Apr 26
You can take the girl out of the Pyramid…
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You can take the girl out of the Pyramid…
After reading a stitch in time: i bet julian goes running to cardassia to see garak and help him rebuild!!
After reading the nexus: that absolute slag Bashir has a lot to fucking answer for.
After reading the calling: haha sharib sounds a lot like bashir. Wait-
After reading section 31 control: *Bashir suffers more than Jesus*
I just remembered that I never sent my ask back in, and ik you're doing Kinktober so that's your focus but I'm giving it back before I forget 😅 hope you don't mind.
Anyway, I believe it was two vampires who just got married and need to perform a bonding ceremony with each other, and that's basically just brutally clawing, biting and stabbing the other to get their blood out, because that's how vampires bond, and then they have sex in a pool of their blood to complete the ceremony. Reading it back, I feel it's really bad, but I love vampires and blood, so... <3
Kabr0z Writes episode 216: Desperate Measures
Find the rest of the Kabr0z Writes anthology here!
Damn do I wish it was faster to post to Ao3!
CWs: apparent age difference; proximal age; blood; forceful sex; enthusiastic consent; CNC; pain; injury; a loredump about Vampire: the Masquerade
A/N: Does it still count as old man yaoi when neither of them look over 40-something despite both being in their mid-60s chronologically? I'm not sure.
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London burned.
The second inquisition has come down hard. Some of the older licks in town were calling it Gahenna. You're not sure how much you believe that. Just some fucking Nos letting their guard down, letting the kine get into their shit. Suddenly everyone in London was paying for it. Can't leave the city, it felt like every route that took you out of the M25 was blocked up. A ring road crawling with so many hunters you'd find yourself rapidly on the wrong side of a road flare. How they were still managing to keep it quiet from the sheep was beyond you. Vampire hunting dressed up as counter-terrorism.
You wouldn't mind, it wasn't your lot that caused this whole mess. Of course, the Order of Excalibur didn't care about the differences between anarchs and Camarilla. All Kindred are the same to them. Blank-bodies, to be neutralised with extreme prejudice. Fucking Ivory Tower dicks making things shit for everyone else. Almost like it's a centuries-old cycle of oppression and violence…
One thing seemed to be a reprieve from the abject shitstorm. A Kindred you'd been introduced to a couple of decades ago. Back when he was still green, fresh out of the Cam. You didn't trust him back then. Still don't, you barely know his name.
Not to mention, he's a Tremere.
Tremere aren't common on this side of the schism. It's not a secret how they keep their new blood in line: every newly embraced warlock gets blood bonded to a whole bunch of their elders. Loyalty is a big deal over there, and it's bought with control. Each Tremere in a vinculum to the rung above, rising through the generations until you get to the big daddy of them all who ate Saulot four or five centuries ago. How he managed to find an antediluvian in torpor, you don't know. How he then managed to diablerise a being no more than two bites away from Caine, nobody knows.
Not that the history of the clan matters. They were wizards, bound up into their own forced hierarchy of blood. The Pyramid. Very much a Camarilla MO. That's why when one pops up asking to be let into the Anarchs, you were a little suspicious. You know where you stand with a Brush, a Gangrel, fuck even a Ventrue could be relied on to be a backstabbing scumbag. A fucking Tremere. And here you were at his haven.
An unassuming magic shop. A shitty little hole in a wall in Camden. Open the door, climb the steps, then through to his office-cum-haven where he’d be waiting. Just had to get the foul taste out of your mouth first.
A bored-looking clerk stood behind the counter. You could smell he was a ghoul, even before he grinned at you and waved you into the back. “The boss is waiting.”
You could feel his eyes on you. Sizing you up, taking in your outfit: a leather jacket probably older than he is, an Iron Maiden t-shirt, patched-up crust jeans and spiked wrist cuffs. Sure, you dress like you’ve stepped directly out of the 1980s punk scene, but some looks are timeless. If not entirely odourless.
You climbed the stairs. Ian’s office was at the top of the stairs. A bead curtain, because of course it was. Nothing to knock on, so you slipped in. Bells attached to the ends of each bead chain jingled as you pushed them aside. One way to avoid being taken unawares. Not that you were trying.
“Colin. Good to finally meet.” A middle-aged looking man was sitting behind a desk, going over some papers. Half-moon glasses on the bridge of his nose. Ian looked twenty years your senior, though a lot of kindred do. Brujah embrace young, you’d barely escaped getting collared for hucking a molotov at a police car before a shape moving at mach-fuckoff clotheslined you. By the time you woke up, your heart had stopped and you were an anarch. You hadn’t asked exactly how old Ian is, but you knew he joined the ranks of the dead in the nineties, and walked into your bar just after the banks fell apart in the aughts. You weren’t a baron or anything, just an open ear who held down some neutral turf. One thing led to another and he got the name of someone a little more interested in political agitation than you. Who knows, if he’d found you a decade previous, you might have been more down for tearing shit up. Now though, you just wanted a quiet unlife.
