#By everyone else leaving their posts before he could try to stretch his own wings

[holdbeast]

I love the dynamic with Jing Yuan and Yanqing so much.

Like, here’s this tired old soldier who’s weighed down by secrets and regrets. He’s fought in brutal wars. Everyone he loved left him — not for any reasons that were even about him, but because they cared about other people more than they cared about him or their home.

And Jing Yuan didn’t break. He didn’t chase his dreams like they did. He smiled and stood firm and kept order for the Laofu. He became a schemer and a manipulator instead of the swordmaster he was trained to be. He took the role of a benevolent military dictator and brought prosperity to his people.

So what kind of kid does the great general raise?

Basically a shounen manga protagonist. A kid who wears his heart on his sleeve and seeks out impossible battles. Not another chessmaster, or a good servant to the Laofu, but a boy who is following his passion like Jing Yaun’s old (treacherous) friends once did.

There is just so much to unpack there, I need that companion quest yesterday.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Hue and Cry XV

Warnings: non-consent sex and rape (series), grief, death, some elements may be untagged.

This is dark!medieval!Bucky Barnes x reader and explicit. 18+ only.  Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Synopsis: Lord Barnes faces the consequences of his actions.

Note: Yesterday’s chapter was intense, right? Well, here you go.

Thanks to everyone and thanks in advance for all your feedback. :)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 Let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

MASTERLIST

The solemn servants carried the board as the woman's broken figure rested atop it. None knew if she was still alive and none were brave enough to ask. They just did as they were told as the duke, Lord Barnes, walked behind, his artificial arm gone, snapped from the impact of his fall, and his expression stony but bruised. He was streaked in blood; his own, the horse's, hers, maybe all three.

His closest friend, Lord Rogers walked beside him, mostly unscathed from the undue violence of their competition. The king and his wife trailed not far after the party as the body many feared was a corpse was balanced on the wide plank.

They were directed to the duke's chambers but did not move the woman from the wood. Instead they placed it atop the bed as her shorn skirts fanned around her and her stained sleeves laid like wings over her arms. They jostled her as they let the board down but she did not groan or gripe. She likely could not, if she could do anything at all.

The duke paced and stopped now and then to stare at the woman as he awaited the physician. The king and queen sat grimly on the cushioned bench before the dwindling hearth and the other nobleman stood by the window.

"Where is the healer?" Barnes growled as he came to the foot of the bed, "they will kill her with their indifference."

"He is coming," Samuel assured, "it will not be time that kills her, likely,"

"Oh shut up," the duke snarled, "she will live. I know she will."

"Brother," the queen said softly, "she was trod into the dirt… you cannot think--"

"She must, she must," the duke babbled and gripped the bed post as his eyes clung to her lifeless form, "she cannot--"

The knock came and Lord Rogers retreated from the curtains to open the door. The physician entered with his assistant and a chest with leather straps. He approached the bed with a morbid gaze. He looked her over then blinked at the silent duke.

"I am told she was caught beneath a horse," he said.

"Yes, yes, she…" Barnes' voice drifted off as his lips stayed parted. He was senseless as he could not look away from her.

The healer sat carefully beside the board and softly touched her throat. He nodded as his fingers pressed down and he brought his other hand to feel more firmly. He gave a long sigh and carefully moved her head.

"She is breathing. Barely. Her neck isn't broke but…" he felt along her shoulders and arms, her sides, and stirred around her skirts, "other parts of her, likely inside too."

"Can't you help her?" Barnes croaked.

"I can try," he replied hopelessly, "even if by some miracle she survives, she won't be the same. Not fully."

"Do what you can," the duke bid, "and the rest of you can go."

"Bucky…" his sister stood, "you shouldn't--"

"I said go," he snapped, "go away."

He turned his back to them again and stretched his fingers. He was shaking. His mouth was dry and yet he felt bile in his throat. She was stupid, she'd done it upon her own foolishness, so why did he feel so rotten? 

🏰

She was a shell. Lord Barnes stared at the woman, cocooned in strips of linen atop his bed. It had taken so long for them to cut her out of her gown and bandage her. When he closed his eyes, he saw the damage done to her fragile body.

He didn't sleep, only fed the fire and watched her. He didn't pray, he didn't speak, he just sat there, ignoring his own pains. She could have killed him too, he reminded himself, he wished she had.

She hadn't awoken, hadn't even twitched, at times, he was certain she'd stopped breathing. But he would lean in and listen, too afraid to touch her, and he heard the deathly rasps. Then he sat again and watched and watched and watched. Nothing happened.

The physician returned with the day. She was the same as before. He checked her arm in its splint and went through his careful inspection of her. He gave the duke the same empty words. Nothing more could be done.

The days passed as such. The physician tried to feed her with assistance from his aide and they cleaned up after her humanly messes. They changed her bandages, a painstaking task, and shook their heads as they left.

Nearly a week went by and the knock at the door was heavier than that of the healer. Lord Barnes called for his guard to let in his visitor and the duke was on his feet at once. He curled his lip as the Baron entered with a tall thin man at his shoulder.

"My lord, I've not come to provoke you, though I do realise your distaste for me but I hope for the sake of this… woman you would set it aside," Lord Zemo spoke carefully. Barnes was surprised how the other man did not flinch as he came to stand close to him, his fist gripping wantingly at his side.

"Why else would you come but to pester me?" Barnes sneered.

"I have heard reports of the unfortunate woman who did collide with your horse. I have found her weighing often on my heart and despite what has transpired between us, she is innocent of all that," he glanced forlornly at the bed, "This is Werner. He is my personal physician. He has treated every type of ailment, even a similar injury suffered by a stable boy."

"I have a healer," Barnes insisted.

"I am aware but what is one more opinion on the lady's condition," Zemo argued, "you needn't bide me, only the healer. He is at your whim, not mine. Yes, Werner?"

"My lord," the taller man bowed to each nobleman in turn, "with your permission, I would review the lady's wounds."

Barnes inhaled deeply. He shook his head at Zemo and shoved him back. The other man stumbled and the physician watched in shock.

"I don't want your help," Barnes hissed, "how dare you come here. Be gone before you are in worse condition than her."

"Lord Barnes, can we not--"

"We can't," Barnes gritted his teeth, "now go. I am too tired for you."

Baron Zemo looked at him placidly and lifted a single brow. He turned to his physician and gestured him away. They turned and went back to the door. The foreign lord stopped before he passed into the corridor, "the offer stands despite all this. Just send for Werner and he will come."

Barnes stormed over and slammed the door behind the Baron. He hit it with his fist and swore loudly. He turned and leaned against the wood and dropped his head back. Why couldn't anyone just leave him alone?

🏰

The day after Zemo’s appearance, another unexpected knock sounded from the corridor. Lord Barnes barely heard it as he was half-asleep in the chair. It shook the door again and he woke with a start. He stood and stumbled over, too hoarse to call for his guard to do his job.

He opened it and reeled at the sight of the young Lord Parker. He scoffed and made to shut the door. Parker caught it and gave him a desperate look, brows drawn together and eyes sparkling.

“Please, I did come to see her but there is something I must also speak to you on,” the viscount urged, “please, hear me. For her.”

Barnes’ eyes tingled and his lashes flicked away the droplets. He shrugged and stepped back, retreating back to the chair as the boy entered. Parker closed the door gently and his lightly footsteps crept over the floorboards. The duke stared at the wall and wiped his sweaty hand on his breeches.

“So, what is it?” he asked.

The younger lord stood by the bed and stared down at the unconscious woman. He was pale, deathly so, and he spun away from her with a gasp of dismay.

“It is my fault,” he said, “she spoke to me before she ran in front of your horse. She said how I’d hurt her and she was right. And I only did it because I thought it would help her. That it could save her from you, even that it might protect my family as well.”

“She spoke to you?” Barnes asked as his hackles raised.

“Would you begrudge her that? Even now?” Parker faced him, “look at her! I claim my part in this horrid thing but you… you are just as guilty.”

“Is that why you came? To tell me I killed her?”

“Killed? She--”

“Not dead yet but she is dying. I know it. I’ve seen men die, it isn’t any different with women,” Barnes felt the tears well and wiped them away and sniffed, “and yes, I do know it is of my doing.”

Parker was silent and shifted on his feet, “I’m sorry.”

“Good bye, Lord Parker,” Barnes huffed.

The other man hesitated but slowly moved to the door. He glanced back before he left and as he did, the wind from the corridor blew out the only lit candle. Barnes sat in the flicker of the fireplace and leaned forward to hold his face. His chest tightened as the dread coiled up his spine like a snake.

He thought if he didn’t say it aloud, it couldn’t be. He thought he could save her still. He hoped…

He stood and marched to the door. He ripped it open and grabbed Lester by his cowl, “go! Zemo’s man, fetch him.”

🏰

Werner changed the woman’s bandages and stood to wrap up the used strips. It was the third day he’d been to the Duke’s room and the lady did appear more lively, even if she had yet to wake. Her breaths were deeper and there was a new tone to her complexion. The physician packed up his chest and tutted.

“I know my master is… a particular sort of man but you should have called me sooner,” Werner said, “your healer, he did not wrap her ribs well enough and he should know how to feed a patient in her condition properly.”

“Thank you,” Barnes said, “is she getting better?”

“Better than she was, certainly, but will she get any better? Well, my lord, where I am from, we do not dampen the truth with hope. This is likely as good as she will be ever again,” he held his chest under his arm as he faced the duke, “many who have faced a horse’s step have not fared so long.”

“And there is nothing you can do? Nothing else?” Barnes frowned.

“I can see to your own wounds. The ones you’ve not treated,” he offered, “you’re lucky the cut on your cheek has scabbed and not festered. You should allow me to examine the rest.”

“Suppose… suppose you are right,” Barnes relented, “the cuts and bruises are mostly healed but I have a pain,” he touched his shoulder, “I’m afraid I’ve made it worse in my anger.”

“If you would,” the physician replaced his chest on the bed, “you might remove your tunic and I will have a look.”

Barnes nodded and carefully stripped his tunic. He hadn’t replaced the arm forged in steel and wood. It was useless anyway. The healer moved around him and felt along his shoulder and told him to lift his arm. 

“It is still in place but likely sprained--”

Both men froze as the woman coughed. Barnes pulled away from the physician and raced to the bed. The taller man caught up to him and stopped him with a hand on his chest. He tapped his bare skin and held up his finger.

“Wait, don’t--” Werner moved to sit next to the woman as her body tensed and and her breath harried and stopped all at once, “there is trouble.”

He bent and listened to her chest then moved to open her mouth. He opened her lips and covered them with his own. Barnes had never seen such a practice as the man blew into her mouth and pumped her chest. He was careful but firm as he varied between puffing and pressing.

“Is there anything I can do?” Barnes asked.

Werner shook his head as his tending grew more frantic. He leaned over the girl again as he stopped and he touched her cheek daintily. He was quiet as his hand moved to her chest then his fingers crawled back up to her neck. He stiffened and sat up. He looked over at Barnes as the wrinkles around his eyes deepened.

“She is dead, my lord,” he said as he drew his chest into his lap and stood, “her heart seized. The pain, it was likely too much for her.”

“Dead?” Barnes echoed airily.

“My apologies, I did all I could--”

“Dead.” Barnes affirmed, “well, then I suppose you might send for a carpenter.”

“My lord?” The physician questioned.

“For the coffin,” the duke answered bluntly as he turned away, “I thank you for trying as hard as you did. I should’ve let her go sooner.”

[aminiatureworld]

Wings

Characters: Xiao, gn!reader

Word Count: 3,523

Warnings: Slight depictions of violence

Premise: In which the reader has wings

Author’s Note: It’s been a while! Hopefully I’m not too rusty, although I can’t account for how late(/early) this is being posted. I’m going to bed.

Xiao

Even from the beginning Xiao had been enthralled with your wings.

They were larger than that of any bird or creature that Xiao had ever seen before, stretching far beyond your arms when they were unfolded, before bending to cover you in a cloak of downy feathers the color of warm soil, shot through with the occasional birch colored feather.

He’d decided to appear in front of you almost the moment he saw you in the distance, at first wondering if you might be an adepti or a god from one of the other lands in Teyvat. Although the look of surprise that crossed your face when he shed his invisibility before you quickly robbed him of that conviction. It was too late to go back at that point though, so Xiao begrudgingly let out his question.

“Who are you?”

Your smile was an odd one; it seemed to convey to Xiao that you didn’t have the answer to his question at all. Nevertheless you answered. You were a half-adepti, and as of such you had been born with wings. When pressed upon your adeptus side you merely shook your head. Both of your parents hadn’t stuck around that much, and you knew little of your heritage, or of the beings who walked the land who weren’t Morax.

Xiao had stared at you then, disbelief mixing with a vague sense of pity. What must it be like to be unable to recognize an adeptus despite being one yourself. It seemed ludicrous, but Xiao couldn’t find it in himself to disdain your state. Pausing then he decided upon what immediately after seemed a very foolish decision.

“Call for me if you are in need. I’m called Xiao.”

He didn’t bother waiting for your response before disappearing, unwilling to let his emotions be known.

 The next time he saw you was in the sky. The yaksha certainly hadn’t expected such a thing, and while the initial shock was certainly something, it was almost immediately replaced with a strange appreciation. Though Xiao had seen that the vision you wielded was a Geo one, he almost immediately began to associate you with his own element, with the winds that carried you where you wished to go. Any clumsiness or human fault in your step was almost immediately shed, for how could one be anything but graceful in the air, no matter how they dipped or shook or stopped suddenly. If Xiao was honest with himself, he was utterly enthralled.

Eventually you seemed to grow tired and soon you grew closer. Shifting slightly Xiao backed up as you landed on a branch next to the roof, face flushed with exercise and happiness. Spotting Xiao you smiled brightly.

“It’s a beautiful place to fly here.”

Seemingly unfazed by the lack of conversation on Xiao’s part you sighed, leaning against the branch and staring into the sky. Murmuring something to yourself you seemed so utterly content. A begrudging curiosity swept over Xiao as he found himself responding to your words.

“Really?”

“Oh yes!” You immediately replied, face brightening. “It’s much nicer here than where I came from.”

“Where?” Xiao found himself once more asking.

“Oh this small village on the outskirts of Liyue, near the Chasm a bit. It’s a poor mining town, always covered in soot and coal dust. It’s very difficult to keep things clean there let me tell you; and the people don’t really like things that stand out. I haven’t flown in a while actually, since everyone was so hostile when I did. Now that I’m here I think, I hope, that I can do what they want.”

“You can.”

“I’m so glad to hear,” you smiled once more. “I wasn’t really sure what it would be like here. I’ve mostly stayed in the village, but people seemed more hostile than usual so I figured it’d be better to leave now before I ended up on the wrong side of a pitchfork or a shovel.”

“Humans are so foolish.”

“Maybe you’re right. Still, I’m here now and who knows! Maybe things will turn out well.”

With that you clambered off the roof and walked into the Inn proper, leaving Xiao a swirl of questions and surprisingly burning emotions.

 After this you seemed to have gotten it into your head that Xiao was now primed to be your general confidante. Though this initially ruffled the adeptus, he didn’t truly feel like dissuading you, and by the time he’d gotten over the initial shock of your conversation he decided that your voice was surprisingly nice to listen to, and thus settled quietly enough into his new and strange roll of sympathetic ear.

“I registered for the Guild today,” you were saying today, voice bright with excitement. “It’s funny the lady at the stand, Ms. Katheryne? She didn’t even bat an eye at me! I was sure that I was going to get some questions, but besides the stares nothing happened. I’m supposed to start tomorrow. I have to make sure some supplies get to the quarry. Hopefully I won’t run into anyone there.”

“They will leave you alone. The Guild I’ve heard is a powerful force in Liyue.”

“I hope so! I don’t want my first commission to go wrong. I never thought about what I’d do in my life, beyond the usual village work. It’s exciting to have something new out in front of me.”

Xiao thought that was unbearably peppy of you, but he said nothing. Surprisingly he found himself also wishing that you’d do well.

 Xiao wasn’t exactly sure what he was doing, following your commission on wind currents. It was none of his business how things went today, after all what did he care about the affairs of humans, even those who were half adeptus? Still he found himself following you, cursing himself all the while for doing something so stupid.

The usual unshakeable happiness that you seemed to exude seemed to disappear almost the moment you left the Inn, instead replaced with a face grim and jumpy with anticipation. A few times you even turned back, studying the Inn or the sky around it. Sometimes your gaze even seemed to pierce through Xiao, something the adeptus found slightly unnerving. Nevertheless he followed as you continued on your journey, all the while wondering what could cause such a massive shift in your demeanor.

If Xiao had any questions about the extent of the reality of your words they were quickly answered. The atmosphere of the quarry was absolutely suffocating, and you could’ve cut the tension with a blade as you slowly approached the drop off.

The foreman said nothing to you, merely glaring as he approached the balloon that you were accompanying. Scouring the barrels and boxes his scowl deepened and deepened. Turning around abruptly he disappeared into his hut for a moment before coming back out. Gesturing towards to open quarry he glared at you.

“There.”

“Thank you,” you replied, voice suddenly small. “Uhm, where exactly should I put this?”

“You lived with us for how many years and couldn’t be bother to retain a shred of information?” The foreman swore under his breath. “Damned half-creatures like you. Put it in Section 4. Tell the Guild master that I never want to see your face here again.”

You said nothing to that in response, merely continuing on your way. Though Xiao couldn’t help but notice how white the knuckles were on the rope you were using to lead the balloon with.

The hostility didn’t ease up when you walked in. Instead things seemed to grow worse, as men and women stared at you with open disdain. The occasional insult could be heard, but for the most part it was deadly quiet, and your steps seemed shorter and shorter as you approached your given destination. At first Xiao was trying to convince himself that such a spectacle didn’t affect him. After all, what did he care for the strange whims and fears of humans. None of this had anything to do with his contract, and he was under no obligation to help you in such an instance. These thoughts were chipping away however, and before Xiao was entirely aware of what he was doing he found himself lowering himself on the ground.

A chorus of gasps rose up as he emerged from the invisible winds that cloaked him. Standing in front of you Xiao nevertheless didn’t catch your eye, instead focusing his glare on the people around him. At first you stopped, taken aback as well it seemed by his sudden appearance. Almost immediately however your posture seemed to relax slightly, and your pace seemed to go back to normal as you walked towards him, continuing on as he followed you to your destination.

Everything else was done in deadly silence, as you got the paperwork you needed and headed out of the quarry. Xiao said nothing the whole time, merely following a few steps behind you. He half expected you to start chattering again the moment the foreman’s hut exited the field of view, but instead you remained quiet. Still you seemed much less grave than in the morning and though Xiao couldn’t explain why this somehow reassured him. Walking next to you now he found his hand drifting towards you, as if the two were being drawn together by magnets. When your hands finally connected Xiao couldn’t help but think how warm yours were.

 After that a ritual of commission sharing seemed to inexplicably pop up, though how exactly Xiao wasn’t really sure of. At first it had been to make sure there was no repeat performance of the first day, but then it quickly developed into something else, although what that something was Xiao didn’t really know. All he knew was that every morning when you went to leave he’d find himself next to you, frowning grumpily, muttering about how this wasn’t his duty. You were usually groggy in the mornings, but always managed to give his hand a squeeze before embarking.

If Xiao had subconsciously assumed that the mining incident was a standalone thing he was quickly robbed of that conviction. At first it seemed as if everyone was out for you, though in general the reason seemed to be less your status as half illuminated beast and more due to the figure you cut soaring against the sky, wings obviously too big to be a glider. Everyone seemed to be after you. Treasure Hoarders and Fatui Agents would try to shoot at you, though often you were much too high for their weapons; bandits would ambush you, aiming for your feathers as they attacked; even geovishaps and other such creatures seemed weirdly obsessed with going after you.

Though Xiao had told you more than once that it would be faster if you let him dispatch the monsters and knock out the hunters you always forbid him from doing so. It was your work after all, and if you couldn’t do it yourself then you might as well resign. Xiao usually responded to this with grumblings, but he had to admit that a part of him admired your tenacity.

Still it was difficult to sit back and do nothing. It wasn’t your presence that irritated Xiao, it was more everything else. Besides, he felt as if he was neglecting his duties sometimes. Thus when you told him one day that your commission tomorrow was going to see if a citizen had found a ruin network Xiao excused himself. You didn’t seem to mind too much, though you joked that you would miss your adventuring companion. Still the idea of suddenly not going with you seemed strange after weeks of this new routine.

“If you find yourself in trouble, do not forget to call my name. No matter where you are I will hear it.”

“I’ll make sure to do that,” you replied, smiling softly. “But it’ll be fine. I probably won’t even need to fight anything, besides maybe some slimes. I might even get back before you.”

“Don’t do anything stupid.”

“I won’t. I’ll come back as soon as possible, and then maybe we can fly a little together?” For some reason you seemed to like the idea of flying alongside Xiao, who found himself more and more often indulging you, though he wouldn’t really call his use of currents flying.

“Maybe.”

“Good! Then I’ll try to wrap things up quickly. Can’t miss something like that, can I?”

Xiao didn’t say anything in response. Later that evening, after you went to bed, he stared up at the night sky, trying to grasp onto his thoughts. He seemed to be awfully worried about you, or rather you seemed to be invading most of his thoughts. Why Xiao couldn’t tell. At first it had simply been that your strange situation somewhat interested him. He couldn’t imagine the idea of a half-adeptus who had lived as you had. Then it had been the mining, then the commissions, then the gliding. Now he couldn’t even think of the next day without a strange sense of worry.

What did all this mean? Xiao never thought he would find himself infatuated with anyone. His only loyalty was to Morax, his only connections had been with the yakshas who were now lost to him. His only remaining duty was to guard Liyue, to clear the land of the curses that remained. Nevertheless he found himself thinking about you, worrying about you even. What did this mean?

Staring out into the sky Xiao asked himself what he wanted. An image of you seemed to materialize in his brain. You were flying high in the sky, arms stretched out wide, smile as wide and clear as the sky above you. He wanted you to feel that way, and, more than that, in that moment Xiao wanted nothing so more as to share that feeling with you, to be some piece in that vision of happiness. Shaking his head the yaksha let out a snort. What a stupid idea.

 The next day started in a way much more similar to the days that had passed before you arrival. Xiao left early, finding it easier to deal with the lingering evils of the world when there were less people going about to get in the way. He thought of waiting for you to wake up, but for some reason the action seemed foolish. Or maybe it seemed somehow unlucky. After all, Xiao was embarking on a day that would surely have to end with some sort of cleansing ritual.

The monsters weren’t excessive, and the going was fast enough, though the sun had risen high in the sky by the time Xiao stopped to rest. Traveling towards Jueyun Karst Xiao thought of the pool of water up near Cloud Retainer’s domain. It would be good to rest for a moment, up near sure pure energy. Summoning some winds Xiao found himself in a weirdly clear frame of mind, detached once more from the world around him.

Then he heard your voice.

Almost immediately Xiao found himself above you, instinct reacting before his mind had time to catch up. You had never called for him before, and the unexpectedness caused a flood of hot panic to rush through him.

Staring down at the scene above Xiao felt another wave of burning emotion rush through him. You were backed up against a few stones, panic evident in your stance. One of your arms appeared to have suffered a gash, and as of such the claymore Xiao knew you carried lay in the grass next to you, too heavy now to be of any use. You also seemed to have suffered a blow to the head, and your awkward movements seemed to indicate some sort of dizziness. But what drew Xiao’s eye the most was the blood staining the brown of your wings, the feathers that were scattered around you.

The people surrounding you wore the crest of the Fatui, and their smiles were ones of absolute triumph.

“You should’ve flown away. What could a half-baked fighter like you do against the greatest army in the world? Now your wings will decorate the walls of the palace of Snezhnaya.”

You were mute to the Skirmisher’s jeers, your head bobbing to the side slightly. Once more Xiao heard your voice ripple through his head, though this time it was fainter, unsteady. The anger welling up inside of him seemed to ripple, and before he knew it the yaksha found himself standing in front of you, not caring about the black tendrils that licked at his polearm, only coherent thought that the Fatui members should have picked a different assignment.

Xiao despised fighting humans. They seemed to bend around him, shredding like paper. Though a part of him jeered that he was fighting nothing but monsters, the adeptus still pulled himself back. Some burdens were too heavy to bear, and even fighting a human was something that he would normally never do. Still the fight was brutal, if painfully short, and when Xiao finally found himself standing alone he surrounded by the groans and shrieks of those whose injuries would not be forgotten tomorrow.

Taking his mask off Xiao pushed through the tendrils of darkness that were now clinging to his skin. There would be time to bathe and clean off all the evil he’d generated and purified later. For now the adeptus ran over to your side, scooping you up and traveling as quickly as possible to the Inn. The smalls groans that escaped you cut through him, but at least you were alive. At least he had made it in time. At least.

Though there was nothing that the adeptus could really do to cure gashes and a concussion, Xiao found himself unwilling to stray from your side in the aftermath. Pushing away the guilt that threatened to burn through him when he was alone Xiao became a constant figure in your room. Perching no your dresser, or eventually in the chair Goldet dragged next to your bed, Xiao supervised your health with a regiment that would’ve been impossible for a mortal. Yet it didn’t feel like enough, it never felt like enough. Watching over you as you fell in and out of naps Xiao felt the guilt buzzing behind his ears. Your fault, this is your fault.

One evening Xiao found it all too much. Covering his face with his hands he rasped into the silent room.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

Whipping his head up Xiao was met with your slightly groggy face. Reaching over to grasp his hand you smiled as the adeptus moved to intertwine his fingers in yours.

“I didn’t go with you.”

