#Human Madame Flurrie

[shesjustanothergeek]

His Love

|Aegon II Targaryen x Fem!Reader|

Part Nineteen

Masterlist of Series

Summary: Being a bastard born in the slums of Flea Bottom was all you were known for. Not the streak of white you had in your dark hair, the violet ring around your pupils, or how your sharp tongue and skills with the blade resembled your father, Daemon Targaryen. You were just a bastard, nothing more, but to him, to Aegon Targaryen, you were everything. You were his love.

Author's Note: I felt this story severely lacks dragon content. I want to make up for that. I hope you enjoy the little spice I've sprinkled in there toward the end. ;) Thank you so much for your support!!

Chapter Warnings: Implied cannibalism, dubcon.

Translation Guide: Zaldrītsos ipradagon: little dragon eater. Pālēs: turn. Kelītīs: halt. Lykirī: calm. Dohaerās: serve. (I tried my best to use proper grammar. Please don't call the High Valryian police.)

"Father, don't blame us for trying to live, for trying to love, for wanting more? Why did you dress our pleasure up as greed? While you're limiting our love, taking sunlight from the seed? Why did you give us hearts we don't understand, like an apple in our hand that you'll never let us have?" - AURORA, The Devil is Human.

It was midday before you decided to venture from your cotton sheets, letting you and the servants rest as much as possible before ringing the bell that signaled them to your room. Your ladies did not commence the morning ritual you had come to despise. They, too, must have also participated in a celebration last night and were nursing the same headache as you.

You stretched and yawned as you basked in the yellow afternoon sun that peeked through the emerald curtains, relaxing your achy muscles. The balcony appeared relatively comfortable in the daylight, and you decided to venture out, sitting on a cushioned bench. A cold breeze passed through King's Landing, picking up the withered plants across the ground and billowing your night dress around your bare ankles.

Winter was only weeks away. The once viridian foliage was now barren, revealing the wooden bones of each plant. The grass was a burnt orange from the lack of nutrients the soil provided, and no more earthy-smelling flowers were sprouting within the cracks of the flagstones. Death and decay surrounded you, bringing comfort despite how desolate everything appeared.

You hoped that snow would fall in the coming months. It would be the closest thing to home again.

You could reminisce fondly about your first wintertide at Dragonstone, the thick flurry of snowflakes blanketing the sandy beaches and rocks that covered the island, but never upon the castle itself. You remembered staring out of one of the many black stone towers and observing the steam rising from a carved basilisk as the slush melted. It was as if the haunting creature had the heat of a living being. It disturbed you immensely, plaguing you with endless nightmares alone in your apartments.

For the small folk, winter in King's Landing was always strife. Sickness and starvation were rampant throughout Flea Bottom that time of year, inflicting everyone no matter how plentiful the harvest was. It agonized you to no end each season you spent at Dragonstone, your stomach in knots if Madam or the other residents had enough to eat and if they managed to survive whatever illness spread.

The wintertime of your sixth year was the most gruesome. The growing season was met with drought, and when it came time to harvest, the merchant carts were bare. Ma tried to conceal the difficulty that year brought by distracting you with oral lessons in history and math, but no matter how much a parent attempted to protect their child, it was never enough.

You remembered the taste of the stale loaf of bread the whores shared throughout the week, the texture of jerky meat, and the ache it gave your jaw when chewing.

The atrocities you witnessed your fellow neighbors commit left you feeling hollow, memories of people burying the emaciated bodies of their kin only to dig them up. You were uncertain why they would do such a thing at the time. It was a sin against the Seven to desecrate the bodies of the deceased, and you had questioned Ma why they would do it. She hadn't given you an answer then, but you didn't need one. You already knew. Even in your youth, you could comprehend the atrocities of man.

Though you were a Targaryen, the hot blood of the dragon coursing through your veins, you preferred the colder weather.

Perhaps the reason was because of the Northern blood within you. It was rumored that your mother came from the area, but exactly where you were unconfident. The only other person who could attest to your mother's lineage besides herself was dead, swept from this mortal realm by the Hand and the Stranger, their head on a spike left to rot until forgotten. But you would remember. You would never forget nor forgive.

You thought back to the feast and how scores of meals were brought out and left over by the end. The scraps alone were enough to feed the entirety of the slums and still have more than enough to satiate all the guests. You hadn't felt remorseful at the time as you indulged yourself in a slice of ham, but in the light of day, the unawareness of your actions caused a profound contempt to grow. Gazing over the hundreds of cottages in various architectural states made you realize how disconnected you became from your roots.

Living a life of luxury made you into what you despised as a child—an out-of-touch, uppity, supercilious highborn.

You and the court members had more in common than you admitted, which was disgusting in and of itself. A sickening feeling of self-hatred permeated in your gut, causing you to retreat into the comfort of your space.

You needed to change. You needed to use your position of power to help the people of King's Landing.

You hadn't realized you were pacing until your ladies entered your room, a silver tray of tea and fruits in Dyana's hands. Fiora gave a charming grin in greeting as Jeyne went straight to your wardrobe, a storm of crimson skirts.

"Good morn Princess," the littlest maid said, placing your food on a table.

You smiled in admission, but it did not reach your eyes, putting your thumb between your teeth and pulling a piece of dead skin. Fiora and Dyana changed your sheets, replacing the breathable cotton with thicker wool as you broke your fast. The red cherries stained the tips of your fingers, mixing with the blood from your torn cuticles, the juice burning the open skin. You didn't wince at the pain, continuing to eat as your mind conjured up different ideas for the future.

From this moment on, you promised yourself never to stop. Never douse the flames of your drive to do what needs to be done. You would burn any lord, lady, prince, king, or queen who stood in your way.

***

The day continued without a hitch. Most of the guests from last night were still asleep or had already left for their homes while you were resting.

It was pleasant to walk the halls without having to create a polite conversation with people who would turn in the same breath and spread vicious rumors of your brother's parentage and spit vile insults that always referenced your birth. As twisted as it was, you hoped that one day you would hear something more interesting than the word "bastard." But it might be too much to ask the people at court to use their minds for something besides counting how many coins they reaped from their land.

Truthfully, you didn't have much to do. There were no Council meetings after events like these; everyone was still recovering from the night of debauchery, even the men who helped run the kingdom. It left you with nothing to do except plot and scheme and live within the torture of your mind.

You made your servants dress you in your favorite winter riding clothes to mark the season's coming. A magnificent statement piece that Rhaenyra commissioned for you as a Winter Solstice present.

The short, long-sleeved dress bathed your frame in flowing blood-red velvet trimmed with black braiding and lace with a high collar secured at the neckline to protect you from freezing temperatures. A dramatic steel pin of a three-headed dragon kept the heavy material together on your shoulders. A collection of practical and fashionable buttons were sewn onto the fabric to cover your torso, stopping at your hips to give you a range of motion and the allusion of a full gown to hide the trousers underneath.

You decided to take advantage of the rare break to see your dragon. You felt terrible for neglecting Cannibal the past week, leaving him to explore the skies of King's Landing in his solitude. He was accustomed to a life of isolation. Most of his fellow species were terrified of him and left the black dragon alone for a good reason.

In the beginning, Cannibal did not take well to being kept in the part of Dragonmont where the other creatures were, thrashing in the Keepers' hold like an unbroken stallion and breaking the chains that bound him multiple times.

Daemon had commanded you to beat submission into Cannibal more than once, giving you a long whip to have him obey your commands. You were hesitant and felt your heart shatter as the leather cracked his scales, but after much arguing, your father convinced you that it was the only way. Beasts like the Cannibal did not listen to any other language.

You had snuck out of the castle the evening it happened, leading the ferocious animal out of the caves and letting him fly to his home on the eastern side. There was a silent understanding between rider and dragon that night as you stared into his menacing green eyes.

Cannibal felt your sorrow for hurting him, realizing that you were just as afraid in your ways, lashing out whenever threatened and angry at the world for things you could not control. That night he lowered himself willingly to let you ride, taking you over the islands of Driftmark, Sharp Point, and Claw Isle. He did not speed through the midnight skies but soared high and low, letting his pointed wings slice the salty waters below and glide over the clouds until all you saw were stars and the waxing moon.

Since then, you and the Cannibal had a true bond of rider and dragon. Not one owning the other, but equals on land and the sky.

Unsurprisingly, you could not find your dragon within the Pit as you explored and asked the Keepers if he had appeared. While Cannibal had stopped briefly, attempting to enter for a snack but wisely deciding against it, no one had seen him.

You continued journeying undeterred, following your instincts as you traveled along the outer ring of walls in the Red Keep, enjoying the brisk air on your cheeks. You found a small exit that went out to private beach access. To those outside these red rock walls, it was only accessible by boat. You were optimistic he would be there, curled under one of the many rocky cliffs that reminded you both of home.

