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pixxiesdust · 5 years ago

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Favored by Fate • Dabi

Summary • Your boss has a business meeting at the annual fall festival, and you’re lucky that he’s given you the night off to explore on your own. Running into a masked stranger was not part of your plans for the evening, but it turns out the two of you share a common goal, and you can work together to reach it. Maybe fate is on your side.

Pairing • Dragon!Dabi (Todoroki Touya) x Water Sprite!Reader

Word Count • 8.7k

Tags and Warnings • Suggestive situations and dialogue, modern fantasy au, talk about murder, kissing, swearing, Dabi is Todoroki Touya, Todoroki Enji is not a good person in this fic.

Note • This is my part of the Attack on Academia’s Fall Festival collab! I had a lot of fun writing this, especially during sprints with wonderful friends haha. If you like this fic, please consider checking out the other Fall Festival fics written by members of AoA! If you’d like to join our server, feel free to join through the invite link on this post. New members are always welcome! Finally, I’d like to thank the wonderful @wakaoujisenhime and @prismaroyal for betaing this fic for me!

–

This annual fall festival is the largest one on the continent, so it’s no wonder that thousands of creatures congregate under the light of the full moon to celebrate the peak of the fall season.

High elves peruse the high-end stalls with ridiculously priced wares that suit their more expensive tastes. They try out weapons embedded with precious stones, made of the strongest metal alloys. Some buy the purest potion ingredients, sliding gold coins over the stall counter to the merchants, or swiping black credit cards across card readers.

A coven of witches stop by a candy stall on your right, pulling out their phones to record as the merchant—a fire wielder whose hands are glowing with red—drizzles melted caramel in elaborate swirls onto wooden skewers. As soon as the caramel leaves the metal bowl he cups his heated hands around, it starts to harden, turning from a light yellow to a darkened gold. The witches buy out the caramel swirl lollipops and continue on as they lick and crunch on the candy.

Elemental sprites try their hand at the game booths. Even though large signs are tacked to the booths that say “No Magic Allowed” in big, bold letters, you see an air sprite change the course of a ball as his friend throws it, so the ball hits the target. Then a crystal lights up red, and the centaur that runs the booth crosses his arms over his broad chest, large hooves stamping into the dirt. The air sprite sighs and lifts his palms up, before walking away and disappearing into the crowd.

The corners of your lips twitch, but you hold back the smile. You don’t want your boss to think that he’s the subject of your amusement—not when he’s Lord Todoroki Enji, the most powerful fire dragon in centuries, and you’re just you, a water sprite.

One fiery breath from him, and most water sprites will evaporate on the spot.

But you’re not like most water sprites.

“The stones,” Enji says, voice a demanding rumble. He towers over you. His human form towers over everyone, even the centaur by the game booths, and you have to crane your neck to look past the flaming red mask on his face to catch sight of his piercing blue eyes.

“Yes, sir.” You nod and open up the flask of water by your hip. With a wave of your hand, three glittering red stones are pushed to the surface of the water. You close your hand around them, a tingle running through you at the magical energy contained in these rubies.

Enji holds out a small pouch made of velvety black cloth, his large hands making the pouch seem even smaller. You drop the stones into the pouch, and he lights a flame on the tip of his finger and runs it across the wax on the inside of the opening. The wax melts, the flame dissipates, and he presses the opening of the pouch closed for the wax to harden on its own.

The pouch disappears, hidden somewhere on his red and black armor-clad body. He, like you and all the other creatures attending the festival, are dressed in the traditional attire of their own species.

“I have business to attend to. Do whatever you want, and meet me back at the entrance when the sun rises. But keep an ear open.”

He doesn’t have to finish his statement. You know he wants you to pay attention to any rumors, any unrest—anything that could disrupt his position of power.

So you nod again. “Understood, sir. I hope the deal will be made.”

The flames that burn at the edges of his mask flare, the only visible sign of his temper. “No need to hope. It will be made.”

As Enji strides away, the throng of people parting around him, a sympathetic expression slides onto your face. “Poor Yagi Toshinori,” you murmur into the air. “It’s not going to be pleasant for him when Enji is walking into this deal with some type of grudge.”

But you shrug and close the flask of water and let it hang from the belt around your waist. “At least I get the night off from being Enji’s assistant.” These types of days—or nights—are few and far between.

With the pleasant thought of getting to enjoy the festival all on your own, you smile to yourself and start walking, slipping into the crowd, your water sprite clothing a speck of bright blue among the rainbow of colors of the fall festival.

–

Your first stop is to one of the rows of food stalls. The air is filled with distinct scents; some sweet, others savory, but all make your mouth water and your stomach grumble.

You decide on something savory, first, so it’ll take the edge off your hunger so you can explore the rest of the festival. A stall that sells steamed buns catches your eye—and the scent that wafts from it entices your stomach. The two dwarves that run the stall are sisters, from the look of it, both with round cheeks and full lips, each wearing masks with vines embroidered on them. They bicker quietly among themselves until they see you approach.

“Here for the best meat buns in the festival?” asks the one on the right, dressed in soft browns.

“Or are you here for the best vegetable buns in the festival?” This comes from the one on the left, her traditional clothes in earthy greens. She shoots her sister a glare while waiting for your answer.

You look from one to the other, then purse your lips as you look at the wooden baskets that contain the steamed buns. It smells heavenly, and the buns aren’t too large, so you say, “I’ll have one of each, please. Who wouldn’t say no to trying the best meat and vegetable buns in the whole festival?”

That makes them smile, each pleased. As the sister in brown takes one of each bun out from the woven baskets, the other takes the two coins you hand her.

“Good choice, cunning fox,” the dwarf in green says.

You blink at her once, twice, until realization dawns. She means your mask. Although the designs are blue painted on white ceramic to match your traditional water sprite clothing, the opening for your eyes are distinctly fox-shaped, slanted and sharply cut at the corners. There are ears at the top of the mask, and a little snout over your nose, leaving your mouth uncovered.

“Ah,” you say lamely. Then add, “How am I able to choose when all of it smells so delectable?”

The dwarf grins, and her sister hands you your order wrapped with thin, brown paper. The heat from the buns sink into your hands immediately. It’s chilly out, and even though your traditional clothes are rather warm, your fingers still are cold.

“Thank you.” You dip your head to them before turning your back on the stall.

As you merge back into the crowd, the sisters wave at you and shout in unison, “Thank you for your patronage!”

–

The buns are long gone, devoured quickly as you wandered the food stalls. After getting a couple of other small snacks to eat, you leave this part of the festivals behind to explore the rest. Right now, you’re in a stall owned by a minotaur. One of your hands is wrapped around a cone of pixie sugar, a dessert made of thousands of spun sugar threads, wrapped like a fluffy cloud around a paper cone.

The other? It’s wrapped around the handle of a simple, streamlined dagger.

You stretch your arm out in a slow, smooth movement, testing the weight and feel of the blade. The minotaur, who is a blacksmith and made the dagger himself, watches on. A smirk graces his lips at the unexpected skill and familiarity you display.

“You like it?” he asks, his voice a deep rumble.

You nod. “The craftsmanship is wonderful; it’s very easy to handle. Sharp, too.”

“Can’t call it a dagger if it isn’t sharp.”

“How fire resistant, or, uh, heat resistant is it?”

This question makes the minotaur raise an eyebrow, but he answers it anyway. “Very. Fire sprites won’t be able to melt it with their flames. Even more powerful creatures can’t do it. The designs in the handles are runes, and they’ll keep the blade clean, sharp, and strong.”

“I see,” you say, pleased with his response.

“You plan on buying it?”

“Yes, but not right now. Will you hold on to it so I can purchase it later tonight?”

The minotaur eyes you for a moment, probably wondering if you’d stick to your word and return to buy the weapon. Then he nods, and you seem to pass his inspection. “Very well. I will keep this off the table so you can return to buy it.”

You smile at him in thanks and set the dagger back down on the table. “I’ll be back later, then.”

He waves a hand as he picks up the dagger, but you don’t see it as you’re already gone, pushing past the curtains that drape across the entrance to the stall.

The curtains fall behind you, and you step into the crowd, immediately slamming into a warm, hard body that makes you stumble back and trip over your own feet. Your arms flail out, trying to cushion your fall, but a hand reaches out to your own–

–and misses, closing around the cone of pixie sugar.

The sugar is crushed by the hand, compacted into nearly nothing. A tearing sound fills the air as the paper cone rips before your eyes, and you keep falling.

You hit the ground, hard. Your elbows smack against the packed dirt, pain shooting up to your shoulders, followed by numb tingling. At least your head didn’t make contact with the ground. Otherwise, you’ll probably spend the rest of the festival with a pulsing bump on the back of your head, and your hair would be coated with dust.

A groan escapes your lips as you sit up to shake out your arms. It doesn’t feel pleasant to have hit the nerves.

“Damn,” a rough, masculine voice says from above. “Took quite a hard spill there. Not as quick on your feet as an actual fox, huh?”

“Shut up,” you snap. “No one asked you. What the hell were you doing there, anyway?” You don’t look up, focusing on brushing the dirt off your blue sleeves.

There’s a hint of amusement in the voice as it responds. “I was walking, just like everyone else. You were the one who ran into me. I even tried to help you.”

“Yeah, and you missed, crushing my cone of pixie sugar instead!”

“I tried to help, and got thanked with a hand sticky because of sugar. Who’s worse off out of the two of us? Clearly, it’s me.”

Your mouth opens and shuts until your mind formulates the words you need to retort with. Pushing yourself to your feet indignantly, you brush off your pants too. “Clearly it’s you?” you mock, trying to imitate the way he delivered the sentence. “Listen here, you–”

You finally look at whoever you had the misfortune of running in to, and your mind stops working as you take him in.

His clothes are cut in the same way as traditional elemental sprite clothing is normally made, but the colors—black cloth that gives off a dark blue sheen under the light of hundreds of lanterns, and accented with bits of cyan—doesn’t match any of the four elements that normal sprites wear. They hang off his frame in such a way that his vest-like shirt shows off quite a bit of chest and arms. You notice scarred patches of skin, and staples that seem to hold the scars onto unblemished skin, but your eyes are more drawn to the dips and curves of his muscles.

You swallow, feeling a little warm despite the autumn chill.

Then your eyes move up his body until you see his dragon mask, and your breath catches in your throat.

His eyes.

They’re a beautiful, piercing blue, carrying the heat of the hottest flames as he stares at you. A shiver runs down your spine. Why do they somehow seem familiar? If you met someone like him before, you’d most certainly remember him, especially with the way he carries himself and the way his voice sounds when he speaks. He’s not one who can easily be forgotten.

“Listen here, what?” he asks, a smirk curling at his lips when your eyes flicker away, realizing that you’ve been caught staring. “C’mon, foxes aren’t known to be shy. What were you gonna say, doll?”

You have no response to give, so you just pout, drawing his attention to your lips—the only feature of your face that isn’t hidden by your fox mask. “Goodbye,” you say shortly. Then you cross your arms over your chest and turn your back to him, striding away to merge into the flow of the crowd.

Dabi stares after you for a moment, snickering. His eyes widen the slightest bit at the realization that you, a snarky, cross, quick-witted, pretty water sprite amuse him.

There are few things that amuse Dabi in life. If you’re one of them, he’s not letting you go that easily. So he hurries after you, quickly spotting you by the bright blue of your clothes. He has a mission tonight, a reason for being at the festival, but a bit of a detour won’t hurt.

He can always leave once you stop interesting him.

–

You thought walking away would be the end of that conversation, but a figure dressed in black falls in step beside you. You stop short, ignoring the grumbles of creatures that are disgruntled from your abrupt change in motion.

“What do you want?” you ask him.

Blue eyes gleam as he stretches out his right hand.

You look at it, then at him. “Congratulations, you have a hand. So?”

“A dirty hand,” he says, drawing out the words. “A dirty, sticky hand, thanks to your cone of sugar.”

“Ah yes, the pixie sugar that you destroyed!”

“Only to save you, doll.”

“To try and save me,” you correct. “What do you want me to do about it, hm?” You cross your arms over your chest and stand straight, staring him in the eyes. You seem to be doing that a lot around him, but something about his eyes just seems familiar–

“Clean it. What else? You’re a water sprite, aren’t you?”

“Yes, and you most definitely are not an elemental sprite.” You ignore the way his shoulders stiffen the slightest bit before he forces them to relax. “If I clean your hand, will you leave me alone so I can explore the festival?”

He only hums in response, but you open up your flask of water anyway. Even though he didn’t actually prevent you from hitting the ground, he at least tried, and it wouldn’t hurt to get the sugar off him.

You move your hand in an upward motion along the side of the flask, and water leaves the opening and gathers in a sphere in midair. Grabbing his dirty hand, you maneuver the water so it envelops the length of his hand, from the tips of his fingers to the base of his palm. He’s very warm, you notice absently. But you focus on swirling the water around his skin, picking up crystals of sugar until his hand is clean.

When that’s done, you withdraw the water, not leaving a single droplet behind. With another flick of your wrist, the water shoots through the air to an empty patch of dirt and sinks into the ground.

Dabi looks at his hand, swiveling his wrist. You must possess incredible skill to keep the water together, swirl it around him, and not leave any of it behind. His lips twitch. You only seem to get more and more interesting.

“Goodbye, then,” you say, and turn your back to him like you did the last time.

But as you take a step forward, his figure enters your peripheral vision. Another step, then two, three, and he’s still there.

You try to pretend that he doesn’t exist and look around at the stalls to see if there’s one you want to stop at, but his presence is impossible to ignore. Not when his body gives off a heat that you can feel through your clothes, not when his clothes are all black except for the cyan accents that only heighten the glow of his eyes.

Stopping at a stall that displays hundreds of beautifully packaged candies and small treats, you pick up a small, tin box of sweets that interest you. Pretending to look at the packaging, your eyes flicker to the side to catch him blatantly observing you with some sort of fascination.

“Okay,” you say, putting the tin back. “What do you want from me now? I thought you promised to leave me alone after I cleaned your hand.”

Dabi smirks at you and shakes his head. “I made no such promise. You really should pay more attention, little fox.”

You scowl at the nickname but focus on the more important topic. “You literally hummed when I asked if you’d be gone when I cleaned you up.”

“A hum, yes, but who said it was one of agreement?” He pauses, before adding, “It was one of contemplation—and then I decided to turn your offer down.”

You glare at him. With nothing more to say, you turn your back and leave again. This time, you don’t see him in your field of view.

Forcing a smile to your face, you look intently at the nearby stalls.

Somehow, it feels colder.

–

Dabi watches you go, noting the direction that you head in. He turns back around to the stall and picks up the tin of sweets you had looked at. He eyes the brightly colored label on the tin, then digs into a pocket to fish out a few coins. Sliding them across the counter to the witch that runs the stall, he steps back into the flow of people with the candy tin in his hand.

His long strides makes him easily catch up to you, staying back a bit to watch you look at a couple of stalls. When you pick one to stop at—a stall that sells spelled items, he notes—Dabi steps up and leans his weight against the counter, appearing in your field of view once again.

The figure dressed in blacks comes out of nowhere, but you’re not startled. Your eyes slide across to him, and you scoff to hide the flicker of happiness at the sight of him. “Miss me so soon?”

He snickers. “I should be the one to ask you that, doll. Hope being away from me didn’t hurt too much. I got held up by something I needed to get.” Without a warning, he tosses something at you.

You move quickly, hands flying up to your face, and you clap your palms together around the object. Glaring at him, you lower your hands, before focusing your attention on the metal tin in your palms. The label is bright and eye-catching, and you can’t stop your lips from curving up when you realize that it’s the tin of candies you were looking at before.

“See?” he says, pleased. “I’m not all bad.”

“No, you’re not,” you say softly. You look up at him, and the smile on your face combined with the softness of your eyes is nearly too much for Dabi to take.

You turn away from the stall and take a few steps forward. Then you look over your shoulder, at the not-an-elemental-sprite that leans against the stall. “Well?” you ask. “You coming or not?”

Dabi huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking his head slightly. You still somehow managed to surprise him. He pushes off the stall, tucking his hands into his pockets as he falls in step besides you. “Why the invite? Thought you were sick of me.”

You don’t answer his question, asking your own instead. “Why do you keep sticking around? Got nothing better to do?”

“I do have some business to do here,” he says, “but you interest me, little fox.” He reaches a hand toward you to flick at the ceramic fox ears of your mask. “And these days, very few things interest me.”

You don’t know how to respond, but finally settle with an awkward, “I see.”

The two of you walk on in silence for a bit, until he breaks it. “Are you gonna tell me why I get to accompany you? I would’ve thought that you’d walk away and never look back.”

“I just wouldn’t mind the company. It’s my first time being able to actually enjoy the fall festival. Usually my boss has a business meeting that I have to attend, but his meeting is actually at the festival this year. So I get to explore the festival, but it’s nice to do it with someone else too.” You pause, lips curling into a sly smile that tells Dabi you’re about to poke fun at him. “Even if it’s with a stranger who is dressed in elemental sprite clothing yet isn’t an elemental sprite at all.”

“Damn, you caught me,” he says, delivering the words in a flat drawl that makes you snicker. “What the hell am I supposed to do now?”

“I don’t know, scream? Run away in terror?”

He leans in toward you, lips by your ear. “Let me tell you a secret, doll. I don’t scream.” His breaths brush over your skin, making a shiver run up your spine. “But you certainly could.”

Your body suddenly feels a bit too warm, and you quickly turn to look at Dabi, putting his lips very close to your own face. “In your dreams,” you shoot back. You’re surprised that your voice comes out so steadily, when in reality, your skin buzzes and your stomach flips.

“Maybe,” he says, and straightens so there’s a bit of distance between the two of you once more. He moves on to a different topic. “What kind of a boss makes you work on the night of the fall festival? Who the hell has meetings at the fall festival?”

You snort. “Todoroki Enji, that’s who.”

If Dabi were anyone else, he might have flinched or his steps might have faltered. But he continues walking in time with you, and his voice is absent of the hate that runs through his veins when he asks, “You work for Endeavor?”

“Unfortunately.” Your voice is dry, and there’s no sign of affection for your boss.

Dabi feels a little relieved. Yet again, you’ve said something that surprises him, making his interest in you even stronger. “From all the things I know about the fucker, I’m not surprised you’re not the biggest fan of him. Why the hell do you work for him then?”

Your response is quick, even as your mind races and as pieces fall into place. “Money. He’s a dragon, so he’s had centuries to gather wealth. He pays well.”

Dabi definitely understands that. But that can’t be all. Not when it comes to you. “And?”

You look at him and hold his gaze, taking in his blue eyes as another piece falls into place. You sigh. “And there’s also a... personal reason.”

“Hm,” is all he says in response.

The conversation moves on to a different topic as you walk around this section of the festival, taking a closer look at stalls that catch your attention. You stop at a food stall and buy Dabi a skewer of juicy, fragrant grilled meat, glazed with a sweet and spicy sauce.

“For the candy tin,” you say, as you hold the skewer out to him.

His warm fingers brush against yours as he accepts it, letting out a “Not bad,” after he takes a bite.

You buy a little container of mochi for yourself to eat. Each one is made of sticky rice paste that envelopes various sweet fillings; red bean, strawberry, black sesame, and so on, the flavors a surprise until you bite through the flour-dusted outside.

Dabi finishes off his skewer of grilled meat and swipes a mochi from your container. He ignores your protest at his theft, and your following whine at the flour that falls off the mochi and dusts your sleeve. A snicker leaves him as he eats the mochi in two bites.

You look at him, glaring, and he pointedly keeps eye contact with you as he licks off the flour that dusts his lips. You quickly look away, and Dabi can’t help but feel a little pleased at the way your eyes had followed his tongue.

He pushes the feeling down, though. There’s now something that he wants from you, and he needs to get it from you.

No matter what.

–

Having finished your snacks, you lead the way to a trash bin at the edge of the festival. It’s a little dark, as the festival lanterns don’t stretch all the way out here, and the bin is nearly in the forest—nearby trees stretching up toward the moon.

Your mochi container clatters against the other pieces of trash in the bin as it hits the bottom. Dabi tosses his skewer in after.

You turn to look at him, tilting your head. He’s been a bit quiet over the past few minutes, not as much of a reaction to your teasing. There’s tension in the air that doesn’t sit quite right with you, but you keep your voice light as you push on. “Where shall we go next?”

Dabi’s arms hang loosely by his sides. He feels a finger twitch.

“Sorry, doll,” he starts off, voice equally light as yours. You think he’s going to say something along the lines of him not having a preference as to where you should go, but his next words come out dark, harsh, and angry. “You aren’t going to go anywhere. Tell me where the fuck Endeavor is.”

“W- wait, wha–”

His hands reach for you, clasping tightly around your wrists. They’re hot, but not painful, as he shoves you backward, making you stumble over your feet as he pushes you toward a tree. Two more steps, and you’ll be-

You regain your footing, and shove your shoulder into his chest, using his momentum against him.

In a mere second, you’ve reversed your positions. Though Dabi still holds onto your wrists, you’re the one moving him, pushing against him with all the force you have to slam him into the tree.

Rough bark digs into his back through the fabric of his clothes, and his head hits the trunk so hard that a steady throbbing starts up immediately. He groans and starts to move his head, but something cold pricks at his throat and he goes still.

One of your legs is pushed between his, your knee dangerously close to a vulnerable part of his anatomy. Though his hands are around your wrists, you have one arm pushing against his body to keep him against the tree. The other hand holds a lethal blade of ice—made from water that you pulled right out of the air.

“What the hell do you want with Todoroki Enji?” Your voice is flat. Cold, like the ice you hold to Dabi’s throat.

He lets go of your wrists and raises his hands slowly, showing you that he’s not moving to harm you. If it were any other person pinning him to a tree—which he’s still surprised as hell about—they’d be ashes a while ago, but Dabi is fond of you, he realizes. He enjoys your company, your quick retorts, the way he can make you flustered, and he knows that you aren’t completely enamored with Endeavor.

So his hands reach up to the dragon mask that covers his face. Before he moves any further, though, he speaks, answering your question in a confident drawl, voice deep and raspy with hate burning in his words. “I will fucking destroy Enji Todoroki.”

Your eyes grow wide, and the blade in your hand wavers, but Dabi doesn’t take advantage of the opportunity to break free. He has no reason to run from you.

Instead, he lifts off the black mask, pulling it off his head and letting his hands move back down to his sides. His eyes glow in the darkness, heated by inner flames. A smirk spreads across his lips, and he cocks his head to the side; you shift your ice blade to avoid cutting him.

“I’m the most wanted criminal, doll, the deadliest dragon. You must know me. I’m–”

“Todoroki Touya,” you breathe, at the same time that he finishes speaking.

“–Dabi.”

The words, the name that comes out of your mouth registers in Dabi’s mind. He jolts against you, and you push him back into the tree.

“You said Todoroki Touya,” Dabi growls, the words familiar but unused on his tongue. “How the fuck do you know that name?”

You scowl at him. “I’m the one with the knife here–” you pause to press the ice back against his throat, “–so I’m the one asking the questions. You just get to answer them.”

Dabi clicks his tongue, and sighs. “Should have known you wouldn’t make things easy, little fox. You’re quite cunning.”

The temperature rises around you, and the ice in your hand turns to water. You don’t have enough time to reform it into a blade before Dabi sweeps one leg at your own, knocking your feet out from under you.

For the second time at this festival, you find yourself hitting the ground, breath knocked out of your lungs—this time with a powerful fire dragon pinning you down.

Dabi has his hands around your wrists again, pushing them on the ground on either side of your head. His knees are by your hips, shins pressing down on your legs, caging you in and keeping you in place. You struggle against his grip, trying to wrench your arms free, but his hold is secure.

Realizing you’re not going to go anywhere, you finally still. “What the hell do you want?” you spit out, glaring into his eyes.

He tilts his head and a smirk spreads across his face as he uses your words from earlier against you. “I’m the one pinning you down, doll, so I get to ask the questions. You just worry about answering them, yeah?”

Dabi ignores your glare and your struggle against his grip on your wrists. “So tell me,” he says, voice turning from teasing to menacing, “what the hell do you know about Todoroki Touya?”

You hold his gaze for a long moment before huffing out a breath. If he really is who you think he is, he must only be asking this because he never expected anyone to make the connection. “I always thought it was strange, you know, that such a powerful dragon like Endeavor could have his son just disappear on him. The more I thought about it, the more it didn’t sit right with me. So I did some digging, asked questions, looked at old news articles from that time when you, Touya,” you say pointedly, “went missing.”

Dabi doesn’t confirm nor deny your accusation that he’s Touya, but his silence is confirmation enough.

You press on. “I read about the burns that Touya had. There were rumors that they’re caused by the strength of his flames—that his fire is too hot for his human body to contain. Even Endeavor’s flames never did that to him, so it isn’t a large stretch to think that Touya is more powerful than Endeavor is, even as a child.

“We all know if Endeavor feels that his power is threatened… he’ll eliminate the threat. Even if that threat is his son.”

Pausing, your eyes scan over Dabi’s face to try and read his emotions. His face just seems cold, hard, as if this is not news to him. But his eyes burn brightly under the shadows of the forest, heated from the fire he carries within.

“Go on,” he says, voice just as threatening as before. “If you know Endeavor is capable of such things, why the fuck do you work for him? No money can be enough to win you over after that realization, not unless you’re just a liar and don’t actually give a shit.”

“I did need a job at the time Endeavor was looking for a new secretary. But it’s more than that,” you add on hastily, when the hands around your wrists grow hot. “It’s not right that Endeavor gets to be this high and mighty Dragon Lord over so many of us creatures when he’s done such terrible things to his own son. But if everyone learns about it and tries to overthrow him, he’ll find a way to kill the protestors and seize their properties, only making him wealthier than before.”

You breathe deeply. “I won’t let that happen, not as long as I live. So I took the job, and have worked to gain more and more of Endeavor’s trust.”

Dabi’s lips curl into a sneer of disgust. “And do what with that trust? You’re just trying to play hero.”

Your voice is even as you reply, “Nothing is heroic about murder. And that’s exactly what I plan on doing to Endeavor.”

“You, little fox? Murder? You’re a water sprite. You do know what fire can do to water, yeah?”

You smirk at him. “You do know what water can do to fire, yeah? Besides, I’m no ordinary water sprite.”

And then Dabi no longer holds your wrists in his hands, nor do his shins press down on your legs. In a second, your arms turn to liquid under his grip, seeping out between his fingers and reforming outside of his grasp. Your legs, too, turn to water, only to become skin and flesh when you have them wrapped around his waist.

Then you grip his shirt in your fists, and heave him sideways, using your legs to force the lower half of his body to flip over.

You’re distinctly aware of the position that this leaves you in; hands gripping his shoulders, staring into his still-wide eyes, legs on either side of his waist as your weight rests on his abdomen. You feel warm, and it’s not solely because of Dabi’s higher than normal body temperature.

“You really think I can’t hold my own against Endeavor?” Your voice is smug, pleased at the shock that had flashed across his face when you liquified your limbs.

Dabi swallows, liking the way your mouth curls, completing the sly look with the fox mask over the top half of your face. He’s still reeling over the fact that you were able to do what you did—it takes immense power and control to have your skills, and you’re young, too. But his eyes move up to meet your own, and he is serious when he says, “You’re strong as hell, doll.”

Your lips part slightly at the raw honesty of his words.

He continues, and you listen attentively to him, letting the low, rough sounds of his voice wash over you. “What you can do is fucking astounding, and almost unheard of. But it’s not enough. Even in water form, if he breathes his flames as a dragon, you’ll turn to vapor. At best, you’ll be injured. At worst, you’ll be dead.

“Don’t risk your life for a boy who is long gone.”

You blink, and your vision blurs, holding unshed tears for the lost boy, Touya, and the man, Dabi, he had to become.

“But,” you say, and your words stick to your throat, so you have to swallow before trying again. “But he can’t just get away with it. I won’t let him. I’ll stop him.”