“I didn’t ask you to. I thought, I thought it’d be easy. But it wasn’t so I called for you and then you came and saved me, so it was fine.” Your voice was heavy with sleep and your words slightly slurred, but there was still some urgency behind them, an urgency Xiao found himself responding to.

“I still wasn’t fast enough.”

“You seemed pretty fast to me.”

“I still, it’s still my fault.” Xiao didn’t know why he found himself repeating the same words over and over. Somehow he seemed completely unequipped to deal with the panic that had been slowly crushing him for the past few days. How could he explain this to you? How could he explain the fear that shot through him, the anger, the… something?

“No, it wasn’t. It’s not your fault that I look strange, or that I have these weird wings. It’s not your fault that people don’t like it.”

“Humans are fools,” Xiao spat out. “They try to destroy something that is beautiful, all because they cannot understand it.”

“You think my wings are beautiful?”

“Yes.” Xiao didn’t realize that was a question. Somehow the looked of sleepy happiness on your face filled him with a sense of embarrassment. Ducking his head the adeptus shook his head. “Never mind.”

“Thank you for telling me,” you replied, happiness in your voice. For a moment you paused, before piping up again. “You haven’t been sleeping a lot have you?”

“Sleep is unnecessary for those who are full adeptus.”

“Still, it can’t be fun to sit here alone for hours,” you frowned before scooting over slightly.

Xiao stared at the unspoken invitation for a moment, disbelief mixing into the thoughts that were cramming his head. He said nothing, but as the look on your face dimmed slightly he sighed. Laying his mask on the nightstand the yaksha lay next to you.

You smiled, seemingly satisfied. Linking your hand once more with his you let out a small sigh, before relaxing slightly, closing your eyes and drifting off to sleep.

Xiao stared at the ceiling, listening to the soft cadence of your breath. The panic that fizzed through his brain only moments earlier, replaced with a contentment that the yaksha rarely felt. Suddenly everything seemed at peace with the world, and despite the summer heat Xiao felt no more discomfort.

[julek]

inspired by @valdomarx‘s post 

Geralt’s fought many monsters throughout the course of his life. He’s studied them closely, gathering information about their weak spots and their strenghts, the causes of their existence and the consequences their actions leave in their wake. He’s thoroughly injured many of them, leaving the monsters no other choice than to flee, to exile themselves into oblivion. He’s killed many, as well, mainly the lesser creatures, whose understanding of the living and their intentions is so basic and sparse, not even a patient and dedicated Witcher can make them leave without spearing silver through their bodies. He’s seen monsters, felt them against his skin, carried their severed heads or dangling limbs as proof. 

He’s never talked to one.

Sure, he’s sat down on a mushroom-covered log and gesticulated wildly at a group of trolls that were very keen on not leaving the pond they’d taken residence in; he’s screamed at a noonwraith to stop dancing around him and finally take a corporeal form; he’d even tried, early in his training, to engage in conversation with a particularly stubborn drowner, to no avail. Talking to monsters for anything other than bargaining their leave, or allowing them a few last words —or screams, or growls— had never been Vesemir’s indication, not to Geralt’s recollection.

Well, it hadn’t been. Not until Jaskier came along. 

Geralt has never had anyone trail after him with such innocent curiosity, smelling of jasmine and sweat but not of fear — never fear. He’s never had someone test his patience and his very extensive knowledge on monsters daily, never had to explain why both Basilisks and Harpies had wings, but they weren’t pretty little birds who just wanted to be loved, Jaskier. 

He’s never had anyone pull at his heartstrings the way Jaskier has, either. 

It’s infuriating, really; he’s a Witcher, he’s never wanted anything for himself. Never found something worth keeping. But when Jaskier makes it clear he’s not leaving, not even if Geralt comes to him smelling of death and decay, twigs and blood and something else entwined in his hair, Geralt finds himself stuttering, his breath catching in his throat. He never asked —never would— but Jaskier gave him an answer anyway. It’s in the way the corner of his lips go up whenever Geralt gives in and makes a joke, it’s in the way Jaskier’s body seeks his warmth during the night, inevitably tangling their legs together. It’s in the way Jaskier’s eyes light up when they reunite after the winter, nothing but pure joy and relief overwhelming Geralt’s senses as he’s wrapped in a warm embrace.

It would be awfully presumptuous of Geralt to dive headfirst into his own feelings without being sure Jaskier feels the same, but that doesn’t stop him. He finds himself stealing glances at the bard during his performances, watching him in his element. He starts to ration their food to favor the bard, almost subconsciously, always giving him the juiciest pieces of meat and the freshest fruit he can find. He catches himself offering Roach the minute Jaskier’s scent turns sour with pain, either from a roaring hangover or from walking in those gods-awful boots he insists on wearing, the ones that accent his breeches and pair really well with the color of his hair—

And just as he’d feared, Geralt starts losing focus. Important things slip from his mind, and anything that doesn’t involve Jaskier’s choice of soap or doublet or undershirt flies right over his head at a worring pace. It’s not a curse, that he knows with certainty. The pull he feels in his gut whenever Jaskier’s away has nothing to do with magic, the feeling of contentedness that stretches over his chest when they’re together is not potion-induced. 

They’re in a small hamlet near Vizima when Geralt snaps.

It’s dark, stars reflecting on the swamp. Geralt’s sitting behind a log covered in moss, not far from where he first heard footsteps approaching. He’s stalking a zombie, which is an easy task even though he hasn’t encountered many over the years. From what he’s gathered, zombies are rather innocuous, non-sentient creatures, usually in search of bones or small animals to take to their Bokor, their creator, whom they submit to. He’s not sure if such a small town could even host such a powerful sorcerer, but he’s not ready to rule out that possibility yet. 

The zombie staggers across the forest floor, its movements slow and uncoordinated. It’s muttering something under its breath as it bends down to grab a small spider, crushing it between its bony fingers. The zombie stands tall again, but stills as Geralt’s sword is pressed against its exposed breastbone, the zombie’s eyesockets boring into Geralt’s face.

“Show me your hands,” Geralt grunts, careful not to press his sword too far, lest the creature dissolves under its weight. 

Surprisingly, the zombie nods and puts its hands up, rotting flesh hanging from its fingers. They’re empty, and Geralt thinks he’s caught it just at the beginning of its hunt. He crouches down to check the ground, sword still in hand.

“You smell terribly, by the way. Jaskier would surely recoil,” he says with a chuckle, his mind conjuring up the image of Jaskier’s nose scrunching up in disgust. “Yes, if he were here, he’d kill you in a heartbeat, just to get away from the stench. Then he’d write a song about it, so your reputation would be truly lost.”

He picks up the spider corpse and inspects it closely. 

“He’s very delicate, you see,” he tucks the spider away in his pocket, “like a flower. I’m no poet, but he really is beautiful like a flower. A rose, maybe.”

He stands tall, ignoring the way the zombie’s mouth hangs open. 

“Yes... a rose is pretty and smells good,” he reckons, leaning his weight on the zombie’s chest. “Jaskier always smells good, and he always looks beautiful. And he’s so good to me, you know. He sees good in everyone. I’m sure he’d even see something good in you.”

The zombie hums, a low sound slowly making its way out of the zombie’s mouth, but Geralt cuts it off with a dreamy sigh.

“And it’s just so hard to work now. I can’t even concentrate during a hunt, because he’s made a habit of hugging me before a contract, for luck, you know, and when I move too fast I catch his scent on my skin, and I just can’t—”

“Kill,” the zombie slurrs, its face twisting with effort to get the word out.

Geralt’s eyes widen, golden slits shining in the dark. “Did you just speak to me?”

The zombie ignores him and moves its hand up, aiming for a weary gesture.

“J-just... kill me,” it pleads. “Please.”

Geralt frowns. He can’t recall the last time —if ever— he’s had a monster request him to end their existence. He usually has to fight his way through, and there’s more blood and guts and swords involved. Modern times, he thinks, everyone’s a critic.

He shrugs and drags his sword up, splitting the zombie in two. It falls gracelessly to the ground, and Geralt can swear he hears the bones rattling in relief. 

“Rude,” he says as he gathers the bones in a bag, proof to take to the alderman. He’s never had a monster critique his hunting technique, so he’s not sure how to react — what would Vesemir say, hearing a zombie speak to him like that?

He clicks his tongue and makes his way out of the forest. In the distance, he can see a candle burning in the top window of the inn, can almost imagine Jaskier trying not to fall asleep to hear all about his heroics the minute he walks in. 

He smiles, and makes a mental note to add to his bestiary. Zombies — sentient. Eager to engage in conversation. Nosy. 

[sabraeal]

Climb to the Rooftops

[Read on AO3]

Written for @another-miracle; a birthday fic that is COMING OUT ON TIME would you look at that (though I am definitely doing some fancy footwork to make it work out in both time zones 😂 Yixin asked for the Post-Rescue Tanbarun Tree Scene for WFB, and then I said, I could give you that, but what if I told you about a secret scene instead...

And then Yixin told me to write whichever one was Obi POV

He knows her.

That’s what keeps running through his head’s hamster wheel as he clomps up the student center steps. He knows her; he’s always known her. If he reached out on that park bench, if he’d grabbed her with both hands and just said, don’t leave me--

He would have been laid flat on his ass, courtesy of that mean right hook her dad taught her before he bounced. And there’d be another demerit on his record to boot, one more instance of anti-social behavior to make him even more unadoptable than he already was. Doc was always destined to go to a loving home, complete with cozy hideaways and towers of books, with warm firesides and even warmer grandparents, and he...

Well, he wasn’t meant for anything like that, no matter who he clung to. Sometimes shit just happens, and no wishing on stars thirteen years gone can change that.

It’s good to see her though. He’d always wondered what happened to his muppet girl, whether she’d gone off and had her happy ending just like she said she would. And now he knows she did.

He glances down at the peanut butter canister in his hand. Well, at least for a little while. That’s the thing about happy endings; they don’t really stick.

Obi hesitates, one foot poised over a step up, his hand wrapped around a ruddy safety rail. “Um, Doc.”

It takes her three steps to bounce to a stop, just enough to let her look down instead of up or across. He’s got double vision for a moment: Doc in the here and now looking at him with so much hope and anxiety that he’s half-afraid she’ll shake apart like a Hot Wheel in a blender; superimposed over the little girl in his memory, round face beaming up at him and her worries far behind her.

She’s got more freckles now, though most of them are hidden beneath her coat, fading without the direct application of summer sun. More inches too, though not as many as he’d given her in his head; for once he’d given more benefit of the doubt than nature could provide. And her hair-- well, that’s the same. Red. Fluffy. Muppety, too, if it’s the morning.

“Obi?”

He should really be paying attention to this conversation he fucking started, instead of just staring at her like a creep. “I just wanted to check in.”

“Oh.” She goes rosy under the freckles he can see, shifting the urn from her hands to her elbow. “I’m-- I’m fine. I’m glad that we could find--” one arm juts out, trying to encompass both them and the containers-- “everyone.”

“Yeah, I got you, but I meant...” He angles a pointed look over her shoulder. “Why are we going up?”

Doc’s jaw drops, and he sees it, the way panic crests right behind her eyes.

“Not that I’m suggesting we don’t.” He takes the next step slow, just enough to put them on equal standing. Except it doesn’t, it puts him a little above her; the beginning of really looking down. His heart flutters in the exact way it shouldn’t when he’s carrying human remains. “I’m just saying, if we’re going to carry geriatrics up a few flights, the elevator’s better for their hips.”

He expects her to laugh at that one, or maybe even roll her eyes, but instead Doc breaks out into a full-body Chihuahua tremble.

“Obi.” Her eyes are so big in her face they might swallow him whole. “We can’t take the elevator.”

“We...can’t?”

Her head jerks in the scarcest side-to-side. With one long, steeling breath, she informs him, “We’re going to do something a little illegal.”

His brows raise. “Illegal?”

The urn bobbles treacherously as her hands fly up between them. “Only a little!”

“You cashed in your favor with me,” he repeats slowly, savoring the thrill that zips through him with every syllable. “To do something illegal.”

Doc deflates with all the gravitas of a popped kiddie pool. “I’m sorry, I should have asked if that would be okay. Especially with, um...”

She’s far too polite to say, your presumed preexisting criminal record, Doc just hasn’t realized it yet. Not when she doesn’t know for sure whether it does exist or not. It’d be easy to help her along, but it’s kinda satisfying to watch her flounder, fishing for the pieces of him she does know.

“If it’s a problem,” she says finally, lifting her eyes to his. “You don’t have to--”

“The only problem is how hot that is, Doc.” He wraps a hand around the rail beside her, leaning in close enough that her eyes nearly cross watching him. “Are you gonna get into your old field hockey kit and punch a girl up there too?”

She blinks, heels clunking into the concrete rise. “I don’t think it would fit. The skirt would be too short, at least.”

Are you sure, he wants to say, stretching every last inch over her, but instead he rumbles, “Honey, you’re saying all the right things to me--”

“Hey.” A finger presses into his nose, hauling his words up short like a pileup. “No call list.”

“Ahh.” Her mouth twitches as he pulls back, rubbing at his nose. “Haah. You know I hate that.”

“Then stick to the list,” she informs him pleasantly. “Besides, are you really trying to flirt with a girl in front of her grandpa?”

“Well.” He holds up the tin, giving it an experimental shake. “You think they’d mind?”

There’s a quality to the silence in the stairwell that clues him in to the fact that he’s cocked up real good this time. First with the tomb joke, now asking if grandma might be watching from beyond the grave, objecting to his game. At least he knows he never had a chance; otherwise he’d have to go take his hopes out behind the woodshed--

“No,” she hums, confident. “They’d like you.”

It’s a good thing she doesn’t get it in her head to try the nose trick again; it’d push him right over. He can survive a lot, but four flights is pushing it. “Doc,” he huffs, scratching the bristle at the back of his head, “I don’t think--”

“Well...” She’s thoughtful when she puts her back to him, bouncing up the next couple of stairs. “Opa would. Oma would think you needed to be fattened up.”

He laughs, but even to his own ears it sounds busted up, wings broken. “Sounds like my kind of lady.”

“Ugh,” Doc sighs from one landing up. “She’d love that you said that.”

“That just makes her even more--”

“Don’t.”

RESTRICTED ACCESS, the doors says, bright red letters fading against the plastic sign. ALARM WILL SOUND.

Doc’s been bullish these last few flights, pushing a pace that makes him want to remind her he’s a hitter, not a runner, but now--

Now she shuffles on the stairs, daunted. “Do you think it will really...?”

Obi thinks this might be a private university, funded by mommy and daddy’s pockets to keep their babies safe, but alarms go off all the time. Unless this building has a rent-a-cop watching daytime TV down in the atrium right now, it could take hours for someone to answer the call, especially mid-afternoon on a Saturday.

“Who knows.” He’s not sure what she’s got up her sleeve that involves two dead people and a rooftop-- especially when even Doc is quick to admit it’s got at least a toe on the wrong side of legal-- but it probably won’t look good if they’re interrupted, even by the Diet Coke of the law enforcement vending machine. “Maybe you should plan to keep the fancy speeches to a minimum.”

“Eulogies.” Her thin fingers flex over ceramic, white where they press in. “You mean a eulogy.”

“Gesundheit.”

Doc turns her head, real slow, letting him soak in every drop of her disapproval. Well, that’s one pigtail successfully pulled.

With a breath so deep it makes her pea coat really earn the name, Doc nods. “Right. Okay. I think...”

Obi expects some dithering, some real soul-searching doubts being dragged out for airing right here in the stairwell. Doc likes that sort of thing, taking everything out of her head so she can fold it all up real nice again, but instead--

Instead she barrels across the landing, plowing right through the metal door, a whole stretch of gray winter sky stretching out before her. There’s one blink, two, and then-- well, the sign wasn’t kidding. The alarm does, in fact, sound.

He catches the door with a hand; it’s weighted, ready to swing right back into place and-- if he knows his doors-- lock right behind her. Not that it’d be a problem if he meant to stand around on the stairwell and act as look out; a role he’d be happy to play if that’s how Doc wanted this whole show to run. But right now she’s slumped at the ledge, every last ounce of her usual moxie wrung out.

Maybe she might tell him to stand back, that this is something she’s got to take on alone, but Obi knows every aching line of that pose by heart. A car can keep going for fifty miles once it hits empty, but that just means you’ll never know when the tank runs dry. That’s where she is right now, stalling out at her limit.

And that’s what he’s here for, to push her that last inch over the finish line. Besides, he can’t just stand back, not when he’s grandpa’s ride.

“So.” There’s a shim in a corner-- a naughty thing to have around an emergency door like this, but Obi’s not about to tattle. He’s perfectly happy to wedge someone else’s problem right where the paint’s flaked off the door. “What’s the problem?”

Doc blinks, one hand trembling on grandma’s lid. “W-what?”

He settles grandpa on the ledge, arms folded around him, taking in the sprawl of buildings below. Clarines isn’t as big as one of those state universities, but it makes Tanbarun look like a college playset instead of a campus. Both of them have those stuffy brick and marble buildings they like up here, the kind that say academic and too good for you loud and clear, but whereas Obi’s walked across Clarines for thirty minutes and still never hit the edge, it looks like he could lap this place in twenty. No wonder Doc was miserable here; the real mystery is how she managed an entire year in this fancy rat cage.

“There’s got to be one.” He knows better than to look at her; if he’s going to make her talking about feelings, the least he can do is give her the privacy to have them. “You were all gung-ho a minute ago, ready to do your thing even if you had to punch out a cop to do it--”

“--I didn’t say that,” she murmurs--

“--but now you’re just standing here.” He shrugs, chancing a glance from the corner of his eyes. “Looking lost.”

“I just...” She shifts, head twisting toward him, he doesn’t need to meet her gaze to know it’s wild, desperate. “It doesn’t feel right that they don’t go together.”

It’s his turn to stare now, lost. “O...kay.”

“What if...” Her teeth fold over her lip, worrying at places already worn. “What if I left them go, and they don’t find each other?”

“Ah...?” It seems like a bit of an oversight now, not asking what the plan is, but he ventures, “You mean...the ashes?”

Her mouth twists up, annoyance in every wrinkle. “It sounds weird when you say it like that.”

“No, no, I’m just...” He glances down at the tin between his arms. “I’m just putting things together. There’s nothing wrong about how you feel, Doc. Not like anyone’s really written a book about how this works.”

She looks up at him, so guileless. “Of course they have, Obi. There’s a whole section in the bookstore for it. It’s just that they’re all written by charlatans and quacks.”

Whatever the conversational version of whiplash is, Obi’s experiencing it now. For a minute all he can do is stare, taking in the abject disapproval rumpling her face, and then he-- he--

He laughs. Because this is what he’s into. The sort of person who pumps the breaks and spins the conversation 360 without even a courtesy ‘buckle up.’

“Listen, I’ve been thinking...” He taps the top of the tin, the metallic ting drowned out by the blare of the siren. “What if we just...mixed them? Then when you release them--”

“--They’re already together.” Doc blinks up at him, eye shining like he’s her savior, the center of her world, the answer to her cosmic question--

The way she really shouldn’t, when she already belongs to someone a hundred times better than he’ll ever be. Not when she’d never mean to get his hopes up.

“Thank you, Obi,” she breathes, a smile dawning on her lips. “That’s exactly what we need to do.”

Like all his good ideas, it’s easier said than done. On the ground, it’d been breezy, the sort of gentle push he’d come to expect from New England right before it got its first good snow, but up here--

“Here, take this.” Obi shrugs off his jacket, hurriedly pushing it into Doc’s boneless hands, but it’s too late-- they’ve already lost a bit of grandma. “Hold it up.”

She stares down at it, thumbs rubbing over the leather in a way that makes his shoulders itch. “Hold...?”

He swings out one arm-- the one not holding a geriatric-- yanking it wide. “Like a wind screen. I don’t want to lose Oma’s pinky toe or something.”

Doc blinks, stretching the coat between her hands. “Pinky toe?”

“Wouldn’t that make you cranky in the afterlife?” he asks, shaking more of Oma loose in a lull. “Losing a toe? Or a finger. Like just the last knuckle. A bit of your nose.”

The leather starts to ripple as the wind spins back up, and Doc stomps a foot down on the end of it to keep it from smacking up into his face. He appreciates the effort; it’s hard enough trying to pour from a large container to a small one without his zipper clocking him over the eyebrow. “Would that really matter?”

He shrugs. “To some people, probably. I got plenty of nose to spare.”

Doc mouth curves shyly, hunching down to hide behind his coat. “I think it’s fine just as it is.”

“Haah.” It’d be nice if she could give him a heads up when she plans to make his heart pound like that. “Think you might be the first to think that.”

“I don’t know,” she hums, eyes electric with some mischievous spark in their depths. “Maybe I’m the first to say so, but you certainly weren’t getting any complaints a few nights ago--”

He huffs. “Drunk college girls aren’t exactly arbiters of taste, Doc.”

She fixes him with that steady stare of hers, the one that’s so earnest it makes his heart make a bid for freedom through his throat. “I think,” she says, each word weighed before she lets it free, just like a good scientist, “that they did just fine.”

He smothers a whimper into a sigh. “Maybe your grandparents don’t mind me flirting,” he mutters, hunched over that stupid peanut butter tin, “but I’m sure they wouldn’t like you returning the favor.”

She blinks, head cocked. “Did you say something Obi?”

“No,” he says, just a little louder. “Just talking to myself.”

“You know--” he sets down the urn, wiping the sweat off his forehead-- “this would have been a lot easier going the other way.”

“We can’t.” Doc’s mouth twists up into that troublesome knot. “Opa always said he never wanted to be in one of those big fancy vases. And even if he would never know, I...”

Obi sighs, hanging his head. “Yeah, I know, I get it, just...complaining to complain. You know how it is.”

She stares down at him like he’s a fish on a dock telling her about the dangers of air. He shakes his head, stifling a laugh. Of course Doc wouldn’t get it; she could lose a limb and she’d still be thankful for the other three. Probably point out how much better things were now that she didn’t need to keep track of all of them. He might complain like it was as easy as breathing, but Doc-- Doc would take every last uncharitable thought to the grave.

Haah, give her some time. A few more months around him, and she’d discover some things to complain about. People always did.

“So,” he says, picking grandma back up. “Why here?”

Doc blinks. “Huh?”

“You know, on top of the roof of the campus center at one of the prestigious universities on the East Coast?” He raises a brow. “I know you used to go here, but most people just settle for leaving dog shit on the stoop when they want to send a ‘fuck you,’ you know.”

Doc unleashes a sound that can only be termed a squawk. “What? What do you mean most people--?” She shakes her head. “No, I don’t-- I mean, it’s not supposed to be a, um...”

“Fuck you?”

“Ah...yes. That.” She grimaces. “They met here. And when I tried to think of places they might want to be...”

Her words drift to a stop, but it’s gentle. They don’t abandon her, leaving her high and dry, but she just...stops saying them, letting the wind carry them away.

“I couldn’t think of any place else,” she admits, fingers tightening in the leather. “They always talked about Tanbarun so fondly, and I...I always thought it sounded like paradise.”

“But the roof?” Obi asks, incredulous. “Is it just easier to scatter the ashes, or...?”

“It’s where they met,” she repeats, like that makes any sense at all. “They used to have movie nights up here, played on one of those reel projectors,”

Her gaze swings out over the concrete like she could see it; all the hippy bean bags piled up, big screen pulled down and movie hardly able to be heard over the wind. Not a bad picture, he’ll admit. Wholesome, just like he’d expect out of the people who raised this Precious Moments doll of a person. Doesn’t really explain Mukaze, but well, shit happens. Half the people who raised him don’t deserve the person he’s become either. “Nice story.”

She’s hardly here with him, eyes hazy and distant, stuck in a past only she can see. “That’s what I always thought. I always wanted...” Her voice trails off again, but this time her smile falters, topping like china from a wobbling shelf. “I always wanted to have a story like that too. But it, um, didn’t really work out that way.”

He shouldn’t say anything. He’s not some neutral party, here to give her that impartial, unbiased pick-me-up she wants to hear, like telling her won’t rips a strip right off his back, so-- he should keep his big mouth shut.

But he’s never been good at any of that being smart shit. “It’s not like you didn’t have your own meet cute, it just wasn’t here. It was, er...”

Huh, now would you look at that. He’s never actually asked.

“At a record store,” she supplies slowly, like she has to think on it too. “Between the aisles after I missed my bus. No--” she laughs, more bitter than he’s ever heard her-- “after I chose to miss it.”

“See?” he hums, vibrating the knife deeper. “That’s already a good start.”

Her lips press thin. “I suppose...”

“No supposing about it.” He taps grandpa so the ashes sit flat before he starts another pour. “If I know anything about your Oma and your Opa-- and I don’t know nothing besides what you told me--” and what he saw a decade ago, sitting on that park bench-- “I don’t think they care whether you met your person at a rooftop movie or in a Walmart--”

“Record store.”

“They have CDs too,” he informs her, just as prim as Doc gets with him when she indulged the one pedantic bone in her body. “But the point is, they wouldn’t care where it happened, they just wanted you to find what they had.”

“I...” She deflates, the leather bowing over her legs. “I know. I think they used to worry that I wouldn’t, especially since I wasn’t really, ah...”

“Looking for it?” he offers.

She nods, relieved. “Yes, that. After my parents, I think they expected a much more, um, active interest in...anything. And I wasn’t.”

He doesn’t need to hear her say it to know that there’s more to it than that, that what she means to say is, and I don’t think they understood.

“Well, nothing for them to worry about anymore, is there?” She blinks up at him, alarmed, and he adds, “You and chief are kind of a done deal right?”