Sure enough, you saw the droppings that could only belong to a beast of his size. There were tracks on the shore, indents, and drag marks throughout the pale sand. Piles of bones leading up to where you spotted him, eyes shut and scales so dark that it looked like there was a hole in this realm. You noticed his nostrils twitch as you drew closer, indicating that he caught the scent of what you carried and was awake.

"Zaldrītsos ipradagon," you called in a sing-song voice, feigning to creep behind him as you scratched his tail with your fingers.

Cannibal pretended to nap, acting as if you couldn't see how his eyelids moved.

"Zaldrītsos ipradagon," you repeated, walking closer to his horned head. "I know you are sore that I have neglected you these past days, but I've brought something that I think you'll like..." you trailed off, exaggerating the last word.

Finally, he opened his eyes, the vivid yellow-green of his irises indicating that this massive void was an animal. You revealed the dragon egg that you stole from Dreamfyre's clutch.

"You know, I barely made it out alive," you taunted, raising the textured brown oval as Cannibal unhinged his jaws.

Before he could take a bite, you leaped away, hiding his present behind your back as he let out a warning growl. You rolled your eyes, the cruelness of your actions not lost on you.

"Oh, please. If you eat me, who else would risk their lives to steal another dragon's child for you?" you interrogated as if he could talk. "Exactly. No one. You would be all alone again, hoping someone like me would come along so you don't have to work for food again. I think you have become rather lazy over the years. Mayhaps I should stop bringing you food and make you fend for yourself, hmm?"

You felt the earth tremble beneath your feet as Cannibal stood, shaking the stray sand that landed on his body as he bared his elongated teeth.

Numerous people said that dragons couldn't comprehend the common tongue and that it was pointless to communicate with them, but it wasn't about what language you spoke, but how you felt as you said it. All animals could sense the emotions of other beings; you didn't have to bark to have a dog listen to you. You didn't have to squeal so that pigs knew when their slop was coming; they could sense it-- sense you.

You had grown a habit of testing the limits of Cannibal's basic instincts, wondering in the back of your mind if today might be the day he loses himself to his past and becomes the monster the small folk of Dragonstone believed him to be.

But the conviction you held within your bond would snuff that out quicker than he could fry a hatchling. It didn't make it any less frightening, though, as a roar blew loose the hair from your pined style, saliva splattering on your forehead.

"Fine! Here!" you relented, throwing the egg directly into his opening mouth as he chewed with a stomach-turning crunch.

He still wore the custom leather saddle between two large spikes on his lower neck. It was always a hassle for the Keepers to take off, and you needed more time to remove it when you first arrived at King's Landing. Cannibal became accustomed to it and hardly noticed the thirty-stone piece of equipment as he continued his hermit lifestyle.

"Let us fly today," you spoke softly, with no hint of your jesting tone from earlier. I shall see if I can wrangle you something live when we finish. Some pork would settle nicely in your gut, don't you think?"

You stood with a giddy smile as Cannibal lowered himself so you could clutch hold of the rope ladder along his side, adjusting until you were satisfied in your seat. You loved the aching stretch the saddle gave between your legs, your dragon pushing from the sand into the skies. That was also a relaxing feeling for him as he flapped his enormous midnight wings.

Cannibal took you over the entire townlet, soaring above the small folk as they halted and stared. Seeing as three claimed dragons were already housed within Rhaenys's hill, one being the largest in history, it shouldn't have been such a marvel to them. Though you took the admiration in stride, commanding your dragon with a "dracarys" as a burst of orange flames spewed from his massive jaws into the blue sky. You could hear the awe within their murmurs, smiling down at them as you shared your gift.

Your little dragon eater was more than happy to put on a show, nose-diving into a crowd of onlookers as they watched with horror and shrieks, sure that the beast was going to kill them before he abruptly swooped up, leaving them unharmed and knocking them over from the sheer force.

It was freeing to be on Dragonback. Especially when your dragon was more feared than even the war-hardened Vhagar, flown by the notoriously haughty One-Eyed Prince. To feel the wind whipping your hair, biting your cheeks, the sun warming you with its intense glow. You could feel the moisture from the clouds collecting on your thick black braids, creating tiny water droplets that glimmered like diamonds.

You flew over Blackwater Bay, the sea mist collecting on your eyelashes, the salty taste bursting on your tongue as you licked your lips. There were merchant ships larger than Balerion's skeleton residing at the many docks, the crew members looking like tiny grains of rice as they loaded shipments and hoisted sails.

As a child stuck to the sandstone streets of Flea Bottom, you never imagined yourself as someone who would one day be claiming the skies. The girl who once looked above at the stars as she sat on Lyra's lap was now one with them; what you wouldn't give for her to see you now.

Leaning your body and shouting the command, "pālēs!" Cannibal took you over the Blackwater Rush. Signs of life grew scarce and left only a few small villages along the river, their brick and mortar chimneys emitting the smell of woodsmoke as you soared over them. You were sure that those who saw the speeding dragon were met with fright. The almost demonic-looking blackness absorbed all light briefly before they were again met with the comforting rays.

The Red Keep came into view through the horizon as you circled back, the tallest structure in King's Landing sitting atop Aegon's Hill. Cannibal descended over the high pale redstone buildings, his wings barely a meter away from the tiled roof of the Tower of the Hand. With a smirk, you hoped that Otto was in there, crouching behind the stacks of parchment on his desk.

Suddenly, a roar sounded in the air. Your head swiveled around your body, searching for the noise, but you couldn't find it. You assumed the sun blinded your vision, causing your brown orbs to burn with water. You dug your palms into your sockets, rubbing the sting away as you felt Cannibal ascend.

The screech boomed again, followed by the sound of the wings of a dragon. You turned, prepared for the bright golden glow of the beast's scales. Aegon sat snuggly on his saddle, whipping the reigns so Sunfyre would go faster. You groaned in annoyance at the drunkard prince, shaking your head and commanding Cannibal to lose them before you decided to land.

"Put that wastrel of a man in his place, Cannibal," you snarked. "I promise to allow you as many Dragonkeepers that can fit into your mouth if you do." You swore he nodded in response, beating his ebony wings harder against the wind.

The frigid air pricked your eyes like needles, ripping out more strands of hair as they scratched against the sides of your face. You were glad you chose a warmer riding outfit, for the sun's heat was overpowered by the biting cold that dried your skin.

Cannibal showcased his skills, creating a distance between you and Aegon faster than his dragon could blink. You led them back to the original path you took. The fabric awnings that covered merchant stands ripped from where they were nailed as you flew by, carts carrying fruits and vegetables toppling over as your two dragons raced above. Turning sharply above the slums of houses you once frequented, you went to the port of Blackwater Bay, even more, populated than the inner mouth.

Ships of all sizes resided there, not just merchants, each coming and going, creating a mess of coordinated chaos only shipmasters could understand. The sails were various colors, Houses, and some without indicating what they were. You weaved through them, Cannibal closing his wings as his momentum carried you between the small gaps.

While you expertly dodged each boat, proudly smiling at the men below, you heard a deafening thud and crack, turning to see the pink and golden body of Sunfyre ramming into the mast of an unsuspecting crew.

"Kelītīs," you ordered Cannibal, positioning him as you saw Aegon and his dragon plummet into the brackish waters.

Panic seized your heart, telling your beast to land on the stern of the nearest ship, nearly capsizing it. Without a second thought, you dove into the icy Bay, the briny and freshwater searing your lungs. You swam to the ship Aegon crashed into, moving the floating pieces of stalwart oak out of your way as you said a silent prayer. Sunfyre's head rose above the water, flailing like a drowning cat until he pulled himself onto the sea wall.

"Aegon!" you called out, hoping he would answer you.

You paddled further into the wreckage, yelling out his name again. He still didn't answer, and you feared the worst. The repercussions of the eldest Prince's death were not in your mind; you only wanted to save a drowning man whose death would be your fault.

You inhaled quickly, forcing your eyes to stay open as you dove under the murky water. You could only see a few meters before you, the thick wool of your outfit slowing your movements and making your muscles work twice as hard. Struggling to resurface, you were met with the hull of a ship, swiftly dunking yourself again to avoid being crushed. You sucked in another breath, coughing the contaminated liquid out of your lungs as you looked at Cannibal. You screamed at him to block more ships from passing, and he pushed off, breathing a line of fire to prevent them.

The hair that had come out obscured your vision as you went under again. Your prayers were answered as you spotted an opaque figure, your fingers yanking the floating fabric of the Prince's clothes. You kicked and kicked your legs, straining against everything, pulling you under as you carried Aegon's lifeless body to the surface.

