#//also hello i am around yes. contrary to my silence.

[doomxdriven]

Bount don't get to be part of the cycle of rebirth / cycle of souls because of the funky shenanigans surrounding their origins, so when they die, 99% of the time, they're just gone, that's it, goodbye, no Soul Society or rebirth or anything, just gone, BUT I got to thinking; Hell.

Hell has apparently always existed, it was around before the whole cycle got started, around before the creation of the three world's we know today (Soul Society, Hueco Mundo, World of the Living), and it's not beholden to the system those world's are.

As we know, Captain's eventually have to be cast into Hell after they die to keep their lingering Spiritual Power from fucking things up, but do you remember who else gets sent to Hell when they die? Wicked people who have committed heinous crimes while alive, or Hollows/Arrancar who committed heinous crimes when they were Human.

Therefore, there's a good chance that Bount who were especially evil during their lives do in fact go somewhere when they die after all, they go to fucking Hell-- that could be the fate of Jin and his cohorts in some verses, and its an interesting idea to think about...

[wordsbyarwen]

hello! ive been keeping up with your writing for a while and i was just curious, do you have any plans to continue stone in your water? no pressure ofc, just wondering :)

If it takes another 6 years it will be completed, yes.

The more complicated and slightly more serious answer (although i am very serious about finishing the fic) is that as we wind closer to the end, i find it more taxing to make sure all the pieces are in place to bring the story to a close without leaving any ends hanging. There are also a lot of emotions going on that need careful consideration given certain recent events - so along with navigating their new bond and sorting out how to address some other issues - as well as the just bringing it to a satisfying close in general (i know what's going to happen ultimately, but weaving the story around it is blah), things have just been going a bit slowly.

plus tbh i though writing in past tense for the Hades & Persephone au would be a good exercise and now i keep giving myself psychic damage every time i try to write in present tense again.

anyway here's a (very long) segment from the next chapter, where i explain Rita taking over as Headmistress and Tissaia and Vilgefortz seizing control of the Chapter

Yennefer is not the only guest at the meeting, of course. Rita's warm presence alone is enough to tell Yennefer that her ponderous thoughts this morning were accurate: Tissaia is stepping down as Rectoress.

"You seem weary, Tissaia. Have you come to vacate your Chapter seat as well?" Artorius drawls when the announcement has been made, voice dripping with feigned boredom.

"Yes, the running of your little school is hardly reason to call another meeting so soon—particularly after you were so quick to depart the last one," Stregobor complains. "Why have you gathered us here?"

A flare of annoyance from Tissaia shoots across their bond, and Yennefer furrows her brows slightly. She wants to bite back—she’ll only be able to take so many of Stregobor’s disingenuous comments—but she holds her tongue and focuses instead on reassessing the barriers around Tissaia's mind.

All seems well. 

"Quite the contrary, Artorius," Tissaia is saying, ignoring Stregobor’s interruption for now. “For too long I have been torn between the duties of two different stations. Henceforth I intend to dedicate my full attention to the oversight of the Brotherhood. I think we can all agree that these are trying times indeed, gentlemen; the Brotherhood needs guidance.” 

A breath of silence—and then, from nowhere, someone laughs. 

Vilgefortz, Yennefer realises when he clears his throat to speak. "Well said, Tissaia; after all, it was the efforts of our mages which kept the Nilfgaardian horde from crossing the Yaruga. Might I be so bold as to suggest that the Brotherhood requires not only guidance but… a new direction, even?” he muses. A beat. He makes a thoughtful noise before continuing, “The Archmistress has my support.”

[...]

“I knew it was a bad idea to fill Vanielle’s seat with this—this sword-slinging whelp,” Stregobor grumbles. In her mind’s eye, in the disturbance of chaos near his seat, Yennefer sees him wave his arm dismissively.

The absolute gall, saying this in front of the man! Yennefer has little love for Vilgefortz, but she finds herself distracted once again by musings of how Stregobor has maintained his seat in the Brotherhood’s leadership for so long when all he does is provoke the people around him. 

Terranova hums quietly in amusement. “In all fairness, they were right. The Blackclads arrive after all—and two days early at that? Had Tissaia and Vilgefortz not rushed to defend Sodden, we’d already be neck-deep in a war we were too complacent to stop.”

“Back to the point, gentlemen,” Tissaia begins in the ensuing silence. “Now is the time for unity, not for infighting.”

Not one to be drawn from his protestations so easily, Stregobor makes a disgusted sound before grumbling, “I still don’t understand why you could not have put this in a letter.”

Tissaia does not quite sigh aloud, but Yennefer is well-familiar with the pinched expression she associates this feeling of irritation with. “Aretuza produces nine out of ten of the mages who serve as advisors on the Brotherhood’s behalf,” Tissaia snaps. “One would hope this Council has significant interest in the future of the school.” She puffs out a breath before continuing in a more casual tone. “Of course, your personal lack of interest hardly surprises me, Stregobor: as much time as you spend peacocking around Thanedd, it’s a wonder your boys even recognise their Rector’s face.”

“<i>Now—</i>”

“Remind me,” Tissaia continues over Stregobor’s interruption, “when was a Ban Aard graduate last chosen for a court assignment?” A moment of tense silence. No answer comes. “Then I trust you have no other protestations regarding the discussion of Aretuza’s future in this hall.”

Growing more irritated (and more unbearable) by the minute, Stregobor makes a sudden noise of frustration. “Margarita Laux-Antille has no interest in politics!”

“That’s the first thing you’ve got right since calling this meeting to order,” Rita interjects blandly, speaking up for the first time.

“Ha! You see—!”

“But, while I have no interest in playing at intrigue as you do, I assure you I am more than capable of staying abreast of the political landscape here in the North and abroad, as is necessary to guide Aretuza and its students. Besides, we have experts for a reason,” she adds in a lightly scoffing tone. “You take for granted that Tissaia has long been part of this Council. I take precisely as much interest in the political sphere as the position of Rectoress necessitates.”

“And it is for that reason that she is here,” Tissaia continues smoothly, cold steel underneath her placid demeanour. “In future, I will act as liaison between the Council and Aretuza. For now, I move that we review the current status of our relations across the Northern Realms. After all, the Headmistress should know precisely where the Council stands—should she not?”

It is not, in fact, a question.

[charles-rxwlands]

lay all your love on me

okay!! so this is my fic for @magpiencrow's 1.2k writing challenge.

this is based off of the song lay all your love on me, slowed, by putin

pairing: nikolai/reader

rating: general

tags: gn!reader w/ gn pronouns, fluff

summary: falling in love with nikolai lantsov told through several vignettes

or: mindless nikolai/reader fluff with a alina and ivan being little shits

warnings: right off the bat there's a nightmare about drowning in the ocean, and there's one (1) swear word at the end, but other than that, there's nothing

word count: 4.1k

read on ao3

constructive criticism, feedback, and reblogs are greatly appreciated !

I haven't written anything in a while, so i may be a bit rusty, but please enjoy :)

You were drowning, and also pretty damn sure you were going to die out here. Your lungs were on fire, screaming for air, but you couldn't emerge from the ocean for long enough to suck in a breath. Sure, your hand or head breached the surface every now and then, but a wave would come crashing down on you immediately after, destroying all your progress.

      The undulating waves threw you around like a football - a very pathetic one, at that. As hard as you tried to fight the current, it still insisted on moving against you (stubborn bastard), so really you weren't going anywhere. Just pathetically bobbing around in the same pathetic place. You couldn't feel your limbs - the only thing you could feel was the agonising ache in your chest. It was as if your arms and legs had frozen over along with your will to live.

      How easy it would be to just... 

...let the ocean take you...

      Suddenly, someone grabbed you by the wrist. You screamed, which was a mistake; immediately, salty seawater filled your mouth, making you gag and choke. Nevertheless, you valiantly tried to release yourself from whoever - whatever? - had their hold on you. 

      "Y/n, Y/n! Relax, darling, relax," a voice said, sounding out of breath. "It's me."

      You whirled your head around. Sagging with relief, you gasped out the name of your saviour. "Nikolai."

      "Yes. Yes, Y/n, my love, it's me. It's Nikolai," he soothed, running his hands over your wet hair.

      "Nikolai," you breathed. "Nikola-" - a wave reared up on its hind legs, ready to come crashing down onto your friend, ready to take him away - "no, no, Nikolai, NO-!"

   

You startled, eyes flying open. You were shaking like a leaf. Were you cold, or was it just the adrenaline from the nightmare still making its course? You shook your head as if to rid your mind of the dream. It wasn't real. Nikolai had saved you that night. It was fine. It wasn't real.

      But it could very well have been real, a traitorous voice in your mind whispered. Scowling, you cursed your pessimistic side. Even if a wave had separated you two, Nikolai would have fought tooth and nail to get to you again. You would have done the same. After all, you were childhood friends, and you knew better than anyone that Nikolai didn't let go of his loved ones so easily.

      He hadn't wanted you to accompany him on his journey overseas as Sturmhond. You insisted otherwise, channeling some of Nikolai's stubbornness that had rubbed off on you. ("You're not getting rid of me that easily, idiot. So let me come, unless you want me to steal your kneecaps."). 

      A half-smile appeared on your face as you thought back to the memory. Slowly, you got up from your bed. Your blanket was draped over your shoulders. You slipped out of your cabin quietly, walking down the hallway until you found yourself in front of Nikolai's room. He stirred in his sleep when you entered. The door creaked slightly, but it didn't seem like his distress was because of the noise.

      You sat on the edge of his bed. Nikolai, previously facing away, turned over to face you. His eyes were still screwed shut, eyebrows knitted together and an unhappy expression on his face. You frowned. 

      "Nikolai." you nudged him gently. "Wake up. You're okay, just wake up. It's just a dream."

      He opened his eyes, blinking at you. "Y/n?"

      "Hi," you said. A lock of golden hair fell over his forehead, and upon instinct, you reached to brush it away. He let you, not uttering any of his usual complaints. 

      "You were gone," he mumbled, undoubtedly referencing his nightmare. "I- I couldn't save you, and you were gone." 

      You shifted into a more comfortable position - your whole body was on the bed now, with your back against the headboard. He leaned his head against your chest, and you ran your fingers through his hair. "It wasn't real. It's okay. You saved me - I'm not going anywhere, 'Lai."

      "Me either," he agreed, wrapping his arms around your middle. A beat of silence. Then, "Thank you."

      You were more than content to fall asleep like this. Even if it meant waking up with an ache in your neck. Judging from the way he was curled up, practically drinking in your presence, Nikolai felt the same way.

      What a feeling it was to have found solace in Nikolai Lantsov, and to know he had found solace in you, too.

· · ─── ·𖥸· ─── · ·

Nikolai's pov

Nikolai watched from the corner of the ballroom as you laughed at one of Ivan's jokes. One would say that he was scowling, but the Prince of Ravka didn't scowl. No - he was simply observing your conversation with the Heartrender with visible distaste. He was not scowling. And he was not jealous.

      You and Ivan were smiling at each other, standing by the refreshments table, mouths moving quickly, the both of you obviously interested in whatever you were talking about. You threw your head back in a laugh. You looked gorgeous. Nikolai wanted to make you laugh like that - more than he wanted to admit.

      The last straw was when Ivan lay a hand on your shoulder, and then snaked his arm around you. You didn't seem perturbed by his touch - no, actually, you leaned into it. He bent down to whisper something in your ear that made you duck your head in embarrassment and lightly hit his chest. 

      Nikolai's glare deepened, if that were even possible. Okay, fine, maybe he was jealous. Did he even have the right to be jealous, though? It wasn't as if he was dating you, as much as he'd like to be.

And oh boy, he'd like to be. 

      Suddenly, Alina appeared at his side, seemingly out of thin air. He flinched. "Alina." 

      The girl in question had a mischievous look in her eye. Her hands were clasped in front of her, the long, flowy sleeves of her dress falling just past her wrists. The bottom half of her gown was a sparkly gold, whereas the top half was a dark blue. The two colours faded into each other at the middle, creating a gradient effect. It was a beautiful dress. You had helped Alina pick it out yourself, if he remembered correctly.

      "Hello, loverboy." she poked him in the side, grinning knowingly. "How's your crush on Y/n going for you?"

      "I don't have a crush on them, Alina, for Saint's sake."

      "Oh, is that so? You do seem... ah, what was the word... utterly whipped for them, contrary to what you just said," she said, tilting her head to the side, feigning innocence.

      "Am not," he argued. "I-," Nikolai paused, taking notice of you and Ivan walking past a couple metres away. Unfortunately, you were too engrossed in your current conversation to notice him. His eyes lingered on you. He only looked away when you disappeared back into the throng of people. 

      Alina let out a triumphant 'ha!'. 

      He directed his attention back to her and glared. "Alina, I swear-,"

      "Utterly. Whipped," she mouthed.

      "I will behead you," he threatened.

      She laughed. "In all seriousness, I really don't think Y/n and Ivan like each other like that," Alina said.

      "Well, of course not," he agreed. "Y/n very clearly has eyes for me. I can't say I blame them - who could resist all this? Everyone's all over me, as I'm sure you've noticed." 

      Alina stared at him pointedly.

      "Ah, except for you, of course. You seem to be the only one immune to my charm and charisma. An odd one, you are."

       She rolled her eyes. "Why do I even bother," she groaned. "Just swear to me that you'll tell Y/n you like them soon. Within a week. Swear on... your dignity."

      "My dignity?" Nikolai drawled.

      "Yes, your dignity, because if you don't fess up soon, I'll have to tell Y/n about your crush on them myself," she grinned smugly, and darted off before Nikolai could retort. 

      He sighed. As he saw it, he had three options:

      1. Blackmail Alina (because of course she wouldn't give in to simple bribery)

      2. Get on his knees and beg Alina to not tell you of his massive crush (there! he admitted it; he had a massive crush on you! One that he'd been harbouring for just over a year now, too)

      3. Listen to Alina, and confess on his own terms

      All three were mortifying, and things he absolutely didn't want to do. However, the last was considerably easier to do, and came with the most benefits and the least consequences. You had already seen him through his most embarrassing moments (and he through yours) so even if you rejected him, the humiliation would be minimal. 

      And maybe he wanted to confess. And maybe there was hope that you liked him back. Nikolai wasn't stupid - he knew when people fancied him. He suspected you liked him back, but then again, that could've been wishful thinking, or maybe he was misreading the entire thing.

      He didn't even understand why he was so jealous of the way Ivan and you had interacted. Before he had fallen heads over heels in love with you, his childhood best friend, people flirting with you hadn't been a problem. He'd encouraged it, even. But now, bitterness flared up inside of him every time he saw someone getting a bit too cozy with you. 

      In short, his feelings for you had completely destroyed his facade of smooth, suave, sexy Prince of Ravka. And it kind of terrified him how poorly he hid it.

· · ─── ·𖥸· ─── · ·

Nikolai had been acting strange lately, and it was bothering you. You feared the worst - had he finally caught on to your crush? You thought you'd been subtle until Ivan had approached you at the most recent party. Apparently, the scowl on your face as you watched Nikolai flirt with the guests had been fierce enough to kill.

      Ivan had given you (unsolicited) advice, telling you to be straightforward and direct. That was what he'd done with Fedyor, after all, and that had worked out well.

      You were pacing around your room. Ivan was perched on your bed, watching you have a borderline nervous breakdown like one would watch the view. 

      "You're enjoying this, aren't you, Ivan?" you demanded. "I'm about to make a life or death decision, and you're enjoying it."

      He chuckled. "I wouldn't call this a life or death decision, Y/n. If Nikolai rejects you, he rejects you, and it's his loss. If he reciprocates, good, and you'll be free to frolic in the meadows with him, all fine and dandy."

      You stared at him, your expression communicating, "Did you really just say that?", very clearly.

      "Okay, okay, fine, I'll be serious." Ivan relented. "Just tell him, Y/n. What's the worst that could happen?" 

      Just as you were about to respond - "Well, I don't know, what if he rejects me, things become eternally awkward between us, and our 10 year long friendship is ruined because I couldn't keep my mouth shut?" - someone knocked at the door. You opened it to find Nikolai waiting. His hair was perfectly styled, as always. He wore a dark turquoise suit jacket, and a simple white dress shirt underneath. The ghost of a smile appeared on your face; you had chosen the colour for him.

      "Hi, Nikolai," you greeted. 

      "Hello," he said. "Come on a walk with me. It's a lovely day outside, and both of us have been dreadfully busy lately - we may not get another chance to spend time together, I'm afraid."

      "Oh! Of course, just let me grab more suitable shoes- I'll be out in a minute- Ivan, move." You rummaged around your room in search of the sandals Nikolai had gifted you for your most recent birthday. Ivan flashed you a grin.

      "Tell him!" he whispered as you ducked out the door.

      You hoped you didn't seem too jittery as you took Nikolai's arm, even if your insides were filled with butterflies. He seemed deep in thought for the first few minutes of your walk. It wasn't until you were both outside that he finally spoke.

      "I hope you don't mind me asking, Y/n, but what was Ivan doing in your room?" he asked. 

      The question caught you off guard. Why was he so concerned about you and Ivan? It wasn't as if-

      Oh.

      Oh.

      "Nikolai, don't tell me- are you jealous?" you exclaimed.

      "Just answer the question, Y/n," he grumbled, which was enough of an answer for you.

      You laughed, only feeling a bit bad that you were so amused. Nikolai Lantsov, jealous. You found that incredibly funny. "Oh, I'm sorry for laughing," you apologised, even as another giggle escaped your mouth. "You don't have to worry, Ivan and I are strictly friends."

      He didn't seem convinced. "But the two of you at the party a few days ago-,"

      You cut him off. "Nikolai. I promise that there is nothing romantic going on with Ivan and I. And besides, I don't think I'm anywhere near his type."

      "Ivan likes men, Nikolai," you supplied, sensing his confusion. "Honestly, you need to keep up with gossip - he and Fedyor have been going strong for nearly three months now."

      "Oh," Nikolai said.

      "Yeah, oh."

      "And, uh, do you? Like men, I mean?" 

      You bit back another laugh. "Yes, I do. One man in particular, actually." 

      "Is that so? Care to clue me in on who this man is?"

      "You." 

· · ─── ·𖥸· ─── · ·

Nikolai's pov

"You."

      As soon as that single word came out of your mouth, Nikolai's brain short-circuited, and several alarms blared in his mind. ALERT! ALERT! THE PERSON YOU'RE IN LOVE WITH LIKES YOU BACK! 

      He was too stunned to speak, which was definitely a first. So, naturally, he didn't speak, but instead leaned in to kiss you. His lips brushed chastely against yours. A pause. 

      "I- I'm really sorry, Y/n, I should have asked beforehand-,"

      "Nikolai." you took his face in your hands. "Shut up." 

      And then you kissed him, and if his brain had been short-circuiting before, this was a full blown system failure. Sparks flew inside of him, and he was acutely aware of you and you only. It was a wonderful feeling, one that he immediately missed when you pulled away.

      "Wow," you said. 

      He grinned. "I'm that good of a kisser, huh?"

      When usually you would come up with a witty response, you just smiled. It was a smile Nikolai was pretty sure he'd die to see again. 

· · ─── ·𖥸· ─── · ·

Falling in love with Nikolai had been a long process. Your simple crush developed into something deeper like a leaky faucet dripping - slowly, but steadily. And then the realisation that you were in love with him hit you like a tidal wave. Drowning you, consuming every inch of your being, but not necessarily in a bad way.

       You came to your epiphany while laying awake in bed one night after a whole day spent with the esteemed King of Ravka. It was a wonder that you'd managed to spend a whole 10 hours or so in his company without getting fed up, Tamar had teased. He did annoy you - and had today - but you bullied him back plenty enough. It was easy being with him. Easier than you were used to. 

       You loved the way his eyes sparkled after correcting someone on their use of the word 'impossible'. Loved how he devoted himself to his country so selflessly. Loved how he smiled at you so genuinely and lovingly, even when you didn't have the energy to show your love in return after a bad day. Saints, you loved him so, so much, and you were so in love with him, too, and-

       Holy shit. You were in love with Nikolai.

       You were in love. With Nikolai.

       A childish giggle bubbled up inside of you, and you sighed happily. What a feeling it was to be in love with the King of Ravka, even if he didn't know it yet. 

· · ─── ·𖥸· ─── · ·

You twirled a small flower around in your hands as you walked side by side with Nikolai, your shoulders brushing occasionally. The taller blades of grass tickled your ankles, and a gentle breeze weaved through your hair. The sun peeked out from behind a few clouds, warming your face.

     Nikolai intertwined your fingers, sighing in content. He craned back his neck to meet the sunshine, eyes fluttering shut. He looked stunning, just standing there with his almost otherworldly beauty as light spilled over his fine features, highlighting every detail.

     "I'm in love with you," you blurted suddenly. "I love you, and I'm also in love with you, so. Yeah. I'm in love with you, Nikolai Lantsov."

     You gave yourself a mental round of applause for your eloquence and tact.

      He blinked. "Oh." The ghost of a smile appeared on his face, turning into a full-fledged grin when he finally processed your words. "Oh. I'm... I'm in love with you, too, Y/n L/n."

      You beamed back at him, and cupped his face in your hands. You gently ran your fingers against his cheeks, tracing a line down to the base of his chest. The fabric of his shirt was thin and soft, unlike the suffocating material his suits were made of. Lovingly, he wrapped his arms around your waist, and pulled you close. Your heart fluttered. Saints, you adored Nikolai. More than you could put into words. 

      "I love you," you whispered. "I love you so much, so intensely that it consumes me, and I'm drowning in it. But instead of it being hard to breathe, it makes breathing easier. It makes everything easier." 

      You interrupted your little speech by kissing him, just because it felt appropriate, and continued. "I was so lost without you, Nikolai. I didn't realise it, because as I've proved time and time again, I'm more than capable of holding my own-" you smirked as he rolled his eyes at the jab to his overprotectiveness "-but I was. I was a boat lost at sea, floating around in the waves, with no destination and no goal except surviving. Then you came along, and gave me solace. You were my salvation. You and your endearingly stupid jokes and your wild yet grounded behaviour. You're my anchor, Nikolai." 

      He laughed, but not in the mean way. In the happy way. 

      "I would pay you back with a monologue of my own," he said. "but all I can think of right now is how perfect you are, and how much I want to kiss you."

      Your smile widened, if that were even possible. You met him midway, lips connecting almost desperately. The only coherent thought running through your brain was 'Nikolai, Nikolai, Nikolai.'

      Nikolai.

· · ─── ·𖥸· ─── · ·

"That one looks like a dragon," you said, pointing out a lumpy cloud in the sky.

      Nikolai tilted his head to the left. It was rather cute - he looked like a puppy, trying to figure out what its owner was saying. His right eyebrow curved in an upward arch (you still had no idea how he managed to raise a single eyebrow at a time), and he pouted slightly. Adorable.

      "I don't see it," he deadpanned.

      You sighed and shook your head, dismissing the cute puppy ideology. "Nevermind," you huffed. As hard as you tried to pretend you were upset with him, a smile teased at the corners of your mouth, anyway.

      "I'm sorry, darling, but I really don't!" he exclaimed, flopping back into the picnic blanket you two had laid out. Really, it wasn't even a picnic blanket. It was just a blanket. The two of you hadn't had time to find a proper one before embarking on your impromptu picnic. Nikolai, ever the improviser, had then brandished a quilt from Saints knew where. You suspected it came from Vasily's room, because who else would be pompous enough to own a red velvet blanket the size of China?

      You dramatically exhaled again. "I already said nevermind. Not all of us can be blessed with a creative vision such as mine, after all."

      Nikolai laughed. And Saints, the sound was downright melodic. You didn't even want to begin thinking about all the things you'd do to hear it one more time.

      A comfortable silence settled between the two of you. Eventually, he began stroking your palm with his callouses fingers. You bit back a smile, and linked your pinkies together. A gathering of clouds mostly covered the sun - enough to allow only a bit of warm, gold light to seep out. You wondered briefly how Nikolai looked right now, basking underneath the faint sunshine. 

      The answer came to you easily, even without looking at him: fucking beautiful. 

      However, you wouldn't give him the satisfaction of staring at him. The last time he had caught you gaping at him like a lovesick fool, he had teased you endlessly. It was ridiculous. It wasn't as if he didn't stare at you. No, actually. He stared at you all the time. In fact, he was doing it right now.

      You bit back a grin when you felt his eyes on you. But before you could tease him for it, he got up suddenly, offering you a hand.

      "Come on," he urged. "Follow me."

      "Where to?" you questioned curiously.

      He smirked. Tugged on your hand. Winked. "You'll see." 

      "Right, that's not cryptic at all," you muttered. 

      Eventually, after a minute or so of walking (and plenty of you trying to weasel more information out of him) the two of you had seemed to reach your destination. A huge tree hung above you, offering its shade. You plopped down, but Nikolai remained standing.

      Strangely, he was looking rather nervous. Repeatedly tugging at the collar of his beige button-up shirt, and kicking at the grass. 

      "Y/n, darling, don't just sit there, you're making me nervous," he whined. 

      You giggled, but stood up anyway. "I could say the same about you. What's on your mind, dear?"

      He took a deep breath, and looked you dead in the eyes. "I love you, Y/n. I love you, and I'm in love with you. I always have, and always have been. It's just- you're wonderful. And intelligent. And charming. And I am so, so glad you are my partner - in the romantic sense, and the platonic sense. If I'm being honest, I'm quite sure I'd be tearing at the seams without you to sew me back together every time I do something particularly foolish. 

      And I hope you'll always be there to ground me. Because I will always be there for you. Th-there's no other way to say this, my darling, but I'd quite like to spend the rest of my life with you, so..."

      He brandished a dark blue box from his back pocket (this probably wasn't the time, but you had to mention that you could never fit something that large in your pocket. Why did men's clothing always have bigger pockets?) and got down on one knee. 

      "Will you do me the honour of marrying me, Y/n?" he finished.

      Holy fuck. Holy mother of Saints. Holy everything. Was this real? Saints. This really was real, wasn't it? Nikolai Lantsov was proposing to you.

      A sob escaped from your throat, and you nodded frantically, not wanting him to think you were upset. "Yes," you said. "Saints, Nikolai, yes."

      He smiled. You knew that he smiled a lot, but this smile was different. Usually, he just grinned or smirked in a devilish way - this was more of a beam. He looked so genuinely happy (genuinely happy, because of you!) that it made your heart soar, and you were pretty sure you fell in love with him all over again for the second time. You'd never get tired of it, though. Not when it came to Nikolai (Nikolai, your husband-to-be!). Never when it came to Nikolai.

      You soon found yourself enveloped in a hug. He spun you around, both of you laughing (and crying). When he set you down, you could have sworn you saw his eyes welling up.

      "Now, my love, those better be happy tears," he tutted.

      "Of course they're happy tears, you stupid puppy dog!" you sniffed. "I love you."

      He beamed into your hair. "I love you, too, Y/n."

      What a feeling it was to be in love with Nikolai Lantsov, and to know that he was in love with you, too.

[marauderundercover]

Taking Chances Chapter 4: Unexpected (Bonding)

Prev

AO3

Bruce Wayne felt lost. This wasn’t an unusual feeling for him, but he wasn’t particularly fond of the events that led to him feeling lost. First, he found out he had a daughter. Yet another child that he hadn’t known of their existence. Then, he acted as Batman. He researched the girl and found that her school situation was...less than ideal. As was the supervillain situation in Paris. The girl- his daughter- had been targeted several times. Sometimes the Akuma went after her from the start. Other times, she was unfortunate enough to be in its line of sight when it was on a rampage. Any way you looked at it, she was in danger. No, the biggest mistake in researching her came with the phone number for the bakery run by her parents. Two lovely people who had raised her and taught her right from wrong. Something he hadn’t done. Their phone call was what left him feeling lost. They hadn’t demanded that he stay away from his daughter- from Marinette. No, on the contrary, they thought it was a great idea for the two to bond. Especially once Bruce had mentioned his other children. 

“Marinette was distraught when the only information we could give her about her birth father was his name.” Sabine had said, adding to Bruce’s confusion. 

“You had my name but didn’t reach out?” Bruce asked, trying (and failing) to figure out the situation. 

“We didn’t have much to go on. Just your name and that you were American and worked in business. Bridgette didn’t give any specifics, and back then it didn’t really matter. I assumed Bruce Wayne was a common enough name, especially in the US.” Sabine replied simply. The rest of their conversation had gone similarly, with Bruce growing more and more lost until the end. They hadn’t even suggested a DNA test (though he was planning on asking Marinette, just so that they could be completely certain). They just wanted Marinette happy. Even if it meant meeting and bonding with the man who hadn’t known about her existence. 

---

Marinette Dupain Cheng was not having an easy week. No, her week was sucky. In fact it was beyond sucky, it was shitty. So many things were happening at the same time, and she was just grateful that she wasn’t currently in Paris, since she was certain she’d be akumatized. From being attacked by the Joker for simply looking like a Wayne, to meeting Batman who was just as angry in person, and then figuring out Bruce Wayne really was her dad and accidentally calling him Batman, to fighting an Akuma by herself (one that she could barely handle) and then to top it all off, Adrien is Chat Noir. And Adrien has a crush on her, as Marinette. And apparently has for at least a month. Oh and now he knows that she’s Ladybug and so last night was filled with her Chat Blanc nightmares all over again. The cherry on the top of this mess was the fact that the class was practically ignoring her. She was sure they weren’t doing it intentionally and that they were just kinda distracted by Lila’s tall tales of Gotham. Tales that include her dating one of Bruce Wayne’s sons. She wouldn’t clarify which one, which was probably for the best. They two closest to their age were 12 and 19. Neither a great option for the 15 year old Italian. A shrill ringing tugs Marinette out of her thoughts. Glancing down at the unknown number attempting to call her, Marinette silently prayed that this would turn her shitty week around. 

“Hello?” She answers, wincing slightly at the way her voice sounds after a night filled with screaming and crying from nightmares. 

“Is this Marinette Dupain Cheng?” A deep voice asks. Marinette frowns. 

“Um, yes?”

“Good. This is Bruce Wayne and well, I’m not sure how to-”

“You’re my dad.” She blurts out, face instantly heating up. “Oh crap, I mean, um-”

“Well yes. I do believe I may be your father. I was in contact with your parents earlier, to ask about boundaries and such. Your mother says that you had shown interest in meeting me and seeing how we’re similar?” He says, the question clear in his voice. Marinette opens her mouth to respond, then frowns. 

“Just like that? We’re gonna meet, just like that?” She asks, hoping that her distrustful tone doesn’t push the man away. 

“I’ll admit that I was going to ask if you would mind a paternity test. After speaking with your mother, I have no doubts, but I thought it might make you feel better. And of course, if you would prefer to just act as though I didn’t speak to your parents and go on with your trip, we can do that as well. I just- I was caught off guard, if I’m being honest.” Bruce Wayne- her father- says. 

“I’ll do it. I- I would like to get to know you. I can’t have a relationship with Bridgette, but if my parents are okay with it, I do want a relationship with you.” Marinette admits, holding her breath as she waits for an answer. There’s silence on the other end for a long moment, but just as Marinette’s about to apologize and tell him he can go and pretend she doesn’t exist, he answers. His voice a little softer this time. 

“I would like that.” 

---

The paternity test came out positive, to no one’s surprise. Bruce had given Marinette the option of meeting somewhere more public (like a restaurant or museum) to bond, or coming over to the manor. Not quite ready to deal with the possibility of paparazzi and the rumors (no matter how true they may be) that would stem from a public visit, Marinette agreed to going to the manor for dinner. Which is how she ended up sitting in silence in a town car with a man who seemed like he knew more than he was letting on. 

“So, you’re the one who raised Mr. Wayne?” Marinette asks, not quite ready to call the man “Dad” or any variation of the word. The man nods and she meets his eyes in the rearview mirror. 

“Indeed, Miss. I am Alfred Pennyworth.” The man, Monsieur Pennyworth, says calmly. She tries not to let the frustration that she feels building show on her face. She feels like she should know this man, like there’s something important that she’s just barely missing. 

“Have we met before?” Marinette finally asks, racking her brain as she tries to figure out why this man is so familiar to her. 

“I don’t believe so, Miss Dupain Cheng.” He says, and for the first time since meeting him, it doesn’t feel like he’s all knowing. Instead, it feels like he’s just as confused as she is. Drat. She opens her mouth to question him more, when the huge manor becomes visible in the distance. Eyes widening, Marinette forgets everything else and turns her attention to the beautiful architecture. The giant fence and metal gates do little to hide the massive house. Sections of the house rise above others, almost as if there are towers. Dozens of windows are visible, as is the giant fountain at the front of the house. Ripping her sketchbook out of her bag, Marinette immediately starts sketching out the ideas that attack her mind. Dresses and suits and skirts, all using the architecture in front of her for the basic shapes of the outfits. As the car goes past the gate and the gardens come into view, Marinette can’t hold back her shocked gasp. Shaped hedges and flowers, hundreds of different colored flowers, and trees and- it was beautiful. Almost too perfect. Like something that belonged in a movie. She jumps slightly as the car door is opened, Alfred standing on the other side with an eyebrow quirked up. Right. She was actually getting out of the car. And going into this massive house. And spending time with her biological- nope. She can’t do this. She can’t- 

“Miss Dupain Cheng, if it makes you feel any better, Master Bruce seems to have run into some traffic on his way back from the office. You’ll have a few minutes to gather your bearings inside before he arrives.” Alfred says softly. Relief washes over her and she nods, finally moving to get out of the car. 