“Ah!” It’s hard to tell with the wind slapping both their cheeks red, but he could swear Doc’s blushing. “I don’t-- it’s not-- we haven’t really talked about--” she heaves a heavy, resigned sigh-- “I mean, I...I guess?”

“As done as it can be without getting PR involved.” He gives her the sort of eyebrow Kiki might. “I’m sure that if they’re out there floating on clouds or whatever, or, i don’t know, free energy in the universe, molecules just bumping around...they’re happy for you.”

“Right.” Her reply’s so faint he nearly misses it, but the wind that snatches it away carries it right by his ear. “Yeah.”

“All right, I think I’ve done as much as I can do.” Obi levers himself to his feet, brushing off his lap before handing her the tin. “You ready for this?”

Doc stares down at the canister, jaw set, the same way he’s sure it looked right before she threw herself out a window. Certainly looks the same way it did when she tried to bean Itoya with her purse.

“Yeah,” she breathes, fingers tightening around the metal. “I think I am.”

The wall’s not tall, but neither is Doc; she has to go up on tip-toe to throw an arm over it, the wind already pulling at the ashes laying loose at the top. Her brow furrows, mouth working for a good minute before she manages, “It’s time to say goodbye, I think.”

Obi stares. Sure, he’d said to keep it short and sweet, but if it’s taken this long for the rent-a-cop to hustle up, maybe she can spare the people who raised her more than--

“Thank you.” He’d thought it might be hard to hear her over both the alarm and the wind, but somehow all her words fly true, brightening the air. “For...everything. I don’t really know how you...��

Her breath catches, but her eyes are clear, no tears streaking down her face. “But that doesn’t matter, does it? You did everything and more. But I think...” She sniffs, taking a moment. “I think I can take it from here. I’ll miss you, Oma. And Opa...”

She takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I forgive you. For whatever still needs forgiving. Rest well.”

Her hand tips, just the barest degree, and the ashes scatter, wind whipping them past, twisting high over the quad.

“Hey.” Obi steps up beside her, shrugging his coat on over his shoulders. If it’s a little gritty-- well, good thing Doc thing thinks Oma would like him so much, because part of her might linger until the next wash. “I’m pretty sure it’s super illegal to scatter human remains like this.”

“Oh,” Doc hums, shoulder bushing his arm. “It absolutely is without a permit. I was not joking about the slightly illegal thing.”

Obi grins. “Well good thing that no one ever came to check on the--”

As if summoned by the mere mention of potentially having something approaching good luck, the door bar rattles, accompanied by some creative cursing.

“Who the fuck is leaving this open?” A gruff yet feminine voice demands, as if she might be able to shake down the universe and pick up the answers from what fell out of its pockets if she just rattled it hard enough. “Bill, is it you? God, what did I say about using the roof for your smoke breaks--?”

The door swings all the way open, and there she is, a security guard with shoulders that could have dropped straight from the Lowen family tree. Obi would take a picture if he wasn’t sure that would get him thrown in the campus drunk tank.

She takes one glance at them, then another angrier one. “Who the fuck are you?” 

“UM,” Doc shrills informatively.

“No, wait.” One broad hand waves in front of her. “I don’t care. What are you doing up here?”

Doc flounders in the face of authoritarian disappointment-- which is fine by Obi. This is his wheelhouse, after all. It’s nothing to reach out, cinching Doc’s waist against him, grin wide. “Sex, obviously.”

If it were possible for a body to choose the time and place of its expiration from this earthly dairy aisle, Doc’s mortified stare suggests she might curdle on the spot. “Obi.”

The guard’s glare is a study in skepticism, taking in the both of them, and then the concrete wasteland around them. “Here? With your clothes on?”

“It’s our kink.”

“Please,” Doc mutters against his shirt. “Don’t talk.”

The guard spares them one last weary look and sighs. “You know what? I don’t care. Just get out.”

Doc certainly doesn’t need to be told twice. Obi’s got his mouth open, what can’t you let us finish first about to spill right out, but her small hand clamps around his, and she drags him right off the roof.

“SORRY,” she yelps as they pass. “WON’T LET IT HAPPEN AGAIN.”

“Yeah,” Obi agrees with a grin. “Next time we’ll fuck on some other roo--”

Doc pauses for one moment, just long enough to raise a finger and inform him “DON’T.”

This time he lets her drag him off, grinning.

They’re halfway down the stairs when Doc finally slows, her cheeks reaching a shade of red that looks more lipstick than lobster dinner. Her hand wraps tight around the rail, and it’s not until he saunters down the last couple steps to stand beside her that he realizes-- her eyes are screw tight, breath coming in ragged bursts.

“Hey,” he murmurs, trying to ignore the spark of alarm zipping under his skin. “Did you just realize we could have used the elevator?”

Her fingers, already wrapped tight around his palm, squeeze. “Obi...”

The muscles in his arm lock, the way he’s sure lizard tails do, right before they drop them off and run. “Doc?”

Her head turns toward him, and when her eyes flutter open, they’re bright, clear. “Thanks. For being there.”

“No. No, no,” he murmurs, his fingers spasming against hers. “You’ve got it all wrong. I should be the one thank you for letting me. No one...”

No one has ever asked me to be there, he doesn’t say. No one but you.

It’s too much when she’s looking at him like this, like he’s not just a stand-in but her first choice. Like there’s more to how he feels than some one-sided over-investment. It brings him so close to feeling like someone, like the kind of guy who might be her person--

And maybe he could have been, if he hadn’t let some asshole rip her right out her arms in the middle of the night. If he had a record of being something other than a professional disappointment.

The grin doesn’t sit right on his face when he says, “No one’s ever asked me to get rid of a dead body before.”

Doc blinks, then rolls her eyes. “Come on,” she sighs, tugging his hand. “Let’s go.”

“Back to the hotel?”

“Well,” she wheedles. “That. And I dropped the tin when the guard surprised us...”

“Ah I see.” He slips his hand from hers, grin finally sitting the way it should. “So we’re adding evidence removal and obstruction of justice to our list of crimes.”

She tips a dubious look back at him. “Are you complaining?”

“Doc,” he breathes, pressing a hand to his chest. “I would never. I’m touched that you would even think that I could--”

“Come on, Obi,” she laughs, hopping down the steps in front of him. “I’d like to do this sometime today.”

His mouth curls as he watches her back. “Your wish is my command.”

[coffeecaffineandeverythinginbtwn]

Here is my @maribat-secret-santa-2020 gift for @liquid-luck-00

I’m really sorry It’s not finished (i had trouble finishing it due to school and some rough mental health problems) but I will be posting the outline so you can know the rest of what I had planned!

again i’m so so so sorry it’s not done. happy new year! please enjoy!

:readmore:

Marinette and the Runaway Assassin

~

Marinette Grason and the Runaway Assassin

The first thing they could remember was always flying.

Their parents always told them that the first thing a Grayson ever did was fly.

Whether it be him tossing his sister in the air as she did flips, or flying on the low swing trapeze with his mother and father. they were born soaring.

Their family was the best of the best. Humans with the agility and grace of birds. Their family never stayed on the ground for long. Nothing could keep a Grayson on the ground.

Until they fell.

Their wonderful parents never flew again.

~

Dick was trying his best to keep it together, for his sister, but the pain was almost too much. He was just 16. What was he supposed to do now? He wasn’t of age to care for Marinette and he certainly didn't have much money at all.

It was two days after the fall that killed their parents. Dick had cried himself to sleep, so full of grief, stress and uncertainty the night before. He wanted, no, needed to keep his sister safe, but what were they supposed to do? Live on the street? Marinette deserved better than that. Not to mention her schooling. There was just so many things he needed to think about he had no idea if they’d ever even survive -

A knock sounded at the door, startling Dick from his thoughts.

“Excuse me,” a deep voice came from behind the door, “I would like to speak to a mister Dick Grayson.” With those words the pit inside his stomach grew. It was probably some social worker coming to separate him from the only family he had left.

Dick opened the door and saw a large man with dark hair and blue eyes in a suit, “If you’re here to take me and my sister to some orphanage, leave now. It’s not going to happen. Get lost.” Dick, the normally polite boy, ended his statement by quickly closing the door.

“Wait!” The man jumped in, using his foot to jam the door. “I’m not a social worker. Mister Grayson I presume?” Dick just narrowed his eyes and nodded his head, “My name is Bruce Wayne. I was hoping to come to an arrangement that would greatly help you and your sister.

Dick had the urge to scoff, but he let the man, Bruce, continue.

“You see, I lost my parents at a young age as well. I want to make you and Miss Marinette my wards. You two would both get to live in my manor with your own room and have all the things you two would need to live a happy life. And you would not be separated. This can all happen effective immediately, as soon as you say the word. So, What do you say?”

This was insane. It was everything he and Mari could need. They could lead a normal, safe, and good life. There were so many goods that could come of this and yet…

Graysons are never tied to the ground my little robin. We must never be afraid to spread our own wings and soar. We are free spirits and we fly our own way.

With only that thought in his head, his ressove hardened.

“While I appreciate the offer Mister Wayne, I’m afraid I have to decline.” He began, “My parents used to say that we should never let ourselves be tied down. They were free-spirited and loved to travel. I want my sister and I to continue their legacy.”

Bruce looked a little shocked at this, and also a bit put out., but he quickly covered it with a determined look of his own.

“I see. If I cannot assist with housing, please let me help in any other way possible. Money is no issue, I can promise you that.” Bruce looked so ready to help them. And hell, if they couldn't use the help.

Dick was at a loss for words, “I- Mister Wayne- I can’t thank you enough!” Marinette would get to have the life their parents would have wanted for her. He didn’t have to worry about money any more. They could be free and go where the wind would take them. This flood of relief he felt did ease his grief a little for only a moment. It was one weight lifted off his shoulders.

“It’s the least I could do Mister Grayson.” He nodded, looking a bit relieved himself.

“Please, call me Dick Mister Wayne.” At that Bruce’s mouth quirked upwards the tiniest bit.

“Only if you call me Bruce.”

~

Over the next few years, Dick and Marinette went everywhere imaginable, traveling with the circus.

Eventually they decided to travel at their own pace. Marinette instided they spend more time in their favorite countries. They spent a few months in each, both gathering a love for each culture and language. Marinette especially took a bit of every country with her, absorbing each like a sponge.

Without the circus to keep them active in their travels and with barely any means to keep themselves protected, Dick and Marinette accumulated a mesh of different fighting styles. Neither ever truly mastered one, but both fought in a way very specific to them.

~

Currently somewhere in Italy, the two were waiting for one of their mentors to arrive for a meeting.

“Duckie!!” Marinette, now nine, ran to her brother with that particular spark in her eye, “Duckie! Guess what!”

Dick, smiled a little at the familiar nickname, “What’s up Nettie?”

Marinette jumped up and down excitedly. “Look what I can do!”

The small girl smiled and ran a little ways into the field nearby and did three handsprings to the shock, and pride of her brother.

“Good job Marinette,“ A voice that was not Dick‘s called from behind them, “I’m glad to see that you are improving well.”

An overall average looking man in his late 30’s wearing a firm, yet warm expression walked towards them.

Their mentor, Malachi Dobraski.

“Uncle Chi!” The Marinettw siblings voiced, running to him.

Malachi’s mouth turned upwards at the sibling’s outburst. “Yes, yes I have finally arrived. You two are, of course, ever so humbled to be in my presence.” There was a stretch of silence before the three burst out in laughter.

“Wonderful to see you two as always.” He said as he bent down to give Marinette a hug.

“So what did you need Malachi? You never call meetings so early in the month.” Dick said as he turned to face him.

Malachi hummed in an impressed manner, “Very astute Richard. I asked you here today because I wanted you to meet a friend of mine I had mentioned earlier. Gina, If you remember.”

At the mention of the woman Marinette perked up, The one who travels all around the world like us? We really get to meet her?” She topped off her questions with a wiggle of excitement.

“We’ll have to see about that Nettie.” Dick spoke fondly as he smiled at his sister’s antics. He then turned his attention to Malachi, “Will she be in town soon? You’re rarely one to throw out praise for no reason and you’ve spoken highly of her in the past.”

“She is a lady well deserving of my praise, Richard. To answer your question, yes. Ms. Gina will be in town Thursday evening.” their mentor said with another small grin.

Dick hummed while tapping his chin, “That’s about two days from now. Unfortunately me and Mari probably won’t be able to meet with her right away. We’re tied up until Saturday I believe. Will she be in town for long?”

“Gina is a free spirit, so it’s hard to say. However she has been interested in you two since I mentioned I was taking students again. I expect she’ll stay long enough to meet you.”

“That’s great!” Dick said, as cheerful as ever, “That settles it then.”

“Yay! We get to meet aunt Gina!” Marinette exclaimed, jumping up and down.

Instead of correcting his sister, Dick just shook his head with a laugh. Why does everyone we hear of instantly become family?

~

Marinette sat at a tall table in a quiet cafe. Her tiny legs swung eagerly underneath her as she hummed to herself. Her brother was up at the counter ordering their drinks. She was sketching, or trying to. It was really hard to focus when she was so full of jitters.

Today was the day they were supposed to meet Ms. Gina and while Marinette was excited, she was just as, if not more, nervous. She has always been this way with new people.

————————

That is the end of what i have written BUT NOW the outline:

Section One

Dick is older in this 16/17

Mari is 5 or 6

They grow up with their parents, until they die, again.

Dick is old enough to be emancipated/take custody of Mari

(Bruce didn’t adopt them but he helped Dick get emancipated and gave them loads of money)

Their parents were free spirits and loved to travel

Dick decides they should keep that alive.

The two stay with the circus traveling for around a year

And they continue to travel for 1 or 2 years

They meet Gina

Dick kinda wants to settle down Gina recommends Paris

They go to Paris

They get an apartment (thank you plot convenient Bruce money)

(she’s around 10 or 11 now. He’s 19 or 20 now)

Dick wants Mari to make friends or get a feel for regular school so she goes to FD

Section Two

Separately, Damian and the league are in turmoil (the coup happens)

Thalia might die Idk

Damian, not knowing what else to do, flees to Paris?

Tom and Sabine have always wanted children but were never successful

They find this aggressive child on the streets of course they take him in

Damian would grumble about their ‘lower status’ but would of course be secretly grateful and surprised at the unconditional love and care he receives from T and S

Section THree

Back to Mari

Being raised by Dick, she learned to be true to herself and also headstrong

She takes no crap from Chloé

(She eventually learns of her situation with her mother and they become less aggressive towards each other)

(she also learns a lot of different skills and fashion things)

Section Four

Damian arrives at FD

(He’s like 10 or 11 Mari is like 11)

Damian and Mari are both ahead of the curriculum (Both home schooled) same class

She is her kind self, doesn't know anyone else well and Dami is another new kid.

They stick together out of a sort of necessity

He’s cold at first but (go figure) he softens for her eventually

They slowly grow closer as friends

Dick becomes another behaviour mentor and Brother esq figure to Dami

Dick also sees Daminette’s in love right away

He teases Mari about it

Bada Boom they're 13 now

Section Five

Miraculos canon GO

Mari gets ladybug Dami gets cat

Mari doesn't get a crush on Adrien (the gum incident doesn’t happen because Chlo and Mari are on better terms)

Mari and Dami both immediately recognize each other in costume

Mari’s outfit is black with red detailing sans her cape/glider that’s full red with the five black spots. Has deep red boots that go up to the knee. Her ribbons are longer and can detach to use as a makeshift ribbon dance things (she also goes by Ladybird instead of Ladybug)

Damian’s outfit is his assassin outfit but black and tan undertones with cat ears (his pupils don’t change to slits) Damian goes by Leopard

Dick notices a change immediately He confronts Mari, She caves and tells him too

(She consequently reveals Damian’s Identity as well. No one could have that kind of chemistry with Mari that quickly)

He signs her up for many martial arts classes (She already had training in a few, picking up a lot from her travels)

Damian also helps train Mari in some ~Assassin Skills~

Basically, they’re bad asses.

The only thing stopping them from defeating Hawkey boy quickly is the fact that they can’t find where he is

Section Six

Moving on, Salt

Lila happens

Lila still sets her sights on Adrian (he’s got money at this point Damian is just a baker's boy to Lila.

Lila isolates the two from the rest of the class, even more so than they already were

Damian thinks the class are even bigger idiots

Lila is still an awful person and wants to make both Dami and Mari’s live miserable

Lila tries to go to Dick about Mari “bullying” her

He laughs in her face (he choses laughter instead of seething anger. thanks Hawky)

Lila then tries to get through to Tom and Sabine about Damian

This time it works, they have less reason to trust Damian (and he was also a major prick when they first took him in

(this happens over a year or so. Lila slowly gaining the trust of the class and Tom and Sabine)

The environment gets very toxic Dami and Mari decide to leave the school and go to online schooling (like at college level)

Section Seven

Time skip. They are 16 now

The two have had feelings for a while, they now realize them

Dami is less emotionally stunted, having both Dick and Mari around (Tom and Sabine too but they kinda suck now) so he doesn’t panic much

Mari is full panic mode

Dick is just in the corner all smug-like. (“you didn’t know you loved him? I’ve known this for years”)

Que pining

Lots of pining

There’s some angst, Tom and Sabine are negligent towards Damian (not mean but still neglectful)

He ends up staying with Dick and Mari more often than not

Eventually they both confess after a particularly rough akuma battle (the one where mari becomes the guardian?)

Both of them almost watched the other die. That was too heartbreaking for either of them to not confess

So they are together now.

It was an easy transition, they were already married pretty much

They’ve already figured out who Hawky boy is. They just need evidence

They get evidence. They also discover Lila was working with him

They take care of the Hawkmoth situation

Section Eight

Everything is good now right? Wrong

Batman Finally goes to Paris once Hawky is defeated,

(he kept in touch with Dick all these years and knew what was going on, {He practically became their “uncle Bruce”} He only stayed away cuz Hawkmoth)

When Damian sees Bruce visiting Mari’s House he freezes,

Mari: “what's wrong Dami?”

Dami: *whispers in her ear*

M: “He’s your WHAT???”

D; *whispers more*

M: “I- You- Um- WHAT”

D: *walks up to Bruce* “Hello, I know this is an odd way to meet but I am sure you know of Thalia Al’ Ghoul.” *B nods wairily* “Yes, well, I am your son. And unfortunately hers as well.”

“Yes, I’d be perfectly happy to do a blood test.”

Dick and Mari are shook

“Damian, You must come to live with me in Gotham”

Dun

Dun

Dunnnnnn!!!!!

End Part One

Again I am sincerely sorry I was not able to complete this story in time. Like I said before, I will (maybe/probably) be finishing this and planning a part two! I hope you enjoyed! (even though it’s the first fanfic i’ve written)

[magalidragon]

15, please

Ooooh this one I was really thinking about do we go full fluff or angst or what? Sooooo let us return to a universe that may have been forgotten....Princess Daenerys and her bodyguard Jon (spoiler alert) from my weird mysterious angsty fic bird on a wire. Well in that one he is FORMER and in this one it is set a bit before. Forbidden Love! 💗

Moodboard to come! Enjoy and thank you for the prompt!!

Romantic One Liner Prompts

15. “I’ve missed you so much.”

"Daenerys you look a bit peaky, are you feeling well?"

"I'm fine, mother."  She really needed a drink.  And not the ancient Dornish red they were currently drinking with their meal.  It was the weekly family dinner, something her brother instituted the second he became King, in effort to "foster better familial relationships."  It was basically his way of trying to turn them into as normal a family as possible, when they were anything but that.

She lightly touched her fingertips to her temple, a dull ache forming.  It would rage later, she had no doubt, but for now she could only ignore it and listen to Rhaegar wax on about a dull meeting he had with the Minister of Finance, Willas Tyrell, who was near her age but a bit of a wunderkind in finance and politics.

The empty seat across from her was ignored by Rhaegar, and her mother, and it irked Dany.  Viserys was back in the hospital, not that they would acknowledge it beyond simply saying his doctors thought they had his medications worked out and he would be home soon.  She took a deep breath, crumpling her napkin in her lap.  "You know Muna, I am a bit under the weather, I think I will retire early."

Rhaella glanced away from Rhaegar, who was annoyed she'd interrupted him.  Her mother furrowed her brow, concerned.  "Of course darling, I'll send something to your room later..."

"No thank you, I'm not hungry."  She tossed the napkin onto the chair as she stood, shooting a dark look at Rhaegar, who ignored her and sipped his wine.  "Perhaps it's the weather....or the company."

"Daenerys," Rhaella began, sighing.

She shook her head, rolling her eyes.  "Forget it Muna.  Rhae, always a displeasure."

"Daenerys," he began, but it was their mother who cut him off.

"Rhaegar, please.  I'll not have to fight right now."  It was the Queen Dowager who now looked exhausted and peaky, touching her fingertips to her head.  She waved her hand.  "I will see you later Daenerys, I'll check in on you."

I'm not a child, she wanted to say, but bit her tongue, nodding curtly.  She left the dining room, one of the smaller ones they used solely for family functions-- not that there were any of those beyond weekly dinner-- entering the corridor.

Maegor's Holdfast, where the official family residence happened to be, was free of security during non-working hours, to give the resemblance that they lived in a normal home.  If your home happened to be multiple levels of an ancient castle built by dragonriders.  It was a joke to her, an illusion, something out of a movie.  This is not the home you're looking for, type of thing.

Her heels clicked on the stone floors, barely covered with carpets, chilly in the late evening.  She shivered, an impressive feat given her dragonblood that normally kept her hot, and wondered where her security detail happened to be lurking that evening.  She could call them, if she wanted to go out, but this late they might say no, they couldn't guarantee anything.

Trapped would be a word for it.  Caged, another.  They meant the same thing, but that wasn't it at all.  Daenerys felt like her wings were clipped.  She could flit about and pretend she could fly, but she really couldn't.  Not unless she escaped from under their noses.

She went to her room and picked up one of her dump phones, texting missandei.  A moment later she had the address for a party, should she want to go out.  But she didn't.  She sighed, walking through the big open doors onto her terrace.  Her suite was in a tower, because that's what she wanted as a girl, and overlooked the Blackwater Bay, in the direction of Essos.

Wishing she was at Dragonstone, she closed her eyes, allowing the cool night breeze, salty from the sea, to brush through her hair and across her skin, like a lover's caress, gentle and soft.  On Dragonstone the air might have a burnt, ashy tinge to it, curling your nose, but she loved it.  She missed it.

Her eyelids flickered up, spotting the ships in the harbor, scanning the horizon, to the Dragonpit ruins and then to the Sept of baelor.  She could slip out easily.  Ser Gerold, their Chief of Security, was probably asleep in his bed in the Lord Commander's tower.  Arthur would likely be on duty for Rhaegar well into the night, Barristan was her mother's keeper and then there was Jamie Lannister floating about somewhere.

She named off the Kingsguard in her head, the ones that all had their assignments, some off duty that night, some no doubt in a control room, buzzing in anticipation there might be a plot afoot to kidnap the Princess or assassinate the King.  It had happened once.  Actually, twice, if she included that time Rhaegar's car had flipped on the way to Summerhall.  They said it was an accident, but she knew better.  It was Baratheon supporters.

Her nails dug into the stone, her heart empty, achy.  "Brienne might let me leave," she murmured.  Brienne was their newest guard, she was eager to please.

At her feet, her massive leopard-sized cat Drogon fussed, emerging from wherever he'd been hiding.  He yowled, clawing her feet.  "Is this how you greet me?" she teased, leaning down to lift him up.  She hefted him up and down a couple times, chuckling.  "I think you need a diet, young man."

Drogon yowled, protesting.  She knew he was just saying he was big-boned.  She kissed the top of his head, scratching under his chin.  He clawed into her arm, demanding he be put down, and she obliged lest her arm become a new scratching post for him.  He sauntered his fat butt back into her room and over to the tapestry of the three Targaryens and their dragons, pawing at the edge.

Her lips twitched, heart leaping hopefully, and soon her relief washed over her, the tapestry pushing aside and the secret passageway opening to reveal him.

"Oh," she exclaimed, pushing away from the stone wall, hurrying towards him.  Her arms flung around his neck, embracing him tight, her face buried in his dark curls, inhaling the scent that had been fading from her sheets and the oversized sweatshirt she'd stolen from his apartment, with each passing day.

He gripped her close, his exhale hard enough to knock her earrings aside.  He swayed, with her in his arms, her toes touching the tops of his feet, lifting her slightly off the floor.  "I've missed you so much," he mumbled, voice raspy.

"I've missed you too."

Falling back to her feet, she pushed his hair aside, tucking it behind his ear, fingertips stroking down his recently cropped beard.  Regulations being what they were, he had to make sure it wasn't unkempt, which he sometimes preferred it to be, especially when he was gone for a long time, like he had been.  His eyes crinkled with his warm smile, his own hands mapping her face, both reacquainting with the other, until she could take no more.

She cried out, muffled, kissing him before she could stop herself, fingers digging into the back of his neck, her mouth opening easily under his, desperate.  He held her tight, hands branding her hips, pushing her towards the nearest surface, which happened to be a chaise lounge near the door.

The chaise’s soft silk fabric brushed over the back of her legs when she reclined onto it, pulling him over her, kissing hard and demanding, pouring her happiness at seeing him after so long into the kiss.  He broke it, when the need for air forced them apart, and touched his forehead to hers, whispering.  "I was worried about you, that security breach last week."

It was just a drunk, the Aegon's Hill Academy frat boys daring each other to try to jump the fence, but of course he would see it as a legitimate problem.  "I wasn't even here, I was with Missandei," she murmured.