Locking your arms underneath his, you positioned him on your torso, leaning back as you swam to the port wall. The mussels and barnacles dug into your thighs, bending against the stone for support as you heaved Aegon above your head.

He spread on his rear, splayed like the Seven-Pointed Star, his ankles still hanging over the ledge. You realized he must have ingested water; using the last bit of strength, you flipped him over, smacking his back to get rid of it. Aegon sputtered a cough, water, and mucus spewing out of his mouth. You rested your arms on the top of the stone wall, catching your breath as your head turned low. The ground shuddering interrupted your rest, the water around you rippling with vibrations.

Two dragons stood face to face. One of aureate and one of coal, shimmering in the iridescent glare like a prized jewel, the other an ember of carbon and darkness. A low growl rumbled inside the anthracite one's throat; legs bent to pounce and smoke rising from its nose. The golden one put up its defenses, mimicking the stance of the other.

"Lykirī," you said breathlessly, trying to pull yourself over the levy, arms shaking. Cannibal's eyes flickered over you, unwilling to leave himself and you defenseless. "Dohaerās," you demanded firmly as your dragon obeyed, flying into the air before Sunfyre could attack.

"Princess!" a voice yelled. The clink of armor rang in your ears before two hands hoisted you onto dry land, your shins scraping against the ground.

They rolled you onto your rear, looking down with great concern. "Aegon," you panted, pointing toward the groaning man. "The Prince..." Unable to articulate, you only gestured, your tired stems quivering as you attempted to explain what happened without words.

The Cargyll twins directed their attention to the crowned Prince, helping him upright as they assured he was well. You didn't discover you were shivering until the resounding vibrations of your teeth chattering echoed in your skull. Your mind focused solely on rescuing Aegon as the sopping outfit stuck to your skin, the frigid autumn climate chilling you to the bone. A dark shadow of a man blocked what little warmth you acquired from the sunlight, squinting to decipher who he was and why he was only staring.

Ser Criston Cole stood beyond your quivering form, blankly peering down from his nose. The reflection of his silver armor seared your eyes as you turned away. 

You couldn't speak. You couldn't think, concentrating on not being shocked by the freezing temperature. Abruptly a cloak was thrown, and you secured it around your form greedily, curling into a ball to conserve your heat as Ser Cole went over to the small group forming around Aegon.

You needed to get warm.

Why couldn't you get warm?

You hugged the wool blanket closer to your body, helpless to get what every nerve fiber was screaming at you to receive. Exhaustion washed over you, your eyelids gradually drooping.

Aegon is safe; you convinced yourself. There is nothing to worry about now.

You ultimately let the tiredness take control, shutting your eyes as you let out a shuddering breath, your finger loosening around the blanket.

"Princess," the faint title echoed beyond earshot. It sounded too far away, and you couldn't be bothered to reply.

"Princess," you heard softly again.

You couldn't understand why someone was calling for you. Everything was all right now. You could rest comfortably.

Your name was unexpectedly screamed, and you barely managed to pry your lids apart to see the terrified countenance of Ser Arryk Cargyll. You felt yourself lifted onto your shanks as they buckled, causing a surge of adrenaline to wake you partially as you griped the constituents that held you.

"She is soaking wet," you heard Arryk communicate before looking down at your blanched sallow fingers, holding them together with his palms. "Princess, please forgive me for what I plan to do. I must remove your clothes or risk you getting frostbite."

You still couldn't answer, a soft groan jostling in your nose as you felt your legs give out again, shutting your eyes. Intrusive digits began to unbutton your attire, your arms weakly pushing them away in protest. You didn't understand what was happening. One moment you were soaring high atop your dragon, and the next being forcefully undressed. Did Aegon have you again?

"No. Stop. Please," you begged, sluggishly swatting Ser Arryk.

"My Lady, I beseech you," he pleaded. "You will die otherwise."

You persisted, wiggling feebly in Arryk's hold as he stripped you down to your braes and breast binder. Tears of shame and powerlessness flowed down your cheeks, the salty trails warming the area briefly before chilling on the wind burnt skin.

The blanket wrapped around you again, the knight aiding you to his white horse. It didn't feel like you were there, seeing your figure in the surroundings from an outside perspective. Arryk tried putting you onto the saddle by himself, struggling as he couldn't lift the entirety of your limp body.

There were conversations that you could not hear as you leaned against his steely armor, your breathing becoming more difficult each second you stood. Another set of limbs came to assist, resting you on the front of the leather saddle, the pommel digging into your backside as you rested against the rider's chest.

The rhythmic swaying indicated that you had begun moving, hopefully to someplace where you could rest. Preferably scorching with a hearth the size of a solar and a fire blazing like the flames, Cannibal exhaled as you felt yourself fall into a deep slumber.

***

In your subconscious, you felt a tickle on your cheek, swatting it away as you drifted back to unconsciousness.

It happened again, this time a pull to your hair. You opened your heavy eyes, your vision blurry with sleep as you rubbed the afflicted area, turning over with an annoyed grunt. Then again, but now a pinch of your nose as you shot up, lunging into the person that so desperately wanted to disturb your rest.

"You," you spat, moving to get off the intruder.

"Me." Aegon smirked.

"Why are you here?" you interrogated, sliding off the bed to the roaring fire.

"I wanted to see how you were fairing. You gave us quite a fright," he admitted, gleaming smirk still on his pink lips.

Staring at him, you searched your mind, the memories returning in flashes. You, gliding over the streets of King's Landing. You pursued by a serpent of shimmering pink, orange, and gold. Aegon, falling into the dangerous murky waters of Blackwater Bay. He watched the recognition on your face, walking to your place by the hearth.

"And to extend my endless gratitude for saving my life." You scoffed, turning away from Aegon as he clasped his hands behind his back. "What is that now? Twice? I owe you," he admitted, sitting in a green armchair.

You released a huff, trying to distance yourself from Aegon as you went to the pot of tea in the center of the table. Pouring yourself a cup, you were pleased it was still tepid, with the taste of cinnamon and cloves warming your tongue. A bowl of stew rested next to it, the hazy memory of being huddled at the fireplace with thick fabric weighing on your icy bones as you sipped on the broth.

"You would have a debt if you thought twice about your actions," you cursed without thinking. "Do you ever think about how they affect other people? How they affect your wife, your mother... how they affect me?" Aegon's head lowered, his choppy blonde hair draping over his face as he fiddled with his fingers. "Look at me when I am speaking!" you yelled, storming over to where he sat.

"I am not going to lecture you as the Queen does, for you are well enough to know better. I want you to listen to me, hear my words." You kneeled before him, forcing Aegon's glassy eyes to meet your raging ones. "Your drinking and whoring wounds me deeply. You say that I am to put my trust within you, but then you lead two slaves into your bed, a place that we have shared. A place where I-" You choked on your words, a thick lump suddenly forming as you looked away.

You hadn't meant for this to become emotional. Your original intent was to have him whimpering at your feet and begging you to forgive him. The appeal of your sex was the key reason, but you were shaken. Watching in horror as Aegon fell into the Bay had scared you, truly and sincerely. It would've been partially on your hands, and his death, you realized, was not something you could stomach.

"We are allowed to have fun and forget our duty at times. I understand that our life is not what we would have chosen if given the choice, but we must take into account others. We do not have the freedom to forget people as others do with us. If we do then we become the ones who have hurt us, loosing our true selves."

Before you could continue, Aegon released a loud sob, slumping in the chair with his head in his palms. The sound was like an arrow to the heart, pricking your eyes with the intensity of it.

"I'm sorry. I am so, so sorry. I have tried to be everything they wanted of me. To be the son my father dreamed of, to be a boy my mother could love," he cried, his shoulders shaking. "Why don't they love me? Why does no one love me? Am I truly such a monster?"

You inhaled a ragged breath, pursing your lips as you held back your tears. You could not bring yourself to give Aegon the assurance he needed. He was not a good man by any means. He participated in child fighting pits, gambled to the point of gluttony, and bedded women who were willing and those who were coerced. By certain standards, he was a monster, but not to you. You could see behind the heinous actions he committed was a boy who never learned what was right and wrong. A boy who was neglected and abused since he was born for reasons he could never control, tormented by the realization that he would never receive happiness.

Aegon was a drunkard, a slut, a craven, a wastrel, and a deadbeat, but he was no monster. You knew that to be true even when blinded by loathing, rage, and grief.

Your chin began to quiver, and your pulse began to race as you extended a hand, wrapping your fingers around his wrist. Aegon snapped his head up, his glimmery amethyst eyes glistening in an ocean of tears as you rested his palm against your cheek.

"You are broken, as am I, but we are no monsters." You placed a chaste kiss against his wrinkled skin, showing him your sincerity.