“Thank you, Alfred.” She says, smiling at the man. He nods back at her before leading her up the steps to the door. He opens it and then steps back, allowing her to take a tentative step into the house. Her previous panic is pushed aside as she realizes the inside is just as gorgeous as the outside. Immediately turning back to her sketchbook, she tunes out the world around her and just stands in the foyer, scribbling furiously into her sketchbook. 

“Um, hi?” A voice says, making Marinette yelp and jump, eyes scanning her surroundings until they fall on a guy. A pretty tall guy. 

“Hi.” She says softly, also confused as to who this guy was. Not her- dad-biological father-other part of her DNA-father-Mr. Wayne- not anyone she had ever met, that’s for sure. 

“I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Dick Grayson.” The man says, extending his hand, a smile on his face. Anyone else probably would have thought the smile was sincere, but Marinette had always been good at reading emotions. And she could tell that he was wary of her. Why would he- oh. Grayson. As in, Richard Grayson, as in this man was her brother. Or, well, maybe he wouldn’t want to be. Maybe he would think that she’s ridiculous or that she’s just here to get money or here to try and pull apart Mr. Wayne’s family or maybe he would think that she was trying to take his place and she would never but maybe he would hate her and- She takes in a deep breath, trying desperately to ground herself and wishing she’d taken up Adrien’s earlier offer of him coming with. 

“I’m Marinette. Marinette Dupain Cheng.” She finally says, reaching out and shaking his hand. He nods, obviously still confused. So Mr. Wayne hadn’t mentioned her. Did he hate her? Did he ask her here to have her sign a NDA? Did he not want anything to do with her? Of course he wouldn’t, he obviously already had a family. A family that he chose, not one that he had by accident. His name was on her birth certificate, surely he would have found her sooner if he actually wanted anything to do with her? He chose Dick Grayson to be his son. He wanted him. He didn’t want Marinette. He-

“Ah, Marinette. I see you’ve met Dick.” The last voice she needed to hear says calmly as he walks through the door. Marinette swallows back the thickness in her throat, the one that tells her the tears will be starting soon. 

“Uh, yes. Mr. Wayne. Um, hi.” She says, flinching slightly when he winces. What did she do wrong this time? Was he really going to tell her to take a hike? If he didn’t hate her before, he surely did now. 

“Bruce, what’s going-” Dick starts to ask but is cut off by screaming voices getting closer to them.

“What the hell is wrong with you, Demon Spawn?” 

“Not my fault your blocking skills are subpar, Todd.”

“Sub- you almost stabbed me, you little shit!”

“Almost, yes. But I didn’t. I’m sure Father will be pleased with my restraint.” 

“You little fu-” “Boys!” Mr. Wayne finally yells as the two screaming walk into view. Both freeze and the younger one’s eyes instantly fall on Marinette, narrowing as he takes a defensive position. 

“Another one, Bruce, really?” The older one asks, making Marinette flinch back. Of course. Two more of his sons-her brothers- who he chose. Another two that he wanted. Not like her, someone he was going to be forced to know. Unless he told her tonight that he never wanted to speak to her again and made her sign a paper saying that she would never contact him again and then they would never have to worry about seeing her again and- oh this is a lot. 

“What were you two doing?” Mr. Wayne finally asks, and that’s when Marinette sees the weapons in their hands. And the blood on the older man’s shirt. The man turns slightly so that that part of his shirt is hidden when he notices her staring. 

“Uh, bonding?” He says, not at all convincing. 

“Who is that, Father?” The younger boy asks, the utter distaste clear on both his face and in his tone. And this is it. This is where he’s going to say that she’s no one, she’s nothing, and then he’s going to make her sign that stupid piece of paper and the last chance she has at knowing one of her biological parents is going to fly out the window. Poof. And then she’ll be so embarrassed, she won’t be able to go back on the trip and then she’ll have to change her name but she can’t completely run away yet because of stupid Hawkmoth and-

“This is Marinette, my daughter.” Well that was unexpected.

Next

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[forzalando]

royally screwed | fw | pt. two

pairing: prince!fred x princess!reader word count: 2.4k warnings: cursing, mentions of meals/food, arranged marriage, enemies to lovers a/n: hello friends! happy valentine’s day!!💛the long awaited part two is here and i hope you all enjoy!😊bonus points if you catch the subtle hp references in this chapter hahaha thank you to @spacexcowgirl​ for beta reading, i love you dearly!! you can read part one here

summary: Prince Frederick Weasley of Burrow was a twin, but unfortunately, at least in his mind, he was born the eldest twin, meaning it was his duty to inherit the kingdom. Since the young age of ten, Fred knew that he was to marry Princess Y/N Y/L/N of Diagon, and over the years they’ve both come to dread the day. With the eve of their wedding closely approaching, their disdain for each other begins to worry their respective families. However, there is a very fine line between love and hate.

Y/N awoke the next morning and immediately recounted the previous day’s events; she could feel the puffiness in her face and eyes from the tears shed after her Mother left her room. She had hoped that their conversation would go differently, but it was done and there was nothing left she could say regarding the matter.

A sharp knock on Y/N’s chamber door had her jumping up and crossing the room faster than her feet would carry her. She stumbled a bit, almost crashing into the door before pulling it open, only to see the most peculiar sight.

Frederick Weasley, with his siblings stood behind him, although George was standing rather close so that he could pinch his brother’s ear.

“Well,” Ginny goaded, “go on then, you arse.”

Fred turned swiftly to shoot his sister a glare, but George’s grip on his ear had him wincing in pain.

“You better get going or I swear I’ll rip it off,” George grumbled, struggling to hide the jesting smile creeping on his face.

“Fine, fine,” Fred huffed. “Princess Y/N, I would like to apologize for my behavior last night. It was entirely unacceptable and I hope that you can find it in your impossibly sma-”

Ginny quickly stomped on Fred’s foot, interrupting what Y/N was sure would be an insult.

“Pardon me, your impossibly large heart, to forgive me. I was also wondering if you would care to join me for breakfast in the drawing room.”

George promptly let go of Fred’s ear, but not without one final yank, and the entire clan of Weasley siblings looked at Y/N expectantly, awaiting her answer with fervor.

“You must be absolutely mad, Frederick Weasley,” she scoffed, folding her arms across her chest in defiance. “After your attitude last night, which you had for no reason, I might add, and you come knocking on my door to ask if I want to have breakfast with you? I don’t want to see your face unless I have to!”

“I’m trying, Y/N! You said that the least I could was try, so here I am, offering to spend time with you when I’d rather lick the floor in the foyer.”

“Well, then, feel free to go scrub the floors with your tongue because I will not join you for a meal today or any other day!”

Fred stalked away with no objections from his siblings, who were all laughing at Y/N’s quip. She had a satisfied smile on her face as well, but it quickly fell when she averted her gaze to the three other Weasley siblings.

“Now what exactly did you think that was going to accomplish?” Y/N spoke with a, mostly, playful glare to the three standing before her.

“Honestly, we were hoping a bit that you wouldn’t answer the door. Mum made us drag him down here,” George answered with a shrug of his shoulders.

“But, now that we are here,” Ginny said excitedly, “will you have breakfast with us?”

Y/N smiled softly; she could never say no to spending time with her only friends.

“Let me get dressed and I’ll meet you…where should I meet you?”

“The drawing room…” Ron mumbled, hoping Y/N wouldn’t recall that Fred wanted to take his breakfast there as well.

“You three are insufferable,” Y/N laughed, “however, I’ll be there in ten. Hopefully he will be gone by then.”

Y/N gently shut her door and quickly threw on a dress and her day slippers; her mother would absolutely have a fit if she saw the disheveled state she was in, but Y/N simply couldn’t care.

After a quick glance in the mirror, Y/N hurried through the castle corridors that she had come to know so well and made it to the drawing room in record time. To her delight, Frederick was nowhere to be seen.

“Good Morning, dear,” Queen Molly said warmly from her seat. “Have you by chance seen Fred this morning?”

Y/N heard the quiet snickering of Ron and George and then a hushed “shut it” that could only have come from Ginny.

“Oh, yes, Queen Molly, he stopped by my chambers to apologize. Very out of character for him, I wonder if someone slipped something into his morning tea.”

Molly Weasley hummed lightly, taking the slightly sarcastic tone of Y/N’s voice to mean that things hadn’t gone as she directed.

“That’s lovely, dear, maybe you’ll actually have a civil conversation in the gardens.”

Y/N set down her tea slowly, trying not to act shocked because she had no knowledge of a walk in the gardens.

“The gardens? I didn’t know anything about the gardens,” Y/N mused inquisitively.

“That’s where Fred is right now, I told him you’d be along in a few minutes. He even looked a bit excited,” Molly teased.

Y/N snorted inelegantly and immediately covered it with a cough; she rose from the table and looked pleadingly at George, hoping he could come up with some form of an excuse that would save her from time spent with Frederick, but George refused to look at her and continued eating his breakfast unbothered.

“I’ll go meet him now, Queen Molly. I’m sure he’s awfully busy so we can make this short,” Y/N said with a smile.

“Fred is free all day, I cleared his schedule, dear.”

“Brilliant,” she grimaced.

With a half-hearted wave, she left the drawing room and begrudgingly walked towards the gardens, smiling politely at each person she passed. Even if her future husband did not care for her, Y/N took comfort in knowing that his family and the people in the castle did; she hoped it would make the rest of her life tolerable.

All too soon, Y/N felt the sunshine on her face as she stepped into the magnificent palace gardens. She could spot Prince Frederick’s fiery hair a mile away; he was standing near the rose bushes twirling a yellow one between his long fingers.

The rustling of the grass between Y/N’s feet caused Fred to turn around to find the source of the noise.

He stalled a bit; even though he despised the Princess of Diagon, he could never deny that she was breathtakingly beautiful. Her hair was unkempt, a soft pink, cotton gown swished around her legs as she stalked toward him, and her face was set in a scowl but even the worst grimace could not distract from her captivating eyes.

It was entirely infuriating, and it made Fred want to hate her even more, but some intrinsic force wouldn’t allow him.

“What are you staring at?” Y/N asked, her eyebrow raising.

“Nothing,” Fred replied with a shake of his head. “I’m just thinking of all the ways I’d rather spend my morning.”

“Well, it seemed like you were staring at me. Do it again and I’ll push you into the rose bushes, I don’t care if you are the future King.”

Fred turned his head and tried not to crack a smile, but failed miserably as the corner of his mouth quirked up involuntarily.

“Let’s get this over with, Y/N, can your stubby legs keep up?”

“It’s not my fault you shot up like a bloody bean pole; you went from stumpy to looking like someone sewed tree limbs together and animated them.”

“Most women like tall men.”

“I like tall men, Frederick, I just don’t like you.”

A stunned silence fell over the two royals, only the sounds of the rustling leaves and nearby animals could be heard.

“I suppose that’s why you like Prince Cedric, then?”

“Beg your pardon?” Y/N’s eyes widened, confused at the sudden interrogation.

“Your conversation with your Mother last night, how you begged her to marry him instead. Or my brother. Or that horrid Malfoy.”

“You had no right – that was a private conversation. How dare you eavesdrop on my personal business? Every time I think you have a shred of decency you prove me wrong, Frederick Weasley.”

Fred stepped in front of the Princess, blocking her path and preventing her from walking on.

“Prove you wrong? I had come to your room to apologize when I heard you plotting with your Mother to run off with someone else and disrespect my family.”

“I would never disrespect your family. They’ve never been anything but good and kind to me, the last thing I would ever want to do is hurt them. I haven’t the slightest idea how you’re related to any of them.”

“Oh, I know, you have them all wrapped around your little finger,” Fred scoffed.

“I’m not going to stand here and fight with you, Frederick, I don’t have the energy. Can we please just keep moving and we can tell your Mother we had a wonderful time and learned so much about each other.”

Y/N stepped around Fred, lightly grabbing his wrist to pull him along through the endless rows of flowers.

“She’ll probably quiz us and you don’t even know my favorite color,” Fred griped.

“It’s purple, I think,” Y/N blurted. “I overheard you telling your Mum years ago that you wanted purple frosting on some dessert. I figured that meant it was your favorite.”

“And you remembered?”

“There aren’t a lot of things I forget about the people in my life, Frederick. If it’s important to you, I’ll remember.”

“But you don’t care about me, why did you even bother?”

Y/N sighed and shook her head before turning to look at Fred, shielding her eyes from the sun.

“Contrary to popular belief, I don’t hate you. I don’t particularly like you, maybe in a different life we’d actually be friends, but I don’t hate you. I don’t hate anyone.”

Fred realized this was the longest they’d gone without arguing in years, and it was barely one tenth of a conversation. He turned his head slightly to watch Y/N, taking in the way she gazed lovingly at the surrounding flora, and noticed her eyes linger a bit longer every so often.

“Yellow,” Fred mumbled.

“What was that?” Y/N asked.

“You look longer at the yellow flowers. Yellow is your favorite color.”

Y/N smiled softly, the same smile she’d given Fred when she had arrived the day before but it was infinitely more sincere.

“If you were like this all the time, you wouldn’t be so bad Frederick.”

“Who says I’m not?”

Y/N rolled her eyes and this time Fred could not contain himself; he laughed loudly, and the sound triggered a fluttering of sorts in the Princess’s chest. They continued their walk, chattering idly and the Prince even picked a blooming yellow rose and delicately handed it to his Princess.

“I really did want to apologize last night, you know,” Fred assured. “I didn’t have any reason to be so rude when you arrived, I guess it was just…habit. We have a way of getting under each other’s skin.”

“Apology accepted, for your rudeness yesterday, of course. But, you owe me another.”

“Another?”

“Yes, for eavesdropping on me and my Mother.”

“That conversation involved me, I hardly think it’s one I shouldn’t be aware of if you’re trying to finagle your way out of our betrothal.”

“It may involve you, but it was a private conversation.”

“That involved me.”

“My God, I’ve said it before but truly every time I think you can redeem yourself, you do or say something completely asinine. Do you have any manners?”

“You were talking about me, I felt I had a right to listen!”

Y/N groaned loudly in annoyance, drawing the attention of the nearby guards.

“I don’t even believe you wanted to apologize, you had the chance this morning and just insulted me like you always do! Every decent part of you is nothing but an act!”

“You don’t even know me,” Fred seethed.

“No, I don’t, but it’s because you won’t let me!”

“You’ve never even tried, don’t attempt to play me for a fool, Y/N.”

“Well, I’m trying now. I’m trying now and still all we can do is fight.”

The two stood toe to toe, breathing heavily and staring into each other’s eyes. After a few moments, Y/N looked away and sighed deeply. It sounded almost dejected, Fred realized, rather than the anger he had expected.

“Go ahead of me back to the castle, please, I’d like to actually enjoy the rest of the walk.”

“I don’t have to take orders from – ”

“You’ll do as I say, Frederick Weasley,” Y/N snapped.

Fred wanted to argue; God, did he want to argue with her until he was blue in the face, but something about the tone of her voice frightened him a bit. So, he scoffed and stalked back to the castle, swinging his fists by his sides and gritting his teeth.

He passed by his twin, giving George a half-hearted wave before entering the castle. It wasn’t hard to sense the tone of what had transpired, and George shook his head and took off running towards the gardens to find Y/N.

“Oi! What did he do this time?” George shouted as he slowed to a stop in front of Y/N.

“Just the usual. Acting like a pompous prick that can do no wrong. He was nice for two minutes and then refused to apologize for eavesdropping last night on a conversation between me and my Mother!”

George rolled his eyes and raked a hand down his face, massaging his temples in preparation for the headache that his brother always managed to give him.

“Y/N, you know he’s not malicious, he’s just an idiot sometimes,” George offered.

“I appreciate you defending him but at the moment it’s going in one ear and out the other, Georgie.”

He laughed and slung an arm around the Princess’s shoulders, joining her on the remainder of her walk through the gardens. He noticed Y/N twirling a yellow rose around and every so often lifting it to inhale its sweet scent.

“Stealing flowers from our gardens, eh?” George jested, bumping his hip into Y/N.

“Frederick picked it for me, actually,” she mumbled.

“Well, that’s sweet. You two can get along, is what I’m seeing and hearing.”

“It was a momentary lapse of judgment,” Y/N sighed, before throwing the perfect rose to the ground and ensuring her slipper crushed the delicate petals.

When they were good and flattened into the Earth, she swore she felt an ache in her chest.

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[cherry-draws]

[Master Kohga x Reader] Fantasy Night

Warning : this One-Shot contains sensuality, but not sexual scenes or violence.

Here is my first x Reader text, I'm not fond of this kind of litterature so I decided to do one in my way. I hope you'll enjoy it, do not hesitate to leave me a comment if you have any question or suggestion !

It had been a while since you joined the yiga clan, and you had gotten used to it faster than you thought. Contrary to what rumors might suggest, it didn't sound so much like a cult, although headed by a leader, you were more like family. As a simple yiga footsoldier, you spent your days on a mission, roaming the endless and verdant plains of Hyrule. Fearing that you would be reprimanded if you came home empty-handed, you often made arrangements to bring back food or rupies. During your days off, you liked to alternate rest time and activities with your circle of friends.

That evening, a party was organized to celebrate an achievement: your clan had managed to steal the Thunder Helm, a sacred relic belonging to a people living in a distant city in the desert. It was a unique object, allowing protection against lightning, and which could be resold at a high price.

Some members, whith coocking habilities, had been busy preparing multitudes of banana-based dishes: pancakes, fruit chutneys, salads, cakes, etc.

Everyone was gathered, including your leader, Master Kohga, and everyone seemed to be having a good time.

The party had dragged on until late at night, and while most of the members had gone to bed, the more reckless ended up dozing off in the kitchen.

You were part of it, except you weren't asleep, you were pretending. You glanced fondly at a sleeping footsoldier in the arms of an officer. It didn't surprise you, indeed, you had suspected them of feeling an attraction to each other for some time.

You too were secretly attracted to someone from your clan. Lying on your side, your head resting on your left arm, your right leg drawn back to your chest, you watched in silence, almost holding your breath. You hadn't told anyone about it, you did everything to show nothing. The truth is, you weren't interested in the slim, skinny bodies of your fellow underlings, nor did you look at the sturdy, muscular figures of the officers, who tended to impress you. No, the one you were interested in, was him.

Kohga was different on this point. He had generous shapes, and that's what appealed to you.

You took a certain pleasure in watching him as he slept, full, his back leaning against the wall, his chin tucked slightly towards his chest. Those slender arms, that flat chest, that round belly, those broad thighs ... How many times had you wanted to get closer and curl up against his body, how many times had you hoped for a brief physical contact? Still, you didn't feel like you had romantic feelings, it turned out mostly to be respect mixed with fascination. You were just physically attracted to him, and you considered it guilty pleasure. Of course, everyone in the clan thought Kohga was charismatic, but did everyone else feel the same? A part of you was telling yourself that it wasn't normal to be attracted to this type of physique, that you shouldn't think of such things to your leader, but you quickly pushed the idea out of your mind. . You especially wanted to take advantage of this moment to watch it with impunity, while you gradually let yourself fall asleep.

Some kinds of complaints pulled you out of your drowsiness, you tried to ignore them at first, but their persistence prevented you from going back to sleep. Intrigued by their provenance, you stood up awkwardly, leaning on your hands and shook your head. Once you woke up, you realized Kohga was no longer sleeping. He was standing in a position of some discomfort and moaning loudly, which made you feel worried.

"M-Master Kohga ... is everything okay?" Are you hurt?

-Yes, I think .... that I am a victim of indigestion ... I should never have eaten so much tonight ...》

Looking around the surroundings, you realized that you were completely alone, the last members had probably ended up going to bed. You think for a few seconds about what to do.

“Um ... I think you'd be better in your bed. I ... if you wish, I can take you in your bedroom.

-Impossible, I can't even ... get up ... I'm going to stay here until it's over. Do not worry about me. You can go to sleep ... ah, ouch!”

Seeing him bend over in pain, for the first time since you joined the clan, you refused to obey. Your instinct seemed to take over your reason, and your body began to act on its own.You knelt down and grabbed his left hand in your hands, then your eyes met. Your heartbeat quickened slightly as you felt a new sensation run through your body. This physical contact, that you dreamed of so much had just happened, and you saw your chance to get closer.

"Sorry. I cannot leave if you are not feeling well. Let me heal you. I know a method, I know how to practice a kind of massage ... if it doesn't work, I will go and tell the others. Please.

-I'm really in pain ... do what you want but do not stay there doing nothing, it's an order!

-Shhh ... Calm down. All I need is you to relax and let me go. I promise you'll feel better soon. "

The impulses, which you tried to hide from the eyes of others since the day they manifested themselves, were felt more and more. At this point, you had no other choice but to let them express themselves.

The next moment you were leaning over Kohga, your face barely three feet from his, massaging his belly. Your hands were back and forth in circular movements, your thin fingers tapped lightly or bent back from time to time. You could easily feel his skin stretched through the fabrics, you weren't content just to contemplate his curves, now you could touch them. You had to restrain yourself to not undo his belts. Could you afford it? Was he going to let you do it without showing opposition ? Did you just wanted to keep its from hurting, or was it just to give yourself more freedom? On the other hand, you liked to see those bands of leather tightening more and more against his flesh, and seeing them burst due to pressure would probably not have displeased you. Your right leg came to rest between his, as you gently pressed your face against his stomach, kissing it.

Yoou didn't even knew if you were taking care of your leader, or if you let your fantasies taking life. The feeling of desire that burned deep in your being had now changed to an indescribable pleasure. You were alone, Kohga offered no resistance, and this was perhaps your one and only opportunity to gain access to this bulky body. In all your life, you had never felt so good, so relaxed, so free.

A whisper from him brought you back to reality for a brief moment. Intrigued, you leaned forward, almost lying beside him.

“I feel better, the pain has eased ... I think I'll be able to go back to sleep now.

-If you don't mind, I would like to stay by your side for the night. If you ever feel bad again, I would like to be sure that I can intervene quickly.

-Well, if you want to and if that can reassure you, okay. You just have to lie down here.

-Thank you. Rest Master Kogha, I will watch over you. "

After a long time devoted to this massage, you end up snuggling up against his body. You leaned your head against his chest, resting your right leg against his thick thighs, and hugged his plump belly with your slender arm. His steady heartbeat and barely audible breathing calmed you. You felt his hand rest on your shoulder, which made you shiver slightly, but gave you a sense of security. Regardless of whether he made the gesture consciously or not, you could finally sleep peacefully.

Entwined.

When you woke up, you weren't sure where you were anymore. When your eye got used to the brightness of the room, you realized that you were completely alone in the kitchen. You got up slowly feeling as though you had slept wonderfully. Then everything suddenly comes back to you. You looked your way, walking nervously through the hallway. What if everything you've been through was nothing but the fruit of a fantasy? If this really happened, what were the consequences going to be? What would happen if Master Kohga realized what you had done? Lost in your thoughts, you heard a voice calling you.

"Hey, oh, Y / N, what are you doing, are you daydreaming?"

-Who me ? Oh uh excuse me Mahy, I was lost in my thoughts, what were you telling me?

-In fact, I need you to do me a favor. We were about to get ready for the day when several members started complaining about having a stomach ache, some even didn't want to get up. It hurts me seeing them like this, so I decided to prepare a medecine to relieve them. I would like you to boil some water, during that time I will check if there are any herbs left in the storeroom.

-Of course, you can count on me! "

You picked up an abandoned torch that you brought up to a lighted candelabra before returning with a determined step towards the kitchen and lighting the fire under the container. Finally, you poured in a generous amount of water and knelt down while waiting for Mahy to return. If you were focused on your task, in your head, everything was jostling. The fact that some of your comrades were also sick indicated that what you had not dreamed. Of course, you didn't regret what hhappened, but you feared possible consequences. You heard the quick and lively footsteps of your friend coming towards you. She appeared, her arms laden with grass.

“The harvest was good ! We're going to boil this for a few minutes and it'll be good. Thanks for your help anyway.

-That's not much. "

After filling the bottles with still boiling herbal tea, you headed for the dormitories. You walked back, still preoccupied with the events, hoping no one noticed anything. Once you got to the rooms, you stopped.

"Hello Mahy, hello Y / N, there you are finally. I decided to give you a day off for today, since most of the soldiers are sick. But I want it to be a lesson to you, next time avoid stuffing yourselves like boboklins!

-Do not worry about that Master Kohga, we have prepared herbal tea, soon everything would be nothing else but a bad memory!

-Well, I see we have two young doctors in our clan, that's good news! Y / N, when you're done, I'd like to talk to you.

-You can go now, I can take care of the distribution by myself, you have already helped me a lot.

-M… Thank you, Mahy. "

Anxious, you started to follow your leader. You walked hesitantly, apprehensively, holding your hands nervously. You took the opportunity to discreetly contemplate his back, remembering that last night, you snuggled up against this thick body. Once away from the rest of the group, he stopped and turned in his direction. You straighten up, standing straight, as if you were about to receive an order.

"Y / N, yesterday, I fell asleep before I had time to thank you, that's why I summoned you. You stayed awake for a long time just to heal me. So ... thank you for everything you've done.

-Oh uh ... if it was just that ... it's nothing, I couldn't sit back and do nothing. By the way, I wanted to ask you ... I ... did I hurt you yesterday? I'm not used to massages so I wondered. "

-Hey? But not at all, it makes me feel way better, as a proof the pain is gone. Looks like you've been doing this for years! Besides, why don't you practice this technique on our members, it would cure them ? Or then, there is only the strong, the burly, the one, the only, the Master Kogha, who deserved this ? "

There was silence for several long seconds. Then he burst out laughing.

“Mwahahahaha! I'm kidding, don't worry ! Now you can go. "

You left the room feeling happy, light, peaceful, as if you had relieved your conscience. You could now enjoy your day, and think back to that night without feeling guilty.

[honey-dewey]

The Prince’s Dogs

Pairing: Oberyn Martell/Reader

Word Count: 4,171

Warnings: None!

Permanent Taglist: @phoenixhalliwell @star-wars-hell

Upon leaving your small village and getting a job in Dorne working for the two princes of Sunspear, you had no idea how much you’d miss one very small yet very pivotal part of your life. The rain. However, being the dog trainer for Prince Oberyn might beat the rain. Might. 

A/N: Have I watched Game of Thrones? Nope! But I’ve started reading the books and read a bit of book 3 with Oberyn, so that’s what this is based off of. Oops. 

Of all the things you missed about home, the rain was what you missed most. Dorne was a fine kingdom with ample sun and the intoxicating smell of salt in the air. But rain was scarce this far south in Sunspear, and you longed for a day where the skies opened and wept, showering the earth.

But the rain was something you could not have, so you settled for a life many would envy. A position in the Dornish palace, dressed in fine clothes rather than your worn out linens. You dearly missed your old home, with the smell of wet dirt and the muddy ground beneath your bare feet, but when your parents had passed, you needed to leave, finding work and income to keep yourself alive.

And you’d found it. You were a servant for the Martell family, although you rarely saw your masters. Doran was always busy, and his younger brother was typically nowhere to be found when he was needed. You’d never met Elia, but the stories were prominent, even to your people. Anyone south of King’s Landing knew all too well the story of Elia Martell.

The Martells treated their servants well. When you’d arrived, they’d put you to work immediately in the kitchens, scrubbing copper kitchenware until your hands were red. The woman who oversaw your work was impressed. Apparently most ended their days with bloodied fingertips. You’d told her you worked with animals day in and day out where you’d come from, and your hands were well prepared for harsh conditions. However, despite the grind, you wore soft clothes. A linen shirt you’d refused to give up, brown pants, and a deep yellow robe you often never wore. You were built for the cold, and Dorne was hot as an oven. A robe would only serve to boil you alive.

You sighed, scrubbing a large cooking pot and dunking it under the water again. Your face was finally legible in the surface, warped and coppery, but legible nonetheless. You hung it to dry alongside the other pots you’d cleaned, turning back yet again to the pile of dirty dishes. You were elbow deep in soapy water when someone exclaimed, “My Prince! I did not see you there!”

“It’s fine my dear,” a honeyed voice said, thick with a Dornish accent. “I did not mean to scare you.”

Hanging another pot, you finally turned to see your visitor.

Prince Oberyn Martell stood by the fire, the flames dancing in his onyx eyes. He smiled at you, and you felt yourself flush. “And this must be the one who keeps my dogs. I’d recognize those hands anywhere.”

You nodded. Once she’d learned you worked dogs in your past, your overseer assigned you to keep the prince’s dogs when you weren’t busy. He had five, all of whom were slender and fast and well trained thanks to you. All the dogs sat by your feet during meals solely because you fed them scraps of your food, and apparently the prince had taken notice. “Yes, I am. Is there a problem with their training?”

Oberyn chuckled. “Quite the contrary, in fact. The girls are swift as ever, and have no hesitation while hunting. Tell me, how did you train them to run through rivers?”

“Food.” It was a true answer. You’d taken the dogs to a shallow pond and baited them across the water, working your way up until you were baiting them across the deepest river you could find. Compared to training dogs in pelting rain, which you had done before, training the dogs to swim fearlessly had been simple.

“Ah,” Oberyn said with a smile. “Food, of course. I suppose this means you’re also the reason Nyx and Artemis are looking a bit rounder than usual?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Your dogs are all in perfect health,” you said sternly. “And if two of your ladies are looking too well fed, then I should not be confronted, because I had nothing to do with it.” It was a blatant lie, and you both knew it.

Oberyn put his hands up. “I was merely making an observation,” he said lightly. “I’ll be leaving you to your washing up.”

You did as he left you to do, washing each dish until it shone and then heading to the doghouse. It was big as your old house back home, and all five dogs rushed to the door as you opened it.

“Hello girls!” You said eagerly, kneeling down so they could all nip at your ears and fingers. “How are we today?”

The dogs all dispersed after that. It was late and there was a warm fire, so three of the dogs curled up to sleep. Nyx and Athena stayed awake, wrestling for a toy before Athena grew bored and trotted off to sleep with her sisters. So Nyx found the next best thing to play with. You.

You wrestled Nyx for the toy, rolling around on the ground and laughing as she growled at you. You growled right back, shaking the toy and coaxing Nyx to drop it. She did, and you tossed it across the room for her to chase after. Nyx was the leader of the pack, the biggest and the oldest. Her muzzle was streaked with grey, but her black and white coat still shone with youth and her eyes sparkled when she was playing. She would always be a puppy at heart.

She returned the toy to you, and you took it. Nyx snapped her jaws at you in an attempt to take the toy, but you pulled it away quickly. “Absolutely not!” You said firmly. “We don’t snatch.” You made Nyx sit, her eyes trained on her toy the entire time. When you finally threw it again, she caught it and trotted right past you with it, dropping it obediently at the feet of her master.

You stood quickly, nearly tripping over yourself as you did so. You knew you looked a mess. Covered from head to foot in dog fur and saliva, your sleeves were still damp from washing dishes and your feet were bare, as they always were. Your hair, which you’d grown long upon arriving in Dorne, was a mess of tangles. Your morning’s braid was long gone.

But the prince didn’t seem to mind. Instead, he scratched Nyx behind the ears and tossed her toy, sending her joyously chasing after it. “I figured I’d find you here,” he said. “The guards said you liked to put the dogs to bed every night.”

You nodded, relaxing a bit as Oberyn sat on a bench and gestured you to his side. Nyx followed you, sitting practically on your feet as you sat. You absently scratched under her ornate collar, hearing her foot thump the ground as you found the sweat spot to scratch. Oberyn smiled as Nyx squirmed under your hands. “You work the girls well.”

“It was my job back home,” you admitted. “I worked the hunting dogs. They were stockier and slower than yours, but could take down anything they wanted. Training them was a task, especially during the rainy season.”

Oberyn nodded slowly. “My girls are bred for speed,” he said. “Their mother was a gift given to my sister, and she bore me my puppies.��

You tried to imagine Oberyn cradling a tiny puppy. His hands were bigger than yours, and a puppy would probably fit in his palm. “Is the mother still alive?”

“Died of age years ago,” Oberyn said. “Right after bearing Persephone’s litter.”

The beautiful dark red dog looked up when Oberyn said her name, but went back to sleep shortly after.

“And what happened to the other puppies?”

“I got pick of the litter,” Oberyn said, smoothing a hand over Nyx’s head. “And the other puppies were given to knights or to houses who’ve sworn loyalty.”

You nodded. “These five were incredibly lucky.”

Oberyn smiled. “Two of them were the youngest born, and one was a runt.”

Both of your gazes went to the dogs curled around the fire. “Was it Artemis?” The blue dog had always been smaller than her sisters, but she had never been any less impressive.