Dabi can’t extinguish the warmth that blooms behind his chest. It’s a warmth not of the flames within him, but from the care and passion you show about Todoroki Touya, a boy you’ve only heard and read about, a boy who has no connection with you. Yet you care.

“No worries, doll. He won’t get away with it.” Dabi pauses, and something settles in his chest as he makes up his mind. “We won’t let him.”

Your eyes widen, and you sit a little straighter on his stomach. “‘We?’ What are you–”

“C’mon, little fox,” he purrs, “you’re smart. We both want the same thing: to see Endeavor dead and gone. It certainly would be easier if the two of us were to work together, yeah?”

It doesn’t take much thought for you to reach your decision. You like Dabi, you’ve enjoyed his company all night. Even though he does tease and fluster the hell out of you, you can give it back just as well. And to learn that he’s the person you were doing all this for?

Your voice is confident as you agree with a simple “Yes.”

Dabi huffs out a quiet chuckle, before raising his right hand up between the two of you. “Glad to have you on board, doll.”

You take it, feeling the calluses on his fingers brush over your skin. “I’m glad, too.”

You shake your hands up and down once, then let go, but he pointedly drags his fingers over your palm before completely releasing you. A tingle runs up your arm.

“So what next?” you ask.

“First of all,” Dabi says, “I’d really like to get off the ground.”

You look down at Dabi. It takes you a second to realize that your whole conversation has happened while one of you is on top of or under one another. An embarrassed squeak leaves your mouth, then heat rushes to your head as you scramble off of Dabi and get to your feet.

Once you’re up, you offer a hand to help him up. He wraps his hand around yours and you pull, getting him to stand in one fluid movement. But you pull a little hard, and he ends up with his chest pressed against your own, with your arm sandwiched awkwardly between.

Dabi guides your arm down to your side before letting go of your hand. He doesn’t step away though. Instead, he slides his arm around you, pressing his hand gently against your back to prevent you from making some space between you.

“Second of all,” he says, the vibrations from his chest buzzing against your own skin, “I’d like to see who I’m working with. You did see me without my mask, little fox, so it’s only fair if I get to see you without yours.”

You swallow nervously. After a moment of silence, you nod. “Okay.”

His eyes light up, but he maintains a neutral expression as he reaches up for your mask with his free hand. Slowly, slowly, he lifts the painted ceramic off your face, sliding it up and over your head. He doesn’t toss it to the ground because it might break, so he presses the mask into your hand.

When your fingers curl around the mask, Dabi moves his hand back up again, snapping his fingers to create a flickering blue flame.

His breath catches in his throat as the light dances across the curves of your face. With his flame tinting your features blue, Dabi thinks you’re the most beautiful sight he’s ever laid eyes on. He’s seen a lot of horror in the past, but one look at you washes the dark images away.

“Fuck,” he breathes, the lightest breath brushing across your face. “You’re pretty as hell.”

The honesty in his voice makes you happy, yet also serves to fluster you. “You’re not too bad yourself,” you manage to respond. Your eyes travel over his face as he does the same to you. You take in his sharp nose, chiseled jawline, the scars up to his mouth and under his eyes. His eyes glow brightly, a blue as pretty as the flames he holds in his hand to cast light onto both of you.

He’s beautiful. Not despite his scars, but in light of them.

A smirk turns up his lips, making him look even more devastatingly handsome. “I think I’m going to like this partnership very, very much.”

You return the smile. Dabi thinks you look ethereal.

“Me too.”

–

You tell him that you have to meet back up with Enji at the festival entrance when the sun rises. Dabi nods while he slips your mask back over your face, fingers brushing against your cheeks as he gently pulls away.

Though he had intended to learn more about Enji and his business dealings at the festival today, Dabi doesn’t need to go after the dragon lord. Not when you are Enji’s assistant, someone who can spill his secrets. He says as much, and your voice is light and teasing as you respond. “And I thought you stuck with me because you liked my company.”

He rolls his eyes as he puts his dragon mask back on. “That means we get until sunrise to finish looking around the festival. You can’t get away from me that quickly.”

You smile at him as both of you walk past the trash can and join the crowds again. “As if I’d want to.”

Dabi’s mouth turns up in the smallest smile, and he moves a hand to rest on your lower back to keep you close. “Where to, doll?”

You hum for a moment in thought. “I need to stop by a stall and pick something up. The owner agreed to hold it for me.”

“Are you gonna tell me what you’re picking up?” When you shake your head, Dabi chuckles and gestures at the crowded path with his free hand. “Lead the way then, doll.”

–

You arrive at your destination and push through the curtains covering the stall entrance. Dabi follows suit. As soon as he steps into the stall and the curtains fall shut behind him, his eyes widen and he whistles at the variety of weapons displayed on the walls and on tables.

“Damn,” he says, eyes taking in a display of silver pistols. “What the hell are you buying?”

The minotaur approaches you with the dagger you had asked him to set aside. The blade is in its sheath, and together the weapon looks beautiful, almost decorative. But when you take it from him with a grateful smile, and unsheathe it, the blade is clearly sharp and shines brightly under the light of small lanterns in the stall.

“Thank you for holding on to this for me,” you tell the minotaur. You slide the dagger into its sheath and reach into one of the deep pockets of your flowy traditional water sprite pants. As you pull out your wallet, your hand bumps into the tin of candy from Dabi, which makes your eyes soften.

Following the minotaur to his counter, you slide your credit card through the card reader to pay for the dagger. It’s expensive, yes, but it has the exact qualities you’ve been looking for. Besides, Todoroki Enji does pay you a pretty nice salary, allowing you to have a decent amount of spending money in addition to your savings.

With a farewell to the minotaur, you nudge Dabi out the stall. You start to wander down the row of stalls as you adjust your belt, slipping the dagger on it to rest beside your flask of water.

“So?” Dabi asks as you peer into a spacious cage with a couple of brightly colored birds in it. “Why do you need a dagger for? From what I’ve seen, you’re more than capable of protecting yourself.”

“I can make my daggers out of ice, but they’re unreliable depending on the magic that my attacker can use.” You catch the smirk that starts to spread on his face, so you quickly speak again. “I thought of this way before I ran into you, got it? Don’t let it get to your head.”

Dabi brings a hand up to his heart, clutching his shirt as if your comment hurts him. He lets out a groan of mock pain.

You snicker at his theatrics and punch his arm; not too hard to seriously hurt him, but enough to sting the slightest bit. “Be quiet,” you order, then tug on his arm to look at another stall that catches your eye.

–

You spend the rest of the night this way, teasing and getting to know each other as you explore a good chunk of the festival.

Dabi buys you a new cone of pixie sugar. It’s at your insistence, but he gives in with relatively few snarky comments. You happily pull tufts of spun sugar from the fluffy cloud and place it on your tongue, the treat dissolving immediately in your mouth. When you lick at the sticky residue left behind on your fingers, Dabi can’t take his eyes off you until he runs into the corner of a table, the sting of pain bringing his attention back to the crowded paths.

You hide your snicker by pushing another mouthful of pixie sugar past your lips.

–

As the stars start to fade away, being washed out by the brightening sky, the two of you make your way toward the main entrance of the festival. You stand off the main path, more hidden in the woods than out in the open.

First you exchange numbers, smiling when you see the contact name he sets for you; the little fox emoji. You set his contact with the flame emoji in return, although Dabi complains that there isn’t a blue one.

Then you pull out your dagger, explaining to him about the runes in the handle that should make it basically fire-proof.

“Can I see it?” Dabi asks.

You wordlessly hand it over, careful not to get either of you hurt by the sharp edges.

“Huh,” he muses, feeling the weight of it. Then without any warning, he lets blue fire blaze from the palm of his free hand, and lets it envelop the length of the blade.

You cry out in surprise. “Dabi!”

A few seconds later, he extinguishes his flames and examines the blade. It’s exactly the same as it used to be, and it’s any warmer than before he let his fire loose. “You got the real deal, then,” he says, handing the dagger back to you.

You sniff and say, “Of course,” as you slide it into your sheath.

“If it withstands my fire, it can definitely withstand Endeavor’s. In our human forms, at least. But that’s good enough, because the fucker is weaker than me, and he’s old as hell.”

“Older and has more experience,” you remind Dabi.

“Yeah,” he admits. “But he doesn’t have you on his side.”

Your eyes widen slightly and you look at Dabi in surprise. He gives you an actual smile, slightly crooked and closed-mouth, but a genuine one.

Warmth wells inside you, and you smile back.

Dabi steps closer and closer to you until he can slide one arm around your waist, the other moving up to lift his mask off his face. He walks you backward until your back bumps against a tree. You look into his brilliant blue eyes, and he holds your gaze.

“Can I kiss you, doll?”

Your eyes shine happily, and you breathe out a “Yes.”

He leans in toward you, closing the distance between his face and yours, until your lips are nearly touching. Then he pauses, and asks, “Are you sure?” His voice is filled with amusement, and your eyebrows draw together in frustration.

“Stop teasing and kiss me, Dabi!”

And he does just that.

His lips meld against yours, a scorching heat that warms you from the outside in. He presses you harder against the tree as he deepens the kiss, the scars that reach up to his lower lip just a bit rough against your own. But he kisses so masterfully, stealing your breath with every brush of his mouth on yours, and though your chest starts to ache for air, you don’t want to pull away.

You finally draw back from him with one final pass of your lips over his, then take a deep inhale of the crisp autumn air.

Dabi looks at you, taking in the way your chest heaves for breath, the slightly dazed look in your eyes. He smirks, blue eyes burning with an intense heat.

Then a deep, rumbling voice can be heard over the sounds of the festival. Both you and Dabi stiffen, and he slips his mask back on his face.

“That’s my cue to exit, doll. I’ll keep in touch, yeah?”

You nod and step away from the tree. “You better,” you say, “or else you’ll have an angry water sprite hunting you down.”

“Scary.” He fakes a shudder. “I know just how terrifying water sprites can get. No worries then, I’ll text you sooner rather than later.” Dabi walks deeper into the forest and is enveloped by the shadows.

A smile lingers on your face as you stare after him. But as a towering figure steps into your field of vision, you school your expression into something more neutral. “Hello, sir. How was the meeting?”

“Good.” That means it was more than successful. “Your boyfriend?” Enji asks after a moment of silence.

Your eyebrow arches in surprise. You didn’t think he’d be interested if you ever were to get into a relationship—not with Enji’s strict rules on being professional. You don’t know how else to explain Dabi’s presence, so you settle with, “Ah, y-yes, sir.”

“You never mentioned him.” He turns his back to you and starts walking toward the main path, and you follow suit.

“It’s a bit of a, um, recent development.” Recent as in you just met the guy a couple hours ago and he isn’t actually your boyfriend.

“I see.”

That’s the extent of your conversation as you get into the car Enji has waiting for both of you at the entrance. As the driver starts the engine and pulls onto the street, your phone buzzes in your pocket.

You pull it out and enter the passcode, opening up the messaging app. There’s a message from a contact with a flame for its name, and your lips curl upward as you open up the message.

So I’m your boyfriend now?

You guess that means Dabi didn’t go too deep into the forest, but stayed close by to make sure you were safe. Warmth settles in your chest at the thought.

You open up his contact information and edit his contact name, biting your lip to stop the smile from spreading across your face. Taking a screenshot of it, you attach the image to a message that you type out. You send it, then shut off your phone, looking out the window of the car to see the rays of the morning sun stretch across the sky.

The soft light bathes everything in a gentle glow.

You smile, content.

–

Dabi’s phone buzzes not long after he sends the message to you. His fingers move quickly as he opens up the messaging app, pulling up the conversation with you. He reads your text.

We’re partners now, aren’t we? It’s only fitting.

He opens up the image you sent, and takes in the screenshot of his contact profile on your phone. There’s nothing there except for his phone number, but then his eyes move up to the contact name.

“Boyfriend,” he muses, “with a black heart next to it.”

Shutting off his phone and slipping it into his pocket, Dabi can’t help but shake his head and let out a quiet chuckle. He hasn’t felt this way in a very, very long time.

He looks up at the sky, where the first rays of sun are casting golden streaks against paleing pinks and blues.

And Dabi smiles, content.

–

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writing-the-end · 5 years ago

Text

LoL Chapter 20- True Family

Masterpost

A Wizard Hermits tale (AU and Red belongs to @theguardiansofredland )

The past comes back to haunt Mumbo as a familiar, familial face returns to his life and offers him the unthinkable. Is Mumbo loyal to the hermits, or his he willing to return to the place he grew up in?

_________________________________

“Today’s the big day.” Iskall whispers, looking around the room. Once again packed full of hermits sitting on beds, on furniture, and on the floor. Mumbo hasn’t taken off his gold medal since he won it yesterday, even sleeping with such a spectacular prize. The only hermit missing from the group meeting was False. She made it to the final round of the endurance battle, facing off wave after wave of illusions. Pushed beyond exhaustion, hardly able to stand, she backed down from the last wave. She claimed she could’ve gone forward, but a sudden feeling of pressure on her shoulders, her head swimming and her magic falling from her bones left her unable to continue. She’s still in bed now, recuperating. Grian did his best to heal her illness, but when he attempted to, he discovered her magic was nearly drained. Beyond anything a spell could cause. She even looked pale, the pink color of her cheeks lost and her hair a platinum blonde. The gold medal was won by Avon, beating out Doc and Jerome soundly, and False by a single round.

But Doc was still at the meeting. He didn’t last nearly as long as False, and while he was tired, it was nothing like what she has. Grian was able to heal his aching lungs, the wounds sustained from their fight with the Guild of Gideon. He was tired, but nothing was going to stop him from being a part of his own heist. He’s been looking forward to this for too long. To finally discover who’s the bastard that destroyed Gildara, that attacked the Asklepions, and tried to take out his friends, his family.

“I never thought I’d say this, but we’re leading the Championship by leaps and bounds.” TFC chuckles, shaking his head. “I know we surprised the guilds, the Council, and all of Lairyon. But you all surprised me as well.”

“Guess Grian’s pep talk really brought the team spirit out in us.” Etho tosses a ball in the air, catching it and bouncing off Doc’s head. He’s the only one brave enough to anger the criminal.

“Either way, whatever happens today, I just want to tell you all that I am so proud of all the work we’ve done. And best of all, no one suspects a thing as to why we’re really here. That being said, let’s go over today for everyone.” TFC clears his throat, skimming across the scroll in his hands. “This morning has the water battle. Ren, you’re going to be going against one of the wanderers, and judged based on your performance against all the other contestants. Stress, you’ll be playing in the kipling dodgeball. That’s a last one standing event, and we all know how hard you throw.” The guildmaster hums with a smirk, continuing down the schedule. “And in the afternoon is capture the flag. Tango?”

“They won’t even know what happened to their flag.” He grins, the healing wound on his cheek burning. But none of that will stop him from grinning.

“That’s what i thought. Tonight is the duel- the biggest event of the games. All of Lairyon will be watching. Which makes it the best time for the heist. Our job is to put on a show while our infiltration team here learns the truth. Boys-” TFC stares directly at the heist team. “Do whatever it takes, we have your back. The rest of us, we’ll be supporting our fighters in the duel. If we win at least one event today, we’ve secured our spot in the Labyrinth run on the final day.”

“Do you think we’ll actually win?” Joe questions. The labyrinth run is only for the top two teams. It’s a challenge beyond all challenges, an ever changing maze filled with enigmatic enchantments and feral beasts.

“If not us, then certainly Team Crafted or the wanderers will. Either way, we made history. All of us, being the first nonguild team to win the championship.” TFC smiles, rolling up the scroll and slipping it in his bag. “Good luck to everyone, I dunno about you guys but I’m gonna go get myself a celebratory drink before the water battle. One that doesn’t taste like swampwater.”

TFC hops over the rest of the hermits, sauntering out before anyone else can realize the meeting is over. Ren hops to his feet, only to be grabbed and held still by Doc. “We have our own heist meeting, man.”

The guild filters out, but the sea of hermits is cut through by one sole fish swimming upstream. Quentin grabs at Mumbo’s sleeves, missing once, twice, before finally grabbing hold of the black fabric and tugging him to the side. “Mumbo, right? You- you’re Mumbo, the one that beat Ian in the tech competition? The multi-mage?”

Mumbo looks around, but the hermits have disappeared within the woodworks. “Ah, yep. That’s me. Is something wrong, chap?”

“There’s some people down in the tavern that asked for you.” He pauses, looking up at him. “You specifically.”

Mumbo frowns, his heart picking up pace and thumping against his chest. He clutches the black robes, trying to still the racing muscle trapped within his ribs. Is it the arcane guard? Do they know why the hermits are here? That they’re still congregating as a guild, not just a team? But why him specifically? Do they know he’s the easiest, perhaps they’re using him as bait, the fastest to lure into a trap? “O-Okay. Can you l-lead the way?”

The kipling nods, blue and light orange curls bouncing across his finned ears. He guides Mumbo down the open, rickety steps. He jumps over the last one, to which Mumbo trips over as it buckles under him. He tumbles to the sticky wooden floor, rubbing his head. With one eye open, he winces and sees who’s here for him.

“Mumbo. Still never got your own two feet beneath you?” Mumbo’s breath falls out from his lips, his father’s voice cutting across the wood. The upper crust, noble accent pricks against Mumbo’s ears, immediately souring his mood. He hasn’t seen his father since the morning of his last guild exam. The last thing his father had said to him- until now- was to never return home if he failed another test.

“Father? What are you-” He falls silent as soon as his father raises his hand, motioning for him to be silent and stand. Dammit, Mumbo hates how he still has control over him like that. Hasn’t a year with the hermits taught him anything?

“You did well, boy. Your magic has grown leaps and bounds since I last laid eyes upon you. I saw your performance yesterday. Yesterday, I had a son again.” Mumbo’s head snaps up, hearing that word fall from his father’s lips again. Mumbo’s lips open and close, only weak noises escaping his throat. A sharp glare from the grey eyes they share silences him once more. “Mumbo, it’s time for you to come home. You have brought honor to our house, as a champion,” His father’s eyes fall to the medal at Mumbo’s neck, eyeing the prize hungrily. “I’m sure every guild will welcome you after that.”

Mumbo’s eyes snap up, and he steps back. “What? Why would I leave a perfectly good guild? Why would I leave my friends?”

“Those ruffians are not a guild, Mumbo. Listen to your father, and come ho-” He reaches forward, only for his hand to jerk back as a spark of lightning crosses between father and son.

“No! They’re my friends, they’re my guild! They care about me more than you ever did!” The tavern crackles with energy, lightning shooting out in small branches.

“Be silent, boy. You’ve forgotten your place as a nobleman.” A dangerous glare meets Mumbo’s angered stare.

“No! I’m done listening to you! The day you disowned me, I found a better family!” He remembers the pain of rejection, lost and alone in the alleys of Milliara. No family, no one to help him when a gang of robbers attacked. His father didn’t come to help- he was saved by Grian. A stranger saved him, now his best friend. The one who invited him to join the guild.

“Those heathens? They aren’t a guild, Mumbo, they’re criminals! Would you really prefer that to your own flesh and blood? Your fam-”

“You’re not my family! You said it yourself. The hermits are always there for me, always my family no matter what. Whether I’m a champion or an amateur. They loved me despite my struggles, cared for me and welcomed me. It was their care, their devotion, their support that won this gold medal! This is for them, because of them. It’s not for you.” Mumbo steps up, feet leaving the ground as he looms over his father. “Grian, TFC, Xisuma...they’re better people than you ever were to me. They’re my family. I’m already home. Now- leave.”

Mumbo doesn’t know when the nobleman leaves, he just hears the sound of the tavern door closing, the empty air before him. And that sticky floor, the old wooden boards, and the crooked iron nails are the best sight ever. He wipes his tears on his sleeve, crackling with lightning as his feet come to rest on the ground once again. He remembers to breathe, air rushing in and out of his lungs. When he opens his eyes again, there’s a mug of ale in front of him. He looks up, seeing Quentin leaning against the bar. How long was he there? Did he see that all? “You look like you could use a beer, man.”

And with friends, even the worst tasting swill was the best thing ever.

_______________________

Mumbo, Quentin, and a few other hermits joined to walk to the coliseum together. Grian and Iskall noticed Mumbo’s tearstained eyes, and did their best to keep him laughing. But he hardly needed it, just being with them was the best of all. The hermits take their seat, Quentin leaving to join his own team. He nodded to Stress, wishing her good luck in the dodgeball tournament they share later on.

Hovering at visual height to the seats, an orb of freefloating water hangs in the air. Like a water droplet suspended midsplash, held aloft by a number of water mages- most kipling. In the water, the hermits can see Ren getting used to his wet surroundings. Across the other side of the battlefield, Red is floating. At home in her element.

“Ah, this is going to be easy. Red’s so sweet and kind, Ren will easily win.” Stress chuckles, leaning forward and watching the two. “It’s not a tournament style- he just ‘as ta impress the judges an’ win this wee battle. He’s got it in the bag- Ren’ll show ‘em what an imagination wizard can do.”

They're on the edge of their seats, peering into the water. Across the rippling mass, they can see the crown seat, the Council watching as Ren and Red bow. Magistrate Dolios leans back, resting his cheek on his hand. A small smirk appears on his face as the fight begins.

Ren doesn’t wait, making the first move. A shark conjures up from his imagination, teeth in a circular jaw gnashing towards Red. He doesn’t back down, brushing his hand to the side with a happy-go-lucky smile on his face. A massive internal wave throws the shark off course, the undertow pulling on both his sundappled cloak and Ren’s ears. The imaginary shark dissipates into a school of colorful fish, schooling along the interface between air and water.

The smile on Red’s face changes. Glittering, innocent eyes grow sharp, and Ren tucks his tail between his legs. He...may have underestimated the little kipling. The water around him shifts forward, dragging Ren closer to the kipling. He’s trapped in the rip current, unable to swim free. Even though he can breathe underwater thanks to mimicking a kipling, it’s still terrifying. He’s within striking distance, and Red doesn’t waste a second. A flash of light, illuminating from nowhere blinds Ren, but he rebounds quick thanks to his sunglasses.

Just in time, too. Poison seeps through the water, brushing against his arm and leaving it numb. It would have paralyzed him, if he didn’t swim back. He imagines a barrier around him, his magic circle appearing briefly before turning into what he has in his head. How quickly the tides have turned, Ren forced into defense.

Water tumbles and turns Ren, his own magic devoted solely to keeping himself from harm. A shield to block poison, a rubber ball to take on the electrocution. He sloshes backwards, the tips of his ears peeking out of the water bubble. Ren lowers his shields, creating coral platforms and jumping across. Rushing towards Red. He creates a giant fish hook, slinging it around Red. She only laughs, looking down at the ornately carved hook. “I’m not a guppy, you know.”

“I know.” Ren smirks, then pulls Red forward. Grabbing hold of his arm- just long enough for the magic to settle in. “Ladies get in line.”

“Not a lady.” Red squeaks out, just in time before the hook disappears and he’s thrown back. A massive wave nearly casting Red from the water. Ren grins, rolling his shoulders and getting a feel for the new magic he’s mimicking. It’s only as strong as he is, but he knows he can make use of Red’s magic. Across the water, Red shakes his head, regaining his senses from the spin cycle. “Now it’s fun.”

Red twirls, cloak wrapping around her as a curtain. She extends her arm, and snaps her fingers. Beneath the dueling wizards, kiplings jump back as the water they command is pulled from their control. The entire sphere of water is at Red’s command, tightening inwards. Forcing Ren to flee the constricting edge. He shoves his hands out. It keeps the water directly around him from disappearing, but he’s playing tug of war with a mage much more powerful than him.

He huffs, breath and chest rising and falling. How is he already tired? Why does his throat feel like it’s closing up, his lungs pressing inwards? Why does it feel like he’s drowning, even though he can clearly breathe? He needs to win. Ren shoves his hands forward, and a tsunami pulses forward.

The kipling just barely stops the massive wave from knocking him out. It thrashes Red, pulling on his fins and hair. One arm is cut against the coral outcrops, skeins of blood dancing in the orbiting water. For a battle, that was the first blood drawn- the beauty of magic. Ren puts his hands on his hips, accomplished.

The sight of blood in the water, the scent, turns the kipling into a shark. Before Ren can realize what’s coming for him, it’s too late. The bubble reels backwards, gathering in strength and pulling on Ren. He stays rooted in place. Sharp teeth appear under a dangerous smile from Red.

Ren’s doomed. He knows that. The wave surges forward, growing and ripplings. Cresting and crashing. Right on top of him. His safety bubble pops, the rushing water sending him sprawling into the mud at the floor of the stadium. His ears flick water, gasping air and coughing up the water still in his lungs. He completely forgot about the crowd until he hears the raucous cheering around him. Water splashes beside him, and he turns to see Red plopped beside him. Smiling that innocent smiling again. They’re both exhausted, beyond what they should be, struggling to breath. Red tilts her head, shaking hands with Ren. “That was an epic fight, your magic is super cool.”

“Thanks, my dude. That was a sound thrashing. I bequeath the win to you. And I can only hope I stay on your good side.” Ren laughs, sitting up and shaking water off his hair and fur. Even though he lost, that was the most fun he’s had since Eremita.

He could go for a fight like that everyday, if it didn’t mean he felt this horrible pain in his chest, the exhaustion in his body. What’s causing this? Why does he feel so tired? Why does his skin look pale, lost of color? Why does even his clothes seem dull?

And why does his magic feel like it’s gone missing?

#light of lairyon #lol #hermitcraft #hermitblr #hermitcraft fanfic #hermitcraft au #wizard hermits #wizard au #wizard mumbo #wizard tfc #wizard ren #mumbo jumbo #tinfoilchef #rendog #writing

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doodle-zombie · 4 years ago

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Lamia Bonding #14: Beach Day

Warning: If you're at all squicked by self-hate due to body perception, please keep that in mind before you read this.

---

Packing the boys up and taking them to the beach was... an idea that Valerie sort of regretted. The weather had gotten a lot nicer in the last few days and she loved swimming and the beach was one of those things that everyone could enjoy. She refused to take any of her boys to a crowded pool, not willing to see what chlorine would do to Sangria's beautiful scales. If it was anything close to what happened to her skin... yeah, she wasn't risking it.

It was fortunate that she had taken possible beach days into account when getting clothes for her boys and she had several sleeveless tops that would keep them decent enough not to attract weirdos. The unfortunate part was...

Swimsuits.

Valerie hadn't worn a legitimate swimsuit since the one time she'd wore a bikini, back when she was 12, and the experience had been so unpleasant it still made her feel sick. Since then she had strictly worn shorts and a tank top whenever she was swimming around other people and she tended to have massive freakouts the day before. When it came to what she looked like with less covering her Valerie was often shoved into a deep pit of sadness. None of her boys had seen her with less than a long sleeve shirt and pants on, feet completely covered as well.

Sadly, she couldn't hide behind so much coverage when it got hot enough to make her sweat. And with the boys being in her life she couldn't just hide when she wore fewer clothes.

All of the boys had slept with her, even Sangria had somehow got tired enough to actually sleep, and she woke up so hot that she'd wanted to melt. And of course, she had worn her usual fuzzy pajama pants and long sleeve shirt to sleep so she was an absolute furnace that the boys loved cuddling with. A miserable furnace. She was sure that a tail had even slipped into the leg of her pants sometime in the night.

The increase in temperature was not a very welcome change for Valerie but she peeled herself out of bed and went to check the weather report. It would be warm enough that people would be congregating at the beach, since the weather had been fluctuating so much lately, and she could admit to being somewhat excited to get to the water herself. Sure, she generally had to shave before she went or she would never be able to convince herself to leave the house but it would be worth it. Her boys would love to sunbathe in hot sand, she was sure of it!