He frowned, tracing his finger down her nose, thumb skimming her swollen bottom lip.  "I wish you wouldn't do that without me."

"Because you want to party too?" she teased, but she knew what he meant.  He was her protector, her shadow, and she was never fully usafe unless he was near her.

He smirked.  "No, because it's been six months."

"Six months," she sobbed.  She had barely spoken to him, sneaking messages when she could.  She laughed again, rolling her eyes.  "Remind me to tell Lord Commander Hightower to never approve your military leave again."

"Better tell your Minister of War to stop fighting with the Free Folk at the Wall."

Her nose wrinkled; she detested Rhaegar's pick for Minister of War, Lord Tywin Lannister, and only knew he gave ihm that position because it meant he could keep an eye on him.  Better to have him near than across the continent, her brother said.  Dany would prefer he be in jail.

She nuzzled into his chest, needing to hold him, listen to his heart, and reassure herself he was there with her and not traipsing about in the snow thousands and thousands of miles away.  "Will you be back on my detail?" she breathed, her heart stilling as she awaited his reply.

He moved so she could stretch over him, so he could play with her hair, and he nodded. "Aye, I believe so.  Last I heard."

"We have to be more careful, I think Viserys knows."

He stilled his movements.  "He...is he good?"

She shrugged.  "Who knows...they keep medicating him.  Regardless, if he says something...I don't know."

"We'll be more careful."

They couldn't be any more careful at this point.  They hardly looked at each other, every interaction strictly professional.  He was her bodyguard, nothing more, nothing less.  She treated him like she did everyone else.  Little did they know that five years ago, since Captain Jon Snow, reserve Night's Watch, walked into the solar and Ser Arthur introduced him to her as her newest lead bodyguard, she had been hopelessly in love with him.

Well, not exactly five months.  It took some time.  He was annoying the first six months.  Then she started to become friends with him.  They grew close.  Closer.  Until about a year in she'd kissed him, when he'd found her after she'd given him the slip, at a warehouse party in Vaes Dothrak, while they'd been over in Essos for a 'goodwill tour.'

It was wrong.  They both knew it.  They both couldn't stop it.  He'd get reassigned at the least, fired at the most, and she didn't want anything to happen to him.

It was a matter of time.

Someone would find out.

She was sure that this latest assignment of him from reserves to active duty for the last six months might have been a sign.  Except he was a drug, she couldn't stop it.  She loved him and he loved her.  "Jon," she murmured, pressing her nose into the shadow dent between his shoulder and collarbone, idly pressing a kiss against his steady pulse.

"Hmm?"  He pulled lazily at her hair, twisting braids around his fingers.  She could die and be the happiest she'd ever been.

Lifting her face to his, she whispered.  "Make love to me."

He smiled slowly and leaned down, kissing her so tenderly, she thought she might break.  Except she wouldn't, because she was a dragon.  She relaxed against him and he lifted her up, carrying her across the sitting area into her bedroom suite.

Some time later, she lay against him as he slept, and stared out the open doors to the balcony and beyond, the moon full and as silver as her hair, glowing into the darkness over them.  She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, ignoring the sound of reality beating at the door, and returned to sleep, where in dreams she could be Daenerys and he could be Jon.

And not the princess and her bodyguard.

[equustenebris]

New drabble! This kind of just poured out basically all at once, lol. This is for modern Topolino Newton, I've got his first story translated here for the unfamiliar: https://equustenebris.tumblr.com/post/658572502503735296/hello-duck-community-i-come-bearing-a-gift-so

Newton Gearloose has a bully. For Whumptober 2021. Prompt: "Who did this to you?"

Three. Sticks and Stones May Break My Bones But...

He gave a final sniffle as he rounded the corner to his uncle's house, trying to pull himself back together before his uncle saw him crying. The punches and kicks had been painful, sure, but it was the humiliation more than anything -- and the overwhelming fear of facing Jax again tomorrow.

He'd always known there was no way he'd win in a fight. He was Newton Gearloose, inventor, not -- like -- Newton Gearloose, boxer, or something. He just wasn't built for it, and besides, he'd always firmly believed brains were better than brawn any day. Still, when Jax snatched him out of the hallway to shake him down for his chemistry project results, he'd made his very best attempt to fight back, but Jax was built like an eighth grader, and all he'd really managed to do was make him angrier. He gingerly touched his fingertips to his swollen eye, hoping it didn't look nearly as bad as it felt.

He didn't have any idea what he'd done to get on Jax's bad side -- they only had one class together, and despite his natural aptitude for it, it wasn't as though Newton was particularly well-liked by their chemistry teacher anyway. (A few too many beakers shattered, chemicals spilled, labs blown up -- frankly, he was amazed they still let him do the hands-on work.)

But for whatever reason, Jax had apparently decided that Newton was his new target -- and he evidently had a lot of free time to spend making Newton's life as miserable as possible. It had started off with little things, stealing his pencils, getting in his way in line at the water fountain, knocking the books out of his hands -- all of that was manageable, and honestly Newton was often so distracted by his own ideas for new inventions that he barely noticed. But when it went from the annoying to the physical -- snatching him from the hallway just after the last bell to rough him up -- well, that he noticed.

He opened up the front door slowly, peeking around in the hopes that his uncle was down in the lab, and he'd have a chance to try to clean himself up before his uncle saw him. Apparently, today was really not his lucky day, because Gyro was at the sink, washing up some dishes.

"Hi, Newton," he chirped brightly, "how was sch -- Newton?" He dropped the dish back into the sink as he caught sight of his nephew's black eye, immediately swiveling around. Newton cringed, hunching his shoulders as if he could make himself small enough to disappear. "Your face! What happened?"

"Nothing, Uncle, I'm fine," he tried, attempting to slip away to the bathroom.

"You certainly are not! Who did this to you?"

Little Helper was already at his side with an ice pack, holding it up above his tiny head for Newton to take. Embarrassed, he only looked away instead.

"Nobody, Uncle, it's -- it's fine," he tried again, cheeks flushed and burning. But Gyro wasn't so quick to give up, quickly kneeling in front of him.

"Are you okay? Are you hurt anywhere else? Your arms? Your tail?" he asked, lifting Newton's shirt to check his belly, gently snatching his wrists to examine his arms, and just generally not helping the utter humiliation burning in the pit of his stomach.

"I'm fine," Newton snapped again, pulling his arms away.

"Newton." Gyro took him by the shoulders, gazing into his eyes. Reluctantly, the boy looked back to him, biting his lip to try to hold the persistent tears at bay. "You can tell me. What happened?"

Despite his best efforts, a single hot tear slipped down his cheek -- and then it was all over, the floodgates wide open as he wrapped his arms around his uncle's neck, trying to choke back sobs as he explained: all the multitude of small things he ignored for months, one after another, and now finally, the big things he couldn't. It came tumbling out at once in a flurry, months of pain and fear he hadn't realized he had been carrying. Gyro just held him, gently rubbing his back, occasionally giving him soft, preening nips, trying to calm him down.

When he was finally finished, Gyro nodded firmly, intent. "We'll go to the principal." Newton immediately shook his head, wincing.

"No, Uncle! It'll just get worse if you tell anyone! Principal Schnauzer doesn't even like me, he doesn't care, and even if he did he can't watch me all the time! It wouldn't be safe."

"Well, we at least have to tell your mom and dad," he mumbled, rubbing Newton's back again.

Again, Newton shook his head. "Oh, please, no, Uncle! This is already humiliating enough, I don't want them to know, too!"

"We have to do something, Newton! I can't send you back to school like this!"

"I can handle it myself," Newton mumbled, gazing vaguely over his shoulder towards his treehouse, and his own secret lab, hidden away from his uncle. He had no idea what, exactly, but surely he could come up with some sort of invention to deal with this on his own. His uncle, however, seemed less than convinced.

"Maybe I could invent something for you? You know, something that could keep you safe, maybe like some sort of...repelling ray, or maybe a robot bodyguard, or --"

"I'll be fine, Uncle," Newton mumbled, cringing. The last thing he needed was his uncle interfering -- whether his inventions worked or didn't, either way, it could only add to his humiliation. Really, showing up the next day with a robot bodyguard? "I can just -- I'll handle it."

Gyro stood, scratching the back of his neck. "Are you sure, Newton?"

The boy said nothing, crossing his arms loosely over his chest. On the living room wall, unnoticed, a large bee -- too large -- softly beat its wings.

---

The next morning's bike ride to school felt more like a death march. Newton and the triplets walked the last stretch, coming up on the bike rack just outside the school.

"Are you sure you don't want us to help you, Newton?" Huey asked, frowning worriedly.

"Yeah, we're pretty tough -- we can take him on!" Dewey offered. Newton only shook his head, polishing off the last of his breakfast apple.

"No, I don't want to get you guys caught up in this too," he muttered, tossing the core into the garbage can as they locked up their bicycles. "Besides, it's just going to get worse if I can't handle him on my own."

"Huh? What's going on over there?" Louie wondered aloud, finally noticing the large crowd of students on the school's front lawn. Curious, the boys pushed their way forward, slipping through the crowd to approach the large oak tree that everyone seemed to be gathered around.

"--do you mean, you have no idea how he got there? Someone did it! He must have been here since last night! You've got camera footage, don't you?!"

"I can't explain it, Principal Schnauzer, but I already reviewed it and there's just...nothing. It looks like it's all been scrubbed clean somehow."

"Well cut him down from there, and get his parents and the police on the phone! And get these kids out of here, already! Oh, this is going to be such a mess... You! Get to class! There's nothing to see here!"

Newton and the triplets finally pushed their way to the front, stumbling out in front of the oak tree. It took no more than a split second for Principal Schnauzer to spot them in the crowd, and with a fury Newton hadn't seen before (which, frankly, was saying something for the schnauzer), he abruptly whipped around, pointing directly at him. "You!"

The other students immediately backed away, leaving Newton standing on his own, frozen in shock as the principal stomped closer. Snarling, voice low and dangerous, he shoved his snout nearly against Newton's beak. "I don't know how you managed to pull this off, but I know you're behind this somehow. This fell out of his pocket."

He shoved a slip of paper into Newton's grip, but Newton's attention was elsewhere -- slowly, his eyes trailed up to the oak tree, finally seeing what everyone else had been staring at. There, Jax dangled from a branch at the top of the tree, still dressed in pajamas, hogtied, terrified sobs muffled by the thick gag in his mouth.

He just stared for a moment, slack-jawed. A tiny yelp from Dewey, evidently reading over his shoulder, brought him back to reality and he looked down at the piece of paper in his hands. There, scrawled in his uncle's tell-tale handwriting, was a hastily written note.

He won't be bothering you anymore, Newton.

Let me know if I need to pay anyone else a visit.

--MD

"This isn't over!" Principal Schnauzer raged, swiping the paper back out of Newton's hands before storming away. The triplets exchanged worried looks, but Newton just stood at the base of the oak tree, too stunned to move, as his (now former, he supposed) bully dangled helplessly above his head.

[thestraggletag]

Virtual Session, A Rumbelle Zoom Fic

Rating: Explicit.

Summary: Town meetings were usually drab, boring events, and having them over Zoom hadn't improved them much. Or so Mr Gold thought, until he forgot to log out of the meeting after it ended, only to discover a half-naked Belle French had also forgotten to do so.

SOMEONE PLEASE COMMENT WITH A BETTER SUMMARY I HATE IT.

Based on this prompt.

“We will review your presentation and hold a virtual vote before the month is up, Miss French. Thank you very much for your time.”

The mayor adjusted her suit jacket, her shirt riding up as she did so and unknowingly displaying the telltale white check of her Adidas yoga pants. Royce snickered, taking advantage of the fact he was muted.

“As there are no other pending topics on today’s agenda this virtual session is adjourned.”

He half-expected her to produce a gable out of thin air and bang it against her marble countertop. All around him people began to say their goodbyes and log out of Zoom, lest Regina decide to spring a surprise motion at the last minute. There was no need to flee, however, as Regina herself was one of the first to log off. Given the amount of smoke he had spotted coming from behind her right before she exited he did not need to guess what had caused her sudden departure.

“I guess no apple turnover for dessert at Madame Mayor’s.”

He heard an adorable chuckle and did not need to glance at the screen again to guess who it was. Very few people found his brand of dark humour palatable, but the librarian seemed to love it. It was nice, he soon found out, to have someone appreciate his often ill-received quips. It was one of the things he had first noticed about her. Well, other than her stunning eyes. And perhaps her hair, which was a lovely shade of reddish-brown. Her legs too, he acknowledged reluctantly, so nicely-displayed by her short skirts and high heels. And her-

He stopped himself. That way lay madness and he knew it. It was one thing to admire in an unattached way, from a distance. He was a connoisseur of beautiful things, after all, and Belle French was certainly beautiful. Unfortunately she also happened to have a lovely personality. Kind, generous, open, but also bold, defiant and the littlest bit dark. She flaunted the rules of smalltown society by wearing what the matrons around town considered “inappropriate clothing” for a librarian, and speaking to anyone and everyone, including those that polite society would urge her to shun. Drank beer with the miners, for example, men deemed “too coarse” for genteel women, and stocked the library with altogether undesirable books, be it because they dealt with unseemly issues or because they were from traditional authors. Which, he was sure, was code for “white men”, even if Mother Superior never quite spelled it out in such terms.

She was altogether dangerous for him, with her mix of light and dark, so he was always on his guard, lest his thoughts veer too far into dangerous territory. He didn’t fear scorn or derision if his feelings became too obvious for her to ignore. Belle was altogether too kind for that. But to be gently yet firmly rebuffed, and have their subsequent interactions laced by the barest hint of pity from her, would be unbearable. 

“I’m pretty sure that at least Mr Spencer didn’t hear a word I said. His camera was off during the whole of my presentation.” The librarian huffed, clearly bothered that her proposal to increase the library’s budget to repair the East Wing’s leaky ceiling wouldn’t get a fair shot. The wing was currently closed, and had been since she had taken the post of librarian, but with the newfound need of social-distancing, particularly in enclosed spaces, she hoped she could change that, make the town council see the need for more space in the library. “Though perhaps he didn’t want to be yelled at again for not being in a three-piece suit for a virtual town meeting.”

He briefly paused to remember Spencer’s red face when Regina had chastised him for wearing a white polo shirt instead of a shirt and tie during the last meeting.

“Kinda hypocritical of Madame Mayor, given she was a couple of clothing articles shy of a full tracksuit tonight.”

They shared a conspiratorial laugh, and he hoped the camera somehow toned down the stupid look on his face. He tried to avoid direct eye contact, looking instead mildly-interested in her living-room. Her laptop seemed to be perched somewhere on her dining-room table, giving him a great view of the rest of her flat, which was a loft, so it was open space, with exposed brick and tall ceilings. Though small it was tastefully-decorated, and with enough bookcases to make it seem like it was a part of the library he had never been to, if it weren’t for the kitchen area and the- and he told himself to stop looking at it- queen-size bed.

“Well, Miss French, at the risk of getting ahead of myself I can confidently state that things are looking good for your project. It was an excellent presentation and I could see Midas and Hopper were clearly in favour. That leaves the Mayor and Spencer outnumbered. Hell, I think even Regina will vote yes on this one. I know she’s keen on finding a place for students with connectivity issues to go do their homework and attend some classes. Fingers crossed the voting goes your way.”

He smiled at her, trying to look reassuring instead of besotted, and they exchanged their goodbyes. He closed his laptop, deciding that he needed a stiff drink first and a cold shower later, and went over to his wet bar, where after some debate he picked up a bottle of Ardberg and poured himself three fingers of Scotch, opting to forgo the ice and drink it straight. The alcohol burned pleasantly on its way down, making him loosen up almost immediately. He went over to the window, undoing the buttons of his vest and slipping it off as he did, feeling warmed by the whiskey. He chanced a glance outside, where the night remained crisp and clear, thankfully devoid of snow. It was still bitterly cold, though, and he hoped the library’s heating system, which was in need of maintenance as well, would not fail. The money for its maintenance had already been allocated and the budget for the work set, but perhaps he could email the person in charge of the job and… persuade them to make it a priority. The work should’ve already been done, but the pandemic had put a temporary stop on jobs like that with the exception of emergencies. Now that things were slowly returning to normal he was confident he could get the people working on the library by the end of the week with three sentences or less.

He went back to his laptop, determined to send the email as soon as possible. He opened it up and noticed, at first, that his camera light was still on. Almost as soon as his brain connected the dots and realised that he had forgotten to log off Zoom he noticed something else: so had Belle French. She was walking around her house, seemingly tidying things up and humming as she went along. It was a lovely, domestic little display, and though he knew he needed to log off fucking Zoom and stop intruding on what Miss French clearly thought was the privacy of her own home, he didn’t move the mouse. Surely there was no harm in indulging a bit. He was a lonely man, partly by design and partly by circumstance, and though he often told himself he wasn’t missing out on anything, he had to admit it was nice to- albeit accidentally- share an intimate moment with someone he had an affinity with. He imagined, for a moment, that instead of her living-room he was seeing her in his, picking up discarded books or perhaps the remnants of a tea they had shared together. He quickly shook himself out of that fantasy, alarm bells ringing in his mind, and refocused in the present, where Belle was taking off her cardigan. Well, surely, that meant the heating system was holding, which was a good thing. Which reminded him of his idea to write-

He glanced at the monitor again, where Belle French was now shimming out of her skirt.

He blinked, idiotically-confused for a second, as if the thought of a woman undressing was news for him. After the initial shock he took in all the details, fixsting on the black stripe on the back of her sheer black stockings, which she rolled down with painstaking care, the gesture almost painfully erotic. She started on the buttons of her sheer maroon shirt, undoing them with ease and shrugging out of the garment. The black camisole she wore underneath did nothing to conceal her lacy black culotte, which hugged her perfect ass like it was made for her. She went to unpin her hair next, letting the bobby pins that kept it off her sides of her face drop into a little ceramic bowl on her vanity. He was surprised at how much seeing her walk around her house with bare feet, shaking her hair out and stretching her limbs affected him. There was nothing inherently sensual about her movements, yet he was transfixed, unable to look away. Any hope of containing his attraction or attachment to the librarian vanished into thin air at that moment, leaving him equal parts scared and turned on.

It was then that his mostly-unused sense of decency decided to let itself be known, a wave of shame washing through him at the notion of what he was doing. Miss French had every right to her privacy, and here he was, violating it in the worst possible way. He should log out immediately and stay away from the librarian for a rather long time, enough for-

“Royce?”

His heart lurched painfully in his chest at the sound of her voice. Slowly, reluctantly, he turned his head towards the screen, telling himself that he deserved the scorn and disgust he was sure to see in the librarian’s face. But whatever hasty apologies and half-formed excuses he was about to blurt out died on his lips the moment he saw her: she was standing in profile, arms crossed in front of her chest and hands grasping the hem of her camisole, prepared to take it off, and her head was turned to the side, her eyes on her laptop screen. She didn’t look accusatory, or disgusted. She didn’t even look embarrassed. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes shone, but it looked more like… like... 

Arousal.

“I’m here, sweetheart.”

He could hardly recognise the low, growly burr as his voice. It sounded uncouth and harsh, like the way he used to speak back in Glasgow. He had worked for years on toning down his accent, letting only the barest hint of it show when he was trying to intimidate someone. Never enough to sound too much like he did back in his youth, and yet he hadn’t managed to quite rid himself of it. 

On screen Belle lifted the hem of her camisole a few inches, exposing supple, creamy skin. Royce tried hard not to swallow his own tongue. She bit her lip, suddenly hesitant, and fuck him if that sliver of vulnerability wasn’t the sexiest thing he’d ever seen. 

“Is this… Is this okay?” 

It took him an embarrassingly-long time to understand that Belle fucking French was asking him if it was alright for her to strip in front of him, presumably for their mutual enjoyment. He reminded himself that he had had only one glass of Scotch, not enough to dismiss whatever was happening as a drunken daydream. Which he might have had, from time to time. About Belle. Maybe.

“It’s perfect, sweetheart.” 

Her lips curled into a coy smile, the growl in his voice making her shiver, and in one swift motion removed her camisole, revealing a lacy black bandeau bra with delicate details done in leavers lace. It matched her knickers, he noticed idly, and the black contrasted amazingly with her pale, softly-blushed skin. His keen eye noticed the exquisite craftsmanship right away. It was an expensive set, no doubt, and given how she was wearing during a commonplace day where she planned to stay home it led him to the conclusion that Belle French simply owned a lot of fancy lingerie, to the point that she wore it as an everyday sort of garment. He was very sure he would never again be able to look at her and not think about that.

“You’re gorgeous.”

In any other situation he would’ve been embarrassed to sound so… Reverent. So incredibly not in control of the situation. He might be fully-dressed, a man of means with a position of political power in their little hamlet and she might be a half-naked small-town librarian but he was absolutely powerless at the moment. And what was worse, he enjoyed it. 

“Thank you, Mr Gold.”

Though he loved the way she said “Gold”, with enough irreverence to turn her tone teasing, he desperately wanted her to say his name.

“Call me Royce, sweetheart.”

She walked over to the table, flipped the chair and sat down, draping her arms loosely around the backrest, the position loose and cocky. There was no doubt in her now, no hesitance. She had assumed control of the situation, for which he was grateful. She tilted her head to a side, sizing him up.

“You’re wearing a lot of clothes, Royce. I feel at a disadvantage.”

She smiled, looking supremely unconcerned, but there was a glint in her eyes he recognised quite easily. Greed. And not the kind he was used to seeing in people who frequented his shop to strike one of his infamous deals. It was different. It certainly felt different to him, hit him right beneath his gut in a way that felt both uncomfortable and pleasant. Without quite thinking his fingers went to the knot of his tie, already loosened, and tugged expertly, untying it in seconds. The silk made a soft, hissing sound as it slipped off his neck, which sounded loud in the otherwise dead silence of the room. Belle followed his movements avidly from the screen, and the look of utter absorption on her face gave him the surge of bravery he needed to tackle the buttons of his shirt till he could shimmy out of it. He was wearing a white undershirt beneath, but his arms and throat were bare, making him feel ridiculously exposed. 

“You have many layers. I like that about you.” Belle dropped her gaze, looking coy and vulnerable at the same time. “I like a lot of things about you.”

“Me too.” He tried to stop himself, but it was easier said than done. “Too many things, actually. But I’ve always understood that it would be foolish to expect anything to come of that.” He looked at Belle, draped over her chair and in her underwear. “Well, perhaps I was wrong.”

Belle smiled.

“You’re finally getting it. Good boy.”

He forced himself not to react visibly to those words, even though the moment he heard them it was like being struck by lightning. Thankfully the camera caught him from the waist up, hiding the embarrassing way his cock had perked up a second earlier. He could not hide his flushed face, however, or the way his eyes glazed over the slightest bit. 

“Tell you what. I’ll take off my bra if you lose the t-shirt. It’s a fair deal.”

It wasn’t. As far as he was concerned he was getting the far better end of the deal but he would never dream of telling her that. Tipping his hand was not his style. 

“Deal.”

He said it in the pleased, soft burr he usually reserved for his less savoury business arrangements, the kind that needed to be sealed in the cloak of night in some remote, deserted location. Belle shivered, and he enjoyed the thought that his voice made her react so. Feeling bold he grabbed the back of his shirt and yanked it off,      baring himself from the waist up. He saw and felt the librarian’s eyes roam over his torso. It wasn’t a pretty sight. He had scars from his dodgy upbringing in Glasgow, and some from his learning days restoring antiques. He was fond of the sun so at least he was not pasty white, or overly hairy, but he didn’t have much in the way of muscles. Belle, however, seemed to appreciate his more lean physique, if the heat of her gaze was any indication. After she seemed to have her fill of staring she leaned back and deftly unhooked her bra, letting the straps slide down her arms till the garment was on the floor. 

He stared. Couldn’t help himself really. Belle French’s tits were perfect. Fucking perfect. Just the right size, incredibly soft-looking and with the loveliest nipples he had ever seen, a rosy-pink that he would never be able to get out of his head. The kind of breasts that would ruin a man for other women. He certainly felt like no other breasts could ever tempt him again. 

“Royce, are you okay?”

Her voice sounded a delightful mix of amused and slightly worried, so he forced himself to nod, still unable to look away.

“Fucking perfect.”

Fuck, was that his voice? He sounded… dazed. He fought the instinct to slap some sense into himself. Belle draped herself across the back of the chair again, and though the position hid her breasts somewhat it didn’t do so completely. 

“I love how soft you are. Underneath the hardass pawnbroker exterior, I mean. Soft, and kind and funny. So funny. It’s one of your most attractive qualities.”

Most people wouldn’t think so. His brand of humour was dark, sometimes too much. And yet Belle always laughed, always caught on to his quips and seemed to appreciate them in a consporatory way. She could also dish it out, but in a far more subtle way that he was sure most people didn’t catch on to. Softly-spoken sarcasm delivered in a lilting accent. 

What was not to love?

He told her so. Unburdened himself completely, caught up in his own physical vulnerability and hers. It felt safe to tell her of his feelings, of how days where he knew he would see her were brighter, and how he liked when they shared a smile or exchanged a comment on a book. How his heart fluttered when he watched her read to the children, and how another part of his anatomy altogether reacted when she strutted around town with her short skirts and devil-may-care attitude. Liked how she thumbed her nose at the pearl-clutchers in town, doing things her way. Completely unsuited for boring, conventional small-town life, and yet wholly at home in Storybrooke, to the point where he could not imagine the town without her.

He shut up after that, noticing how she seemed to have changed, her mood going from loose and flirty to… anxious? No, that wasn’t the right word. Unsettled, perhaps.