“No.” Oberyn stood, sitting cross legged beside the fire and looking warmly at his dogs. “Athena was the youngest born in her litter, but wasn’t a runt by any means. Nyx was my first dog, the biggest in her litter of course. Persephone was a middle born, and I chose her for her fighter’s spirit. Artemis, bless her, was second youngest in her litter but she was an average size. No, it was Hestia who was a runt. She was so small, we all feared she’d die in the night. I fed her myself, with a rag soaked in milk, for months.”

You nodded, sitting on the other side of the fire and stroking Hestia’s silky ears. She was the best suited for hunting, with her dark brindle pattern and keen blue eyes. “She’s a magnificent dog.”

“She is.”

For the better part of the night, you and Oberyn sat in silence around the fire until it was nothing more than embers. All the dogs were long asleep, and the only reason you didn’t join them was because the room was stiflingly hot. Oberyn looked at peace in the heat, and actually seemed surprised when you got up to sit next to the cracked window. “Are you warm?”

“I’m boiling,” you said. “Dorne is a beautiful place, but must it be so damned hot?”

“Oh? And where do you come from that would justify Dorne being hot as the ovens you work in front of?” Oberyn asked, tipping his head ever so slightly.

You tucked your feet up under your body, leaning against the windowsill and looking out across the Sea of Dorne. “I come from a place where no man rules. My people have been there for generations and will remain there for generations. The land is firm beneath our feet, it’s why we all go barefoot. We have three seasons. The winters, the summers, and the rain. Each turn, between the winters and the summers, it rains. It rains a lot. No one is ever deterred by the rain, as it’s warm, so unlike the freezing rain in the mountains. We were barely fifty houses strong when I left, but our land stretches as far as the eye can see. Flat expanses of green, and in the summers the fields bloom with every kind of flower imaginable. It is a beautiful sight, and if you travel far enough east, you can see the shadows of the Dornish Mountains.” As you spoke, you grew only more homesick, wishing you could plant your feet in the mud and breathe, just breathe in the open air. Dorne’s air smelled of ocean and fish, and you craved the wetness of the petrichor smell you’d grown up with.

Oberyn joined you by the window, looking out at the glowing moon hung high in the sky. “What would you give to return?”

“Everything.”

It was an answer that seemed to stun the youngest Martell sibling. He blinked, still gazing at the moon. “Of course,” he said softly. “Of course.”

The next day, you spent all morning in the great hall, feeding the dogs under the table and reading a book you’d bought in town. Doran and Oberyn sat at the head of the hall together, arguing, but you couldn’t hear them, nor did you care to. You merely flipped a page in your book and fed Hestia another scrap of bacon.

Halfway through your day, you were interrupted in your washing of linens by the lake. Oberyn rode up to you, two horses and all his dogs by his side. “Come.”

You stood, dusting off your pants. “Where to?” You asked. “I doubt I’ll be much use on a hunting trip.”

Oberyn handed you the reins of a horse you’d trained early in your days of working in Dorne. “I’m taking you home.”

You went eagerly after that. You may have been wary, but Oberyn was sincere enough that you trusted him. The dogs followed you, ever the obedient hunters you had trained, as you and him rode hard northward, stopping to make camp as the sun began to dip below the horizon.

“Why are you joining me?” You asked once you’d made camp. “You could’ve sent me on my way, alone.”

Oberyn considered your words, turning meat over the fire. “You fascinate me,” he finally admitted. “You want for nothing in Dorne, and yet you are more homesick than anyone I’ve ever met. You talk about your home as if there is no better place to be. I want to see if you’re right.”

You grinned. “You’ll need firmer clothes than that,” you said, gesturing to Oberyn’s ornate robe. “It’s nearly rain season. Anything that isn’t made to stand up to the water will be ruined.”

Oberyn ran the fabric through his fingers, nodding. “What should I wear?”

“There’s a town not far from my home,” you said. “We’ll find you some suitable clothes there.”

The town in question was a three day ride away. While you rode, you and Oberyn got to know each other. He talked happily about his daughters, never favoring one over the other and seeming proud to have bore them all. In return, you told him about your parents, despite both of them being deceased. He was a good listener, hardly ever interrupting. As the weather grew colder and a wet chill filled the air, you felt yourself getting more comfortable, more at home.

The town finally loomed in the distance after three days on horseback, only stopping to rest the dogs or the horses. You were familiar with everyone, happily chatting to the townsfolk while you browsed thick clothes for Oberyn. He kept the hood of a roughly made cloak over his head, concealing his identity as he watched you make decisions. Finally, you walked away with a sturdy linen shirt that matched yours, reinforced brown pants, and a thick robe that mimicked the Dornish style while also remaining functional. It didn’t fall to Oberyn’s ankles as his vibrant yellow one did, the new faded deep green one stopping just above his knee. He grumbled about the color, but you hushed him as you donned a similar coat in faded burgundy.

As you continued east, the threat of rain grew stronger. You could smell it now, the rain heavy clouds a swirl of deep blue grey on the sky. Artemis whined when a distant rumble of thunder sounded, but you hushed her gently and nudged the horse forward. “We’re not far off. We’ll beat the rain.”

You were right. The village came into view before the rain started, and you quickly ushered the five dogs and one Dornish Prince into your family’s home as warm summer rain began to fall.

Oberyn stared at the ceiling in wonder as the rain began to pound. “Will it hold?”

“It’s held for three generations,” you said, putting logs into a fireplace and looking for your flint. “It’ll continue to hold, that I can swear.”

Once you got a fire going and some food set out for the dogs, you went outside. Oberyn tried to stop you, but you ignored him, opting to stand out back of the house instead. Rain soaked you to the bone immediately, but you didn’t care. The rain was warm and comforting, like being hugged by an old friend. Your hair slicked to your head and your clothes were sticking to your skin, but you simply tipped your head to the heavens and smiled.

You were out for a surprisingly long time before Oberyn braved the rain. He shielded his eyes and stood beside you, shoulders hunched. “Are you going to come back inside? You’ll catch a chill if you stay out here much longer!”

You shook your head. “No I won’t,” you said, looking over when a crack of thunder interrupted you. “Relax Oberyn, it’s only rain.”

Eventually, Oberyn loosened, standing next to you and admiring the rain. When he spoke again, his voice was full of wonder. “You worked in these conditions?”

You nodded. “Sometimes, the rain lasts for weeks,” you said. “We need to hunt, eat, and gather, so yes. I worked in the rain a lot.”

A bell sounded in the distance, and Oberyn looked over, shielding his eyes. “What’s that?”

“Dinner!” You said eagerly, taking his hand. “Come on. You want to see what I love about home? I’ll show you.”

The dinner hall was a sturdy building, bigger than the others. People filtered in, all soaked from the rain, so yours and Oberyn’s wet state wasn’t unusual.

“The dog keeper is home!” Someone said cheerily, seeing you showing Oberyn how to quickly towel his hair dry. Immediately, people began to crowd you, hugging you and asking why you’d returned.

“Oh,” you said, squeezing water out of your coat. “Someone asked me where I came from that would justify me calling Dorne hot as an oven. I felt compelled to show him.” You looped an arm through Oberyn’s elbow, and he looked at people you’d spent your entire life surrounded by.

“Is that Prince Oberyn Martell?” Someone finally asked in a hushed tone.

You shrugged. “Maybe in Dorne he is,” you said. “But out here, he’s just Oberyn.”

Oberyn seemed grateful, and you pulled him to a table. Food was passed around, and the conversation picked up once more. With the warm fire blazing at the front of the hall and the fall of rain against the roof, you felt more at home than you’d ever been. The people around you were your age, and they pushed you for questions about Dorne.

“Oh it’s beautiful,” you said, stirring your stew and dipping your slice of bread into your bowl. “But it’s so hot! I don’t know how those Dornishmen survive the heat in their robes!”

“We’re born there,” Oberyn said, bumping elbows with you. “Unlike you, that heat is all we’ve known.”

You grinned. “I will say, they let me play with the Prince’s dogs, so it’s not all bad.”

“Play?” Oberyn said, stunned. “You trained all the dogs! Let me tell you,” he said, turning to the people around you. “I’ve never met a better dog trainer in my life. If they weren’t so insistent upon working in the kitchens, I’d have promoted them to full time animal trainer already! Lord knows our horses need the firm hand.”

The people around you began to tell Oberyn about your past while you ate, happily telling him about how you’d once trained the village dogs to hunt in the pouring rain by slathering yourself in animal fat and racing through the woods while they hunted you down during the rainy season.

“Is that what you did with my dogs?” He asked when the story was done.

You shrugged. “More or less,” you said. “I take bits of my own breakfast and bait the girls. I told you, that was how I got them to swim so fearlessly.”

Oberyn nodded. “You know you could just ask for more food if you’re going to be sacrificing your own breakfast for my dogs.”

Another shrug. “I don’t mind.”

“Did you bring the dogs?” Someone asked, and you nodded.

“Of course!” You said. “I’ll let the young ones play with them tomorrow if this rain lets up. Although, it is what I missed most.”

“The rain?” The person sitting across from you asked. “Does it not rain in Dorne?”

You sighed, mopping up the last remnants of stew with bread you’d taken from Oberyn. “Not enough,” you said wistfully. “The most it’s rained since I moved there was an hour’s worth of mild rain. And it only rains once every month! It’s hell.”

After dinner came dessert, a sweet pastry filled with oozing red berries and topped with sticky honey. It wasn’t something that was made very often, and you ate yours quickly, savoring the flavors. Oberyn was more hesitant, and was a bit more dignified. However, no amount of dignity saved him from the fruit juices dripping down his chin and you laughing at him while handing him something to wipe his face.

After all the food was eaten, you bid everyone goodbye and braved the rain yet again. It was lighter now, and the children were chasing each other around, happily shouting and playing with the sturdy village hunting dogs. There was no rush for anything, and you didn’t hurry home. Instead, you walked slowly, despite the light rain, taking in all that you’d lost when you left. Oberyn held your hand, the hood of his robe pulled up over his head. He looked at ease here.

When you reached your house, the rain was no more than a light mist, and you eagerly pulled Oberyn around back. The sun was almost gone, but the final rays soaked the land in gold, illuminating the rolling hills and picturesque plains.

“Take a deep breath,” you said softly, seeing Oberyn’s eyes go wide. “And tell me what you smell.”

Oberyn took a breath, staying silent for a moment. “I can’t describe it,” he said, voice soft with awe. “It smells like earth and water and something not of this world.”

“It’s called petrichor,” you said. “The smell of rain on dry soil.”

A delicate silence lapsed over you two, bound only by your connected hands as you watched the sun fully set. Once the sky was dark, you pulled Oberyn inside, handing him a towel so he could dry off.

“How long are we staying?” You asked, stripping out of your soaked clothes and hanging them to dry on a line.

Oberyn, who was in another room for privacy, made a small noise. “I don’t know. A week? I must return at some point.”

You smiled, pulling on a linen shift and tossing another log into the fire that the dogs were surrounding. “I agree. I suppose the girls I work with will be disappointed if I don’t return.”

Oberyn came out of the room wearing a shift identical to yours. He began to hang his clothes beside yours. “It’s nice here,” he said. “I don’t know why anyone would ever want to leave.”

“I didn’t,” you reminded him. “If I’d been able to, I would’ve stayed here all my life. But then I would’ve never met you or your dogs.”

Oberyn smiled, sitting beside the dogs and gesturing you close. You sat with him, facing the fire. Hestia woke up, set her head in your lap, and fell asleep immediately after. You stroked her ears, humming to yourself. “Thank you for bringing me back.”

“Thank you for allowing me to come along,” Oberyn replied.

As you grew more and more tired, you finally relented and stood to go to sleep. “You’re welcome to join me,” you said to Oberyn. “I apologize, but there’s only one bed.”

Oberyn stood. “It’s fine. We can share.”

You took the right side of the bed and Oneryn took the left, you giving him an extra blanket when he started to shiver. His chills never faded, and you did the only thing left. You shifted in the bed, curling up against Oberyn’s chest and wrapping your arms around his middle, giving him your body heat.

“Your Dornish blood is at a cruel disadvantage out here,” you said softly, and you felt Oberyn chuckle.

“I’ll just have to adapt,” he murmured.

The next morning, you woke to no rain and a perfectly blue sky. Oberyn stayed asleep as you got dressed, made breakfast, and let the dogs out to play with the eagerly waiting children. As Oberyn’s dogs raced off to entertain the kids, you sat beside an open window, waiting for Oberyn to wake up.

When he finally did, he sat across from you at the tiny table and slowly began to eat, blinking sleepily at you from time to time.

“Good morning sleepy head,” you said finally, once the food had all been eaten and Oberyn looked a bit more awake. “How’d you sleep?”

Oberyn looked up at you. “Great. Where are the girls?”

“Outside with the kids,” you said, pointing out the window, where you could see the dogs running around with the children. “We’ll hunt them later, but for now, let them have their fun.”

“Ah.” Oberyn nodded. “Okay. So what do we do?”

You shrugged. “Typically, I’d have been working for a while by now.”

“We could work.”

“With those hands?” You said, taking Oberyn’s hands in your own. “Your skin isn’t accustomed to my kind of work, it would split immediately.”

Oberyn smiled. “So what do we do?” He asked again.

You squeezed his hands. “Whatever we want, Oberyn.”

“What if I want to go back to bed with you by my side?” Oberyn asked.

“Well then.” You stood, shedding your coat. “I guess we better get going.”

[polin-erospsyche]

The prompt number 16 is quite interesting lol 16. “Control your anger or you’ll have me to worry about.” Choose the ship/character you like :)

Hello! Ok, there are literally zero reasons as to why it took me a year to write this bloody thing except maybe that I had some not fun moments and also this literally never could have been written if I hadn’t waited this long. I don’t know if you’ll read it. You’ve probably forgotten about this in all fairness but if you do read it I hope you like it. 

Also taking this opportunity to thank everyone for following me. I’m at 400 followers! This is insane. I’m not sure why you’re all following tbh but to celebrate I forced myself to finish this long overdue fic, hope you like it! Also disclaimer: I love all of the characters from TLH. I am aware of the existing debate around Matthew and Alastair and my writing in here does not represent my point of view. But I I decided to represent Matthew and his view in this way for story telling purpose. Please don’t come at me with gun blazing. If you do wanna talk, we can, but in peace 😊💕

Somewhere Where Our Shadows Meet, It Feels Like Coming Home - 

a Fairdale one-shot (is that even their brotp name???) 

This was the fifth time James was rereading the passage of the book he had picked up. It was no use. Each time he finished the page he had already forgotten the beginning. His mind was foggy with a multitude of thoughts. Thoughts about Lucie and her strange dalliance with a boy who used to be a ghost, about Grace which inevitably led to unsolicited questions on his own identity, and, as much as he tried not to think about it, thoughts of Matthew and Cordelia. He really did not enjoy these last kinds of thoughts. He couldn’t help but imagine what kind of relationship could have blossomed between the two during their trip to Paris. He knew how Matthew felt, but when it came to Cordelia, he had no single clue. He constantly wondered as to whether she hated or loved him. Daring to hope that he hadn’t ruined everything. Just for that hope to vanish the next second because there was no possible way he did not ruin it. And even if ever decided to ask her, he would have no idea how to approach the topic without sounding like an arrogant bastard.  

James let out a long breath, rolling his shoulders, trying to let go of the tension. He was pretty sure that if he ventured to look at himself in the mirror that was hung above the chimney, he would see huge dark circles beneath his eyes. Circles which color could rival the color of London’s night sky. A result of many nights plagued by bad dreams and worry. During some of those sleepless nights, James had gone to Cordelia’s room. The first time it was under the pretext of looking for books. Her room had been full of her personal belongings. A bottle of perfume on her vanity table, an evening dress carefully laid out on the chaise longue, a copy of Majun and Layla on her bedside table. So many little pieces of who Cordelia was scattered in a room she had run away from. She hadn’t been back to Curzon street since that night. Upon arriving in London, she had decided to move back with her mother using the excuse of the soon-to-be new baby’s arrival. James kept going to her home though, eventually admitting to himself that he did so because of the smell of Jasmin that lingered. It was the closest thing he had to a semblance of her presence in the house. It was a soft smell that grounded him. It was also a heady smell that reminded him of the sweetness he had lost.

He shook himself out of thoughts of her. Something he had gotten quite good at to be fair, considering how many times he thought of her in the span of a day. Pushing himself up from the table he was leaning against, he closed the book he was reading, giving up on understanding it, and made his way to the window. Outside the sky was tinged in pastel colors drawing the day to a close. James would slowly make his way back home. He would rehash the day, come up with new plans to wake his sister from her deep sleep, find out that these plans would fail again come morning, and finally decide that he would need to eat a bite because going to bed with an empty stomach was just not advisable. His parents had offered for him to stay at the Institute with them but James had refused. He preferred the calm and silence of Curzon Street. He found that the bittersweet cloak that covered his house was, in some ways, almost reassuring. Maybe he was going insane. Just when he was ready to go bid his goodnight to his family, he heard the doors of the library open wide behind him and slammed shut again.

“Did you know?” Matthew growled. James might have thought that he himself had gone slightly deranged chasing down the smell of Jasmin throughout his home, but at least he did not look half as unhinged as Matthew looked right this instant. Matthew’s eyes were wide, his pupils dilated, and his fist clenched so tight his knuckles were turning white.

“Are you alright?” James asked, keeping an even tone.

“Did you know?”

“Know what?”

Matthew took a few strides in James’ direction. His stare holding James’ gaze in place as if daring James to contrary him. “Did you know about Thomas?”

“Um yes,” James nodded, a sly smile playing on his lips. “I do know Thomas.” At that Matthew narrowed his eyes and almost seemed as if he was trying hard not to grind his teeth. Noted. Attempts at humor and alleviating the situation were not going to work. “What about him?” James tried again. His smile replaced by a serious gaze.

“Did you know about Alastair?” Matthew asked, almost spatting out Alastair’s name.

James took a few steps back, reinstating the much-needed personal space for such a conversation. James did know about Alastair, but only because Thomas had looked so miserable and James had pried so insistently that Thomas had had no choice but to give up his well-kept secret. James had understood, sometimes you couldn’t choose who you fell in love with. Sometimes you fell in love with something that only you saw in the other person. Love was usually shrouded in mystery this way, best not to question how it worked. Obviously, by the look of things, Matthew did not agree.

“Please sit down,” James pointed to one of the green velvet armchairs. “I’ll pour you a drink.” James said, making his way to the stash of liquor in one of the dark wooden commodes. James had always wondered what kind of people, for what kind of situation kept alcohol in the library of all rooms. It always seemed to him that a secret stash of tea would have been more appropriate. Now he understood what kind of situation required people to put alcohol in every room, even if it was just one abandoned bottle of Parkmore. “Is Whiskey alright?” James turned his head in Matthew’s direction.

“So you knew?” Matthew answered, seemingly in a staring competition with the mustard yellow wallpaper in front of him. “He told you?”

Whiskey it would be for a total lack of all other present choices James thought as he started to pour a glass.

Matthew kept going on his verbal onslaught towards the wallpaper. In all fairness mustard yellow was a color that could potentially enrage everyone. “How can he? It’s Alastair that we are talking about. It’s not as if there wasn’t any other man in London that Thomas couldn’t have a fling for.”

James very much doubted that a fling could start to describe Thomas’s feelings for Alastair. However, seeing how Matthew was nearly spitting out every single one of his words, he thought it safer not to share this piece of information.

“Matthew, please calm down and control your anger or you’ll have me to worry about.” James handed the glass to Matthew, which he waved away.

“No, thank you. I don’t drink.”

James squinted. “Since when?”

“Since Paris.”

James couldn’t help but feel a pinch in his chest at the mention of Paris. Paris city of lights, city of lovers. An escape his friend had taken with the only girl James had ever, truly, loved since he was barely old enough to understand the concept. It was a wondrous thing how much pain a single word could hold.

“What a strange place to decide to stop drinking.” James took a sip of the honey-colored liquid, trying to hide his hurt to the best of his ability.

“Cordelia asked me to. That was her condition for coming with me.”

James did not want to go in the general direction of a conversation that involved Cordelia. Especially not if that conversation was with Matthew. He had written a letter. James had understood. He slightly had the urge to strangle his best friend for going with her; for loving her; he did not quite know. But that was it. They hadn’t spoken of Paris nor of Cordelia together and that was for the best. Neutral conversations were for the best, they could avoid the hurt and the blame, and if James let it come to that again who knew what would be next. Yet he couldn’t help but ask.

“Why did you leave?”

Matthew turned to James, his anger receding ever so slightly. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” A beat, a choice to either keep going or retreat before it is too late. A beat, a choice to see where this could go “why did you go to Paris?”

“You owe me an answer first. Did you know about Alastair?”

“Yes.”  

“How could you not tell me?”

“You weren’t here Matthew.” James’ voice almost broke, almost. “How was I supposed to tell you anything?”

James had wanted to throw so much more at Matthew’s face. Throw words that he wouldn’t be able to take back. He had been feeling so alone. So utterly lost after Grace’s admission. After Cordelia’s departure. He had needed his best friend. He had wanted to tell him so much, to figure it all out with him. To have Matthew hold him at times when he didn’t know if he could hold it up together and tell him, simply, that he believed in him. But Matthew hadn’t been in London. He had been in Paris. Happy. With Cordelia.

“And you accept it?” Matthew asked, carefully studying James.

“I guess it depends on what we are talking about. In any case,” James turned away from the fireplace to look at his friend. “why are you so against it if it makes Thomas happy?”

“I don’t know. Maybe because Alastair doesn’t deserve to be loved?”

“Maybe it is more about deserving a second chance rather than deserving of love. Maybe it is about getting a chance to fix your mistakes. Surely no one is worthless of that.”

“Sometimes the mistakes are too big to fix.” Matthew shrugged, breaking eye contact.

“Is that why you ran away?” The question was asked so softly as if asked any louder and James would be terrified to see Matthew run away again. James wasn’t sure he could bear it, no matter how much frustration towards Matthew he still felt.  

“I didn’t run.” Matthew shook his head. His gaze far and distant as if in another land, in a shadow realm. “I took a train, there’s a difference. And I left because of Cordelia.”

James had an inkling he hadn’t left because of Cordelia but rather Cordelia had followed in a desperate pursuit to drown both of their sorrows in the glamour of a city like Paris. After all, Paris was so similar to Matthew, it was no wonder he had chosen it. At the surface, both were golden and shining like a polished jewel box. Once that jewel box was open, however, shadows, pain, and sadness would pour out like a damn breaking loose.

“I never thought you’d try to run away from me.” James knelt in front of Matthew, his knees landing on the soft midnight blue carpet. “That one day, I’d become a part of the shadows that you try to outrun.”

Matthew turned around so fast and reached for James’ face. His green eyes were darker than usual. “You’re not my shadows, Jamie Bach. You’re my home. You are the reason why I still believe I’m worth being forgiven for.” He said those words like a damned man dying for a confession, following blindly a faith he held so dear to his heart, hoping that that faith could be his saving grace. James understood that he had become that faith.

“Forgiven for what?” James asked.  

“I can’t tell you.”

“It’s me, Matthew. What is so bad that you cannot tell me?”

“I can’t tell you because I’m afraid. I need you to stay with me. I need you to believe that I am good, even if it means that you believe in a lie.”

“Matthew …”

“If you keep choosing me and believing in me,” Matthew interrupted. If he couldn’t finish now, he never would. “then maybe I can believe that I am no monster.”

“You are not a monster, you are my parabatai.”

James felt like they were back on that bridge, at night, so close to being let in in Matthew’s secrets. Back then James hadn’t been in control of himself, he hadn’t known what was happening to him. He had lost his chance. It would not happen again. It could not happen again. James was so tired of walking a frayed rope line with Matthew, guessing at hinted truths. Being someone’s constant north took work and time and effort but because it was Matthew, James could do it. He would always do it and he needed Matthew to know that as clearly as they both knew that one day would come when they would both cross the other side together. Because after all, that was what it had always been about. Despite shadows and lies and deceptions and miscommunication, they would always be together. So James continued.  

“Do you know what that means? It means that I made a promise to you. I said entreat me not to leave thee, for wither thou goest, I will go. If aught but death part thee and me. I will not leave. No matter what you’ve done, I will stand by you, because that is the choice that I have made. That I still make. There is not a thing in this world that you could have done that would make me stop loving you, calon fy enaid.”

Matthew looked up at James and teased “Does that mean that you accept my feelings for Cordelia?”

“Don’t change the subject.”

“I must say, I don’t think I’m her type. It’s a pity, really.” Some strands of Matthew’s hair fell in his eyes as he shook his head. James could see the old Matthew again. The carefree one that balanced out his own shadows so well. The one he would choose and forgive a thousand times over because he too was his home.

“Matthew.”

“All right, all right.” Matthew threw his hands up in a mock gesture of surrender. “I just … wish you could promise that I would not lose you.”

“I promise.”

“You can’t promise something you don’t know.” Matthew said before he started to talk about his own misbeliefs that had led to a terrible accident. James listened and did not judge and stayed long in the night after Matthew had said everything that had weighted so heavy on his heart for so long. And somewhere, under the warm light of oil lamps and next to a warm fire, the frayed rope between the two started to mend and James could only describe the feeling as one of coming home.  

Tag List: @lady-ofroses @clockworknights @the-axewielding-herondale @tess-the-dreamer @coloandreablog

Do let me know if you want to be on the tag list and I’ll happily add you! (I have a tag list now visibly, wild and mind-blown) I will try to post more now that my exams are somewhat done. Who am I kidding? There will always be more stuff to do XD

[suchalonelysunflower]

“A Great Place to Start a New Story” (m.c)

Pairing: Michael Clifford X Reader 

Summary: Michael is at his best friend wedding feeling lonely when a stranger comes up to him and gives him one of the best advices he’s ever heard. 

Warnings: None other than mentions of Alcohol, a few bad words and mentios of death. Also, some grammar mistakes (Not as many as before but still, English is not my first language, I’m sorry) 

Word Count: 2.5 K 

Author’s Note: Hello! Here you have another soft Michael fic with a neutral reader, I’ve been trying to incorporate that more into my writing lately so if you have any suggestions please don’t doubt in contacting me 😊 If you want to read more of 5SOS you can visit my recent Ashton fic, Luke fic and the second part of the Entangled Series ft. Calum and Harry S ✨ You can find the rest of my work HERE. Thank you so much, remember that reblogs, comments and feedback are always welcome! I love to hear from you guys 💕 Hope you like it and Happy reading 🦋💕

Michael swore that if he sees one more happy couple coming his way he was going to break something, a thing that was easier said than done, considering that he was at the wedding reception of his best friend and he would probably have to pay for it afterwards.

He watched bitterly as the couples slowly danced a few feet in front of him, swaying along to some love song he’s never heard of. In the middle of the crowd he could easily spot Luke and his partner, holding each other tightly as they dance like there’s nobody else in the room, this was their moment, the beginning of a new chapter in their lives and Michael was happy for them. But he couldn’t deny that hint of jealousy that tugged on his heart.

Falling in love was not a top priority for him. Yes, it is nice to have someone to care about and for them to care about you, but with his busy life he always felt like he didn’t have the time to actually care about that part of his life, ignoring it most of the time. Only when the RSVP to Luke’s wedding came in the mail did he realize how lonely he actually felt. A sense of longing came over him, He thought that by now he would’ve met the person he was going to spend the rest of his life with. His better half, soulmate or whatever, but it seems that is just not meant to be for him. And it’s not like he hasn’t fallen in love at some point, he had a few relationships over the years, but they always ended the same way: Either a heartbreak or a song written about him.

Michael sighed deeply, bringing his glass to his lips only to find in discontent that it was already empty. He cursed through gritted teeth and slammed the glass on the table with more force than he intended to. 

“Tough night?” Asked a voice next to him. 

Michael turned his head to the side and found an old lady sitting next to him. He didn’t notice her at first, or at all to be honest. He knew, however, that she was not at the table when they first sat down, so he assumed she just made herself a place when her friends were out dancing with their partners not too far away. 

The lady seemed nice enough, very elegant for an evening wedding. She had some pearl earrings that matched her necklace, and for the looks of it, they were completely real. Her hair was pinned up with too much hairspray and her eyeshadow was very bright. She wore a nice navy dress embroidered with patches of lace that seemed out of date but she wore it in such a fashionable way that you wouldn’t even question it. 

She smiled at Michael and looked at him up and down “You are not in love with one pair of the couple, now are you blondie?” 

Michael’s mouth dropped with the lady’s remark. Part of him offended at such an assumption and the other just very impressed by the boldness of the mysterious old woman. 

“Oh, close your mouth, dear. Flies will go in there” Michael obeyed “So, are you?” 

“No!” Michael scoffed, rolling his eyes. Who was this lady? “I’m the best man, Luke’s bandmate” 

The woman hummed “Then why are you sitting here like it’s the great depression? Believe I know what that’s like, I lived through it” She said, even though she didn’t look a day over 70.

Michael sighed “Not a big fan of weddings, I guess” He stated, looking at his empty glass. 

“Is it that or you’re just not a fan of love in general?” She inquired. Michael averted his gaze on purpose, wondering why the hell was he still talking to this person?

“You know,” Said the lady after a few moments of silence “Weddings are a great place to start a story” 

“Huh?” Michael mumbled. 

“A lot of great stories came from weddings” She smiled “Plus, it is a great place to meet new single people” She said, raising her eyebrows suggestively. Michael cocked an eyebrow to her in response “Anyone caught your eye?” 

He shook his head “Wasn’t really looking” 

“Ah, but that’s how you find them” She placed her hand over MIchael’s. The wrinkled, yet soft hand patted his in a kind way, and for him it was an act of comfort he didn’t know he needed “But, what could I know? I’m just an old lady in the middle of a party” Michael opened his mouth to say something but she interrupted him again “Don’t you think it’s time to fill up that bad boy again?” She said, pointing to his empty glass and then the open bar. 

Michael sighed again, looked at the old lady and nodded, already getting up and making his way to the bar. 

He leaned his elbows into the bar, thoughts running through his head trying to understand what the woman just said. Was it so obvious how unhappy he was with his loneliness? or is it just a custom for old ladies to get all up in your business when you are a complete stranger to them? 

He placed his thumb and index fingers between his eyes, trying to let the frustrations go and actually enjoy the party and celebrate his best friends’ love. But, then again, it was easier said than done. 

“A whisky on the rocks, please” A voice said next to him, making him snap his head to his side. 

You were standing there, looking absolutely done with life as you ordered your drink. You had one arm resting on the bad while the other went to the back of your head, rubbing your neck as you stretched it from side to side. Tilting your head to the side you catch Michael’s stare, you glared.

“What?” You asked in a sarcastic chuckle “Think is too early for a heavy drink?” 

Michael blinked a few times, surprised by the sound of your voice directed at him “Uh, no, actually. I was just about to get the same thing” 

Michael signaled the bartender and they nodded. You sighed, relaxing a little bit more around him. 

“Fun party, isn’t it?” You asked. 

Michael scoffed “Depends on who you’re asking” He said, pointing to the couples dancing in the middle of the room. 

You laughed “Oh, seems like someone here shares my kind of humor” You turned to him, extending your hand to greet him properly “I’m Y/N.”

He shook your hand and smiled “Michael” 

“You’re Luke’s bandmate, are you?” 

“I am, and you are..?” He inquired. 

“Oh, I’m here for the other side of the wedding party. Didn’t really know Luke very well until he put a ring on my cousin’s finger” Michael chuckled and you did too “They are truly in love, aren’t they?” You said, looking at the happy couple.

The bartender placed your drinks on the bar and walked away. Michael nodded as he grabbed his glass and took a sip of the burning beverage “Only a fool would think otherwise. You should’ve seen Luke when he first got the ring. I’ve never seen him so happy before” 

You hummed “Yeah,” You took a sip of your drink and looked at Michael “What about you, rockstar?” Michael smiled into his drink at the sound of the nickname “Is there a special someone in your life?” 

Michael shook his head “Not really the best at finding love, apparently. Given that I’m the only single person in the room” He said, bitterly. 

“Well, not the only one” You said, lifting your drink so you could clinked your glass with his. You both laughed. 

The conversation between you two went smoothly as you get to know each other better. Michael was actually surprised that you indeed shared a lot of things in common besides your sense of humor and relationship status. You talked about music, video games you played, the annoyance you both shared towards certain people and even finding out that you were both the class clown that was a little too shy to become the main troublemaker in school.

You talked all night. You mentioned things about your passions and your career and Michael listened with actual interest to the whole thing, even asking some questions about it, making you smile and ramble on and on about them, and he really seemed to like the way your eyes shined whenever they met his. Michael shared with you details about what is really like living as a musician, touring and the interactions they had with fans, stating how it was amazing but at the same time very draining and consuming. 

“Guess that’s why I don’t find myself in situations where I can actually meet people and go out on dates or whatever” 

“Well, that didn’t seem like a problem to your friends over there” You said, pointing out at his bandmates “What’s holding you back?” 