Unfortunately, Valerie was ruthlessly reminded that none of them had seen her uncovered before. As soon as she took off her shirt and laid eyes on the old scars... she felt immediately disgusted. It was just a flash and then it was shoved aside for indifference instead but she still stared at the scars on her left arm for much too long. They didn't stop there, either. Littering any easily covered area from her chest down to her upper thighs. She had allowed herself to forget they were even there.

Out of sight, out of mind.

She wasn't ashamed of the scars, per se, but they generally got her a lot of negative attention. Add on to that, Valerie was incredibly pale and the number of comments that got her was something else entirely. When she had hair to cover the scars she could forget they were there but she feared the fight it would cause if she didn't go smooth more than people seeing her scars. Better for people to assume she'd survived an attack of some sort than to think she was a radical feminist hell-bent on taking down the patriarchy.

Marmalade was drawn in by her negativity just as she was finally putting clothes on, shorts, and a tank top as she usually wore when the weather was warm. Not only would it be the first time he saw her scars but it would be his first glimpse of the tattoos as well. The green eyes of the wolf on her left side were what greeted him while she carefully put her hair up into a ponytail. Valerie tried to summon a believable smile for her Chain but she could tell if fell flat by his open skepticism. Of all her boys, he knew her the best.

"We're going to the beach," she announced, hands on her hips to avoid rubbing at her arms. "Can you make sure everyone gets ready while I prepare the snacks?"

"'k."

Well, that was the least amount of fuss she had ever gotten about anything. Marmalade wasn't big on fussing with her but he was usually capable of a bit of funny, fake tantrum-throwing to make her smile. She was still anticipating a tantrum but likely from Currant because the chances of someone making a comment on her boys were high. People wouldn't understand how she kept a Coral and a Mamba together, or why she had them in such large sizes when the bitty versions were "sooo much better don't you know?"

Ugh, she was already disgusted.

Nothing that she came up with prepared her for what actually happened.

Arriving at the beach was the easy part, her van fit all the boys with moderate comfort and they could assist her when it came down to moving things around. Lapis was already napping, sprawled across her shoulders and snoring away. Currant wouldn't help, still incredibly wary and insistent on clinging to her side. Marmalade and Sangria were already off, the Mamba declaring he would find the perfect spot for them to bask and his clutch brother rolling the small lights in his sockets. Other people gave Sangria a wide berth, unwilling to be on the receiving end of his venomous ire by accidentally touching him when they weren't allowed to.

Valerie followed with a little laugh, holding Currant's hand so she could still walk but they wouldn't get separated. His reaction to the sand was a little shiver of bliss, the grains perfectly warm against the dense magical scales of his tail. She was surprised to find that, though her boys weren't the only lamia around, she had the only full-size lamia on the whole beach. There were a few people who had the distinct forms of Chain lamia, one or two had Corny lamia bitties, but nobody had a Mamba or Coral. In fact, the most common type she saw was the Papython and she even saw more Kings!

The only lamia types she didn't see at all were Mamba, Coral, Pygmy, and Honey Bo. And that made her really sad, a Pygmy would love to be taken to the beach! She had almost assumed there were no Kraits but a squint towards the water revealed their characteristic pattern bobbing amongst the waves. Valerie even saw some bitty types she'd never seen before, including a few skeletons with wings flittering about and though they were adorable she worried they'd be picked off by predatory birds and the seagulls!

She spent so long admiring the other bitty around her that Valerie had effectively been ignoring the comments being passed around about her. It wasn't anything new and having her focus on it once again meant that Val just clenched her teeth behind her smile and kept walking.

"...legs are so pale!"

"...see all those scars? What a freak."

"Does she think she's cute?"

Her hand tightened around Currant's phalanges, drawing his crimson eye lights up to her face. Val was trying her hardest not to think about how much she once firmly believed what these people were saying about her. She wasn't some skinny girl who could pull off a swimsuit and feel confident that everyone thought she was cute. Ah, she remembered why she never got a roommate and why she preferred to live so far from other people.

Why her only friends were monsters she adopted to care for.

"HOW DARE YOU SSSSSAY SSSSUCH LIESSSS ABOUT MY HUMAN!"

The booming, enraged voice of Sangria sharply cut through her mental anguish. While she was stuck in her own head they had managed to reach Sangria and Marmalade, both of which were incredibly irritated by the comments they'd heard directed at her. Sangria was puffed up angrily, so far off the ground and emitting a deep hiss that he looked much larger than she knew he was. Marmalade's tail was buzzing, something Valerie had never seen him do before, and the menacing glare on his face showed he would tolerate no disrespect towards his bonded. People that had been close seemed much more interested in putting distance between themselves and her boys.

Currant quickly joined in on their posturing, less withdrawn once he was around the others, and added in a lot of very.... colorful insults. Even Lapis, her lazy boy, was tensed around her neck and glaring darkly from beneath one of her plugs.

"Well," she drawled, amused at how quickly their section of the beach had been vacated. "That's one way to guarantee we have enough space to bask."

"not funny," Currant and Marmalade hissed together, twin stares daring her to pretend she was OK.

Ever the large personality, Sangria wasted no time in taking her mind off the insults to her person.

"Put your human sun lotion on," he commanded, hands upon his hips. She had to squint to look at his tail, which was just beautiful under the sun. "The last thing we need is you getting burned."

"I love you guys," she breathed, absolutely delighted by the colorful range of blushing skulls.

#zombie writes #sangria #marmalade #lapis #currant #self insert #tw: body negativity

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shirtlesssammy · 5 years ago

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10x16: Paint It Black

Worcester, Massachusetts

A man walks out of confession, seemingly lighter of spirit and with a distorted camera lens following him outside the confessional booth. He then grabs a candle holder, walks outside and stabs himself through the heart and slashes it down his torso. I mean, really guy, 40 Hail Marys would probably cover it, but you do you.

After the title sequence, we find Crowley busy with Hell paperwork. One demon comes to complain about Rowena (She put his face on the back of his head, Quirrell-style.)

She’s mad at Crowley for not pleading to the Grand Coven on her behalf (OMG, I forgot all about her need to get back in the good graces of this organization...taking Rowena from Buckleming and letting her be a fully formed and wonderful character was the best thing to ever happen, I swear.) She’s also mad that he sided with the Winchesters. “You prefer them to your own flesh and blood.” I see it’s tea time in Hell.

Sam and Dean are on the case. There have been multiple deaths --all victims gutted themselves nice and slow.

Two nuns at the murder church are talking.

Isabella recalls her time before becoming a nun. She knew a man named Piero, an incredible artist. She would pose for him. And, I’m sorry, but what’s with the dead muskrat on Piero’s head? Ew, girl.

Sam and Dean get the phone from the most recent victim. Dean continues to be a Mark of Cain jerk-face. Sam is skeptical that this is a case, but Dean is very convinced.

A man and a woman leave confession time at the murder church. The distorted camera lens walks with them down the aisle. Later, Husband is getting a late night snack when Wife comes into the kitchen. She tells him to come to bed.

He turns and she pulls out a pair of scissors and guts him, blood splattering everywhere. A whitish demon-ghost exits the wife and floats away as the wife comes to, screaming, realizing what she just did.

Sam and Dean interview the priest about the most recent murder. The wife remembers nothing after going to church. Dean and Sam think they’re above the secrecy of confession and ask about what the dead dudes were confessing. They’re introduced to Sister Mathias. She’ll show them around and answer any churchy questions they have. Sam heads off on his own (? I thought that’s why Sister Mathias was there --to show them around?) Anyway, there's a lot of awkward throat clearing and such.

Dean asks Sister Mathias about the state of the McCarthy’s marriage. She’s in the know and very up to date on the extracurricular activities of the congregation. She’s also a hot gossip, as nuns tend to be. Dean then starts asking the real questions. “I guess I’m just wondering how somebody quits one life for something completely different --and believe in it so much.” This episode doesn’t offer much, but when Dean’s alone with people that he feels will keep his secrets, he’s very honest.

Sam arrives and asks about strange occurrences in the church. It’s on the site of an old burial ground. And Sister Mathias thinks the idea of ghosts to be absurd.

Sam and Dean leave. Dean makes performative jokes about Sister Mathias. They try to rule out what kind of supernatural entity they’re dealing with. Dean focuses on the fact that all the victims recently went to confession. Dean then asks when the last time he went to confession.

Back in Hell, Crowley brings his mum a wee gifty: Olivette, the high priestess of the Grand Coven. She’s in chains and Crowley leaves Rowena to do with her as she pleases. (Natasha: We should totally call these latest two episodes our Teryl Rothery series, since she was the medical examiner in Heart.)

And now we’re back with Isabella and Sister Mathias. They’re talking about Piero again. Isabella was deeply in love with Piero. Listen, this love is so deep the soft focus lens can’t get any softer. Isabella talks about how the painting of her started his career and was his masterpiece. Then the show reveals itself: Florence, Italy, 1520. “Sweet Jesus, nothing in my love life was ever so magical,” the seemingly devote nun exclaims. Isabella tells the other nun that she confessed her love to Piero. Piero did not feel the same way. He was in love with his art! Isabella fell into despair. What is life without a muskrat man? Her family shipped her off to a convent.

Rowena tortures Olivette, who reveals what happened to the coven. Instead of the all-powerful coven Rowena wished to join, it’s now been stripped down by centuries of witch hunts. Added to that, an organization plundered the coven’s greatest secrets and shipped them off to bunkers all over the world to hoard all that power for themselves. And who are these massive tools? The Men of Letters.

At the church, Dean sits in the confessional booth. Uh. I’ve read this fic. Avert your eyes, fair children!

Dean fumbles his way through a confession about his womanizing and cheating ways and then asks if he’s “good to go?” SIGH. The priest dismisses him with a handful of prayers, but Dean lingers in the booth. “I pretty much just figured that that was all there was to me, you know? Tear around and jam the key in the ignition and haul ass until I ran out of gas. I guess I just thought sooner or later, I’d go out the same way that I live – pedal to the metal, and that would be it.” Dean thinks that the Mark is going to kill him, and drops the line that haunts us fans to this very day: “There’s things, there’s people… Feelings that I want to experience differently than I have before, or maybe even for the first time.” EYEBALLS EMOJI! Dean emerges from the confessional and Sister Isabella wafts in from out of the walls. Dun dun DUN.

Isabella ghosts herself into the priest’s body next. I’m guessing they’ll just pot up some tulips together? Probably something nice.

Sister Mathias finds Isabella’s diary and begins to read it. One night Isabella snuck into Piero’s studio to destroy his paintings when she found him sleeping with another woman. She stabbed him brutally and her Life of Vengeance officially began!

Sister Mathias fetches Sam and Dean. She explains that she’s hung out with many ghosts and watched them move on, but she didn’t expect Isabella to be quite so murdery.

Isabella’s journal ends right after her trial, where she was convicted of witchcraft and burned. The Winchesters speculate that her journal is what ties her to Earth. Dean orders Sam to burn it.

Rowena continues to beat up Olivette, slap by sharp slap. God, I do love Rowena in a gorgeous gown!

Rowena scolds Olivette for losing the coven’s heritage to the Men of Letters. If the coven is useless, Rowena will hunt them down instead. Where can she find those wily Men of Letters? Olivette clues her in: the Winchesters are legacies. “Perpetually the Winchesters,” Rowena spits out. IKR?? Then, humming, she sets up a spell to DEAL with Olivette. Olivette shakes and screams and THEN... Rowena stops. She’s got a better idea. She utters a different spell and----

Back with the hunt, Dean explains the mechanics of rock salt on ghosts to Sister Mathias. Meanwhile, Sam reads Isabella’s diary. He learns that her blood was intended to be mixed into the paint used to create Piero’s masterpiece portrait. Isabella took it a step farther into psycho town, though. She chopped off her fingertip and told him to add her blood, flesh, and ground bone into the painting. UGH.

Dean discovers the priest torn open and dead on the altar. Suddenly Sister Mathias attacks him. She’s possessed! Isabella tells Dean that the priest had to die because he forgave Dean for his transgressions. GURL please. Sam burns the portrait and Isabella flames out dramatically.

At King o’ Hell headquarters, Rowena watches a wee hamster running in a wheel. The hamster is Olivette! She’s even wearing a cute, tiny red necklace.

Rowena doesn’t explain when or why she asked demons to create a nice, clean, enriching habitat for Olivette. Instead, she asks Crowley about the Winchesters and the Men of Letters. Crowley brushes her off and Rowena smiles prettily and swans away. Clearly, the issue shall never arise again!

In the car, Dean is like me...still grossed out that Isabella and Piero added a FINGERTIP to a painting. Like, Piero. DUDE. That should’ve been a red flag. Sam asks about Dean’s excessive time spent in the confessional. He offers to be a sounding board instead and Dean is SUPER ON BOARD with that plan. JK, of course Dean intends to keep his emotions locked in a warded box and flung into the deepest ocean trench. Sam delivers a rallying speech. He doesn’t think the Mark is going to kill Dean and they’re going to work together to save him! What could go wrong?

There are Things. Quotes...I Want to Experience Differently:

Scissors to the gut really brings out the Grinch in me

The FBI believes in ghosts?

Smug, self-righteous bastards: the Men of Letters

Learning there’s more to the universe than your tiny world can be a frightening discovery

There will be a way, and we will find it. That’s what we do

Want to read more? Check out our Recap Archive!

#spn recap #spn rewatch #spn 10x16 #paint it black #dean winchester #sam winchester #supernatural season 10

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gyromitra-esculenta · 5 years ago

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Even If the Waters Rise 2/3

Shadowrun inspired Mermay part 2 out of 3 - this thing turned into a monster because this here is like 9k words. Also, contains anime fights, and too competent people. (Honestly, like 95% of teams I ran would fuck up this scenario spectacularly).

Also, warnings for the whole planned thing: blood, gore, and violence; cannibalism (human on metahuman); questionable jokes and questionable totem choices; ambiguous relationships; referenced limb loss/cybernetics/etc; mating cycles.

The whole inside of the sub stinks of the cigar smoke.

The ventilation system manages to get rid of the smoke itself, but the reek remains. Jack would call bullshit on Jesse's insistence it's a vital part of the ritual - the justification itself a steaming load of bullcrap.

Point is, even if he's pretty sure that's the fact, he won't, because he doesn't know enough about the subject to not make a fool out of himself. He finishes fitting the exo jacket and does a cursory check of its mobility and the armor plates layered over it.

The next is the pistol and the rifle, both at full capacity, unlikely he will end up needing another power unit for either of them. The hip pack holds eleven demo charges and the pad, Jack threads the cable with the plug under the armor and leaves it hanging for now.

"Much longer?"

"Nah, about finished," Jesse answers without opening his eyes and takes another deep drag of his cigar. Seeing this, Jack feels almost nauseated in his stead.

The visor clicks neatly into the sockets of the frame, integrated jack connecting immediately. He plugs the pad cable into the remaining port. The tactical overlay reloads, feeding him new data.

"Som, want to ride tonight?"

"No, thanks, I'll go through the tac, I have an idea what we'll find and I'd prefer not being flooded by your sensory output."

"I'm feeling a bit bloodthirsty, anyway."

"Don't you always." Sombra flashes his display in response. In time for Jesse to turn around in the chair as the coyote fades back into existence on the serape.

"And done. We're in the clear from this side. I have the entire array down to a pat."

"No good if anyone with a moderately adequate sense of smell can, and will, smell you downwind." Jack rolls his eyes while putting the face mask on.

"All part of the process."

"Sure. Not dragging your sorry ass back."

"Dude, it's going to be the other way around."

"Even if," Jack grabs the rim of the hatchway and pulls himself up, bracing against the railing and leaning back inside, "it will be your fault alone."

"There's a ladder for a reason, dude, you don't need to show off yet." Jesse hands him the drone he sets off flying right away. The thing veers away and gains the altitude with a subtle whizz of its rotors. Sombra will keep it at a distance until Jesse does his thing.

"See if I pull you up now. Genji?"

"Waiting for the signal." The reply comes on the spot, the voice metallic even through the comms.

Jack jumps off the sub, landing softly on the shore. The wall is at least four meters tall, four and twenty according to the display's measurements. His fingers dig into the concrete as he scales it - feels like nothing - the boots keep his feet anchored to the surface. On the top, he surveys the area. No-one is standing guard, probably too lazy and too comfortable with the alarms set up, the only thing to worry about another gang or triad wanting to move into their turf as unlikely as it would be considering the current power balance. But then, with the worth of one facility and the specialists in the trade involved, probably everyone gets a piece of this pie to not upset the supply chain.

Jack lets down the rope, waiting for Jesse to clip it to his harness before he pulls him up.

"You need some kind of diet."

"You're the only one complaining. There's just a lot of me to go around. Love handles are a thing, you know?" Jesse wheezes, finally joining him on the wall. "Thatta way," he points to the closest building. "Cover me while I negotiate."

"Don't die on the way."

"You're just jealous I got some healthy fat on me."

"The only person insisting it's sexy is your recurring ex, and that's because it gives you higher blood volume."

"Wait, dude, seriously?" Jesse looks up from the spot Jack let him down.

"No idea. I'm making it up as I go."

"Well, shit, you really had me consider dieting for a sec there."

"Should've kept the charade up." Jack lies down on his side at the top of the wall, the rifle held precariously with no additional support. Its matte coating disperses the light. "I have fov. Go."

"You expect me to run?" Jesse snarks holding down his hat - incidentally running - stopping a few steps from the building, more a shed than anything else.

"Kind of." Jack centers the reticle on him, noticing the coyote is gone, again. Which doesn't bode well. "Where's the friend?"

"Working, shush!"

Jesse plops down, cross-legged, the prosthetic hand in his lap, the other holding something close to his chest - probably one of his amulets - and Jack briefly entertains the thought of shooting the stupid hat off his head just to make a point. In truth, keeping half his attention on Jesse allows for a smooth feed of environmental data from the surroundings, and if anything goes wrong, though magic, the spirits usually go down well enough when treated with sufficient amounts of very mundane munitions. His are several grades above that.

"The fuck is it...?"

The spirit forming out of the wall in front of Jesse looks nothing like any other he had ever seen before, standing as tall as a troll, a mass of mangled flesh and fur sloughing off its skeletal frame in gag-inducing half-liquid scraps. The half of whatever is supposed to cover its maw is missing, showing off the strange shape of the skull and the frankly terrifying fangs from between which bubbling drool dangles.

It roars soundlessly and Jesse shudders, breaking the first amulet.

The spirit moves forward, sluggishly, against the invisible force pushing it back. Jack puts his finger on the trigger, wondering if he'll even notice the entire thing going south fast enough. If he doesn't, well, Jesse's in scalding water.

Jesse discards remnants of another focus.

The moment Jack's half a mind to light the ugly motherfucker up, a flash of grayish-brown jumps to the spirit's back. The coyote sinks its teeth into the spirit's nape and closes its jaws, twisting. Jack swears there's some kind of cracking sound that's not a sound at all. The rest of the rotting flesh dissipates and the bones burn before following suit.

"Okay, done," Jesse spits to the side, disgust clear in his tone. "All were bound to this one."

"Jesus. What was that?"

"Bad Ainu spirit, powerful," the answer is surprisingly somber. "Feral."

"Tells me nothing." Jack slips off the wall, the drone navigating overhead filling in the gaps in the tactical overlay with new data, finding and pinpointing heat signatures.

"Corrupted bear spirit, someone brought it inland. Nasty stuff, dude." Jesse pats the coyote. Predictably, it snaps at his hand, and he pulls it back with a quiet curse - staring the coyote down until it turns and walks away, unbothered. "Anyway, the one who set it up is gonna feel it, but the further away they are, finding out what that was will take longer."

"No change of movement patterns so far. Genji, take over 'Love Handles' here," Jack snickers at the indignant look Jesse directs at him. Genji confirms, his marker shifting on the display. "I'm moving along."

He follows by the wall, the sparse lamps providing enough contrast to shadow to have him blend with the surroundings. The complex itself - if it even could be called such - was not built with defensibility in mind, but rather adapted for the utility away from the prying eyes. It had to be a port before, maybe even a regular fishing dock, the layout betrays it with the repurposed boat sheds corroding in the sea air - the wall ending abruptly obviously there to protect from the wind and the waves coming in from the side.

Jack departs the relative safety of the wall towards two vehicles parked sideways in relation to the main building where the heat signatures congregate. One is an armored personnel transport, the escort most probably, the other a massive truck with a refrigerator. He takes two charges out of the hip pack and changes the frequency on both of them. The first one goes under the truck, just behind the join with the cabin, the second under the transport. All while keeping his attention on the lone signature exiting the building.

Jack clips the rifle to his back, focusing on the hostile. A smoke break, judging by the movements. Slowly shifting his weight, Jack moves into the position, tracking the motions of the enemy. The tac display flicks between the straight visual feed and the heat map.

Ten meters, turning away from him.

The smell on the air is stronger this close to the building; the mixture of the toxins in the blood is palatable on his tongue here, kicks off his fight-or-flight instinct and the adrenaline floods his system. And for Jack, it's always fight, never flight. The first limiter is off, an overkill, but he doesn't care.

He springs from behind the transport - jumping as the hostile is turning - left palm grabbing their forehead, right fist coming to stop in their nape with a crunch.

His feet hit the ground in front of them and he shoulders the weight, lowering the soon to be a corpse man down. The dropped cigarette still smokes. With a smile, Jack puts one explosive in front of the wildly moving eyes.

"Damn, that's cold even for you," Sombra whistles.

"I'm in a bit of a mood." Jack pulls the rifle into his hands and puts his back to the wall. "That's Arasaka gear."

"Adding their chatter to the monitored."

The display flickers, overlaying structural scan on the tac. Jack glances at the sky - the drone is nowhere to be seen. As it should be.

Genji and Jesse both catch up, sheltered by the vehicles.

"Genji, upper floor. 'Love Handles', find somewhere else, demos underneath."

"Where?" Jesse's heat signature unmistakably turns around with one arm outstretched.

"Go for the fridge. Two inside." Jack takes a deep breath and turns, walking inside with the rifle braced against his shoulder, trying to not be too quiet about it, as if he's the unlucky guy outside.

Five in the room past the corridor, visibly relaxed - four at the table, one lying down. Three on the level up.

"Genji."

The command is followed by a crash above and a scream. Jack falls into a crouch as soon as he gains the visual on the four hostiles turning to the metal staircase on the other side of the room.

The recoil on each shot is cushioned by the exo jacket. Mostly.

On the tac, the fifth one is scrambling in the corner to get up. One from the upper floor gets halfway down the stairs before Genji is on him, pushing him down to the ground, his katana sliding in easily at an angle between the shoulder blades. Jack rushes inside the room - flipping his own direction with a foot planted in the floor past the doorframe - the butt of the rifle slightly off balance as he fires. This one, he's going to feel in the morning.

The plasma projectile rips the meat off the target's throat.

Genji nods once, rising. He flicks the blood off the blade.

"See if you find any paper trail, I'm going..." There's the unmistakable sound of Jesse's revolver going off in the distance. Jack's not worried, not really, he had seen this thing vaporize someone's midriff once.

He shrugs and throws two charges at the opposite walls of the room, down to six now, and backtracks outside, leaving Genji to go through anything that may be in the open.

"Jesse?"

"One's inside."

"There's no-one inside."

Unless... The cold room. Someone went into the freezer. One big heatsink on the tac. Anyone outside would show.

Jesse is leaning against the corrugated metal, revolver in hand, few paces away from the body lying face-down - unarmored, precise shot to the back that blew out half of the chest on the way out, judging by the spray.

"Follow. Som, can you...?" Before he finishes, the drone does a dive fly-by by the entrance, returning to the sky after.

"Clear. Closed shut."

Jack shoulders the rifle. The smell of blood and meat is stronger here, will be worse inside - something about it always sets him off. The building's layout is as simple as it gets: built around the freezer block with a small makeshift separate space to the side to provide for temporary living arrangements.

"Jesse, check it out." Jack walks to the freezer's door. The lock panel shines with glaring red. He moves aside to let the drone pass - unholsters the pistol as Sombra connects to the door's interface. They open with a quiet hiss, expelling clouds of frigid air.

The smell is horrible, hooks into his brain. The urge to kill something - someone - anything - is unequivocal.

"Clear."

Jack rounds the doorframe, pistol at the ready. Rows of tables, singular iceboxes, all the equipment needed for the processing.

"At least a dozen..." The tails being bled in the beginning stage hang from the ceiling in the back. One sways minisculely. "Fifteen."

With deliberate slowness, Jack makes his way towards it - focused on the back area, cursorily glancing at the compact cooling units - nothing unexpected: hands, organs, two heads probably to be sold as centerpieces, all partially treated already.

"Found you."

A bit of a shoe is poking from behind one table. He smiles. The man flinches with his whole body when he sees him. Any other place, any other situation, Jack would consider him a non-combatant unless otherwise provoked into action. But here, surrounded by all the evidence...

He wants - needs - to kill something.

He barely listens to the jumble of the language he doesn't understand, could ask Sombra for a precise translation, but he doesn't care. She provides some, anyway.

"Says they were forced to."

"He's lying."

"No shit," Sombra chuckles.

For a brief moment, Jack considers his options. In the end, he pulls the trigger. The pistol has a substantially lower yield than the rifle - it still very well could dislocate the joints of someone unaugmented - and a limited use against heavily armored targets. Against anyone unarmored, it kills as well as anything else, leaving behind burnt gore.

The smell of seared meat, keratin, and fat does nothing to hide the odor of the toxins from the remains of dead mermaids.

"We have a transport incoming," Sombra pulls the drone from the freezer. "Nine minutes for a clear exit."

"Jesse, Genji, grab what you have and clear out." Jack listens for the confirmations while deploying the remaining charges inside the cold room. He wants everything in here vaporized, with no exceptions.

"Five minutes."

"I know, Som, you put the clock on the tac."

When outside, Jack breaks into a sprint - there isn't a reason to hurry that much but the exertion helps to work the adrenaline out and push the smell from his lungs. He scales the wall and jumps over it.

"Three minutes," Sombra speaks, the tone making him think she might be working now on her nails - ridiculous, but he can't help a chuckle at the image it provokes.

"I know." Jack pauses on the top of the sub to grab the drone and pass it below before he slides inside into his chair. He puts the rifle braced between his legs and sinks forward, bending his knees. "Floor it, 'Love Handles'."

Jesse does, muttering something along the lines 'I see this is what we're doing now' as Jack digs the pad from the pouch - waits a moment before keying in the frequency. The sub shudders, punched by the crump following the demo charges going off on the surface, and just like this, it's time to crash.

"It all reeks of your shit cigars."

Jack does a double-take, looking above the back of his chair at Genji sprawled over the boxes. Genji, who shouldn't be here with them.

"It's good tobacco and they're expensive!"

"I'm bred and born Yakuza, I know my quality drugs."

"Genji," Jack begins carefully, "You left your ride there?"

"No. I walked."

"You... what?"

"Walked."

It's beyond ridiculous.

"How...?"

"Thirty-two hours, to be exact," Genji interrupts the question Jack's been formulating. "A pleasant hike."

Jack decides he's not going to question it anymore. The only downside is he will have to listen to them bicker about meaningless drivel for hours. The other hindrance being the obvious fact he has to peel the armor and the exo off in the front instead of in the back, behind the seats. He manages.

The third unobvious drawback: with three people more-or-less breathing, the temperature rises to levels comparable with a sauna.

State-of-the-art, his ass.

The riveting bickering Jack can tune out as the combat high fades and his system goes into the post-adrenaline crash, leaving him slightly shaking and nauseous - tired and heavy - drifting in and out of bouts of light sleep. When they finally arrive, both he and Jesse look like boiled rats while Genji is no worse for the wear.

It makes Jack think how much - and if anything - is left of Genji himself, with the work he had done on him easily exceeding whatever Jack had, and Jack himself is teetering on the edge. And if Genji runs off a BTL, it's not his fucking business, so he had never asked, and neither had he asked about why - and how - nothing past the part of his head and the upper chest buried in the metal remains. They aren't both that much different, after all.