Irresponsible tearing up of shit is what’s brought the wolves to the door, after all.
“Yeah. We met before, remember? You came into my pub asking for sanctuary. Fucking gutsy considering half the licks in there were Gangrels. I remember having to talk one of them down from staking you out for a suntan.” You grinned “I was tempted to let him. What’s a warlock doing as an anarch anyway? You fucks are all Tower all the time usually”
That struck a nerve. Good. Ian grimaced as he looked up at you “Some of us wanted a change. It was… Remarkably easy to get out of the Pyramid. Once that happened it was just a case of finding some new friends. You were the first step to that, for which I am eternally grateful. Now I seek to repay that major boon. I’ll get you out of London, under the noses of the Inquisitorial forces stalking these streets. There’s just one catch.”
“Which is?” Always a fucking catch with warlocks. You should just take your chances walking across the bed of the Thames
“Assurances. It’s no secret you dislike my clan, as do most Anarchs. I need to ensure my own safety. A vinculum”
You felt your hackles rise. This asshole wanted to blood bond you, keep you under his thumb and call it a boon. “What, get me drunk on your blood and use me as a pawn? What makes you think I’ll agree to that?”
Ian smiled. A soft smile, as though realising something for the first time “Of course. You don’t know. Why would you? Do you know the bane of clan Tremere?”
You stopped. You were about to leave, but you know the value of information. Even if it’s bullshit, you’ll be able to peddle this on “Continue”
“Our blood is broken. Normally, if you drink the vitae of another kindred you become bound. Since the destruction of the Vienna chantry, this is not the case for us. Some Tremere are incapable of even binding ghouls to our will, though thankfully this is not the case for me. No. Instead I propose something a little different. My house, House Carna, have developed a ritual that will allow us to be bound, albeit temporarily, to one another. You will be bound to me, me to you, until our business is concluded.”
You frowned at the man as he rose from his desk “So… What, we need to drink from each other? Is that it?”
“No,” he shook his head “We need to fuck”
You took a step backwards. The realities of undeath mean that being in the midst of a long dry spell isn’t unusual, some neonates can still be intimate with people, but it’s never as intense as when you had a beating heart. You weren’t a neonate any more, and your strategy for feeding wasn’t exactly… Seductive.
He looked at you. You looked at him. The room hadn’t got any warmer, but suddenly felt close. The way was open and at the speed you could move if you needed to, you could be out of here before he or his ghoul could stop you. On the other hand, he’s still your best bet to get out of this city without getting pinched, and that's saying something.
“There’s no other way?”
“No. Carna’s rituals are… Specific.”
You sighed. This wasn’t how you expected the night to go, but it’s better than suffering final death. With a roll of your head, you felt power coarse through you as you roused your blood. The blush of life returned to you. Colour long since missing from your cheeks flowed back, your ribs rose and fell in a mockery of breath. A moment of focus, and you felt yourself harden, cock straining at your antique denim jeans. “Bend over”
Ian cocked an eyebrow “What?”
“Bend over. If I’m fucking you to get out of this city, I’m the one doing the fucking.”
“Ah-” If he could blush, the Tremere would be blushing. “Very well.”
You watched as he extricated himself from his clothes, folding them as he stripped. Considering he just propositioned you, he seems a little confused about the way things are going. Maybe you should help.
Celerity: the vampiric art of moving very, very fast indeed. Potence: the ability to crush a car like a soda can. Both of these are talents the Brujah have in spades. Both of these are tricks you have become quite good at using during your time as a kindred. Better, it seemed, than Ian was at stopping you. By the time he'd noticed you move, you were behind him. His wrist in your hand, pushing him over the desk.
“Be honest, you've wanted to try this little ritual of yours out for a while, haven't you?” The last discipline a Brujah has at his disposal is Presence. You didn't need to use it. Kindred don't tremble, not from fear, not from excitement, certainly not from arousal. The noises this Tremere was making, you reckon if he had a pulse he would be.
“N-not exactly-”
You pushed him down harder. Your other hand pulled your cock free, turgid and thick, resting it on the older-looking man’s rear end. Kindred regrow hair and nails to their state at the moment of the embrace, unless a Dragon is involved, so either this man was waxed clean when he got bitten, or he'd prepared for this. “Be honest. A young buck walks into your office and folds you with one hand? You've had dreams about this. Good ones” You thrust your hips against him, slamming him against the edge of the desk, feeling the wood crack beneath supernatural force. Hearing the moaning whine come out of the man in front of you
“I have, I have! Please!”
“Good man. Now we can really have a dialogue”
He scrambled for a desk drawer when he felt you line yourself up with his winking hole. The sound he made when he felt a gobbet of your bloody spit land on him was almost musical.
You reached around him. He was soft, limp and cold. He'd not brought himself to the facsimile of life you had. It didn't matter, a dribbling of cool wetness was already coming from his tip. You thought you could smell someone else's blood in the air. One hand on his flaccid excuse for a cock, the other still holding his wrist halfway up his back, you stepped in.