Michael looked at you, suddenly aware of your close proximity. He didn’t know when it happened that your arm was so close to his that they were almost touching, but he didn’t mind one bit. 

“Maybe love is just not a fan of me, contrary at what that lady said” You looked at him quizzically and he just chuckled at your confused expression “There was this old lady who came up to me and asked me if I was afraid of love and then started to tell me about how ‘weddings are the best place to meet people and start new stories” He said, trying to imitate the lady’s voice.  

You laughed “Ah, it seems to me that you met Aunt Lydia” 

“You know her?” 

“Yes! She’s actually our great aunt, and don’t worry, she does that every time we are at a wedding.” You chuckled “She thinks that because she met her husband at a wedding that everyone would do the same” 

You laughed again and, seemingly in that instant, Michael decided he wanted to hear more of that laugh “Well, maybe she’s not wrong” He said, making you blush. He decided he liked that.

“Hey, Y/N?” He asked, suddenly very shy.

“Yes, rockstar?” 

“Wanna dance?” 

Michael extended his hand as an invitation, a dashing smile crossing his face with ease as you took it and let him guide you to the dance floor. 

The rest of the group was surprised to see Michael dancing, given that he was never one of the ‘life of the party’ kinda guy. But when they saw him smiling at you while attempting to slow dance, they just knew. 

You danced together until your feet practically begged you for some kind of break, making your way outside of the venue so you could sit on one of the few benches they had in the patio. You rested your head on Michael’s shoulder, not really saying much as you both looked at the sky. 

This was not the outcome Michael would have expected from tonight, however he didn’t find it so terrible or scary. He only met you a few hours ago, but something inside him was telling him that you needed to be part of his life. This felt right, so right even that he didn’t want to let go of you just yet. 

“I had fun” You said, breaking the silence after a while. 

“Me too” Michael said, softly grabbing your hand and starting to play with your fingers “Kinda don’t want it to end” 

You hummed, tilting your head so you could look him in the eyes “Then don’t let it end” 

Michael’s green eyes were set on yours, noses almost brushing as you came closer and closer, taking each other’s faces from this new angle. Michael’s hand rested softly on your cheek, cupping it as his eyes traveled from your lips to your gaze. 

“How will I know that this is not a dream and you will not disappear when I open my eyes?” He said in a hushed tone, forehead resting against yours. 

“Kiss me and you’ll find out” You whispered back. Holding your breath as he brought you into a kiss. 

Everything felt just right. 

*****************************************************

The quiet boy stared at the happy couples with jealousy. Weddings were never his thing but he couldn’t miss his sister’s wedding, even if he wanted to. 

He sighed deeply into his drink as he thought love was playing him a cruel joke, him being the only single person within a five mile ratio. 

“What’s with the face, Robert?” Asked a voice behind him. 

“Oh, hey uncle Mike” The young man said, not really knowing when his uncle came and sat next to him “Guess I’m just not in the mood” 

Michael hummed, raising his hairy eyebrows and drawing even more wrinkles in his forehead “Feeling like love is not for you then” 

Robert looked at him confused “How do you-”

“I was once young and stupid you know? Just like you,” Robert rolled his eyes “Hey, I’m trying to teach you something here, boy”

“Sorry”

“I also thought that love was not for me and I found myself in your same position, in your grandpa’s wedding feeling absolutely miserable” Michael’s eyes gleamed at the memory, a smile spreading on his face “And then I met the love of my life not even ten minutes later” 

Michael still remembers that night like it was yesterday, even though it happened around fifty years ago. He remembers what you were wearing and the jokes that made you laugh. He still knows all the words to the songs you danced since that night, never passing a chance to slow dance with you or to give you the love and appreciation that you needed. He found out what you liked the most and what you hated, slowly learning to become one team of two individuals, but to be honest, he knew he was yours the moment he kissed you that night, thanking your great aunt every passing moment of his life, especially the night where he proposed. The sound of you saying yes through a teary smile still brings him all the joy he could ever need. 

The years he had next to you were the best years of his life. He felt blessed to have been able to enjoy all those moments by your side, keeping his promise of loving you and making you happy until your last day on earth. Whenever he thought of you after the day you left, sadness does not cloud his mind like before. You were his partner, his soulmate and he will always remember how bright you were in every single aspect, your memory brought him the comfort he needed, knowing you were waiting for him and that right now you were watching over him with a grin on your face, knowing exactly what he was about to say next. 

“And, who knows? After all, weddings are a great place to start a new story”

[sadpathologist]

Chapter 2, I guess?

Part one, also it`s on AO3.

So, he`s falling, cold mountain wind punching him in the face, irritating his eyes and making them water, goosebumps raising all over his torso for the apparent lack of clothing on his upper body. For humans, jumping off the cliff is a ticket straight to the end of the journey that is their life.

He was not a human, thankfully.

Jaskier`s not afraid of squashing his face into a bloody mess on the next best rock his head can find, because he knows that just can`t happen. The reason why he was so sure begun to reveal itself, and he moaned and bit his lower lip as the sensation similar to pain starts gnawing at his skin in the area of his shoulder blades.

Magic purrs to him again, and in that instant moment, two massive wings brake out from his spine in a fast, almost painless spurt. They make a few firm flaps, and Jaskier is soaring.

He didn`t fly for so long; he almost forgot the sheer joy of it. Jaskier`s crying from experiencing all those old-new feelings all over again, and there are too many different emotions burling inside him that he can`t quite put his finger on any of them.

Then, he hears magic`s soft call once more, the same sensation prickles at his whole face, and two long horns emerge from the edge of his hairline, repeating their elegant spiral in their way up, his cheekbones become a lot more prominent, his ears pointier, more rhomb-like. Now there are two pairs of canines in his upper row of teeth, and they are a lot more sharper, too. For the last of his inhuman features, a thick flexible scaly tail appears in his right leg pant, and it`s much longer than his legs, so the new anatomy part just hangs from it awkwardly and slightly unnerves him.

It feels like hours passed since the jump, but in reality, he knows it was mere seconds.

The bard looks at the mesmerizing view of Dragon Mountains, and he would`ve enjoyed it if it weren`t the same view he was looking at while being a target of witcher`s misplaced fury. They seem to him downright nauseating, for now, at least.

Not expecting any new bodyparts, Jaskier flaps his wings and sets in the direction of the mountain`s foot, where Roach was left, to retrieve the other bag with his belongings. He gives himself a mental pat on the back for not forgetting about it and clears all the thoughts from his head.

----

By the time Jaskier nears the clearing where everyone left their horses, it is late evening, and cicadas have already begun their twilight's song, accompanying fireflies' sparkling light show. He decides to land not very far from the edge of the meadow as a precaution in case someone might see him. Well, not just him, but his true form. ‘Can`t have anyone know I`m a fae, right?’

After waiting for a couple of minutes, the bard finally emerges from behind the trees and strolls to the chestnut mare. He almost steps on his tail, not used to it for twenty years of its absence, and curses then moves it up the leg pant and circles around his waist a couple of times so that it won`t get in the way.

"Hello, sweetheart," he greets his dear companion, " I came to say goodbye."

He pats her white striped muzzle, and she headbutts him affectionately. It seems Roach is not repelled by his unusual for her appearance, and Jaskier is not surprised, to be honest. Animals always loved his kind a lot more than humans.

"It's time for us to part ways again," his hand reached to the horse's mane and started to comb it with his fingers," for the last time, it seems."

She neighs quietly and nuzzles at his neck as if to say she'll miss him. "I'll miss you too, my dear heart." The bard wraps his arm around mare`s neck and hugs her closer, feeling his tears start to fall on her mane. And Roach, the amazing lady that she is, rubs her head against his and his heart breaks that he has to take himself off her master`s hands.

Jaskier pats her once more and begins to untether the bag with his clothes from the saddle. Then, he decides it would be a lot more convenient just to put his smaller bag that he took for the track up the mountain into the second, bigger one.

“You`re a fae.” A sudden comment startles him as he didn`t hear anyone approaching. He looks up and meets the gaze of an older man. ‘Shit, that`s just brilliant.’ Jaskier thought.

“ And you`re a dragon. Are we going to point out some more obvious facts?” he bites back, his eyebrows meeting in a frown. ‘So much for not letting anyone know.’

Borch seems absolutely unfazed by his comment and stares at the bard as if he were a particularly amusing child. “ I didn`t feel any residual magic on you. How did you manage to hide it so well? The witcher doesn`t know, I assume.”

The fae scowls at him some more and breaks the silence, “ I have my secrets. I also much preferred this,” he gestures to himself,” to be a secret. So yes, the witcher doesn`t know.” Jaskier folds his arms on his chest then,” You`re a dragon, as we so helpfully established a few moments ago, the rarest dragon. So unique that the White Wolf himself thought you were a myth. Surely,” he huffs,” you must know fuck-all to figure out how I hid it so well.”

“Contrary to popular beliefs,” Villentretenmerth smiles at him,” the fact that I am an ancient being does not mean I know, as you said, fuck-all.” The dragon keeps his facial expressions quite pleasant to show the other man that he is not a threat and that he has the purest of intentions, but this annoys him a big deal for obvious reasons. The bard sighs.

“What`s the point of this conversation? What do you want from me? I`m in a hurry here,” Jaskier questions and pointedly puts his lute on the right shoulder and the bag on his left.

“All I want to do,” the older man sighs too,” is to give you an advice-

“No,” the fae doesn`t let him finish his thoughts, feeling outraged once more at the dragon`s blatant audacity,” no! I have had enough of your advices!” Jaskier points his finger at the creature before him,” What good did your advices do for Geralt? For Yennefer? For me? Hm?” He gestures openly, his fingers pointing somewhere at the sky.

“ Nothing good, as you can see!” He almost screams, electric blue eyes stare stubbornly at Borch`s brown. Then, the musician takes a deep breath and adds quietly,” I`m done here. Farewell.”

And before Borch can say something else, Jaskier spreads his massive wings and flies up in a quick spurt, shocking even the dragon with his speed.

[skia-oura]

Dipper’s Day Around the World

A/N: This is 21k written over the span of like 6 months, so buckle in folks.

ao3

_______________________________________________________________

December 4th, 5:58 AM EST

           Dipper didn’t exactly sleep, anymore, but he was close enough to rest and unconcern with the matters of the rest of the world, sandwiched between Torako and Bentley in their bed, that the sting of the summons—friendly, from a personal circle, not from the standard one that strangers used—startled him into a disgruntled moan. Torako, a lighter sleeper in the morning, the early bird between them, twitched and then hummed an inquiry. “Izza…summons,” Dipper mumbled back before he turned and pressed his face into the crook of her neck.

           “Mmm,” she said. After a while, she asked, “Someone you know?”

           He could hear her voicebox buzzing under the skin at his lips, could feel it vibrating lightly into the cartilage (manifested cartilage, yes, but cartilage as long as he wanted it to be) of his nose. A very dim part of him strengthened by still-waking awareness wanted to open his mouth and bite down into the flesh a little, just to feel it echo more directly into the not-bones of his teeth. The rest of him knew that it was a bad idea and was a sure way to get the heel of her palm slamming into his nose hard enough to break and hurt. It wasn’t even omniscience that told him this, just unfortunate prior experience.

           She still let him close, though, and so he nuzzled in. “Yeah,” he sighed, but he was mostly awake now. “It’s a friends and family circle. Even though it’s at—oh, look, it’s 6 AM,” he said.

           Torako reached over and up and ruffled at his hair. He sat up and smoothed it flat, glowering down at her. The motion dislodged Bentley’s arm from his waist but the Bentley that lived in this house was a deeper sleeper than the Bentley that returned to the apartment he’d been kidnapped from, and so he did nothing but scrunch up his nose (adorable) and sleep-mumble unintelligible noises before relaxing back into deeper sleep. Dipper sighed and relaxed shoulders he hadn’t even realized were tense.

           “Go gettem, Dips,” Torako whispered, eye cracked open in a half-awake smile. “We’re gonna have breakfast bout nine, ok? Ben’n I got busy days planned.”

           “Okay,” Dipper said. He bent down and pressed a kiss to Torako’s forehead. “Let Bentley know where I’ve gone when he wakes up, okay?”

           “Mmmkay,” Torako said, then yawned and snuggled back into the covers. “Later gater.”

           The summons stung him again. Dipper hovered above the bed for a moment, wings spread, then melted from comfortable (but elegant!!) pajamas into a more formal (but somewhat casual) suit before focusing on tracing the summons back to its locus, and slipping from bedroom on the East Coast to elsewhere.

December 4th, 11:01 AM BST

           Elsewhere turned out to be another bedroom, in front of somebody he knew (Soos, no—Olla, her name is Olla) in England. He also knew that her mother would destroy them if she found them together, and it was the middle of the day and wait, what was Olla doing home anyways?

           He blinked down at her. “Why are you even in your dorm? Don’t you have classes?”

           “Alcor,” Olla moaned. Her hair was a mass of messily plaited braids, ribbons bright but askew. “You gotta help me. You’re my only hope of passing this stupid chemistry class I decided to take with my friend but we’re both hopeless—not hopeless, but definitely for sure 100% in over our heads—and for some weird reason most of the people in class aren’t keen on talking to me long enough to do studying or they’re busy or they’re just pain rude, please save me.”

           Dipper sat down on her bed, which was next to the desk she was sitting at. Olla Sussally twisted the chair around in place, leaned forward to heave something up off the floor, then turned back around. In her hands—fingernails painted vivid, somewhat chipped colors that shifted weakly from hue to hue—was a very large tub, and in that tub was the biggest horde of candy Dipper had seen anywhere other than a grocery store. His mouth, despite any efforts to the contrary, began to fill with saliva.

           The memory of Olla’s mother was just terrifying enough to remind him that his skin was actually prickling with discharged magical energy. “Your mom changed the wards again, didn’t she? It’s a shame they didn’t work, but she’ll know you summoned me, she always does, and she’s always so pissed even if I didn’t technically approach you.”

           Olla moaned and tipped her head back for a moment. “I know I know, it’s so dumb and I hate it yet my mum really is the best and I love her n’all, but like, I have got to get this chemistry in the brain space as fast and fully as possible so can we talk about mum later? I have a candy bag per concept and you’re, like, supposed to be super smart, right? You’re supposed to know everything.”

           Dipper cocked his head at her. Olla wasn’t smiling, not even nervously. Well, Dipper thought to himself, Mrs. Sussally couldn’t be too mad if this meant Olla a) was less stressed, and b) passed chemistry.

           “Okay,” he said, sticking his hand out. “Deal.”  

           “Oh gosh oh thank you you’re the best,” Olla breathed out, then reached out and shook his hand vigorously with both of hers. Blue fire bloomed, then sputtered when she whirled around and pulled a textbook towards her—which, considering the fact that Olla was one of the most laid-back and calm people he knew, was concerning. “Okay, so, let’s start with chemical formulas, because hoo my man—my demon? I’ll have to ask you later—but, like, there’s molecular formula, and then there’s empirical formula is sometimes the same but sometimes different, and it has to do with math which is fine but I still don’t get why.”

           Dipper blinked at her, then reached forward and pulled a bag of malted biscuits from Olla’s candy stash. She had swiped several worksheets and class notes up to hover in the air between them. “It’s easier to deal with some chemical equations that way,” he said.　“Look—here, at this problem…”

_______________________________________________________________

           Halfway through explaining the Gillespie-Nyholm theory in regards to double and triple molecular bonds, Olla’s phone rang. Dipper stopped, stared at it. Olla looked down. The display read: ‘Mum <3 <3 <3.’ The hearts twirled in circles and threw off little digital glittery sparks.

           “Aw,” Olla groaned, tipping her head back. “It’s only been, like, an hour. Come on, mum!”

           “Maybe she hasn’t noticed yet?” Dipper ventured. He stuck his fingers in his mouth to lick off the sour sugar particles and eyed the still mostly-full tub of candy. “If she hasn’t, we could definitely get through another few concepts. I’ve only had four bags.” He wanted at least another three. Maybe five. Ten would be best.

           Olla stuck out her tongue at him, took a deep breath, and then answered the phone. “Hey, mum, what’s up, howsit going, what’s on, you at lunch or something, it’s so weird for you to call me now haha you know class just finished!”

           There was a muffled noise, the sound of somebody talking just out of earshot. Dipper tipped his head to the side. Would eavesdropping even be worth it?

           “Woah, that’s weird, the wards are juuuuust fine here!” Olla cast her eyes up at the ceiling. Dipper looked up as well, and winced a little at how almost soggy some of the wards looked, bent out of space from where he’d pushed his way through. Well, their cover was blown. He cast a longing look at the candy bags, and wished for a reality in which he could earn them. “I guess your alert app is just fritzing out again!”

           Silence. Then, several garbled words, Olla’s eyes widening and cutting to him. She laughed a little nervously. “What do you mean, mum? Sure, I wasn’t in Mid-Millenium Literature class, but that’s just because chem is kicking my ass into a sad bit of lumpy dough and I needed to take time—no, no, no tutors, just me and my cute little—wait you’re right outside the building??”

           Dipper froze again. He met Olla’s eyes. As Olla’s mother started talking again, Olla flapped her free hand at him frantically, mouthing go go go!! as she listened.

           If he really wanted to, he could take Olla’s mom. But a) he respected her, b) Olla really loved her, and c) Olla’s mother actually kind of just a little bit intimidated him when he wasn’t hopped up on anxiety and possessiveness and fear for his Mizar’s safety. So Dipper grimaced, lifted a hand in farewell, and blipped out of Olla’s dorm room with the fleeting thought of the next place he could go on such short notice.

 December 4th, 9:29 PM AEST

           It was, perhaps, not the best idea to suddenly appear on the couch right next to Tommy and Filara Hangar—they were a little jumpy—but Dipper wasn’t anything if not dramatic. He slung one leg over the other, slipped into something a little more formal mid-blip, and set his hands on top of his knee so that the fingers were curled a little over the kneecap. “Hello,” he said, pitched just high enough to be heard over the evening news.

           Next to him, Tommy Hangar screeched and nearly scrambled over the back of the couch. Filara Hangar seized a wineglass off the table and flung it at him with incredible accuracy. Taken off-guard, Dipper had only a split second to decide whether to let it land or whether to pluck it out of thin air. He hesitated, and the decision was made for him—the glass smacked into his nose and red wine splashed up and over his face. Blinking, liquid clinging to his eyelashes, Dipper said, “Well, that was rude but I get it, I guess.”

           Tommy wheezed from behind the couch. “What the fuck, you feathering fuckwit,” she said. “Holy shit you can’t do that to us without giving a ring or tapping out a coupla knocks first. I hate it when you do that! It freaks me the fuck out.”

           Filara, on her part, was staring at her outstretched hand, bewilderment blooming all over her aura like morning glories. “I threw a glass of wine at Alcor the Dreambender,” she said, a little faintly.

           “And hit,” Dipper groused. He materialized a stylish handkerchief from out of his vest pocket, snapped it open, and dabbed at his face just to emphasize his point. “You’re lucky that this suit is literally materialized out of the power I possess and isn’t actual fabric, because that would be a bitch to clean.”

           “Die mad about it,” Tommy said. Dipper opened his mouth to respond to that, but Tommy widened her eyes at him and he wisely shut his mouth. She hauled herself back up and over the couch to sit squarely between Dipper and her wife. “We wouldn’t pay for it anyways, it’s your own feckin fault for slipping in here out of thin air at—” she glanced at the news “—9:34 PM, what the hell and why are you even here?”

           Dipper waved the concern aside as though it were a physical thing he could clear the air of. He finished dabbing the wine off his face and snapped the handkerchief again to disperse it from its momentary existence. At the same time, the wine was pulled out of the non-fabric of his clothes and vanished. “My last appointment was cut very abruptly short, and I’d been meaning to check in on you two so I figured that now was as good a time as any. How are you?”

           Filara blinked at him. “I hit Alcor the Dreambender with a half-full glass of wine,” she said, a little glee in her voice and in her eyes.

           “Yes you did, honey,” Tommy said. She patted her wife��s hand and smiled. “It was a hot damn moment of glory and I love you even more than I already did.”

           “Didn’t you throw ice water on him a few months ago?” Filara cocked her head and looked Tommy up and down, lightning bright sparks of realization fading into soft ombre appreciation.

           Dipper frowned. There was no need to rub it in, he totally could have stopped that from happening—both the wine and the water. “Yes she did, and we’ve already covered the wine stuff, how are you?”

           “It’s 9:34 PM,” Tommy drawled, turning her attention away from her wife to glower. “What do you think??”

           “Now, now,” Filara said, rubbing at Tommy’s shoulders from behind. “I know it’s late, but we haven’t seen him in a while and I threw wine on him, so I think that it would only be fair to entertain him with a little conversation, don’t you think? I’m sure he’s a little lonely, aren’t you?”

           Filara smiled at him. She looked nothing like Lionel, but Dipper read him into the quirk at the corner of her mouth that said she was still smugly amused at her unintentional victory over him. The little heartache that came with the thought moved Dipper to look past it and the quite frankly presumptive opinion that he was lonely, he wasn’t lonely. He was fine.

           “No,” he said, “but Bentley and Torako are busy sleeping right now, and I’m awake and out so I wanted to talk to you.” The more he thought about it, though, the more tempting the thought of blipping back home and crawling into bed for snuggles was. He absolutely was not lonely.

           Tommy wrinkled her nose. “That’s right, it is stupid early over there still, isn’t it?”

           “Yeah,” he said, though stupid early was a relative term when it came to individualistic habits and sleep patterns. For some people in the same time zone, it was stupid late.

           Filara leaned over and propped her elbow on Tommy’s shoulder. Her near-invisible lenses flashed a little, and she grinned. “So how are Ms. Gorgeous and Mr. Sigils?”

           “Adjusting.” Dipper leaned back into the arm of the couch and twisted a saccharine drink out of nothing to sip at. “We just finished settling into the new house nine days ago. Torako or Bentley might have sent you pictures?”

           Tommy had been frowning at Dipper ever since he pulled out his drink. “Dude,” she said, slowly, “I know you’re a demon and all, but that’s rude, man, just ask for a drink.”

           “Oh, it’s quite all right,” Filara said, patting Tommy’s arm. “If he brings his own drink, that means that there’s more wine for me. And yes, Torako did send me pictures of the house. Bentley didn’t, but he made up for it by sending me updates on how things were going, and I very much appreciate it.”

           With a sigh, Tommy leaned back into the couch and crossed her arms.

           “Did she send you pictures of the tables?” Dipper drawled, swirling his drink around in its glass. “Mine was the best one.”

           “That’s not what she said.” Filara raised her eyebrows. “In fact, she said that you all voted hers the best, and that’s the solid truth there.”

           Dipper sniffed and took a sip of his not-beverage, mentally pulled together his arguments in favor of not Torako winning their unofficial competition, and launched into them with a passion that Bentley would have described as ‘overkill’ and Torako as ‘desperately in denial.’

_______________________________________________________________

December 4th, 8:39 PM PHT

           Dipper only burned through an hour before Tommy had enough and kicked him out during a lull in conversation, citing that she actually wanted to spend time with her wife, not the dude who came around to pick her wife’s brain and engage in furious debate over the most mundane things before turning around and treating the most abstract concepts with the same fervor. He’d relented and accepted a couple drinks—overly sugary and laden with alcohol that couldn’t affect his non-existent metabolism—and found himself having made off with one of the Hangars’ drinking glasses on accident. He shrugged, sent it off to the Mindscape Shack, and figured it would make a good excuse for another visit.

           In the meantime, it was time to visit somebody very new to their current life.

           Dipper closed his eyes and followed one of the faint bonds inside of himself to a small apartment of Cebu—Grand Courtyard Bldg 5, apartment 607, nursery with the window facing north-east—in the evening, when its sole occupant was sleeping soundly, parents in the other room finishing dinner and relaxing before the baby woke up again. There was a personalized cam-monitor in the corner, anti-tamper sigils that reminded Dipper of Bentley (and when he looked at them for more than a split second, he saw Bentley working on them as part of a senior project for undergrad, and how strange, how incredible to think that they’d gone so far from that point, blooming into existence under his fingertips), and Dipper only spared a single thought to artificially looping the input past the anti-tamper sigils (they were Bentley’s, of course he knew how to get around them) before drifting closer to the crib.

           Lloyd Remnit had not lasted long after their visit, after Dipper tore the information from his mind and Fantino had died as a result. Stan had always given everything for family, and it always hurt when he failed to protect them. (many Stans had summoned him over the years. Some paid the ultimate price for their loved ones. Some paid a different price, but it all fell to pieces around them anyways. Others, ones who hadn’t summoned him, had summoned others instead—one had given away her soul to be consumed. Dipper had torn that demon to pieces).

           This time around, given how his last incarnation had ended up at odds with Alcor, he was determined to have Stan on his side. Which meant—this.

           “Hey,” Dipper said softly, breathily. In her crib, María Elena ‘Inyang’ Dimayuga lay on her back, fingers curled into soft fists. He took a moment to take her in—a little on the large side, for a two-month-old, eyelashes dark and soft against her puffy cheeks, baby hair thin clouds across the crown of her skull. “Hey. I’m going to be your Uncle Dipper. Your parents don’t know yet, but they don’t know a lot of things about you yet either, do they? They’re still calling you Aweng. Don’t worry, they’ll figure it out eventually.”

           Inyang shifted in her sleep and scrunched her nose. Dipper stilled, but her eyes didn’t open, and her barely-there, underdeveloped aura didn’t shift suddenly in that telltale breath between sleep and wake that infants tended towards. After a few moments, he slid from stillness into careful motion, chin propped in the heart of his palm, elbows on the edge of the crib, ankles-crossed mid-air. His wings fluttered once or twice. He sighed a little.

           “It’s been a few years since I’ve interacted with somebody so young,” Dipper confessed. “Not since Lata, at least. Nobody’s been stupid enough to summon me with a newborn sacrifice recently, and the chances to meet babies like you are otherwise pretty slim in my line of work.” He laughed a little. Inyang let out a breathy sigh of an exhale. “But you’re family, you know? I should—I should stick around for you.”

           Inyang’s fingers tightened into fists, then relaxed. He looked at her nails. She probably needed them trimmed, soon. Dipper remembered sharp baby nails, and they were a somewhat discordant experience when the rest of them was so soft, so malleable, so easy to swallow—

           Dipper closed his eyes, breathed in and out, and chased the thought down into the deepest, most terrible part of him. Then he opened his eyes and looked back down at Inyang.

           Inyang looked back, dark eyes large in her small face.

           They stared at each other for a few seconds, Inyang frozen by the uncertainty of an unfamiliar face hovering over her, Dipper by the very human instinct of ‘maybe if I don’t move, this very small child will just go back to sleep instead of crying.’ Despite being a dream demon who didn’t need moist eyeballs, Dipper was the one who blinked first.

           Inyang’s aura twisted. She let out the start of a choking cry. Galvanized by memories of caring for babies over the years, Dipper started shushing her, reaching into her crib on reflex. His sharp talons faded into stubby nubs, his gloves melted away to materialized skin. “Hey, hey, no, it’s all right—”

           Footsteps outside the door. Moments before he managed to pick Inyang up, Dipper frantically twisted himself into the shadows under her crib. Seconds later, the door opened.

           “Oh, that’s odd,” the parent said. Dipper blinked, and there it was—Alisha Dimayuga, journalist, wife to Jolan Dimayuga, owner of a small clothing boutique that custom-sized for all its customers. “The camera didn’t pick up on you waking up—hush, hush, sweet little Aweng, here I am, it’s okay. Why don’t we go see your Zaza, hmm? Zi would love to hold you, love to kiss your precious little nose and all the pain away.”

           Dipper stared up at the bottom of the crib, seeing Alisha pick up Inyang and soothe her without physically seeing it. Alisha rocked from side to side with each step, murmuring about how hard it was to be a baby as she slowly made her way out the room, Inyang still crying pitifully in tired-sleepy-pain-overstimulation. She was going through one of her growth spells, Dipper knew suddenly, though he’d always known it. It hurt, to grow so much all at once and not understand anything, and thankfully it was knowledge that faded quickly. Dipper still remembered his second birth, how things changed and ached and felt like fire melting and reforging and melting his bones all at once. The pain of it, over and over, all at once after stretches of nothing.

           He wouldn’t wish that on anyone.

           Dipper considered revealing himself to Alisha and her partner. He thought about introducing himself, but the thought of Alisha’s fear and Jolan’s terror-courage and the rift that would possibly set between him and Inyang made him hesitate, caught between the soft shadows of the nursery and the light spilling in through the open door. He stayed for a few moments, listening to Alisha and Jolan’s soft voices in the other room, hearing Inyang’s cries get quieter and quieter until she was silent.

           Maybe another time, Dipper told himself. He coalesced back into his humanoid form next to the crib, with its whale-patterned sheets and its pale linoliwood bars. He looked out the door, into the sliver of the hall he could see, and remembered other babies over the years that he had raised, or helped raise. Later, he told himself firmly. For sure.

           Dipper closed his eyes, breathed in deep, and blipped—

 December 4th, 8:54 AM EST

           —into his designated seat at the dining table, aka the chair that Torako had snatched for her temporary bedside table and kept falling out of bed for. Dipper might have—in the previous months—maybe on occasion scooted it just far enough out of reach that she would tumble out of the sheets. Just maybe on occasion, though. Not every night. That would just be suspicious.

           “Morning,” he chirped at Torako, who was sipping at a cup of coffee. He eyed it—hazelnut creamer, oof, she was anticipating a Day.

           “Hey,” Torako said. Across the table, Bentley’s forehead was flush against the wood surface. He groaned out something that Dipper interpreted as a greeting.

           “You never jump anymore,” Dipper complained. He crossed his arms and set them on the table, leaning forward. “It’s so disappointing.”

           “Dude, we’ve lived together for, like, eight years, of course I don’t jump anymore,” Torako said. Dipper hummed in absentminded agreement in order to hide the fact that he was as of that moment making plan after plan to startle the snot out of her. “Besides, now I have a Dipper-sensor as long as Bentley’s around—he moaned out something a second before you popped up.”

          Very kind of her to tell him what situation he needed to avoid in order to succeed. Torako really was her own worst enemy, because she should know by know that Dipper wasn’t nearly nice enough to not take advantage of such facts. “I had forgotten about that.” He actually almost had. “Bentley conscious yet?”

           Bentley groaned again. Torako picked up her fork, stabbed a sausage on her plate, and shoved it in her mouth. Dipper squinted his eyes at the remaining sausages and wondered if he could get away with sneaking one off her plate.

           “Kind of. I think he had a rough last hour of sleep; he was really groggy when I finally shook him awake.”

           Half-formed schemes of how he was going to make Torako scream in surprise fell to the back burner as he cast a more appraising eye over Bentley and his aura. Bentley kept saying that he didn’t want them to treat him like something fragile, like those delectable sugar cubes that were 90% air, 9% sugar and 1% flavoring and were so thin they fell apart the moment they touched your tongue, but Bentley was also dealing with PTSD among a host of other problems so Dipper was going to worry. Especially since, you know, exhaustion crept and shifted slow through his aura in a way that Dipper hadn’t seen since last week.

           “Hey, Ben. Looking tired there.”

           Bentley didn’t make a noise. Instead, he lifted his head up just enough to glare at Dipper. Dipper winced, both at the animosity and at the tiredness strung at the corners of his eyes and in the crease of his forehead. Bentley glared even more.

           Torako whistled. “I’m not sure, but it might have actually gotten worse?”

           “Shut up,” Bentley groused. He reached out and nearly knocked his mug of coffee over (and if it weren’t bad enough that he was drinking coffee, it was worse because even all the way across the table, Dipper’s teeth could feel the half-cup of sugar Bentley had poured in) before tugging it close and sipping. It must have tasted awful. Bentley didn’t blink an eye.

           Dipper looked at Torako. Torako glanced at him. They both decided that shuddering was probably not the wisest course of action, with Ben so grumpy. That being said, Torako still opened her mouth. Really, she was her own worst enemy.

           “So you’re…still going to work today?”

           Ben grunted and shifted his gaze to her, narrow-eyed. “I gotta,” he said. “There’s a new sigils company being built here, and there’s a…what’s the word…mandatory, right, there’s a mandatory meeting at 9:30 about it.”

           “What about a teleconference?” Torako speared another sausage. Dipper, momentarily distracted, looked down at her plate and stretched nonchalantly. If his hand was a little closer to her plate than before, well, that was just coincidence.

           Shaking his head, Bentley took another sip of his coffee before saying, “Confidential information. Gotta be in person.”

           Dipper, after a blink and a quick rush of information, thought that it might be more that Bentley was being stubborn about ‘earning his keep’ and less about ‘having to go to the meeting in person.’ Dipper was actually pretty sure that Karl Svinhish would happily come to visit just in order to fill Bentley in on the details. He considered the pros and cons of actually saying that, and decided to keep his mouth shut. Instead, Torako distracted, he set his fingers right at the edge of her plate.

           Torako snorted and pointed her fork at Bentley. “And Karl Svinhish wouldn’t bend over backwards for you, no, no he wouldn’t.”