“I can’t do this.” The sudden sentence felt like a slap in the face, but the moment his face dropped she seemed to backpedal. “No, no, not like that! I mean… I wanna touch you. I want to be in the same room. With even less clothes on. This… It suddenly doesn’t feel like enough.”

She was fucking right, he realised. He felt itchy all of a sudden. Unfulfilled. Empty.

“Come over.”

“What?”

Belle seemed genuinely surprised, but the way her skin flushed and her eyes got big let him know she was very open to the idea.

“Come the fuck over. It’s fucking cold anyway and the heating system at the library is shite at the moment. Come over and I’ll keep you warm, sweetheart.”

He was rather impressed with his blunt bit of bravery, born out of a consuming need more than anything, and even more impressed when it looked like it worked. Belle scrambled out of the chair, throwing a lovely little nightie on before getting her coat and scarf. 

“Be there in a few. See you!”

She disconnected before he could tell her to bundle up. It was fucking freezing outside and that nightie and her stockings and shoes would do nothing against the cold, coat or no coat. A moment later he realised he was sitting down in his pants, socks and shoes and nothing else while Belle fucking French was coming over to... 

Fuck.

He scrambled up, fishing for his cane in a hurry and having just enough presence of mind to disconnect from Zoom. He went upstairs to his room, deciding that it would be awkward for him to still be wearing pants. And socks. And shoes. So he chucked all that off, throwing a dressing gown over his boxers, pausing to put on his house slippers, glad beyond words he had recently bought new ones. After that he went downstairs to the kitchen and popped a bottle of champagne, looking into his pantry for the box of chocolate truffles from Kreuther, a treat he had gotten himself after visiting a state sale in Midtown Manhattan a week ago. He arranged the impromptu offerings on the dining room table, and when the bell rang he told himself he was ready. He opened the door, finding a rosy-cheeked and clearly shivering Belle on the other side, hair windswept, as if she had run there. Taking into account her heels it was rather impressive.

Belatedly he thought about the scene she had walked into. He in his dressing gown, with champagne flutes and truffles on the table and a fire roaring in the living-room, a scenario ripe for debauching. But perhaps she wished to talk more, to explore their emotional intimacy. Perhaps the trek there had killed her ardour and all she wanted and needed was to get warm and comfortable. He didn’t want to come off as… expecting anything.

Belle, however, seemed to not share his concerns. She took one look at him, one look at the softly-lit space behind him and the food laid out and smiled.

“You brilliant, wonderful man.”

A second late she was in his arms. Cold, but soft and smelling of orange blossoms and frost. She tilted her head up, slanting her lips across before he could blink and it was… wonderful. The coolness of her lips contrasted with the searing heat of her mouth, making for a rather delicious contrast of sensations. He used the hand not clutching his cane for dear life to find the buttons of her coat, undoing them one by one with barely-contained impatience. Finally he had the coat opened and could snake his arm around her waist. The silk of her small camisole was soft to the touch, and let him feel the warmth of her skin beneath.

He needed to feel more. Now that she was safe in the warmth of his house she didn’t need her coat or scarves and went about the business of removing both without separating himself from her. It took a lot of tugging and pulling and a couple of missteps that landed her up against the wall, to his utter delight, but she was finally rid of both. Her skin, despite the toasty temperature inside the house, was still chilly from the outside.

“Come close to the fire, sweetheart.”

They managed to stumble across the hallway and into the living room, where they seemed to come to the mutual conclusion that remaining standing was not conducive to their current situation. The rug near the fireplace, thankfully, was thick and soft, and the couple of throw blankets he quickly spread over it made it more so. Once he was satisfied she would be comfortable he let her tackle him to the ground, enjoying having her above him. She was small, especially once she wrestled her heeled boots off. A tiny slip of a woman, shorter than him even, but there was a presence to her, a strength, that he couldn't help but surrender to. Beautiful, terrifying Belle.

“I’ve dreamed of this.” Her voice was low, husky. “You weren’t wearing a dressing gown in my dreams, though.”

“And you weren’t wearing anything in mine.” His accent was so thick he feared she might not be able to understand me. “Tit for tat, dearie.”

She ground herself against him, causing him to hiss and arc. Enough pressure to elicit a response, but not nearly enough to satisfy him.

“Don’t call me that. That’s how you call everyone else, and I’m not everyone else, am I?”

Her confidence slipped for a second, exposing a hint of uncertainty that he was quick to dispel.

“No, sweetheart. Of course not.”

He untied the belt of his dressing gown, managing to slip it off while still pinned by Belle. He didn’t imagine it was a very sexy spectacle but she seemed to appreciate it nevertheless. To reward him she yanked her nightie off, revealing her glorious breasts once again to his hungry stare. She was absolutely perfect, made even better by the way the fire lit her skin and hair, and turned her eyes a deeper blue. She looked fierce yet soft, a magnanimous mistress looking down fondly at a favoured pet. Idly she traced a scar near his right shoulder with the tip of her index finger, frowning the slightest bit.

“I want to know the story behind this. I want to know… more. About you. All there is to know that you wish to tell me.”

“Yes.” Usually he’d balk at the idea of such intimacy, of being so bare. Yet it felt like something he could do with Belle, something he wanted to do. “Yes, of course, sweetheart. And I want to know everything about you.”

She smiled, the gesture slowly turning sultry as she crossed her elbows over his chest.

“We’ll talk… later.”

She kissed him then, slowly and thoroughly, sinking one hand into his hair so she could tilt his head just so. Her fingernails felt delicious against the sensitive skin of his scalp and were a welcome distraction from the uncomfortable pressure of her ass against his groin. He wanted to last, desperately, but she was every wet dream he’d ever had come true. He needed to redirect his attention to anywhere but his aching cock. So he forced himself to focus on anything else. The soft, silky feeling of her skin against the rough pads of his fingers, and the taste of her, faintly sweet. She kissed like it was an art, managing to somehow find every spot that made him want to rip her panties off and just bury himself in her, foreplay be damned.

He startled when he felt her hands trail down his body and grasp the elastic of his underwear, tugging on it to hint at what she wanted. He obliged her before he could talk himself out of it, raising his hips so she could slide the boxers off his legs while still kissing. He felt her touch his mangled ankle and forced himself not to flinch or pull back. Blessedly she seemed to notice his discomfort, tugging his boxers off completely and reaching out to place his hands on the sides of her hips, against the scratchy fabric of her underwear. The message was clear, especially when she propped herself against the floor with her hands so she could raise her hips. He gently tugged her pantied down, with slow, careful movements to avoid accidentally ripping the delicate lace and not simply to watch in aroused amusement as Belle fidgeted above him. 

“Patience, sweetheart.”

She whined, kicking her panties off when they reached her ankles and pushing him back a second later, her expression demanding.

“No more delays. We’ve had months of foreplay.”

He found himself agreeing with her. It certainly felt like they had been teasing each other for months, with the shared jokes, the furtive glances, bitten lips and coy smiles. Not that he had even dared dream of it before that night. Belle was too good in every way for a bitter old cripple like himself. Her hands on his cock chased his self-deprecation away, leaving his mind in a blissful state of blankness. Slowly, torturously so, she took him in, her hot, wet cunt enveloping him with the right amount of pressure. It was almost too good a feeling, leaving his nerve-endings too excited to register much else. She was fucking perfect, the feel of her the weight of her above him. Like she was made for him, only he wasn’t that lucky. 

He needed to somehow make it up to her, make it so good she would not regret it. So he focused on establishing a rhythm, steady enough to build up their pleasure, but not too perfect to make it boring. He concentrated on the sounds she made, the perfect little gasps and the occasional, shivery whine that let him know she was enjoying herself. Soon enough, however, coordination and any form of higher thinking went out the window, the pleasure getting to be too much to focus on anything else other than driving himself as deep into her as he possibly could. He had enough presence of mind to sneak a hand between their bodies, slipping it across her wet fold to stimulate her further, determined not to come before she did. When he finally felt it, the blissful fluttering of her inner walls accompanied by a triumphant cry, he let go of his last shreds of self-control, letting his body seek out its needed release, the feeling travelling up his spine and leaving his whole body boneless with satisfaction. 

He grunted when she practically fell on top of him, though he welcomed the reassuring weight of her and the heat from her body. He thought about the champagne and the truffles waiting for them on the dining room table and decided they could wait. As soon as he was able to move he would wrap his dressing gown around Belle and take her and the food and drinks to the bedroom, where they could recoup their energy and talk. And perhaps much later, if he was good, Belle would let him drink champagne from her navel. 

Thank Regina and her fucking Zoom twon halls. He would never complain about them again.

[silverwhiteraven]

Wings of Broken White - Ch. 10

Tag List: @marichatmay

[ Posted on Ao3 ] [ Chapter 1 ] [ Chapter 9 ] [ Chapter 11 ]

[ Summary: End of School picnic preparations! ]

To celebrate the class’s successful final project, they were putting together plans for a large picnic in the park at the end of the last day of school. The last day wasn’t mandatory for students to attend unless they had work to catch up on or tests to make up. So Marinette was spending that time at home, busying herself in the upstairs kitchen, preparing food and treats.

A faint knocking sound distracted her a couple hours in, and after making sure she could walk away without anything burning, listened for the source. She gasped and smiled when she realized it was coming from above her, from her own room. The balcony! Chat must be here!

She ran up to her room and up to the lost, and sure enough, she could see Chat Blanc, seated on the balcony floor next to the trapdoor. She pushed it open quickly, and he perked up, his tail flicking and wings spreading out behind him excitedly.

“Princess! You came!” He smiled wide.

Marinette giggled and pulled herself up to sit next on the edge of the hatch. “But of course, I can’t just leave my Knight outside like a stray now can I?” He laughed at that and she hid her smile behind her hand. “So what are you doing here, gryphlet?”

“Well you see,” he flourished a hand dramatically as he spoke, “I heard that today of all days was your last day of collège, and I wanted to congratulate you. So here I am.”

She laughed and shook her head. “You sure it’s not because I'm cooking? If you heard about it being our last day, then there's no way you didn't hear that we’re planning a picnic later, too.”

He gasped dramatically, setting a clawed hand to his chest like he had been hurt. It did nothing to erase the cute smile on his face, though. “You doubt my intentions, Princess? Well, you are right to do so,” he sighed dramatically. “Indeed, I am not just here to congratulate and shower you in praise, but to rob you of your goodies. Forgive this dashing rogue of his glutinous ways?”

He fluttered his eyes at her, and she couldn't help but laugh. “You are forgiven, on one condition,” she raised her hand, index finger raised to indicate her one condition.

“Name it,” he leaned in, looking ready to do anything.

“Help me with the baking and cooking for later,” she stated simply with a coy smile. “You can eat a portion of anything you make yourself. That’s the means for you to get fed. Deal?”

“Deal!” He hopped to his feet with a big grin and she gently laughed, happy to see his energy. She led him back down into her room and then into the kitchen.

She quickly checked on everything, making sure nothing had burned while she was gone. Satisfied, she waved Chat Blanc to join her at the counter. His previously excited mood was replaced by slight nervousness. He looked unfamiliar with the layout, though his eyes sparked with curiosity. Marinette tried not to stare as she cleared her throat and started introducing him to the ingredients and tools. “Now, don’t touch anything just yet,” she added when she finished showing him around. “Cooking has ground rules you should always follow.”

“Like a chemistry lab?” His ears flicked and wings shuffled, and she giggled, nodding.

“Yep, just like a chemistry lab. First, let's get you an apron.” She grabbed one of the hooks by the stairs, and as she went to toss the neck strap over his head, she noticed the decal on the front. Kiss the Cook. She blushed and turned it backwards, swiftly putting it on Chat before he could see. Now the decal was hidden from view and she wouldn't have to think about it. She then went behind him to tie the waist strap, but paused as she looked at his wings in the way.

“Something wrong?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder.

“Your wings...These aprons are usually for my parents. I only use them when my wings are bound,” she said quietly, a bit awkward and unsure.

“Oh,” he replied softly. Her breath caught and she stepped back as his wings moved. They dropped slightly, only to completely fold up, pull against his back. He smiled at her gently over his shoulder. “Better? As long as you don’t tie it too tightly, I’ll be purrfectly comfortable like this.

Dropping her head to hide another blush, she nodded, coming closer and tying the apron. “So, uhm, next thing. Always keep your hands- uh, talons, washed.” He chuckled at her fumbled pun but nodded and went to the sink. She mentally facepalmed, knowing it would be awkward to wash gloves.

She carried on instructing him, meanwhile trying to keep to the edge of his vision until her flustering calmed down. She made sure he knew never to cross contaminate foods, to always clean the work area as they went, and continue to wash hands frequently. She scolded him when the oven timer went off and he almost reached in without proper hand protection. He was sheepish about it, but to her satisfaction, he didn’t make the mistake again.

At some point, she hadn't noticed the amount of flour dusting him because of how well it blended in. She only realized it when he had patted her head in reassurance that he could do a task without help now. The pat left a white handprint in her midnight hair, and she guffawed indignantly when she noticed it in her reflection on a mixing bowl. She didn’t bother trying to get it off, though, knowing it was pointless.

Finally, with quiche, pasta salad, croissants, and macaroons all done after a few more hours of working together, they were now sitting on the floor, waiting for the bread rolls to finish. The dishes and counters were already clean, the aprons were back where they belonged, and Marinette had even let out her wings to stretch them out alongside Chat Blanc’s. She tried not to think about their feathers brushing as they sat shoulder to shoulder, watching the oven like a pair of tired but happy hawks.

Chat started humming as they sat in comfortable silence, and she listened to the gentle sound. It was enhanced by a subtle purr, and she had to hold her breath to keep from giggling at the cuteness of the moment.

When he stopped, she asked in a whisper, “What song was that?”

“Hm? Oh,” he smiled softly and rubbed his neck. “A lullaby my mother used to sing. ‘Robin and his Maiden’. I made my own little parody of it not long after I got my Miraculous. Well, I only managed to do the first line, really, I'm stuck on the rest.”

Marinette sat up, attention caught. “Tell it to me, I want to hear.”

He hesitated, a blush under his mask indicating it was from shyness and not from doubt. “The original first line went like this: Little Robin on a roof, without his Maiden. The story is about Robin Hood and Maid Marian. Now I say it like this: Little Kitty on a roof, without his Lady.” Marinette giggled, realizing the comparison to her alter ego. “I’m stuck on the rest, because the story doesn't seem to quite fit with the changed names, you know?”

With a nod of understanding, she nudged his shoulder with her own. “Art is hard, I know. It’s okay to be stuck. You should try playing with the names a bit, maybe the rest will come to you along with fresh inspiration.”

He nodded and looked away, back to the oven as he began to hum again. Soon, the hums turned to words. “Little Gryphon on a roof, all alone without his Princess,” he gave a cheshire grin as she burst out in laughter and a fresh fluster. She pushed him over and he laughed as he flopped on the floor. She stood up and huffed, hiding her smile as she checked on the bread. The timer went off just in time, and, feeling satisfied with their golden brownness, she took them out and set them to cool on the counter.

She glanced at the clock and sighed. “Everything is done in time, that’s good. The picnic is in an hour.” She turned to Chat with a soft smile. “Without fail, I always end up late to meet-ups because I put way too much on my plate right before hand. Looks like I’ll be on time this year. I couldn't have done this without you, Blanc.”

He smiled back at her from his place on the floor, looking perfectly content to be there as he practically basked in her thanks. She laughed, feeling light and newly carefree. When they lulled back into comfortable silence, he sat up and looked at the clock himself. A sad smile replaced his normal one.

“Looks like I need to go before then. I have somewhere to be later, too.” He stood, brushing the last of the flour off his white suit, his wings fluttering as they too shook out little puffs of powder. Marinette nodded and joined him, leading him back upstairs and out onto her balcony.

“Thank you for stopping by, gryphlet. I had fun,” she looked away, smiling to herself. “And don’t forget these, your promised treats for helping.” She handed him a cardboard pastry box, containing a few of the goods they had made together.

He beamed at her as he accepted it, and then took her hand in his and bowed. “It was my pleasure, Princess.” He kissed the air above her knuckles and she giggled, struck breathless by his action. He straightened back up and let her go, smiling wide. “I’ll see you again soon.”

And just like that, he was leaping from her balcony and gliding away on wings that matched the sky and clouds.

It took her a little while to go back inside, having taken her time to be dazed as she processed the last few hours. Tikki had broken her out of it with barely restrained giggles and a reminder that they needed to get ready for the picnic with her class.

As expected, the hour passed by quickly after that, and with a little help from her parents, all of Marinette and Chat Blanc’s efforts were brought to the park and set out on tables alongside everyone else’s contributions.

Everyone in their class made it to the park, and a few had even dragged along some family members who were willing to celebrate with them. Many of them spent the whole picnic talking about the school year, and all the random moments that stuck in their minds. Hawkmoth and some Akumas were brought up at some point, and almost half an hour was subsequently spent on everyone acting out each other's Akumatized versions in light and welcomed jest.

When it all started to dwindle to a close, everyone spent time making summer plans together and discussing which lycées they were going to. It was sad to think that their group, together for four years strong, was going to be split up. Luckily, everyone had plans to join extracurricular school groups that were likely to have them meeting up just as often as before. Even their humanitarian projects like planting public trees and gardens was something they were excited to continue.

If anything, they all knew that distance wasn’t going to make their bonds any lesser.

And so, all in all, Marinette had a good time, and she felt ready to keep going into the future.

[thenextchapter22]

Angel of the Three Realms

Description: You were an Angel who went to the human world to escape punishment for loving Lucifer only to be brought back into his life, this time in the Devildom where you pretend to be human.

Warnings: Unrequited Love, Angst, WIP

Pairing(s): Lucifer/Reader

Word Count: 5334

Link to my AO3: Click Here

Author’s Notes: I’m pretty happy with how this story is going so far, and I really hope you enjoy reading it. I posted all the chapters I had written on AO3 here in one post, so expect a different post for the new chapter coming soon ;)

_+_

You had been in the Devildom for 6 months and it was going pretty well. You did above average in classes, got along with all of the brothers and the other students (although Solomon was strange and trusting him was a bit of a stretch). The only difficult part was being around one specific demon brother… Lucifer.

He had no idea who you really were. And how could he? It had been centuries upon centuries since he’d seen you, and he probably thought you dead after all that happened. He, in all probability, forgot all about you. That made you a little bit sad considering what he was to you.

Long before the Great War you had lived in the Celestial Realm. You were an Angel of God. A pure-hearted, innocent creature born with nothing but kindness in your heart. And the Angel assigned to you at your birth to train you and show you the way of the world was Lucifer Morningstar, the Light of the Heavens.

He brought you up. He was your whole life, always there to correct you if you were wrong, praise you when you were doing well, and he never failed in making you smile. Yes, you knew his brothers. Mammon especially, he was a good-hearted being who always protected you. And he did the same in the Devildom, so nothing had really changed there. But Lucifer was your main protector.

When you fell in love with him, you knew things would be difficult. How could you not fall in love with such a kind person, who always looked after you and his brothers, who always showed you so much attention despite what else he had to do?

It was forbidden for Angel’s to fall in love with other Angel’s. Why, you did not know. Love was something that should be allowed for all. It wasn’t easy living with this love, knowing if you let it free, that if you did tell Lucifer you loved him, you might be punished. Maybe even erased from existence. Your father wasn’t usually so cruel and hate wasn’t often found in Angels, but you hated him. You never wanted to hear him speak to you again. And so, with no way around it, you had to leave.

You fell to the Human world where you started a new life. And a new life again. And another new life after that. Always moving, changing, adapting. Humans were inventive and inquisitive by nature. You never lost the love in your heart for Lucifer, but you had a new life on Earth’s surface that you fell in love with, too. Eventually, this love favored the first, and you moved on, albeit regrettably. Occasionally you wondered how he was doing, and if he ever thought of you.

To say you were shocked when you first got dragged into this realm was an understatement. And you made the split second decision to go along with it all, pretending to be human. Was it stupid? Maybe. But you had spent so long being human, you couldn’t stop now. You knew of the war, you knew of the Angel’s falling to the Devildom, but seeing Lucifer, two wings less and darkened, ruby red eyes still as bright, and a curious black crystal on his forehead, was a shock. He was so beautiful in his new darkened form.

The love sprouted once more. And once more, you hid it. The pain in your heart was tenfold being close to him again in almost the same roles as before. He was your confident, your go-to in this Realm. He made sure you were treated well. Lucifer looked after you like his own blood, stricter than he used to be, and he looked tired most of the time. His newfound loyalty for Diavolo was strange, but you supposed it was a good thing being close to the eventual Demon King (where the current one was, no one knew).

Now, sitting in your quaint little room, looking at the sky, all you could think about was home. Home, the human world home.

One thing you missed was flying. In the Human realm you could visit the snowy mountains and fly around with some of the magic you were able to hold onto to cloak you in case humans saw. Before cameras you didn’t care to do that, but now you couldn’t risk it. Here it was impossible. Someone would sense the magic and find you out, and then what would happen. You didn’t want to think on it.

Another thing was your wings were itching. Grooming was hard throughout the years, but you found friends in the animals of the world, mostly the winged creatures. Owls were your closest friends in the animal kingdom. They helped pluck the old feathers as well as the twisted ones, and in turn you helped them however you could. Having not groomed them in almost 7 months now…

You longed to let them free, but could not. 6 more months and you would go back. But did you want to? Leave Lucifer, this place? You were learning so much from everyone. Lord Diavolo really wanted peace between all and it was incredible how he was connecting all types of beings. Demons, humans, warlocks, Angels.

Angels. Surprisingly, Simeon did not realize what you were. Or if he did, he never spoke up. Angels were pretty observant of other Celestial magics and you were using that to hide your wings daily and nightly here. At first it was only daily, up until Mammon barged into your room and demanded to sleep with you (not in that sense, thankfully) so you very quickly hid them. Lucky you hadn’t been asleep fully.

Wincing, you stretched your arms above your head. It was nearing midnight and you could not sleep from the pain that was ever growing the more you moved around. Maybe a late night snack would help, or something warm to drink.

Venturing to the kitchens, you were unsurprised to see Beel stacking a plate, his mouth stuffed with food.

He quickly swallowed and smiled at you. “Hi. It’s late, can’t sleep?”

You shook your head, smiling softly. “No, I thought I’d get something to eat or drink.”

Beel was so kind to you. You never had many interactions with him above, but when you saw him he always smiled and waved at you, his younger twin attached to his hand. They were inseparable. Nothing had changed with that. Only that Beel ate a lot, and Belphegor slept a lot. It was quite adorable.

“There’s some milk if you want to heat it up. I heard human’s do that to help them sleep. Or I could ask Belphie to help you?”

No, that wouldn’t be a good idea at all. Who knows what being put under by him would do, it may release the magic on your wings from too deep a slumber. “Thank you. I’ll try the milk first and then see.”

He nodded. “Okay. Night then. If I doesn’t work you can come to our room.” And he walked away with his plate of food, munching as he walked.

Chuckling, you shook your head. “Goodnight!” you called to his back.

The pain in your back was growing worse. Warm milk wouldn’t help much, you needed your wings to be freed. You grit your teeth as you moved about the kitchen, feeling the veil of magic rippling at your back. You set a pot of milk on the stove and heated it.

Moving about the kitchen was making you pant, and you had to brace your arms on the counter, keeping your back straight to try and keep the pain minimal.

“Hnng. Fuck.” Yes, in the human world you grew to love curse words. Your father never took your wings away or your immortality, so he must not have cared. Or maybe he didn’t notice.

“Are you all right, my dear?” Lucifer’s voice rang out in the echoed kitchen.

You stood up so quickly the pain was incredible. You felt your body tremble, and you longed to sprout your wings to ease some of the aching.

Lucifer wrapped his arm around your waist, and you held in a scream. He furrowed his brows and let go, instead taking your hand and squeezing it. “What can I do to ease your pain?”

You panted. “N-nothing. Please just g-go.”

He shook his head. “No, I won’t leave you like this. What ails you?”

Damn him and his kind heart. “You can’t fix it, I just have to deal with the pain for now.”

He helped you sit, but you did so stiffly and kept a perfectly straight posture. His hand never left yours. “I won’t accept that. There must be something we can do. Tell me what happened. Did you fall? Are you ill?” He pressed the back of his hand to your forehead, then down across your cheeks. “You have no fever but your face is contorted in pain.”

This was unbearable, having him coddle you when all you wanted was to jump into his arms and have him take care of you. He used to groom your wings when you were growing up, and he showed you how to do the same. His gentle fingers running through your feathers put you in a trance and he used to tease you about it.

Lucifer only wanted to see you well. The problem was, you could not allow it, lest he find out your secret. “I’m sorry, Lucifer,” you whispered. “Really I am. If I could let you help me, I would in a heartbeat.”

The pot with milk was over boiling now, and he quickly stood the take care of it. You lowered your face to the table and grit your teeth, sharp pricks at your back causing spasm after spasm. Tears fell from your eyes. The pain was steadily increasing, and you did not know why the timing of this had to be this way. Why he had to be the one to see you in such a state.

His hand on your shoulder squeezed lightly once before letting go. “Let me at least help you to bed.”

Bed, yes, that sounded fantastic. “Okay…”

He held your hand and kept one hand wrapped around your lower half, resting on your hip. It wasn’t near the area where your wings sprouted from so he could place his arm across you there without making you cry out in pain.

The trip back to your room was long and grueling. Lucifer kept a good hold on you, whispering softly each time you sobbed out a curse word or cried.

“I have you, sweetheart, take your time.”

You wished you could just tell him everything. How you were not human, why you were in so much pain, that all you ever wanted was to kiss and hold him and express your love. But you could only press you cheek to his chest and have him guide you to your room where he tucked you under the sheets and comforter.