Kindred are tough. One benefit of being undead, you don't bruise easily. The superhuman thrust which hilted you in his rear broke something, and it wasn't just the desk. Splintering wood almost covered up the gasping cry that tore from Ian's mouth. A holdover reflex from when he needed to breathe, maybe. Now the hyperventilating kindred pushing back into you was just doing it for kicks.
That you can respect.
“Too much, wizard?”
He shook his head
“More?”
Nod
“Harder?”
More nodding. You grinned. You haven't had a painslut to play with since the 90s.
“Good lad.”
You dug your nails in, the skin on his wrist splitting, filling the room with the scent of blood as it flowed in rivulets between your fingers and down his back. Your hips worked overtime, unnatural speed and stamina driving him over and over into the creaking, cracking furniture until it at last gave way.
You were too deep in him to fall out, holding him to you as you went down together. Clawing a handful of thinning grey hair, pulling back on it even as you drove his pleading, grinning face into the carpet. Hips hammering into him, knees on the ground, conscious of the dripping blood soaking into the floor.
You felt something. Something you hadn't felt for so long. Pressure welling up inside you. A lightness in your chest, a swimming in your head. You were starting to groan, almost as loudly as he was. The inhumane tempo of your body hitting him set the rhythm for your grunting. Every stroke brought it closer.
You felt yourself release inside him. Your cock twitching, balls tensing against your torso. It was like you hadn't fucked in decades which, of course, you hadn't.
You stayed locked to him. Each shuddering pulse sent another squirt of precious vitae into his ruined hole. Over and over. Groaning together, blood dripping from fresh wounds.
He healed himself before dressing. Calling his ghoul into the office and drinking his fill before channeling the power to his wounds. Skin knit together, bones fused. When he was done you wouldn't have known he'd just taken such a beating had you not been the one to break him. It was almost disappointing.
“Is it done?”
“You can't feel it?”
You could. Normally a bond takes a while to come on. This was different. You could already sense you couldn't betray him, even if your own life was on the line.
“Is this what the Pyramid was like?”
“Oh, that was worse. This is just for now, until our business is concluded. Now, I know a Nosferatu who can get us out of here and into Cardiff. An old-fashioned gangster type. He owes me a boom from my days in the Tower. Goes by Ryan”
Shit. First you find yourself balls-deep in another man's ass, now you're relying on the Tower.
A night of first times, it seems.
❖ Drakestoning Ⅰ
(Young! Gellert Grindelwald x Durmstrang! Reader)
Tags: Durmstrang AU, Canon-Divergence, Fluff Length: 5.4k Series: Chapter Ⅰ, Part 1 of Vinculum (A Hello, Little Potioneer Spin-Off)
A/N: Potioneer's Deeper & Darker Expansion Pack DLC darker cousin! ٩(^ᗜ^ )و ´- Readable as a stand-alone, but since both are being worked on together, take it as you will...
Fantastic Beasts Master List | Also on Ao3! | Hello, Little Potioneer Master List
Part Ⅰ / Part Ⅱ
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—He’d given you a bracelet, once. A token of your shared camaraderie over the years, he’d claimed. Except… it wasn’t as innocuous as it seemed. After all, when were things ever simple with Grindelwald?
—He’d given you a bracelet, once.
A harmless little thing made of thin black string, woven with enchanted threads and bearing a singular polished bloodstone. A token of your shared camaraderie over the years, he'd claimed. A friendship bracelet of the magical sort, in coarser terms.
You'd sensed the magic coalesced within the string the moment he'd put it on you, his unique brand of magic washing over your skin in a faint tingle. It had been enchanted with at least four different spells, none of which you recognized. But at the very least, you could tell that there had been no malice behind their creation.
“Protection” was the only explanation he’d offered. He did not deign to expound on it.
Thinking nothing of it, you'd acquiesced to his request, nonetheless, if only to humor him. Besides, you could tell that whatever spells he'd inlaid within those threads weren't inherently dark. Not that he'd cast anything of the sort on you… Or would he? With his darker tendencies, one couldn't be too sure.
It was a constant in your life, even as the whirlwinds of life took you for a spin. You'd grown apart from Grindelwald then, as scheduling conflicts seemed to widen the divide between you two. Your schedules no longer matched up as much as they did in the earlier years. And while you did share a sparse few classes since you were in a few of the advanced courses that were usually taught a year higher than your own, he, too, had been taking advanced curricula. In fact, he was practically never in classes that the rest of his peers sat in.
Between schoolwork, fieldwork, and educational pursuits, you'd barely seen each other despite being on the same campus. Granted, the sprawling grounds of Durmstrang were rather large, so it was possible that you'd simply missed each other while passing through one of the school's many hallways. But knowing the pale wizard, there was a higher chance of him being out in the field, tinkering with one of his new findings, if he wasn't holed up in a room elsewhere doing the exact same thing.