           Bentley actually hissed at her and bared his teeth. Torako’s face went—not pale, no, but she had the expression of somebody who has just realized that they’re treading right at the edge of too far and should really go back before they’re mauled. She stabbed down for her sausages.

           Dipper, right on the edge of getting himself a tasty salty snack, howled as her fork stabbed right into the back of his hand.

           “Oh fuck,” Torako said, jumping out of her chair. “Oh fuck, how the fuck did your hand get there, what even—”

           Dipper felt torn between cackling and screaming. It really, really hurt in all the best and worst ways. “You stabbed me!”

           Bentley, at some point, had half-pushed himself out of his chair. He lowered himself down into it, lifted his coffee mug, and raised his eyebrows as Torako pulled the fork back out of Dipper’s hand. He sipped.

           “Shut up,” Dipper giggled at him, tears streaming down his face.

           “I’m too tired to be nice,” Bentley muttered. “You were asking for it.”

           Torako blinked. She looked down at her sausages. “Were you—trying to take my breakfast?”

           “No,” Dipper lied. He licked at the puncture holes in the back of his hand, then willed them to go away. His blood tasted almost like copper, today. “Of course not.”

           Torako glowered at him, and pointed the fork. “You were.”

           “Never,” he said. There was a tug somewhere in his gut, and he recognized family—friend—Batoor a split second before he said, “and you can’t prove otherwise, Batoor’s calling, see you guys later bye!”

           Torako threw her fork. He disappeared before it could reach him.

 December 4th, 4:09 PM GMT

             Dipper blipped back into physical space upside-down and in a pretty snazzy pair of electric blue ruffled slacks. He craned his neck back to look Batoor in the eye. “You called?”

           “Someday, I hope you realize how old you sound when you say that,” Batoor complained. He was sitting on his desk, a textbook in his lap and a pencil stuck behind his ear. His curtains were open, the dorm courtyard below empty but for the few students taking advantage of a clear afternoon to get some much-needed sun. Dipper tilted his head and pointed.

           “Is that kid stacking chips on her nose?”

           “Undoubtedly,” Batoor said, not even looking. “It’s a new fad. You wouldn’t understand them, being an old geezer.”

           Sometimes, Dipper regretted introducing Torako to Batoor. He extra regretted that Torako and Batoor had exchanged contact information, and that Batoor was picking up on some bad habits of Torakos, like bullying Dipper with no regard for how impressively powerful he was. No respect these days.

           “I understand fads,” Dipper grumbled.

           Outside, chip-stacking student made it to four chips high. Four chips wouldn’t be nearly so impressive if they weren’t being stacked corner to corner. Dipper was kind of jealous—he wasn’t sure he would be able to do that without taking advantage of his powers.

           “You keep telling yourself that,” Batoor said. “Anyways—I need help with this history paper. You know about history, right?”

           Dipper fancied that, if he’d never become a dream demon caught in the claws of near-eternity (he knew that he wouldn’t last forever, but it may as well be—it basically would be, as far as this universe was concerned, and more than that he couldn’t quite wrap even his demonically-altered brain around), he would have been a scientist, or a mathematician, or an over-qualified pizza store manager (which if it came with free pizza, wouldn’t be a half-bad gig.) At almost-thirteen, he hadn’t been as interested in history beyond conspiracy theories and supernatural stories. Now, though—“My middle name may as well be Historical Record,” Dipper said. He flipped over mid-air. His braid fell over his shoulder as well.

           Batoor blinked at him. “Those pants are…new,” he said, in English. Dipper narrowed his eyes in suspicion.

           “Not really,” he said. “What, you don’t like them?” Mabel had been the one who pestered him into conjuring them for himself in the first place. He’d gotten a whole cheesecake out of that deal, and the mortification of them had barely been enough for his young-demon ego to deal with. Now, though—they were ruffled, and bright, and Mabel’s, and that was enough.

           “And the braid is different,” Batoor said.

           Dipper looked down at it, pulling it further into view with his left hand. He flipped the end of it between his fingers. “ Yeah, I don’t usually go for this style. It’s fun, to change things up.”

           Batoor blinked. The scales around his eyes shimmered. “Yes,” he said, thoughtfully, “I guess so. Anyways, I need help with the history paper. About history. In English. I am older so class is harder? It’s a high-level class.”

           “Okay,” Dipper said, easily enough. It wasn’t like Torako or Bentley would be better company now, and they were going to be busy anyways. “What you got to pay me, then?”

           Grinning, Batoor opened a desk drawer with his foot. Dipper perked up despite himself, shoulders dropping and eyebrows raising. “Candy,” Batoor said, “and snacks. From Kabul.”

           Not as easily obtained as gummy peaches, here in Ireland. “Oh,” Dipper said. “I see what you’re doing. You’ve been talking to Torako.”

           “Of course,” Batoor said, before switching back to Dashto. “She’s the only one that can handle you, other than Bentley, and she’s the one with the Demonology degree. She’s been very helpful in my studies.”

           Dipper stilled. He narrowed his eyes. “I thought you were doing a degree in Community-Building and Inter-Species Relations,” he said, slowly.

           “I am,” Batoor said. He reached inside the desk drawer and picked up a couple packages, one carefully-preserved mini gosh-e fil stuck in stasis, powdered sugar and chopped pistachios kept in place through the power of food-regulation preservation spells, and the other an assorted bag of koloocheh. A few of them were broken despite the spells, and Dipper knew they had to be good. Koloocheh were brittle cookies by nature, after all.

           “Oh,” Dipper said. He couldn’t look away from the treats for a second, then made himself because he could get a major deal out of these if by some small chance Batoor didn’t know any better. “They’re pretty good, but for a whole paper?”

           “And proofreading,” Batoor said. He smiled, as sweet as the sacrifice he was offering. “I know exactly how valuable these are. They’re not only delicious, they’re sentimental. My Oware bought them for my Transfer-Day. I haven’t had gosh-e fil since we left Afghanistan.”

           Oh fuck, Dipper thought. He felt a trickle of unease down the back of his neck a second before the realization hit him and he sunk to standing on the floor like a dumbass. “Oh,” he said again. “You’re doing a specialization in community law and advocacy, aren’t you.”

          Batoor grinned. “Demonology overlaps with law-writing classes a lot, you know. Anyways. For help finding relative articles about my history topic in both English and Dashto, assistance refining my arguments, and thorough proofreading of my English composition, I will give you both of these very valuable, sentimental treats, and maybe we can have some video game time together if my roommate doesn’t come back too early.”

           “That’s a big if,” Dipper said. “Do you have the new Red Rider game? The one that’s set in a magicless urban wasteland that you have to carefully scavenge tools and make intelligent allegiances in order to strategically rise to the top of the crime syndicate that’s taken over the city and make the ultimate choice whether to rule over all with an iron fist or transition to a better societal system?”

           Batoor stared for a moment. “Yes,” he said slowly. “You like that game?”

           “Well,” Dipper said. “I suppose I kind of do, yes, but not too much.” Dipper carefully did not mention that the open-story ending that mimicked the rewards and consequences of living a high-stakes human life scratched the same itch he had tried to, over and over and over in human skins that lasted not long enough. He also didn’t mention that the mathematics that went into calculating story paths from individual choices was jaw-droppingly incredible and he needed to see it in play for himself.

           Batoor nodded. Dipper narrowed his eyebrows in suspicion at the sparks of mirth and slowly unfurling anticipation in his aura.

           “Stop being amused,” Dipper said, pointing his lace-gloved finger at Batoor and scowling. “I kind of like it.”

           “Sure,” Batoor said with a perfectly straight face that was very at odds with the emotions that Dipper was reading. He held out his hand. “Anyways, I do have the game and we can play it if there is enough time. If there isn’t, we’ll play at the next opportunity feasible for both parties. Do we have a deal?”

           Dipper looked at the sweets. He tilted his head and thought about the promise of the game—which he was guaranteed to have a chance to play—and then about the difficulty of the task before him. He didn’t mind proofreading either, especially because English had cast off a bunch of the fiddly rules about punctuation that honestly Dipper thought were still needed. He could make sure that Batoor’s teachers weren’t teaching him too much that was wrong.

           Grinning wide, Dipper reached out and took Batoor’s hand. “Deal,” he said. Blue fire licked up from between their palms briefly, and Dipper felt himself get—sharper, smarter, stronger—for a brief flash as the deal lanced through him. Then he let himself slide into that state of mind where he was—not compelled to do a task, no, but it was similar.

           “Great,” Batoor said, grinning lazily. He leaned back against the desk and looked very self-satisfied. “Because my Red Rider game’s multiplayer option hasn’t been used since the time my roommate agreed to try it out with me.”

           Dipper tipped his head. Something niggled at him. “How long ago was that?”

           “Two months ago,” Batoor said. “The day I got the game.”

           Anticipation tingled up and down Dipper’s arms. He felt himself lift back off the ground. “Oh? Why not? It’s an excellent game.”

           “He said I was too intense.” Batoor picked under his fingernails at imaginary dirt, but Dipper could still see the grin on his face.

           “Oh,” Dipper said again. Then, he said, “Well, we should finish that paper as quickly as possible, shouldn’t we? I doubt that you’re more intense than I can be.”

           “We’ll have to see,” Batoor said, eyebrows raised.

 ________________________________________________________________

             They did not, unfortunately, get a chance to see. Writing papers was harder than Dipper remembered, and Batoor had chosen to write about anti-preter sentiment in Ireland two hundred years ago and the impact of the laws enacted during that time had in the centuries following. There weren’t too many papers on the matter in Dashto, and any articles that they could find were harder to understand the further back they were, so Batoor was stuck with English and translated Gaelic sources.

           Halfway into Presumption of Guilt: How Lawmakers Built a Sinister System in the Absence of Politically Powerful Preternatural Citizens that Resulted in the Summer Riots of 3784, Batoor’s dorm buzzed. They froze.

           “Hey, Batoor!” Dipper heard. He swung his head around to look at Batoor, who met his gaze. “Why you lock the door? You got company?”

           Batoor flushed. “No!” he yelled, voice cracking a little as he flapped his hand at Dipper. “I just was studying!”

           Dipper snatched what remained of the delicious snacks that Batoor had traded and stopped just short of blipping out. “When are we going to play Red Rider?” he hissed quietly in Dashto.

           Apparently Batoor’s roommate had very, very good ears. “Batoor?”

           Batoor leveled the nastiest glare that Dipper had been subject to from him. Dipper threw up his hands in frustration and tried to communicate, with his eyes, that he was just asking, no need to get pissy about it! To which Batoor shook a finger at Dipper, waggled his eyebrows in I-told-you-we’d-get-to-it-when-we-get-to-it, and gestured for Dipper to stay quiet for good measure.

“I was only talking to myself!” Batoor yelled back. “Let me get the door for you—”

           Dipper felt a tug in his gut. Thankfully, he let himself follow the summons, twisting out of existence from Batoor’s Irish University dormroom and—

 December 4th, 9:44 PM EAT

           —into a small bedroom with sparsely decorated walls, a pale tile floor worn right to the edge of minor neglect, and a small child sitting on a patterned rug right at the edge of his circle.

           Dipper swallowed back his customary greeting and instead asked, “What’s up, kiddo?”

           They hugged their knees closer to their chest, squashing what looked to be a very sentimental stuffed manticore. “Sshh,” they said, so quiet that Dipper had to readjust his hearing. “Aunty Adi is asleep.”

           “Oh,” Dipper said. He sat cross-legged a half-inch above the wobbly chalk lines. After a moment, he whispered, “I like your scentless candles.”

           The child ducked their face into their knees and the stuffed manticore’s fuzzy mane. “Thanks,” they said, but then said nothing else for a long time. Their aura shifted between embarrassment and hesitation and quick flashing bursts of smothered pride. Dipper made the decision to wait for them to speak, and instead cast out his senses more to assess his new surroundings. There was a small bed in the corner, third-hand but well maintained, a nice new desk bought at a bargain, temperature-regulated sheets, a little bookshelf that was crammed overfull, a tablet for children open to what seemed to be a digital copy of a centuries-old summoning how-to that had never been legally published but had found its way around anyways. Down the hall to one side there were three other signatures—two more children, one adult, each in separate rooms, and to the other seemed to be a living space complete with kitchen and a harmless little snake that curled up in a hole in the wall, sleeping off its latest meal. The night air was cool in such a way that suggested the previous day had been hot.

           “Are you really a demon?” The kid asked.

           “Yeah,” Dipper said, wiggling his claws at them. Their eyes were big and dark in the candlelight from right over their knees. “Alcor the Dreambender, at your service.”

           Another very long pause. Dipper waited.

           “The book said you were nice,” they said. Dipper tilted his head. The book had been distributed during one of his nicer, more mentally present phases. Fortunately for this child, he’d had over a decade of recent socialization with human beings, so he wasn’t super tempted to take advantage of what the kid thought.

           “Right now I am,” he said. “What you want, then, kiddo? People usually don’t summon me unless they have a deal in mind.”

           They looked away and buried themselves further into themselves. The minutes passed. Outside, bugs sang and small lizards rustled in pursuit. The candles flickered, burned wax into vapor that wafted away, slow and lazy but inevitable. Dipper kept himself breathing, steady.

           “…Aunty Adi doesn’t like me,” they said.

           Dipper blinked. “Oh?” he asked, and looked closer. No broken bones, a bruise on their knee (legitimately tripped and fell), short curly hair (useful for the heat), crooked fingers (an accident when they were two years old), missing tooth (their adult teeth were coming in). Whatever it was, it wasn’t overt physical abuse. Dipper narrowed his eyes. “What does she do? Where are your parents?”

           They shifted one foot over the other. “I act funny,” they said instead. “Mom and Dad are busy working in Lilongwe, so they left me with Aunty Adi.”

           There was a lengthy silence. Dipper had started getting that uneasy prickling along the back of his neck, the one he got when kids weren’t safe and happy, and he had to breathe in deep and out slow to stop himself from getting ‘intense,’ as Torako put it.

           “Other kids don’t like me either,” said the kid. “I don’t get it, I laugh when they want me to and follow all the rules, the ones they don’t say but are there anyways, but they still don’t like me.”

           Lonely crept over them like a purple shroud, heavy and dark and bruiselike. Dipper watched it settle and shift for a few moments, and turned the words over in his head. They waited.

           “Do you want a friend?” Dipper asked, finally.

           A heartbeat, two, and then a nod.

           “Do you want me to be your friend, tonight?”

           A double nod.

           “I’ll need something in exchange,” Dipper said, because it was true (though not really, no, he could totally absorb the backlash that came with spending a night playing with a kid but this wasn’t Mabel) and the kid should know that, but also— “maybe some candy? Kids have candy, right?”

           He’d really, really prefer the manticore. He almost asked for it. Then he thought of what Torako would say and do to him if she found out he’d taken a beloved stuffed animal from a lonely, friendless child and figured that stealing candy was a comparably minor offense.

           Their wide dark eyes stared into his, and then they very slowly nodded, and even more slowly pointed in the direction of their desk. “In the drawer,” they said. “Milk drops.”

           Dipper tilted his head over at the desk and blinked. “Okay,” he said and extended his hand. “Is it a deal?”

           After a short moment, they nodded and extended their hand over the shaky, weak chalk lines of their summoning circle. “Deal,” they said, their hand in his, blue fire flaring up between them for a second before dying down.

           Dipper tilted his head, blinked into something a little softer (more comfortable, something that would set the kid at ease) and asked, “So, kiddo, I’m yours to play with for a while. What you wanna do?”

           The kid didn’t smile, but hesitant happiness spread like frail roots through the heavy purple lonely in their aura. “Well,” they said, quietly, “there’s this—card game, that I got to play once…”

_______________________________________________________________

           It took several hours of very quiet playtime for the kid to finally get tired enough to fall asleep. Dipper tucked them—tucked Pili—into their bed, sang a slightly off-key lullaby until their tired eyes finally blinked shut and their chest rose and fell softly and their grip on their Manticore (Nadine) loosened. He thought for a moment, then summoned a Dream to curl up next to them and a Nightmare to stand guard until Pili woke in the morning.

           “You keep an eye on them, alright?” Dipper said. The dream baa’d and snuggled in close to Pili, who relaxed further. Himmwichlint, the Nightmare, blinked its five eyes independently and huffed out a derisive what, you think I wouldn’t at Dipper. Dipper huffed back and rolled his eyes.

           “I’m not saying you can’t or won’t,” Dipper complained, crossing his arms. He was wearing a very soft sweater that Pili had exclaimed quietly over before stroking for a solid five minutes. “I’m just saying what I want you to do.”

           Himmwichlint rolled its eyes back at him. The effect it had was really similar like those plastic googly ones that Belle had once used to bedazzle a pair of sneakers into a constantly-rustling horror show. She had worn them every day for a month to class. Dipper had ended up making a deal with Lionel to have them disappear.

           “No respect,” Dipper complained. “What is it with everybody in my life refusing to show me respect? I am a very powerful dream demon, you would think people would remember that more.”

           The Nightmare chuffed low in its gizzard, and its wool shook in laughter. Then it turned itself around to lay on the ground at the side of the bed, very purposefully looking away from Dipper.

           Dipper threw up his hands. “Unbelievable,” he whispered, turning around himself to leave the room. “Absolutely unbelievable.”

           He very quietly swung the door open and then stepped into the quiet hallway. Another step, and he shifted from the soft sweater and comfortable sweatpants he’d put on for Pili into a sharp black suit, dark and imposing and shadowy. He didn’t need to close his eyes for more than a few seconds to know that he wanted the room at the very end of the hall. He walked forward on the thin air just a hair off the ground, passing by several pictures on the walls and a totem lodged in an inset shelf near the ceiling. It was supposed to protect the inhabitants, but the spirit that was supposed to be there was missing. It had been missing for years at this point.

           Not that it could have done much of anything if it had been there, Dipper thought to himself with a little grin. It could not have stopped him from having a little chat with Auntie Adi. He doubted that it would have even tried.

           In moments, he reached her door. The insects outside had fallen silent. He pushed the door open, soundless, and entered her room.

           It was dark. A thin sliver of slightly-overcast moonlight drifted through the crack between the curtains. In the middle of the room was a wide bed, thin summer blankets draped over a sleeping figure. When he looked around, the room wasn’t overly different from Pili’s—the same well-cared-for furniture, clothing bought at a bargain and a few priceless treasures (gifts, or inheritances, or simply items loved to the point of powerfully tempting)—but there was something about it that cradled the sleeping figure. There had been a lot of love in this room. There was a lot of love, and care, and fondness. Pili’s room seemed so much emptier by comparison.

           Alcor made his way to the edge of the bed. He flicked out his cane, threaded his hair back into a ribbon-tied ponytail, and then sat down.

           Adi didn’t respond for several moments, still deep in sleep. No matter. He knew that the deep part of her responsible for living, for detecting danger and escaping from it was slowly waking up. With every breath, it was pulled closer and closer to the surface, a buoy rising to the surface of a wide dark sea, dragging consciousness up with it. Her brow started to furrow. The soft lines along the edges of her mouth began to deepen. Her eyes tensed. Inhale, exhale, and her eyes fluttered open.

           It took two breathing cycles for her to register that there was a strange person in her room, sitting on her bed and looking down at her. She jerked into motion, opened her mouth, and screamed.

           Alcor smiled into the silence. He had already borrowed—not stolen, he might still give it back—her voice. “Now, now,” he said, softly. “You shouldn’t disturb the children’s sleep. Let’s be quiet, all right?”

           Her eyes are wide. The sclera is bright against the darkness of the room. Her hand feels at her throat, which is bobbing with fruitless effort to speak.

           “I know this is frightening,” Alcor said. His grin widened. The fear shooting up from Adi in sparks set him on the most wonderful edge. It buzzed against him, just enough to turn his teeth a hair past sharp and blow his pupils a clawtip longer. “But really, this is quite important—can I trust you not to scream?”

           She nodded. What a fool—he already knew he couldn’t. He knew she would scream as loud as she could, and then her children would come in, and then Alcor would have to figure out how to deal with them in non-lethal ways. What a mess that would be. Instead, he chuckled before reaching out and tracing a claw against the bottom of her jaw. Adi froze. Her chest barely moved, quick and light.

           “Don’t worry,” he drawled, leaning in a little. Her eyes darted from his teeth to his eyes and then back down again to his teeth. “I already know I can’t. Anyways, this will be a far more productive conversation if you aren’t doing any of the talking.”

           With a sharp inhale, she clenched her fingers in the blanket pooled at her waist. Alcor tapped her chin. She nodded again, this time short and jerky. Her fear really was quite exhilarating, Alcor thought to himself absentmindedly. He’d have to make sure to milk as much out of her without compromising his position, or Pili’s.

           Ah, yes. Pili’s. A no-name soul that he hadn’t had any meaningful prior relationships with. But children were children, and no-name souls could earn names, couldn’t they? Lionel and Torako and Georgi were all excellent examples. He would have to keep an eye out for Pili—make sure that Adi didn’t do anything unfortunate.

           “I suppose you’re wondering why I’m here,” Alcor said, leaning back a little. Adi exhaled shakily, and nodded again. “Well, it has to do with your nibling. Did you know that they’ve managed to access quite the outdated collection of demonic academia? Their circle was a little wobbly, but it’s supposed to be simple enough for a child to draw with a bit of effort, if they’re desperate enough.”

           Alcor noted the sudden tension in Adi’s shoulders, the sourness of jealousy that rose up among misplaced gangrene anger, the mist-like waft of dark guilt that drifted off as quick as it drifted in.

           “You see,” Alcor said, crossing one leg over the other and wrapping his hands leisurely around his knees, “children have to be desperate enough to draw my circle. That’s not even taking into account the effort many go to in order to get the information needed to draw my circle, and say the incantation, and gather the necessary supplies. Children, you see, don’t often have the resources or freedom an adult does. Please, do me a favor and consider—how desperate must young Pili have been to go to the effort of all that?”

           Adi’s anger flashed and deepened. She lifted her chin, eyes narrowed, and opened her mouth to retort before she tried to speak and remembered exactly who it was she was talking to. Fear drowned out the anger. She curled back in on herself, shifting back on the bedsheets with a near-silent rasp.

           Yes. This was what he deserved. This was the respect he had earned, that he had been deprived of the last few hours. He breathed it in deep.

           “I know you haven’t laid a hand on them,” Alcor drawled. His eyes crinkled in a smile. “Trust me, we would be having a—different conversation at that point. Perhaps off in the desert, where you could scream and I could enjoy it without having to worry about your spawn ruining everything. But that’s also the problem, because—you haven’t laid a hand on them in love, either.”

           Silence. Her aura spoke volumes. He let it balloon up between them, bobbed his foot as she swallowed past a rabbit-quick heartbeat. The pale moonlight coming in through the crack in the curtains glinted off the shiny cap on the toe.

           “Your nibling summoned me because they were desperate for a friend,” Dipper said, very very quietly. “They wanted somebody to play with. To love them, even if that love wasn’t as real as what they really needed. Even just for a night. You, as their guardian, have failed them. You have neglected them, for terrible, petty reasons that have nothing to do with who Pili is, and have everything to do with who somebody else is—one of their parents, I’m assuming.”

           Adi bristled again, shoulders drawing up and back in indignation. Her sleeping cap shifted, exposing some of the kinked hair it was protecting. Alcor reached over. She stilled, heartrate jack-knifing as he pulled the cap back into place.

           “You don’t have to be their friend,” Alcor said. He smiled. “But it would be such a shame if you didn’t learn how to be kind to them and how to be supportive of them. Such a shame indeed. There are always…repercussions, you see, for these kinds of actions.” He leaned over, resting his chin in one palm, fingers curled in a precisely calculated mimicry of danger. Adi trembled, swallowed. Sweat tricked down her brow and along the lines of her slender neck. Dipper watched it drip down, and felt her terror spike.

           “What a shame indeed,” he said. He glanced up, still smiling, and caught her eye. The shallow inhale she was taking hitched. Her pupils shrunk despite the darkness. Alcor tilted his head to make sure the light glinted across his sharp teeth. Then, he drew back.

           “But I suppose it would be better for Pili and your other children if I actually gave you the chance to learn,” he said offhandedly, and looked at his claws. The next exhale broke out of her, ragged and loud in the silence. “I’m trying to be a better person, you see, and I suppose you haven’t done anything egregiously worthy of…such harsh retribution.”

           Alcor stood. He picked imaginary lint off his shoulder, pulled his eight-ball cane back into the physical realm, and leaned on it. “I don’t suppose I have to inform you that if things don’t get better, I will know,” he drawled. Adi’s hands were clutching at the fabric over her heart. “But, for the purpose of all transparency…if they don’t, I will know. I doubt you’ll enjoy what happens afterwards.”

           With a grin that was satisfyingly wide, Alcor bowed and faded out of sight. A moment later, he released his hold on Adi. He watched her place trembling hands over her mouth and hyperventilate for several minutes. She eventually calmed enough to slide out of bed and stand on shaking legs, though it took her a few tries to be steady enough to walk on her own. She checked her eldest son’s room, then her daughter’s, and then finally –with no little hesitation—her nibling’s.

           Alcor grinned as she stifled a gurgling scream at the sight of Himmwichlint curled up in front of Pili’s bed. Himmwichlint lifted its head, blinked its five eyes at Adi, and then yawned on purpose to show off its incomprehensible but terrifying teeth and its two whipcord tongues. Adi whimpered and stumbled back. Alcor, upside-down on the ceiling, hummed and grinned wider.

           Himmwichlint tilted its head up, made eye contact with him, and huffed.

           Alcor rolled his eyes back at Himmwichlint. He did not need to get out of here, not when this woman’s reactions were absolutely hilarious. He hadn’t been front-row seats to a horror show with so little blood in ages.

           Himmwichlint snorted, looked back at the woman, and nestled itself back in. On the bed, Pili sighed and snuggled the dream closer. The dream obliged.

           Aunt Adi dropped her fist, just a little. She stared at her nibling, eyebrows furrowing. Soft surprise echoed out in the spaces between her terror and horror. If he looked closely, he could see the beginnings of wonder peeking out from behind the residual film of jealousy and anger.

           Oh, he thought. Maybe she would learn. What a disappointment, almost to the point he was the slightest bit mad about it. He’d been looking forward to eking out some more terror from her, maybe indulging in snacking on a finger or two, possibly a kidney, nothing life-threatening. Her actually cleaning her act up was going to ruin things for him.

           Oh, he thought after another moment. Maybe—maybe he did need to go somewhere—else. Dipper closed his eyes and as quietly as possible, tessered into the mindscape, lay in the grass among his Nightmares and Dreams, and simply was.

________________________________________________________________

§¢ɷʘϠϰѬ  ҈۝†‡₰  ʯ͚:ͼǂ  Nightmare Realm

             It was nice, for an indeterminable amount of time, to let the manic buzzing energy and self-righteous anger and the hunger for justice (revenge, the kind that benefited him and him alone) seep out of the front of his mind and down into the back. A couple Dreams nestled up to his sides, and one had decided that his chest was the best place to curl up on. It chewed on his lapel absentmindedly. Dipper would have minded more if it a) wasn’t easy to fix, being made of thought, and b) weren’t the case that the Dream was in the top tenth percentile of cute Dreams—which were altogether adorable as it was.

           The Nightmare taking advantage of the situation to snuffle into his hair was another thing entirely.

           “Erschie,” Dipper said, eyes closed but eyebrows furrowed down. “What are you doing.”

           A pause, then Erschie snorted warm sulfuric air directly into Dippers mostly-made-up scalp. Dipper waited a few seconds for something else to happen, then opened his eyes. The moment he did, he felt Erschie’s fangs and sharp front teeth start to scrape at the top of his head.

         “Gross,” Dipper said, even as he felt the skin slice open just a little. “Disgusting.”

           Erschie paused, then withdrew. Dipper blinked. Erschie then licked at Dipper’s hair with all the gross slobber in Erschie’s dumb gross mouth.

           Dipper bolted upright, the Dream on his chest now in his arms and the other two left to flop into the grass and baa irately over the sudden lack of support. “ERSCHIE!” Dipper screeched. His hair stood up on end. He could feel the slobber starting to trickle down the back of his neck. “WHAT THE FUCK.”

           Erschie blinked up at him, closed its eyes, and then let out a wool-rustle throat-croak hoof-stomp that Dipper knew to indicate Erschie’s general amusement at being a nuisance in Dipper’s life. The Dream snuggled into Dipper’s arms. This, unfortunately, limited what response Dipper could take.

           In order to demonstrate to Erschie that he was a dangerous, serious, terrifying dream demon, Dipper opened his mouth, displayed all his rows of teeth, and hissed at Erschie. For some reason, that just made the Nightmare express Amusement more exuberantly.

           “You’ve been conniving with Himmie, haven’t you,” Dipper said. He resisted the urge to stamp his foot. “You’re both out to show me as much disrespect as possible.”

           Erschie clacked its teeth together and flicked its ears.

           “What do you mean it’s not hard?? I am Alcor the Dreambender, Devourer of Souls and Lord of Nightmares, King of Darkness, Destroyer of Light, the Infernal Star! I’m literally the Scourge of All Beings Living and Dead and you say it’s not hard to disrespect me??”

           With an exaggerated snort, Erschie dipped its head down and up twice before flicking its ears in succession.

           “I do not embarrass myself!!” Dipper howled, throwing his arms up in the air. The Dream previously occupying them fell to the grass with a disgruntled bleat, and glared up at him as ferociously as it could manage. Dipper looked down at the Dream and winced.

           Erschie performed its most vigorous Amusement dance yet.

           Dipper pointed at Erschie and glowered. “Shut up,” he said.

           Predictably, but disappointingly, Erschie did not listen. Erschie continued to do its best to convey its Amusement at Dipper, adding insult to injury by throwing in a mirthful head-shake.

           “Can’t get any respect around here,” Dipper grumbled, squatting down and papping the Dream to show his remorse as was only appropriate. “They’re all out to get me. But you won’t be like that if you ever become a Nightmare, will you? You’ll be appropriately respectful, unlike that ungrateful troll over there. Yes, I could eat it, but no, I am merciful and abstain like a good demon. And this is the thanks I get.”

           The dream looked up at him and blinked. It turned its head to take in Erschie, who was now turning around in a circle as it continued to mock Dipper. Then the dream looked back up at Dipper and flicked its ears just like Erschie was.

           Dipper stood and put his hands on his hips. “Wow,” he said. “The rebellion really does start early. I can see I’m not welcome here, in my own Realm.”

           Erschie blew a raspberry. All three Dreams watched Erschie in clear curiosity, then turned around to Dipper and did the same.

           “Rude,” Dipper growled, and pulled himself away into another place chosen on a whim.

________________________________________________________________

December 5th, 1:58 AM, AZT

             Dipper found himself outside a small home with a bright blue door. The outer walls were made of corrugated metal that had also been painted blue, and a birdhouse had been set between two of the windows. It was cold. Dipper breathed out, then in, then suffused heat into his next exhale just to see the condensation rise and dissipate into the air.

           He turned around, looked down the footpath that meandered down the slope the house was set into. There were more houses, roofs illuminated by moonlight, windows largely unlit. It was 2 AM in this small town of Laza, after all. There wasn’t very much to do, unless he really wanted to terrorize the inhabitants by tap-dancing on their ceilings or whispering traumatizing thoughts into their dreams. He thought maybe that might just possibly be a not great thing that Bentley would get quiet and frustrated with him over, though. Instead, maybe he could just eat some of the goats that one of the houses kept down below. Dipper hummed and tapped his finger on his chin.

           Eating goats was probably something he would get in trouble for, on second thought. He could just terrorize the goats. That was still fun, but didn’t hurt any people. Actually, Torako would get a kick out of some selfies, he could do that. Tempt her into another passport-less road trip, for the fun of it. They could take Bentley too, this time. It would be much lower stakes. Yes, a picture would be good. Dipper took a step forward, absentmindedly casting his mind around to count the souls in the vicinity, and then froze.

           He turned back around, looked at the blue house with the blue door and the birdhouse set into the side of it. A gust of wind blew through him, then around him as he made himself just a little more solid. In turn, he stared through the house and at the soul on a couch. The soul had dozed off while watching the news, which had turned off automatically an hour ago. Dipper stared, then—because he really didn’t have anything better to do—blipped from outside to just in the living room.

           She had become an old, old man, this time, Dipper realized. A very well-groomed and well-dressed old man, even in sleep. She didn’t seem rich this time, he thought to himself, taking in the heirloom table and the rugs worn with age and use, but then again, Pacifica tended to bounce up and down the economic scale from life to life.

           Dipper took a seat in the thin air above the table, on which there was a lone, empty cup that had held coffee at some point. He tilted his head at the old man, watched him breathe in (a little raspy) and then out (almost a snore) for several minutes. Dipper closed his eyes, and saw Pacifica’s death—

           Tunar, in a hospital bed, age 146, seven weeks and two days before his birthday. He breathes in, and then out, and then in, slower and shallower each time. The heartbeat monitor chimes weakly, but steadily. His nephew holds his hand, an old man himself, and his great-great-grandniece is smoothing down the sparse hair on Tunar’s head.