But that aside, he has about enough energy left in him to slap McCree's stomach flab - ignoring the smirking 'you're only doing it 'cos you're green with envy' comment as it wobbles - and stumble to the temporary bunk, burying himself under the flimsy covers. If anyone's going to bitch about him not helping with the unloading, they can bitch about it later, preferably tomorrow, and, anyway, he's been the one doing most of the work, so they can suck it.

He wakes up too cold, with the shoulder bruised and giving him hell.

Going by the light, it's late afternoon. His gear is laid out on the tables, as is the carry-on he had left before the departure. Jack considers a swim against Jesse's earlier advice, but a spiny back that flashes him in the distance finally dissuades him from the idea. Pity. Quick shower it is.

The rest of the evening he spends putting away the equipment back in the containers first, later scanning the data for Sombra while eating.

"The security was lazy and too lax, they had to have been operating there long enough to grow complacent."

"I'm not so sure about it. From what I've seen," Sombra murmurs, "they might have bet too much on the magic, it was good."

"According to Jesse." Jack pauses with the fork full of the awful reheated mush when she ‘ohs’ suddenly. "What?"

"I think we've hit the jackpot."

"Elaborate?"

"With a bit of luck and time, with this info, I think I might be able to pinpoint the fleet that has been supplying this plant, among the others. We hadn't found one of those in two years."

"Full-on naval run? Fun."

"Trying to appear disinterested? I know you secretly got a boner."

"You know me so well," Jack laughs. "By the way, where are you now?"

"Frisco. You'd like it here, half the time feels like you're breathing water because of the fog."

"My kind of city."

"The views aren't bad either. Have fun tonight once in your life, okay?"

"Why would I...?"

"Trust me."

Her thoughts fade, leaving him perplexed as to their meaning. At least until Jesse barges in some fifteen minutes later.

"We're going drinking, dude, and I don't take no for an answer."

"No."

"Oh, c'mon, dude, it will do you good."

And, frankly, Jack does not understand how Jesse manages to talk him into it - the word 'chaperone' might have been mentioned in the passing - but after two drinks and an hour or so on the dance floor, he does feel relaxed and wired at the same time as he navigates back to the bar. Genji is still nursing the same scotch, slightly emptier than before. Probably that one glass is enough to keep him buzzed for the duration of the entire night, what with the amount of the actual blood he has in his system. Jesse and Lucio are talking animatedly. Jack takes the free stool and flips through the pages of the price-list built into the bar, stopping on the more interesting cocktails.

"Bloody Mary. The other menu."

The bartender looks at him quizzically.

"You don't look like one to enjoy the more sophisticated drinks."

A rather quirky and unfitting word to describe what is basically a cocktail catering to vampires that are apparently a welcome clientele in the club.

"Hey, dude, JJ, he's a freak," Jesse yells from the side over the music, "but he's our freak, so give him what he wants, would you, dude?"

It turns out to be watered down blood with hardly any trace of alcohol in it and a celery stalk thrown in, served in a wine glass with some damn goofy bats on it. Way to stay inconspicuous - Jack snorts before taking another sip, surprised at how agreeable the concoction is. The flavor spills on his tongue and teases the sense of smell, not quite there yet, has him drink the rest of it in one go as he chases after the climax of the taste, and leaves him waiting on the last drops. Licking his lips with a sigh, Jack places the glass back on the bar counter.

Only now he notices the place next to him has been taken in the meantime.

"The same, again, JJ." The man has a deep voice and an eye-catching cybernetic, high grade. Definitely a designer shell on it built for aesthetic value.

"Change the water for ninety-proof, would you?" Jack nods at the bartender. The alcohol adds a layer to the impression, biting where the taste of blood fades. Jack shifts his attention back to the man, and the suits lounging nearby. They fit in the awkward way any corpo rat in a place like this would, if not for their attentiveness. "Counting on something, rich boy?"

Metal fingers grip his jaw, turning his head to the side, put the pressure in, the grab far too familiar in how it applies the force to the bone.

"Those are some fine cock-sucking lips, pity for them to go to waste."

As his eyes drift lower and stop at the rich boy's crotch, Jack catches himself on the fact he's considering it. But the thing is, nobody touches him like they own him, except for Gabriel - because Gabriel does own him. There's something vicious and cruel winding up in him.

"Say what, rich boy, you beat me," Jack flicks his eyes visibly towards the stage, "you get them."

"Even better without the teeth," the rich boy laughs, nodding to the bartender, and the hand is off. Oh, it's a risk Jack's willing to take because there's a point to be made.

"Put it on the ice." He gestures to the drink and hops off the stool, moving towards the stage without looking back, knowing he's being followed. The lights and the music change, people knowing the club's gimmick move back from the marked spot and pull the stragglers with them.

Jack jumps over the rising waist-high barrier and stops slightly off the middle of the ring. He turns around and rolls his shoulders, the right still sore and hurting. Somehow, Lucio is already on the stage chatting up the DJ. The rich boy gets right in his face. Smirking.

"Your bitch ass is mine."

"Sure."

All the lights not focused on the ring and the stage go out.

Jack dives under the first swing. The second one he sidesteps, it's his turn to smirk as he judges the technique and the speed, the coiled spring in him ready to snap. There’s momentum behind the punches, but the speed and the precision are lacking. The footwork is not especially good, either, but the rich boy might feel cocksure because the pure mass and strength probably won him some scuffles, not to mention the monkeys at his heel. To pass the real judgment, though, he does have to get hit.

Jack fumbles partially the next dodge, the fist connecting with his face carries a surprising amount of force behind it even as he's moving away from it - the hand is not only for show, it seems - the second jab comes abruptly. As he hits the floor, the thought he's not the only one to con this fight is unexpectedly exhilarating.

Goddamn fucking McCree screams 'five hundred on the blondie' from the side.

Jack rolls away from the punch that leaves a dent in the spot he had occupied a moment earlier. He pivots on the ball of his hand evading the following hit and jumps to his feet. This would do some serious damage. The stakes just got higher.

Jack licks the blood off his lips, the taste now undiluted, coppery, wipes the rest of it with the back of his hand, smearing it and smiling widely.

"That one's a freebie, enjoy it while it lasts."

The punches come reliably in pairs, the cybernetic hand is favored over anything else, probably at the cost of other techniques.

The coiled spring snaps, and Jack goes into the offensive, dancing out of the way and turning. The first punch misses him completely, the second one catches the sleeve of his jacket as he puts his elbow with the added momentum of the movement below the joint - skirting under the other hand immediately to find himself at the rich boy's back. He plants a foot on his ass and pushes, sending him tumbling to the ground. The surprised look of someone who just realized they bit off more than they can handle is a cherry on the top of the fucking cake.

Jack, swaying to the rhythm of the music, waits for him to get up. The flash of anger - closer to rage - at the obvious disrespect fuels his interest in the fight. He baits the guy two or three times - gets away in the last moment driving home the point he's untouchable until he allows it - watching the rich boy’s coordination and control go to shit.

It's a dangerous kind of game, pushing the opponent until they feel cornered and lash out, but the rush makes up for it.

Jack meets the rich boy in the middle as he changes his approach from evasion to the offense; goes for a quick jab below the ribs followed by a hit below the jaw. He deflects the grab aimed at his head - the fingers close around his forearm - he drags the hand holding him in front of the rich boy's chest while turning on his left foot and throws his other leg up in with a half-turn - hooking the ankle behind the man's neck.

Then, he brings his leg down with force, noting, again, the sheer surprise on that face - the grip on his arm seizing and taking with it the sleeve of his jacket and leaving the synthskin under it scraped by the fabric.

Jack puts the knee in the rich boy's nape as he lies. With the cybernetic trapped under him and his left arm twisted, he is in no position to try anything, especially when Jack adds more pressure to the wrist. He leans down, chuckling, bringing his lips closer to the man's ear.

"Who's the bitch now?"

He gives the arm another cautionary shake before he jumps off the rich boy's back and leaves the ring. At least, compliments due where they are, he knows when he's beaten and doesn't follow to make a scene.

Back at the bar, with Lucio fretting over his face, Jack finishes his drink. Genji is already gone, and Jesse’s nowhere to be seen - until Jack catches the sight of him leaving the club with a bob of white hair on his shoulder. Fucking moron. If Jesse turns up later as a vampire or a desiccated corpse lying in some ditch, it's not Jack's problem anymore.

He hisses briefly as Lucio sets his nose proper and dabs it one last time with a tissue for good measure before making his way back to the stage. Time to get going, he can feel the interest of the spectators in him growing. Jack waves the bracelet at the reader. It blinks red. His tab is paid.

Maybe Jesse, with the money he made off him.

Outside the club, Jack briefly considers catching a cab before his eyes land on the luxury car one of the suits from before is leaning against.

Fuck it.

It's the night of poor decisions all around, Jack thinks as he strides towards it.

"Move," he barks at the monkey, not waiting for the tensing man to comply before he opens the side door looking inside. The rich boy puts away his phone and the other suit aims at Jack's head with the handgun. "Send the monkeys away, or have them sit in the front."

Their displeasure is visible and only serves to heighten Jack's amusement, more so when the rich boy nods. He gets in, gives the approximate address of the dock, and the car starts rolling down the street to join in with the traffic.

"One rule. You touch me only when I tell you to."

He makes quick work of rich boy's pants and grips the already half-hard length in his hand - looking up with a clear warning on his face before he goes down on him, feeling the cock properly fill out and become rigid between his lips. Makes sure his teeth scrape against the skin. He pulls away when the hips under his palm start to jerk with the motions and swats with a warning growl at the hand reaching to hold him in place.

Still kneeling on the floor, Jack strips out of both the jacket and the shirt underneath in one go, throws them to the side. Unbuckling his belt, Jack moves to the opposite seats, braces against the back, and looks over his shoulder.

"Need a special invitation?"

The inside of the car is too small for anything like this - for both of them - Jack delights in how it puts the rich boy in an awkward position. A moment later, he has his face pushed into leather and a hand fumbles with his pants. He hisses first at the burn, the cramping pain deep inside rips an aborted whine out of him - cold metal planted between his shoulder blades keeps him down, not that he minds.

Jack’s fingers rip up the upholstery.

Greedy and selfish, it's what the rich boy is, as is Gabriel himself, but how the same quality differs so intricately between the two of them is something illuminating in its simplicity.

The rich boy takes and tries to assert his dominance when he has none, whereas Gabriel knows Jack belongs to him and Jack knows back he himself is, in a way, his prized property to be taken care of - the bullet to be fired at whatever Gabriel wishes him to destroy.

The sex is barely satisfying and ends too soon with the rich boy falling against his back - Jack shoves him off unceremoniously and tucks himself back into the pants - but it manages to scratch the itch he didn't even know simmered under his skin for the whole evening.

"Save it," Jack nips in the bud whatever the rich boy wants to say as he gathers his clothes from the floor. "No matter what mommy and daddy let you play with, you can't afford me."

He puts the period on it with a slam of the door behind himself.

The lone security guard at the gate with maybe a tad too secretly amused expression on her face buzzes him in. Jack doesn't worry about giving out the location, no-one with any sense tries to get too deep into the seaside properties, and tomorrow he's gone from here, anyway.

In the morning, flowers wait for him at the gatehouse: a basket overflowing with white, gold, yellow, and blue. The card attached holds an unsigned phone number. He pockets it.

"Keep the flowers."

"What am I supposed to do with them?" The guard sounds offended, her face scrunched in something between offended and bewildered.

"Eat them?"

"You don't eat flowers."

"Artichokes?"

"That's one flower, and it's green."

"Fair. Leave them, throw them out, I don't care."

"The basket's nice, don't want it?" The guard leans on her elbows, thinking. Jack lifts his carry-on up for her to see.

"That's all I travel with."

He leaves her still pondering the flowers to catch his train moving inland - a first-class ticket and the whole compartment to himself, all booked by Sombra. Sometimes Jack wonders if she ever sleeps.

The itch is back with a vengeance, and he taps an anxious rhythm into his knee. An hour before his stop he realizes it's another episode coming, the prickling shifting deep into the bones, yet on the verge of becoming an outright ache above the everyday static of pain he can keep under the edge of his awareness. Just his fucking luck.

Until now, it's been possible to navigate around the days he got reduced to jittery nauseated mess hardly capable of logical thought and any movement besides dragging himself to the bathroom, maybe back if he didn't collapse on the way.

Keeping from lashing out is taxing.

It disconcerts Jack more Gabriel will witness him in this sorry state than Gabriel seeing the bruises and other marks left by someone else on his body - at least on parts that were still his body and not artificial filling for what he had lost. The need to back out of the earlier-than-usual meetup and the sudden surreal hope that maybe Gabriel will fuck him through it contradict - he doesn't even know if either is a viable option, each for a set of different reasons.

He's paler than normal when he steps off the train.

By the time he reaches the hotel he's sweating and breathing shallow, the pain in the imaginary joints rising well above the threshold and crashing in waves rolling over to his chest and stomach. His fingers swipe over the keyboard, too uncoordinated - sending the customary text. Getting the reply only acts to exacerbate his anxiety and question the reason to arrive. The hesitation proves to have substance when he notices two suits standing guard in front of the door, an ork and a bluish-skinned elf.

"She's waiting for you," the elf addresses him.

Against his better judgment, Jack enters the suite, ready for... For what, he has no idea, just hopes his clenched jaw radiates apprehension rather than anything else - a tall order, he knows.

'She' gets off the sofa with a strange flowing quality, at least Jack suspects so. The wide-brimmed hat decorated with dark fabric shaped into flowers hides her frame behind a veritable veil of darkness from behind which only two glowing mismatched eyes are visible.

"Gabriel can't make it." The voice is without a doubt feminine. She circles him once, observing him like some exhibit on a display. Jack feels anger floating to the surface at the unwelcome scrutiny he's subjected to. "Fascinating," is the ending conclusion. The gloved hand emerges from the curtain of darkness holding a familiar object.

A pillbox.

"This is a new formula that should be more effective in treating your unique condition, you should start administering it immediately." Her tone is flippant and uncaring. "I am told you are careless with taking the medication as recommended."

Jack grabs the box from her hand; the gloved finger his hand brushed against is either ended in an elaborate manicure, or tipped with a claw.

"I don't see how's that any of your business."

"I am, after all, the one manufacturing it. I would hate to see my work go to waste."

Without another word, covered by her own bubble of darkness, she glides to the door, leaving Jack alone and glaring at the pills.

The temptation is there, enticing and futile. He made the mistake once, he's not going to repeat it.

The first time, popping the pills one after another for a brief relief from the hurt: the few seconds of bliss when nothing ached forgotten immediately after when the pain slammed back into him without warning - screaming in frustration when there were no more left to take. The first time was the worst, the rest he just suffered through.

His fingers shake when he sets the pillbox down on the table - the dancing twitches playing off the connected nerves sending out random signals in confusion.

Jack stumbles to the bathroom and sinks to his knees. Forehead resting on the cool raised edge of the tub - terrifyingly conscious of every single inhale and exhale - skin clammy and cold and hot. Slowly, he sets the parameters, stopping each time he has to swallow the tasteless saliva gathering in his mouth.

He almost gives up twice: once before finishing the setup, the second time as he's trying to undress himself - the drive to just curl up on the floor barely losing to the prospect of some relief.

Sitting on the rim with his feet submerged in the water, Jack plugs into the pad.

"Som?" He reaches out after wrestling his thoughts under some semblance of control. When she nods back, he concentrates on the memory. "I want to show you something."

She pulls it up and watches while Jack smiles, feeling the wave of emotions and sensations wash over him. The dragon glides in the water again.

"Wow. That's why you purged the drives?"

For a moment, he loses track of his thoughts.

"Yeah."

"You sound strange, I know Gabe couldn't..." There's a shift in her voice and her distress banishes the rest of Jack's control sending it spiraling as he clenches his jaw. "Your cortisol levels are off the charts, as well as... Why didn't you tell me you're in so much pain, I'm sending something right..."

"No!" Jack interrupts her, too sharp and sudden. "No," he repeats after a deep breath. "It's normal. I just have to... It won't help."

"Jack."

"It happens. Flare-up. It will pass. Just... could you loop it for me? The dragon?"

Sombra stays silent for seconds ticking away before the scene plays out again in his mind.

"It will stop when you unjack."

"Thanks, Som. I mean it."

"I know. Fuck. This isn't right. I'll work on it."

"It's okay," Jack slips into the water, the momentary temperature shock providing a short respite before the nerve endings become accustomed. "You did what you could."

"Hang in there."

"Thanks."

He sinks to the bottom.

Arms wrapped around knees, Jack lets his mind flow with the memory. Under the surface, shortness of his breath makes no difference and the saltiness of the water flushes away the horrid taste in his mouth. Almost enough to keep thoughts from forming- coast over the waves of pain. Between this, and the moments he relives, time becomes meaningless, counted only by the steady movement of his chest.

The sensation that shouldn't be there sends him spiraling into confusion and panic - a brush against his back becoming a grab - breaking the layer - drowning.

While trying to fight off whatever - whoever - it is, and coughing out the water, his hand catches on the cable and rips the plug out. Only when something puts pressure on the bone below the hinges of his jaw, Jack realizes he's lying down and grabs at the arm holding him.

"Stop struggling."

The voice and the command register slowly, and when they do, he lets his palms fall away from Gabriel's hand. His head is turned to the side and the vertigo of the renewed connection provokes another wave of nausea Jack protests with a whine.

"How many times?"

He has to hear it twice with the fingers digging into the vulnerable points of the bone emphasizing the words for the question to parse.

"Eight... ten?" Jack licks his suddenly dry lips, tracking with his eyes the syringe Gabriel holds with his other hand. "..'s not going to help."

He had not needed to talk during any of the previous episodes and he winces hearing his own slurred words, more than he does at the prick of the needle and the numbing cold propelled by blood crawling from the injection site in his neck. The freezing pain is almost the polar opposite of the sensations thus far - he panics, again, trying to fight off the unmoving hand until the ice sinks its teeth deep into the marrow and shoots through his brain as he jolts on the bed with a scream before he blacks out.

When Jack comes to, the light is too bright, the contrasts too strong, and it floods his vision even through the clenched shut eyelids. He's hot, far too hot, the back of his head is damp - warm hair sticking to his neck, slicked to his forehead and temples with sweat. What is worse, whatever he's lying on - and under - is coarse and abrasive, even the minimal friction caused by his chest rising and falling with each breath is nigh unbearable.

Moving his arms proves to be an exercise in futility with how sluggish and weak they feel. Through the cotton fog swirling in his mind Jack wonders about the malfunction - how much the limbs are fucked if they refuse to cooperate with the nerves, the intent itself should be enough to prompt the action - or is it him who's fucked with the neural pathways misfiring.

He manages to kick the sheet down, it's enough to get it past the hips. The synthskin's not reacting to whatever's going on – otherwise, he'd go crazy from this. The cool touch on his stomach makes Jack jump in place and groan as the surprise forces his eyes open.

Unsticking the tongue from the roof of his mouth requires some work.

"Why are you here?" Is what Jack intends to say. What makes it out instead is garbled and croaking.

"You were experiencing a toxic hormone buildup," Gabriel replies like that's the answer to his question.

"...what was?"

"Artificial hormones to counteract, and stabilizers."

"Huh?" It's even harder to focus with the fingers gliding in slow circles over his skin - soothing - almost enough to forget the discomfort. "Would pass, normal."

There's no response, of course. Jack licks his lips. The points where Gabriel put the pressure when he held him down still hurt. Funny how he can recall only one other time something like this has happened.

He had his arm blown off and caught several slugs with his side. It had been his own fault, probably, and Gabriel had a discernible aura of anger and irritation to him when reaching for the hand and lifting the shirt to check on the stitched injuries. And being manhandled like this didn't sit well with Jack, yet. Ended with him pressed against the wall, Gabriel's hand on his throat - fingers digging into the bone and his knees going weak - and mind-blowing sex. The first fuck of his new life, and no questions asked.

"We could talk?" Jack suggests, finally able to see in the dimming light. "Don't think... I'll remember it, anyway," he adds when it obviously falls on deaf ears, but Gabriel's always like this, this being this, no explanations, no nothing. It bothers him now, surprisingly, between feeling like a wet cloth, the fuzz, and Gabriel's aloofness.

Eerily, brings up the same mean streak as before.

"Did you... you and him, did you fuck?"

The thing about Gabriel is, he never lies. Just doesn't answer if it's inconvenient. The palm lying flat on his stomach, now motionless, gives merit to the question one way or the other.

"We had... a relationship, of sorts."

But Jack gets his answer and it fucking hurts to hear Gabriel say it. Must be the hormones. The curiosity, too, because for years he had managed to not give a fuck about it all until now.

"What was he like?"

The chuckle has him turning his head to confirm its actuality - the plug catches on the cloth - he's still jacked in. The cool air on his wet hair sends shivers down his spine as Gabriel puts away a book, a paper one, to help him move to rest on his side.

With the bent arm trapped underneath, it's almost bearable. The pillow remains damp and warm.

"Impudent and fearless, the two definite qualities of his."

"Got it. Stupid and bitchy." The irony of basically badmouthing himself does not escape Jack. "Sounds like someone I know."

"Does it, now?"

"He's dead," Jack blurts out, the words following thoughts without a moment's hesitation, tumbling out one after another with no consideration. "I'm the one in here. If he comes back, it's not going to be him."

Gabriel tips his chin up with his thumb.

"Impudent and fearless, and so very clever, too clever for his own good. At least, with you, I can hold a conversation."

It's Jack's turn to chuckle.

"You could. If you ever talked to me. You're only talking to me because I won't remember it, remember? That's what you think."

"Probably."

"That's. Fucking. Cruel."

"Or maybe because you are asking now."

"I don't ask because you never tell me shit." Jack's sure his weepy frustration - and the emotions all over the place - can be easily read in his voice. "Who was he to you, anyway?"

He's steeling for the punch when Gabriel appears to be mulling the question over in his mind, his thumb tracing Jack's lower lip.

"Someone special." It hurts. He should fucking stop doing it to himself. "And, so are you. Both alike, yet unique in ways you could never comprehend."

"Maybe I could. But you won't tell me."

"No." The finger leaves his lips and travels down along his throat, past the dip between the collarbones.

"See. Herein," Jack laughs at the word, giving in to the fog, lightheaded as if drunk, "lies the problem. You never tell me shit."

"It is for your own good."

"Bullshit. You don't want to deal with the fallout, do you?" The last part barely makes it out of his mouth before Jack flinches at the touch with a high-pitched inhale cutting off anything else he wants to say. Fuck. That's one way to end the conversation. He's really fucked up if he didn't notice he's fucking hard since some point in time - and Gabriel is taking his sweet time too, teasing with his hand - it's not enough, and Jack reaches out to pull him closer barely registering his limbs finally cooperate with him. "Fuck. Don't... please."

He's choking up on words. Gabriel shifts to lean over him, continuing the deliberate motions with no intention of letting him finish, and his desperation is growing, punctuated by small sounds of distress slipping out as Jack digs his fingers into his back. The sensation of being filled arches his spine - it doesn't feel right - not wrong - just not right - but he clings to it with a needy whine and jerking hips - trying to pull the body above him closer, giving up any kind of control in lieu of chasing the denied pleasure.

The first rolling wave has him biting on the fingers between his teeth - toe-curling as it spills down the phantom nerves and runs back - still not enough, and he pleads with the whole of himself for release only to be rebuked with Gabriel's voice in his ear leading him through it. Again and again - until he's a crying mess gasping for breath and begging for Gabriel's mercy - and when it is granted, he's unprepared: coming with a soundless scream caught in his throat and his back taunt like whipcord before sinking under the surface into the depths.

Pliant, shaky, and raw, is how Jack feels waking up tangled in sheets; still too warm but not burning hot anymore, sticky with old perspiration and damp with fresh sweat. Alarmingly... lucid. The light speaks of early morning, or that peculiar breaking moment of the evening. Either way, it no longer pains his eyes.

The itch in his bones lingers, but gone is the urgency - and the memory of yesterday redefines his concept of mind-blowing.

Parched, Jack sits up looking around - feels his heart fall before he spies Gabriel sitting on the covered balcony, working, as usual, judging by the screens surrounding him, but Jack will count his blessings because Gabriel wasn't even supposed to be here according to that woman that has his skin crawling even now when he thinks about her.

He slips out of the bed, standing on wobbly legs.

The sheet feels too coarse around his waist and he discards it, walking the rest of the way naked. The artificial breeze feels wonderful on his skin. Jack halts in front of Gabriel - trying to grasp the vague recollection of... actually having a conversation with him.

"We talked," he blurts out at the questioning gaze of black and red eyes, surprised. "Yesterday."

"Yes." Gabriel holds out his hand in an invitation to him.

"What did we talk about? Was it important?" He waits for a rebuttal and laughs when Gabriel remains silent, puts his palm in Gabriel's waiting hand, and lets himself be pulled to sit on his lap, conscious in an instant of the fact he's ruining one of those ridiculously expensive suits just by touching it. "It was important. But you won’t tell me what it was, will you?"

"No."

There's a glass pressed to his lips and Jack eagerly drinks the water in big thirsty gulps, some of it dripping down his chin; he stops Gabriel from taking it away before he finishes all of it, and then just leans against him with his cheek cradled to his neck. He winces at fleeting nausea when Gabriel plugs his jack in, but, even so, the mood settles soon into comfortable silence - and he had learned to treasure those rare quiet moments with Gabriel. There's just something bothering him, more humorous than anything else.

"You know," Jack finally gives voice to it, "I'm willing to bet my meager possessions you actually knocked me out with an orgasm."

"You would lose them in the wager."

"Oh. Fuck. I was being only half-serious."

"You should be 'half-serious' about your health."

Straight to what Gabriel considers being the issue.

"It has always passed before, so that's..."

"Then you would notice those 'episodes' of yours are regular and take place approximately every five months."

Jack winces at the unusually irate note in Gabriel's voice.

"They do?"

He feels that sigh with his entire body.

"At the moment, the foremost concern is finding an adequate formula to mitigate the unaccounted symptoms. You will sign in with Sombra every day so she can gather current metrics."

"If it happens in five..."

"I accept no objections.”

Jack turns his head so he can look over the screens in the air - most of them blurred with personal encryption, and probably nothing he would even understand - but he notices one static picture with live readable feed and his stomach plummets for a second.

The perfect explanation for Gabriel's general disposition.

The rich boy.

And Jack has to breach the subject, somehow. Because Gabriel won't. He shifts and points to the holoscreen in question.

"Are you... Are you angry about it?"

"I am irritated by your negligence."

"And this?"

"It is of no consequence. It's understandable," Gabriel continues without missing a beat, "that you would find other sexual partners."

The dismissal should put him at ease, not threaten him with the inexplicable urge to cry.

"Tell me I'm not allowed to."

"Would that change anything?"

"If you tell me I'm not allowed to," Jack pushes his face into the crook of Gabriel's neck in some form of trying to hide away from the tumultuous swirl of emotions it brings up, "then I won't. Please, tell me I'm not allowed to."

Fucking pathetic for a grown man, to fight against tears and fail, but it's what happens when Gabriel remains silent on the subject, and Jack tangles his fingers in black fabric, the stifled sobs raising in force. Fucking pathetic, losing it over a thing he always knew. And fuck hormones for making him feel shit - now he would take the pain over this complete mess. And fuck Sombra for telling Gabriel on him.

And, honestly, fuck himself for harboring some kind of misguided hope against any logical rationale, Jack notes with the angry spite. Angry is often better, but now, it's not helping at all. It only makes matters worse.

Slowly, he drifts off into a fitful sleep, waking only when carried: by his own hand slipping loose off his lap. Gabriel lowers him into the water, the temperature slightly higher than his usual.

"There are other matters I have to attend to." The words are accompanied by the palm lingering on his cheek and the thumb tracing the arch of the bone before Gabriel moves away. Jack waits for the sound of the doors closing behind him. He's just tired as he sinks below the surface.