It had been weeks since you'd last seen him, and he hadn't shown up for any of your shared advanced curricula either. Part of you wondered if he was still alive, or if he'd even remembered that classes were still a thing.
What was his attendance like? Or did he strike a deal with his professors that exempted him from that criterion? Either way, you had to give it to him. It was something you loathed to admit, but the faculty seemed forgiving enough when it came to him, closing an eye and letting him go for things that would usually result in detention.
The other students were not so fortunate, however, you included, having spent your fair share of time serving detention, scrubbing at the bottom of mucky caldrons while cursing the unfortunate souls who created the mess in the first place. But there was no use dwelling on matters that weren't even your own. Grindelwald goes where Grindelwald pleases, you suppose. Not that there was anyone capable of stopping him, really. You'd just best hope that your oldest pal was still alive and kicking, and not dead in a mountain nook somewhere.
Shaking your head in exasperation, you headed to your next class, your shoes clicking against the polished stone tiles as you entered the classroom. You cast a cursory glance at your surroundings. There were only a sparse few students in attendance today, despite this being Runic Studies, one of the more popular classes among the student body. But you weren't too surprised by it, considering the celebrations that had lasted well into the night yesterday after a well-fought victory in the inter-house Quidditch competition.
For how rambunctious it had been, the festivities sure did take out a good many people. Some of the craftier upperclassmen had somehow managed to smuggle firewhisky and other spirits into the compound. And with how you'd had to help get some people settled back into their rooms by the end of it, it was safe to say that everyone had gone a little too hard on the alcohol.
You unconsciously rubbed at your arm as your skin tingled, fingers brushing against the bracelet hidden under your sleeve. Maybe it was a reaction to the lingering traces of magic that had been cast in the previous class? It wouldn’t be the first time that had happened, given your heightened magic sensitivity. The magic that ran through your family was inherently one of a darker nature after all, and ilk tended to attract ilk, no matter how vaguely.
Approaching your seat, you saw your deskmate, Morganfield, asleep in the next seat, sprawled out on the table, hood up and head buried in his arms. He must have had a rough night after the resident dormitory party yesterday. And you didn’t doubt it, considering how you’d been the one to haul his ass back into his room after he’d promptly passed out after his third, or maybe tenth, drink. You hadn't been counting, and neither did anyone care to. Admittedly, you had initially been a little concerned when dropping him off, but you’d left him in the care of his other roommates, also in varying degrees of inebriation, trusting that they’d keep a watchful eye over his drunken self.
And he'd somehow made it to class today. Color yourself surprised, this guy was tough as a nail to have weathered through all that and hauling himself here.
You shot him a concerned look as you settled in next to him, placing your books down. He seemed to be out cold. Probably hung over to hell and back, too, now that you thought about it.
In normal circumstances, you would have offered him a hangover cure or maybe a Pepper-Up potion, but you'd already given what few vials you had left to your suffering roommates earlier this morning when they'd bemoaned their choices from the night prior. It would take a while to make another batch, even if you started now.
A faint grumble snapped you out of your thoughts as he shifted, his hood sliding backwards ever so slightly at the action to reveal a mop of tousled flaxen hair. Something tickled at the back of your mind, an odd feeling that you couldn’t quite name. You glanced back at your friend, a wisp of vague suspicion curling at the forefront of your mind.
The edges of his silhouette blurred unnaturally, as if there was some sort of vague holographic veil shrouding his person. It could’ve just been your imagination, but that muted groan that he'd made had sounded a little different to your ears. And while whoever this looked somewhat similar to him from this angle… something was off.
The image of him blurred, almost as if out of focus, before flickering back into clarity. Was it magic at play, or had it been all the drinks you had last night? You frowned, pretty sure that you hadn't suffered a concussion from last night's activities either, for that matter.
Anyway… had his hair always been that shade, again?
You could have sworn that his was distinctively two tones darker from the mop of hair you were staring at, but you couldn’t be too sure. After all, you didn't have the habit of staring at people too closely, let alone know the exact shade of color their hair was. Despite that, something about this person tickled your instincts… You definitely weren't seated with Morganfield. If so, who was this?
A fleeting thought crossed your mind. Usually, you wouldn't have acted so brashly, but somehow… If your hunch was right… Surely not, right?
Reaching over to the pile of robes, you stretched your hand into the hood and made contact with what felt like a jaw. Their skin felt warm against your own as you gently lifted the face in your discernible direction.
“Huh.” You made a sound of surprise as you blinked owlishly at your deskmate. Or rather, your new desk mate.
Mismatched eyes clouded with sleep opened blearily at the sudden movement, jaw tensing at the gentle pressure being applied. He hadn't sensed any threats in his vicinity, else he’d have been up at the drop of the hat, but one thing was for sure— he did not appreciate being physically handled in any capacity. And, hell, when had he fallen asleep? Was that… a hand on his jaw?
What the hell?