           Tunar does not open his eyes. He has already said goodbye, said it in the hour he was awake before he slept, said goodbye the same way he always did before falling asleep—with a soft ‘I love you,’ a kiss on the forehead or on the hand or on the cheek, and a small little sigh as he set his head into the pillows and closed his eyes again. His other grandnibling has gone with the rest of their family to get something to eat and bring food back for the two who stayed behind. This is probably for the best—there are nineteen of them, you see, because Tunar had loved well and was well-loved in turn.

           His death is slow, as easy as death is capable of being. Medicine has brought the human body far, but there will never be immortality. There never is immortality, not for humankind, not for the dayflies who are born at dawn and die at dusk, not for the oldest of vampires or the fairest of dragons or the coldest of yukionna. All things die, eventually. All things pass.

           Tunar takes a slow, slow breath in, lets it out, and does not inhale again.

—and opened them only to see that the old man had woken up, 137, still nine years left to him, and was looking right at Dipper.

           Dipper startled a little, but didn’t move. The old man did not startle, but instead stretched after a moment in the way that old people do to get stiff muscles to cooperate again.

           “Ah, I fell asleep on the couch again,” Tunar muttered. His hands shook a little as he clapped them once. The lights came on, dim. “I really should stop doing that, it’s very bad for my back and for my sleeping schedule. This face isn’t getting any younger, you know.”

           Dipper cocked his head. “Do you want it to?” he asked.

           Tunar scoffed and pushed himself to sit up straight before reaching for an elegant white cane. His hands, wrinkled and adorned with liver spots, wrapped thin fingers around the gently curved top of the cane. “You think you’re so smooth,” he said, narrowing thick eyebrows at Dipper. “I know better than to make a deal with you, Soul-Devourer.”

          After a brief pause that stretched on to the edge between acceptable and too long, Dipper said, “Actually, it was mostly curiosity.”

           “Mostly,” Tunar drawled, leaning back into the cushions and looking down his nose at Dipper. Dipper was reminded almost viciously of Pacifica and how she would stare at him, unimpressed, after whatever shenanigan he’d pulled recently that pissed her off. It froze Dipper for several long seconds, his heart in his throat as he couldn’t stop seeing her face over Tunar’s. Then Tunar sighed, and the spell was broken.

         “I suppose you’re not actually here to reap my soul for whatever reason, though.” Tunar tilted his head and raised an eyebrow. “I know you caused a big hullabaloo a few countries over several months ago, but they’re saying that the river is purified and that there were minimal casualties, which really is quite surprising.”

           “Well, old man,” Dipper drawled, leaning over, “what makes you think that would stop me from taking what I want?”

           Tunar blinked, looked closely at Dipper, and said nothing for a long time. His eyes were dark, if a little clouded, but piercing in a way that had Dipper twitching his foot. The light buzzed overhead. The clock in the other room slid nearly-silently to the next minute. Outside, Dipper could hear grass rustling in the wind if he concentrated enough, or too little.

           A hum brought his attention back to the Pacifica in front of him. Tunar had leaned forward, placing his face and throat closer to Dipper, close enough he could reach out or lunge if he really wanted to.

           “Well then,” Tunar said, smiling, his prosthetic teeth shining somewhat brighter than the few natural ones he had left, “seems to me that you don’t want to eat me.”

           That wasn’t completely accurate—it never was—but it was accurate enough that Dipper found himself flushing. He withdrew and hunched his shoulders, looking at the pictures set into the wall as though he’d never seen anything like them before. Fingers wrapped around his knee, he managed to respond, “Says who?”

           Torako would have gleefully needled the truth out of him. Bentley would have stared at him, arched an eyebrow, and said “Says me,” with the slyest little grin on his face. Pacifica would have lifted fingers to her mouth and chuckled, eyes half-lowered in a kind of superiority-fueled amusement.

           Tunar snorted, eyebrows shooting up higher, and leaned back. “Can’t believe I thought you were some kind of suave, smooth-talking master-villain,” he said. “You’re a dumbass.”

           Dipper scowled at Tunar. Tunar grinned unapologetically, sharp at the edges. “You suck,” Dipper said, finally.

           With a cackle, Tunar finally lay his cane across the top of his legs. “I’m thirsty,” he said, finally. “Make me some coffee.”

           “Make—you have a demon in your living room, and you’re telling him to make coffee??” Dipper said, voice momentarily going shrill.

           “That’s right,” Tunar said, eyes creased in a self-satisfied smile.

           “I could—I’ve manufactured deaths for less offense,” Dipper said, even though it wasn’t much of an offense.

           “I’m a hundred and thirty seven years old,” Tunar said, archly. “Even if I thought you would do that, I wouldn’t be frightened. I’ve lived a long time.”

           Dipper stared. “Unbelievable,” he finally said. “I can’t believe it. I’ve been dealing with this kind of disrespect all day. You don’t even know me.”

           “You just have that kind of face.” Tunar reached out with his cane and poked Dipper in the arm. Dipper’s jaw fell open. “Now. Coffee. I like mine with heavy cream and a scant spoonful of cane sugar. Get to it.”

           It took Dipper several moments to get his jaw closed. Then, he stood up, feet firmly on the rug below the coffee table, and walked into the kitchen to do as Tunar said. He was never, he thought to himself, introducing Tunar to Torako or Bentley. Never.

________________________________________________________________

           In the middle of a story about the time that an acquaintance, unaware of the fact that Tunar wasn’t particularly interested in romantic or sexual entanglements, tried to set Tunar up with xir grandchild ten years Tunar’s senior when Tunar was 23, Dipper’s phone rang. The lyrics to Dancing Queen blared in the air between them before Dipper could answer it.

           Tunar tilted his head. “You have a phone?”

           Dipper sent a glower at Tunar, then answered the phone. “Yes?” he asked, in an approximation of what passed for English these days.

           “Oh, thank goodness you answered,” the voice on the other end of the line said. Dipper blinked and took a second to place the voice—Reynash, right. “Listen, Lata’s sitter dropped out on us again, he was supposed to pick him up from school today but we just got the call that he didn’t, could you—”

           “Yeah, yeah, no, give me five, ten minutes,” Dipper said, tipping his head and calculating the closest point to Lata’s new school that he could feasibly tesser to and remain anonymous. “I’d teleport right to him but that might be a bit—”

           Reynash laughed, a little too tight to be completely sincere. “Ahaha, yeah, no, we would appreciate—no, thank you, I’ll let the school know that Lata’s Uncle Tyrone will be coming to get him.”

           “Sounds good,” Dipper said. “I’ll message when I pick him up, okay?”

           “Thank you again,” Reynash said. “I’ll be home after five, maybe five-thirty, so if you could keep him company until then—”

           “Yeah, no problem at all!”

           “You’re a lifesaver,” Reynash said. “Thanks again, see you.”

           “See—” Dipper only managed to get out one word before the dial tone sounded. He looked down at the phone, and then said, “Well then, he really is busy I guess.”

           “Alcor the Dreambender has a mundane social life?” Tunar said, droll. Dipper relaxed, purposefully, then tilted his head at Pacifica’s latest incarnation. He looked at Tunar through half-lidded eyes, Stan held in the back of his mind—Pacifica did like her fame, he remembered absently. She liked being the center of attention, and what better way to be the center of attention than to have a juicy news scoop to sell to the highest bidding news agency?

           Tunar took one look at Dipper, humphed, and then smacked Dipper in the knee with his cane.

           “Hey!” Dipper protested. “What the fuck?”

           “Don’t you get snippy at me,” Tunar said, wagging a finger in Dipper’s face. Dipper was seized by the childish urge to snap his teeth at it. “I could see you getting all paranoid on me. On me! After I’ve spent the last unbelievable amount of time talking to you about my life and all the personal details in it. I even let you slide on reciprocating. The least you could do is let me have this.”

           Dipper narrowed his eyes at Tunar. “You going to tell anybody?”

           Tunar snorted. “Tell people that Alcor the Dreambender came by for coffee and a chat and ended up taking a phone call in my presence? I’d either end up with terrified Demonologists tearing up my house or being prescribed a variety of medication for hallucinations and fits of fantasy. Perhaps I would have been tempted in my youth, but these old bones are done with all that drama.”

           He watched Tunar’s aura, saw it peppered with the lightest of lies—Tunar was plenty tempted now—but it was enough that Dipper leaned back into the couch and took a final sip of his coffee. “Okay,” he said.

         There was a beat of silence. “So,” Tunar said, “you have to leave, I’m supposing.”

           “Yes,” Dipper said. He leaned forward, set the cup in its saucer with a light a clink as he could manage, and stood up. “My apologies for intruding.”

           With rolled eyes, Tunar set his cup on its saucer as well with far less care than Dipper had taken. “Bah, you’re not sorry. I expect to see you here next week—though possibly at a more reasonable hour. My Doctor says that I really need to keep myself on a better sleep pattern.”

           Dipper’s hands stuttered over where they were needlessly straightening out his collar. “Next…week?”

           “Of course,” Tunar said. He stood with the help of his cane and grunted with the effort. “What, you think I started that story with the intention of leaving it unfinished? No, you will be back next week. And—you have a phone. Call me before you come so that I am ready for company.”

           Dipper could only blink. “But I don’t know—”

           “It’s written on the stasis fridge, top left corner. Take a look at it when you bring the cups in to the dishwasher.”

           Spluttering, Dipper said, “I—you expect me to wash the cups?!”

           “And you can let yourself out, I assume,” Tunar said. He turned a genial grin on Dipper, but Dipper was savvy enough to see the slyness in the corners of it. Also, the amusement in his aura helped matters a lot. “Seeing as you let yourself in.”

           “...I am an all powerful demon, and you expect me to wash your cups for—”

           “That just means I am all the more assured you are capable of such a simple task,” Tunar said. He reached out a slightly shaking hand, patted Dipper on the shoulder, and then said, “Well, I am off to bed. Again, I expect you next week. Do try not to show up in the middle of the night again, it’s not good for my heart.”

           With that, Dipper watched Tunar shuffle off around the coffee table and down the hall beyond the other side of the television screen. He blinked a little, completely blindsided—though he probably shouldn’t be. Pacifica also had a tendency of bulldozing through most of her social interactions.

           Sighing, Dipper reached down, gathered up the teacups, gave them a little rinse with the sink tap before setting them in the washer, and entered Tunar’s number into his phone. He looked down at it, displaying up at him with deceptive innocence, and furrowed his eyebrows. Then, he saw the time, said, “Oh, crap,” and blipped out of the darkened kitchen.

December 4th, 4:13 pm, PDT

             Lata screeched with joy as he barreled into Dipper with all the force of an exuberant six year old, face pressed into Dipper’s waist and arms flung around Dipper’s legs. Dipper, dressed up in his nicest, most disarming and charming human persona, grinned down at Lata.

           “Hey buddy,” he said. “How are you doing?”

           “I was so bored,” Lata said, nearly yelling the last two words. “But now you’re here so I’m not! Can we go get ice cream?”

           “Ah,” Dipper said, before deciding fuck it and nodding his head. “Yeah, sure, but I have to sign you out first and let your dad know we got you, okay?”

           Lata appeared to have stopped listening after ‘sure,’ and released Dipper to go have a good old jump-and-punch-the-air-in-victory dance. Dipper re-evaluated the intelligence of giving this already hyper child more sugar, then shrugged because he wouldn’t have to deal with the fallout, would he?

           “Uncle Tyrone, I presume,” the secretary said, grinning a little. At first glance, she looked like an older middle-aged woman, but Dipper saw the fangs and the sunglasses and thought vampire. She tapped a few buttons, and a screen lit up in front of her window for Dipper. “Please verify your identity with this security question chosen by the child’s guardians and then sign.”

           Dipper peered down at the question. What did you suddenly yell at Reynash Pines that one time that had him scream, launch a full package of Choco Piecies into the air, and tumble back over his home office chair which meant he had to go to the hospital and get three stitches behind his right ear?

           He blinked, then toggled the keyboard to input, What U Cravin. The system thought for a moment, then blinked green before showing him the field to write in his signature. Dipper took hold of the stylus it materialized for him, signed, and then said goodbye to the secretary.

           Lata had, in the meantime, decided that he needed to be crawling around on his feet and hands like some kind of humpbacked bear cub. “Are you done?” Lata asked, turning around in a circle, still not standing. There was dirt on his hands. Dipper resolved to get Lata to wash them as soon as they could find a public restroom.

           “Yes, I’m done,” Dipper said. “You wanna ditch this lame joint?”

           “It’s not lame,” Lata said, twisting his head to look at Dipper in such a way that Dipper wondered how he wasn’t snapping his own neck. “School is really really awesome, it’s just that everybody’s already gone home and I could only just wait for people to come pick me up, and waiting is boring.”

           “That tracks,” Dipper said after a pause. Lata looked back down at the ground and then started walking forward, down to where the entryway doors were. “You gonna keep walking like that buddy?”

           “Yeah,” Lata said. “This is the bear walk! We learned it today in Activities. We also learned the frog leap –though I already knew it—and the lizard crawl, and the earthworm, and the kangaroo hop. Nobody believed me when I said I went to Australia to see the kangaroos, though. They said that you can’t just go to Australia, because there are big spiders.”

           Dipper paused a moment to take in that information. He opened the door for Lata, watched him crawl down the front step and onto the rougher—colder—pavement. Lata frowned at the ground, but kept going. “Your…teacher said this?”

           “No,” Lata said in his best are you stupid voice. Dipper felt affronted that he was turning it on Dipper, his most favorite Uncle Tyrone. “You and Mom and Dad all said not to tell any adults, so I didn’t! But kids don’t count, so I told them. And they didn’t even believe me!”

           Letting the door close behind him, Dipper politely ignored the person walking their dog that stopped in their tracks to first stare at Lata, then turn away with their hand over their mouth and their aura splashed all over with viridian amusement. “Well, maybe that’s a good thing,” Dipper said. “You don’t even have a passport yet.”

           “What’s a passport?” Lata asked. His steps forward were far more ginger than they were earlier, inside on the tile flooring of the hallway.

           “It’s, uh,” Dipper said, looking down at Lata’s animal-print backpack. It had shifted over entirely to one side of Lata’s back, unbalancing him a little. He reached down, adjusted it, and continued. “Well, it’s a special document—like a little book, I think, though maybe that’s changed—that they scan at Ports when you go from one country to another country.”

           “Huh,” Lata said. He took another step, stopped, and then stood up. At the sight of his hands, Dipper moved hand-washing even further up the list of priorities. If he’d thought inside was bad, it was nothing compared to the brief jaunt down the path up to the school. “Do you have a passport?”

           “No,” Dipper said.

           Lata looked up at him, tilted his head so that the leaves on his antlers bobbed a little. “But you have to, to go to another country, right?”

           “Most people have to,” Dipper amended. “It’s expected.”

           They passed by a couple arm-in-arm, a single long scarf wrapped across both their necks. Dipper looked down at Lata. “Where’s your scarf?”

           “In my bag,” Lata said, like that was the best place for it on a chilly December afternoon.

           “And your gloves?”

           “In my bag, duh,” Lata said, rolling his eyes.

           “Hey,” Dipper said. “You really want to pull an attitude with somebody who said they’d get you ice cream in such cold weather?”

           Lata hummed, his finger on his chin in thought. A cold breeze had him shivering a little before he answered, “Maybe?”

           Dipper sighed. “Well,” he said, really elongating the word in a way that immediately caught Lata’s attention. “Maybe we don’t need ice cream after all. It’s about 3 degrees Celcius right now, after all.”

           Lata gasped. “No, you can’t take it back! No take-backs! You said we’d go for ice cream!”

           They were now by the public bathroom that Dipper had initially blipped into. “Let’s wash our hands then,” he said, pointing, “in preparation for ice cream.”

           Lata screeched in victory, did a little dance, and then started running towards the bathroom. “First one there gets to eat as much as they want!”

           Reynash would demolish him if Dipper let Lata eat as much ice cream as he wanted. Dipper burst into a very graceless, very hasty run, and didn’t really consider that he wasn’t beholden to any deal he hadn’t verbally agreed to.

________________________________________________________________

           “I cannot believe I let you get all that ice cream,” Dipper said, having blipped them to a nice ice cream place down in New California before bringing Lata and their spoils to the Pines home.

           Lata giggled and stuck his spoon into his Custom Mouse Sundae, complete with five scoops of ice cream molded into the shape of a mouse and topped off with two round waffle cookies that made the mouse’s ears. He dug out the piece of chocolate that made up the eye and stuck it in his mouth, kicking his legs.

           “I would’ve beat you if you hadn’t used your superpowers,” Lata said, trying to pout but failing in the face of the massive, self-satisfied grin that kept breaking through. “You had to be nice to me. It’s only fair.”

           “Your parents would hate it if I had let you eat the Turtle Family Sundae, the Spaghetti Ice Cream Set, and the Mouse Sundae,” Dipper said, pointing his spoon at Lata from across the table. He had gotten a custom ice cream Mega Bowl, and had filled it with a variety of ice creams and toppings. Lata kept glancing at it with unashamed interest.

           Lata leaned back in his seat—Dipper reached across and pulled the chair back onto all four legs with his foot—and groaned. “But it would have been so delicious,” he said. “So worth it. It’s not like they can do anything to you! They can’t ground you, or take away TV privileges, or game privileges, or have you write letters of Recon-ciliation to exchange with each other.”

           Dipper blinked. “Letters of Reconciliation?”

           Lata carefully carved the tip of the mouse’s nose, cherry and all, off from the rest of the ice cream. “Yeah,” he said, before taking a break to stuff his mouth.

             “What’s that?”                

           “It’s when we have a disagreement, and I write a letter saying what I thought and how I felt about the thing, and Mom and Dad write a letter saying what they thought and felt about the thing, and we give them to each other and read them and then talk about it. It’s so boring.”

           Rain tapped against the roof and windows—rain might be a bit of a misnomer for the half-rain, half-ice slush that was falling from the sky, but nevertheless Dipper was glad they hadn’t been caught out in it before heading down to NewCal. That would have been super messy, and cold, and gross. Dipper scooped up a bit of ice cream, swallowed it almost immediately, and then responded. “That doesn’t sound so bad,” he said.

           “Ugh, you’re such an adult,” Lata whined. He leaned down and pulled one of the cookie ears out of the mouse with his mouth. When he bit down, the part of the cookie that wasn’t in his mouth fell onto the ice cream below, which was starting to melt a bit.

           “You’ve gotten sassy since entering Kindergarten,” Dipper said, narrowing his eyes at Lata. “Where’s the little monster that kept saying things like ‘rawr’ and ‘I’m a nibble monster’ and all? Also, I’ll have you know that I am essentially eternally twelve. That’s not an adult.”

           “But it’s still old!” Lata yelled, suddenly. He leaned back on the rear legs of his chair. Dipper reached out with his foot and pulled his chair back down with an ease that was somewhat frightening after so many years of not parenting. “You’re old! I asked Dad how old you were and he said you were thousands of years old! That’s so many years. I watched him write out all the zeros, and then we counted out rice and it was so much rice and took so long.”

           Dipper scowled and crossed his arms. “I bought you ice cream, and this is how you repay me?”

           “I’m just saying the truth,” Lata retorted. “It’s the truth, so you can’t be mad about it.”

           Dipper snorted. “Now that’s not how things work,” he said. “Plenty of people get mad about the truth. They do it all the time.”

           Lata blinked at him. “But why? It’s the truth. You can’t get mad at something that’s true. Hans told me so.”

           As Lata began licking the ice cream, hands fisted on either side of his take-out bowl, Dipper hummed and tapped the flat of his spoon against his own ice cream. He cycled through the examples in his head—everything died, but plenty of people sought immortality—it was true that if you caught a knife to the throat, you would not last long but people got so upset about that—people worshipped or didn’t worship in many ways, and yet there were those who decided that those ways were wrong and got mad—kids grew up, and there were some dumbasses who resented how those children grew up into their own skins with their own experiences and opinions instead of staying malleable, agreeable, naïve—preternatural citizens existed, and yet—governments weren’t perfect, but—and finally hit upon one he thought Lata would understand.

           “Well,” he said, slowly, “have you ever watched something on TV and gotten mad about it?”

           Lata maintained eye-contact while licking across the ice-cream-mouse’s head. Savage. “Mom says that we have to look up stuff that they put on the TV sometimes, because it’s not always right, and when it’s not right then of course I’m allowed to be mad about it. Because it’s not right.”

           Right then, maybe not that. Perhaps he ought to take a different approach here, let Lata provide the basic scenario. “Okay, buddy, how about you tell me all the things that make you mad.”

           With a hum, Lata took a huge bite right out of the scoop of Fudge Mountain Caramel Surprise in front of his mouth. Dipper watched and wondered how effective that technique actually could be. “Um,” he said, completely ignorant of the melted ice cream smeared over his nose and lips and even chin, “well, I guess I get mad whenever Ri-Ri lies to me about the places she goes with her parents. And when Toma writes on my papers when I tell zir not to. Or when the lady on International Animal Discovery Channel is absent and her coworker comes in and covers for her, because he’s stupid and gets stuff wrong all the time. And when I have to go to bed at eight thirty, even though all my friends get to go to bed later. It’s so stupid! Why do I have to go to bed earlier? It can’t just be because it’s good for me because I’m a kid, because if it was my friends would go to bed earlier too! And also when Mom says she can’t come pick me up at school because she has an emergency meeting, like today, because she goes to work before I go to school and I don’t get to see her until I get out of school. And—”  

           Dipper swallowed the entire scoop of classic mint before holding up his hand and waving it. “Okay, okay, I think I have enough to work with there, thank you. Let’s talk about bedtime, okay? You’re mad because you have to go to bed earlier than your friends, right?”

           Lata slumped and poked his ice cream with his index finger. “Yeah,” he mumbled, before sticking his finger in his mouth and sucking the melted ice cream off of it. “I guess.”

           “Right,” Dipper said. He paused, suddenly doubting that he was the right person to tell Lata about this part of life. This seemed like a very—very parent-to-child conversation, not an Uncle-to-nibling conversation. It was kind of heavy.

           He paused too long. “So?” Lata said. Dipper looked up to see that Lata had resorted to grabbing the ice cream with his full hand and was licking it out of his palm. What a mood, Dipper thought, but instead narrowed his eyes at Lata.

           “Hey, use your spoon, not your hands,” he said. “And actually—here, use this napkin to clean your hand off. If you put your hands on something, it’ll get dirty and then we’ll both have to deal with the consequences, aka your parents.”

           “Okay,” Lata said, reaching with his dirty hand to take the napkin Dipper had pulled out from the 100% biodegradable takeout bag he’d gotten at the ice cream shop.

           “Probably should get the ice cream on your nose and chin while you’re at it,” Dipper said absentmindedly, watching Lata scrub at his hand with the paper napkin. Lata was a good kid, Dipper thought to himself. Lata would understand what Dipper was trying to say. This wouldn’t be too hard.

           Lata wrinkled his nose, but got most of the ice cream off his face. Good enough, Dipper thought, and then he launched into his little speech.

            “Right, so, it is true the kids need a lot of sleep, because they’re still developing their brains and bodies. The reason that babies sleep so much is that they’re growing and learning so much, and everything is new, so it’s exhausting. You’re still learning a lot of new stuff, and your brain is,” Dipper squinted at Lata and tilted his head, “currently, it’s learning how to handle complex and somewhat abstract concepts such as time, numbers, is expanding its capacity for vocabulary, and is beginning to develop the pathways needed to understand things such as life and death and your place in the cycle. You already have a very good grasp on concentration and a decent awareness of places existing outside of your home and school, though, that’s pretty impressive at your age.”

           Lata’s eyes went a little unfocused. Dipper dialed it back. “Point is, your brain is working hard, and it needs that sleep to recharge, refresh, and retain—keep—all the information that you’ve been learning. Your friends should probably be going to sleep around the same time you are if they’re waking up when you are, though every kid is different and every family is different.”

           Slowly, Lata tilted his head at Dipper. “What?”

           “Your parents are right,” Dipper said after a short but deep inhale, “that you should go to bed at 8:30. Your friends also need the amount of sleep that you do. It’s the truth. Are you still mad at it?”

           Lata thought for a moment. “Kind of,” he mumbled.

           “Why?”

           Lata grumbled, “This is worse than Reconciliation Letters.”

           “Why thank you,” Dipper said, grinning a little, “So? What’s got you so mad then? It can’t be that your friends are right and your parents are wrong for sending you to bed early, right?”

           “I think you’re like all the wrong people on the TV,” Lata said, frowning, not meeting Dippers’s eyes. “I think if I look it up you’re going to be wrong.”

           “I’m an all-powerful omni—I mean, all-knowing demon,” Dipper drawled, quirking an eyebrow at Lata. “I know things that Ping never would, and I know all the things that Ping is wrong about. Wanna try again?”

           For a long time, Lata stayed quiet. He kicked his legs under the table and glowered at his ice cream. Resentment breathed slow, auburn in his aura, and frustration sparkled at the edges like dew on stinging nettle. Dipper sat on the urge to interject what he wanted Lata to learn, and waited.

           After a whole six minutes, twenty-three seconds and four-hundred ninety-eights of a millisecond, Lata said, “’Cause I wanna watch Seawitch Adventures like Ri-Ri and all the others get to.”

           Dipper had not known about Seawitch Adventures, but it made sense. He translated, “Because you don’t like it. It goes against what you want the world to be like.”

           Lata tilted their head in a shrug and papped at the dining table surface with their hands. There was still a residue of ice cream lingering on the one hand, but Dipper decided that was whatever and Reynash or Kanti could deal with it later. He was doing awesome at this conversation thing.

           “People don’t get mad when things are factually wrong. They get mad when things aren’t the way they want them to be. And that’s okay!” Dipper said, after a length of time. “Everybody does it. The problem is when you choose to take that anger out on other people, people who don’t deserve it.”

           Lata paused, and looked up. “Do you do it? Take it out on other people.”

           Dipper felt his heart stutter in his chest. “…Sometimes.”

           “Is that why Daddy and Mommy were afraid of you?”

           Dipper held a desperate lie against the back of his many teeth before closing his eyes and letting it melt away, unheard. “…yes.”

           “Don’t you know it’s a problem, though?” Lata asked.

         Dipper shies away from that truth. He gives a not-quite-lie. “I forget, sometimes.”

           Rain splashed against the roof, the windows. The stasis fridge hummed in the kitchen. Lata had stopped drumming against the table. Dipper felt almost compelled to pick it up in his stead.

           “…what did you do?”

           “A lot of things,” Dipper said, quietly. He opened his eyes. “A lot of very bad things that I forgot were bad.”

           Lata stared at him. His dik-dik horns, so much smaller than Henry’s, than Paloma’s, seemed to embody all of Dipper’s regrets and failures for a brief moment. Dipper felt the phantom slide of a soul down his throat. He swallowed, met Lata’s gaze and tried to push the feeling away. Lata’s eyes looked right into Dipper’s until Dipper looked away, a little scared of what Lata was reading in them. Scared, maybe, that Lata might just see his own soul between Dipper’s teeth, even though that was impossible. Anyways, the only soul Dipper had between his metaphorical teeth was—

           “Even now?” Lata asked, again.

           “No, no, now is better. I forget…less,” Dipper said after a beat. Thoughts of souls faded to the back of his mind. They never really left, though. The temptation was always there, like the background hum of a generator, or the near silent slide of the second hand of an analogue clock. “Now is—I can control how mad I am. I remember that it’s not right to take my anger out on innocent people. I understand that sometimes I’m mad at the wrong thing. Usually I can pull myself back. I never remember to pull myself back when I’m…when I’m like what your parents learned about.”

           “Oh,” Lata said. They were quiet for a long time, the two of them. The ice cream in their bowls continued to melt. Dipper stared at his, watched the strawzzleberry cheesecake ooze into the peanut butter fudge scoop.

           “I yelled at Mama when she made me go to bed,” Lata said, in a quiet voice. “I said I hated her.”

           Dipper winced. That had always hurt—his children, his sister, his niblings saying they hated him in fits of anger. He’d known they didn’t mean it, usually, but it still hurt. Sometimes it hurt more than others. Sometimes he’d lashed out in response. And sometimes, a very few sometimes, he had hurt them far more than they had.

           He shied away from the thought. “How—what did your Mama think of that?”

           Lata shrugged, poked his ice-cream soup with his spoon. “She frowned at me and said I was going to bed no matter that I hated her.”

           Dipper remembered putting on a strong front. He worried lightly on his bottom lip. “Ah,” he said.

           After a few moments, Lata looked up at him. “Do you think I hurt her?” he asked. He shifted in his seat, but kept looking Dipper right in the eye.

           Dipper opened his mouth to say yes, because he’d always been hurt (even if just a little bit), but Lata looked so small and worried, undertones of dark guilt hovering around his shoulders. He swallowed the yes, then said, “Maybe. Maybe not. You—you have to ask her.”

           “Oh. Okay,” Lata said.

           They sat in silence. Rain hit the window, the roof. Dipper stared at his own ice cream soup for a while, colors having swirled into a muddy mess. He passed his spoon through it once, twice, a few more times, before sticking it in his mouth with a sigh. In his periphery, he saw Lata blink at him. Incredulity lanced over his head. Dipper stifled a grin and set down the spoon on the table with a light clack. Hyperaware of Lata staring at him, he sighed in exaggeration before picking up the ice cream cup and pouring the contents down his throat.

           “Ew, gross,” said Lata.

           Dipper swallowed and licked his lips, glancing up at Lata. “What? It’d be a waste to throw it out. You don’t want your own sugar soup? I’ll drink it for you.”

           Lata screwed up his nose at Dipper, then pushed the cup at him. His guilt was still present, but disgust and also amusement were sliding over it, burying it from the moment. Soon it would be nothing more than an aftertaste, something Dipper would have to concentrate to be able to sense. “All the flavors are mixed now, it’s so gross.”

           “Excellent,” Dipper said, before taking the ice cream and swallowing that, too. There are soggy chunks of cookie in it. It’s not particularly appetizing, but it’s also not a rule breaker, and the mixed flavor is a mystery on his tongue. He closes his eyes and tilts his head, swishing the last of the mixture around in his mouth to try to figure out what was in it.

           “Ewwww, what are you doing,” Lata said, giggling. “It’s not mouthwash!”

           Dipper swallowed. “Definitely Raspberry Crunch and Honeyed Alfalfa,” he said. “You got something chocolaty in there, right? Some kind of—fudge, fudge something, oh! Fudge Mountain Caramel Surprise, right?”

           “You can’t taste everything,” Lata accused.

           “If I work hard enough I can,” Dipper said, opening his eyes and smirking. There’s a tug at his navel that means summons, but honestly this is more important (and probably more fun). “Five scoops, right? And I’ve already figured out three of them.”

           Lata pushed himself to kneel on the seat of his chair, semi-sticky hands flat on the table and eyes wide. “You can’t,” he breathed.

           “Can so.” Dipper hummed and thought to himself. “There was a nutty kind of flavor in there, nutty and a little salty, but it wasn’t cashew, it was a little less fatty, it was—right, I remember you pointing to the Wonderful Salted Walnut.”

           “Noooo!” Lata leaned forward even further. Dipper cast an absentminded eye at the pressure that was placing on the front legs of the chair and whether they were likely to tip and smash Lata’s face into the table. It was pretty low, only 28%, so he let it be. “That’s still not all! There’s still one left!”

           Dipper cackled and spun the empty ice cream carton on one talon. With a nudge from his mind, it balanced perfectly and continued to spin unnaturally fast. The summons tugged again at his stomach, but he smothered it. It wasn’t anybody he knew. It wasn’t important. “I think you mean only one.”

           He closed his eyes to focus on the last flavor, and that can be the only reason that he only realized they weren’t alone when he heard, “And what are—did you have ice cream??”

           “Oh shit,” Dipper said without thinking, eyes flying open.

           Lata said, with the absolute worst timing known only to children under the age of ten, “Oh shit! Welcome home, Papa!”

           Reynash Pines leveled him with the most incredulous glare he’d seen in a while. “Ice cream and swearing?”

           Suddenly, the importance of the summons skyrocketed from rock bottom to very near the top of his priority list. Dipper dropped the carton on the floor. “Oh, hey, Reynash, buddy, how’s it hanging, uh, sorry to skip out but I actually just got a summons, you know how they are haha, can’t help that work life, on call twenty-four-seven, see you later hope you’re not mad byeeeee!”

           Reynash spluttered. Water dripped off his bangs and onto his forehead. “No, you can’t just bail on—Dipper!”

           But Dipper had already clenched the connection to the summons in one metaphorical hand, had tugged, and was gone.

 _______________________________________________________________

December 4th, 9:39 PM BRL

             The first thing Dipper noticed was that the candles were scentless. He billowed up from nothing in the most dramatic smoke he could think of, pulled the reverb in his throat to mild extremes, and said, “Who presumes to call upon Alcor the Dreambender?” into the dark of the blue-lit room.