Aegon's lips trembled in his pout, so deeply moved by your words that he collapsed into you. You returned comfort, snaking your arms around him and smoothing his frizzy hair as he cried into the crook of your neck, wetting the fabric of your nightgown with his tears.

You stayed together like that until his sobs turned into hiccups, squeezing you tightly against him as he steadied his breathing. Even then, you did not let go, ridding him of his shoes and outer tunic as you led him to your bed. You were both drained, on a constant emotional overdrive that sucked the energy straight from your souls.

Settling onto the top sheet of your feather tick mattress, you held your arm to Aegon, signaling he could lay beside you. He crawled in like a child to a parent with a nightmare, seeking the comfort of their protective embrace. You let him lean his head on your chest, your back propped up against the collection of pillows at the headboard.

His index traced the curve of your knee, sending tingles up your leg and into your chest. It was intimate, an action one would make to their lover, but it didn't startle you. And the fact that it didn't give you that nauseating feeling in your stomach did not frighten you either. You allowed his digits to slide further up your leg, to your navel, sternum, and back down again. It caused gooseflesh to cover your arms, your nipples hardening with the rush.

Aegon's back settled on your plush thighs, your heart racing out of your chest as he stared with his cracked, shimmering amethyst eyes. He looked like a boy, younger than your brothers, and you knew exactly what broken boys like him needed.

Wordlessly you undid the front strings of your nightgown, letting gravity slide it down your prickled arms and revealing your breasts for him. A sudden heat rushed through your stomach and between your shanks as you saw his pupils dilate, nearly swallowing his irises. You inhaled deeply to settle yourself, endeavoring not to show your uncertainty about being in such a vulnerable situation.

"May I," Aegon paused, choking on his words and wetting his lips. "Can I touch them? Please?"

Your pulse stalled at the inadvertent confession of his nervousness, an almost maternal feeling coming over you as you brushed his curly locks behind his ear. "Yes, you may, dear prince," you mumbled.

The sensation of his fingers gently kneading one breast caused your toes to curl, sparks of satisfaction igniting in your core. You were not proud of letting him do this to you, surrendering one of your most sacred regions to a man known to defile them, but it felt so good. It simultaneously made you feel weak yet powerful, confusing your head and heart on right and wrong.

Aegon was silky in his touches, adding another hand to your neglected globe and leaning his countenance ever so close to them. You tried to hide your enjoyment in his efforts, sinking your teeth into your lower lip as the once saddened boy transformed into the mischievous Prince and brushed his finger over your nipple. You needn't look down to know there was a grin on his face, but you did. The water pooled in his sights was now gone, contentment in its place as he did the same thing to the other. You tipped your head back to hide from his observant gaze, knowing that if you continued watching, a moan would fall from your tongue and only feed his never ceasing ego.

His hold became harsher now, attempting to get a reaction out of you as you held firm. Aegon's index and thumb pinched your nipples, upping his antics. Still, you did not make a sound, but the bend of your knees and scrunching of your nose were winning enough for him, letting out a breathy chuckle as he continued to grope.

Aegon loved your tits. They fit perfectly into his hands as if the Gods made them with him in mind. He hated how you bound them. He believed that they should hang freely (preferably in his palms) without anything to step in the way of their full glory. He understood you did it to repress the sexuality of your body to the people of the court, wishing that by making yourself less palatable to the men and less of a competitor in looks to the women, you would be respected.

Aegon learned you would never admit such a thing to him, but he wasn't stupid. You made choices with careful calculation and a purpose; he just wished it didn't come in the form of repressing your body.

You were exquisite. The way your dark lashes batted against your cheeks, your midnight hair so long and thick that Aegon wished to blanket himself with it. People would constantly say that Targaryens are closer to Gods than men with white hair and purple eyes, but he didn't see it that way. His family rode dragons. That made them Gods, not the incestuous looks passed down from generation to generation in hopes of keeping their Valyrian blood pure.

You were just as gorgeous as the songs claimed Aegon the Conqueror's younger sister, Rhaenys was, but not in the supremacist ways his family judged. You appeared human, but a Goddess in your own right, not one that came with a name.

"I love your tits," Aegon complimented, lost in his mind as he rested his forehead on your sternum.

It felt natural to surrender to your desires, ignoring the racing thoughts that screamed at you to stop this. Your fingers rested on his meaty thigh, digging into the flesh as the Prince latched his mouth onto your nipple like a babe, swirling his tongue against the bud.

"Aegon!" you shouted in what was meant to protest but sounded more like a moan.

Your digits gripped his blonde hair, not pushing or pulling but giving you the faux action of control. You felt the vibrations of his breathy grunts through your ribcage, causing you to rub your legs together in desperation as he sucked brutally.

"Oh. Aegon, please," you whimpered, unsure if it was a plea for him to stop or keep going as you arched your back.

Wave after of pleasure rippled through your breasts and straight to your core, feeling uncomfortably wet as he moved his mouth to the other. A dull pain sensation rippled through your free tit as Aegon slapped it, soothing the skin with his touch before doing it again. You could feel his hips moving into the air, seeking the same ecstasy he was giving you.

Without thought, you found yourself unlacing his breeches, your trembling hands searching for what hid there. You pulled his throbbing cock free, seeing it for the first time and noticing the pearlescent liquid leaking from the rudy tip. He barely fit inside your hand, only your middle finger and thumb touching as you swiped the essence from his silt, dragging it down over a tiny ridge and veins.

Aegon's hips bucked at your touch, biting harshly against your abused nipple. You squeezed his shaft in response, throwing your head back momentarily as you began to move. You raised your hand in almost a spinning way, gently tightening around his cockhead before sliding down again, repeating it over and over.

"Gods. You're so fucking perfect. Your tits are so fucking perfect. They would feed babes well," Aegon mumbled against the plump skin of your breast, moving to the other one. You couldn't conceal the brief shock at his vulgar, coarse, and heady words, making you lose your breath as you sped up your ministrations.

The eldest Prince continued thrusting into your fist, aiding you as hot air from his nose dampened your chest. "So good. So fucking good, little one," he rambled into your flesh. "You're so good to me, my pretty girl-my good girl. You know what I need."

His words temporarily stole you from your trance, trying to conceal it with the tightening of your fist. Suddenly, the real reason you initiated this came to mind. It was just another step in securing the throne for your mother. Everything was falling into place. Perhaps it was just nonsense spouted during the heat of the moment, but it was still said. It was what Aegon felt, even if it was because your hand was pumping his manhood. A smirk rose to your lips in victory, leaning over to slide a glob of spittle onto him to help aid in his pleasure.

"I do, Aegon. I know what my sweet prince needs," you confessed into his hair, using your free arm to push him further into your chest. "My sweet Prince needs to come for his pretty girl. I want to feel your seed dripping on my flesh." You placed a chaste kiss on the crown of his head, yanking the ends of his damp hair so he could look into your eyes, deepening the act of your siphoning hand.

"Be a good boy, and let go for your little girl. I know you want to."

Aegon nodded aggressively, his lips parting as he panted. His thrusts became twitches until you felt him go entirely still, mouth agape, as he released the loudest, most lecherous groan you had ever heard, his thighs trembling. You felt the warm ropes of his spend on your still-moving fist, his cock spasming as it aided your pumps.

You soothed him through the aftershocks of his little death, kissing the salty tears that ran down his cheeks from the intensity of it. You sang praises in Aegon's ear as he clutched onto your body for dear life, attempting to ground himself. You were unsure of what else to say as a sense of triumph washed over you, the doubts you had from days prior only a distant memory.

This would be easier than you thought. You didn't have to let him do things to your body. If you kept his prick busy, you could leave Aegon completely satisfied and smitten without concern.

Instead of speaking and letting your thoughts escape you, you gave the buzzed Prince a peck on the nose, sliding out from under him to find a rag as you cleaned him and your hand. You opened the covers for Aegon after you were finished, seemingly a simple offer for him to stay, but you knew the truth. A smile curled on your lips as you watched him crawl under the sheets, his breathing still faster than normal from his climax. You felt like the cat who finally captured the canary.

You scooted closer to him, wedging your arm under Aegon's neck as you directed him to lie on your chest. You kept the strings of your gown untyed, allowing him free access whenever he wanted. Almost instinctively, he took it, cupping the curve of your breast in his hand as he settled. You felt him swipe self-soothing movements over your nipple for it to become hard again, blowing cool air to keep it that way.

"Will you sing to me?" Aegon suddenly asked, catching you unaware.

"I apologize, but I do not think my singing would be the last thing you want to hear before sleep," you lightly teased. "I am no siren."

You felt him smile against you, moving even closer into your body. "'Tis alright. Your mere presence is enough to lull me."