He looked down in distaste, ready to rear backwards or send a wordless zap of warning to the offender who'd deigned to touch him, only for his brow to furrow in slight confusion as his eyes landed on the hand. His notice then fell upon the bracelet that had been attached to said limb, half-hidden beneath a sleeve. A sliver of a molted red stone peaking through the dark fabric, glinting faintly in the light.
A bloodstone? The expression on his face quickly morphed into one of surprise as recognition finally registered in his brain.
He knew this stone. It gave off his magic signature; no wonder he hadn't sensed anything amiss.
And you knew this face. “Gellert?”
Oh.
His eyes immediately slid upwards at the call of his name, the soft utterance of your own falling from his lips. “You know, people usually take me out for dinner first.” He mumbled, voice gravelly from sleep.
What?
Your grip on him loosened as he set his own palm above your hand, pulling your fingers away from his chin. Heat crept up your ears as he gently pressed them to his lips before releasing you.
What was he doing here? He wasn’t even supposed to be in this class; he wouldn’t even go anywhere near runes even if you begged him to. You remembered that he'd once mentioned something about it affecting his sight in passing, to which you’d assumed he’d been referring to his precognitive visions that he was still trying to get a handle on.
Or had he overcome that, too, in the time he'd been away?
You watched as he drew away, blinking the sleep from his eyes, raising a hand to cover his yawn. A lazy smile crept upon his features as he lowered his hand. He watched as an indiscernible look crossed your face, almost perplexed in nature, stuck between the thresholds of annoyance and joy.
Then, he remembered just how he'd ended up here in the first place. Right.
Grindelwald ran a hand through his mussed hair, straightening up in his seat. He'd gone and made a deal with your original seatmate, having caught him stumbling through the halls on the way back to his dorm, seconds away from tripping over his own feet. And while he generally hated owing people favors, he wasn't against accruing his own stash of favors.
He’d initially recognized the guy as a dormmate of yours, having seen him hanging around you often enough to leave a lasting impression. He hadn't cared to know the name of the boy. His family, however… Morganfield, was it? He had a brother— Two, in fact. And he was pretty sure that one of them was in his year; a faint realization that made a note of, tucking it away for later perusal.
The Morganfield family, while of pure blood, was not widely known in the wizarding world, largely due to the fact that members of said house tended to end up as mercenaries, bounty hunters, or, in official capacities, hit-wizards. Whilst small in number, they preferred to remain in the wings of society. The less that was known about them, the better.
However, that wasn’t to say that they weren’t worth their coin. He remembered seeing a passing mention of the eldest heir in the papers once— an accomplished Auror who'd been part of the team who'd closed a case on a couple of high-stakes wizarding murders. He may not have been the one in the spotlight, but he’d gained a certain amount of influence to his name after that feat, and was perhaps well on his way to the higher echelons of his career. Ties to the Ministry were always a good thing to have; a fact that all noble houses worth their salt knew. Befriending one of them would prove to be a valuable asset in the long run. That being said, for someone who hailed from a house that prided itself on effectiveness and precision, the younger Morganfield certainly didn't seem to live up to their esteemed reputation.
Grindelwald's brow twitched as he watched the poor blond nearly careen himself straight into a decorated pillar in his hurry. It was baffling how he hadn't noticed the monument of stone before him, almost as if he'd entirely lost his sense of spatial awareness. He was clearly in no state to be outside, and despite how he was… trying, in his best efforts, to find his way to class, Grindelwald highly doubted that he was going to make it anywhere near his destination at the rate he was going.
A thought struck him then. Hmm, wasn't this guy in the same year as you, again? He had his motives, sure, but perhaps this could be an agreement of mutual benefit.
Walking up behind his unsuspecting underclassman, he swiftly caught the bumbling wizard by the arm before he could take another staggering step in the wrong direction and gave him a firm tug back to safety. After all, it wouldn't do if his target fell off the ledge he had been teetering dangerously close to.
Perhaps a little intimidation might play more into his favor?
He let the glamor drop, brown washing out into cool silver in a minute movement.
He steadied the boy by the shoulders as he stumbled into him from the force, giving him a moment to regain his bearings before drawing away, keeping the boy within half an arm's reach should he make another oddly-placed attempt of drunken idiocy.
“Charming, really. Are you alright?” He purposefully questioned, framing it in an acceptably concerned manner that seemed to belie his true intentions.
Morganfield turned, eyes wide with sudden clarity when he finally registered how close he'd been to tipping right over, only to freeze at the sight of an imposing figure looming over him. Half-clad in the shadows cast by the flickering firelight, the pale eye that glinted down at him was both chilling and downright terrifying. An apt but unconventional wake-up call that shocked his system into momentary sobriety.
He had just been saved by the skin of his teeth by the last person he’d expected to run into.