           The second thing Dipper noticed were the chalk lines—exact angles, minimal differences in stroke width, painstakingly duplicated symbols. Its perfection was mathematically precise, and there were even three layers of binding spells woven into the circle. Dipper casually pulled his cane out of thin air, coalesced his top hat from residual smoke curling into the space above his head, and smiled to himself. Binding spells weren’t much more than a nuisance to deal with.

           The third thing Dipper noticed were the people in the room—elegantly dressed adults in formal suits and skirts, beautifully crafted silver masks over their faces, hair coiffed and pressed and sprayed. Their arms were uplifted, frozen in the moment they’d succeeded in summoning him. There were nine of them. Dipper glanced over them, saw their determination and hard-edged stubbornness and solid righteousness in their auras, the colors subtly different for each person.

           “Lord Alcor,” one of them said. Dipper blinked, and knew they were he. “We come to offer you an exchange: a solution to our troubles for a worthy sacrifice.”

           Dipper hummed, leaned on his cane, and didn’t let them in on the fact that he’d already surreptitiously snapped one of the binding circles. “Oh?” he drawled, a lazy little grin curled into the corners of his lips. “Tell me, what are your troubles?”

           “Our beloved country,” the Speaker said, “is being cast into ruin and shadows by those currently in charge. We seek only to remove the…obstacles facing our country’s future.”

           “I see,” said Dipper, and then he really did. He was in Brazil, in New Fortaleza, and the government was currently making social reforms that benefited those in the lowest economic tier. There were many people pushing for those reforms from places of influence—born into and risen up to alike. He raised his eyebrows. “And…what would your idea of a fair exchange be?”

           The Speaker turned his head and nodded to the woman next to him. She nodded back, then turned around to head away from the circle and towards the stairs at the edge of the wide space they had chosen for his summoning. Dipper watched her go, and did not blink. Absentmindedly, he slid his power around and under the second barrier spell. This one would be a little trickier—raw power would only alert them to its failure, so he would have to play a subtler hand.

           One of the summoning group shifted xir weight almost imperceptibly. Dipper blinked to look xir way. Xi made eye contact through the mask and flinched.

           “Be steady,” the Speaker said. “Lord Alcor, it would not go unappreciated were you to…refrain from any posturing or intimidation tactics.”

           Dipper chuckled, refocused back on the Speaker. “Condolences,” he murmured, pitching the tone so that it echoed off the far walls regardless of the volume. “I cannot control how much terror your…acquaintances feel. I am a demon. Instilling fear in those who look upon us is an unavoidable part and parcel of this existence, you understand.”  

           The Speaker said nothing, but swallowed. Dipper counted that as a victory in and of himself—he was getting the sense that this man enjoyed talking, and enjoyed even more than that the chance to hear himself talk.

           The soft whir-click-swoosh of a door being unlocked and opened echoed through the empty room. It whispered off the walls. Dipper watched the Speaker’s aura twist in uncertainty before determination smoothed it out, hot shmellow oozing over dirty blue-green until it was smothered. He held the Speaker’s gaze until the footsteps started echoing around the room too—the steady tread of the woman’s shoes, followed by a hesitant, uneven, sometimes scraping cacophony of quiet noise. The breath halted in Dipper’s useless lungs. Nobody seemed to notice; his chest had hardly been rising and falling anyways.

           Nine children followed the woman. He could hear their shallow breaths, their hitching hiccups, barely restrained tears. He could smell the acrid-sweet scent of fear, the way it spiked and swelled when he leaned back on thin air. The second barrier snapped, and he was just barely aware enough to stop it from flickering with bright thunder. He wanted this. He hated this.

           The Speaker waited for Alcor’s attention to shift to the children, but when he didn’t comply, he swept an arm out to call attention to the newcomers. “Nine lives, from nine of us, for nine whose lives must be cut short to prevent ruin to our country. We have learned that you…like…children, and their lives would be yours to do what you see fit with.”

           It was strange that these types always learned all the wrong lessons about children, he thought absentmindedly, almost vapidly. It was strange that they always dismissed the possibility of more ethical sacrifices, like candy or sentimental items or factories worth of ice cream. Dipper cast his gaze over the children, his face frozen in that way it was when he felt like he was on the cusp of something terrible. They were cleaned—recently, from the faint hint of chemically-recreated pomegranate on the air—but some of them had clearly had better care than others. He skipped from terrified face to terrified face. The youngest of them was—six, dark curly hair, bought from desperate parents like human lives were commodities, teeth digging into a bottom lip and eyes welling with tears. Then there was—seven and petit, ten and too tall for her age, eleven and barely scared enough the fear drowned out the anger, two eight-year-old twins with vitiligo on their palms (and no, Bentley didn’t have vitiligo, but the splotchy color difference was enough to make him burn colder, right in his chest), nine and born blind, six-and-a-half and missing a finger, and a twelve year old on the cusp of turning thirteen. Tomorrow was xir birthday.

           The Speaker’s voice turned soft. “Jamilla, come.”

           The twelve year old inhaled sharp and quiet, but went. Xir hands twisted in xir gold shift. Blue fingernail polish flashed in the light, like all the other children’s. Dressed up pretty, their individualism smoothed away as best as possible, for the very ends of their lives. “Papa?”

           The Speaker waited for Jamilla to come to him. Alcor kept his eyes on Jamilla every step of the way. He watched how xi quivered, how xi glanced over at him over and over. He thought about thirteenth birthdays and never reaching them, thought about his puffy blue vest and that stupid pine-tree hat that he had loved with all his heart, and how it was hard to even think about wearing things that casual for very long. His power rolled over to the third barrier and began to eat at it.

           “This is my own child,” the Speaker said, setting his hands on Jamilla’s shoulders. “Xi knows how important the future of our country is, and was willing to sacrifice xirself for it. While most of the children here are orphans, or as good as, this is a token of my dedication, of my seriousness.”

           “…I see,” said Dipper. He tilted his head. Jamilla shivered and averted xir gaze, but did not move otherwise. “Dedicated indeed, to sacrifice somebody you love. Very powerful.”

           He cast his eye, slowly and deliberately, over the other children. He tried to catch their gazes where he could. Everything around him felt—slow, almost. He stared into the eyes of the angry-scared eleven year old, whose name was Leilani and whose ambition was to become a child caretaker because children deserved people who protected them and nurtured them and loved them, whose anger had left silvery scars between her knuckles from how many times she’d split them over on somebody else’s face or gut or kidney, whose eyes were dark, furious brown and who could have lived to forty-one, dying young and tragic but not as young and tragic as this.

           “Indeed,” the Speaker said. “Now, do you agree to the terms laid out?”

           Dipper held Leilani’s gaze a moment longer, before breaking away to fix his attention on the Speaker and his child, his poor, youngest child (who had been loved and cherished but raised with the knowledge that this may happen someday, who had been prepared and taught to step into xir own death of xir own fledgling, undeveloped will). Dipper smiled.

           “Nine lives, from the nine of you, for nine whose lives must be cut short to prevent ruin to your beloved country, correct?” Alcor passed a whisper of blue flame between his fingers as he spoke.

           The Speaker waited a moment. His hands tensed over his child’s shoulders as he thought the words over. “The nine lives we offer you, to do with as you please, for the lives of those on this list.”

           Alcor looked down on the list. Two career politicians who had slowly turned over new leaves, a charismatic rabble-rouser, three underpaid and overworked lawyers with a talent for defending their wrongly-accused clients, a university professor whose lectures were widely distributed and widely influential, an old farmer with a penchant for speaking up loud and proud in defense of reforestation and traditional farming methods, and a janitor who had convinced their coworkers to unionize and strike for better wages. Influential in all the ways the Speaker and his cohorts disapproved of.

           As few as twenty years ago, Alcor would have taken advantage of the situation to cause as much carnage as possible while keeping the children safe. He would have gotten 18 souls and probably an additional nine life-debts from the children, to cash in as he pleased, when he pleased. Ten years ago, he would have settled for 9 souls, 9 bodies, and 9 traumatized children placed at the nearest orphanage.

           Today, Alcor remembered being angry, and terrified, and determined in the face of the world ending. He remembered the terror of being watched, the nightmares about rearranged faces and deer teeth. He remembered dying.

           “Like I said,” Alcor drawled, eyebrow raised. “Nine lives, from the nine of you, for nine whose lives must be cut short to prevent ruin to your beloved country. Or, if you want me to be a little more transparent, nine souls in here for nine lives out there and a whole lot of chaos thrown in.”

           The Speaker hesitated. “Chaos?”

           Alcor laughed, leaned on his cane a little more. The third barrier dissolved under his power at last with a flicker that he disguised by flaring his flames just a bit higher. Fury burned colder and deeper in his chest, at the very core of him. “What do you think nine people dying suddenly is going to cause?! Especially nine people as influential and high-profile as the ones on your list, and all at the same time! It’s going to be unbelievably chaotic. You might have a little trouble controlling the investigation that follows, but I’m sure you can squash things like freedom of the press and the people’s right to assemble in a jiffy, what with your very powerful positions. I’m all here for that, props to you!”

           “You’re taking their souls?” One of the other politicians said, a quiver of trepidation in their voice. Hesitation and guilt began to seep through their aura, dark and damp and almost physically heavy. “But I thought…”

          “Young souls are the best,” Alcor said. He had—he shied away from the thought, comforted himself with the many many times that other demons had spouted the same things he was now. “They’re very soft, not nearly as entrenched in their fleshvessels. Absolutely delicious.” He swallowed the drool that had begun to pool at the back corners of his mouth.

           “I…”

           “Enough,” the Speaker snapped, hands tightening on his child’s shoulders again. Xi was beginning to have terrified second thoughts. The only thing keeping xir where xi stood was xir father’s presence behind xir and years of conditioning convincing xir that this was the right thing to do. “Alcor the Dreambender, do we have a deal?”

           Alcor grinned, extended a hand that arched in a graceful, almost indolent line in the air. “I thought you’d never ask,” he purred.

           The Speaker flushed with a victorious, vicious kind of pride, then reached out to shake Alcor’s hand. The flames licked up between their palms, and Alcor grinned even wider.

           “It’s a deal,” Dipper said, before he took a step forward and plunged his hand down the Speaker’s throat and hooked his claws into the soul nestled at the base of the man’s neck, cradled in the hollow of his clavicle. As the others in the room started screaming, as fear saturated the air around them within seconds, Dipper looked into the Speaker’s confused and angry and terrified, determined eyes, lifted the soul up to his lips, and sunk his teeth into it.

           The Speaker screamed, physically, metaphysically, and collapsed as though suddenly boneless. His child screamed and went down with him, panic and terror readily apparent even if Dipper had been unable to see xir aura. The other children stumbled back, one twin tripping and scraping his palms against the ground, the eleven year old stepping in front of the seven year old with an angry snarl on her face. Dipper paid them no mind. He was too busy licking his fingers to catch any residual soul energy that had leaked out when he had bit down. After he had finished cleaning them off, he looked up to see that some of the summoners were making for the opposite door. He cocked his head. Energy thrummed through him. He laughed, high and maybe a little unhinged, before following.

           He had eight more souls to collect here before he could get to work, after all, and they’d gone to all the trouble of summoning him to fix their country in the first place! It would be—disrespectful, he considered as he tore open the ribcage of the closest summoner for no other reason than he could, if he wasn’t as diligent as possible.

________________________________________________________________

December 4th, 11:12 PM EST

           Dipper blipped into bed and shifted into elegant pajamas in one smooth motion, still a little buzzed from all the souls he had eaten and all the life debts he had collected over the past hour and a half. Finding the children suitable homes had been—difficult enough that he had burned off a lot of the energy gained from the deal, but he was still twitchy and half-guilty over how he had acted in the basement. Right after he had lectured Lata about acting out of anger! Lata was never finding out about what happened.

           Next to him, Bentley shifted from half-asleep to half-awake. “Huh? Dipper?”

           Dipper hummed. He wiggled so that he was curled up against Bentley, set a still-clawed hand against Bentley’s sleep sweater (he wore sleep sweaters now, it was terrifying that he kept being so cold even when he should be warm) and curled it so that the fabric was in his loose grasp. He had to fight to keep it loose. Everything was—too bright, too sharp, and he felt like he was balancing on the edge of that precipice again, that if he fell it would be too easy to go back to him half a century ago.

           “Dipper, you okay?”

           He felt an arm reach over him, a hand rub at his back. On Bentley’s other side, Torako snuffled in her sleep, snorted, but didn’t wake up. Dipper pressed his face into Bentley’s chest and nuzzled the fabric without giving a solid answer. The world dulled down to something almost manageable.  

           Bentley’s chest expanded and then contracted with a sigh. He wiggled down just enough that Dipper’s head fit under his chin. Something seemed—off, in that moment, because Dipper could swear that his feet should be below Bentley’s in this position, but when he reached out with his toes they brushed Bentley’s shins.

           “All right,” Bentley said, the sound of his voice reverberating against Dipper’s forehead. “All right, not tonight. It’s—it’s late anyways. You can tell me what happened tomorrow, okay?”

           Several moments passed before Dipper felt relaxed enough to nod. All the while, Bentley’s hand rubbed up and down his back.

           “Okay,” Bentley breathed out. Dipper didn’t want to see the relief in his aura, so he kept his eyes shut and just focused on the warmth surrounding him. Then, Bentley said, “You wanna sleep between me and Torako tonight? I can move you if it’s too much trouble.”

           There was something weird about that statement too, because Bentley was strong but it could be awkward for him to haul something larger over his own body, but Dipper thought about how nice it would be to be sandwiched between two souls he loved (one was his, the other may as well have been but he would never, ever, ever take it, because look at what happened to Henry even though he loved Henry?) and the weirdness of the situation melted away. He nodded again.

           “Right then,” Bentley murmured. Dipper felt him wriggle his left arm under Dipper’s chest to wrap around his back. There was a pressure at the spot right above the space between his wings, and then they were turning over, Dipper’s legs pinned lightly between Bentley’s. Seconds later, Dipper’s back was to Torako’s front, and his face was still smooshed up against Bentley’s chest. Dipper hadn’t even had to open his eyes. He let out a soft breath. His hand unclenched from Bentley’s sweater to curl up against it instead, knuckles brushing wool.

           “There we go,” Bentley said. He pressed a kiss to the top of Dipper’s head. There was a rustle, Bentley’s body shifting against his, and then he heard Torako groan a little before she was flush up against his back, breath fanning the back of his head. She was snoring lightly, and Dipper couldn’t help but smile a little.

           “There we go,” Bentley said again, a little quieter. He rubbed his hand up and down Dipper’s back for a long time before he finally fell asleep.

           Dipper listened to them. He took in a deep breath, let it out, and let himself be home.

[demon-winchester]

Tremors Behind The Veil Chapter 8

-Chapter 8- Sylvia's POV: You need to pull yourself together I thought to myself as I was leaving my cover. "We meet again" I screamed at Abigor. He glanced at me and I could feel he was smiling. "Hahaha, the small girl survived... I still remember the splendid taste of your brother little vamp" Abigor replied. That broke something in me... Vengeance was calling my name. I started rushing towards the knight, he still had Aiden on his grasp and it was time to free him. I summoned my Twin Sickles and I started stabbing him. The attacks did nothing and I could see Aiden turning purple. I dashed back and I started rushing again. I jumped on some tables, I grasped my sickles tightly, I stretched the chain and I lept on Abigor. I tied the chain on his neck and I started hanging from him. He started sidestepping and I heard him choke, that's when I knew I needed to apply even more pressure. He threw Aiden on a wall, he grabbed my chains and he started gasping for air.

Aiden's POV: I started gasping and gasping trying to catch my breath. This fucker actually came close I thought to myself. I saw Sylvia hanging from him with her chains tied around his throat. "Oh so you finally decided to join the fun?" I sassed while getting up from the rubble. "Oh shit" I whispered. Abigor managed to free himself and he grabbed Sylvia pushing her to a wall. I picked up my gun and I started shooting him. The bullets were affecting him but he wouldn't stop. He kept hitting her while she was down. "You have no magic to help you this time little vamp" he growled. I kept shooting and shooting and after two magazines he screamed in pain. "Erebus...Drag your hand across its blade and let it cut you" Sylvia managed to say while Abigor started to push through the pain. I removed my gauntlet and I followed the instructions cutting myself. As the blood was touching the sword when I was dragging my hand, the blade started changing. It grew wider and somehow purple, it was shining and whatever was inside the blade it was moving around.

While the blade was getting transformed I started losing my armor and my wings, I was now a simple human with simple clothes holding a big shining purple sword. What the hell I thought to myself. I know I need to work fast. I rushed towards Abigor significantly slower than before and this time the sword was actually doing damage, it was really scratching his armor and it left an aftermath of energy after every attack. Red smoke was coming out of every scratch. He was in terrible pain... His screams would shake the ground but he would still not let her go. "You know what...You have taken a toll on all of us...I am ending you" I growled. He started laughing as I was letting the energy from the sword travel through me. I closed my eyes and I took a deep breath as I was trying to contain the energy. One breath, one movement, one moment and this torment would stop. I breathed out and a purple ray flew from the edge of the sword hitting Abigor on his chest. The blast left a hole on his body and red smoke was flowing out of it, he finally fell down helpess. I helped Sylvia up and we slowly approached him. I held the sword on top of his neck. "Sylvia, grab the handle along with me... It's closure for you too" I said to her and if she hadn't been through hell she would smile. "Any last words?" I asked Abigor. "Curse you, your children too. And their children, forever true." he answered as he was chocking. That made me smile. "So...Shall we?" I said to Sylvia. "May God have mercy upon your soul because I won't." I sighed and we pushed the blade through his neck. And with that, complete silence. He stopped moving and what was once the club was now a building in ruins. "Bastard" Sylvia said and she spit on him. "That's a great time for a drink" I said with joy and I headed to the few bottles that weren't destroyed with Sylvia right behind me. I jumped behind the bar. "Pick your poison love" I said.  We agreed on a bottle of red wine and we were ready to start drinking. "You know what, it's the perfect time for a toast." I exclaimed. "To putting an end to unfinished bussines." she said raising her glass. "To lady death and may she be on our side on the approaching fights." I continued and our glasses met. "Are you old enough to drink?" she asked. "We killed an executioner that had returned from the dead...Do you want to see my ID or does that cover you?" I sassed. She started laughing. "Calm down boy..let me jest" she answered and she kept laughing. "Anyways, with your club destroyed what are you going to do?" I asked. "Well, good question actually...I've always wanted to move to another country for a fresh start and I don't think I'm getting a better chance... I can't help but see hope throughout this mayhem and well, a fresh start is all I need...I hope. What about you?" she said. "Hm, now that I'm powered up again I need to find Circe though there's a talk I need to have with Lydia." I continued. "How so?" she asked. "Well, you see she doesn't have powers and she came all the way here in the middle of the night while we were fighting...She could've been killed, I told her to stay away from me" and as I was saying that a slap hit me. "She came here to help you, you fool and you're going to hold it against her? You know, you might know how to fight but you really need to learn to understand people more..." she said with anger in her voice. "So what do you think I should do?" I asked. "You should figure it out yourself" she said and she took a sip, "Also about Erebus" she continued. "Oh yeah what's up with that... My armor went away while I transformed it" I said. "Well that's the thing... The hunger this blade has while transformed is insatiable, it draws energy from whenever it can and your armor is a great source, you should remember though... Don't hold it in this form for more than a few minutes after your armor has gone away, it starts eating life force and that's not ideal." she continued. "Alright then, I'll have it in mind" I replied. We talked for a bit more, about her story and about mine too, the bottle had reached its bottom. She placed the glass on the table, she got up, she took a sealed one and she started walking away. "It's time to say goodbye Aiden and about Circe you should try searching in abandoned churches, those places are rotten grounds, perfect for Harbingers...Give her my regards." she sighed. "Bye then, I'll take your words to heart and I hope we meet again." I said with a smile. "You shouldn't hope." she said and she closed the door behind her. Time to head out I thought to myself so I grabbed a bottle of wine and I returned to the hideout..It was morning by now and people have started gathering around the ruins of the club. It took me some time but I reached the hideout and that pun in the entrance always makes me laugh. I jumped on the couch and I fell asleep almost instantly.... I hadn't slept that good in ages. I woke up and I checked my phone. A text from Lydia saying hello sent 10 hours ago....God how long have I been sleeping. "Hi there" I answered and she instantly started typing.

Hello                    Hi there                    What's up MY GOD YOU'RE ALIVE                    You're not getting rid of me that easily ...... Look we need to talk                    Okaaay, feel free to say what you want Not here... I mean talk in person                    What's going on? Look, can you be at the garden behind the hotel at 12?                    Like... Midnight? Yes                    Alright... I'll be there

And so time came to pass... I dressed up and I headed to the garden. The place was beautiful. Bushes with unique colours all around... A fountain in the middle frozen from the cold with patches of icebound flowers surrounding it, benches placed under old lamps and snowflakes longing to hug the frigid landscape. I saw her and I approached her, we nodded and we both started looking at the frozen fountain. "Look" I told her, "I know I haven't been the most supportive friend. I've been so caught up with the -whatever the fuck this shit is- and I never took a moment to think that I didn't act the way I should have". She raised her eyebrow. "No matter how difficult this thing is, I should have considered how nerve racking must be seeing a friend you've known all these years put himself on the grasp of death..." I continued. "Could you please tell me what you did that you think was wrong?" she asked. "Well, for starters, when I talked to you about this situation you wanted to help and I did my best to stop you from that, even if I wanted to protect you I should have been a bit more careful. Next when I lost my bluetooth I didn't even try to contact you another way which led you to coming to help me.. I should have escorted you out of harms way that very moment but instead I screamed at you and I returned to the shitshow... Lastly, I should have contacted you the moment I was safe..." I replied.  "Hm" she said, "Do you know why I called you here?". "No" I replied. "Look, I do want to apologise myself... I felt like a burden coming on the club, I shouldn't be something else you have to have your mind on".  "Wait" I said interrupting her, "I never got to tell you that but thank you... You weren't a burden... on the contrary, I don't know how that fight would have ended if you hadn't stepped in at that moment".  "Nevertheless, we had a deal and I broke it... The moment that I saw those pieces of rubble fly towards us I knew that I shouldn't have been there and the fact that I made you endure the hit really made me feel bad" she continued. "Please don't do this... You were the best support I could have asked for" I said. "This world isn't for me and I can't pretend that I am able to withstand the anxiety that comes with it... I don't know if I can help you anymore and that includes comms... It's hard for me to say that you know" she sighed. "I understand... The moment I saw him approaching you... I've never felt so much concern and so much hate, not towards him... Towards me for dragging you into all...that" I said. "What I'm trying to say is I'm sorry and thank you.... You were a big help and I'd feel happy to have you on the comms if you're up to it..." I said with a small smile. "There's another thing... The trip ends in a couple of days and you'll be alone here which will make the situation even worse. I'm asking you... Leave this behind and come home with the rest of us" she continued. "I can't do that... I would love to return to how things were but now that's something I'm unable to do... My plan now is saving Circe, returning home and finding a way to get these stuff off of me" I sighed. "That sounds fair" she said, "So, all good?". "It seems like it..." I replied, "We still have a night to spare, what are you in the mood for?". "Okay, I have a great idea. We head to this great 24/7 diner, get a bite, a drink and then walk in the old city" she said excited. "You know what... I dig that, let's not waste a moment!" I replied. And so we begun. We headed to the diner and we bought some snacks and hot chocolate . We started walking around talking laughing and just enjoying this part of the city. The cold was stinging a bit but nothing we couldn't handle, I didn't really mind because it was just what was needed for the scenery to look like that. Roofs covered in snow all around, tall trees almost crystallised by the cold and snowflakes dancing in the breeze. The time was passing fast and after walking around for hours we concluded that we should return. We were moving in an alley to save time and we saw a person emerge from its end. I have a bad feeling I thought to myself, I looked behind us and I noticed someone was on our tail. "Give me your gloves" I said with a low voice and that's exactly what she did. I summoned my gauntlets and I covered them with the gloves. We had almost reached the end of the street but the man was still blocking, he now had his hand inside his jacket... We were getting closer and closer. "Look what we have here" the man said while drawing a knife , "such a great night to do a good deed and help my poor soul". We tried to step back but a woman was in the way with a knife on her hand as well . "I don't think they are really into charity love" she said to who I presume was her boyfriend. "Here's the thing kids, if you give us your stuff we'll let you go, it would be terrible to stain this street with blood wouldn't it" the man said to us, "I like your pink gloves dude, really... Manly" he continued and the couple started chucking. "Oh you have no idea" I said under my breath. "Don't" Lydia told me. "We don't have all night, start with your wallets" said the woman. "You heard the lady, now hurry... It would be a pity for something bad to happen to your lady friend... You get me dude, man to man, you know how that is, she looks like fun" the man said and I felt my heart pumping. "You done fucked up" said Lydia. "Stop talking girl" said the man while putting the knife closer to her throat. I grabbed the hand and I smashed his elbow, a loud crack echoed in the alley, the man fell down and he started screaming in pain and in disbelief. "You little shit!" screamed the woman and she tried to stab me but I blocked the knife with my gauntlets. "What the fuck" she muttered and I grabbed her head with my arm, I smiled and I smashed it on the wall letting her drop down unconscious. His screams were still going and I saw Lydia kicking him in the guts. "His stupid voice enrages me" I said to her and I approached him. "Nah I got it" she said, she took a few steps back and she kicked him in the head knocking him out. "Ouch, that's gonna hurt like a bitch when he wakes up" I chuckled. "Thank you... Exactly what I was going for" she replied and she started laughing. "I hope you won't kick me too but I may have stained your gloves with a tiny bit of blood" I said. "Nah they make them look less childish... You know, the blood really brings out a murderous intent the normal pink just can't" she replied smiling. "Cool point of view... Does that mean I should stain your pyjamas too?" I said with a grin. "Sheesh, I'm trying to make a joke here and you take it as a chance to hit more people" she laughed. "On my defense I read on a fashion magazine that scarlet red is gonna be worn a lot this year" I continued. "Admitting you're reading fashion magazines isn't a great defense per say but you do you" she replied with a laugh. "We should probably call the police shouldn't we?" I said and she pulled out her phone. "Already on it" she Said. She left an anonymous tip and we continued our wall back. Some time passed and we finally managed to reach the hotel. I followed her to the lobby "So I guess this is goodnight" I said. "Oh, you're not going to your room?" she asked. "We shouldn't give miss old hag the chance to ask questions should we" I replied. "Fair" she said, "That was fun... You know, up until the mugging part". "Attempted mugging you mean... But yeah, it was fun" I said. "The trip days are running out" she continued, "we should do something tomorrow". "I would love to but I have a lead for Circe that I need to follow... Can't wait for when I get back so we can hang out more" I said. "Likewise" she said and she yawned, "I guess it's goodnight then". "I guess it is" I replied with a smile, "Goodnight". "Night" she answered and she started going up the stairs. Time to go back to the hideout and be all alone I thought to myself and I sighed. I walked out of the hotel and the sun was rising.

[fanfiction4thesoul]

Dreams

Pairing: Roger Taylor x Reader

Word Count: ~3.4

Warnings: Smut (18+ only), fluff, angst-ish

Summary: Queen’s tour gets extended. And your plans get put to the backseat.

Request: Ooo, saw your requests are open ❤️ please can I have something angsty with Rog with a bit of smut and fluff thrown in?  Thank you

A/N: Thank you @jennyggggrrr​ for this request. I’m not quite sure how angsty this turned out but it’s still there at least ¯\_(ツ)_/¯. Hope you like it! My requests are still open for anyone interested and I’ve started a taglist so if you want to join just comment or message me. Thanks to anyone that comments/likes/reblogs!

Picture from Queen in 3D by Brian May

“You’re… extending the tour?” You weren’t quite sure you heard Roger right. He was so excited, he was talking almost too fast for you to keep up.

“Yeah! Management is adding nights at some stops on top of bringing on whole new locations. It’s gonna be great! They said wer--”

“Roger!” you cut him off. “How long is the extension?” You twisted the phone cord around your finger nervously. This was great news for his career but you were supposed to--

“It’ll tack on about four weeks. And then--”

“And then you have the studio in L.A. booked three days later.” You finished for him, your heart sinking.

“Well, yeah, that’s been the plan, love.”

Your heart dropped straight to your stomach with that. He didn’t remember. “What about our plans, Rog?” Maybe it was just a momentary lapse. He was on tour for months now and it’s not like you talked about it since before he left.

“Wha… what plans?”

Even as you felt your eyes burn, you felt your anger rise. “Yes, Roger. Our plans. The ones where we were going to try and start a family after the tour and before you head to L.A.” 

Roger started fumbling on the other end, stuttering over his words, but you were barely listening. You stared at the fireplace in your big, empty house and all you could think was that it would stay empty. No family to fill it. Not even Roger because he’s always out gallivanting across the globe. But he’s living his dream. There’s no way you could ask him to give that up. Not even for your dream.

You sighed, talking over whatever Roger was trying to say. “Just… just forget it, Rog. It doesn’t even matter. Talk to you later.” 

“Wait, (Y/N), don--” You hung up the phone with a click. Closing your eyes, you leaned against the head of your bed, not sure what to do. The next moment the phone was ringing again. You reached over, lifting it up and clicking down the receiver, putting the phone on the table. You couldn’t deal with Roger right now. Not with the amount of hurt he left you with. 

Children had always been a promise for the future and right before he left, it finally felt like you wouldn’t be waiting anymore. Roger laid out the plans for the band, their tour, the break, the time in the studio with a projected time it would take to make the album. With a rockstar for a husband, there was no good time to start a family. It was mostly just finding out how to fit it in and hope it coincided well with his schedule. 

Sighing, you laid down in bed, back turned to the cold side behind you, and tried to go to sleep. 

The next few days passed in a blur. You kept the phone off the hook, almost afraid to put it back on. Half because you thought Roger would try to keep calling but also half afraid that he wouldn’t bother. You weren’t sure which made you more apprehensive. Work was a simple distraction but not a big enough one to stop your mind from wandering back to Roger.

Finally, after four days, you put your phone back together.

And nothing happened.

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding and forced yourself to walk away from the phone. That didn’t stop you from jumping to attention when it rang ten minutes later.

“Hello?”

“(Y/N)?”

“Fred?” You asked, confusion replacing the tension in your mind.

“My God (Y/N). What have you been doing? Roger’s been calling the house for days and he says it’s been busy.” Freddie said, worrying lacing his voice.

You felt slightly embarrassed, not thinking your behavior would cause such a problem with everyone. “I, uh… took the phone off the hook after… well after Roger and I talked.”

“Well we gathered that much, darling. Rog won’t say anything about what happened. Just that he fucked up and needs to make it right. Honestly, I’m always cleaning up after his messes. Now. Tell me. What did Blondie do.” 

“Fred… I don’t… If Roger--”

“Nuh-uh. Nope. (Y/N), tell me now or so help me.” Freddie said sounding rather irritated. He paused and sighed a moment later. “He’s been moping around like a lost fool, (Y/N). I just want to help if I can.”

Freddie’s words were soft and you knew he meant it. He was often the mediator between you and Roger when your fiery tempers became too much. Fred was always there as the go between. But you weren’t just angry this time. No. You were far too disappointed and hurt for your anger to rise up.

“Rog and I… well we were gonna try for a baby,” you started out softly.

“Oh (Y/N) that’s wonderful news! What’s the problem then?”

“Fred. We planned everything out before the tour. We talked over when he’d be back, when he’d leave again. He even said how excited he was!” Your voice was rising but you couldn’t help yourself. “And then you extended the tour. Which is-- it’s fine-- great! But… he forgot.” You paused as your throat closed a little and tears well again. “He just… forgot. Which makes me feel like he doesn’t care at all. Or, if we have a child he’ll get so wrapped up with the band that we’ll just be… left behind.”

“Oh, (Y/N)...”

“Tell me my fears are unfounded.” You choked up a little. “Tell me, Fred.”

Freddie stayed silent.

“That’s what I thought.” You let out a small sob before you compose yourself a little bit. “Tell Roger I’m alive, but I don’t want to talk to him. Not yet. Maybe not ‘til he gets home. If he even comes home. Okay?” You repeat yourself when Freddie didn’t answer right away.

“Okay, okay. I will. Take care of yourself darling.” He sounded tired.

“You too, Fred.”

Freddie hung up the phone and turned to the other person in the room. Roger was staring intently at him, waiting.

“You fucked up.” Was all Freddie said.

“Well, shit Fred. I fucking know that. What did she say?” Roger wasn’t sure whether to be angry or not. Sure, (Y/N) disconnected the line. And then answered for Freddie. And Freddie wouldn’t let him on the phone. But he messed up so he kept quiet and waited patiently for their conversation to be over.

“She was crying.”

“Fuck,” he swore, his heart breaking a little bit. He closed his eyes, bracing himself. “What else.”

“She doesn’t think you care.” Another blow. “And she thinks you might forget about her and your child.” Straight to the gut. 