What the fuck is even his life?

#sometimes I write #r76 #reaper76 #jackande #mermay #doom76

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diceyfall · 6 years ago

Note

id love to see anything with kurt/mds! perhaps post-coin guard coup? or some sparring clichés that everybody loves?

[fic; want to lose to you]

established relationship, dirty talk & frottage, 1492 words 🔞💝

A drop of sweat rolls down the skin of Tristan’s neck, along the shape of his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he all but swallows the air, sucking in his breaths with a heaving chest.

Kurt’s eyes are fixated on that one drop as it slides down his collar bone and disappears beneath his soaked shirt. “Are you done already?”

Tristan wipes the sweat off his forehead with his sleeve, the merciless sun of Teer Fradee burning high in the sky above them as they stand across from each other.

They’re the only ones left in the training area of the Coin Guard’s barracks in New Sérène, having had an audience before–mostly curious recruits and some appreciative officers who wanted to see Kurt in action–but after the first hour the two of them were left to their business.

“Hardly,” Tristan responds once he isn’t panting as hard, his sword still in hand as he straightens up, though

Kurt’s last blow rattled up his arms and they feel a little weak.

They’re even now, tied with two losses and two wins each.

Tristan agreed to fight without any magic, which means he can’t complain if he ends up losing definitively, though the way Kurt is eyeing him up is giving him a few novel thoughts.

Not on how to win, but on how to enjoy his loss.

“Another round, then?” Kurt proposes, amusement in his eyes as he’s clearly trying to gauge how much farther he can push Tristan before he yields.

“Sure,” Tristan agrees, smiling lightly as the idea takes the shape of a plan in his mind. “How about hand-to-hand this time?”

“Won’t make a difference to me,” Kurt taunts as he puts his two-handed sword aside on the weapons rack, Tristan following suit and rolling up his

sleeves in preparation as they stand across from each other once more, albeit at a smaller distance.

“I’ll give you the first hit,” Kurt offers, fists up in preparation. “Come on, then!”

Tristan imitates Kurt’s stance, hides his smile behind his hands, and launches himself forward.

He swings wide, fast and a miss as Kurt ducks the blow, kicks at his ankle and nearly makes Tristan trip. Tristan recovers quickly as he steps away, turning around to face Kurt again as they shift around each other.

“Poor footwork,” Kurt comments tauntingly. “I thought I trained you better.”

Tristan doesn’t reply, lunging at him again instead, almost the exact same way he did before. This time Kurt merely sidesteps him with a scoff and a shake of his head.

“You can do better than that,” he says, brows furrowed as suspicion dawns in his eyes. “What are you–”

Another wild swing, this one not even in the vicinity of reaching Kurt whose patience finally runs out, just as Tristan counted on. Kurt evades once more, circling around behind him and gripping Tristan’s wrist to pin it tightly against his back while an arm wraps around his neck, holding Tristan in place.

“What are you playing at?” Kurt speaks in a low tone against his ear, finishing his question from earlier as Tristan tenses up in anticipation.

His other hand is still free.

He lifts his elbow, knows that Kurt sees it coming but does it anyway because he isn’t quite where he wants to be yet–

Kurt releases his neck to catch his arm, pins his other wrist to his back as well as he kicks at his leg and works Tristan to the ground. Tristan hits the dirt, cheek pressed against it as Kurt holds him down with both hands behind his back, weight warm where he sits on top of Tristan’s thighs.

“That didn’t work out too well for you,” Kurt mocks, watching Tristan breathe hard below him for a moment before he leans down for a low murmur against Tristan’s hair. “Do you yield?”

Tristan quietly inhales, arches his back and angles his hips up–he feels Kurt freeze on top of him at the first press of Tristan’s ass against his groin, fingers tightening around Tristan’s wrists.

“Not yet,” Tristan breathes out, his smile slightly smug as he presses back against Kurt more firmly, rolls his hips a little and hears a quiet hum in Kurt’s throat.

“Keep going, then.” Kurt’s voice rumbles against his ear, his weight shifting to fit the line of his body against Tristan’s, the bulge in his trousers hard against Tristan who lets out a hot sigh as he rubs up against it shamelessly.

His reward is a deep groan smothered into his hair and an uncontrolled jerk from Kurt’s hips against Tristan’s, one that smooths out into a rhythm as Kurt’s lips latch onto his neck, drawing a pleased moan from Tristan’s lips. He closes his eyes, fixated on Kurt’s clothed erection grinding against his ass and this is a terrible idea because someone could walk out into the training area at any moment, yet the thought of it only spurs Tristan on.

“Are you that desperate for a fuck?” Kurt murmurs, tone rough in his throat, slightly breathless while Tristan matches the slow, dragging movements of his hips, feels his own cock aching in his trousers where it’s pressed against the hard ground. “If you wanted it this badly, you could’ve just told me.”

Tristan huffs a laugh that turns into a quiet hitch of breath when Kurt jerks his hips again, this time deliberately, a forceful thrust smacking against Tristan’s ass and

reminding him of the way the bed shook beneath them two weeks ago–far too long a time to wait, and Tristan is well and truly at his limit.

“Fine.” He’s lost in a daze of heat and need both, sweat-soaked and thighs starting to tremble. “Fuck me.”

“Tristan,”

Kurt growls in warning against his neck, nipping at the skin and any measure of self-control Tristan had left slips away from him.

“I’ll yield the fight,” he pants against the ground, continues to mindlessly

rub his ass back onto Kurt even though Kurt has stilled, letting him move as his quiet but hot breaths fill Tristan’s ear, only heightening

Tristan’s need for it. “If you fuck me right here, right now, I’ll yield.”

“You want it that much?”

“Yes,” Tristan groans. “You know how much I love your cock–”

“Tristan,” Kurt hisses, but Tristan keeps going.

“It fills me up so well,” he continues huskily, lucid enough to know exactly what he’s doing as Kurt breathes heavier, tenses on top of him like a bow pulled taut, on the verge of snapping. “I want it, Kurt, please. I want you to hold me down and fuck me, I want- god- I want to feel you come inside me–”

Kurt curses and releases Tristan’s wrist, one hand grabbing at Tristan’s hip to lift it up higher, then circling around to the front of Tristan’s trousers and cupping his groin, palming at it, Tristan’s obscene moan smothered against Kurt’s other hand. He’s caught between Kurt’s fingers rubbing over his cock through his pants and Kurt’s own erection still grinding against his ass, and Tristan thinks fuzzily that he might actually come like this, spilling his seed in his pants as if he were sixteen years old again—

Kurt suddenly lifts off him and Tristan halts, flustered. He blinks dazedly at the sudden cold that hits his

heated skin and turns his head to see where Kurt went, when moments later the door to the training grounds opens.

A few recruits come walking out, collectively pausing when they see the legate of the Merchant Congregation lying face first on the ground.

Slightly mortified, Tristan looks around for Kurt, spotting him off to the side

casually standing by the weapons rack with his back turned, pretending to inspect his sword.

“Your Excellency?” a recruit speaks up hesitantly and Tristan laughs a little, feeling extremely awkward as he slowly lifts himself up, subtly un-tucking his shirt and hoping the length of it will hide the way his pants are tenting.

Though erections are not exactly uncommon during physical exercise—blood flowing tends to do that—Tristan still feels mildly self-conscious with his lust tempered and his reason slowly returning to him.

“Don’t mind me,” he speaks in a lighthearted tone, glancing at Kurt who, aside from some redness in his face, looks entirely nonchalant. “We were just finishing up.”

The recruits give him strange looks but say nothing of it as they start their training, Tristan lingering to try and make himself look at least semi-presentable before he heads out when Kurt passes by him on the way to the door.

He halts beside Tristan, not looking at him as he says, states, “Tonight.”

Tristan licks his lips in anticipation.

“Tonight?”

Kurt meets his gaze, the look in his eyes making a shudder run up Tristan’s spine.

“I’ll make you yield to me tonight.”

[ read the rest on ao3 ]

#greedfall #greedfall kurt #kurt x de sardet #de sardet #de sardet x kurt #greedfall fanfiction #dice's fics #i hope this is alright anon sorry i couldnt control myself #definitely gonna be a part 2

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xantchaslegacy · 5 years ago

Text

Forgiven, Ch 2

Chandra had seen plenty of strange sights on plenty of different worlds; it came with the territory of being a career planeswalker/renegade/aspiring hero. She’d had days full of zombie hordes, days where she’d defied gods (with mixed success) , and days where she clashed with everything from dragons to giant demon frogs.

Today seemed set on one-upping all of that.

She’d expected to see some interesting things when Vraska asked for help with the reactivated eternals terrorizing the undercity. It was new territory, even if the foe was an old one. Still, the sewers of Ravnica were a bigger and more tangled maze of tunnels, caves, and entire districts than Chandra expected, stuffed with more variations of fauna, flora, and fungi than she had seen in one place. The izzet cyclopses who’d come along to assist in the clean-up were some of the oddest allies she’d ever had (their voices were so high pitched...and how were their heads so tiny?). The eternals, their blue lazotep now covered with an additional layer of fungal plates and clinging moss, had looked strangest of all-

-at least until an imp with a bow-tie offered her dinner.

“I insist, it would be shabby in the extreme if Pivlichino’s accepted so much help without offering a hot meal in return.” The imp, Pivlic, wrung his hands together imploringly. He hovered just in front of Chandra, taking conspicuous care not to drift close to the grimy walls or knee-deep filth of the undercity tunnel.

“It’s fine, really.” Chandra glanced back at Samut, who just shrugged. “We’d have to clear out the eternals here even if the tunnels didn’t run under your, uh, restaurant?”

“Ravnica’s newest, grandest restaurant, club, and bar,” The imp exclaimed with a bow and a flourish. “And please. Consider it a gift on behalf of the entire city. These metal monstrosities have been a blight on our streets, and to think there are still a few lurking about...”

Samut tensed in the corner of Chandra’s eye, but said nothing. Quietly, efficiently, she continued to lay out the still bodies of eternals along the dry side of the tunnel.

“...it’s truly a blessing to know such capable mages are seeing to the elimination-”

“Thank you,” Chandra cut the imp off. “And sure, we’ll take a meal. We should be done with for the day in an hour or two.”

“Excellent!” Pivlic clapped once, the crisp sound echoing down the tunnel. His attendant, a stooped ogre with a collar and bow-tie pressed crisply against his bulging neck, stepped forward, holding out a small silver tray Chandra. On it were two silver-embossed slips of paper, which Chandra took with a furrowed brow.

“What are-?”

“Show those tickets to the maitre d’ and she’ll see you sat at one of our best tables. We’ve got genuine Gruul folk musicians playing this evening; the perfect compliment to a hearty meal!” Pivlic bowed, spun in the air, and flew off up the service tunnel that led back to the streets. His attendant followed, ascending by ladder slowly, grumbling under his breath.

“Are we getting a feast in our honor?” Samut was sitting up against the sewer wall, next to the neat row of eternals, a tired smile and a raised eyebrow aimed at Chandra.

“Fancy dinner.” Chandra waved the tickets and slumped down next to Samut. The ground was filthy, but they’d gone through waste up to their shoulders several times already that day, so the added grime barely registered. “Um, I hope that was alright that I accepted the offer for both of us. If you’d rather not-”

Samut waved the apology away. “I was going to ask if I could buy you supper for all your help and your company anyways, so all the better.”

“All the better,” Chandra echoed. She tucked the tickets into a satchel on her belt. “So...what do you think so far? One last bit of Bolas’ magic keeping them going? Maybe he had another necromancer waiting in the wings with the Golgari?”

“Either. Both. That would make sense if the false god is half as clever as all who know him claim. I wonder though…It doesn’t seem as if touching them endangers our sparks any longer. If it was the false god, well you’d think those enchantments would still be in effect.”

Chandra nodded. She had bare-handed grappled at least two of the eternals that morning, and gotten away with nothing but scrapes. “Maybe. Must have been a pretty exhausting spell to maintain.”

“Probably. Either way, one less spell desecrating my sisters and brothers.”

“Oh yeah, about that...” Chandra looked across Samut at the broken Amonkhet warriors. “Should we, um, say anything? Do you have some kind of burial rite or…?”

“I’ve said what needs to be said.” Samut leaned her head back until it rested against the stone. “You know, I don’t have a clue what burial customs my ancestors had. The false god left our viziers with the practice of mummification, but none of our proper rites of remembrance.” She sighed. “Nothing to be done but to say goodbye to them as warriors.”

Samut lapsed into silence. They sat listening to the rush and gurgle of the sewers for several long minutes before she shrugged and stood.

“My comrades and I have a lot to re-discover, if we survive the coming years.”

“Yeah,” Chandra nodded and stood as well, “I uh...I can imagine that’d be, uh...” Her mind grasped for the right words to continue this conversation she’d started. “Actually, I guess I couldn’t. I am very sorry, though.” She pointed at one of the growths on the nearest eternal’s armor. The fungus was grown in the patterns reminiscent of the Golgari undead, with spongy masses and plates forming crude, partial armor. “Do you want me to burn any of that off, at least?”

“It’s no worse than the lazotep,” Samut laid a gently hand on the smashed skull of the closest metal-coated zombie. “And since we haven't seen any partial eternals moving under the control of the growths, I don’t think it’s much of a danger anymore.

“Thank you, though,” She added.

Chandra nodded. Her hands fell back to fiddling with the cool wrist of her gauntlets. One of the eternals had cast a volley of arrows through a gas line, puncturing it in over a dozen places. Chandra had resorted to fire-free means of fighting for the rest of the day while the izzet cyclopses struggled to fix the ruptures. She could still hear them further along the tunnel, stomping through the muck, sifting for any remaining zombies in the area.

Vraska had approached each of them separately about the renewed eternal problem. While Bolas’ death had brought the entire force to a standstill, the vengeant ravnicans had not destroyed all of them. A significant number had made their way into the sewers and waterways before they’d been deactivated. Some, for whatever reason, had congregated in dead-ends and abandoned shafts, where they had simply hunkered down and seemingly waited for the war above to end.

That would have been easy enough to clean up. Then a blue-metal hippo had attacked Zonot, killing three researchers before the guard-krases could put it down. The Simic had assumed the fungal growths were the result of some rogue project gone awry. A week later, a squad of spear-wielding eternals attacked an underground Rakdos poetry slam, and this time there had been no mistaking the Golgari fungi covering the attackers.

“Which is a bad look for the swarm,” Vraska had explained. “I could point to the half-a-dozen attacks on our own undercity territory as counter-examples, but no-one wants to hear it. Even if my guild wasn’t at war with itself regularly, other would just say I sent those attacks as plants to throw suspicion off of myself.”

Chandra had agreed to help immediately, just for something to distract from her latest bout of restlessness. She had almost even turned down the gold Vraska offered for the job.

It was quite a lot of gold. The gorgon seemed to still feel bad about how things had gone with Baan, as if that creep’s fate had been anyone’s fault but his own. Chandra hadn’t asked yet if Samut had been offered the same price for her help. It was clearly personal enough for Samut regardless, and ambivalent as Chandra felt about payment, she couldn’t imagine offering Samut the same without it being at least somewhat insulting.

“So just, uh...leave them for the Izzet grunts to move?”

“Yes.” Samut nodded. “I’ll trust the natives do what’s best for their own plane.” She looked over the line of fallen warriors. “A whole lifetime perfecting our bodies for the afterlife, and it turns out the best we can hope for after death is that we lie still and unused by evil.”

“I...I’m sorry.”

“Yes, you said that.” Samut smiled faintly. “I’m not much for being sorry about what’s past. I’ve lost a lot of my life already...I need to focus on making the future better.”

“Better life...” Chandra stared across the tunnel at the opposite wall. “What do you have in mind?”

Samut nodded, lips pursed.

“Dinner would be a good start.”

* * *

Pivlichino’s (or Pivlichino’s IV, as the sign outside read, for some reason), was spacious, crowded, and loud. Chandra adored it. The tables were laid out in a patterned sprawl, built to every size and shape needed for accommodating the different bodies of Ravnica. Groups of goblins shared drinks at long, short-legged benches. Minotaurs and elves and humans wolfed down meals at an array of middling tables. Chairs with legs the size of tree-trunks loomed large against the near wall for the odd giant diner. Waiters bustled among the diners, hefting barrels of bumbat and platters of every kind of food. Plates of steaming intestines. Sliced fruit arranged over sweet ices. Bowls of beetles drenched in vinegar.

The maitre d’, a harried-looking Viashino, had taken one look at Chandra and Samut, and escorted them to a small side room before they’d made it ten steps into the building. There, they’d been presented with a huge selection of fancy clothes to change into.

“Seriously?” Chandra had asked, pointing over the maitre d’s horned shoulder at a troll lumbering into the restaurant. “She’s covered in spiders.”

The maitre’d had sniffed. “They are not sitting at our best table.” She waved her arm at the tiers of clothing covering the walls “You may have your pick of the lot. Our thrulls will even clean your current...garments. If you would like.”

Samut had picked a tiered red-and-gold formal dress, then replaced the skirts with a set of pale white trousers and fancy riding boots. Her stride through the dining room was confident and fresh, and not at all like someone who had been trudging through sewer-muck all day. Chandra, on the other hand, was very much showing the day’s labor as she ambled beside Samut in a hastily-thrown-on set of Selesnya robes that reminded her of Ghirapur-style dresses, in cut if not in color.

Still, despite the fatigue, the heads they turned and eyes they caught were definitely aimed at her as much as Samut, and Chandra felt a little swagger sneak into her walk, even as she gawked like a tourist at the main dining room.

Pivlic practically glowed with delight at Chandra and Samut’s reaction as he escorted them to their table. He needed no encouragement to show off every detail of the establishment, from the “authentic Gruul wall-art” to the “specially Simic-grown kelp-thread carpets.”

“-and of course, our mealtime entertainment for the evening.” Pivlic gestured toward a group in Gruul hides dragging instruments into the main dining room by a side door.

“Real...real popular place you’ve got, huh?” Chandra commented, consciously restraining herself from stopping and watching in awe as a trio of demons devoured a tower of chocolate ice the size of a small house.

“Patrons from every guild and guildless walk of life enjoy the fine food and facilities of Pivlichino’s,” Pivlic beamed. “Paid for with Orzhov gold, of course, but co-owned and run with the best cooks, entertainers, and brewers of the Rakdos and the Golgari. A true symbol of collaboration and goodwill among guilds.”

“Impressive,” Samut replied, absently. She was glancing all over, at every diner and dish and decoration in sight. Chandra would have thought it just enthusiasm of the newly sparked if she hadn’t been gawking herself.

“We have a few private rooms, but I can tell you two will be happier with a full view of the action.” Pivlic gestured to a set of tables on a raised dais, right next to a small balcony. There was a clear view of the setting sun down a long boulevard through the window, and a panorama of most of the dining area on the other side of the table. The chairs were made of wicker and resin, and the cushions looked suspiciously like Simic oozes, but were soft as silk, and Chandra felt every bruise on her shoulder slide away as she leaned back and peered at the pedestrians walking a few stories below.

“Start our dear friends with a round of Appetizers Allegiant,” Pivlic dictated to a waiting minotaur waiter, standing at blank attention with a red cloth draped over his forearm. “Our special until the end of Seleszeni,” He added with a wink. “Variation without spoiling your appetite for more.”

The band started setting up as they waited for water and appetizers. The Gruul had brought several large drums, carved horns, and a massive string instrument that had clearly been carved out of a six-foot chunk of rubble. They hauled everything onto a raised stage in the center of the dining space. A serviceable place to play music, though something about it made Chandra think of a fighting ring.

“Do you like music?” Samut asked, nodding at the stage.

“Some of it. We have the best dancing music on my home plane. You have to come listen to Kaladeshi qawwali singers someday.”

“I think I’d like that. Anything you can move your feet to is best.”

“Yeah. I bet Gruul music is good for dancing” Chandra eyed the band. The largest of them, a towering centaur, had wrestled the rubble-harp upright, and was plucking at it experimentally. “Though I guess even if it is good to jam to, there’s not much of a dance floor.”

A quick glance around the massive room confirmed this. Chandra frowned.

“Huh. I thought Pivlic said this place was a club too.”

“What does that mean, ‘club?’”

“Oh! Ummmm….” Chandra bit her lip. “I guess they can change from place to place, but like...I guess I think of a place with music where you can dance. Sometimes fancy, sometimes not. I prefer the latter.”

Samut nodded. “We’ll have to incite some dancing tonight.”

Chandra accepted a glass of water from their returning waiter and raised it to Samut. “We should hang out more often.”

The ‘Appetizers Allegiant’ arrived on five small plates, each showing off a fusion of tastes each guild was known for. The Golgari slow-roast slider with Rakdos pepper sauce was fantastic, as were the thin slices of thrull pate with a minty Azorius-inspired jam.

The band started playing as they worked through the dishes. The first song was a low, slow-building rumble of a song. The lead singer, a barrel-chested goblin, rasped out lyrics about the setting sun setting the world on fire.

“Interesting,” Chandra nibbled on a bite of toast points made from Boros rations and an organic mash of Gruul vegetables. “I was expecting more smashing-themed songs.”

“I like it,” Samut said. “Reminds me of the training songs from back home. Most of them are about the sun.” She made a slight face. “We’ll have to come up with some new lyrics now, I suppose.”

“How...how are things back home?”

Samut frowned. “Better than we feared, but harder than anyone could have imagined before...well, before. We’ve scraped together an outpost at Hashep, but just about every stretch of the desert is hostile even without the dangers of starvation or exposure. It’s about all Hazoret can do to keep the horrors at bay.”

“I’m really sorry to hear that.” Chandra looked down at the table. “I, uh, went back to Naktamun, a few days ago. I hadn’t even thought to look for the survivors.”

“We’re a plane of fighters,” Samut replied, low. “No need for you to feel bad about having other concerns. It seems like every plane has its share of horrors. And things aren’t so dire that I can’t spare time to see to matters here. To try and find help for my plane on other worlds.”

“Have you had any luck?”

“Vraska has put me into contact with one of the guild leaders here. Ral Zarek.”

Chandra nodded. “I’m familiar.”

“He’s come twice so far to survey the land. The land and what equipment we’ve been able to scavenge from the ruins. He’s confident that we can construct a device to bring the rains more frequently, which, basically, is to say at all.” Samut sighed. “But we persevere. We are strong. I find that I am able to best serve my people by assuring them our betrayed comrades and ancestors have been put to as honorable a rest as I can make for them.”

“If I can help at all...I can’t imagine the hardships your plane is going through, but whatever I can do...”

“I was actually going to ask if your lover was still around,” Samut replied. “-and if she would have the time to visit Amonkhet. Our excavator mages have made immense strides in re-discovering connections with the plane, and using them to coax new growth, but it would help to have someone of her talents who can travel with her own reserve of mana.”

“My…? Oh.” Chandra’s ears got hot, and the looked away, out the window. “That’s not...you mean Nissa. It’s um, it’s not like that, anymore. I mean, I could definitely ask, but...” She trailed off.

“Oh? Oh. Oh, I’m very sorry, I had just- will, I saw the two of you when she joined the battle, and afterwards, well, I just thought...”

Chandra jerked her shoulders in a small shrug. “Sure. I guess I thought so too.”

“It can be hard, when a fight goes wrong,” Samut offered. “It was the same in the trials. Even in training. The closest crop can feel disunity when faced with an overwhelming trial.”

“We’re just not right for each other,” Chandra said. She picked up a mizzium fork from the small plate in front of her, its tongs woven through with some kind of...blue roasted worm? “That’s all. We talked about it.”

“Didn’t like each other as much as you thought?”

“No, I...” Chandra set the fork down and frowned. “I’m still working that out.”

“Mm. Didn’t work it out when you talked?”

“Well...it wasn’t that long of a talk, I guess.”

Samut grimaced. “You ended your relationship before you knew why you wanted to end it?”

“Would you believe I told myself it was because I didn’t like girls?”

“The way I saw you look at her when we first met in Naktamun?” Samut’s grimace twisted into a smirk. “The way you two looked at each other when we felled the false god? No, I don’t think I would believe that at all.”

“I mean, she might have been the only one, for all you knew.”

“Only one?”

“Only, you know...” Chandra twirled her hand through the air, not quite sure what sort of gesture she meant to make. “The only girl I liked.”

Samut raised an eyebrow. “Was she?”

Uh...” Chandra’s hand fell to her lap. “No. She wasn’t the only one. She isn’t the only one, I guess.”

“Oh?” The smirk widened. “Well, who could blame you? When there are women like me in the world...” Samut shrugged, throwing both hands up in the air and tossing her hair.

Chandra rolled her eyes. “Anyways, I guess I was just grasping at reasons, so I told myself anything.”

“Are you though? Pansexual?” Samut asked, with a straightforwardness that caught Chandra out of nowhere.

“Uh, bisexual, I guess?”

“Bisexual?”

“Yeah, guys and gals. Love ‘em both.”

Samut tilted her head. “Ah. There’s so much more than just men and women in the world, though – oh, I shouldn’t have assumed-” She flushed slightly. “Is it just humans on your home plane?”

“What…?” Chandra tilted her head as well, quizzically. “Oh! Oh, no we’ve got plenty of – I don’t have a preference of genders.” She shrugged. “I mean, I’ve got a type, but, you know, it’s just one of many types.”

“I’ll toast to that.” Samut nodded. She raised her glass of water. “Here’s to everyone.”

“Yeah!” Chandra knocker her cup against Samut’s, spilling a few drops on the tablecloth. “The whole buffet!”

Samut burst out with a sharp laugh. “Buffet?”

“Okay maybe it’s not a perfect metaphor, I just mean...you know, curry is all well and good, but sometimes you want a-a mango, you know?”

“I’ve not tried either of those things, but I take your meaning.” Samut wiped a small tear from the corner of her eye.

“My guests!” Pivlic flapped up to the table, the minotaur waiter in tow. “Enjoying everything so far?”

“So far,” Samut replied. Chandra nodded, guiltily stuffing the last small plate – a Simic-bred eel-shrimp on a bed of selesnyan lettuce – between her lips.

“Is womderfulf,” she managed through her full mouth.

Pivlic beamed. “Splendid. And any thought on your entrees for the evening? I’m happy to go over the specials.” The waiter moved up and offered Chandra and Samut several crisp sheets of fine parchment. “We also have an extensive house menu, new to this iteration of Pivlichino’s.”

Samut looked both overwhelmed and delighted with the wealth of options, and listened eagerly as Pivlic listed the special dishes. Chandra zoned the imp out, and flipped through the sheets, which listed options for hot dishes, vegetarian dishes, and dishes for undead patrons.

“Errr...maybe just a steak...” Chandra scanned the meat options, looking for an animal she was familiar with.

“Mmmm, that does sound good,” Samut said. “Not very balanced though. Hardly the whole buffet.”

Chandra looked up from her menus. Samut was peeking over the edge of hers, grinning. Chandra stuck her tongue out. Pivlic looked between the two of them, a politely puzzled look on his face.

“I mean, if you only want the meat menu.” Samut extended her hand and beckoned with her fingers. “I’m happy to look at the rest.”

“Well it just so happens I am in the mood for a steak tonight,” Chandra shot back, a smirk of her own twisting the corner of her mouth.

“But just look at all these options!” Samut held up her stack of menus dramatically. “Greens and grains and all kinds of sweet treats! A whole world of food in front of you!” She gestured at Pivlic. “And the soups of the day, Chandra! Did you hear about the soups?”

Pivlic nodded graciously.

“I like meat just fine,” Chandra shot back. “Look at this: ‘side of beef with raze-boar bacon. Who could want more than that?”

Samut made a mock-offended face, and clutched a hand to her chest “Well, people with taste, for one.”

“I know what I like!” Chandra said, trying to stifle another laugh, but shouting instead. Thankfully it was only a little loud, the diners in the closest tables only gave her slightly affronted looks.