Grindelwald saw the recognition flash in the younger wizard’s eyes, alongside a faint flicker of fear, before the boy immediately jumped away from him, stammering a reply as he placed a good amount of distance between them. “G-Grindelwald! Thanks… That… That was close…”
“Can’t hold your drink, I take it?” He spoke as he assessed the boy standing before him, nose subtly scrunching up at the undeniably strong smell of alcohol that still wafted off him from the night prior. Despite that, he did well to hide his distaste behind an unassuming expression.
Why you let him hang around you was unbeknownst to him. Not that it mattered to him anyway; he had no say in who you could or could not be friends with, although he did have a thing or two to say about your taste… in company.
He watched as Morganfield fidgeted where he stood, awkwardly shifting from foot to foot, unsure of how to reply, yet seemingly ready to bolt. Eventually, he finally broke the silence with a meek question, his gaze notably darting towards the nearest exit. “Did you need me for something?”
It was clear that the boy was intimidated by his presence. Granted, who wouldn't be, when an upperclassman stops them out of the blue?
Grindelwald changed gears then, relaxing his stance and exuding an air of practiced ease. “Easy. I just have an offer for you.” He placated, holding his hands out. Gesturing at the way Morganfield still seemed to be swaying on his feet despite staying in one place, he added. “And you look like you're moments away from a disaster."
He played his card then— a lucrative deal he saw no reason to be turned down. Who knew when a favor would come in handy, right? It was best to have a few cards hidden under his sleeve, especially in a place like this. It was two birds in one stone, or maybe even three. In doing this, he could get an excuse to test how well his spell held and gain someone under his thumb. Only if Morganfield accepted his terms, of course.
Doing the poor guy a service, he offered to take his place in class to save his abysmal attendance rates in exchange for a favor to be claimed at a later date. And thankfully, your friend hadn't put up much of a fight, content to take him up for it whilst nursing his dastardly hangover. And frankly, with how much he struggled to put one foot before another, it was less of a choice and more of a necessity in his case.
However, that didn’t stop a confused look from crossing Morganfield’s face just as Grindelwald turned to leave. “That’s great and all, but how are we doing this? You don’t happen to just have a vial of polyjuice potion lying around, do you?”
“Polyjuice potion? No.” He'd laughed. That would take too much time and resources, none of which he had at such short notice. It was unneeded either way.
Dragging the poor lad to a secluded corner, he gave him a once-over before he cast a spell with a flourish of his wand. A shudder rippled through him as his features morphed into a foreign set, his frame compressing into Morganfield’s slightly shorter stature while he bit back the groan that threatened to rise from his throat at the uncomfortable sensation. Something that he ought to get used to, quickly, if he wanted to be better at mastering this particular spell.
Once the spell had settled, he cleared his throat, testing the waters in a voice that wasn’t his own before settling on an adequate pitch— Morganfield's.
“Wh—” He heard Morganfield’s exclamation of surprise when faced with the mirror image of himself. He placed a finger to his lips, shushing him before he could draw attention to what they were doing. Wiggling his fingers to test his new body, he then waved his hand with a smile.
The spell had worked. Brilliant.
“This should do it.” He nodded, seemingly satisfied with his own handiwork. Patting the appalled boy on the shoulder, he chimed cheerily in the usual manner Morganfield would have carried himself had he not been in his sorry state, “Go on then, back you get,” before nudging him back to the direction from whence he came. “Wouldn’t want us tripping over our own two feet again, do we?”
But Morganfield simply stood there, eyes wide, and gaping openly at him.
What he'd just done had been a full-bodied human transfiguration— dangerous, notoriously difficult, and not to mention, a spell so incredibly advanced that it was only taught to a select few students in the higher years. Even then, not to the extent of what Grindelwald had just nonchalantly pulled off. He was clearly no amateur at the high-level spell.
Then again, he was a stellar student, precociously brilliant even by academic standards, wasn't he? But despite there being a perfectly logical reason for it, Morganfield still couldn't deny that it unsettled him much more than he had the bearing to admit at the moment.
It was eerie, the way Grindelwald played the part of himself so well. From appearances, mannerisms, and right down to the way he carried himself. Granted, there were a few ticks of his own that he couldn't quite vanquish at the drop of a hat, visible if one were to look closely enough, but still, it was an impressive feat to witness firsthand.
Grindelwald stared blankly at the dumbfounded look the boy was giving him, having forgotten that most of the general populace here wasn't nearly half as competent as he was in the magical department. It was an unfortunate thing, truly. However, he had a promise to keep, and standing around wasn’t getting him anywhere.
Snapping his fingers in front of Morganfield’s face to regain his attention, he quipped. “Now then, how is your spellcasting? Can you manage a disillusionment spell?”
Words seemed to fail the poor boy, but he managed a rapid nod, much to Grindelwald’s satisfaction.
“Good. Do try to get back to your dorm room unscathed. It would be a pity, should you end up in the Infirmary when you're supposedly concurrently present for class.”
The veiled warning was clear enough— ‘Don't be stupid, don't do dumb things, and for the love of god, watch where you’re going.’ He then added an off-handed remark as he turned to leave, “Oh, and do close your mouth; it's unseemly.”
