he told Rookwood coldly. ‘It’s time for you to meet your end.’

‘Who the fuck ... are you ... ?’ Rookwood managed through cracked teeth and a swelling cheek.

Peregrine let out a high laugh and slammed the toe of his shoe into Rookwood’s stomach. The man turned over and began retching dryly.

‘I’m your worst nightmare,’ he introduced himself, his voice growing more and more acute as the adrenaline flooded his system. He squatted down, and grabbed a fistful of Rookwood’s hair with his free hand. He yanked at it so the man’s face would face his; so he could look directly into the terror and desperation and the laughable, stubborn pride in Rookwood’s eyes as he said, ‘I’m the Falcon.’

Rookwood drew his wand from his sleeve and pointed it towards Peregrine, a curse taking shape on his lips -- but Peregrine swung his bat against Rookwood’s hand, and it met with his wrist with a wet sort of crack. The wand clattered onto the floor and Rookwood doubled over again, a terrible scream ringing forth from his throat. Peregrine stood up again, and walked over to the wand. He brought his foot down upon it, and snapped it in two.

Rookwood was still screaming. What a baby. Perry turned his attention back towards him, and made him slide across the floor to him. He couldn’t be arsed to walk back to Rookwood. ‘You’re going to pay for everything,’ Peregrine said as he made a mixing motion with his index finger, and Rookwood’s broken wrist did a nauseating 180-degree twist.

There were pathetic tears streaming down Rookwood’s face, getting caught in the ugly creases of his contorted face. ‘What have I done?’ He asked in a wheezing voice.

Peregrine cracked an unnerving grin. ‘You’re seriously going to ask me that question? You Death Eater dickwad?’ He dropped his bat and picked Rookwood up by the collar and pinned him against the the nearest wall. He made sure that his hand was pressed tightly against Rookwood’s windpipe, so he commanded Rookwood’s full attention. With a fell swoop Peregrine brought his knees to the soft spot under the edge of Rookwood’s ribcage and felt the organs rearrange themselves around him. ‘I’m going to make you pay for more crimes than yours, though,’ he promised, a wild edge to his voice.

‘Please,’ Rookwood began to plead, but Peregrine brought his fist to Rookwood’s face again and dislodged his jaw with a right hook. He’d heard enough of the fucking guy. Rookwood screamed, but Perry wasn’t listening. Everyone keeps saying the same things these days, don’t they?

Peregrine swung Rookwood around, and threw him against the glass coffee table. The weight of the toss shattered the glass and Rookwood fell through, his limp form hanging loosely upon the black metal frame. The floor was quickly darkening underneath his body. Peregrine only had so much time left to have some fun.

Deliberately, he ambled over, the rubber soles of his Docs squeaking against the slick floors. He watched the twitching man, coughing and spluttering and crying like some sort of disgusting, inhuman thing. Finally, the appearance matches the spirit, Peregrine thought as he watched Rookwood impassively, cold rage taking over his previous elated fury.

‘Just finish it so we can go home,’ Adrian said.

‘Shut the fuck up,’ Peregrine said, aloud.

Rookwood looked up at him, bloodshot eye-whites and blue irises stark against the dark blood. He wheezed in a fashion that sounded like a pitiful attempt at ‘please,’ but Peregrine never reserved mercy for anyone.

Why should he be merciful when he was treated with nothing but vicious parsimony and paranoia?

He plunged both hands into the coffee table frame and yanked Rookwood out of it; the tinkling of falling glass accompanied his action, and it would have sounded pretty if it weren’t for the sickly squelch of oozing blood and torn flesh that preceded it. Peregrine threw Rookwood against the floor, and the rag doll of a former Death Eater rolled onto his back, looking at Peregrine helplessly.

Peregrine looked at the dying man seriously, as he always did before he had to kill someone. He hated, hated all of them -- they were war criminals, racists, murderers and betrayers -- but hate was not enough. Nothing was ever enough for him, anymore. He was just so fucking empty, all the fucking time; and not even a fucking sea of hate would come close to filling him up.

He hated himself for being like this. He hated what became of his life; he hated that he was always working the most thankless jobs to get by, he hated that he had nothing left to do in life anymore except watch television because he no longer had the luxury of possessing interests, and above all he hated that the biggest high he could get out of anything was through killing fucking cowards who couldn’t even fight back. Couldn’t even make it feel like what he was doing was legitimate, was significant, was worthy. He hated everything, and most of all he hated that for all his hate and rage and sadness he could do nothing about it.