You curled on your side, gazing at his dark figure towering over you. “Don’t leave me, stay…”

“I’ll stay with you, I promise.” He stroked his fingers over your trembling brow, and, with shock on your pained expression, he kissed the very same place gently, lips soft and warm.

You began to cry, overwhelmed with pain and emotion. He shushed your cries and wiped away the wetness under your eyes. “Don’t cry, my dove, just sleep and rest.”

Lucifer’s kind face, hovering inches from your own, was the last you saw before you fell asleep. The pain luring you into a dreamless slumber.

Waking up some hours later, you felt exhausted. The sun was rising through the window. Sweat gathered on your body. It was apparent what would happen the second you became aware. You had trouble keeping the magic holding your wings in. You shut your eyes with a sigh, and succumbed to the feeling of letting it all go. The choice was no longer your own, the magic was leaving you, and the wings you kept concealed away would burst free any minute.

They would all know. And you only hoped they wouldn’t despise you for what you hid from them. You prayed for the first time since falling from the skies that Lucifer would forgive you.

_+_

Lying in bed, coated in cooled sweat, waiting for the inevitable to happen, was honestly one of the worst things you had experienced. Considering you had chosen to fall from Heaven, that said a lot. It was right up there with loving Lucifer and not having the ability to tell him lest you be cast out or killed, and with the first days you had on the surface world where you had been so lost and alone, scrambling from town to town trying to find a place to belong.

The agony suffocated you. It effected your breathing, which was staggered and strained, and your muscles were tense. You felt a fever building inside of you as you tried to hold on and not go into shock. Your magic was like a thin sheet of breakable glass waiting to shatter. With all your strength, which was not much, you grasped onto it, wanting to keep normal for even just a little longer.

You shivered as you watched the sun rise higher in the window above your bed. It was red and bright and large, blinding you, but it kept you focused on one thing instead of being reminded of what would happen in the next hours, or even minutes.

The secrets would be out for all to see. You would either be cast out of the Devildom, possibly struck down by Diavolo for your lies, or maybe Barbatos would erase you from time itself. The thought was terrifying.

The only people you knew who wouldn’t hurt you or despise you were Simeon and Luke, and that was only because they were Angels. The possibility they would hate you was 1 in a million.

You moved to lay on your stomach. Slowly but surely you found a position that wasn’t too excruciating. Now you just waited. Time wasn’t something you looked at, even with the clock right there on your bedside table. It must’ve been time for everyone to be heading to breakfast by now. Lucifer would probably come to check on you as he had put you to bed last night. But you wondered who would see you first, and how they would react.

The magic was rippling, shaking around you. If you let it go voluntarily or not it would be the same result either way. Maybe if you had just let it go a few nights ago it wouldn’t have been so bad. But it was too late to dwell on the past.

Celestial magic exploded around you, and your wings burst from your back. You screamed, fingers clutching the pillow you pressed your face into. Your head spun, and your wings felt like the most fragile part of you, as if it was the first time they had been free. There was a scent of your blood in the air along with the scent of Celestial magic, a bitter coppery smell with a hint of cool air and crackling lightning. White feathers scattered around you, some tinged with blood. The air was like static electricity. Your wings lay limp, cascading down the bed to the floor. Tears filled your eyes, and you were sure you bit your tongue.

“Nnnggg…” you groaned, keeping still so as not to cause any more pain.

You had no idea how long you lay there. Twitching occasionally, throat clenched and burning. Eventually frantic knocks came on your door, and although your ears were ringing you heard the demon brothers’ voices asking for you, making sure you were okay, wondering what had happened. Why they couldn’t get in was strange, until you realized your magic had exploded outward and created a barrier that blocked the door.

“Move so I can open the door.” Lucifer. He sounded angry.

His infernal magic pressed to your own, and his power was greater than yours so it took no time at all for the door to fall.

You blearily glanced to the open doorway, the door flat on the floor broken off the hinges. And there he stood in all his demon glory. Light bringer Morningstar reversed, dark energy radiated from him. You watched as a smoky fog emerged from the diamond on his forehead. Was this the source of his power, where he held all his magic? The other’s stood behind him in a bundle, all in demonic forms, and all with shocked expressions at seeing you as you truly were meant to be. An Angel, albeit a broken one.

“H-how—?” Lucifer stepped in further, confused and wary. He glanced at your bent and bloodied wings, and then at your face. Searching for something, an answer maybe. You knew that there was no halo, that was something that disappeared as soon as you fell, but your skin was most likely changed, glowing with the light of Heaven, and your eyes no doubt were brightened as well. “How is this possible?”

You shut your eyes, your body shutting down. You couldn’t keep awake, it was as if the energy in your body was totally gone.

Your last words before you passed out were spoken softly and only towards one person. “I’m sorry…”

Darkness took you away, and you floated into it, happy to finally escape the pain.

_+_

Burning, you were burning when you came to. Did they shove you into the flames of Hell? Was this the repercussion you truly deserved for all the lies? It was harsh, but there was nothing you could do but burn.

Whimpering, you tried to move but a force held you down, a cool sensation on the back of your neck. You cried out, afraid of what would happen next.

“Shh. Your safe, calm down. It’ll be all right.”

Simeon? “Wh-what?” your throat ached, it was so dry. You tried to focus, and felt no flames licking at your skin, but a cushioned bed beneath you, where you lay on your stomach. You tried to open your eyes, but they felt glued shut from tears that dried up.

“Here, you need to drink water.”

A straw pressed to your lips, and you sucked in the refreshing liquid. Swallowing was hard to do, but the cooling feeling overtook the pain.

His hand was a cool on your forehead, you sighed in the brief relief of the heat. “You have a high fever. You need to rest some more.”

You trembled. “They hate me, don’t they?” the words were hard to speak, but you had to ask.

He hushed you once again, stroking your hair. “Just sleep now. When you’re well again we will talk.”

So you went back to your dreams, or rather, the nightmares that plagued you. Memories turned dark and evil, some of your time on Earth with friends, others of your time with Lucifer in Heaven. All happy memories that were altered to fill you with nothing but pain.

Your first day of flying, Lucifer cheering you on, clapping and smiling as you floated higher. Then, you fell, and kept falling down and down despite how strongly you flapped your wings. Lucifer was never coming for you, never reaching a hand to pull you back to him and into his arms. You ended up in a dark hole with nothing but bones around you of your once human friends. They die so quickly, humans. You were always alone. Meant to be alone forever. Never able to love and live with that love for the entirety of your lifespan, for it always faded and died. The only true everlasting love you had in your heart was never meant to be.

Voices sporadically came and went as you tossed in your dreamland.

Simeon. “She’s not doing too well. I’ll try my very best to heal her but holding this in for so long was not good for her health. Her wings are… in absolute disarray.”

Lucifer. “Why did she lie to me?”

Asmodeus. “She looks so pale and fragile. Poor thing.”

Mammon. “I remember her... we always looked out for each other. She was always so happy to be around you, Lucifer.”

You heard them speaking and longed to respond back, but you couldn’t find a voice. Drifting in and out, hearing voices, feeling soft touches on your skin and cool hands on your wings. There were moments of sharp pain sometimes when the fingers pressed to the spot where your wings sprouted from, but you were always quickly given a remedy of healing magic from Simeon’s talented hands. But you just wanted this to end and for the suffering to be done with.

It was many days later that you opened your eyes. Like a newborn for the first time, wincing at the bright lights of the room, struggling to focus. Glancing around, it was obvious that this was not your room. It was larger, with tall ceilings, and this bed was huge, your wings barely touched the floor compared to the bed at the House of Lamentation. Where were you?

“You’re in my home.”

You turned your head, still in a position on your stomach. It was Lord Diavolo. He was alone, strange as he usually had Barbatos with him. He wore his usual red suit, but his arms were crossed and he watched you with concern in his bright golden eyes.

You tried to move, to sit up and be a little bit respectful of the Prince, but he quickly strode to you and placed his large hand on your head gently. You froze. “No, don’t try and move. You’re still recovering.”

“I-I don’t—”

He sighed, and pulled a chair to sit next to you, careful of your drooping wings. He gestured to a pitcher of water on the side table. “Are you thirsty?”

You nodded shyly. He helped you drink some water with a hand lifting your head. You were sure you were blushing from feeling the demon Prince’s touch so delicately on your cheek. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He looked at you for a moment, and sighed, his eyes downcast and thoughtful. “This is an interesting circumstance we are in.”

You swallowed hard. “I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt anyone.”

He frowned. “My dear, all you did was hurt everyone.”

You winced. He spoke bluntly, and the truth, but it hurt a lot to hear it from his lips.

“Lucifer told me who you are. He thought you dead long ago. He was your mentor in the Celestial realm, correct?” You nodded slowly. “Why did you leave there to pretend to be human? He told me you were always so… cheerful. That you both were practically inseparable. The brother’s tell me the same. So why leave all that behind?”

You couldn’t answer him. He just sighed again. “I see. Well, I suppose that will be a conversation once you are fully healed. For now, I’ll have Simeon tend to you now that you’re awake.” He stood up and looked down at you. Diavolo’s gaze seemed to pierce right through your very soul. “Perhaps you will tell me more… or perhaps not. Only time will tell, I suppose. Rest well, my dear. We will speak again soon.” And his footsteps echoed the large room as he left, and you were alone with your thoughts.

What did he want from you? Would he let this be? Would he allow you to stay here? Doubtful, as it was an exchange program for humans and Angels, and you were one of two humans. And were you really counted as either, or both? Were you some strange hybrid being to them, because you lived under the guise of being a human?

There was one question that haunted over you ever since you felt your magic faltering. Would Diavolo take you away from the one place you truly felt at home?

_+_

You felt deflated when Simeon entered the room. Lord Diavolo made you worrisome for what would next happen, or at least what would happen once you were healed again. You found yourself avoiding the Angel’s eyes as he looked at you from his seat on the chair Diavolo just was in.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

You blinked at him, and licked your dry lips. “Sore. Tired.”

He nodded, his hands waving over your upper body, a soft glow emanating from his fingers. “Your feathers are a right mess, darling. Will you allow me to help?”

Help with your wings? You knew what he meant by that, and the question wasn’t startling as you knew it would come considering the damage your magic had done. But this was a very personal thing, letting others groom your wings. You only ever allowed one person to touch your wings: Lucifer. Outside of the creatures on Earth, that is, but they were only animals and it didn’t have as much meaning to you.

There was something inside of you that spoke a loud and firm denial, that no one’s hands would pluck your broken feathers unless those hands belonged to Lucifer Morningstar.

“I-I can’t…”

He sighed, and his gentle hand stroked up and down your exposed arm. “It has to be done. Tell me, then, who will you let help you?”

You felt burning tears fall down to drop onto the pillow. “H-he w-won’t…”

Simeon hummed. “He won’t, hm? I can take one guess as to who that person is. And he’s been so worried for you he has barely slept a wink, pacing the palace floors at all hours, and questioning me constantly on how your health has been.”

You perked up, sniffling. “H-he has?”

Simeon smiled kindly, and his healing magic coursed over your back, soothing the pinpricks of pain caused by your movements. “Lucifer cares about you. I may not have been around him as much since his fall from Heaven but I can tell he never stopped caring for you, my dear.”

“He forgot about me.” You said so dejectedly. If he hadn’t, he would have recalled your face the second you appeared in the Devildom, as the only thing that was different was you had no wings, halo, or heavenly glow around you.

“Dear, we all thought you dead. I assumed your soul was wondering the skies. I am truly sorry I never searched for you to make certain of that.”

Simeon wasn’t present like Lucifer was for you in the Celestial Realm, but he did watch over you when Lucifer could not. It was rare, but it did happen. You occasionally saw him floating around the sky doing work for Michael and your father, but mostly he wasn’t a part of your world, not like Lucifer or his brothers.

“Simeon,” you whispered. “He hates me. Don’t lie to me.”

The Angel’s light was blinding, and his true form revealed itself. You gasped in shock at the sight, it had been quite a while since you had seen any other Angel this way.

He had stunningly pure white wings that expanded outwards behind him, and his blue eyes shimmered like a bright burning star. The halo hovering above his head would cut anything that it touched, a perfect circle of glittering gold, showing his status in Heaven as one of High Regard. His dark skin was encased in an outline of magic so pure it stung your eyes as you hadn’t seen anything like it in so long. He was fierce looking, and yet not, being a creature of pure light. Simeon was as old as Lucifer, if not a bit older even, and he held strength like no one else.

He spoke with authority in his kind voice, booming almost in your ears. “I will never lie to you, nor to any other being. Hear my words because they are the wholesome truth. Lucifer will always have a place in his heart for you even though he has been brought to this darker world.”

You shook from the might in his words. He brought tears to your eyes from the power he spoke with. “Simeon…”

He cupped your cheek, the warmth shocking and overwhelming, his thumb caressing under your eye. He spoke softer, then. “Dear one, if you’ll allow me to I’ll bring Lucifer here to help you. Please let me do this for you. I don’t like seeing such a kind soul in so much pain.”

You pushed into his hand, craving the touch. His words put you under a spell and you couldn’t help but think, maybe he was right. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad to have Lucifer here. Would it be like old times? You thought not, so much had changed. But you couldn’t deny the pounding in your heart that said you had to see him, and the truth that you really had no choice that if you wanted to heal, you had to have him aid you.

“Okay,” you answered softly.

He held your cheek for a moment longer, and you felt his magic cascade over you like a protective blanket. “I shall return soon with Lucifer. Keep still until then, your wings should not move lest they become more tangled. Don’t move, do you understand?”

“Yes, I promise.”

“Good girl. I’ll be back shortly. If you need me for anything, just call for me. I’ll hear you.”

He meant a prayer. He wanted you to pray for his help. You could not recall the last time a prayer had actually worked for you. Father had forgotten you, Lucifer had forgotten you… Praying was a waste of time.

The seconds ticked by. You let your mind wander to what-ifs, even though it hurt. What if Lucifer was so angry at you that he would take one look at your battered body and leave? What if Lucifer didn’t care for you like Simeon said, and instead hated you so much his magic would tear you apart? What if Lucifer, instead of plucking your feathers, he tore your wings from your body in a rage? These might have been insane imaginings, but they were not impossible. Lucifer had been a demon for a long, long time, and it was true he was still caring towards you while you acted human, but how would he react now? There was no way to know for sure.

Yes, he was your protector above. He was your everything; your father, your confidant, your friend, and your heart longed for him to be your lover.

Now he was something else to you. Still he looked out for you, kept you safe from other demons (not knowing you could if needed use your celestial magic on any who meant you harm), and he made sure you did well in RAD, and he, along with his brothers, thought of you as family. It was all you wanted, after years of searching for something to have as your very own.

Would it all disappear?

The door to the bedroom opened slowly, and you heard Simeon speak. “She’s exhausted emotionally and physically. Please, do what you can to make her well. She needs you.”

He entered the room. It was silent, and he didn’t move, simply watching you from where he stood before the shut door.

So you spoke for him. “Hello, Lucifer.”

Heels clacked and eventually he stood at your bedside. What an imposing figure he made. He looked at you with deep dark red eyes, near black at the pupils, and a massive aura of magic erupted around him. It wasn’t frightening, it wasn’t overpowering or dark. It was just… him.

He reached a hand to touch your hair, smoothing it back from your face to really look at you. “Hello, my dove.”

[bleachanimefan1]

Oblitus Part 33

Hallelujah

33 Days Left Until Extermination...

Gabriel stood in shock as he dropped his sword. His whole body was trembling as he looked down at his hands.

"What have I done?" he whispered in horror. He looked over the edge to where Michael had fallen, down towards the city below. He was he going to cover this up? How was he going to explain this to everyone, including father? No, it had to be done. Michael would have been an liability. Gabriel nodded his head. He had done the right thing. Michael was just like that traitor, Lucifer. He had to do it! As Gabriel was in deep thought, he didn't see that someone else was approaching towards him.

"Hey, Gabriel!" he heard them call out to him, making him jumped, startled. Gabriel quickly turned his head, panicking, to see another angel as they walked over to him.

"Ariel," Gabriel answered, trying to remain calm. The angel before him was a female with a rounded face, short brown hair, shady dark blue eyes, wearing dark purple eye shadow.

"Why so jumpy?" Ariel smirked. Gabriel narrowed his eyes, frowning at her.

"Why aren't you at your post?" he questioned.

"I decided to take a little break and wanted to see my two favorite brothers," Ariel replied. She looked around. "Where's Michael?" Gabriel grew tense, trying to think of something then he answered her.

"He attacked me!"

Ariel stared at Gabriel in shock and disbelief before laughing. "Gabriel, Michael couldn't even harm a fly even if he wanted to!"

"I'm serious!" Gabriel shouted. "He headbutted me and was about to attack me with his holy weapon!" Ariel looked at Gabriel, who looked like he had been in a fight. She was that a bruise was beginning to form on his forehead, with a little bit of swelling on his left eye. His face had a few scratches as well. His uniform had some rips and gun shot holes.

"I just find this hard to believe that Michael would do this," she murmured still unsure.

"Please, believe me sister. I wouldn't lie to you," Gabriel pleaded. "And there's more that you should know."

"What?" Ariel asked.

"I've learned some troubling news while I was out scouting," Gabriel explained. "Our former brother, Lucifer is creating an army. They are taking residence in a hotel down there. They are planning to over throw father again."

"What should we do?" Ariel asked, worried.

"Give me some time to recover and then we'll take care of this ourselves together with my army." Gabriel told her.

"Okay, I believe you," Ariel agreed as she nodded. "Just let me know when you are ready."

"I knew that I can rely on you, Ariel," Gabriel smiled.

Back down in the city, Charlie helped Vaggie up, while Alastor was tending to Angel and Husk with their injuries. As Alastor was finishing with Husk's wing, stopping the bleeding, he turned his attention to Angel, seeing the nasty wound on the spider demon. Alastor tried to heal it but he was almost as his limit as well. The wound was only finished halfway healed.

"It's fine, Smiles," Angel replied. "You've done enough. My body will do the rest on it's own."

"I'm just glad that it's over," Anna replied. "That was way too close. I ever thought that angels could be this strong."

"Well, you've never been through an extermination to see it happen," Charlie said. "This is why I want to save my people so they won't have to suffer anymore."

"Can we go back now? I've had enough excitement for one day," Baxter asked.

"Me too," Niffty agreed.

Suddenly, just as everyone was about to leave, Anna looked up to see something falling. It was a person. It was head straight towards them, fast.

"Uh, guys, I think that we should get out of the way," she called out.

"What?" Charlie asked.

"Move!" she shouted as she pushed everyone out of the way just as the person crashed, slamming into the ground, hard. Anna screamed it nearly hit her but Alastor pulled her out of the way just in time.

As everyone stood up to see what it was, they saw a large crater in the center of the street from where they were standing. Anna walked over to the edge of the crater and looked down to see that it was another angel. Everyone else walked over as well, seeing him.

"Oh great, another one." Vaggie groaned.

"Wait, he's hurt." Charlie said as she noticed that he was hurt, seeing a huge gaping wound on the angel chest. His left wing was torn and damaged as well. She jumped down and picked him up and jumped out of the crater and laid him down on the ground as everyone gathered around.

"We need to help him. Alastor can you heal him?" Anna asked.

"Are you insane?" Angel asked in disbelief.

"What?" Anna said.

"If we help him, then what's to stop him from waking up and attacking us?" Vaggie asked.

"I don't want to get my ass kicked again, one of them was bad enough." Angel added.

"It's probably a trick," Niffty added as well.

"Then why would this angel just fall out of the sky and land right in front of us, hurt, right after Gabriel left?" Anna questioned. "I doesn't make any sense." Everyone thought for a moment in silence as she continued. "Plus, maybe we could use him to help us with the hotel."

"That's actually, not a bad idea," Charlie agreed.

"Well, as long as he's tied up and confined, so he can't hurt anyone, and find out what his motives are, he can stay." Vaggie replied. "But, he's your responsibility." Anna nodded. She turned to Alastor.

"Heal him," Alastor groaned.

"Cher, I've almost used up all of my strength. I'm not sure that I'll able able to heal him completely."

"Just do what you can." Anna said, softly.

Alastor turned to the fallen hurt angel then knelt down and started to heal him. The gaping wound on the angel's chest slowly began to mend, closing up, until it was completely healed. However, his wing was unable to be healed as Alastor felt the last of his magic beginning to slip through his fingers. Anna quickly caught him as Alastor almost fell backwards from exhaustion.

"There, it's done," Alastor said, tiredly.

"You've done wonderfully," Anna smiled. "How about when we get back to the hotel, I'll fix up some jambalaya?"

"You've read my mind." Alastor agreed, feeling hungry. He could use some meat right about now.

"I'm starving!" Angel exclaimed.

"You can have some too Angel, as well as everyone else," Anna snickered. But, she stopped when she noticed that there was something strange happening to Alastor. Everyone one else noticed as well.

"Alastor, your hair!" Charlie exclaimed.

"What are you talking about?" Alastor asked, smiling confused. "And why are you all staring at me like that?"

Anna picked up a shard of glass, carefully, holding it up in front of Alastor. Alastor couldn't believe it himself as he stared back into his own reflection, like a deer in headlights. His hair was now brown, instead of blood red, but also tufts still sticking out like a deer's on the top of his head.

It was late in the middle of the night, everyone had gone to sleep, resting from the battle. Ever so often, they would take turns watching over their unexpected guest, who was now tied up and being confined in a locked room, waiting for the angel to wake up.

In Angel's room, Angel was lying in his bed while Fat Nuggets was sleeping at the end of it. He smiled as he rolled over on his side, expecting to feel warm fuzzy fur next to him. "Hmm," Angel groaned, sleepily. "Morning, Husky." But, he only felt strange leathery velvet skin.

He slowly opened his eyes only to be met with the color white. Angel immediately sat up with a shocked look on his face. He tried to pinch himself to check to see if he was still dreaming. Nope, he was wake. Sleeping, in front of the spider demon was an unfamiliar middle aged man with slicked black hair with a few grey streaks, while at the top of his head were two black cat ears. Angel nearly drooled at the sight of the man's well toned naked less furry body. He even had a black tail that was slowly swaying side to side as he slept. He had been redeemed.

"Husk?" Angel asked.

"What?" the former cat demon grumbled, sleepily.

"I don't want you to freak out but, your wing's grown back.-"

"And what else is new?" Husk asked.

"It's white and you're a lot less hairy than I remembered from last night-" Angel smirked, but still in shock, and continued. Husk immediately woke up as he sat up on the bed. "Your other wing's that same as well."

Husk folded his wings closer to him then stretched them out. Just like Angel had said, his wings were now pure white with feathers. Husk looked down to see his other wing lying on the floor. He looked back at Angel only to be met with different colored human-like eyes, one light blue and the other light pink.

"Kid, I'm not the only one changes," Husk murmured. "Have you looked in the mirror?"

Angel looked at him confused then stood up and walked over to the mirror across the his room. He saw that his other eye had changed as well, both now completely different colors.

"HOLY SHIT!"

"I know, it's unbelievable," Husk replied in shock. Angel looked back into the mirror, however, he noticed that something was off.

His wound hadn't healed.

It was still the same as it was before.

Fear began to build in Angel as he began to grow nervous and uneasy by the more he looked at it. He tried to stop himself from panicking, in front of Husk. It was fine. He was fine. It'll go away eventually.

It will...It'll just take a little more time that's all!

"Hey, what's wrong?" Husk asked, sensing that something was bothering him. Angel laughed, turning around to face him.

"Nothings wrong! I'm just so fucking happy right now!" he exclaimed, jumping onto the bed, landing right on top of Husk, body slamming into him, while waking Fat Nugget's up as well.

It'll heal up eventually, right?

[justkeeptrekkin]

Your Life is Golden

a ficlet inspired by my need for angst and badass Aziraphale content. 

***

“Crowley. We’ve known each other for a long time, and… no. That’s not right.”

Aziraphale steps in a puddle, and it splashes muddy water up his leg. He sighs, continues walking. “Crowley, old chum. Six thousand years, eh? Or was it longer? We’ve been through an awful lot, you know, and… no, no, no. Bother.”

He passes a shop window and catches sight of his twisted, anxious expression. He tries to correct it, looks away. Shakes his head to himself and starts rewriting his speech in his mind. 

“I’ve been in love with you for a good few decades now, Crowley, and I think it’s about time I did something about it… how about we go a little faster, after all?” Aziraphale nods a little to himself. “Not perfect, but it’s something.”

Aziraphale turns the corner opposite the bookshop, a bottle of far too expensive wine in his hand. At roughly three o’clock on a Wednesday afternoon, Soho is still busy, still filled with tourists, the smell of beer and Chinese food in the air. For the rest of the world, life goes on; for Aziraphale, the world has changed. He settles into a familiar and delicious anticipation that has always prefaced seeing Crowley, but this time, things are different. The End of Times never happened, and since then, Aziraphale has waited for the moment he could summon enough bravery to invite his friend over.

“I’ve been meaning to tell you how I feel for a while, now,” Aziraphale presses on, muttering to himself and prompting a few funny looks from passers-by. “Naturally, if you don’t want them to, things needn’t change, but…”

It’s only as he’s crossing the road that he sees that the shop light is on. 

And it’s only when he steps back onto the pavement that he picks up the lingering taste of multiple demonic auras; the footprint in the sand betraying Crowley’s recent presence. Though he’s not here any more. 

It’s when he ascends the steps to the shop door, hand poised by the handle, that dread sits on his chest and makes him nauseous. 

Aziraphale pushes open the door.