His only response was the faint scuttle of footsteps as Morganfield made his quick exit from the area. One could only hope that his instructions were clear enough, or if that failed, perhaps for whatever inherent and illogical fear the boy held towards him to keep him out of further trouble.
Now, to set his plan in motion…
⊹ ━━━ ✥ ━━━ ⊹
Stepping into the classroom, Grindelwald headed straight for the seat that Morganfield had usually occupied. He dimly noted the fact that he'd just walked into the room with empty hands and nothing to show.
Was this a practical class? He hoped it was. He hadn’t had his textbooks, so he figured that he'd just have to share with whoever was seated closest. However, a quick survey of the layout of the room informed him that the professor who taught this particular subject seemed to have a penchant for pairing people up to work in teams of two.
Great. So he actually had a partner for runic studies? He shook his head. Now, which dimwit and their common fallacies would he have to put up with for the better half of two hours?
He scoured his brain then, having taken the same class before under the tutelage of a different professor. The largely individualistic study and analysis of matrices and runestones hardly needed teamwork. This professor was an oddity indeed.
But now that he was actually seated, he felt the waves of exhaustion slowly creep up on him, lapping at the edges of his consciousness. First, gently, like the soothing lullaby of a long forgotten song; then more insistently, forcing him to succumb to the overarching blanket of oblivion. It was about time his own choices came back to bite him, too. Grindelwald had been out in the field for days in a row, wandering outside after hours, past the curfew that all students were mandated to adhere to. Searching, experimenting, socializing… to an extent. For his face was not his own whenever he ventured out into the shadier places. It wouldn't do for him to be recognized at this stage, after all.
He'd had his eyes set on a particular piece of cursed equipment, with little more than a rumor to guide him. It wasn't so much a dark artefact as it was a trinket, really; elusive and well-hidden, it was something powerful and coveted by many all the same.
Finally, something he'd finally deemed worth studying in his eyes. He had his work cut out for him. And while rest was admittedly something that he'd been putting off for a while in search of his greater pursuit, all his effort and sunken time hadn't gone to waste— he'd finally gotten a lead on where the prized item might be located. All of this for a paper he had to write. A thesis, of sorts. Something that he'd had to hand in to his Dark Arts professor by the end of term as part of his Curse-breaking assignment.
Was it worth it, just for the marks? A distinction in his N.E.W.T.S? Not really. What was yet another ace in his papers? For as much as he'd excelled academically, it was more of a convenient by-product than anything else. There would be questions, of course. Of where he'd managed to get his hands on such a thing, or about the issues of safety, among many others. Perfectly logical concerns, but none of which bothered him. A trivial consequence in his search for knowledge.
Greater knowledge, like those hidden behind locks and keys in the forbidden section, perhaps. Things that he hungered for, far beyond the thresholds of what was admissible for a student his age.
Lying his head down, he conceded to the lull of sleep. He had places to be tonight. Underground, and most certainly dangerous. And a tired wizard made for a dull wand. Might as well get some rest where he could. A small catnap would suffice, he supposed.
After all, he'd only agreed to be in attendance, not maintain whatever reputation Morganfield held. Or lacked, for that matter.
What he hadn’t known, however, was that he’d been your seatmate. Which landed him here now, sitting before you, graced by your presence when he least expected it. One minute, he was drifting in peaceful unconsciousness, and in the next, here you were, poking at him.
Something tickled him at the irony of it all. Of course, you were here. You always had a way of throwing a twist into his plans, didn't you?
“Fancy seeing you here.”
You eyed him with a questioning look, noting your seatmate’s absence with slight suspicion. Grindelwald’s presence was as rare as golden snitches were these days ever since his field research took off. Not that he'd informed you of what he was busy studying, either. Had he done something?
“Where's Morganfield? And what are you doing here anyway?”
“One of my many newfound interests.” He’d replied, the lie slipping smoothly. A wrong move, he soon realized, as he quickly clarified before you could pry further into his intentions. "Your friend, on the other hand, is probably passed out in bed as we speak.”
You contemplated him with a thoughtful sound; his interest being a blatant lie. You both knew that. And he, too, recognized the look in your eye, one that told him that you didn't buy entirely into what he'd just said.
“Too much to drink, I reckon.”
“Sounds a little too convenient. Am I to assume that you had nothing to do with his absence?” You questioned, knowing fully well that he was at least partly responsible for it, some way or another.
He shrugged. “He wasn't going to make it here anyway.”
“What do you mean by ‘anyway’?” You echoed in question.
“He was busy dealing with the consequences of his own actions. I just gave him a nudge in the safer direction.” He'd replied, putting a stop to that line of thought.
And whilst you seemed perfectly content to barrage him with a hundred and one questions from his long absence, he hadn't missed the way you shuffled closer to him. Cocking his head in the same curious yet arrogant manner you'd come to associate with him, he smiled, almost smugly as he'd clocked you. “Missed me, hm?”