You lay there in silence, a war raging between your heart and your head. There wouldn't be any harm in singing. If it were what Aegon wanted, then you would do it. After all, it was just another stepping stone toward your goal.

"When you call to me asleep up the ragged cliffs, I scramble. A single thread hangs limply down, and I breathe, 'Not now, not now.' And I find you all unwoven, trying desperately to sew. I know the kindest thing is to leave you alone," you started, feeling Aegon's eyes widen against you.

"When your seams have come unknitted, and you cry out to the sky, I've run out of my words; my song just let me die, me die. The rockrose and the thistle will whistle as you moan. I could try to calm you down, but I know you won't." 

The Prince's rubbing of your body gradually ceased, drifting off into a much-needed rest as you continued to sing the only melody that came to mind. 

"All the pins inside your fretted head and your muttered whens and hows, all your mother's weaves and your father's threads. Let me rob them of you now. Because I'll darn you back together when you think that you're bereft, and you'll wail, you'll scream, but I'll never stop because it's all that I have left." 

You felt your breathing hitch, swallowing a lump that had suddenly formed.

"I wake and hear you calling, and up those cliffs, I climb, and I find you with a thimble weeping, 'May I?' I ask, 'May I?' And you gently gift it to me because you've no clue how to sew, and I know the kindest thing. I pray to god it's the kindest thing... I know the kindest thing is to never leave you alone."

Masterlist of Series

Spotify Playlist YouTube Playlist

How about that exciting chapter? What do y'all think about that?! The song I included at the end is by The Amazing Devil titled The Rockrose and the Thistle and is sung mainly by Joey Batey, who you might know as the bard, aka Jaskier, in The Witcher Netflix series. Please take a listen to it if you have the time to support them!

I hope you enjoyed this chapter because I enjoyed writing it!

Tagged Peeps: @zeennnnnnn, @malfoytargaryen, @targaryencore, @justasmallbean, @alexandra-001, @omgsuperstarg, @sommornyte, @silverslive, @unclecrunkle, @prettykinkysoul, @duesobabe, @djlexi, @ynbutbetter, @honestlykat, @graykageyama, @legolas017, @iiamthehybrid, @brezzybfan, @dd122004dd, @ladybug0095, @millies0bsimp, @kalfild, @sheislonelyalways, @tempt-ress, @bellameshipper, @minttea07, @trikigirl271, @esposadomd, @buckylahey, @justarandomflowerchildofthenight, @partypoison00, @please-buckme, @pastelorangeskies, @joliettes, @existential-echo, @priyajoyy, @valaenatargaryensdragon, @merovingianprincess, @rachelnicolee, @candy12110, @w3ird11, @ruhjkie, @somemydayy, @ariana-dumbledore8, @marikkjj, @zillahvathek, @sunfyresrider, @sunny-boy-06, @heavenly1927, @prettylittlelady, @hjgdhghoe

[loupy-mongoose]

Is Akoya's mom like some snooty, plump, pearl clutching matriarch stereotype who's gonna float-waltz in to pass her judgement on Akoya's life, and try to hook her up with what she considers a better man?

"Float-waltz", lol! XD

I actually drew her for an early ask. It's the only time I've drawn her, so her design is up for change.

I don't think she'd intrude that much in Akoya's life, but she'd likely not approve of Akoya's--as she would see it--human mate. She's more like an Animal-Protecting-the-Future-Generation type mother. Once she saw that Akoya is adamantly content with her choices, she'd leave.

...But now I am picturing a Madam Flurry-esque Mew coming in and completely bashing her son-in-law, sitcom style, and I feel bad because Randy doesn't deserve that. XD

[joshithekitsune]

Joshi Headcanons!

@munixverse, @itsavee4117, @angelfoodscake, @bankobuzzy, and @aliencatwafers, I hope you enjoy!

• She is a HUGE Flavio simp. She'd just be sitting on top of the S.S. Flavion ship while admiring his behind. She can be pretty naughty, yes. (This is true for most kitsune according to Japanese mythology, once they're hooked to you they won't leave you the fuck alone).

• She worked in multiple careers throughout her years. She was a fool, an actress, a singer, an artist, and a circus freak.

• When she's in her full human form she was well known in old live TV commercials (sometimes in Saturday morning cartoons). The ones that you find in the 60s and 70s.

• She is a hell of a foodie! (Her main focus is Asian food). Her worst addiction is whiskey filled chocolates.

• Her favorite beverages are fizzy water, iced tea, and ginger beer. (Sometimes Chuckola wine occasionally)

• She lives in an abandoned medieval castle in a shrouded forest. (Somewhere in the Northwestern part of the Mushroom Kingdom, possibly). Though she's rarely home, she travels a LOT.

• There is a dimensional world inside her tails, she'd often hoard her things in those tails. Inside it looks like a fluffy orange Dr. Strange place with a setting sun along the distance, it never sets. (The sun so happens to be her starball, it's VERY important to her, without it, she'd die)

• She's quite indecisive, rather she wants to be a good guy or not. (She is an anti-villain).

• She dislikes toads, the generic type. Y'know what I'm talking about. She plans on eradicating them all one day. (I'm looking at you, Paper Mario Sticker Star)

• She LOVES magikoopas. She'd baby talk to them all the time as if they were her own pets. Now this drives Kamek crazy.

• She has three phases; her semi-kitsune form you'd usually see, her full kitsune form, and her giant kitsune form. Her giant form you should be afraid of... she's 5 times bigger than Hooktail.

• She is great at wielding fire, thunder, and earth but she is shitty at wielding water, wind, and ice. She'll sometimes combine her own martial arts with magic, twice the pain.

• Her tails are prehensile, that means she's able to grab on to things or use them as extra arms for punches. She'll also use them as a shield. Switching from no tail to dozens of tails are optional.

• Her claws are sharp enough to gape your stomach wide open.

• She is fireproof, even a whoosh from a flame won't harm her, especially electricity, to her it feels like a mild electrical shock you'd rub against the fabric. However, she is prune to iron, it can burn her. I don't think she'd want to mess with Smithy...

• Her limbs have been severed SO many times in her life that it doesn't even bother her, nor does she feel pain from it, (well, slightly). They just grow back immediately. All except her tails, if any of them get chopped off they'd be wiggling around like a gecko's tail, but she can reattach them again with healing magic. She's REALLY hard to kill.

• She's able to inhale your soul out by kissing you. (Like Madame Flurrie) sucking the HP out of you.

• In some ways she's like Mimi and Doopliss, they both shape-shift. She especially doesn't want ANYONE to know her true identity, mainly her real name.

• She has autism and ADHD, obviously.

So yeah, she's pretty dangerous...

Anyways , here ya go! 🧡🖤

[gardenfaerie222]

A Court of Glass and Steel: Chapter 1

Pairing: Eris x OC

Rating: Explicit

Summary: A dance of intrigue, lies, and Hesteya barely keeping her head as she tries to seduce the High Lord of Autumn Court, so that she can fulfill her bargain with his eldest son and murder the High Lord.

Content Warning: mentions of sex

The rest of her weeks, months, years, passed by in a flurry of appointments with clients, dress fittings, and itching at the damn thing magically stuck to her face. She hated it, more than she hated anything did she hate that intricate and expensive thing. A party for the high lord, a shallow laugh threatened to escape her, a party thrown by the person who had razed this country practically to the ground. The sounds of marching soldiers in dingy, smokey grey armor, black plumes raising from their helms. The high lords own emissary, scarred beyond belief, and still the group of them had scuttled under the mountain, in pretty dresses, pressed breeches, and expensive masks to dance to the tune of occupation. A ridiculous, idealistic high lord, not fit to rule even after all this time. She did snort then, before sucking in a breath as her corset was tightened.

“Sorry, miss,” the lesser fae seamstress amended as she continued to tighten the strings to the emerald gown, pushing her breasts practically up to her chin. Hesteya waved her off, admiring her own reflecting in the three mirrors surrounding her. The gown looked beautiful against her lightly tanned complexion, soft from a lifetime free of hard work. She knew her life offered privileges she often indulged in, the money she earned spent on frivolous gowns, servants to assist her, and the many books she kept stored in her extra bedroom. Some of the tomes were appropriate for a female of her station, some would be frowned upon, but it mattered little. Her books were her small enjoyments, a lifeline to a time before. Before occupation, and leering stares, and a madame whom she still owed a great debt to. If she ever freed herself, she didn’t know what she would do. If she could ever travel across Prythian, or even to the continent, seeing those far off kingdoms and cities where she might make a life for herself. She imperceptibly shook her head, freeing the thoughts in her mind. She would never travel, because soon, as each fae, high and lesser, around her knew, they would be delivered to the deceiver ruling her court beneath the mountain.