Pivlic coughed into his hand. “If I may, miss Nalaar, I don’t think your friend here is suggesting you aren’t interested in the, ah, side of beef. I believe she is merely suggesting that’s not the only menu you’d order from.”

“Oh, we covered that bit already,�� Samut said, then turned aside and smoothly transitioned from the beginning of a belly-laugh to a feigned coughing fit.

“Right, right.” Chandra buried her face in the menu. “Um, a few more minutes, please.”

“Naturally.” Pivlic bowed and fluttered backward from the table. “No rush at all. I’ll be back shortly.”

Chandra fanned herself with the inside of the menu before setting it down.

“We were just talking about dinner just now, right?” Samut was straining visibly to restrain an even bigger smile than the one already stretching her cheeks.

“You’re awful.” Chandra rolled her eyes. “Sometimes a meal is just a meal.”

Samut held up her hands. “Fair, fair.” Her smile faded slightly. “Does it make you uncomfortable? I don’t mean to joke if it does.”

“It’s fine.” Chandra looked out at the band, taking in the current tune. “Thinking I was straight was a pretty ridiculous thought to have. I’d laugh at it if it wasn’t so pathetic.”

The new song was slow, with more focus on the percussion. The singer was speaking in some language Chandra couldn’t recognize. Guttural, but with the instruments it was, admittedly, a very pleasant sound to close the day with.

“Still not much to dance to,” Samut remarked, engrossed again in the menus.

“Mmm.” Chandra’s gaze wandered from the band to the nearby tables. A few patrons were engaged in watching the band as well, but most were well into their meals. Trolls. Humans. Vedalken. Centaurs. Goblins.

Elves.

A spot of blue among the tables caught Chandra’s eye. Jace was walking across the dining room with Vraska, Pivlic leading them along. He had caught sight of her as well and waved. Chandra grinned, pumping her own arm in the air. Jace said something to Pivlic, and the imp looked to Vraska, who nodded. The three of them changed course for the raised seating area.

“Chandra.” Jace surprised her by offering a hug when he reached the table, which she jumped into. Vraska she exchanged a handshake with. It was nice being on friendly terms with the gorgon, but she still felt more like Chandra’s employer than a friend.

“You clean up pretty good, Mr. Belts-and-Cowls,” Chandra teased, landing a light punch on Jace’s arm. He was wearing his customary blues, but instead of a cape and hood, he had a neat pair of trousers, boots, and a wide-collared shirt with gold buttons up the front. “Is that a loaner from the restaurant, or just a good illusion?”

“100% Ixalan threads.” Jace patted his thigh. “and I could say the same to you. Looking very sharp for someone who’s been in the sewers all day.” A look of concern flashed across his face, and he looked from Chandra to Samut, who was introducing herself to Vraska. “Is this – we’re not interupting a date, are we?” he asked, suddenly whispering. “I mean, I figured you and Nissa were still - I mean, that you had...”

“It’s fine,” Chandra whispered back. She could feel the smile slipping from her face despite her best efforts to keep it in place. “I’m happy to see you. Both of you,” she added, louder. “Would you like to eat with us?”

“As long as my wonderful date doesn’t mind?” Jace threw an unbelievably cheesy-looking grin at Vraska, and Chandra, once again unable to control her face, felt her eyes roll back a bit. Vraska just smiled, and actually blushed a bit.

“Yes, let’s have some tables pushed together then,” her golden eyes scanned the nearby settings. “If there’s one to spare…”

“Naturally; how fortunate to have so many friends of Ravnica joining us this evening!” Pivlic snapped his fingers and their waiter appeared seconds later, a table cradled in his hands, and a chair slung over each horn. “And have we decided on an entree?”

“Krovod steak and beans,” Chandra said, handing the menu back and shooting a defiant glare at Samut. Samut just rolled her eyes and ordered a vegetable stew, ogre-style.

Jace’s eyes glowed blue very faintly as he sat down. “Chef’s soup, please.”

“A very excellent choice, sir. Our most-”

“-popular dish this evening?” Jace finished. “Yes, I noticed.” He winked at Chandra.

“Rat roast,” Vraska said, not even glancing at the menu as she sat. “As rare as your chef feels up to.”

“Splendid all around.” Pivlic signaled another waiter to bring forward a pitcher of water, and bowed. “Your meals will find you shortly.”

“And the spirits for the evening, please!” Vraska called after the minotaur as she settled into her seat.

“So, um...” Jace looked between Chandra and Samut. “What were you both talking about before we got here?”

“Diet preference,” Samut said, raising an eyebrow at Chandra.

“Oh?”

“The conversation was wrapping up, actually,” Chandra said. “What have the two of you been up to?”

“Guild work.” Vraska rapped her fingers against her cup of water. “We’re trying to integrate the Kraul fungal farms with our larger food supply network, but there’s quite a lot of internal faction-fighting to put to bed before that can happen.

“To say nothing of the undead invaders you’ve been so helpfully taking care of,” she added.

Chandra and Samut both accepted the thanks with a nod.

“Leadership is, ah...rather stressful?” Chandra ventured. “I hope you’re getting enough down time. I can’t imagine being in charge of that many people.”

Vraska smiled back at Chandra. “I’m sure you did you’re best, Abbot Nalaar.” There was something very sad in her eyes, despite the grin, just as there had been when Chandra had first volunteered to help with the eternals.

“Abbot?” Samut asked.

“Like uh,” Chandra rolled her hand, looking for the right words. “Like a religious leader.”

Samut failed to stifle a laugh. Jace grinned broadly as well across the table, and Chandra presented them both with a flaming middle finger.

“Sorry, sorry.” Samut took a pull of water to settle herself. “You were a religious leader? You just...well, I suppose every world is different.”

“Speaking of worlds,” Jace said. “How is Nissa? Is she still on Zendikar?”

“Oh, uh, I think so.”

Jace frowned. “Is everything alright? Have you seen her recently?”

“Nissa is one of your planeswalking companions, isn’t she?” Samut interjected. Jace turned to her, and hopefully missed Chandra’s smile falling away a second time. “What has your crop been doing since the invasion?”

“Oh, um...” Jace started counting off on his fingers. “Kaya and Teferi are both back on their home planes at the moment; they’ve got matters they wanted to settle on their own, but they’ve promised to check in if they need a hand. Chandra, well you know what she’s been doing, and me…well, I’ve been making sure the esteemed Golgari guildleader takes some time off-plane to relax when she needs it. Um, as for Nis-”

“What sort of relaxations?” Samut asked.

“Oh, the usual silly couple things,” Vraska said, squeezing Jace’s hand on the tabletop. “Cafe dates. Visiting bookstores. Some off-plane piracy here and there, and of course-ah! The food!”

The waiter strode up to the table, a tray and folding table loaded with steaming plates in one hand, and several bottles cradled in the other. The food set Chandra’s mouth to watering, and she was immensely relieved when Samut started on her own dish right away, so she had an excuse not to wait while Jace and Vraska picked out a bottle for the table.

The steak was about two inches thick and incredibly tender. A pepper gravy coated the cut, and a large helping of butter beans sprinkled over with bitter herbs filled the rest of the plate. Chandra ate through almost a third of the plate before Jace and Vraska settled on a wine; a round blue bottle that they turned over in their hands, exclaiming about its color (and...viscosity?) in excited whispers.

“You two have a lot of interests in common,” Samut observed. “Books, piracy, wine?”

“Yes, well.” Vraska speared the cork with her knife and ripped it out. “We’ve been exploring many more common interests since we started therapy, haven’t we?”

“Cheers to that,” Jace grinned, holding out his glass. Vraska tipped the bottle and a blue, sweet-smelling wine splashed out.

“Therapy?” Chandra asked through a mouthful of beans. “For real? You guys are like...well, Jace acts like he’s a hundred years old sometimes, but you guys are a little young, right?”

“What’s a therapist?” Samut asked.

“Well, apparently it’s never to early too protect your investment in another person.” Jace exchanged a glance with Vraska, and they both grinned. “Tomik said that. He was the one who recommended an Orzhov specialist to us. Same one he and Ral see.”

Chandra wrinkled her nose. “Orzhov? The ones who were basically keeping Kaya captive?”

Vraska nodded. “I was about as enthusiastic as that. But it turns out it’s about the one service the syndicate offers that isn’t just part of an extortion machine. I mean, sometimes it is, but we’ve been lucky enough to take advantage a genuinely good specialist through the guildleader’s professional connections.”

“So you go and tell a ghost about your relationship problems?” Chandra turned aside to Samut. “Therapy is like...well I don’t know how it is on Ravnica, but they have people in Ghirapur who like, help people who have problems with their lives, or sometimes they help people who have problems with relationships.”

Samut nodded. “A confidant, or something like that?”

“Yes, though usually someone who’s trained to listen and give advice.” Jace sipped his wine. “Ours, for example, is an Orzhov advokist trained in mediation and dispute settlement.”

“And do they help?” Samut leaned in. “When you tell them about your problems?”

“So far,” Vraska said. “It’s funny. There are things you don’t realize are causing problems.”

“Or things you do recognize as problems that you just never talk about until someone helps you see the need for it.” Jace reached out a hand and took Vraska’s. “Sometimes it’s nice just to have good advice.”

Dinner rolled along with an ease Chandra hadn’t felt in months. They laughed, shared bites of their meals, and swapped stories. Chandra related her mother’s recent accomplishments with the Ghirapur consulate. Vraska dropped bits of low-level guild gossip. Jace and Samut engaged in a minor debate over the use of illusions in combat. Chandra tried a glass of the wine, and found it about the same as she did most other wines, but enjoyed the soft buzz in the back of her head to accompany the warmth in her stomach.

When the last ray of sunlight slipped out of sight, the band fell into a soft, almost wistful song, mostly focused around the huge flute-player, who swayed and pushed out a long, rolling stream of notes while the singer threw himself into a raspy spoken-word bit about a cyclops falling in love with the moon.

Pivlic re-appeared as the dishes were cleared away, bearing slices of cheesecake dripping with drizzled lines of jam and honey, and hot mugs of ogrish coffee. The hot, bitter drink snapped Chandra out of her post-meal drowsiness enough to enjoy the end of the Gruul set. The band had set their instruments aside, and for a moment it looked like they were packing up. Then they began dancing around one another in tight circles, beating their breasts. The big flutist started up a chant. One of the drummers, the viashino, began clapping out a sharp, precise rhythm, and the flutist took center stage, weaving his arms through the air with slow, jerking movements. The chant became a call and response tune that some of the patrons seemed to know, and were enthusiastically singing along with. Jace even knew a few of the words, and pumped his fist in the air each time he called out.

“Gruul riot anthem.” He whispered to Chandra between calls. “Very popular at Rauck-Chauv.”

Applause and a chorus of hoots filled the dining room at the song’s conclusion. Pivlic fluttered over to loudly and grandly thank the band. Vraska tapped Jace’s cheek.

“Not too shabby, blue-boy. I want to hear that much enthusiasm next time the crew does drunk shanties.”

Jace grinned sheepishly. “Are there other kinds of shanties I don’t know about?”

“Shanties?” Samut exchanged a look with Chandra. “A piracy song?”

Chandra nodded back. “A pirate song. It’s important that you know how funny it is to me to imagine Jace singing one.”

“Jace has many fine pirate qualities.” Vraska ruffled his hair with a free hand, sipping coffee with the other. “You’d both be welcome to join us sometime. If that sort of thing interests you, of course. It’s mostly taking gold from vampires, which is as noble a cause as you can find in the multiverse.”

“That could be fun.” Chandra rubbed her hands together thoughtfully. “I like the sound of Captain Nalaar, in hot pursuit of gold and adventure.”

“Hot pursuit?” Jace smirked, raising an eyebrow.

“It’s a phrase, blue-boy.” Chandra snapped her fingers, lighting a single flame on her index finger. “But since you mention it, just imagine the terror of being pursued by fire on the open sea.” She twirled the flame around, then doused it in the last bite of her cheesecake. “Uh, not that I would make an open flame on your ship, Vraska. Well, not without permission.”

Vraska laughed. “That’s fine. Glad to see you’re burning with enthusiasm. It’s a good trait for a pirate.”

Chandra rolled her eyes as Jace chimed in. “Yes, Chandra has a lot of good qualities that could, uh, light a fire under a reluctant crew.”

“Mmm...” Samut’s eyes glittered. “Like her warm personality.”

Chandra stuck out hr tongue and stood up from the table. “Beltwurms eat you all. I’m going to go get another drink.”

A second group of musicians were setting up on the stage now, and the waiters were clearing away a large swath of the tables around them, creating the dance floor Chandra had wondered about. She skirted the growing space while checking out the new band. They were a mixed group: two women wearing Rakdos colors with no instruments, an grey-bearded Izzet mage, hooking up his gauntlets to a large device that crackled with electricity, and two vedalken, on the drums and lute, respectively, that didn’t seem to be wearing any guild colors at all.

A number of the patrons from dinner had clustered around the bar that ran along one long wall of the dining room. New patrons were slowly filing in to add to the small crowd; a noisier bunch than most of the dinner crowd, and more eager for drink.

Chandra ordered an Uzvar and gin from a half-demon bartender, then perched up on a stool to bask in the crowd and the chatter of ravnican voices. Groups of guildless youths toasted clay mugs of pale ale. Two Azorius officials, looking out of place in their white robes, sipped green liquor from shallow glass cups. A centaur trotted past as the bartender slid the cocktail across the bar, and the look she flashed Chandra nearly made her drop the glass.

Damn it’s been too long. She almost followed after to ask the centaur her name, but an elf, also in conclave garb, greeted the centaur as soon as the thought occurred to her, and pressed her own lips against the centaur’s.

Taken. Figures.

The Gruul band was lounging just as short distance down the bar, laughing and chattering with a clutch of other patrons. The singer was entertaining a pair of young women in Orzhov robes with some kind of impression, and the drummer was in a hot debate with a vedalken and two older humans. Chandra’s eyes slid past them to the musician who’d been playing the huge flute, a tall, long-haired hunk whose arms were on full display under a vest of woven vines and bones. She lost herself in a stare as he reached over the counter with one arm and easily hefted a tankard of beer half as tall as he was.

Definitely into girls , Chandra thought faintly, sipping her drink and vaguely aware her feet were carrying her in the direction of the band . But that’s alright too.

“Play here often?” The words were out of her mouth before Chandra could fully think through her approach. She compensated for the lack of planning with her winning-est smile and a smooth slide against the bar toward the Gruul hunk.

He blinked and looked down at Chandra, and for a second said nothing. Chandra held up her smile for that second, wishing she had a smoother come-on. Then, mercifully, the hunk grinned.

“Ah, first time, actually. I, uh, only joined a few months ago, but Skelly-” He gestured with his drink at the goblin on the bar, who was doing puppetry for the Orzhov fans using a pair of mouse skulls “-plays all over. He’s even did a set at the Juri Revue once!”

Chandra wasn’t entirely sure what that was, but grinned and nodded all the same. “That’s a big gig, I guess?”

“Oh, uh, yeah, pretty big. Plus Rakdos himself did the encore that night. Or so I’m told. I, Uh, wasn’t really in the scene back then but-”

A muffled burst of sound cut the hunk off mid-sentence. The new band was jamming, the beat was quick and exciting, but it sounded oddly faraway.

“Local enchantment,” the bartender said, catching Chandra’s confused look. “So folks can talk at the bar. And so I can actually hear orders.”

“Oh...makes sense.” Chandra threw back her drink and tapped the hunk on the arm. “Wanna dance?”

“Hm?” The hunk looked from Chandra to the dance floor. He set his tankard down on the bar, grinned, and cracked his knuckles. “Absolutely. Let’s show ‘em how it’s done.”

The band boomed louder as soon as Chandra’s boot hit the floor, raising goosebumps along her shoulder. This music was sharp, rapid, and loud. Perfect for dancing however wildly and badly you wanted to.

Through the other patrons, Chandra caught glimpses of Samut coming down the few steps from their table to dance floor She paused right at the edge of the crowd, watching them for a few seconds before diving in, and Chandra lost sight of her. Jace waved from the table, behind the spot she’d disappeared.

Want me to keep an eye on you two? Maybe check in a little later? He kept his mental visit brief, but Chandra was happy to hear his voice. She flashed him two thumbs up and turned back to dance with the hunk.

She had to laugh. The big guy had looked totally natural bobbing and pounding to the Gruul music, but whatever dance you were supposed to be doing to this more hectic, energetic Izzet-Rakdos stuff...well this definitely wasn’t it. He looked like he was having a good time at least. Chandra moved in closer and the hunk winked at her before making an absolutely absurd motion like he was hula-hooping with his shoulders. He was doing it on purpose.

Chandra hooted, and they danced close circles around each other, dodging and weaving through the wild thrashing of the other dancers.

Samut flashed in and out of sight through the crowd. She had already mastered the jerky new dance form, and was adding her own spins. A small ring of other dancers formed around her about seven songs in, howling and clapping as Samut threw a daring backlip into the routine, and cheering as she landed perfectly on her feet. Jace and Vraska were just beyond that, sitting at the table and overlooking the dance floor. They were both seated, but leaned up against each other, swaying to the music and whispering in each other’s ear.

The hunk finally started to look winded after a few dozen songs, and signaled that he was going to go sit for a while. Chandra followed him off the floor, and pretended to slip a little on the edge of the bar area so she could fall and steady herself on his side.

Solid, and just a lil’ soft. Awesome.

All good? Jace asked in her head.

All good. Chandra waved back. Now shoo; gonna work my moves.

“SooOoooOwO, what do you say you and me get out of here and go hang out at your place, big guy?” Chandra forgot about the muffling enchantment, and shouted slightly louder than she meant to. A vedalken just behind the started, and knocked over a (thankfully bare) drink table.

“Uh, why don’t we sit for a while. I’m still a bit dizzy from dancing.” He stooped and picked the table up off the floor one-handed, and sat on one of the stools. Chandra hopped up on another to join him.

“You’re pretty...pretty strong.” Chandra slammed her elbow on the table and flexed her fingers. “Let’s see what you got.”

The hunk chuckled, and laid his own elbow down, taking Chandra’s hand. The rough leather of his gloves was rough, but made it easy to get a grip around his palm.

“Alright.” Chandra squinted in concentration. “Three, two, go!”

A few seconds later, it was over, and Chandra was massaging the back of her hand.

“Sorry,” the hunk said, with an apologetic, almost shy smile. “No mercy is the Gruul way, after all.”

Chandra beckoned for the bartender to bring them over another round, then pouted into her hands, both elbows on the table.

“If Nissa was here she would have totally kicked your butt.”

“Who’s Nissa?”

“An elf. We um...we used to work together. Really strong.”

The hunk laughed. “A strong elf? We had a lot of those in the conclave. Still do, I guess. Some of my toughest friends were elves.”

“Mmm, not strong like Nissa, I bet. She was depcep...decepticaly...deceptively strong. Like a slender tree, but strong like an oak.” Chandra took a pull of her drink and slammed the cup on the tabletop for emphasis. “Do any of your elf-buddies have eyes that glow like they’re magic?”

“Uh, sometimes.” The hunk sipped his drink thoughtfully. “Usually when they cast spells.”

“It’s really cool, right?”

The hunk chuckled. “I suppose. I’ve got a couple eye-glowing spells myself. Should ask around if I look cool enough when I use them.”

Chandra snorted into her drink, and set it down. The hunk did have nice eyes. Thoughtful and fierce like Gideon. Playful like Liliana. Kind like-

“So, uh, your elf friend-”

“Girlfriend,” Chandra blurted out. “Um, I mean ex-girlfriend?” she looked down at the table. “I uh, I’m not sure. I think I might have messed things up with her. I mean, I for sure did, but...”

“Oh.” The hunk nodded, a different sort of apologetic smile on his lips. “That’s...I’m very sorry. That’s um...that’s always very hard to go through.”

“She was like, really my type, you know? Big strong pair of arms to hold you. That’s like, the hottest thing someone can have, honestly. But she’s really gentle, you know? Like, treat you like you’re a flower gentle, but not like a delicate flower because all the plants she works with are as strong as she is.”

“A nature mage?”

“Yeah! Oh, you should have seen the gardens that she kept while we were here on Ravnica...they would have made every nature guild jealous. She’s like...one of those people who always smell like their work, right? And she’s always working with flowers and plants so she smells like paradise.”

“I’m sorry she couldn’t come tonight,” The hunk said with a smile that almost looked...sad? “I hope I’m not prying but is she, uh, is she not from Ravnica?”

“Huh? Oh. no.” Chandra waved her hand in front of her face. “I mean, I’m not either. We all came back here for the war, you know?”

The hunk look puzzled for a moment, then his eyes went wide, and he nodded. “That is impressive then.”

Chandra cocked her head. “What do you mean?”

“Well. I mean, uh, that is, I’ve heard about the ones who walk from other worlds...there’s a lot, I’m told? Of worlds. If there there are dozens of worlds that each of you could be on.”

“Hundreds,” Chandra corrected, raising her drink and eyebrow for dramatic effect. “Thousands. No one’s counted them all, even.”

“Meeting a...a friend that’s precious to you? Over infinite worlds? That sounds like something special.”

“Yeah.” Chandra set down her glass. She heaved a breath, and realized she wasn’t feeling nearly as wired as she had been a few minutes before. “Um...I guess that’s how I felt when I first met her. Like, I’d been to so many places in the multiverse. That’s what we call it,” she added, “and, well...have you ever looked at someone and just thought, like, ‘that’s it, that’s the person that feels real?’”

The hunk nodded. “I think I know what you mean. Sometimes something new in your life is just obviously right for you.”

“Right!?” Chandra put her glass up for a toast, and the hunk obliged with a clink of his tankard. “And like, it was really great with her because when we traveled together after that...well, she made me feel that way no matter where we went.”

“Comfort and constancy.” The hunk leaned back on his stool. “Sounds like a very special person.”

“Yeah.” Chanda looked blankly at her glass, vaguely offended at the absence of any more liquor at the bottom. “You know, maybe I don’t want to, um, hang out after all.” She looked up at the Gruul hunk shakily. “N’offense or anything; you’ve been real fun to talk to.”

The Hunk put his hands up. “None taken, miss. I uh, think I’m a bit too old for you anyway.” He picked his own tankard up and swilled it in his hand. “No offense.”

“Pffft, sure.” Chandra slumped in her stool, elbow on the table, chin in her hands.

“I spent a long time living a very different life than the one I have now,” The hunk offered “A life I thought was the only right path for me. When I finally had my moment of clarity, the moment that brought me to the Gruul...” He bit his lip. “...I don’t regret the life I led before that, and I don’t regret my choice to live a life that would’ve been unthinkable for me before. I guess...you’re young. Don’t be afraid of trying things you’re unsure about. Life’s too short.”

Chandra stared up at the hunk, blinking.

“Sorry; too corny?”

Chandra snorted. “A bit? But point taken.”

They lapsed into silence.

“Your friend looks awful concerned for you.” the hunk’s eyes flicked up and over Chandra’s shoulder. Samut had come off the dance floor, and was lounging by the bar, eyes on Chandra and the hunk. She had a few other dancers hanging around and talking at her, but she didn’t seem to be paying much attention to them.

“Better get back to the gang.” Chandra slid off the stool, and offered her hand to the hunk. “Chandra, by the way. ‘S been fun.”

“Ghired.” The hunk’s grip was solid, and the bones sewn into his sleeve rattled slightly as they shook. “Hope we meet again, Chandra.”

“Yeah.” She mimed a swat at his midsection. “Keep working on your dancing til then.”

Ghired laughed. “I’ll think about it. Come to the stomping grounds if you ever improve your arm-wrestling prowess.”

Chandra stuck out her tongue and trotted over to Samut.

“Thanks for keeping an eye on me.”

“I trusted you could take care of yourself,” Samut said with a shrug. “But it’s always good to have some solidarity on the battlefield.”

“That what this is?” Chandra leaned heavily against the bar. The warm buzz in her head and the thrum of the music felt like a blanket. She didn’t much feel like dancing again, but right now it was enough to watch the other ravnicans having fun.

“Life is.” Samut perched up next to Chandra. “All of it.”

Chandra laughed. “What are you? 18?” She put an arm around Samut. “You’re way too young to be so down on life.”

“We’re not that much older, grandma Nalaar.” Jace heaved himself up onto a stool on Chandra’s other side. He sighed and rubbed his thigh. “Though I sure feel pretty ancient right now.”

Chandra shot an outraged glance at the dance floor, then back at Jace. “Don’t tell me you were dancing and I missed it. Did you turn yourself and Vraska invisible??”

“No, she’s not the dancing type either,” Jace sighed. “Just a lot of standing around and talking to people we’d rather not talk to. “Guildmaster PR, that kind of thing. “She told me I should go sit down.”

Sure enough, Vraska was standing up on the dais, near their table, having a hushed (or as hushed as the noise in the room allowed) discussion with a frog-faced mage in Simic biomancer robes. Long, elvish ears poked out from behind the frog-mancer’s eyes, and they didn’t appear to be having nearly as much trouble as Vraska hearing over the music.

“Ah.” Chandra bumped Jace with her shoulder. “Boy-toy blue-boy banished while the adults talk?”

Jace laughed. “Oh, nothing like that. Vraska knows I don’t like the extended standing and talking. She’s...very good at recognizing when I’m uncomfortable. I guess we’ve both been very good at that, and now we’re working on acting on it more often.”

Samut cocked her head, quizzically. “Was that a problem before?”

“Not at first,” Jace replied, pursing his lips. “but it was hard for a while after what happened here. I think it took more out of us than we wanted to admit, and it was affecting how we acted. That, and Vraska does so much for her guild. It’s like...well, it’s like a dozen full-time jobs, and I wasn’t supporting her as much as I should have.” He smiled at Chandra and Samut, and the smile, small and tired as it was, reached all the way to his eyes. “It’s been tough but, well I really think whatever we have is worth it.” He blushed a bit, and a second later Chandra recognized the signs of a minor illusion fluttering over Jace’s face, hiding the red in his cheeks.

“Still working a little on being honest though, huh?” Chandra elbowed him in the side, then threw her arms around Samut and Jace.

“A little,” Jace laughed. “I’m lucky to have friends who still call me out.”

They sat together and watched a while. The Rakdos musicians showed no sign of slowing down, nor did the dancers. Samut nodded off on Chandra’s shoulder after a few minutes.

“So, uh, it’s helped, then?”

“Hm?”

Chandra looked at Jace out of the corner of her eye. “The therapy? Talking to someone?”

Jace nodded, slow, then reached into his cloak. “I don’t know if they take clients still, but I can put in a word through Ral if you want.” He scribbled an address onto a scrap of parchment and handed it to Chandra.

Chandra nodded. “Thanks. I think that’d be good. I’ll um...I’ll let you know.”

Jace just smiled and took Chandra’s hand. They remained a while longer, as midnight slipped away into the early morning hours.

The above is unofficial Fan Content permitted under the Fan Content Policy. Not approved/endorsed by Wizards. Portions of the materials used are property of Wizards of the Coast. ©Wizards of the Coast LLC.

#mtg #mtg fan fiction #forsaken #Gruulfriends #forgiven

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thenarator · 5 years ago

Text

Speak of the Devil

a little thing i wrote for my motw game group. idk i was bored and i thought if y’all are also bored you might like it.

It was getting close to Christmas, and Daniel was getting close to desperate.

These were perhaps not perfectly honest assessments of the state of affairs. Christmas was still a few weeks off, though judging by the state of the town’s decorations it might as well have been tomorrow. The Excellence Holiday Planning Committee had done their work well, and there were lights or wreaths or tinsel on every street light, road sign and traffic signal. There was a general sense of cheer in the air, so Christmas seemed to be just around the corner.

Daniel, for his part, had passed desperate some time ago. He existed in a general state of extreme anxiety, and Father Constantine had been his rock since coming to town. As long as Constantine was alright, Daniel felt a little bit more like he could be alright. Currently, Constantine was not alright, and it set Daniel so on edge it felt like at any moment he could jump out of his own skin.