“No.” Of course you did. You hadn't so much as heard from him in the weeks he'd been gone doing merlin knows what, but you weren't about to give him the satisfaction of knowing that he was right, either.
“Ouch. After all the effort I took coming here?” He brought a hand to his chest in mock hurt, as if the denial had wounded him.
“And what exactly did you do this time, Gellert?”
“I cut your seatmate a deal.”
He did what now?
“...Should I be concerned?” You asked, hesitantly.
Did you want to know? Not really. But knowing Grindelwald? You probably should be at least a little worried. It was a valid concern, in your defence. The last time he’d brokered a deal with someone, they’d ended up confined to the infirmary for weeks, sporting a broken rib and at least three other broken bones after an experiment gone wrong. You dreaded to think about what that entailed for Morganfield.
“Well…” He paused, giving it a moment’s thought before smiling wryly.
What a question it was, indeed. He had a couple of ideas, but none of which would come to pass quite smoothly, considering how you seemed to hold him to some regard.
Pity, he thought. He could tick off his fingers on the number of things he could potentially hold above the boy's head to make him bend to his whims when the time came, but it looks like he would just have to play nice, wouldn't he? No matter; he was sure that there would be other uses for him in the future.
“He'll live. Besides, Morganfield wasn't too ke—” He started, only to stop short as something brushed against his skin, snapping him out of his thoughts.
—Wasn't too keen on making it to class either, he was about to say. Except he could feel your fingers dancing along his wrist as it rested atop the seat beneath the table. The taunting ghost of touch nipped at his tactile nature, enticing him to respond. It was distracting, to say the least.
He looked down as your wandering hand drifted upwards, absent-mindedly tracing the contours of his knuckles. His eyes flicked back up to you in question, to see if you'd been doing it on purpose, but you seemed unaware. And even if you were, you certainly didn’t show it.
‘Dreadfully honest, even if the speaker isn’t.’ He internally mused, turning around to cage the offender that had started to draw patterns on his fingers with his own. “So you did miss me.” He crowed smugly, interlacing his fingers with yours, trapping them so it could tempt him no further.
“Shut up, Gellert.”
He'd snickered in response, but he allowed it all the same. At least one thing was for sure— the charms he’d come here with the intention of testing had worked; the first of many.
Still, he hadn’t told you what he really was doing here… Not properly, anyway.
It wasn't until he smoothly answered a question posed to ‘Morganfield’ halfway through the class that something clicked— He was under an active charm. But, if so, then what you were seeing didn't make sense. Transfiguration spells affected how one is perceived by others, so logically speaking, shouldn't you also be seeing what everyone else was seeing?
Your brows knitted together as you tried to piece the pieces of the puzzle together, “How are you doing this?” you asked.
“The little gift I gave you grants you true sight, to an extent. It’s not omnipotent, however.”
That explained the silver eye, though he usually hid it under a glamor, having disliked the attention that it'd brought. You'd simply chalked it up to him having forgotten, due to the fact that he'd just woken up.
You were able to see past his disguises? How many times had you crossed paths within the academy grounds, with you none the wiser? But that, too, begged the question. When had this charm taken effect without your knowledge, or was it something that you were only noticing now?
However, your thoughts must have shown on your face, for there was mirth reflected in his eyes as he met your bewildered ones. It stood to reason that you would be surprised.
“These are active experimental spells. They need to be refreshed every once in a while, given their nature, and it will take some skill to master.” He explained, smoothing the pad of his thumb over the stone as he continued, the semi-translucent stone swirling a faint red at his touch, “But this way, you won't ever lose me, will you?”
He'd taken your uneasiness at his absences to heart. You could appreciate that, but along with it came the tacit understanding that what he'd given you had been more than that.
Not an oath, not a vow; something similar, yet different. A choice bound by magic.
Hence, you'd taken to wearing it on your person wherever you went, the weight of the stone sitting snugly against your wrist. It was a sending stone of sorts— a keepsake. After all, it was just an innocuous accessory at the end of the day… Right?
But when was anything ever that simple with one Gellert Grindelwald involved— especially an item, which essentially had his name signed on it?
DATA HARVESTERS
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my piece for the @transformers-electric-metal zine
Download Here
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Meet two of my ocs: Directrix (which I also use as a sona) and Vinculum. They're both space stations and data gatherers of specific data in their own fields.
I guess Directrix scrapes anything and everything about the cybertronian population. He has access to both the mass surveillance system and the Autobot database. He helps Prowl identify threats (person or event) to the current status quo.
While Vinculum is more specific to the world of politics and economics. (His owner is a politician) so he collects anything that is of interest with his owner (dirty secrets, any black mail material from both enemies and friends, trade secrets, etc), and also aids him in other equally shady things (money laundering, fraud, market manipulation, etc)
My ref sheets, and a little overview of them:
aspicio
There is no I. There is only Borg.
Star Trek Prodigy "Let Sleeping Borg Lie"
Dent | Sunday Munich