It mattered little to her, Hesteya supposed. Her clients and her madame would be delivered as well, and from what she could gather, her services would still be a necessity. She heard then, the whisperings of the lesser fae seamstress to another, working on a different gown for a different female, “sent her home,” the glistening skinned female murmured, the sheer wings behind her fluttering, reminding Hesteya of falling spring leaves.

“The human girl the high lord brought was sent home?” The other admonished, shocking coloring her features, the reprimanded in her tone present for someone who was not.

Hesteya excused herself soon after, changing from the beautiful green gown into her own of pale yellow, simple in design but made up for in the expense of the fabrics. She made her way through the rather large village, careful to avoid dirtying her skirts, shoulders thrown back and head held high as eyes tracked her movements. She knew what appointment she had next, and as she entered the carriage waiting for her near the edge of the village, far from her own home, she nodded to the driver as he carried her towards the high lord’s manor.

The trip was rather quick, and she entered as she always did, through a servant’s door before making her way through the manor, head bowed until she can upon the room bathed in that familiar scent of autumn woods, bonfires, and apples. She quietly opened the door, glancing upon the male with long red hair lounging on velvet and furs, his golden eye whirling as he turned his face to meet hers, the door clicking back closed as she fully entered, coyly dipping her head, “You requested my presence, lord?”

He rose, graceful as any dancer, as one of his large hands gripped her waist, the other lifting her chin, to fully look upon her face, “come here,” he growled, his eyes darkening with lust as he guided her towards his bed, taking no time to undo the laces to her gown before turning her skirts up and finding his pleasure in her.

She took no offense, allowing him to do what he needed before he rolled off her, a happy male spent and sated. She knew Lord Luicen was a kind male, who paid handsomely for her company and her time. She had serviced him multiple times before, and had known him since she was scarely grown into her own adult fae body. She traced her nails along the broad expanse of his chest, her fingers pale against his golden-brown skin as she murmured into his ear, “I heard the most interesting rumor in the village today,” he hummed in response, his eyes still closed as he enjoyed patterns she traced, so she continued, her hands never faltering, “the human girl was sent home, is it true?”

The speed in which he grabbed her, stopping her ministrations, shocked her enough that she looked up to meet his mismatched gaze beneath the mask of a fox, and there was nothing but sorrow, and an undercurrent of anger in his russet colored eye as he nodded, inhaling a breath, “The high lord is doing what he believes is best,” he placated, but she still saw it, that anger turning his gaze molten as she scoffed, the only sign of how disapproving she was that she allowed herself to show.

“How soon until she comes for us?” She asked, keeping her own angered response from bubbling past her lips, or showing in the creases of her face not hidden behind her mask, but she couldn’t keep the soft, delicate smile upon her sensuous mouth.

He opened his own to respond, but was cut off by crashing and screaming, he was up within a moment, tossing a shirt over his bare torso as he raced for the door. He turned to her, almost an afterthought, as he grasped for the handle to pull it open, “Stay here, go nowhere,” before he was gone. A useless order, if who was causing the ruckus downstairs was who they both assumed, spoken it into existence only moments before. Hesteya didn’t know how long she laid on that bed of velvet and fur before the twisting of the doorknob brought her to attention, sitting up quickly as it opened into the room. A towering, shadowed figure stood in the doorway, imposing leather wings leaving no room for her to get around even if she wished to try. As it stepped further into the light, a maw full of sharp silver fangs came into her view, dripping red onto the pristine rugs covering the floor.

It grinned then, a horrifying sight as clawed hands reached out to grab her, “Her majesty will be most interested in seeing you,” it hissed as its hands grabbed around her, claws biting into the fragile skin left exposed by the airy fabric of the. gown, pulling her from the bed still intermingled with scent of Lucien’s and her pleasure, “Most interested indeed.”

[celinamarniss]

In the original draft of the final story of Things on Tatooine, the shop where Mirax takes Mara shopping for a dress was much fancier.

When I showed the draft to kate-fire, she pointed out that the story takes place on a trash planet, and it didn't make much sense for a trash planet to have a shop so fancy. She was right!

The couture scene was fun! But it didn't work for the story. I quickly redrafted the entire scene right before posting.

Here's the original draft with the couture shop:

After they’d made their purchases and Mo had disappeared into a curry bar, Mirax began to herd them toward the more upscale end of town, where the ramshackle market stalls gave way to neat shops with glass storefronts and clean countertops. Han hadn’t realized that this side of Vis’aqk even existed; he hadn’t left the vicinity of the station once in the handful of times he’d been on-planet. 

Mirax’s destination was small shop fronted with tall, opaque glass panes. Ephemeral holos of women in tailored dresses flitting across the surface of the glass. Between the panels was a door made of imported orowood, and the creamy color of the wood seemed to glow in the afternoon light. 

“This place is a hidden gem,” Mirax said as they crossed the threshold. “I have a line of credit with the owner. It’s my treat.” 

The room inside was light and airy despite the building’s relatively small footprint. Elaborate gowns, robes, and a few suits hovered in small clusters along the walls like a headless cocktail party, the repulorslifts that held them in place concealed from view. Delicate-looking chairs and side tables were dotted between the display dresses. An elderly Togruta woman was settling up accounts with the shop owner. Several assistants moved around the shop like industrious babble birds. 

The shop owner, having concluded business with his previous client, turned and balked at the sight of Chewie hovering in his doorway. 

“Sir? Sir!” he gasped, his eyes widening with growing horror as they crawled up Chewie’s height. “I think you’ve come to the wrong establishment.” 

Han wasn’t sure if it was Chewbacca’s size or indifference to clothing that most offended the proprietor. Or maybe he didn’t like Wookiees. 

“It’s fine, Goro, he’s with us,” Mirax said breezily. “I don’t think he’s looking for anything himself.” 

Chewie looked at Han. “You take over,” he said, this is human stuff and I don’t want to deal with it in his voice. He took the box of newly purchased supplies with him and left. Han watched him go, unsure whether to follow his friend or stay with Mirax and Mara. 

“While we don’t have anything that would fit your….tall acquaintance,” Goro said placatingly, “we have several capes that would look very fine on your gentleman friend.” 

“Uh. Nah, I’m good,” Han said, wishing he’d joined Chewie. Mirax pinned him to the floor with a pointed look when he took a step toward the door. 

She gave him a saccharine smile. “Han can watch the door for us, can’t you, Han? We need someone to keep an eye on our weapons.” 

“Sure,” Han muttered, accepting first Mirax’s holster, and then Mara’s. 

There was a bench near the door, with delicate tea table beside it. The Togruta woman’s wife sat on one end end of the bench, laden with a stack of white boxes. She gave Han a look of sympathetic comraderie before following her wife out of the store. 

“Excellent,” Goro said, clasping his hands. “Now what can I show you today, Madame Terrik?” 

“Something we can dance in,” Mirax said, putting a hand on Mara’s arm to include her in the statement. 

This sent the shop into a flurry of motion. Assistants swarmed around Goro as moved through the shop, pointing to this dress and that one and snapping out orders that were assiduously followed. The assistants hooked the gowns to a floating rack that trailed obediently behind them. 

Han kept an eye on Mara. She seemed more curious than overawed by the shop and its wares, looking around with obvious interest. Han supposed she’d seen even richer finery on display in Cloud City, even if she’d never worn anything as expensive as the gowns on display. 

Mirax acted as though she owned the place. She removed her jacket and handed it off to one of the assistants, exchanging it for long fluted glass filled with pink beverage that bobbled softly. Underneath the jacket she wore a loose gray t-shirt, emblazoned with a bold red logo on the front, over tight pants and well-broken-in boots. If she felt out of place among the silks and lace, it didn’t show. 

“Madames,” Goro addressed the young women. “Would you give me the pleasure of trying on a few of my humble creations?” 

Han barely managed to keep from rolling his eyes—not that anyone was paying the least attention to him—but Mirax beamed. 

“Perfect,” she said, her hand drifting over a cascade of fuscia ruffles. “You’re a gem, Goro.” 

A set of screens descended from the ceiling, boxing in the rack of gowns and creating an enclosed space in the middle of the shop. Mirax caught Mara’s hand and pulled her behind the screen. Their voices drifted from behind the privacy screens in disembodied snippets. 

“Oh, look at this! Have you ever felt anything so soft? What do you think?”

“I don’t like the color.” 

“Hmm, put that one aside, I want to try it on.”

“I think… can I try on this one?” 

“Ooh, yes, try that one on. I want to see the color on you.” 

“I don’t know.” 

“The other one then. And I’ll try the torquoise, though I’m never sure about turquoise.” 

“Help me with the back?” 

“Go on, go out and let Goro check the fit.” 