Constantine had been distant since the battle against Father Birch’s coven. He’d cloistered himself in the back rooms of the church, mostly emerging to do his duty as a priest, but had spent most of the rest of his time in silent contemplation. Daniel didn’t blame him for that, discovering that one was technically the Antichrist had to be taxing on one’s relationship with God, but on the rare occasions when he saw Constantine the man seemed deeply listless. He barely ate, by Daniel’s estimation, and rarely slept through the night. He stared off into space as though not really seeing what was in front of him.

He had also -- Daniel noted with a deep, gnawing sense of guilt for even thinking of it -- not offered his blood to Daniel since that fight. Daniel knew he had no right to ask for or expect such a thing, but its absence was almost as unbearable as the thought of inquiring after it.

In short, Daniel was growing more uncomfortable by the day, and he didn’t know what to do about it.

It was at this point, a few weeks from Christmas and after an unbearable, interminable length of time since things had been normal, that Constantine stopped eating. It was after a visit from Lucifer -- and wasn’t it strange to be considering visits from Lucifer so casually -- which had left burning hoofprints on the church floor, the devil in good spirits, and Constantine pale and drawn and deeply morose. It was Friday, two days before a sermon needed to be given, so when Constantine locked himself in his office and refused to come out it had seemed at the time as though there was a natural endpoint to his isolation. Then Saturday came and went, and when it came time for the Sunday service Constantine still refused to make an appearance.

“Please,” Daniel pleaded quietly at the office door, “please come out and get ready. People will be here soon!”

“Go away,” came Constantine’s gruff voice, tired but insistent.

“What am I supposed to tell them?” Daniel begged, nearly whispering through the door as though he were afraid of being overheard. He did not know who he thought might overhear. Perhaps God, or the devil, or both.

“Tell them their sins could not possibly damn them any more than listening to me defile the name of God,” Constantine replied, and Daniel didn’t know what to say to that.

Daniel did his best to cover. He had locked the church doors before anyone arrived, unsure whether it was a good idea to have people inside when Constantine’s state was unknown, and now he poked his head out a window and explained that they were having problems with the heat. Some penitents turned right around to go home, but a few of the old ladies stood stalwartly outside and many of the town followed their example. No matter how Daniel insisted that it wasn’t fit for man or beast inside the church, they still were unmoved, until he hit upon the idea of telling them that the heat was too high, rather than too low, and had made the church an ideal nesting ground for an entirely fictitious species of notoriously aggressive wasps. That thankfully sent the remainder of the congregation grumbling for their cars, and allowed Daniel to draw himself back inside to consider what to do next.

After nearly an hour’s contemplation had produce no solution, Daniel’s thoughts were interrupted by his phone ringing.

“Hello?” he asked cautiously. The number had flashed up as Unknown on his caller ID, so he hoped it wasn’t one of the church ladies Constantine had for some reason given his number to.

“A little birdie told me services got cancelled today,” said Lizzie-Jean’s voice, sounding unconvincingly bored and disaffected. “I was totally going to come. I got all dressed up and everything.”

“Yes,” Daniel admitted, curling in on himself from where he’d been sitting against the wall a few yards from Constantine’s door. “Father Constantine is, uh, in silent contemplation of-”

“It’s me Daniel,” Lizzie-Jean cut him off flatly. “You don’t have to lie.”

Daniel let out an undignified little whine. “He’s locked himself in his office, and he won’t come out!”

“What hornet’s crawled up his shorts?” Lizzie-Jean asked, with her usual brazen lack of respect. “Get a visit from daddy dearest from down below?”

“Yes,” Daniel admitted quietly. He knew his voice must sound very small.

“You seem upset,” Lizzie-Jean realized, a note of seriousness creeping into her tone. “What’s standard procedure for this? Is it not working?”

“There is no standard procedure!” Daniel protested wildly. “He’s not usually . . . I’m not the one who . . .”

I’m not the one who fixes things, Daniel thought. Constantine is the one who makes everything alright again.

There was a pause on the other end of the phone, then Lizzie-Jean said, “Hang tight, I’m coming to you,” and hung up.

Daniel wasn’t sure what ‘hang tight’ was supposed to mean in this scenario, but if Lizzie-Jean was coming to the church then it seemed prudent to unlock the door. The girl had a habit of barreling through any obstacles placed in her way. This proved to be the correct decision when Daniel noticed out of one of the high windows that Lizzie-Jean was cresting the hill not far from the church on her bike, and then a few minutes later the heavy double doors flew open and banged against the front wall.

“Oh Father Constantine!” Lizzie-Jean shouted, marching into the church with long, confident strides as the doors creaked closed behind her. Her voice echoed off the high ceiling, giving the impression that her small body somehow filled the whole room.

“He’s still in his office,” Daniel said uselessly, locking the doors behind Lizzie-Jean and falling into step behind her.

Lizzie-Jean reached the part of the floor where the old stone entryway met the less-old dark green carpet of the rest of the church and paused, looking down at the dark hoofprints down the center aisle.

“How long has he been in there?” she asked, transferring her weight to one foot and giving a little hop until she was standing one-legged on the first hoofprint, her worn leather boot completely covering it.

“Since Friday,” Daniel replied, watching nervously as Lizzie-Jean continued to play hopscotch with Lucifer’s hoofprints, muttering indistinctly to herself.

Curiously, when she took her foot off a burnt patch of floor it suddenly looked exactly like the floor around it, and it took Daniel several of her steps to realize that the burn marks were being overgrown by moss, the exact same color as the carpet. He stepped experimentally onto a patch of moss to find that he barely noticed the slight rise in the floor where it bloomed, and it released a fresh, clean scent when he lifted his foot. It was quite impressive, actually.

Eventually Lizzie-Jean reached the last of the hoofprints and resumed her dauntless stride into the back rooms of the church.

“What are you going to do?” Daniel asked as she approached the office door.

“I’m going to get him out,” Lizzie-Jean said simply, then raised a fist to pound loudly on the door.

Daniel winced at the noise, but there was no immediate answer.

“DAD!” she screamed through the heavy wood. “YOUR WIFE AND CHILD REQUIRE ATTENTION! COME OUT OF THE GARAGE AND SPEND SOME TIME WITH THE FAMILY!”

Before Daniel could parse out what in Heaven’s name she meant by that, Constantine’s voice growled, “Go away!” through the door.

“I will smoke you out, you old devil, don’t think I won’t,” Lizzie-Jean threatened good naturedly.

“Poor choice of words, child,” Constantine said, but there was something of his old bite to it now. “And if you set fire to this church I will end you.”

“You think you can kill me?” Lizzie-Jean asked, amused.

“No,” Constantine admitted, “but I can tell your Aunt.”

“Firstly don’t think i can’t make smoke without fire,” Lizzie-Jean argued, “and secondly don’t think all smoke is literal.” She smiled, showing teeth, though only Daniel could see the threat display and be suitably intimidated by it. “Through God and my magic all things are possible.”

“God doesn’t live here,” Constantine said grimly.

“Well I do,” Lizzie-Jean said, apparently choosing to interpret ‘here’ as Excellence, Michigan. “Its cold and boring and dangerous at night, so come teach me how to fight with a sword.”

“You can already fight with a sword,” Constantine countered sourly.

“Not as well as you,” Lizzie-Jean said, and Daniel might have wondered how her pride let her admit to such a thing, if he didn’t know her need to be contrary far outstripped it.

“I am not fit for-” Constantine began.

“Speak!” Lizzie-Jean shouted over him, and suddenly she was holding an antique sword. “Don’t make me pry this door open Connie.”

There was a pause where Constantine said nothing, and Lizzie-Jean stood with sword poised to dig into the space between door and doorframe. Then there came a rustling of movement, the sound of footsteps, and a loud scrapping as though a piece of furniture were being shifted away from the door. Then the door opened to reveal Constantine, looking grumpy and disordered and a bit like a bird with its feathers ruffled, but at the very least alive, upright and glaring at Lizzie-Jean with a very un-apathetic vitriol.

He also, Daniel was horrified to note, had stubble. Constantine was usually not one to neglect shaving, but he didn’t grow much facial hair even if given the chance. The three days growth on his face had, however, taken on a most unfortunate shape.

“You’ve got a satan goatee!” Lizzie-Jean howled, her sword point falling to the floor as she nearly doubled over in laughter.

“Silence brat,” Constanine grumbled, which did nothing to stem the tide of Lizzie-Jean’s joyful giggling.

“It doesn’t look that bad,” Daniel said consoling, and quavered when Constantine turned his glaring eyes on him.

Daniel hunched his shoulders, curling up small under Constantine’s piercing gaze, and Constantine’s face softened. “Thank you, Daniel,” he said, quiet enough that Lizzie-Jean likely couldn’t hear over her own mirth.

“Ok, ok,” Lizzie-Jean said, leaning on her sword as she wiped tears from her eyes, “go get cleaned up. You look ridiculous, and I’m not taking sword fighting lessons from Mephistopheles.”

Half an hour later Constantine was showered, shaven and dressed warm enough for the cold December day. Daniel had stayed close at hand while he groomed himself, not wanting to be alone with Lizzie-Jean any longer than he could help it, and he helped Constantine into his winter coat before the two of them traipsed outside. Behind the church was the old cemetery, the headstones aged and crumbling, many of them crooked as they stuck up from the ground. Lizzie Jean had somehow managed to use her red chalk to make a circle on the dry grass, the outside of which was lined with symbols in her strange, arcane language.

“Summoning something?” Constantine asked, leaning heavily upon his cane as he stood just outside the circle.

“Just creating a space,” Lizzie-Jean said nonchalantly, smacking her hands together to get chalk dust off them.

She stepped into the circle, seeming to step through some invisible barrier that resisted her movements, like she were walking through molasses, or something behind her was pulling her back. It seemed to take a lot out of her, as when she was finally standing inside the bounds of the chalk her breathing what somewhat labored, and there was a light sheen of sweat upon her brow. As Daniel looked at her he couldn’t shake the impression that she was reduced somehow, like some of her boundless energy had deserted her.

Nevertheless, she smiled brightly at Constantine and Daniel. “Magically sealed off,” she said cheerfully. “No magic can get in, so no one has an unfair advantage.”

“You certainly do use your magic to compensate for your lack of experience most of the time,” Constantine said, and stepped into the circle. He did not seem to have any trouble crossing the boundary, but once he was inside Daniel thought he too looked somewhat reduced, like he had lost something as well.

Daniel tried not to think of what that something might be.

Lizzie-Jean walked toward the middle of the circle and pulled Speak from where she had driven it into the hard packed earth. “Have at you then!” she crowed, swinging it playfully. Daniel was surprise to note that, however she used her magic to assist in combat, it certainly wasn’t helping her lift the heavy sword. She must have shoulders like pythons under that coat.

“Your stance is atrocious,” Constantine began, walking around behind Lizzie-Jean and kicking her legs further apart.

Lizzie-Jean accepted the correction without complaint, and let Constantine adjust her grip without even commenting on the brief moment when his side was pressed against hers. Then Constantine took up position opposite her and drew his sword, tossing aside the rest of his cane for the moment. Then Lizzie-Jean ran at him, screaming in mock fury, and he easily parried her swings and had his sword at her throat in a matter of seconds.

“Not so wide,” he said simply, and they began again.

After a few rounds of this had gone by without requiring anything from outside the circle Daniel perched himself awkwardly on a headstone to watch. Within the half hour, as though drawn by their congregation, Theodore showed up in full pillow-stuffed tuxedo and skull mask splendor. He was thankfully alone, without any of the vampires that lived in his house, and he didn’t seem the slightest bit surprised to find the three of them out back. He stood on the sidelines, shouting bits of advice to Lizzie-Jean that Daniel doubted the wisdom of but didn’t know enough about sword fighting to contradict. After a while Richard turned up, wandering around the church with a bug sprayer in hand, having come ready to combat the fictitious wasps. Once he had been briefed on the situation he went back to his car and returned with a golf club, declaring himself ready to take Constantine’s place if the priest needed a breather.

They stayed like that for most of the day, Richard and Constantine trading off when one of them got too tired to continue, Lizzie-Jean’s youthful exuberance never flagging no matter how many times she was knocked to the ground. When Richard took over Constantine took to calling advice to both of them, and in this way Richard somehow became even deadlier with a golf club. Theodore seemed to have nothing better to do, and was apparently perfectly content to spectate as long as they practiced. Despite the cold ground beneath and the freezing stone at his back, Daniel too found himself growing oddly comfortable with watching.

By the time Lizzie-Jean finally grew tired the sun was beginning to set, bathing the cemetery in golden light. Constantine dragged his foot over the chalk circle as he left it, and Lizzie-Jean gasped as for a moment she seemed to be buffeted about by a high wind, nearly lifted off her feet by the forces vying for position in and around her. She glared at Constantine once she had righted herself, and he laughed sharply at her expense.

“Bastard,” Lizzie-Jean growled.

For a moment Constantine stiffened, his features hardening like ice, and Daniel wondered if a single word could undo all the day’s work. Then Constantine smirked in a manner the untrained eye might have thought cruel, and chuckled menacingly at Lizzie-Jean.

“No more so than you, brat,” he said viciously.

Lizzie-Jean stuck her tongue out at him in apology.

Daniel followed Lizzie-Jean out front to where she had left her bike, and stood shuffling from foot to foot as she picked it up from where she’d abandoned it to lie on its side on the grass outside the church. She swung her leg over it, standing balanced on her toes with her center of gravity poised over the seat, then looked back at him.

“What?” she asked, sounding perfectly unconcerned.

“Um,” said Daniel, wondering what to say, before he realized there was only one thing to say. “Uh, thank you. For that. For today.”

Lizzie-Jean rolled her eyes and sat down on her bike. “Whatever,” she said dismissively, and began pedaling leisurely back toward home.

#motw #monster of the week #the spell-slinger #writing #character writings #lizzie-jean

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keladryhawklight · 5 years ago

Text

Crimson Night

Current time; March 627 | Memory; July 626; Tirisfal Glades

"Animals,” Kel muttered quietly as she wandered the streets of Stormwind alone. Her anger simmered again. Last night was the angriest she had gotten in a long time, a frustration that happened to ignite into that Hawklight temper at the sight of the crimson banners fluttering in the wind. “Bloody cultists, spreading their venomous words of hatred and violence.”

To her, it was absolutely inconceivable. Peaceful congregation. What an absolute farce. Her cheeks flushed in her anger. How the nobles of Stormwind could stomach this was beyond the pale. How they could not remember the history of their brothers and sisters in Lordaeron, the violence and terrible fear wrought by the Crusade as it swept across the North.

The memory of losing Sandor came to her so suddenly, it almost brought her to her knees. The heart-wrenching, soul-jarring fear that he was gone.

The snows came down silently as she had ridden North. Her wounds only barely healed, she kept her saddle by the sheer steely strength of her will. She had left the safety of the Sanctum as soon as her strength had returned. She knew whose mount had carried her north after the explosion. Knew the sandy coloured muzzle who had nudged her up off the ground, carried her safely.

She had wept silently in her hospital bed, alone and afraid for his safety. The Hollow had fallen. Their comrades had died. So many people she had grown to know, to love. The rest had not bothered to send word; the families she had treated and fought with who had long been safe and secure in their elven homelands. Not even her brothers had not known the gravity of her wounds. Her sister had not known how afraid she was, laying there for the days until she could grasp a sword and pull herself back up. Anger had burned in her heart, all consuming. She knew where they had taken him. The piece of crimson cloth affixed to Constantine’s saddle had told her exactly where he had been taken.

Borris had offered to come with her, seeing how adamant she had been. His gently, yet exuberant eagerness to in his words, ‘blyet! keek sum butt leetl Kyel’ and ‘demonstrate heez skeelz vith heez veapons’ had calmed her some, but the icy cold anger that had settled over her as a pall remained steadfast. This was unforgivable.

Arriving at the Monastery, they had been silent in the night, slicing the guards down mercilessly. The dark pall that hung over Tirisfal Glade lingered long after the Forsaken had abandoned their underground stronghold. Mutated creations howled and bayed in the darkness of the haunted woods around them. The large stone pillars became streaked with the blood of the fallen cultists as they took their ground. Kel held no quarter for them; her blade came down as cold and silent as the anger in her heart. She knew he was here. She would pull him from here, by force if she had to. But soon enough she stood at the entrance to the underground, staring down into the darkest part of the Monastery.

The crypts were damp, mildew-y as she crept along them, her blade at the ready. Her eyes strained in the darkness, hearing the sound of voices echo through the darkness. Soft whispers that tugged at the edge of her mind, inflaming her anger further.

“Well well,” came the hushed, strangely arrogant from just ahead. “It seems as though we have a guest. Deal with it.”

He came at her so fast, she hardly had time to raise her own blade before the hammer met it. Moss green eyes lit in the darkness by a dark light; she knew them so well, even as the violent energy swirled around them.

“Die,” his voice whispered softly.

They fought, moving into the dimly lit sanctuary. Shadows danced on the walls. Crimson banners decorated the lair, hatred and vile magic filling the air. The subtle scent of burnt flesh and blood filled her nostrils. The pair were not alone; with them was the cultist prelate, he stood before them cold and calculating. His face was twisted with the ravages only a lifetime of hatred could bring, filled with an eagerness to see the blood of the Silver Hand upon his floor.

“You will die,” he said, swinging at her again. Her blade raised up to meet his hammer. Again, and again, he swung at her. Wanting to hurt, wanting see her blood spilled upon the stone beneath their feet. But what she never saw coming was the blade, thrown from the darkness into her back. She moved with the strength of it, towards him, feeling the hot drip down her back. A sharp cry of pain escaped her. The flare of pain ricocheted through her body, amplified by the wounds not yet healed.

“Do it,” the prelate hissed. “Kill her.”

“Sandor,” Her eyes came up to meet his, shattered by the lifelessness in his. Her voice was soft, as she beseeched him. “You know me.”

“And you will die,” came the emotionless response. Even his face; that face she loved so dearly, those lips she had kissed upon the trails during their solitary rides to the village for drinks, eyes she had spent hours looking at, those arms that had held her close all this time, all of it was gone. Erased by that hateful, abhorrent crimson magic.

The second blade hit her in her opposite shoulder, forcing the blade down. All of her strength went into holding it against his hammer, forcing him off of her. A soft whimper of pain broke from her lips. Light, but it was hard. He moved away, staring at her like an animal to it’s prey.

“Kill her. She’s weak now.” He hissed again, raising his hands along the magic. “Do not be a weakling. To be one, the blood must run.”

She stilled, letting her blade fall to her side. Her heart beat like a drum in her chest, the time slowing to a standstill. The light behind her iris pulsed once as a feeling of peace settled over her.

“Sandor,” she murmured. “If this is what you need.. what you wish, then I am ready. I am ready to die. For you, I am ready. I will always be ready.”

She smiled up at him, a look of peaceful resignation touching her features. “It is time, and I am ready.”

The hammer came up again, and she forced her thoughts to the Light. Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I fear no evil for you walk with me; your warmth and guidance, they comfort me. On the Light rests my salvation and my compassion; my steadfast rock, my refuge is the Light. Light, watch me stand fast, strong unto the very end.

He blinked, and the hammer paused on its fatal descent towards her.

“K.. Kel?” he whispered brokenly. “What..”

“Kill her!” the prelate hissed

“What.. have I.. done?” Sandor whispered quietly, that dark light behind his eyes fading to the familiar green she knew so well. They fell to her body, taking in the blood dripping to the stones beneath her feet. Absolute horror filled his face, as the realization of what he had almost done came over him. A dull clang echoed around the damp chamber as his hammer hit the floor by his feet. He followed soon after, brought to his knees by his own sense of horror.

From behind her, came a sound akin to animalistic rage. It was in that split-second that she moved, pain ripping through her. Her own blade whirled, as the Light exploded behind her eyes as her fury reignited. Her own blood mixed with his as the head of the prelate hit the floor at their feet, his eyes wide with surprise. The hateful sneer still twisted his mouth, the words he spewed so suddenly silenced by the slice of her blade.

“Die,” she whispered. “And let the hatred die with you.”

She wavered on her feet, hearing the sound of Borris coming down through the tunnels.

“Leetl Kyel eet ees time to go,” he proclaimed, stepping down into the room with them. A few wounds decorated his chest, but the massive draenei seemed to hardly notice. Her lips twitched with exhaustion as she regarded him. An always welcome uncle, who just happened to be one of the best warriors she knew.

“Help us, Borris,” she murmured, clasping her sword weakly back to her belt. She was so utterly exhausted now, emotionally and physically. “Help me, help him.”

His thunderous chuckle filled the air between them as his picked Sandor up with ease. That was one thing that Borris had no lack of, as he took Kel’s slighter weight against him.

“Vhere are ve going?” he grinned good-naturedly as they moved back towards the horses.

“The Sanctum,” Kel breathed softly. “The Bastion in the Plaguelands. ‘Tis safety that is close enough.”

“Eet ees good enough smol frenn Kyel.” He rumbled, pushing her up onto Constantine’s back.

She came out of the memory just as suddenly as it had taken her. Shaking like a leaf, she sat on a bench, the stone pulling her back from the memory. That was the angriest she had ever been, cold enough to kill someone without a hesitation. It had been an awful feeling, and it had taken some time to come to grips with that fact. The path of compassion was the one she had chosen to walk.

“Light,” she sighed, pressing a hand to her forehead. “Light.”

#oc roleplay #oc rp #wow rp #world of warcraft #wyrmrest rp #wyrmrest alliance #wyrmrest accord #scarlet crusade

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conartisthaiji · 5 years ago

Link

In which Sayaka saved Kyouko, so Kyouko decides to try and save her too.

warning: character death

damn i’m writing fic again

re-watched Madoka Magica and decided to write a little something for Kyouko/Sayaka! canon compliant though, so it do be painful.

fic here, the link above, and also under the cut~

The stained glass glows behind her as the sun begins its dramatic descent, and Kyouko feels her lungs burn.

Sayaka slams the door on her way out.

Miki Sayaka’s stubborn determination to uphold justice would be the death of her—that much was obvious. “I’m fighting to protect people from getting hurt.” What nonsense.

“It’s magical girls like you that I cannot stand.” Like, seriously? Sayaka was out of her mind. Kyouko knew what happened if you used your wish for others. It didn’t end well.

There was no point in “saving humanity” or whatever noble nonsense Sayaka believed in—humans were fucked up, and becoming a magical girl in order to “save” them was pointless. Humans didn’t need saving. Only you needed saving.

She sighs, staring up at the hospital that Sayaka had once spent so much of her time at, worrying over Kyousuke. Fucking Kyousuke. He had no idea what Sayaka had done for him.

Sayaka’s corpse, falling on the pavement as her soul gem was carried away. All that—for a boy.

For a boy.

Kyouko can barely fathom it. Kyousuke isn’t even interesting.

Well. It’s not like she was any better, was she? Kyouko takes a bite out of her apple, relishing the satisfying crunch beneath her teeth.

Where was Sayaka, anyways? Kyouko wanted to talk to her. Still does, although there’s doubt swirling in her gut now.

Another bite. Sayaka was good. So endearingly, ceaselessly good. It wasn’t fair. Chomp. Her unerring belief in justice. Chomp. Look what it had gotten her—Sayaka—in the end. Chomp. A walking corpse, her soul attached to a glowing blue gem.

She finishes her apple, and without thinking, runs.

Before she knows it, she’s outside Sayaka’s house. Her chest heaves from exertion and she leans over to catch her breath.

Hey, she thinks. Come outside. I want to talk.

She stands there for a few moments, just catching her breath and thinking. She wonders if Sayaka will even come out.

To her surprise, Sayaka does.

“Hey,” she says to Sayaka. Something strikes Kyouko as off about her—the look in her eyes, maybe. They’re blue and bright as they should be but yet somehow flat and dead.

“I want to show you something,” she tells Sayaka. Sayaka only nods, and Kyouko leads her down, down, down, cutting through the city and its steady orange and yellow daylight. They pass under trees, light turning soft and green around them. Eventually, they make it to the abandoned church, dark and imposing in front of them.

Sayaka doesn’t even question why Kyouko is leading her here. That’s concerning, but Kyouko finds that she isn’t ready to answer those questions anyways.

In some strange way, she is grateful for Sayaka’s uncharacteristic silence.

Kyouko places her hand on the heavy wooden door. It’s been…years. Years. Years since she last stepped foot in this place. After…everything.

Sayaka is still silent behind her.

Kyouko takes a breath, steels her resolve. This is what she came to do.

She just hopes that she can reach Sayaka before it’s too late.

She shoves open the door and strides up to the altar, ignoring the tension in her gut. Dust stirs around her feet, but she ignores that too. She has a mission, and she intends to see it through.

It just…needs to work. It has to work.

“Why did you bring me here?” Sayaka asks, voice cool, steady, not angry but not pleased.

“To talk. Want an apple?” Kyouko asks, tossing her one. Sayaka catches it in a fluid motion.

“No,” she says, and throws it on the ground.

All Kyouko sees is red. Her little sister, whispering, “Onee-chan, I’m still hungry.” The growling of her stomach. The hollowness in her belly that still, despite everything, never truly seemed to go away. The gleam of the apple’s red skin as it falls to the floor.

She grabs Sayaka’s collar and raises her up. “Don’t waste food in front of me.”

Blue, blue, blue. Wide but calm, patient, curious, even. Sayaka doesn’t even seem afraid.

What is she doing? She releases Sayaka, bends down, picks up the apple. The apple itself is fine, maybe just slightly bruised. She moves back to the center of the altar, just like her father did.

Chomp. The apple is sweet, crunchy, delicious. Just as it should be.

“Once upon a time, there was a preacher,” Kyouko begins. “He saw all the problems in the world, and he knew how to fix them.”

In her head, she sees her father, standing at the altar, gazing down at his congregation. “You must always be good,” he told her.

She shakes off her father’s ghost. “But his teachings went against the church. The people…they didn’t like that. They began leaving, fearing he was crazy.” Empty pews. But her audience is Sayaka, not the world. Empty pews are fine. Sayaka is there. She’s not moving. Her eyes…they’re intently focused on Kyouko.

“Eventually, he was ex-communicated. They stripped him of his authority. He continued to preach, but no one would listen.”

That stupid letter…she remembers the way her father had stared blankly at it. Thrown it on their dining table and locked himself in his room.

“So I made a contract with Kyuubey. To ensure that people would listen to him. And we saved the world together! Him through his preaching, and me in the shadows, fighting evil.” She shakes her head. “And our lives were good. But somehow…somehow, he found out.”

Her cheek still stings, sometimes, from the ghostly weight of that slap that her father had given her when he found out. “Witchcraft!” He had shouted, and a young Kyouko stumbles backwards.

“He was distraught to find that his congregation was fake. Accused me of being a witch. Eventually, he went mad. He killed his family and himself. Before he died, he even set the house on the fire. I came back to a house in flames and a dead family.”

The heat of the flames as she stared at her house, gaping, struggling to find words that never came. Orange scorching her vision, searing her eyes as she felt her heart drop.

How at some point her voice unlocked and she screamed for her family, but they never came out.

Sorry, kid. But your family is dead. Lucky you weren’t home, right?

“After that, well. I swore to never help another person again. People are selfish, Sayaka. I wasted my wish on my father, and…look how that turned out. So this might be my lot in life, but now I’m going to focus on myself.”

She looks at Sayaka, feeling raw, numb, vulnerable, exposed. “I guess…the point is, you don’t really ever know what others want. So why should you care about them?”

Sayaka is quiet, taking in the words. Kyouko’s gaze falls to the colored light on the dust-covered floor. Reds, oranges, yellows, greens. Purples, even. The stained glass really is beautiful. Kyouko always did love this place.

She looks up, and sees…blue.

Sayaka clears her throat, and Kyouko hates how she flinches oh-so-slightly. But it’s the first sound Sayaka has even made after rejecting the apple.