“Shit.” Roger collapsed on the end of the bed, pulling at his hair. “Shit, shit, shit. I really messed up Fred. Shit. What am I gonna do?” He felt like he was at his wits end. It’s not like he meant to forget. On the contrary, it was always on his mind. But touring can get crazy. He often doesn’t have time to think about through the day until he’s laying in bed. And suddenly he remembers your promise until he feels all giddy before falling asleep. And the news about selling out shows and getting more venues was so exciting that it just slipped while he was on the phone with you.

Freddie didn’t look too impressed from where he sat. His lips were pressed into a thin line as his eyes held Roger’s. “You’re going to fix this, darling. And we’re going to help”

“We?”

The date Roger was supposed to come home came and went without much fanfare. Freddie must have delivered your message because you never got a call from Roger. The longer it went, the more guilty you felt. It felt like you were putting your own dreams before Roger’s. And getting angry at him for being excited over a great moment in his career just feels like a shitty thing to do. 

You went back and forth in your mind over being indignant and upset or guilty and worried. The two of you could talk it out when he got back. But then again, he might not even stop in and rather just head straight to their studio appointment. 

This was all on your mind on your drive back from work. So preoccupied with your thoughts, you didn’t realize you weren’t alone until you’d already taken your shoes and coat off at the door. The lights were on in the house and someone was clattering around in the kitchen, making something that smelled really good.

Carefully making your way to the kitchen, your spirits lifted when you saw Roger hunched over a book on the island, hair sticking up everywhere like he’d run his hand through it a million times.

“Rog?” You broke the silence.

He spun around wide eyed with his glasses on that he quickly discarded. “(Y/N)! I- I thought you were off later?”

His nervousness was unusual and it made you a little nervous as well. What was he doing home? And why wasn’t he angry? “I… got done early.” You tried treading carefully to figure out what exactly was going on.

“I, uh. I made dinner. It’s jus--keeping warm in the oven, yeah?” His eyes darted around, looking everywhere but you.

You walked up to, still not catching his eye until you forced him to look at you with a hand on his cheek. “Rog.”

“I’m sorry,” he blurted out, startling you. “I didn’t mean to forget, love. You have to believe me. Our promise was most of what I thought about on the tour. But--but I got caught up in the moment and didn’t even think when we were on the phone. God, I feel awful.”

He kept rambling, grabbing your hand on his cheek to bring to his chest while gesturing wildly with his other hand. “--Fred helped too and it was such a pain. Management didn’t want to do it but Bri and Deaky kicked up a fuss as well and--”

“Roger!” He stopped wide eyed again, looking at you in alarm. “Again. But slower, yeah?” You tried to be gentle.

He took a breath before starting again. “I’m sorry. I can’t tell you that enough. And I want to make it right with you. So with the help of Fred and the others, we told management we were ending the tour a day ago and that was that. And we called the studio and rebooked our time there. So… so I’ll be home… if you still want to start a family, that is.”

He squeezed your hand tight, almost pleading you with his big blue eyes.

“Roger… “ you started, and immediately saw him dim. “I’m not going to lie. It hurt. It felt like--like you didn’t want this.”

“I know, love,” he whispered. At your confusion, he continued, “Freddie told me about what you said. And I know how it looks. But I want it. God, of course I want that. I want a little one running around here that’s half of me and more importantly, half of you. Let me show you.” He tugged you forward, bringing you flush against his front.

This wasn’t over. You’d still have to talk more. But for now, you could be happy that he made the effort. That he was here with you now.

“I’m not gonna let you off easy,” you murmured, angling yourself up towards his lips.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, love.” He leant down and captured your lips with his, sealing them with such sweetness, you melted under their warmth. 

Your anger faded away, and your worries quickly changed into feelings of happiness. Roger was quick to swipe his tongue against your lips, demanding entrance.

After all, it had been months since he was home.

As you let him devour your mouth, his hands came around to your ass, pulling you more securely against him so you could feel his growing bulge. You tangled your fingers in his hair, urging him on, only for him to pull away.

“Roger, what are you…” you started to ask, but he was already tugging you along and out of the kitchen.

He laughed as he was guiding you up the stairs and towards the master suite. “I don’t think you want to tell the kids they were made in the kitchen, now do you?”

You giggled along with him up until he pulled you into another kiss. He turned you around and backed you up until your knees hit the bed. Collapsing back, you grabbed onto his shirt to pull him with you, never breaking the kiss. 

His hands found their way under your shirt, smoothing up your sides and back, making you shiver. They eventually reached your bra which he was eager to unclip. Roger moved away, tugging your shirt and bra off in one go, exposing yourself to him. 

You felt a blush rise up on your cheeks as his eyes roved over you before meeting yours. “You’re stunning, love. Better than I remembered. I missed you so much.”

Your heart tightened at his sincerity and any lingering doubt vanished completely. “Rog… I missed you, too.”

He smiled down at you before disposing of his own shirt and pressing down onto you. The kiss he gave you was sweet and chaste and so full of love. But it quickly turned into more when he trailed down to your neck with open mouthed kisses while his hands ghosted up your sides to tease your breasts. Sucking a mark right below your ear, Roger grinded down into your core making you moan.

Your hands were trying to find purchase on his back, tracing over the defined muscles Roger always seems to get after a tour. He grinded down again, pulling noises from the both of you. “Roger, hurry up,” you commanded, though the desperation in your voice took away from it.

“Shit. Yeah, alright.” His hands found their way into the waistband of your pants, yanking them down along with your panites. Roger trailed kisses down your legs as he pulled them off before moving back to shed his own. He hissed as his half hard cock was released, pumping it a few times to bring it to full hardness.

You licked your lips, a little involuntarily, thinking about getting your mouth around him. But that would defeat the purpose of everything. When you draw your gaze away from his movements to look at him, he was staring back with such hunger. You reached out for him and he leaned down to capture your lips again. 

Before you had time to process, Roger had pulled away and flipped you over on your stomach, leaning over you.

He moved your hair to the side, nibbling your ear. “I did some research on the tour,” he mumbled.

“Yeah?” you breathed out.

“Yeah.” His hand smoothed over the globe of your ass, dipping between your thighs and skimming your folds. Roger teased the area, dipping in enough to gather your wetness to smear around but not going farther. You wanted to clench your legs together and give yourself some much needed friction, but Roger’s legs held you wide open. “Do you want to know what I read?”

“Tell me,” you whispered biting your lip.

His fingers slipped into your core, jolting you slightly. It felt slightly strange; he never fingered you from behind and it felt… well backwards.

“It’s all about gravity, love,” he said while trekking his mouth across your neck towards your collarbone. “The deeper I go and the downward angle of your hips-” a hard thrust of his fingers and a whimper from you “-helps with conceiving.”

You clutched the sheets underneath you as his fingers rocked against you hard. “Th-then get on with it, Rog and put a baby in me!”

He froze, fingers stilling inside you and mouth stopping on your shoulder. You turned to try and look him but your movement spurred him into action. His fingers left your core, smearing wetness on your thighs and his other hand brought your face around for a bruising kiss. 

You moaned into it when you felt his shaft rub against your folds.

“God, I love you,” he whispered against your lips. “Ready, love?”

He gazed at you for a moment, waiting for your nod. Moving back, he guided the head to your entrance and pulled your knees up, pushing gently on your back to keep your chest on the bed. In one smooth motion, he hilted himself completely, making you both groan.

Roger was right. This position put him so deep inside you, it felt like he was trying to make a home for himself. The ache of the stretch burned in the most delicious way as your body relearned what it was like to be filled. After a moment, Roger pulled out slowly almost all the way before pushing back in, just as measured. 

You squeezed your eyes shut, moaning into the bed at the sensation. Roger’s grip on your hips tightened, moving you along with his thrusts, drawing little groans from him as well. 

He gradually picked up speed, growing impatient with the pace, ramming into. On one thrust, he swiveled his hips, grinding into your sweet spot and making your back arch. “You like that, love?” he panted out, repeating the action and prying another loud groan from you.

Everything he was doing to you was adding to the building heat in your gut, but you needed more to get you there. Snaking a hand underneath you, you found your clit, rubbing in tight circles bringing you closer.

“God, that’s hot,” Roger’s hips stuttered. One hand left your hip and your opened your eyes when you felt it grip the top of your free hand, interlacing your fingers together. “‘M close, love,” he panted above you.

“M-me, too.” This was going far quicker than you imagined in your mind, but then again, that was how it was everytime Roger returned to you.

“Then come with me, (Y/N),” Roger managed to plunge into you a few more times before he held himself deep inside of you, hand tightening on yours and released with a groan. The feeling of him filling you up spurred your movements on, grinding back against him and working your clit faster. 

Roger’s hand knocked yours away, though, and quickly brought you to completion, your orgasm rocketing through you. You clenched around him as you rode out your high, drawing his seed farther into you.

As you both came down, Roger collapsed on top of you with a groan before rolling to the side, dragging you with him. He was panting in your ear and you weren’t doing much better, still clenching around his softening length.

The quiet was interrupted by Roger, “Shit. (Y/N). You stopped your birth control, right?

You laughed breathily. Normally it was the guy making sure you were on birth control. “Yeah. Yeah, I stopped the day after you left.”

“Thank God,”

“What, don’t want a repeat performance?”

“Not at all. But it would kind of throw a wrench in the plan, yeah?”

“Yeah…” You gazed across the bedroom, staring at the bathroom door.

Roger, sensing your change grabbed your hand and brought it to your chest, pressing you tight against him and moving his cock inside you. You felt a squelch of cum against your insides but didn’t it pay it much thought.

“What… what are the plans now, Rog?” He said he pushed back the time in the studio, but he didn’t say for how long.

“Well we’ve got about four weeks before we have to head to L.A. and I was thinking…”

“Hmm, what is it?”

“Why don’t you come with?” His voice was soft as he asked, almost hesitant. “I’m sorry I got caught up in the moment. That was… well it was just bad. I know it’s not a perfect fix, but it gives us more time together. And that way I can be there for you.”

“Roger…” you started, not wanting to disappoint him. “What about my job? What about when you have to go on tour, or even a press tour beforehand? I knew, marrying you, it wasn’t going to be easy. But I can’t fathom doing this without you and there’s so many ‘what if’s’ going on. Your plans for touring changed so easily. What if it happens again?”

You felt near tears again despite everything.

Roger released your hand to tilt your face up to him. His blue eyes were soft and sincere. “It’s not easy, love. You’re right. But we’ll figure it out, yeah? Together.”

Yeah. With Roger, you’re sure everything would turn out okay eventually. “Together.”

[maraudererasmut]

Black and White (Part XVII)

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V | Part VI | Part VII | Part VIII | Part IX | Part X | Part XI | Part XII | Part XIII | Part XIV | Part XV | Part XVI | Part XVII | Part XVIII | Part XIX

((Author’s note: I AM SO SORRY. I have no idea how this happened... I was just writing and then one thing led to another and now this is a thing. I’m sorry!!!))

"You let me get drunk?!"

James let out a weary sigh as he pulled his phone away from his ear and gave Lily a look. She raised her eyebrow and he mouthed the word Sirius at her. Lily rolled her eyes and turned her attention back to her meal, trying to hide her obvious smile.

"Yes, hello Sirius. Good to hear from you."

"Shut it with that bullshit. Did you or did you not let me get drunk last night?"

James rolled his eyes at Lily and she chuckled softly. 

"I didn't let you do anything, Sirius. You are an adult, contrary to the way you've been acting recently. I do not control your actions."

"Fuck off, James." Beneath Sirius' anger was a distinct tone of hurt, and James regretted his sarcasm. "Why did you let me drink so much?"

"Sirius… do you not remember anything from last night?"

"That's the fucking problem, Potter! No! I don't remember shit!"

"Gimme a sec, Sirius…"

James got up from his seat at the table. He looked down at his wife and smiled weakly, placing a hand on her shoulder. She gazed up at him, concern creasing her brow. He covered the mouthpiece of his phone as he bent down to kiss Lily on the cheek.

"Sirius needs me. Gonna take this call in the study, okay?"

Lily nodded and watched her husband as he left the dining room. 

James headed over to his study, the one room in his house that was wall-to-wall wood paneling, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and decorated exactly as James pleased. It was the one room that Lily chose not to have a say in. She had a specific aesthetic, and as an artist, a keen eye for design. James wanted his study to look like an old hunting lodge, just as Fleamont Potter's study was, and Lily had scoffed at the notion.

"I don't want a dead animal head on my wall, James!"

In the end, Lily had caved, allowing James' lack of taste to reign in his study. 

James sat down at the ridiculously ornate wooden desk that he had inherited from his father, feeling the crinkle and groan from the leather armchair. He picked up an old ivory letter opener and twirled it in his hands as he spoke.

"Hey, I'm somewhere more private now. What's going on Sirius? Is everything okay?"

"No! Nothing's okay!"

James knew that Sirius had a penchant for being dramatic, so he wasn't entirely sure if this was an exaggeration or if Sirius was genuinely in trouble.

"Sirius, is anybody injured? Are you safe?"

James' concern must have come through his voice, because there was a pause on the other end of the line. When Sirius spoke again, his voice was a tad calmer.

"No, I'm… I'm fine. No one is hurt. I just… please tell me what happened last night…"

James took a deep breath and leaned back in his chair, staring off at the deer head mounted to the wall across from him. In the back of his mind, he could hear Lily's voice complaining about how straight he was. 

"We had an argument about Remus… do you remember that part?"

"Yeah, obviously…" Sirius sounded irritated.

"Okay, well, after that, we went to the pub. Had some food, a couple of pints… you… uh…" James glanced down at his letter opener, suddenly flooded with a wave of guilt. "You kept insisting on ordering more. More rounds… more shots…"

"James…" Sirius' voice was almost pleading. "Why did you—"

"You're an adult, Sirius!" James repeated, more to convince himself than anything else. He knew that Sirius was never a master of impulse control. He also knew that Sirius needed to hear no sometimes. "You just… you kept saying you were fine. And… and that you needed it. You begged me!" James knew he was starting to sound defensive, which wasn't a good position to be in while talking to Sirius.

"James, I trusted you!"

"Hey! This isn't on me, Sirius! You have to take responsibility for your own actions!"

"Fuck, James!" Sirius' voice was choked up and James knew that something was very wrong.

"Sirius? Is there something you're not telling me?"

"No, no, I just…" There was a thump in the background. Probably the sound of Sirius slamming his fist against something.

"Sirius…"

"James... It's been… shit, it's been almost a year since I last drank…"

"Fuck off, Sirius. I saw you have wine the other night."

"James…" Sirius sounded off. "James, I haven't been drunk in… what I mean is… mate, it's been ages. I've been trying… I was… I was staying sober…"

There was a pause, a moment where the phone went silent and James stared helplessly at his hands.

"I… I didn't know…"

"Bullshit. You must've noticed! We used to go out all the time!"

"I… I thought that since you were planning to open the gallery… and you just got busy…"

"You knew I didn't want to end up like them… and with everything that had happened..."

"I didn't realize that meant—" James let out a sigh. Who was he kidding? Of course he had noticed. He thought that Sirius cutting back on his partying was just a sign of maturity— which it was, in the end— James simply didn't put two and two together. "I'm sorry."

"It's fine," Sirius mumbled, sounding decidedly not fine. 

"No… no, it's not. I… I should've asked you… I should have said something…"

"No, I…" Sirius took a deep breath and James could hear the shakiness in his voice. "I should have told you. You're my brother… I should have just told you…"

James wanted to reach through the phone and pull Sirius close, squeezing him tightly like they always used to when things got too real. He fumbled with the letter opener, trying to find the right words of comfort.

"I'm sorry, Sirius…"

"It's fi— "

"No, I'm… I'm really sorry. It won't happen again. I'm going to help you… I'm gonna make sure it never happens again."

There was silence for a moment before Sirius responded.

"Thanks, mate…"

"Yeah…" James twirled the ivory between his fingers, his eyes lingering on the subtle variation of colour. "So… you and Remus…"

"I met with him." Sirius' answer was clipped, curt. James wanted to push, but he knew that Sirius needed to recount things at his own pace. "I… I apologized."

"Good… I'm glad… are you two… good now?"

James heard Sirius sigh. 

"I don't know. Maybe? I just… I'm angry. I'm… I'm mad at myself. For failing."

"You didn't fail, Sirius. It was one night… one night doesn't undo a year's worth of work…"

"You want to tell that to Regulus?"

James felt his chest tighten as he suddenly remembered what happened almost a year ago— the real reason that Sirius stopped drinking. 

"Shit… I… I completely forgot."

"I'm glad you got to forget. I didn't."

James couldn't believe that it had been almost a year. 

He couldn't believe that he forgot. 

"I'm so— "

"I swear to god, Potter. If you're about to apologize, I'm gonna go over there and give you something to be sorry about."

"I am, though."

"Shut it. I don't want to hear it. You didn't know, it's fine. I just… I don't want to talk about this anymore. Just… I need you to keep me from messing up again."

"I will, Sirius. I promise."

"Good. Now… tell Lils that I say hi. And… and get some rest. I'm not mad at you, I just… it's been a long day."

"Alright… go to bed. Get some sleep… go easy on yourself. And… I'm sorry. Again."

"Goodbye, James."

Sirius hung up before James had a chance to say anything. He looked up from the letter opener in his hands to find Lily peering through the glass doors. He tried to smile at his wife, but he couldn't. Lily knocked on the doorframe and James nodded.

"Hey…" She said softly as she opened the door. "Everything okay?"

"No…" James mumbled to himself. "I… I think I messed up…"

"Oh, James…" Lily walked over to her husband and put her hands around his neck, over the back of the chair. He leaned into the touch, relishing the warmth. "What happened, dear?"

"Lils… did you know Sirius had been sober for a year?"

James felt Lily kiss the top of his head.

"I figured as much, after what happened with Reg…"

"Shit." James closed his eyes. "I didn't… nobody told me. I didn't know… I didn't notice."

"That's not on you, James. You're not expected to notice everything." Lily pulled away, walking around the chair to face her husband. "Come, let's talk about this. Tell me everything. We can work through this…"

James stared up into beautiful green eyes and his smile finally returned. He really was the luckiest man in the world. 

[oneweekoneband]

Lorde, “Liability”

Not just the Lorde, but the Mother O’Connor of Hopeless Romantics

“Go for it.”

“1, 2,....”

Then, the restless silence awaiting heartbreak.

Simplicity can be dangerous territory for any and all musicians. If you’ve ever been in a choir and opened a piece that solely consists of quarter notes, you would probably say, “FUCK.” For those who don’t have that much experience in reading music/performing in the arts or don’t understand why “FUCK” is the appropriate response, the logic (at least for me) follows these liner notes.

You’re given a choice between two pieces to impress your friends at a dinner party with your piano prowess: “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star,” or “Fur Elise”? The answer to the fictional scenario is a no-brainer. “Fur Elise,” despite its prevalence, is indicative of more talent than some twelve-measure melody a six-year-old could peck out with one hand. Not just anyone can play Beethoven (sidenote: I know the song is the baseline of talent for Asian families with Tiger Moms who force their children to pick their poison between strings or keys, but I digress), and the former is more difficult to sell, dismissed as rudimentary tedium when LITERALLY any other piece has more differentiation.

So it goes with the classic ballad. Instrumentation is kept sparse to prevent itself from becoming a distraction and to provide only the most necessary harmonic context. Interest is difficult to keep. The message remains the same throughout the song, more often than not basic and one-dimensional, no volta from the tried and true topic of love lost. 

Not currently trying to navigate the debris of romance? Chances are, “Liability” will be the first song you skip on Melodrama, a spectacle of melancholia turned into a snoozefest by cyclical piano chords and verse-chorus-verse-chorus song structure. Lorde’s vocal range doesn’t help much. When you don’t have the belts and whistles of Adele and Mariah Carey from “Hello” or “Visions of Love,” melodies can become bland, anticlimactic.

That’s also the entire point.

“Liability” (as well as “Writer in the Dark,” but that’s for another day and isn’t to-the-t analogous considering its variance) is for the one-track mind who will find beauty hidden in the sublimity of words, especially when everything else is stripped to its bare necessities. Akin to the mundanity of Our Town, that means it won’t be for everyone, but if you haven’t felt like “crying in the taxi” (or whatever your town’s equivalent is), then why are you even listening to an album called MELODRAMA?

Uncoincidentally, Lorde is at her most Shakespearean on “Liability.” The verses are her soliloquies, a lamentation of post-break-up life directed towards the audience, and the choruses a one-person table read of the script:

THEY: You’re a little much for me. You’re a liability. You’re a little much for me.

They pull back, make other plans.

LORDE: I understand. I’m a liability, get you wild, make you leave. I’m a little much for it, everyone.

This play probably wouldn’t sell too many tickets on Broadway (see intro: we already know it didn’t), but Lorde doesn’t care. She just wants to tend her broken heart.

The first stage of grief is denial, and Lorde expresses hers in one word: “Baby.” Innocuous on the surface, yes, but the nickname is also endearing, a trace of her relationship she hasn’t let go of yet even after the dejection of rejection, a stereoscope of what was and what is. The piano compounds the numbing isolation, descending slowly as if the chords were tears before sniffling back up for the cycle to start all over again. The knife comes out, a farewell that stabs (“He don’t wanna know me, said he made the big mistake of dancing in my storm”) — a rest to let the words sink in — before being twisted in and pulled out (“Says it was poiiiii-son”), the incision deep, the blood pooling out. From the outside looking in/looking back, you would scoff, incredulous with the overblown poetics (Who calls their soon-to-be-ex “a storm” or “poison”?), but when you’re in the same spot as Lorde is, when you can commiserate with every syllable, the pain becomes exacting. The person you gave your heart to now seems remorseless, criminal, and you can’t help but blame yourself, feel burdensome, too worthless to have people around you. You’re torn between self-comfort (“So I guess I’ll go home, into the arms of the girl that I love/ The only love I haven’t screwed up”) and self-destruction (“She’s so hard to please, but she’s a forest fire”), between forgiving yourself (“Swaying alone, stroking her cheek”), realizing that it wasn’t all your fault, and deprecating yourself, scrutinizing every flaw and chalking it up to a for-the-better fate. And when you’re left alone, the easiest thought is the one that you were told last: That you didn’t deserve the promise of love.

What hurts most is that this wasn’t the first time, and it probably won’t be the last. You remember the bruises on your heart from the last goodbye and the time before that and the time before that. The insecurities and desperation come back in waves, grow into floods; “he” turns into “they.” You weren’t enough for them, not just him (“The truth is, I am a toy that people enjoy/ ‘Til all of the tricks don’t work anymore/ And then they are boooored of me”). The cycle continues through each person, and the only common denominator is you. You can’t help but feel that you’re the problem that no one knows how to handle, that you’re the “liability” as much as anyone speaks to the contrary or as much as you try to run from it (“I know that it’s exciting running through the night”). The past becomes a taunt of irreproducible “perfect summers”; you’re left bereft without any kitschy silver lining to follow, waiting “until [they’re] gone,” words echoing into twilit emptiness and lonerism. 

The loss seems insurmountable. It’s like you’ve made zero progress since the last time, still just as devastated, still just as fragile.

And thus enter “Hard Feelings/Loveless.”

[cassiopee-utopia]

The day I run into you #1/3

Hello! This is my first fiction

/!\ English is not my mother tongue! Many mistakes are probably in this story and I deeply apologize for that. Please feel free to correct them if you see some, it will help a lot! 

Summary : A short story (3 chapters) about the day a young student randomly run into Timothée Chalamet in the streets of Paris. 

Enjoy!!

xx

Chapter 1: Meet me at the corner

(2,3k words)

Today I’m randomly walking in Paris as I like to do it when the weather is good and I don't have anything planed. This way I can discover new places of this huge capital I live in during my studies. For now, I'm doing a four-months internship that will end in a month or so. I'm doing it in a fashion press office and I'd say I quite enjoy it.

Currently I am in the 16th arrondissement. This neighborhood isn't really animated as only the richest people live here. But I guess sometimes it's nice to get away from the unrest of the city and just take a walk in a calm area.

As I have been walking straight for a long time, I decide to turn left at the next street corner. And well, let's just say that decision changed my day.

Indeed, the moment I turned is also the moment an idiot coming from the street I was heading towards decided to turn at full speed exactly in the opposite direction and one thing leading to the other: boom *collision*. That's the moment I ran into you.

- Ouch, I say trying to get up.

- I'm sorry, I'm very sorry, I didn't see you, sorry… says the man I bumped into.

I can't see his face as he is trying to pick up all the books he dropped, but weirdly I have the impression that I know this voice.  

- Here, that's also my fault you know, let me help you picking up this mess, I propose.

- Thanks, but you don't have to.

He finally raises his head in my direction and boom *2nd collision*, but in my mind this time. Timothée Chalamet is just in front of me.

For a moment my brain decides to just, stop working. I fix my gaze on him and say nothing.

- Are you okay?

- Um.. Yes.. Um.. I am, I say getting a grip.

I look to the books I’m holding and hand them to him:

- Your books.

- Thank you. So, um, where were you heading before we…

- Nowhere in particular, I say smiling, I just like to walk around in Paris. Discovering new places, etc.  

- Oh, then you should know some good secret places, right?

- I guess, I say a little confused, well maybe, I don't know, depends on what you call "good secret places"… And you, um, where are you going, if I can ask?

- To my hotel, I need to put down those books I just bought.

- By the way, what's all this?

- Just some French novels. I like to buy some when I’m in Paris. It's to practice my French and my French culture I guess, he say giggling.

- That's nice! So… um…

I absolutely don't know what to say next and don't want this conversation to end but luckily, he made me THE offer of the year.

- You said you wanted to help, so maybe you could help me bringing my books to my hotel?

As I already almost collapsed in front of him, I try my best to not have my third "collision" of the day and focus. Unfortunately, all I manage to say is a quick:

- Yes.  

- Great! I take one half and you take the other, he say handing me the books I previously gave back to him. My hotel is this way, come on.

I take the books, nod and follow him quietly.

We continue walking in silence for a few blocks and then he finally asks:

- So, um, I don't even know your name.

- Oh, yes, I am Rachel.

- Well, nice to meet you Rachel, I'm Timothée.

At this moment I don't really know what to do. Do I tell him the truth and say that I know who he is and that I was basically fangirling him a few months ago, risking to seem totally crazy to him ; or do I pretend the opposite? It could be credible, I mean, he's not that famous yet, everybody doesn't necessarily know him, it's not like he was Leonardo Dicaprio or Brad Pitt. But this second option would also include me lying to him, and besides the fact that I don't like to lie, he doesn’t deserve to be manipulated. Moreover, it's not like we're going to become friends or something, as soon as we'll get to his hotel, he will nicely invite me to leave, so I guess I have nothing to lose.

- Yeah, I kind of know who you are. But don't worry, I'm not a crazy fangirl! I say giggling.

Gosh why did I have to say that too! I'm such an idiot!

He takes a moment to think about the stupid shit I just said and then he answers:

- Well, then you should know how funny I am!

That was not expected but I'm glad he doesn't care that I know him, and that he takes it with humor. I decide to take this opportunity.

- Um… that's not what I actually heard…  

- What did you hear then?

- That you were that type of young actor with an enormous ego and basically no talent, I say with a very serious tone.

He stops dead with a very offended look and says:

- What!?!

I look at him, keeping my seriousness as long as I can and suddenly burst out laughing.  

- Hey! That's not funny!!

- Oh trust me, it is, I say still laughing.

He rolls his eyes and stops:

-So, here's my hotel, I would have invited you to come in with me but since you're so unkind to me…

- Oooh… Look who's all offended!! I answer with a slight smirk.

- Fine, if you keep it that way… he say turning his back to me and going toward the entrance.

- Wait wait! Okay, I'm sorry, but you know it was just for fun right? Who would have known Timothée Chalamet was that touchy!

He stops, turns around with a big smile of satisfaction.

- And that manipulative… I add walking in with him.

After taking the elevator we arrive in his hotel bedroom. Contrary to what I thought, it's not a giant suite, it's just a big room with a little "living room area" with a table, a big sofa and two armchairs. The curtains are closed but the room is still quite luminous as it's the middle of the afternoon. The decoration is pretty standard, but the luxury and the quality of the bedroom is still visible.

- You can put down the books on the table, Timothée indicates me before taking off his shoes.

I do so and stay besides the table, not knowing what to do next, and starting to feel a little bit embarrassed. Luckily for me, this guy seems to always have something to say.

- So, why don't you say to me what you really know about me without making some bad jokes like you did earlier, he says sitting on his bed.

I roll my eyes, sit in front of him on the couch and answer:

- Why do you want to know what I know about you? I'm pretty sure you're not going to learn anything as it's just some random facts about you.

- Well, let's just say I'd like to know what fans think and know about me, to know if there are false information circulating about me.

- Okay, first, who said I was a fan? (Of course I was one, but that's something that he didn't need to know for now). But if you really want me to do that then fine.

I started to tell him things I knew about him, like the fact that he is half-French and that he used to spend some holidays near St Etienne. Obviously I didn't tell everything I knew as he asked because I don't want him to see me as one of these crazy fangirls, even if in a way, I kind of am or was one myself. I also took advantage of this conversation to make fun of him a few times, mentioning that "peach scene" or that "Statistics rap" thing for example.

We kept talking about him and eventually about me for a while.

Then, still in our conversation, as I am exploring the room with my eyes, my look stops on the little space between the two closed curtains. I squint in order to identify what there is behind it and finally understand what it is. At this moment I am not listening to Timothée anymore. I just get up and walk in the direction of the window.

- What are you doing? I think he asks.

Still focus on what I am doing I open the curtains with an abrupt gesture, revealing the most beautiful thing: a perfect view on the Eiffel Tower.

I know it's totally cliché but as I am not a real Parisian since I've only been living here for less than a year, I really love that monument and it's one of my dreams to have a view like this.            

As I open the window to go on the small balcony, Timothée joins me.

- How can you close the curtains when you have such a beautiful view? I ask.

- I just took a nap before I went to buy my books.

- A nap? Oh, what are you, 70? I say giggling.

- No but I have jet lag, he answers a little pissed.

- Oh yes, that's right, sorry… I didn't even ask you why you're here.

- For fashion week.

- Really!? That's so awesome, I love fashion! I wish I could go to a show one day, I say leaning on the guardrail of the balcony in direction of the magnificent view. So, what were you saying just before I got to the window?

- I was talking about my upcoming movie that I'm not supposed to talk about, he says sitting on the floor.

Even if we are in late June and that the weather is sunny, it isn’t too hot so we could stay on the balcony and continue our conversation. I sit like him on the floor and answer:

- Um, you're telling me secrets now? I guess that's a good point for me then… I look away from him and add in a low voice: too bad you're already taken.

- Taken? Taken by what? He asks confused.

I look back at him and roll my eyes as I have to say it out loud.

- Taken by a girlfriend named Lily.

He smirks and says while playing with a twig he found on the ground:

- Guess you don't know everything about me then.

- What do you mean?

- Lily and I broke up months ago.

- Oh, I say without being able to prevent myself from letting out a small smile, smile he immediately notices:

- You know, it's not good to be happy about other people's breakups, he says smirking.

- I… I'm not happy… I'm really sorry, um, you two were… you were a cute couple… I say embarrassed.

- You know I'm teasing you right?

- What!? Hey! That's not funny! I say punching him in the arm.    

- Haha, that was for you're little joke earlier.

As an answer I just make a face to him, which makes him laugh even harder.

We kept talking for a while when suddenly he got up after looking at his watch.

- Shit!! The fashion show!! It's in half an hour!

- It's today!? I ask following him inside.

- No, it's right now. I really have to go. Haider Ackermann may be my friend, he doesn’t like when people are late, especially when we're talking about work… his work!

- Oh, um… I should get going then…

- I am really sorry to abandon you like that but even if we talked about it earlier it completely went out of my mine. Sorry.

As he is searching in his suitcase, I realize that my little dream with Timothée is now over.

- Okay, goodbye then… it was nice meeting you… I say going to the door.

- Um, yeah, really nice! He joins me in the front of the door. Sorry again, and thanks for the books, he says pointing them, even if in the first place you are kind of the reason they ended up on the ground. He giggles.

I giggle softly too and look up straight in his eyes as intensely as I can, maybe to trigger a reaction in him that would be favorable to me, at this point, any reaction would be good. But after ten seconds nothing happens. So I look down quickly, quite embarrassed, and then look up at him again and say in French:

- Au revoir Timothée (Goodbye Timothée).

He smiles and I immediately open the door and go out before saying something stupid. As I close the door, I realize I won’t have any souvenir of this incredible meeting, no photos, nothing. Just the images I would always keep in my mind. When I walk away from the door towards the elevator, I’m starting to regret not to have insisted a little more, like asking for his number or to see him again after the show. But no, my big lack of self-confidence decided to do nothing, and now it is too late. But then, from nowhere, the impossible happened. I hear the door I closed a few seconds ago opening again.

- Rachel, wait!    

I turn back to him.

- Do you want to come with me? To the show?    

Continue reading ! -> second chapter here: Chapter 2