The screen folded back to reveal the two young women. Mirax wore only a robe, her feet bare, a shimmersilk dress draped over one arm. Mara was dressed a sleeveless black gown made out of some sort of shiny, metallic material that hugged her form and fell nearly to her feet. Goro and his assistants fluttered around her, pinning and adjusting the fall of the fabric. Han saw Goro’s eye fall on the scar that cut across Mara’s forearm. “Hmm. Perhaps something with sleeves, Madame?” 

Mara shifted her shoulders as if she could shrug her way out of the gown, her hand running around her midsection. “Nowhere to fit a knife,” she complained. 

“This isn’t about where to hide your weapons,” Mirax said tartly. “It's about looking your best.” Hands on hips, she raked her eye over the dress again. “Although you do have a point. I think it’s too much. Let’s try the other one.” 

They disappeared behind the screen again. 

One of the dressmaker’s assistants approached the corner where Han sat, giving the tea tray a quick review. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to try on a cape, sir?” 

“Um, no. Capes aren’t really my thing.” 

The assistant eyes his jacket, not quite managing to keep his distaste off his face. “Or perhaps a traveling robe?” 

“Uh, thanks. I’m good.” 

Mirax reappeared in an alarmingly short crimson minidress, conferred with Goro, and then vanished behind the screen again. Mara favored a blood-red suit until Mirax rejected it on some criteria that Han didn’t follow. Matching white gowns were banished, and a frothy yellow dress was the subject of a long debate. There were times the conversation behind the screen dropped to a low murmur that Han couldn’t make out at all. He wished he’d brought a datapad, or—even better—a bottle of whiskey. 

“What do you prefer, the green or the blue?” 

“The blue.” 

“Mmm-hmm. The green would match your eyes, but the blue’s such a lovely color on you. Let’s get it.” 

The blue, it turned out, was made of a shimmering midnight-blue material that draped loosely around Mara and ended mid-thigh. Tights and a pair of short, stylish boots completed the outfit. 

Mirax had chosen a short silver dress that seemed to be made entirely of sequined tassels that swayed and glittered as she moved, paired with matching silver heels. 

Han didn’t know anything about galactic fashions, but she looked good. They both looked good. 

[danco110]

The vampires gasped in unison at the blood-stamped invitation. Instantly, the couple became a flurry of activity, using their supernatural speed to retrieve dress clothes and jewelry from all corners of the house. In a matter of moments, the two stood before their front door, where a human servant dutifully listened to their commands.

“Have a meal prepared for us when we return. Remember: seared cathar, this time.”

“…And be sure to water the garden…”

“…And let no one know of our absence. Understood?”

The man’s head dipped into a stoic nod. “Very good, sir and madam.”

With that, the two vampires sprinted out the door to their awaiting carriage, and rode off into the sunset. As soon as the carriage had disappeared around the bend, however, the human gave a shrill whistle to the shrubs that surrounded the vampires’ estate.

“They’re gone! Let’s do this thing!”

Townsfolk emerged from the bushes, armed with musical instruments and kegs of beer. The small army of peasants stormed the manor, and soon a raging party was in full swing.

“This is going to be fun.”

—

“Tell no one of this. Do you understand?”

The crowd stood in silence before a raging fire engulfing a vampire-shaped silhouette. At the servant’s bidding, the partygoers departed in twos and threes. Before long, the only people left were the servant, and a gaunt stranger standing on the porch. The servant walked up to the straggler, and pulled back the man’s hood to reveal a pale, fanged face.

“…Thanks for your help on designing the effigy, James.”

The vampiric butler gave a warm smile and a dismissive wave. “Please. It was my pleasure. Seven hundred years I’ve served those two, and never once have I received a kind word from them. It’s abhorrent!”

[tyrorexdmzapp]

Catch-up wave again- Recut 2/CS Recut (full OCs)

Catch-up wave 2- Recut 2/CS Recut, Part 1

Next up on the catch-up wave list is character sprites for the fantopic recut of the Wii U game with the Paper Mario name, Color Splash. Unlike StSt Recut, which was and still is seen by others as superior to the actual game, CS Recut was just as divisive as its own source material for various reasons (the number and use of past characters, the designs of some newer and even past ones, some added story elements).

While I am proud of what I did with Recut 2 or rather what Recut 2 did with the source material (to the point that the only way I can talk about CS is if it’s the recut, not the original- first time I’ve admitted this publicly, by the way), I also see where the criticism is coming from. This feedback has been taken into account for future fantopics, Mario Story Fruit Shake and Origami King Retold. That said, even those down the middle have tauted certain characters and elements as a good change.

Enough of that, though- here’s some reposted characters, new and redesigned, from CS Recut. Due to how different CS Recut is from the original despite using the same base locations and plot, this will be in two further subwaves- one for the completely new characters, and the other for those who mostly take up the same roles of generic or near-generic and nameless Toads.

THE MEMPHAWKS- A tough bird species, the Memphawks are both tough and wise. Rumors say their strongest member is a champion in the faraway Glitz Pit.

The Memphawks replace around 1/4th-1/5th of the generic Toads, with both unique and crowd-filler characters.

Had Rawk Hawk been used for a specific role in a previous original story, it’s entirely possible these roles would have been filled by a Madame Flurrie-based species instead.

THE VELLBEX- A goat species, the Vellbex are very rare, even in their homeland of Prism Island. Nearly 1/5th of the generic Toads are replaced with Vellbex, most of them unique.

I made this species both to show a more subtle way of including paper jokes (all of which were removed from CS Recut). The Vellbex were also a way to compromise with StSt fans, via making a species based on the memetic Goat thing from the preceding game.

EDWIN- A dashing young Slurple, Edwin’s big on the coinage and suckage power. Though formerly allied with the Musketeers, a misunderstanding due to joining Mario leads to a last conflict of interest.

Edwin takes up part of Justice Toad’s role (the part in Cherry Lake’s first visit), but becomes entirely his own character as the story goes on, though his Musketeer inspiration was D’Artagan...the human swordwielder, not the slug dog. In addition, he takes a large number (though not all) of Huey’s more meanspirited comments and money-focused nature so Huey makes a better first impression while also providing meaningful inner party conflict between more than just two characters.

LOUIS- One of Mario’s biggest fans, Louis the Memphawk knows all about the Great Gonzales, and wishes to help him on Prism Island. Louis himself has no counterpart in the original game. He and his father also reference a certain behind-the-scenes aspect of Mario, one that has become more important with a certain movie’s trailer.

MARIRANA DEEPS- The more carefree of the Deeps Sisters, Marirana doesn’t believe in limits (and neither should you). However, a degenerating relationship with her sister and the appearance of Mario’s friends sway Marirana to travel with them, if only to understand the next step for her to take.

This is the v2 design of Marirana that was used for the 2018 posting of the story. A newer redesign, seen below, was made years later for TOK Retold.

SUEBELLE DEEPS- The sourer of the Deeps Sisters, Suebelle is miffed at Marirana about something, leading her to leave and join with Birdo instead.

As with Marirana, this is the v2 design for Suebelle, with a v3 design made for TOK Retold.

[hellsitesonlybookclub]

Around the world in 80 days, Jules Verne

CHAPTER II. IN WHICH PASSEPARTOUT IS CONVINCED THAT HE HAS AT LAST FOUND HIS IDEAL

“Faith,” muttered Passepartout, somewhat flurried, “I’ve seen people at Madame Tussaud’s as lively as my new master!”

Madame Tussaud’s “people,” let it be said, are of wax, and are much visited in London; speech is all that is wanting to make them human.

During his brief interview with Mr. Fogg, Passepartout had been carefully observing him. He appeared to be a man about forty years of age, with fine, handsome features, and a tall, well-shaped figure; his hair and whiskers were light, his forehead compact and unwrinkled, his face rather pale, his teeth magnificent. His countenance possessed in the highest degree what physiognomists call “repose in action,” a quality of those who act rather than talk. Calm and phlegmatic, with a clear eye, Mr. Fogg seemed a perfect type of that English composure which Angelica Kauffmann has so skilfully represented on canvas. Seen in the various phases of his daily life, he gave the idea of being perfectly well-balanced, as exactly regulated as a Leroy chronometer. Phileas Fogg was, indeed, exactitude personified, and this was betrayed even in the expression of his very hands and feet; for in men, as well as in animals, the limbs themselves are expressive of the passions.

He was so exact that he was never in a hurry, was always ready, and was economical alike of his steps and his motions. He never took one step too many, and always went to his destination by the shortest cut; he made no superfluous gestures, and was never seen to be moved or agitated. He was the most deliberate person in the world, yet always reached his destination at the exact moment.