He has never had his shop ransacked before. There have been moments where he’s imagined what he’d do, if someone broke in and tried to steal anything; how far he’d go to find and punish whoever did it; whether he’d simply forgive them like he’s meant to. Worse than that, he’s allowed himself to imagine what would happen if Gabriel and Sandalophon came back, like they did during his shop launch; what would have happened if they’d simply turned around and seen Crowley, top hat and all, holding a box of chocolates.

Now, the sound of his brogues against the wooden floor sounds more hollow than it ever has before. It fills the room too much. It aches. 

He casts his eyes about the fallen books; some of them are charred. Some of the bookshelves have come down. There are claw marks in the floorboards.

He puts down the bottle of wine. The door is left open behind him, and he can hear people talking about normal things. 

Aziraphale extends a hand- a hand that doesn’t feel like his own- and sees it land on a copy of Sappho’s poetry. The pages have fallen open to one of her lesser known elegies. The fingers dance across the words like they’re scribbles, silly little pictures that no longer make sense. Crowley had bought him this particular book. His eyes turn away from the book and scan the shop, trying desperately to absorb what’s in front of him and failing. Everything in chaos. The sharp tang of sulphur in the air; demonic battle. It isn’t a smell that he’s come across in a long time. 

“Crowley,” he says to himself. 

Then, as it finally begins to settle. “Crowley.”

He steps over the shattered splinters of a table, stumbles over scattered books. He turns on the spot, looks up, around, behind and below. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for; he hopes he’ll find something that will tell him who won this fight. At the centre of the bookshop, there are more claw marks across the floorboards, little troughs like Crowley had been scrabbling for something to hold onto. 

He’d been here looking for Aziraphale. 

He breathes in suddenly, gasps like the air is forcing its way into his throat, pouring itself inside him- and he feels his hands shake. He feels himself fall back inside his body again, sees his fingers trace the claw marks, feels the jagged wood beneath his fingers, trying to reach for Crowley- too late. 

“No,” he croaks. 

Aziraphale falls to his knees and clasps his hands together, almost in prayer. He unclasps them and presses his palms together instead, poised in front of his face. And yet, there’s the ache of knowing that no one is listening. And so he runs his hands through his hair, sitting on his heels and willing his mind to think of something. But he has only ever known how to pray and hope, not knowing how to do. 

“Where are you?” he asks Crowley, asks in a whisper to himself. “Crowley, please. God, please tell me he’s alive.”

It falls from somewhere above; it falls down in front of him, tickles his face and lands on his leg. Aziraphale looks at the single black feather, picks it up and holds it like it’s alive. All that’s left of Crowley.

Perhaps you’d expect him to cry. Perhaps you’d expect him to try praying again. Perhaps you’d expect him to remain paralysed in shock, or walk out the door, or figure out a rescue plan. You’d expect Aziraphale to reason with himself- remind himself that Crowley’s wily, after all, persuade himself that there’s no way he could have lost this battle. You might wonder whether he’d fall into his old habits of staying quiet, asking no questions, or whether he’d gather up his bravery and do something. Do something, for the one being he’s loved outside the appropriate realms of angelic adoration. 

There is no miraculous plan for this catatonic mind. What happens instead is this: hope and despair and fury. Incandescent, invulnerable fury that suddenly sparks into life. Something dormant and hiding in the heart of an angel that has not been unleashed since the stars were first moulded, since the volcanoes were first filled with lava and since the first lightning kindled. Something old and deep, something that lives only in divine beings that have seen the dawn of time, something that can only be described as titanic. 

Aziraphale falls into the centre of himself. He feels himself step back and feels something else take over; not quite displacing him, not controlling him, rather covering him like a cloak. He sees its blinding light, feels its scorching heat, and he wears it. He flexes his fingers inside its gloves and rolls his shoulders against its hot fabric. Wings explode into existence; eyes open, white and burning all over his body; hot tears run boiling down his cheeks like acid. He shines all over. A perfect, blinding ring sizzles above his head, appearing slowly as condensation does from a glass on a table. He bathes in his righteous fury until everything else evaporates. 

When he stands up, his fingers gently wrap around the single, black feather. 

***

At three thirty-two in the afternoon, on the streets of Soho, people stop and stare at the wind that gushes out of a bookshop doorway like a flood. They watch as sheets of paper- perhaps pages from books?- fly out of the doors like leaves in an eddy. They marvel at the strange, beautiful, blinding light that burns through the windows. 

People in the adjacent Chinese restaurant see the windows suddenly shatter and take cover. And everyone within a three mile radius suddenly presses their hands to their ears against a terrible, ringing noise. 

A screeching bird call, an angel crying in outrage. 

***

Crowley wakes up to the sound of nothing. He knows he’s in Hell. 

He opens his eyes. Black feathers- his own feathers- scattered across the floor. His pale arm stretched out in front of him, nails digging into his palm. The taste of blood on his tongue. He groans. It’s been a while since he’s bled. 

When he breathes in, something burns. It scalds his skin and he gasps, a staggered breath that only becomes more fractured when his ribs expand and touch the chain wrapped around them. Slow, careful movements- he tries to prop himself up as gently as possible to get a better look. He sees the metal wrapped around his ribcage, sees manacles around his wrists and ankles, tastes- tastes it. It’s not blood that he’s tasting, then- it’s metal, like a horse’s bit between his teeth. He’s chained to the wall like a feral animal. 

He’d like to say that it’s overkill, but he knows how frightened Beelzebub is of him, now. 

He rolls his tongue underneath the bit, tries to swallow- it hurts. His throat is dry and every breath struggles inside of him. The manacles dig into his wrists. But none of that hurts like the chain around his bare torso, his shirt stripped to reveal his pale, almost-translucent skin and the burn marks from adamantine. Crowley pants, teeth clenched against the bit, and stares wide-eyed at the red sores; stares in amazement and confusion and horror and eventually, acceptance. Because adamantine only burns angels. 

Well that’s new, he thinks. Aziraphale really has been rubbing off on him, it seems. 

The heels of his boots kick against the dusty floor. His cell is small, bare, dark. There are bars and a little post-box shaped hole in the door, like this is a pale imitation of a Hollywood movie set. 

He growls. They’d known. They’d waited. They’d somehow known that he’d decided to surprise Aziraphale by swinging by early; he’s just that fucking predictable. His dedication and loyalty to an angel, his puppy-dog pining for Aziraphale so blatant that they’d waited for him there and ambushed him. Hastur, Ligur, Beelzebub- the three of them cornered him and they fought, really fought tooth and claw, for the first time since the Fall. 

They’d torn his wings. 

They’d thrown him across the room. 

They’d dragged him across the floor like they were auditioning for Paranormal fucking-well Activity. 

“Azzurghs,” he tries, the cold metal in his mouth flaking and sharp. Bastards is what he’d been going for. Then, “Azzuruhuh.” Aziraphale. It just comes out a pained whine.

His back meets the wall. His head knocks against it. He casts his eyes up at the ceiling. 

God. I’d ask why you’ve forsaken me, Crowley thinks, but I’m getting pretty used to it.

***

The people of London go quiet all at once as they feel the Earth shudder. 

That moment of dread and confusion- the incomprehensible scale of whatever is coming, whatever’s out there on the prowl suddenly dawning on them. People in meetings stop mid-sentence, feeling the vibrations under foot- they look through the window down at the streets below. Tourists on the London Eye peer through the glass, seeing a blinding white light across the river. Children splash in puddles, see the water tremble with the footsteps of something huge. Pub-goers stare at the shattered remnants of their pint glasses. The ringing in their ears has subsided, but the anguish of it is still echoing in their head. 

Something’s out there. Something’s hurt. And it’s fucking angry.

***

Time in Hell runs differently. It isn’t just slower; it loses meaning. After all, time is angel-created. It’s something that brings order to the universe, something that contains chaos and makes everything just a little bit more organised and tidy. Something like that has no place in Hell. It’s therefore hard to know just how long Crowley’s been lying on the floor of his cell, adamantine burning his skin and bones aching. Dust in his throat. Eyes closed. 

He’s grown soft. No- not soft. Brittle. He’s become fragile, something hollow and aching and desperate to be filled with validation and love and attention and everything that Hell isn’t. It’s made him foolish, made him someone who waits. Like a dog at the door. When will they come? 

What’s worse, though, is that it’s not Beelzebub or Hastur or Ligur that he’s waiting for to walk through that door. It isn’t punishment that he’s waiting for in particular, even though God knows that’s what he should be used to by now. Trained to expect pain after waiting, alone, long enough that he begins to wonder if they’ve forgotten about him. Yes, even though he’s been trained to live like this, they’re not the ones he’s waiting for. 

When will he learn that Aziraphale won’t come? 

***

Even if he does come, it’s always when it’s too late. Crowley reminds himself of this, as he considers Aziraphale possessing Madam Tracy. It was only after he’d pushed Crowley away that he’d come back. And-

Well. Obviously Crowley’s forgiven him for that. Forgiveness; that’s one of the only angelic characteristics he has left. 

***

Aziraphale could come.

Endless time swims around him in a fog; Crowley has been lying on the floor, waiting, hoping, for some indefinite stretch of no-time. 

And Aziraphale could come. That part of him fights back- the same part of him that runs after Aziraphale time and time again, the part of him that saves books from burning ruins and begs for Aziraphale to run away with him. No matter how much Hell try and kick him down, no matter how many times Aziraphale proves it wrong, that little bit of hope always flickers back into life. 

It’s pathetic. It’s all Crowley has right now.

***

He hears his rattling breath and feels something wet on his cheeks. His wings have unfurled at some point, too exhausted to keep them in. They’re tattered and tired, draped across the floor.

***

There had been one afternoon recently, after the apocalypse. It had settled on them that they could be together without the weight of impending war sitting on their shoulders. So, they’d decided to be a little frivolous and go for a day out. 

Aziraphale had suggested the beach. Crowley had shrugged, closing his eyes in resignation behind his sunglasses. “Fine,” he’d sighed. Anything for you, he’d thought. And they’d hopped in Crowley’s Bentley and rolled down the windows, plummeting down the motorway towards the South West coast. Lulworth Cove was meant to be busy that day, the warmest day of the year so far, but he knew it would be quiet. Crowley had willed it so. 

Crowley had kept his eyes on the road, the white lines streaking till they blurred, the bad local radio station chattering in the background, soon to turn into Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy. Aziraphale was smiling so much that day. Aziraphale smiled in so many ways, and that day it was like the first: angelic and beatific, the way God had smiled the day She created the world. Maybe it was because he saw the world laid out in front of them, ready for them to live it in a way they’d never been allowed before. Maybe he was just in a good mood. Either way, Crowley had found it impossible not to stare. 

The wind had rushed through the rolled-down windows, and once they’d hit the country lanes, Aziraphale poked his arm outside and let the air pull through his fingers. Crowley had watched him close his eyes and smile again, that smile. 

“We could live like this forever, now,” Aziraphale had said. “You and I.”

Crowley had driven and known that that moment was important. Like initials carved into a wall, that moment would stick around with him. 

You and I, Crowley thinks now. Is it so naive to think you’ll come for me?

***

The ground shakes beneath him. There’s the sound of demons and poltergeists and incubi screaming down the corridor, outside his prison cell door. 

Crowley’s eyes snap open. 

There’s a screeching sound. It’s not anything demonic; he’d thought it was at first, but that was before he realised he could hear it inside his head. No, it’s something far too- far too something to be demonic.

Furious?

Hurt? Righteous?

It’s a sound that frightens him. It makes his heart stutter and his feathers ripple nervously. His pupils are dilated in the dark, but they narrow at the sound, fight-or-flight response kicked in. Something’s coming; something awful, something that Hell hadn’t prepared for. And just for a moment, the relief of that chases away the shadows in his mind. 

The sound of demons screaming, louder now, mixing with the ringing in his ears. A thud, as something- someone, more likely- is thrown down the corridor, landing close to Crowley’s door. And-

Oh, God. That light. It burns and it soothes all at once, it pours through the cracks of the door, stretching out towards Crowley like it’s searching for him, trying to bring him into its embrace.

The door falls from its hinges.

Crowley scrabbles up onto his knees. He hangs his head, turned away from the light, his hands splayed on the floor. Then he hears his voice in his mind. 

Crowley. 

The light doesn’t burn anymore. It’s like a switch is flicked and the anger in it simmers down; still there, oh yes, it still bubbles beneath the surface. But what Crowley feels overwhelmingly in that moment is not anger, but something kinder. The bright, shining feeling of his smile. 

He dares to look up. 

From his knees, prostrate on the floor of Hell, Crowley beholds the light of a star poured into the vessel of a human. The shape of Aziraphale, covered in bright, wide-open eyes and wings that encompass the room. They curve around him, like that very first day at Eden. And Crowley turns his head to watch them surround his broken body, a sunflower following the orbit of the sun. 

He looks back up. Cannot look away; there is something about that light that is less like the sun, and more like the moon. Fascinating, hypnotising, calming. And he gazes into the pair of eyes in front of him, the pair that he knows, with blue irises, watching with love. 

There’s something else in those eyes, too. There’s love, and there’s also something destructive- something frightening, something he hasn’t seen since the days of the Old Testament. Something that threatens floods and plagues for anyone who stands in Aziraphale’s way. 

A scalding white hand reaches to touch Crowley’s face. He closes his eyes, and feels only a soft warmth. Soft. Just as Aziraphale always is, even like this.

My dear, he hears inside his mind. 

His mouth suddenly feels empty. The bit and the chains are gone. 

“You came. I wasn’t sure,” he laughs sadly. 

The hand on his cheek grows warmer, almost uncomfortably hot. Aziraphale doesn’t respond- out loud, or in his mind. He doesn’t need to. Crowley feels it in the heat of his hand, feels it pouring under his skin; that they are on each other’s side; that Aziraphale will never sit by and watch ever again; that he will always come. 

He feels it in the press of Aziraphale’s lips against his.

The ground fractures beneath them. Hot air meets cold air, rain meets sun, and water meets hot oil. The room shudders with it. Hell vibrates with it and Heaven feels it, too. Two sides coming together, the order of the universe disrupted. 

God smiles when She sees it. 

And perhaps it’s because Crowley’s been awake for what might be weeks in here. Perhaps it’s because he’s been waiting for Aziraphale to come for him, to save him like this for millennia. Whatever the reason, Crowley suddenly can’t keep his eyes open. He feels himself relax into Aziraphale’s arms, inside the cocoon of his wings. 

He holds onto consciousness and feels himself being carried through the seven circles of Hell, over purgatory and back home. 

[popculturebuffet]

Blog Updates: New Patreon Stretch Goals, Patreon Exclusive Reviews, New Story Arcs and Other Stuff

MHello everyone. For those of you seeing this through other tags my name is Jake. I do reviews on here that are usually full sumaries of an episode of a tv show or comic, with jokes and analsyis throughout. I’m doing this post as i’ve recently revamped by patreon a bit, check out VIA THIS LINK if your curious. I also have some other stuff going on with the blog that I thought might intrest the general public and especially you lovely followers. Thank you guys so much. Your support means a lot and feel free to interact with this post and any of the reviews. it’s always a pleasure. Leave your comments whatever. So let’s start with the patreon stuff

You Decide the Next Patreon Exclusive Review!: 

Yes YOU will decide the Patreon Exclusive review for May. How? It’s simple: i’m currently reviewing the Lilo and Stitch crossover episodes, the first two this week with the American Dragon Jake Long crossover “Morpholomew” done yesterday, the Proud Family episode “Spats” coming later this week, and “Rufus” (Kim Possible) and “Lax” (Recess) coming next week and the week after that respectively. 

As a way to gage intrest in the shows crossed over, and if I should review some of them on their own, i’m going to be watching the notes, and after the first week i’ll record how many a review got. This way the first review dosen’t get an advantage over the last and so on. Whichever episode gets the most votes wins and it’s show will get two reviews: One exclusive to Patreon in may you can check out for just a buck, and one for all of ya in June. So if you want to dragon up, get louder and prouder, check out what the sitch is, or have some recess, keep an eye on my blog and check out the review. Like it reblog, it, both. This is all in your hands. And if this little contest works out I may do another one like it in the future. 

New Patreon Stretch Goals!:

For those unfamiliar with Patreon it’s a site that helps creators like me get paid for their work, used by such luminaries as Linkara, Pushing Up Roses and greatest of all Rifftrax. 

Stretch Goals are an amount of money I get a month from patreons, that’s readers like you paying me. Even a buck a month would help a lot and help me put out a reviews and LIVE off doing this. But it’s a two way street so in order to entice you lovely people into paying me for doing my job and my passion with these reviews, i’ve updated the tiers, adding a wider and better range of rewards. I’m currenntly up to 15 dollars a month, or close enough that i’ve acitivated those rewards. And if you help me hit these tiers EVEYRONE gets PUBLIC, on here, for free reviews. Thanks to my lovely patreons Emma and Kevin you all are getting reviews of the first 5 Ducktales episode, aka Legend of the Golden Suns, with the second coming as soon as I finish this post. Even a buck helps us reach closer and for your dollar you get access to the discord, exclusive reviews, and to pick a short any time I review a bunch of shorts. And with Goofy’s birthday coming up next montha nd Donald’s after that, now is the best time for that. 5 dollar patreons also get one review as month, with 10 dollar ones getting two. You’ve already probably seen some of these: Kev has used one of his a month to have me review a house of mouse episode every month, and newest patreon and longtime friend Emma is using them to have me review the netflix dr. seuss adaptation “Green Eggs and Ham”. So whatever YOU want me to review I will and you’l lhelp unlock even MORE great reviews. So what do you get if you hit the goals? I’m glad you asked. 

We’re up to 15 so next is...

20 Dollar Tier:  Ducktales 87 Season 2 Mini Series!: Yes indeedy. Already on the Docket was the Super Ducktales Arc, which introducices the OG GIZMODUCCCKKKKK. But since that apparenlty wasn’t enough i’ve also added the OTHER mini series. While i’ll do super first since that’s the one with higher fan intrest once tha’ts done i’ll also review Time is Money, the time travel arc bringing in everyone’s faviroite scrappy Bubba. So if you want a buncha cruncha retro Ducktales pony up. But that’s not all the disney afternoon I got for this tier. 

A Darkwing Duck Episode A MOnth: This one has also been promoted every time I could and still stands. If you like that mind behind the shadow disguise, that daring duck of mystery, that champion of right, then you’ll get one review a month about him, as voted on by you patreons. 

Danny Phantom: The Ultimate Enemy: And since neither of these have helped me so far and stepping back into Amity Park made me realize how much I love the series, even if it’s creator is a 80 tons of smug asshole packed into a t-shirt he thinks is cooler than it is. So it only felt right to add  the ghost boy to the tier and the best way to kick that off is with it’s second best, and only barely second behind Reign Storm, episode: The Ultimate Enemy! Danny finds his future is imperfect and must battle his own evil self! If you want my thoughts on one of the series finest hours, then help me hit 20 bucks a month to keep making content. 

25 Dollar Tier: 

I removed the Tail Spin content, though rest assured I will be covering Plunder and Lightning sometime this year. But what I replaced it with is even better. 

One Danny Phantom Review a Month: YOu like teen superheros? you like ghosts? you like me slagigng off about butch hartman and trying to make it crystal clear his creation dosen��t wholly belong to him? Then you’ll like me reviewing Danny Phantom. And while i’m already doing that, this goal gaurantees one episode a month, and said episode will be voted on by my patreons. So if you pay for this you’ll not only get your monthly dose of going ghost.. but you’ll get a chance to PICK what it is. 

Disney Shows To Movies Trilogy : I’ve decided to make it a tradition for my 15 dollar stretch goals to do a bunch of disney movies. And like with my last batch, which you’ll be seeing in may, i’m doing tv shows that got their own movies, theatrical or otherwise. And this time we’re doing MY generatoin: Kim Possible: So The Drama, the best story in the show’s histroy and the best movie in the Disney Channels! Recess: Schools Out! The suprisingly bonkers unsurprisingly awesome finale to an awesome show! and The Proud Family Movie, another UTTERLY BATSHIT finish to a great show.  Lost at Sea and Seconds: This one’s for my scottaholics, fourth part of my Scott Pilgrim retrospective coming this week!. If you like me taking a look at Scott’s quest to punch the fuck out of his girlfriends exes while growing up a little, then if you help me get to the 30 dollar tier, i’ll also take a look at O’Malley’s other graphic novels Lost at Sea, which follows a girl who lost her soul and her boyfriend on a trip with what may be Young Neil’s older sister, and Seconds, the story of a woman with issues growing up who finds the ablitlity to travel through time.. or is it space? And some of you savvier readers my know he has nother comic. Where’s that one? wellllll

30 Dollar Tier:

Snotgirl: I’m saving this one for this tier. Reviews of each collected volume of snotgirl, Bryan’s first ongoing series, all three so far and any more to come about, unsuprisingly, a  hot mess of a person, this time who might’ve done a murder. You know instead of defintely did a murder but in self defnese and with a longsword. 

Gravity Falls Season 1!: One of Disney’s finest finally on this blog. All season 1 episodes reviewed in some way in some shape in some form.  Star Vs Finale Arc!: You’ve heard me bitch about the problems in Tom’s story, and wil lcontinue to. Now see the terrible way everyone elses ends! From an amazing build up to an awful finish, see reviews of Every story relevant season 4 episode from Butterfly Follies to Cleaved that won’t already be covered in my tom retrospective. It’s a road to crushing disapointment, come on inside! 

35 Dollar Tier:  More Disney TV Adaptations!: Doug’s First Movie! See Doug get really fucking weird in his sea monster based movie with a punch line of a name! Teachers Pet, a great movie out of a show I barely saw! Kim Possible Live action! it’s suprisingly okay! and Recess Taking the Fifth: a compliation movie for a season we sadly never got. 

Gravity Falls Season 2: Buillding on the first reward Gravity Falls Reviews will go beyond the first season and finish the job. From zombies, to dipcifica, to ford to weirdmageddon, I’m doin it all. 

40 Dollar Tier: 

Two HUGE Disney Focused Comics Retrospectives! 

Darkwing Duck: In addition to the show, i’ll start reviewing the awesome follow up comic that got me into it. From the start to both finishes: the unathorized crossover finale and the sadly short lived sequel series from joe books, the worst mistake disney ever made that wasn’t racist, before Artemis Fowl said hold my beer. Also the short lived Ducktlaes series because why not. 

The Incredibles!: The Family Dynamic! A comprehensive retrospective featuring reviews of the movie, the Mark Waid followup, the sequel that ignores said followup and the incomparable Christos Gage’s followup to THAT movie. Also that wonderfuly awful failed tv pilot bob made that he and lucius did a mst3k of. 

45 Dollar Tier: 

Disney Flims Lilo and Stitch a Thon: All four lilo and stitch movies, Lilo and Stitch, Lilo and Sitch 2, Stitch and Leroy and Stitch! All the hawaii, aliens and sequels you can handle!

Amphibia Season 1: I’ve done Season 2 as it comes out, i’ll be doing the same for season 3, so help me get here to see the start at least once a month, but two at a time!

50 Dollar Tier: The last one for now. I’ll probably go to 10 dollar tiers after this. 

The Owl House Season 1: While I wait for the second season to start so I can cover it, have me do the rest of season 1! The only exceptions are the already covered Enchanted Grom Fright and the earmarked for pride month wing it like witches!

The Two Loves and 87 Mistakes of Mordecai: A regular show romancetrospective, as we go through the downs, ups, higher ups and crushing lows of Modercai’s romantic arcs from regular show. His crush on margert, making his move, moving on, moving on to cj, and then the horrible cluster fuck I’ve talked about nonstop and will again and again as one of the worst romantic arcs in memory as they shot the relationship in the foot head and groin! Force me to relive it all!

So yeah I’ll add more tiers, again probably 10 dollars apart if I get to 50, but given I barely got to 15 i’m not optimistic. PROVE ME WRONG. HELP ME HIT 50. 

Other Stuff:

Finally outisde of Patreon, that was the main reason for this, I have news on my various arcs. For one thing i’ll be trying to keep the pace better, so expect at least one entry a month for ones i’m doing on my own time like the tom retrospective, life and times and Scott pilgrims. Ones kev does will be done weekly to keep my wallet afloat. 

I also have two more retrospectives incoming! The first is paid for by Kev: I’l lbe tackling ALL THREE SEASON 2 ARCS OF DUCKTALES 2017. After the headache of trying to cram the della arc into three weeks to keep up with the lena one, I decided i’td be better for pacing if I did all three at once and kev agreed to it, if using his patreon reviews to cushion the blows. So starting next month i’ll be covering the Louie, Della and Glomgold/Owlson arcs, swapping between them in episode order. With that I should be FAR closer to having covered every ducktales episode. Granted i’ll still have 17 to cover, but it’ll make that much more managable. 

The second comes in June specifically timed for Pride Month. With Scott Pilgrim Wrapping up in August just in time for the movie’s anniversary, I decided to start covering another one of my faviorite comics of all time. It’s time to transform, roll out and make this precoius it’s Transformers More than Meets the Eye! For those of you unfamiliar it’s an idw comic that follows a rag tag group of transformers, about half of them gay or gay coded, on a mission to find the lost knights of cybertron and bring ballance to a post war cybertron.. which quickly devloves into hyjinnks with a side order of heartrending deaths and charcter development... and references to dexy’s midnight runners. 

So that’s all for now. thank you for reading, please support my patreon as the next pay term is at the start of next month, so if you want me to start on any of those stretch goals, nows the time. Please help me earn a living and until all are one, i’ll see you at the next rainbow. 