“That may be the path you chose, but I can’t agree,” Sayaka declares. “I became a magical girl for the sake of others, and I’m not going to abandon my morals because I’m technically dead.” She looks at Kyouko: cold, stern, resolute.

What happened to the cheerful, hopelessly optimistic Sayaka? Kyouko…

Kyouko misses her.

This Sayaka looks…looks ready to die.

“Where did you get those apples?” Sayaka asks, landing the finishing blow, the coup de grace. Kyouko freezes.

“As I thought.” Sayaka smiles, still sad and cold and ready to die. “I don’t eat stolen food, sorry.”

And just like that, Sayaka—blue, quiet, cold, dead, alive, musical Sayaka—turns away, and walks back through the empty church, slamming the door on her way out. The sound rings hollow and loud in Kyouko’s ears.

The stained glass behind her is awash with light, casting a swirling rainbow of colors around her feet. In the past, Kyouko had loved this rainbow.

Now though, Kyouko slams her fist on the pulpit. It lands on a spot of soft blue light.

“Damn it, Sayaka!” She shouts, before taking another angry bite of her apple.

She had just wanted to bring that light to Sayaka. Give Sayaka her light back.

Because after every rain storm, there’s a rainbow.

Sayaka just needs to push through her storm. There will be a rainbow. There has to be.

Chomp.

There has to be. There was one for her, after all.

Because Sayaka reminded Kyouko why she had become a magical girl. She had reached out to Kyouko, unintentionally perhaps, but with enough resolve to remind Kyouko of…well, everything.

Now it’s her turn to reach out and remind Sayaka of the same thing.

She chomps on her apple, and ignores the tears running down her face.

It’s just—they become the very thing they were trying to fight?

If Sayaka and her upstanding sense of justice had done anything, it had reminded Kyouko that once upon a time, she too had believed in fairy tales and happy endings.

She needs a miracle. No, scratch that, Sayaka needs a miracle.

And so she will bring Sayaka a miracle.

An idea begins to form in her mind.

In fairy tales, love solves everything. The love she had for her father had inspired her to become a magical girl, to use her wish to save her family. It’s always love.

Kyousuke would be ideal, but…he doesn’t know about magical girls. He can’t even sense the grasping despair of a witch; see the intricacies in a witch’s grief. Rumor has it that he’s going out with someone else, anyways.

It will have to be Madoka, then. The best friend, the one who was always there for Sayaka no matter what. A different kind of love, of course, but isn’t that the beauty of this? There’s so many different types of love. Friendship is just as valuable. Madoka can see the witches; she knows about magical girls; she is just as desperate as Kyouko herself to get Sayaka back.

She reaches out to Madoka, who all too willingly comes running to her.

“You want to save Sayaka, right?” Kyouko asks.

“Of course.”

“Then I want to try reaching out to her.”

Madoka nods, resolve growing in those soft pink eyes of hers. What a pair Madoka and Sayaka made.

“Do you know if it’ll work?” She asks, and Kyouko sighs.

“No one knows how to purify a witch. We’ll be the first. But that’s why we have to try.” Kyouko tosses her soul gem up. It’s glowing red, red, red, the opposite to Sayaka’s blue. “Will you come with me?”

“Yes.” There’s no hesitation in Madoka’s voice. Maybe she and Sayaka had more similarities than Kyouko had expected.

Kyouko catches her soul, and with it, her stray thoughts. Funny how her life is now tied to what is essentially a shiny rock. She wonders what would happen if she dropped it.

“Let’s go,” Kyouko says, recalling the task at hand, and offers Madoka a smile. Madoka returns it with one of her own.

They begin, walking around the city, following Kyouko’s soul gem in hopes of a trace of Sayaka, or the witch Octavia.

Her gem flashes, and Kyouko grins while Madoka gasps.

A signal. They found it.

Or rather, they found her.

“Ready?” Kyouko asks.

Madoka nods.

They step inside.

Octavia is quiet, at first. There’s nothing but mirrors and silence and the echo of their footsteps. Such a weird place to think of Sayaka being in.

Or is it a reflection of Sayaka?

Kyouko thinks that she’s going to have a hard time fighting any other witches after this.

“Kyouko?” Madoka says, her voice timid. “I was wondering…does this feel familiar?”

Kyouko shrugs. “It’s different from every other witch I’ve fought,” she offers. She’s not sure what else to say.

“Of course,” Madoka says, and whatever she’s thinking, she doesn’t get the chance to say anything else, because Octavia—no, Sayaka, it’s Sayaka—senses them, and greets them.

They run, Kyouko in the lead, Madoka following close behind her. Kyouko doesn’t say anything, just wields her spear and chain and prays that this will be enough.

“Now, Madoka!” She shouts when they reach Octavia. She puts up a barrier between her and Madoka, hoping that Madoka will be safe. “It’s got to work!”

“Sayaka!” Madoka calls. Kyouko assumes she says something else, but she tunes it out. She has a mission, an obligation to Sayaka.

It’s what Sayaka deserves.

Octavia is relentless.

Kyouko’s arms burn as she swings her lance. Sayaka never did know when to give up, and Kyouko kind of loves that.

But she had nearly beat Sayaka once, before Homura had intervened. She’s sure she can beat her again, even if Sayaka is now a witch.

The boundary between her and Madoka shatters, and Kyouko is thrown back violently. She stands up, coughing, and spies Homura standing there, holding Madoka.

Fuck.

Of course it didn’t work. No one knows how to purify a witch, after all.

“Take Madoka out of here!” She shouts to Homura, creating a boundary between her and Madoka, trapping Sayaka in here with her. It doesn’t matter how Homura found them; it’s fortunate that she even came. “I’ll be fine!”

The words sound like a lie. She knows she won’t leave this place alive.

Heck, Homura knows she won’t.

But Homura nods anyways, her face not truly impassive. She seems sad but accepting, Kyouko thinks. Almost as if she had expected this.

“Good luck, Kyouko-san,” Homura tells her, and then with a toss of her hair, leaves.

Kyouko turns back to Octavia, the great music witch. The despair of a girl who could have been something.

She’s out of ideas.

So she does what she knows best.

“Oh, Sayaka,” she says. “No one chose you, did they?” She kneels, falling back into prayer, into the one thing she had sworn not to do all those years ago. “But…I chose you, Sayaka. You’re okay.”

Somehow, she always found herself praying when she was most uncertain.

“You’re so good,” she cries, reaching out to Octavia. Within the witch, she feels a stirring of something, some small flickering of hope and warmth amidst the crushing despair. “Sayaka, you’re so, so good. So selfless.”

In her mind’s eye, she sees the rainbow lights dancing across the alter of her father’s church, crossing over Sayaka’s eyes, coloring Sayaka’s skin in beautiful ribbons of rainbow. Sayaka, Sayaka. It’s always Sayaka.

“Sayaka,” she whispers. “I’m still here.”

This is when Kyouko accepts that she is going to die—and she won’t turn into a witch, some small kindness—but she’ll take Sayaka with her.

Small mercies, huh.

She reaches out once more—not with her body, but with her soul.

Blue, blue, blue. That’s always been Sayaka’s color, but here, it envelops Kyouko in a way that it hadn’t.

“Kyouko?” Sayaka asks. “What…how did you find me?”

“You gave me hope when I had forgotten it,” Kyouko replies, wiping away Sayaka’s tears. “It was only fair that I do the same to you.”

She presses a kiss to Sayaka’s forehead. “It’s going to be okay, Sayaka,” she murmurs, and she feels Sayaka settling into her arms.

“Tell me something nice,” Sayaka whispers.

Kyouko smiles sadly. “The rainbows in my father’s church…from the stained glass…I always thought it was beautiful.”

“We can sit there, then,” Sayaka replies, a tiny smile dancing on her face. “Let’s go.”

That’s the last image Kyouko sees—Sayaka, in her arms, the stone of the alter underneath her legs, and rainbow lights dancing across the two of them.

In another world, Kyouko thinks, they get their happy ending. It would go like this: Kyouko can’t stand Sayaka’s goody-two shoes nature; Sayaka can’t stand Kyouko’s lackadaisical attitude. They clash, they fight, they somehow expose their vulnerabilities to each other, Kyouko begins to trust, Sayaka worries less about right and wrong. They would kiss here, Kyouko thinks, surrounded by the rainbow lights from abandoned stained glass and dust at their feet. A happy ending.

But in this world, they don’t get that.

Blue and red are only two colors of the rainbow, and that’s what she gets in this world. Two colors, not the full spectrum.

A taste of what could have been, cruelly ripped away from her by grief and despair.

#lyz writes #madoka magica #kyouko-centric

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thedazedyouth · 6 years ago

Text

It’s You Who Hung The Moon chapter 2

Let’s kill tonight

Los Santos is home to numerous odd events, there were even rumors of high ranking people using magic to get their way. Alfredo never believed any of that bullshit, it was idiotic to listen to children stories but he was starting to think there was some truth to them.

Within the small fraction of time it took for Alfredo’s gun to spit out a bullet, something shifted in the wind, the city’s energy changed.

And then those dark brown eyes below gleamed up at him.

No amount of training could’ve prepared Alfredo for that moment, when his target merely stepped to the side; just out of reach of the bullet’s path. His target looked to where the bullet hit, a mark in the concrete showcasing Alfredo’s failure. Despite the chaos that erupted on the street after the gunshot, the target remained perfectly calm in the middle of the screaming public. He looked to Alfredo again, raised his coffee cup in a toast and then a string of trucks obscured him from view.

Traffic cleared and Trevor Collins had disappeared.

Dumbstruck, Alfredo couldn’t move for a moment. He could only stare at the very place his target was standing a few seconds ago.

How the fuck did he miss?

Reality slapped him in the face, his fate suddenly loomed over him. Sparks wasn’t bluffing, and Alfredo had run out of time. Dismantling his rifle and placing the pieces inside a duffel bag, Alfredo was already planning his escape. His home would be compromised by now, he wouldn’t risk it for a few supplies. He had his sniper rifle, a pistol and maybe a twenty in his jacket; banks were robbed far too often to trust them in this city. His motorbike was parked a block away, if he could get there in time, he could be out of the city in thirty minutes.

Alfredo should’ve chosen a more subtle approach, weaving between cars and running red lights on a barely street legal bike made him stick out within the old family cars and law abiding citizens. But Alfredo wasn’t in the right mindset to make good decisions, he was a bit preoccupied with the fact that Trevor Collins just dodged a bullet and Alfredo was going to die because of it.

He had reached the outskirts of LS, he was driving through a clearly poor neighbourhood and the edge of city was nearing. He was almost out and from there, he could start a new life; one where he didn’t try to assassinate crew leaders that are apparently magical.

Alfredo almost relaxed. Key word being almost.

He was nearly out of the neighbourhood and the evening sun was starting to blind him, when a black Ford Ranger pulled out of a side street too fast for Alfredo to react. It caught his back tire, sending him skidding out of control and crashing onto the hard pavement. His left leg was trapped under the weight of his bike.

He squirmed to reach his bag that landed underneath him, frantically trying to pull out his pistol; but before he could there was a loud bang and a rush of pain shot through his side.

Caden Sparks stood over him, flanked by his men who all had guns pointed at him.

“You had one job,” Sparks said. “And to think, you’re supposed to be the best.” He tsked mockingly. “Well, guess I gotta find someone new but first, I have some loose ends to take care off.”

Sparks moved so he was looking straight down at Alfredo, he smiled as the younger man still struggled under the motorbike despite the burning wound that was bleeding. Alfredo had looked down a muzzle dozens of times, but only then did he feel any fear. He always had an escape, a plan b, but there was nothing he could do.

Alfredo refused to close his eyes, he’d face his death with confidence.

He heard a shot. And then two more, and then a gun fight broke out. Sparks swore, ditching Alfredo without hesitating and running for his car. Alfredo strained to lift his head up enough to see what was happening, and what he saw, he first blamed on the blood lose.

His former target, Trevor Collins, had arrived and had half his body stuck out his car window, firing at Sparks and his men. The lackey’s didn’t last long against Trevor, falling one after another; but one was lucky enough to pop Trevor’s car tire. They brought Sparks enough time to run though.

Trevor didn’t seem to care much, he was out of his car and by Alfredo’s side in a few seconds. He freed Alfredo’s leg with only a grunt, getting the bike upright before kneeling down to Alfredo.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Trevor joked. His hands hovered around Alfredo as he sat himself up, grimacing at the stinging wound. “Okay, look, we need to get out of here.”

Trevor stood, offering his hand down to Alfredo. He ignored it, breathing heavily by the time he stood up.

“My car’s busted, we should take your bike.” Trevor didn’t leave room for argument, he hopped onto Alfredo’s motorbike and waited for him to lower himself behind Trevor.

Alfredo pressed onto his side, his hand was already soaked in blood while the other instinctively gripped onto Trevor’s side as the bike kicked to life. Alfredo didn’t have the energy to question the situation, this was his best option at the moment. Trevor drove with more mastery than Alfredo had, they zipped back through the streets heading for the main city center.

Wherever Trevor was taking them, he had to make a quick deviation as a congregation of cars across the set of traffic lights was being unquestionably lead by Sparks. The cars sped up when the pair came into view, it seemed that Sparks had gotten some more backup.

Trevor made a right. He pulled at the throttle, the bike roaring down the Los Santos streets. The cars were closing in, out the side windows guns were fired. Trevor started zig zagging, keeping perfect control as they leant from side to side.

Alfredo leant forward, whispering in Trevor’s ear, “Go faster.”

His voice was weak, blood leaked between his fingers. At this rate, Alfredo would die before Sparks had another opportunity. Trevor nodded, taking one look behind him before pulling down a narrow street. He barely dodged a truck coming for them.

Trevor swerved around a tight corner, Alfredo could feel the loose part of his jacket lightly skim across the tar road and paid no attention to the urge telling him to hold on tighter. He looked back from where they came from and couldn’t see Sparks, they had managed to get some distance between them.

Trevor never straightened up the bike, instead he kept turning into the entrance for an underground parking lot for an apartment building. He whipped down the ramp, passing a car that had opened the gate originally and pulled into a park that was on the other side.

After putting down the kickstand, Trevor hopped off the bike. “You’re still bleeding. We won’t make it any further until we fix that.”

“Okay.” Alfredo moved from the bike to sitting on the concrete ground, only groaning a bit at the strain. He breathed for a second, beginning to take off his jacket but was interrupted by Trevor almost ripping it off.

“What are you doing,” Alfredo moaned, trying to squirm away from Trevor’s touch. “Why are you doing this?”

Trevor ignored Alfredo’s attempts to move away and simply moved closer, pulling up his wet shirt and blinking at the wound before taking Alfredo’s own jacket to hold over the injury. Without looking at Alfredo, Trevor said, “You were in trouble and you needed help.”

Alfredo flinched as Trevor pressed harder to stop the bleeding, but he didn’t try fight. He was still hesitant but something told him that Trevor wasn’t going to hurt him, despite the reasons he should. They sat there in silence for a minute, Alfredo’s heartbeat pounding in his ears and Trevor making no effort to show what he was thinking.

“So,” Trevor finally said, “who hired you to kill me.”

“Caden Sparks.”

Trevor froze, his grip on Alfredo’s side loosened before he let out a deep sigh. “So that’s what he looks like. You fucking idiot. Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

Alfredo just shook his head, but Trevor didn’t give another response. He lifts up the jacket to check the wound, deeming it good enough and stood up; offering Alfredo a hand, who this time took it, and lifted him up from the ground. Alfredo stayed quiet, waiting rather than asking for an answer; unsure whether it was his place to demand information. After all, the man he just tried to kill is now helping him.

“We shouldn’t stay here anymore,” Trevor said.

Trevor sat up front while Alfredo hesitantly and slowly climbed on behind him; his fingers gripping Trevor’s shirt rather than his sides.

Alfredo noticed Trevor’s ease as he drove, the latter taking each corner without thought. The clear muscle memory was reminiscent of Alfredo and his weapons. He could take them apart over and over without ever needing to think, he’s had a full length conversation without his fingers ever stalling.

Trevor took them to a street up town that Alfredo had never been, the streets were clean and there wasn’t a reek of death and misery. The shops and buildings faded into grand houses, larger than any one person needs but rather plays into their wants.

The sun had almost finished setting when Trevor pulled into a driveway, the garage door opening on demand of a remote he kept on his person. He stopped the bike next to a black car, got off and waited for Alfredo to follow before entering a door on the side of the garage.

They entered into a kitchen, past it was the lounge. It was barren for such a grand house, only a couch and small armchair were seated around a long table. A TV hung on the wall and under it was a bookcase laid on its side, it was more full than the whole room.

“Sit down,” Trevor said before disappearing down a hallway.

Trevor came back with a rusty tool box in hand but after he placed it on the coffee table and opened it, Alfredo realised it was a low-budget first aid kit.

“I don’t have much in here,” Trevor said, referring to the kit. “I haven’t used this shit for a while.”

Alfredo sat wordlessly as Trevor searched through the box, pulling out medical tongs.

“Bullet’s still in ya.” Trevor shrugged. “I can get a rag if you’re gonna scream.”

Alfredo ripped the tongs from his hand, shaking his head furiously. “No. I’ll do it. I need to clean these, got any vodka?”

Trevor disappeared for another minute, returning with a half empty bottle in hand and a towel. “This is the most I got,” he said.

Alfredo took the two items from Trevor, opening the bottle and taking a swing then pouring it over the towel and cleaning the tongs; then tenderly cleaning the wound.

Trevor sat at the edge of the table as he watched Alfredo breath slowly when the tongs entered his body. It was only in him for a moment before he located the bullet and pulled it out, dropping it next to Trevor.

“Impressive,” Trevor commented.

Alfredo smirked, having another drink of the vodka and pretending that his hands didn’t tremble still. He pulled forward the tool box again and rummaged around for a needle and thread.

All the equipment was old, and needed a good clean. He calmed himself down, biting back the pain roaring from his side in order to begin stitching himself up. Trevor leant forward to take the needle from him but Alfredo drew back, shaking his head.

“Let me do it.”

Something akin to recognition flared in Trevor’s eyes but it was quickly dulled. Trevor muttered an apology, drawing back completely.

Alfredo stitched himself up, biting his lip in pain but never letting Trevor take over like the he so wanted to. They sat there in silence, Alfredo cleaning the wound again and covering it. His shirt was stained in blood but he refused to take one of Trevor’s.

“Get some sleep,” Trevor said, standing up from the table once he was sure Alfredo was okay. “You’re gonna need it.”

Trevor found some blankets and a pillow from a cupboard, pushed it to Alfredo and left him to sleep on the couch.

Alfredo sat on the armrest for what felt like hours, he was sure at any point Trevor or Sparks would come running in and kill him right there. He couldn’t fathom why Trevor would be doing this, and therefore the only reason is to kill him at a later time. Make it more fun.

But when Alfredo could hear Trevor’s snores from down the hallway and through an open doorway, a voice told him relax. A voice he hadn’t heard for years, the one that used to tell him to hang onto whatever small happiness and good that came into his life.

So Alfredo listened to it and settled into the couch, covering himself in the warm blanket. He let himself fall into a semi- peaceful sleep; at least for a few hours.

Until someone was shaking him awake.

Alfredo jumped up. Before his vision could fully focused on the figure in front of him, he fists went flying. The figure seamlessly dodged his sloppy punches and rather than fighting back, he grabbed onto Alfredo’s shoulders.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. It’s just me. It’s Trevor.”

Alfredo blinked. He only nodded when he realised it was in fact just Trevor, and offered up no explanation before asking, “What’s going on?”

Trevor let him go, stepping back with his hands in clear view; a silent gesture Alfredo couldn’t express how much he appreciated. “We should keep moving. I doubt that Sparks has given up on finding us, we gotta get some distance between us.”

Alfredo nodded again, Trevor returned the motion before leaving Alfredo in the lounge.

“Really got to get better at explaining shit man,” Alfredo muttered to himself.

Alfredo walked into the kitchen, rummaged through the cabinets before finding the only glass and filled it from the tap. He rested against the counter, enjoying each sip as he watched Trevor race back and forth.

Trevor walked between the garage and somewhere down the hallway. Each trip, he carried a bag or gun of different sorts. Eventually, Alfredo trailed after him during one walk to the garage to see what he was doing.

The trunk of the car was being filled with food, water and weapons; Trevor had very clearly prepared for hiding out for days.

Trevor made one last trip, slammed the trunk shut and gestured for Alfredo to enter the car. They left the house and surprising drove under the speed limit, obeying every road rule as not to draw attention to themselves. Although they both impatiently tapped their feet when they had to stop at a red light.

They had left the main suburbs of Los Santos, entering the outskirts.

“Where can we go?” Alfredo could disappear in Los Santos from most people but anything outside the city was unfamiliar. It would take too long to be comfortable enough with another layout to hide.

“We’ll figure it out.” Trevor wasn't trying to convince Alfredo.

“Seriously, why are you doing this? Why not just leave me behind, buy yourself some time?”

“Because Caden Sparks wants us both dead, and I’d rather not die alone.”

The radio became the only noise in the car, Trevor kept a firm grip on the steering wheel while he clearly checked the rear-view mirror every thirty seconds despite the lack of any sign of life. Alfredo hadn’t been this far out of town, having arrived by plane and never being able to find a way out. They passed a house that laid in the back of a field, it was worn down and broken but still, someone sat on its front steps; the smoke from a cigarette plumed and streaked towards the sky.

A sign was nearing them. It was large and like everything, falling apart. It wished safe travels, and gave a goodbye from the city. Almost as if the city ever cared about its inhabitants and would miss their presence staining her.

It certainly never cared about Alfredo.

And as he watched Trevor next to him, maybe it never cared about him either. He was still tense but about Sparks, not the messy city.

Trevor reached into his jeans pocket, pulling out his cellphone and without looking dialed a number. It rang for a while, going to voicemail. He sighed but left a message. “I’m going dark. Stay out of it. If I die, you’ll know. Carry on with the plan.” He hung up, muttering something about those idiots ruining everything.

Alfredo let the radio’s music block out his thoughts, nodding his head to the beat sometimes and ignoring Trevor’s smile when he hummed to a classic. Other than small instances like that, they didn’t communicate.

After a few hours, every Los Santos station faded out to static, they had truly escaped the city; but it left Alfredo to find new ones. He finally settled on one that was in English, and catered to his music taste; which strangely was pop music from the 2000’s and not the kind that was good even for that decade. Alfredo glared at Trevor when the latter laughed. Though, Trevor would admit that the songs got better.

The sun was heading for the horizon as Mr Brightside was blasted through the car, and after a day of no trouble, Trevor decided they could rest for a few hours. The universe and its powers gave him the perfect coincidence. As his eyes searched for a side street or any kind of building, his spotted the unmistakable rise of a roller coaster track.

The entrance to the theme park appeared from between a series of bushes and Trevor whipped the car into it, only slightly throwing Alfredo around. The road was slowly becoming more and more overgrown with plants and it slimmed into one way. Just before it widened again and the parking lot started, Trevor was forced to stop. A thick tree log laid across the entire road, it was rotting but still too large to move.

He pulled the car over to the side, slightly hiding in the forest. He looked over at Alfredo, who had his eyebrows raised.

“Why not have some fun with our last days.” Trevor left the car, Alfredo hesitated for a moment, cursed the other man but followed him to the back of the car.

Trevor popped open the trunk. Alfredo copied his moment to grab a small pistol, Trevor then taking a bag and shrugging it over his shoulder.

The theme park was in clear disarray; the concession stand had been crushed by a fallen tree, the railings leading towards the chair swing ride were rusted and devoid of their natural colour. As Alfredo and Trevor wandered deeper inside the park, more and more destroyed and broken the place became.

The spark of a window in the sunlight caught Trevor’s eye. Following it instantly, he realized a theatre had once been apart of the park. He didn’t check if Alfredo was following him as he jumped the velvet ropes blocking the entrance. Trevor walked past the broken food stalls, resisting the urge to try the packet of discontinued candy resting on the floor.

The walls were a light cream colour, but were covered in years worth of vulgar and creepy graffiti. Trevor kicked open a door below a large number ‘one’, if there was still power he assumed it would have been lit up. Inside the cinema the roof had fallen in, sunlight streaming in through the gaping hole.

Trevor was standing in the doorway, admiring the ruins when Alfredo shoved past him. Alfredo strolled down the stairs, one hand rising and falling on top the chairs. He reached the front of the cinema, the screen was gone but there was still a small stage just below where it should’ve have been.

The sun was beaming on Alfredo, who was curiously taking in every aspect of the place. In the moment, he seemed less like a homicidal assassin and more like Trevor before the misery of life took over him. It was that look that proved to Trevor he made the right choice, the look that reminded him so much of himself.

“The fuck you looking at?” Alfredo called.

Trevor blinked, being brought out of his thoughts. “Nothing,” he replied. “C’mon let’s check the rest of the place out.”

With no clear direction, Trevor and Alfredo explored the rest of the abandoned theme park. They passed a moss covered ferris wheel, the broken remains of a mini train forever stuck on it’s rails and one cart tipped over.

From the distance a sign appeared, as they neared it clearly stated ‘Haunted House’ and a childish excitement overtook them both; although Alfredo hid it better. He wasn’t far behind Trevor who was jogging towards it.

They left behind a setting sun, entering the large building. A wall to the right had been broken down, leading to a thin hallway clearly meant for the employees. Trevor entered first, and after a quick sweep he decided to settle down there for the night.

Using the wood of the building’s foundation, Trevor started working on a fire. For a reason Alfredo didn’t bother questioning, Trevor only had flint and steel rather than a lighter. Alfredo watched Trevor while he struck the flint repeatedly, the entire events of the day fully processing in his mind. Nothing that happened made sense to Alfredo, and he had to know.

“Why are you doing this?” Alfredo asked, breaking the silence.

“I already told you. You needed my help and I was in a generous mood.”

Alfredo sighed. “Whatever. Just tell me this, who is Caden Sparks? Why are you afraid of him?”

Trevor’s hands froze for a moment, a repeating pattern, before he shook his head and continued. Alfredo noticed the recurring instance of Trevor refusing to give more information, despite the latter being the one to involve Alfredo.

Finally Trevor answered. “Sparks is. . . a ghost. There’s nothing about him except for mutilated corpses. His enemies don’t make it far enough to spread any details about him. But I do know, he’s someone you don’t want to fuck with; and you fucked with him.”

“You do have a crew, remember, the fucking Fake AH Crew. Why are we doing this alone and not getting them to kill Sparks first?”

This time, Trevor’s silence was pained. It was something he’d clearly never spoke about, but somehow Alfredo had loosened his tongue.

“If I die, there will still be a crew left, someone to lead it left. Like Kingpin or even Ruby. But if I involve them, and one of them die, there’ll be nothing. They’ll fall apart. I’m not as important as the Golden Boy or Pattillo.” Trevor watched the fire that struggled to start, his eyes going somewhere further. “Either we handle this ourselves or we die.”

Another awkward silence overtook them. Alfredo didn’t bother voicing the questions that were swarming in his head, knowing that he would receive nothing, so instead he offered up his own piece of information. He justified it as building trust.

“Alfredo.”

“What?” Trevor looked at him.

“My name. It’s Alfredo Diaz. You never asked for it before.”

Trevor shrugged, and turned his attention back to the pile in front of him.“Figured you’d share when you’re ready,” he said.

The fire burst to life, it’s flames growing in heat and height. Trevor shuffled around so that his back leant against the same wall as Alfredo. As the night drew on the pair traded select and shallow stories about their pasts, nothing more than basic tales. They were just for conversation and a few laughs.

They fell asleep there together, a gun within reach but an odd atmosphere of relaxation let them sleep a little more soundly than they would have expected.

#fahc #fake achievement hunter crew #achievement hunter #gavin free #jeremy dooley #michael jones #geoff ramsey #trevor collins #jack pattillo #alfredo diaz #alfreyco

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