‘Fuck you,’ he spat at Rookwood as he brought his foot down upon his ribcage. He felt the brittle ribs snap like dry branches beneath his feet, and he ground his foot harder into Rookwood’s chest, until he could see the bones sticking out of his skin, like little altar candles waiting to be lit, an unsung prayer for Peregrine’s dead future. Rookwood’s lungs whistled from being punctured, and his blood splattered onto Perry’s slacks, making the wet fabric stick to his leg.

If Rookwood was screaming Perry wasn’t fucking listening anymore. His ears were roaring and crying and soundless; it was only him and nothingness, forever.

He walked away from Rookwood to where his bat was lying on the floor, and picked it up. The familiar weight grounded him back into the present, but reminded him of better days. Better days for all of them. Better days that had been killed off by the likes of Rookwood. He dragged himself back to the dying Death Eater.

‘Go to fucking Hell,’ he snarled as he raised the bat high above his head; its dark shape obscured the moon shining through the window, behind him. And with a savage swing, he brought it down on Rookwood’s head; blood splattered across his face, chest, and arms, and Rookwood’s skull splintered into another mess that he was uninterested in looking.

Peregrine stood up straight, and dropped his bat on the floor.

He sauntered over to Rookwood’s bathroom, and switched on the light with slippery fingers. He looked at himself in the mirror.

In the stark bathroom he looked hollower than usual, with his skin overexposed in the harsh light and blanched beneath the blood splattered across his face and neck. The light reflected into his irises, bright circles eclipsed by his pupils. For some reason, it made his dark brown eyes look even less lifelike, like the glassy eyes of a doll. He bent down over the sink and turned the faucet on. He washed his hands diligently with soap until the water stopped running pink, and then cleaned the blood from his face. He looked up again, still void with tired dark eyes, still pale against his dark clothes, dark hair, still thin thanks to personal inattentiveness.

Black never suited him; it made him look too sallow, too harsh. But he wouldn’t wear any other colour anymore. He remembered the first time he was paired up with his old teammate Adrian -- the other boy commented that he had never seen Perry wear black ever before, and that Perry looked strange and funny in it. But after he saw Perry kill, he’s never commented on his wardrobe again.

Peregrine dried his hands and his face on one of the towels hanging on the rack, and used it to switch off the lights again; he didn’t want to touch it and get blood on his hands again. He brought it with him back into the entrance of the flat, and wiped down his bat with it.

Picking the bat up, he walked to the nearest window and swung it hard against the glass. It shattered with a pretty tinkling sound, and a crow immediately flew into the flat. Perry handed it the bloody towel, and turned away.

He opened the door of the flat and walked out. The door creaked to a close, and the lock clicked shut behind him.

‘Good work, Falcon,’ Adrian said as soon as they left the flat.

This was why Perry liked Adrian. He knew not to interrupt Perry whilst he was in the middle of a fury. He knew him better than anyone else on the team.

‘How’s Terry?’ Peregrine asked nonchalantly, as if he had not just brutally murdered a man not ten minutes ago. Terence never really talked to him again after he had decided to join the Last Meal, but he was still close with Adrian. Perry wondered if Adrian had ever told Terry that he joined, too.

‘He’s doing okay,’ Adrian said flatly. ‘I’ll see you around.’

‘Catch you later, mate,’ Perry acknowledged, and switched off the link. Adrian’s presence fizzed out like flat soda.

Peregrine dug in his pockets for a cigarette and his lighter. Something nasty to get rid of that more distasteful and unmistakable smell of blood. He put the cigarette between his lips, and hunched over the flickering, tiny flame of his lighter. The cool, sharp taste of menthol coated over every terrible thing he was and wasn’t feeling; and he felt fresh again.

As soon as he got back into his flat, Perry threw all his bloody clothes into the laundry basket and took a scalding shower to scour all the blood off of him. He put on a clean t-shirt and a fresh pair of sweatpants that he picked off of The Chair, and walked back to the living room. He unrolled the half-eaten bag of crisps on his coffee table, and switched the telly on again.

Just another episode in the life of Peregrine Derrick.

#snakepitnet #peregrine derrick #tw: smoking #tw: graphic violence #LIKE REALLY GRAPHIC #tw: thoughts of suicide??#hp fanfiction #saladstuff #saladfic #saladedits #the last meal #i may write one for each character from this au tbh #and yes all the titles are going to be songs from htbahb i don't make the rules #a/n: smoking isn't cool kids don't do it ... and also some classy perry for lyra bc ily #well as classy as he gets

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