[ts-waywardchildren-au]

Wings

so I finally got tumblr to stop being a bitch and let me post the full thing!

AO3 link

taglist: @theimprobabledreamersworld

Word count: 4330

TW: mentions of religion/church, mentions of alcohol, shouting, implied homophobia, implied past transphobia.

    Anyone who knew Mr. and Mrs. Harte would quickly realize that, if there was any couple in the world who should not raise children, it was them. 

Mr. Harte was, in the nicest way possible, both a workaholic and an alcoholic, despite his preaching that the Bible should be followed to the letter, which meant every time he opened a bottle he sinned. But, of course, the bible applied only to other men. 

Mrs. Harte was what most would call a busy-body who cared much more about her appearance to her neighbors than she did children. She was the kind of woman who everyone only pretended to like but then gossiped about her behind her back. Despite her insistence that she was the most important woman in the world, she made none of her own choices, only followed the latest beauty trends, and did as her husband said. 

This is why, when the Hartes decided to have children, everyone was slightly concerned, to say the least.

    The Hartes saw children as vessels for the parent’s ambitions, as dolls to dress up or as little creatures to be trained to impress friends and family. Ten years later, their only child Patton was none of these things. He was not a prim and proper girl like Mrs. Harte had wanted, nor was he the kind of boy who played every sport known to man. 

    Patton was the kind of child who would prefer to play in the dirt rather than keep the tiny suits his mother had picked out for Sunday church perfectly spotless, the kind of child who would rather chase dragonflies across the soccer field than kick the ball. The kind of child, who, among other things, wanted nothing but to play with his friends and to ride on his father’s shoulders, and to bake cookies with his mother. 

    But Patton was also the kind of child who never got to do these things. This is perhaps the reason why, when he saw a door in the trunk of a tree, did not immediately run back to the park where the church kids played. He had organized a game of hide and seek with the other children, and while the other children could be quite dull, none could pass up a game of hide and seek, not even the older kids. 

    He wiggled out from his hiding place from under the bushes and tiptoed towards the tree trunk-door that should not be there. He turned his head to the side, looking at the door from all angles. Up and down, side to side, inspecting every inch before raising a hand to knock on the gray wood. One, two, three taps, and the door creaked open. Where one would expect to see the inside of a tree, there was instead a hallway. 

    Figuring that inside a tree would be an even better hiding spot than under a bush, Patton stepped inside and closed the door behind him. Unseen light sources allowed Patton to see as he walked away from the door. Had he looked back, he might have noticed that where the door should have been was a blank wall with not even a crack to suggest an opening. But Patton did not look back- he just kept walking, his footsteps echoing on the floor of wood paneling until he came to a staircase going upwards. 

    There, on the first step, someone had planted a sign. 

    “Be sure,” Patton read aloud. “Be sure… of what? I’m sure this is a very good hiding place!”

    He had a habit of talking to himself, something his parents very much did not approve of, and it was through his conversation with himself that Patton deduced that he must be quite sure that he wouldn’t be found. Had he known how correct he was, perhaps he might not have gone up the stairs. But Patton was ten years old and had a sense of adventure, so he began to climb. 

    The stairs seemed to go on forever, spiraling upwards without end. But as soon as he thought about giving up and going back down, Patton saw the end of the stairs. 

    “Hello?” Patton called out from the top stair. It only now occurred to him that this could be someone’s house he just walked into!

    There was no reply, and Patton stepped off the stairs onto the landing. It didn’t seem like anyone’s house, because Patton couldn’t think of any houses that had no roof or walls! The floor of the not-house seemed to be… tree bark? Patton looked up and saw the sky, bright blue and cloudless. He didn’t know it at the time, but the sweetness in the air was the lack of pollution and car exhaust, and his ears had stopped ringing because there wasn’t the constant noise of cars. It was so quiet… so pretty! 

    “Young man, what are you doing up here?”

    Patton let out a small squeak of surprise and turned to face the adult who had walked up behind him. 

    “Oh- um- I- I’m sorry, ma’am- I found a door and I was playing hide and seek, and I walked up the stairs, and now I’m talking to you, and- I- um, I’m sorry!”

    “Oh!” The adult’s face softened from the glare she had before Patton stuttered out an apology. “It’s quite alright. What’s your name?”

    “I’m Patton! Um… is this your house?”

    “You could say that. So, Patton, are you sure?”

    Patton didn’t understand what he was supposed to be sure about, so he did what all children would do: say yes and hope there weren’t consequences. 

    At his affirmation that he was sure (even though he was not), the adult clapped her hands and smiled. As she moved towards Patton, he saw what made this adult so unlike the rest of the adults that he knew. 

    “Why do you have wings?”

“I’ve earned them. And someday, Patton, you will too.”

That answer only slightly satisfied Patton, but it was good enough for now- even a ten-year-old realized that he wouldn’t be getting any further clarification anytime soon. 

“How do I get them?”

“Well, Patton,” the adult turned her back and beckoned Patton to follow her. “You’re sure?”

“Yes, I am!” 

That was the first time Patton had felt sure, though he didn't know what it was for- he only knew that he was sure he wanted answers, sure that he wanted wings! The other children would want to be friends with him then, right? 

“Very good. Now stand here, beside me.”

Patton did as he was told, and for the first time got a good look at the new, strange adult. She was tall, taller than his mother, with long silky black hair that Patton thought looked quite like one of the ties his father wore to work- straight and shiny. 

Patton had been told, like all children, about stranger danger, but this adult… Patton didn't know why, but he knew that he would be safe with her. 

“Take my hand, Patton, and don’t let go, alright?”

Patton nodded and gripped tightly, something his mother would have scolded him for. But neither his mother nor father was here to tell him off, and Patton knew that as long as he didn't cause too much trouble, nothing bad would happen. 

    Before Patton could ask what was going to happen, the ground was far beneath him and the adult. He let out a shriek but remembered to hold on to her hand and not let go. He kicked his feet, searching for solid ground.

    The wind rushed past his ears, tangling his hair, making his eyes water. 

    Every time the adult flapped her gigantic wings the noise of hundreds of feathers made his ears ring with the thunderous movements. 

    But… his curiosity overtook his fear. Would he get wings like that?

    Wings like the birds he saw in the park? Or maybe like the dragonflies in his garden? Maybe like the colorful butterflies that he always attempted to coax onto his finger? Or perhaps the black and red ladybugs he liked to let crawl all over his fingers?

    As suddenly as the ground had left from beneath him, Patton stood upright once again, this time on the greenest grass he had ever seen.

    “This is my home, Patton. You may stay here for as long as you wish.” The adult gestured to a ladder hanging from a tree branch, connections to something obscured by the dark green leaves that were as big as Patton himself. 

    “Oh! Thanks! Um, what should I call you?”

    “You may call me whatever you wish, but my name is Noelani.”

    “Okay! Thank you, Miss N!”

    ***

Over the years, Miss N became Miss Noelani, which simply became Noelani, who became Patton’s friend. 

And over the years, Patton sprouted his wings- they had come through small and itchy at first, and he was unused to the new weight on his back. His feathers had grown in, small and fluffy at first but becoming larger and sleeker and his wings grew. He had been in this world, the one he began to call home, for almost two years when he could finally fly on his own. Noelani had taught him, by coaxing him to jump off tree branches and trust he would catch himself. He had been afraid, at first, even terrified. But Now?

Now he flew everywhere, stretching his arms in the wind, laughing as he let the air blow through his feathers, grinning as he plummeted towards the ground and caught himself at the last second. 

There were contests held every full moon, and Patton had competed in them for as long as he had been able to fly. He had started wobbly, unsure, but once he grew into his wings?

He was unbeatable. He was the best flier there was, darting in between trees and taking sharper turns than any others dared to. 

The cheers of the audience fueled him to go faster, faster, faster! He stretched a handout, reaching for the finish line. 

“Come on, Chick!” Noelani’s shouts of encouragement could be heard over everyone else’s cheering. 

A burst of speed and Patton flew ahead of the other competitors by a full wing length, stopping only when he landed on the branch behind the finish line. The wingbeats of other races still hadn’t stopped, though one by one they joined Patton on the branch. When the last competitor landed, everyone began to give their congratulations. 

“Good race! That was close!” Patton smiled at the second-place finisher, who in turn shook his hand. 

“Maybe I’ll beat you next time, Pat!”

“You can certainly try!”

“Chick! You were amazing!”

Patton turned to see Noelani coming through the small crowd, a grin on her face. Her hair was shorter than when Patton had first met her, and the feathers on her jet black wings had dulled, but her smile was still the same. 

“You know, when I was your age-” Noelani was cut off by Patton’s laugh. She glared and continued. “When I was your age, I could never have done that!”

She took Patton into a hug and handed him a towel when she pulled away. “You’re so sweaty! Gross!”

“It’s not that bad!” Patton wiped his forehead and grimaced, “Okay, maybe it is that bad.”

“Come on, Chick! Clean up and I’ll get you some food.” 

Patton nodded and turned back to the other racers, giving them a final grin before leaving.

“Hey! Patton! Wait!”

He turned around to see the second-place finisher running towards him. 

“Here, I wanted to give you this.” He handed Patton a small pastry. “I made it myself. Don’t eat it yet, save it for when you start to get sore.”

“Oh! Thanks! I’m sure I’ll enjoy it!”

Patton slipped the pastry into his pocket and waved as he began to fly after Noelani, allowing himself to glide in the wind instead of frantically flapping his wings to propel himself even faster. 

It was only after a meal of freshly picked fruit and homemade bread that Patton remembered the pastry he had been given by the second-place finisher- what was his name? Something that began with a D… oh well, Patton would have to thank him later!

“Someone gave this to me,” Patton said as he took the pastry out of his pocket, several crumbs falling onto the table. “Would you like to split it?”

Noelani shook her head. “It’s yours.”

Patton nodded and took a bite, and immediately felt the tightness in his shoulders and wings disappear. He was always sore after a race, and usually was for a few days after that, but not anymore.  

    Before Patton could take another bite, Noelani gasped. 

    “Patton! Patton, you-”

    He looked at Noelani, and before she could make another sound, Patton let out a scream. 

    “I- 'm- I can’t see my hands- what’s happening to me!?”

    Noelani grabbed his shoulders and pulled him into a tight hug. “Patton, listen to me. Listen to me! Whatever happens, you can find your way back. You can find your way back, and I will be waiting here for you.”

    “But- I don’t want to leave! Noelani, what’s happening!? Noelani-!”

    One minute, Patton was holding tight to his friend and in her home, and the next he was surrounded by a pile of feathers on the asphalt of an old weathered playground, illuminated by glaring streetlights in the absence of the sun. 

    “No! No! Let me back… let me back!” Patton pounded his first against a tree, begging, pleading for a door to appear until his hands became bloody.

Crying, begging, pleading for a way home. 

A gust of wind began to blow through the park, and Patton began to frantically grab his feathers from dispersing in the gust. He wouldn’t let what was left of his home be scattered away from him. sand

With an armful of gray feathers and eyes full of salty tears, Patton began to walk to where he remembered his parents’ house to be, his bare feet leading him across the cold concrete sidewalks of the too-bright neighborhoods. 

He wondered briefly what someone would make of him, an unfamiliar teenager walking barefoot through the street, carrying nothing but a bundle of gigantic feathers and wearing a sky blue tunic with an open back. 

Already he missed his home, missed the familiar weight of his wings, missed the way Noelani’s feathers would tickle his cheeks when they hugged. 

He paused at the sidewalk leading up to the house where he had lived for the first ten years of life yet had never truly called home. His home would always be at Noelani’s nest, where he would spend hours leaping between branches to find the sweetest fruits, where he would chase after the crows and sparrows, could bake the perfect meals on top of a fireplace, where he could practice racing around her tree- 

He took a gasp of breath, and before doubts could creep into his mind, knocked at the door and winced as another cut on his fist opened up.

After a minute of waiting, he began to worry. What if his parents had moved away? Then where would he stay while he waited for his door to come back? Or what if they no longer remembered him? Though he had never called this place home, he still loved his mother and father! What would he do if he never got to say goodbye, to tell them where he was?

The door opened with a familiar creak.

“Patton?”

“Hi, dad!” Patton put on a smile, a performance for his family. 

“What- Patton!” His mother appeared behind his father and put her hand over her mouth in disbelief. “Where have you been? And- how- how do you look so much older-?”

“What do you mean? Mom, I’m sixteen and Noelani always said I had a baby face!” He chuckled, although laughter was the last thing on his mind.

“Patton, you’re twelve! You’ve been missing for two years!”

“Patton, come inside. Tell us everything you can. Should we call the police? Honey, I think we should call the police!” His father added. 

“The police? Why would you do that?” Patton tilted his head to the side in confusion, a habit he had picked up from the birds that he had befriended. 

“BECAUSE YOU HAVE BEEN MISSING FOR TWO YEARS! BECAUSE YOU LOOK SIXTEEN WHEN YOU SHOULD BE TWELVE!” 

His mother shouted and looked surprised at herself for being so loud. His father put a hand on his shoulder and led him to the couch- a different couch than the one Patton remembered. This one was new, shiny leather, while the one he remembered had been soft red fabric. He felt his hair get staticky, and the feathers in his arm- which his mother seemed to just now notice, and wrinkled her nose at the sight of them- began to stick up. 

“Patton, tell us what happened. We care about you, son,” his father said gently. Patton didn’t know why, but the thought of being called ‘son’ brought out an emotion he didn’t like. So he did what he always did: ignored the feeling and began to talk. 

He talked about how he had been hiding and found the door that didn’t belong, how he walked through the hallway and climbed up the staircase, where Noelani had found him and taken him to her nest. He told them what Noelani had said, that the world was full of magic, that birds were the carriers and messengers of that magic, how the birds gave all humans wings so they could fly between the gigantic trees that held houses, or sometimes even cities. 

He told his parents about racing, and about the war he had always known he would have to fight to protect his home. He told them about the racing he did to distract himself from his visions of battles, the training he did so that when the war came, he would be able to protect his friends. 

And he told them about the last race he ever won, before fading away while pleading to stay with Noelani, to stay in his home, to stay in the world of birds and flight and magic and everything else he loved. The world where someone cared about him for who he was. 

When he finished his story, there was a beat of silence before his father spoke up. 

“Patton, I think you should get to sleep. We kept your bed in your room, and you can borrow some of my pajamas for the night. We can talk about this more in the morning.” 

And with that, Patton was sent up the familiar stairs to an unfamiliar room. Everything left in there was coated in a layer of dust- only a bookshelf with some stuffed animals and old books next to a bed he didn't remember being that small. Patton knew there should have been more things- toys strewn across the floor, a baby-blue rug, a lego set of a cat. His parents must have cleaned up while he was gone. 

He realized he still had his feathers in his arms. He dropped them to the floor and dragged the neatly made blanket off the bed, and began to build himself a sleeping nest like the one he had at home. 

When he was satisfied with his work, he lay down and covered himself in the largest feathers he had carried from the park- his dark gray flight feathers. 

It took him too long to fall asleep, but when he awoke and went downstairs, he found his father waiting for him. 

“Son,” he began. “I’ve done some research, and I think the best place for you to be is a boarding school. Thomas Sanders’ Home For Wayward Children. I heard he deals with… cases… such as yours.”

***

A week after the conversation that Patton had no say in, he found himself carrying a bag and a suitcase across a cobblestone pathway to an imposing, mansion-like structure where a man waited for him at the door. 

“You must be Patton, right?” The man asked, holding out his hand in greeting. 

“Yes, sir,” Patton replied, attempting to hide the fear in his voice. He hadn’t been with his parents in years, but he still remembered that any school he would be sent to was almost guaranteed to be one of religious teachings. 

The man waved him off. “No need for formalities, you can call me Thomas! Or Mr. Sanders, whichever you prefer. Now, Patton, may I ask what your world was like?”

“My- my world? Um, I go to church every Sunday and-“

“No, no! Not this world! The one you call home. Mine was one of the trees of every color, with the softest grass, and fairies hiding in every flower, dryads in every tree. And not the kind of fairies your parents likely despise! Oh- sorry, that was probably a little odd. Never mind that, tell me about your world!”

Thomas led Patton through the sturdy oak doors into the house- if it could be called that. From the outside, it looked like a single house had been built onto until it became a sprawling maze of living rooms, and the inside was even more confusing.

The entry hall alone had painted portraits that looked like they belonged in museums, not hung on wallpaper that looked like it was from the seventies. A crystal chandelier cast oddly shaped shadows across the multitude of doors that connected to the hall. 

“My world… my world was one where birds carried magic and gave it to any who they thought was worthy. I made friends there. Some were like me, humans who were given wings. Others were birds. Sparrows, crows, finches, ravens, robins… I loved them all. And- and I want to go back.”

“I understand, Patton. Almost everyone here wants to go back. It’s my job to try to help you and these other kids not be so homesick while we all wait for our doors.”

“Th- thank you. I haven’t been away from home for more than a week and I already miss it.”

“You will never miss home any less, but I hope the weight of missing it gets easier to carry. Now come on, let’s get you settled. I can-“

Thomas was cut off by a crash coming from what sounded to be far above their heads. He cringed and continued. “I need to go fix that. Ah, Nico can show you your room. Pryce, if you’re doing what I think you’re doing, stop it! Nico!”

Thomas took off in a sprint through one of the doors, leaving Patton alone in the entry hall until another man came running in. 

“Hi, you must be Patton! I’m Nico. Nico Flores-Sanders. I help my husband around the school. I’ll show you to your room, and make sure Janus doesn't kill you,” he laughed and took Patton’s suitcase. 

“Uh, that was a joke, right?” Patton asked tentatively. 

“Mostly, yes. We did have to break up a fight between them and another student, though. To be fair, the other student was being, ah, quite a jerk.”

Patton nodded. Don’t be a jerk, and don’t start a fight. Those seemed like easy enough rules to follow. 

“Here, up this staircase and the first door on the right. If you get lost, you can always ask your roommate for directions. Somehow they were faster at learning their way around than I was!”

“You went here, too?”

“Yup! Though back in my day, it was called Eleanor West’s Home. She didn’t actually run this building, she ran one on the upper east coast. Thomas and I met when we were both in school, and when he took over, I helped him run it.”

“Oh! You two must be really good friends!”

Nico began to laugh, and Patton couldn’t understand what he had said that was so funny. 

“Ooo-Kay. Here’s your room. Janus! Your roommate is here!” 

Nico knocked, and Patton’s new roommate opened the door. 

“Uh, hi. I’m Patton.”

“Janus. They and them pronouns. If you call me he or she, I will break your knee.”

“Janus, what have we said about cryptic and threatening introductions? Please make Patton feel welcome,” Nico scolded.

Janus rolled their eyes and gestured with a gloved hand for Patton to come in. They waved at Nico, who gave a smile and closed the door. In the dim light, Patton could see the odd appearance of the person he’d be sharing a room with. 

Janus wore a black bowler hat, a bit of wavy brown hair sticking out of it and hanging in their eyes, which Patton could tell, even in the dark, were two different colors. The most startling thing about their appearance, though, was the scar that ran from their left eye down to their chin.

“That’s your bed, on that side. I hope you don’t mind the dark because the curtains stay closed at all times. I have a space heater, so if it gets too hot in here, I will move it but under no circumstances will I turn it off. And I meant what I said, if you use any pronouns for me besides they and them, I will not hesitate.”

Patton did not ask “hesitate to do what?” because he was pretty sure he knew the answer. However, he did ask, “why are your pronouns they/them?”

“I am non-binary. Neither a man nor woman. It falls under the transgender umbrella.”

Patton just nodded and thought for a minute. “Am I non-binary, too?”

Janus raised an eyebrow. “You can be if you feel like it fits you.”

He began to unpack his suitcase and bag, putting his feathers on the bed and clothes in the dresser. He had refused to let anyone touch his feathers, his reminder that his home had really existed, that he wasn’t just making things up like his parents insisted that he was. When he was done making a proper nest on the floor with the pillows, blankets, and what was left of his wings, he turned to Janus.

“I’m Patton, and I think I’m non-binary, too. I went to a world where birds were magic and humans could get wings. And, um, thank you for not breaking my knees.”

That night, as Patton curled into his makeshift nest, he felt like she belonged somewhere for the first time since he had faded from Noelani’s hug. 

[aethelflaedladyofmercia]

Coming...Someday I hope o gawd: Aftermath

One more preview! (Though let me know if you enjoyed these.)

As I was completing “What it Means to Be A Demon” I began working on a Noah’s Ark fic, also part of Sawdust of Words. The idea was that it would be shorter than WIMTBAD and have a more even balance of hurt and comfort (as opposed to a massive hurt fest with about the minimal amount of comfort that still made for a satisfying ending).

At current count, it stands around 25k and is a mess. A mess that has defeated multiple beta readers’ ability to try and get it in order. And tbh I haven’t touched it in a while BUT I still intend to finish it one day!

(Seriously, I even foreshadowed some of it in WIMTBAD, because I do plan things. You don’t even want to know what my brain is like.)

I’ve posted about my issues before, but the main ones are:

1. I started trying to do this in media res/jumping between timelines thing that was really cool in my head. It did not work. I now have a bunch of random scenes with no idea how they’re all supposed to hang together.

2. Shockingly, this is angstier than I expected. The angst also went in an unexpected direction. Specifically, ummm...there’s quite a bit that deals with the psychological trauma of isolation. Hoo boy, did I not expect THAT to resonate so strongly when I started in December 2019!

But! I am determined to finish this, not least because it contains a few puzzle pieces to the larger Sawdust of Words story. And also because we all love our Noah’s Ark Angst.

So in the interest of trying to convince myself, I give you the first two scenes! (Maybe. Depends if I do the in media res thing or not.)

And only the first two. We hit the angst fast in this. If I added the third and DIDN’T have the rest of the fic ready to go you would all hate me forever.

--

Mesopotamian Floodplain, 3004 BC

It was not exactly the joyful reunion Crawley had been anticipating for a thousand years.

“But they’re drowning everyone else?”

Aziraphale nodded, biting his lips, refusing to meet Crawley’s eyes no matter how they bored into him.

Rain clouds gathered from every direction, boiling in the sky above. Thunderheads miles tall, shading from black to grey to white, stretched from horizon to horizon, looming like a nightmare, while blue-white lightning flashed from one to the next.

It had reminded Crawley of the day they met. As he’d approached the crowd, wondering what the excitement was all about, he’d felt the glowing presence of an angel nearby. He’d been delighted to see Aziraphale again, to find out what he’d been up to for the last three hundred sixty-two thousand five hundred thirty-three days.

That hadn’t lasted long.

The demon glanced down again, taking in the line of animals making their way towards an enormous boat, sat incongruously in the middle of the summer-dry desert. Nearby, a group of children chased each other, blissfully unaware of what was about to happen.

“Not the kids. You can’t kill kids.”

“Mmm-hmmm.”

And that was it. Aziraphale was going to stand there and watch this happen. Without a word.

He shouldn’t be surprised. He shouldn’t be disappointed. After all, Aziraphale was an angel.

That was what angels did.

--

“What, precisely, do you think you’re going to do?” Aziraphale demanded, chasing after Crawley, hands waving uselessly at the raging demon. Already the wind was setting their robes to flap wildly, twisting Crawley’s long hair this way and that.

“I don’t know but – I’m not going to just stand there like – like an angel.”

For a moment, he thought that would be enough. He walked away, leaving Aziraphale to glare at him in that superior angelic way, effect only slightly ruined by the way his jaw hung open.

But the next moment, there he was again, clutching at his pristine cream robes and half-running to try and get in front of Crawley. “Look, there’s nothing you can do. The rains will start any moment and then –”

“And then everyone drowns. I hope you have a good seat reserved.”

“Actually –”

Crawley spun to pin the angel with his most furious scowl. Aziraphale froze, gulping as if to swallow his own tongue, shrinking back. “I’ll be…I’ve been assigned to stay on the Ark. Watch over Noah’s family.”

“Have you.”

“It’s…it’s a great honor.”

Crawley didn’t even know what to say.

“Well. Congratulations, Angel. Good to see you’ve gone up in the world since we last met.” Aziraphale had the audacity to almost-smile at that, and Crawley felt the bile rising in his throat. “So. You’re going to be safe and dry inside that Ark, while all these people die? You’re going to sit there with your head tucked under your wings and pretend it’s not happening?”

“No. I’ll…” Aziraphale was staring at his own clasped hands, as if trying to memorize the way the carefully manicured fingers twisted. “I was…I plan to…to watch.”

“Watch? Watch?” Crawley spun away. “You disgust me, Aziraphale.”

This time the angel made no effort to follow him. But Crawley didn’t get far. Just ahead, he saw a young woman leading a child by the hand, returning to the mudbrick houses in the distance. He spun, pointing at them. “Are you going to tell me these people – this whole village – is so wicked, the Almighty has no choice but to kill them all?”

Aziraphale bit his lips, twisting his head as if trying to find some direction to look. He certainly wasn’t looking where Crawley pointed, or towards the village, or the Ark…

“What? Not just the town?” He could see the angel flinch. “How far?”

“Gabriel…” Aziraphale cleared his throat, re-clasping his hands behind his back. “Gabriel implied…The whole river valley, I should think. All the way back to the mountains.”

“But that’s…that’s thousands of people!”

“Yes, Crawley,” he snapped, finally bringing his cold blue eyes up to meet the demon’s glare. “Thousands of people who are many days’ travel away but it’s…it’s part of the Plan. There’s a Reason for this and there’s…there’s nothing you can do.”

The first drops of rain fell, steaming hot on his shoulders, to be drunk greedily by the parched ground.

“Jusst watch me.”

----

So uhhhhh yup. Thoughts?