He lived alone, and, so to speak, outside of every social relation; and as he knew that in this world account must be taken of friction, and that friction retards, he never rubbed against anybody.

As for Passepartout, he was a true Parisian of Paris. Since he had abandoned his own country for England, taking service as a valet, he had in vain searched for a master after his own heart. Passepartout was by no means one of those pert dunces depicted by Molière with a bold gaze and a nose held high in the air; he was an honest fellow, with a pleasant face, lips a trifle protruding, soft-mannered and serviceable, with a good round head, such as one likes to see on the shoulders of a friend. His eyes were blue, his complexion rubicund, his figure almost portly and well-built, his body muscular, and his physical powers fully developed by the exercises of his younger days. His brown hair was somewhat tumbled; for, while the ancient sculptors are said to have known eighteen methods of arranging Minerva’s tresses, Passepartout was familiar with but one of dressing his own: three strokes of a large-tooth comb completed his toilet.

It would be rash to predict how Passepartout’s lively nature would agree with Mr. Fogg. It was impossible to tell whether the new servant would turn out as absolutely methodical as his master required; experience alone could solve the question. Passepartout had been a sort of vagrant in his early years, and now yearned for repose; but so far he had failed to find it, though he had already served in ten English houses. But he could not take root in any of these; with chagrin, he found his masters invariably whimsical and irregular, constantly running about the country, or on the look-out for adventure. His last master, young Lord Longferry, Member of Parliament, after passing his nights in the Haymarket taverns, was too often brought home in the morning on policemen’s shoulders. Passepartout, desirous of respecting the gentleman whom he served, ventured a mild remonstrance on such conduct; which, being ill-received, he took his leave. Hearing that Mr. Phileas Fogg was looking for a servant, and that his life was one of unbroken regularity, that he neither travelled nor stayed from home overnight, he felt sure that this would be the place he was after. He presented himself, and was accepted, as has been seen.

At half-past eleven, then, Passepartout found himself alone in the house in Saville Row. He began its inspection without delay, scouring it from cellar to garret. So clean, well-arranged, solemn a mansion pleased him; it seemed to him like a snail’s shell, lighted and warmed by gas, which sufficed for both these purposes. When Passepartout reached the second story he recognised at once the room which he was to inhabit, and he was well satisfied with it. Electric bells and speaking-tubes afforded communication with the lower stories; while on the mantel stood an electric clock, precisely like that in Mr. Fogg’s bedchamber, both beating the same second at the same instant. “That’s good, that’ll do,” said Passepartout to himself.

He suddenly observed, hung over the clock, a card which, upon inspection, proved to be a programme of the daily routine of the house. It comprised all that was required of the servant, from eight in the morning, exactly at which hour Phileas Fogg rose, till half-past eleven, when he left the house for the Reform Club—all the details of service, the tea and toast at twenty-three minutes past eight, the shaving-water at thirty-seven minutes past nine, and the toilet at twenty minutes before ten. Everything was regulated and foreseen that was to be done from half-past eleven a.m. till midnight, the hour at which the methodical gentleman retired.

Mr. Fogg’s wardrobe was amply supplied and in the best taste. Each pair of trousers, coat, and vest bore a number, indicating the time of year and season at which they were in turn to be laid out for wearing; and the same system was applied to the master’s shoes. In short, the house in Saville Row, which must have been a very temple of disorder and unrest under the illustrious but dissipated Sheridan, was cosiness, comfort, and method idealised. There was no study, nor were there books, which would have been quite useless to Mr. Fogg; for at the Reform two libraries, one of general literature and the other of law and politics, were at his service. A moderate-sized safe stood in his bedroom, constructed so as to defy fire as well as burglars; but Passepartout found neither arms nor hunting weapons anywhere; everything betrayed the most tranquil and peaceable habits.

Having scrutinised the house from top to bottom, he rubbed his hands, a broad smile overspread his features, and he said joyfully, “This is just what I wanted! Ah, we shall get on together, Mr. Fogg and I! What a domestic and regular gentleman! A real machine; well, I don’t mind serving a machine.”

[lshark-cs]

Iron God Chapter 19 [Kolo]

          Kolo fidgeted with her necklace. As she twisted the cord around her fingers, she wondered who had given her the talisman to begin with. It hadn't always been hers, surely. She was so lost in thought that she didn't notice Azvalath calling her name until he elbowed her.

She recoiled. "Hey!"

"What's got you so distracted?" Azvalath cocked his head. "We're almost there. Don't space out now."

"Um...the lift was terrifying." She looked back at the mountain looming behind them. "I don't ever want to do that again."

The man shrugged. "Would you rather scale that hell of a slope on foot?"

"Not in the slightest." Kolo's eyes lit up as a flurry of snow blew over them. "Where are we headed, exactly? Isn't the Wash a pretty big village?"

"More of a town. Largest human community that currently exists." Azvalath tightened a strap on his backpack. "Because no one will be in the town hall this late at night, we're headed for the only place that's ever awake at this hour."

Kolo raised an eyebrow. "Where would that be?"

"Naughty Nack's." Azvalath pulled his hood down farther over his face. "I'm sorry in advance. It's a rather...odd establishment." He looked down, then stopped and crouched. "Speaking of nacks, take a look here."

Kolo crouched next to him. An animal's footprints showed through the falling snow. "Looks like horse tracks."

"Look closer." Azvalath traced his finger along the track. "See how it's a little more pointed here? Wait, hold on a second. What are those?" He looked to one side. "Those are wheel tracks."

"Someone drives a nack?" Kolo couldn't imagine how that would be a good idea. "Don't nacks eat people?"

"They eat fish and carrion, mostly." He looked back out at the horizon. "Town's a long way. Think it's worth seeing if we can hitch a ride?"

Kolo shrugged. "I mean, it'd be nice, but – hey, wait up!" She had to take of running after Azvalath.

The tracks went a long way, so long that Kolo wondered if it were even worth the detour. Eventually, she started to catch whiffs of smoke. They came to a rocky riverbank. The smoke turned out to have come from a nearly-dead campfire. There was a covered wagon parked a short ways from the water. A rope extended from a picket and disappeared under the water. As she and Azvalath approached, the red light from their eyes reflected from another pair of eyes just below the surface.

With barely a sound, the horselike predator emerged from the river. Its mane and halter dripped water. It made a click-clack sound in its jaw and then opened its mouth wide, too wide, revealing sharp teeth. It let out a long and high-pitched cry.

"Hey, what's the fuss?" A woman's voice called from the wagon. "You'll wake half the world keening so loud." She stepped out and beckoned the animal closer.

Azvalath darkened his eyes. "Put your snow goggles on, Kolo," he whispered. Then he cleared his throat. "Sorry to be a bother, madam, but..."

Kolo put her goggles on before the woman saw the red glow. "How do you drive a nack?" She blurted the question before Azvalath could finish.

"Ashcrow is such a dear, I forget she's a predator sometimes." She patted the nack's pale head. "What do you two need? Not like I've got much to spare with seven children."

"Seven?" Azvalath's eyebrows rose. "Never mind. Sorry to bother you. We'll be on our way."

He turned and was about to leave when the woman spoke up again. "That girl looks awfully familiar, sir."

"Me?" Kolo shrugged. "Why would I look familiar?"

"That's my sister. I don't think any of us have ever met." Azvalath grabbed Kolo's arm and pulled her away. "Sorry. We really didn't mean to bother you. Safe travels."

Azvalath took off running again. Kolo nearly fell trying to keep up with him. They must have run a full mile before they stopped. She fell to her hands and knees, gasping to catch her breath. "What was that all about?"

"Forget that ever happened." Azvalath panted and wiped sweat off his face. "And let's hope we can avoid her from now on. I think she's onto us."

"For what?" Kolo put her hands on her hips. "And since when am I your sister?"

"Look, I said what I had to." Azvalath put his head in his hands. "If she's from where I think she's from, that's going to be a problem. Let's keep going. We're getting close."

He kept walking. For a moment, Kolo stayed where she was. She looked around at the dark valley, then up at the sky. A full moon shone through the clouds. Snow fell on her face and settled on her goggles. In that moment, she considered not following Azvalath. Why should she follow him, anyway? There was a whole world out there.

The man turned around when he noticed she wasn't coming. "Kolo, what's the matter?"

She bit her lip. "Nothing."

"Come on, then." He waved his arm.

Kolo went with him. She wasn't entirely sure why.

She especially wasn't sure why she had chosen to follow him when they arrived at their destination. Though they had passed by many houses, this was the first one that wasn't silent. Raucous laughter and shouting filled her ears even before the building came into view. She lifted her snow goggles up for a second and let her eyes cast their light across a sign hanging over the door. Naughty Nack's. Below the nameplate was a painting of a nack drinking out of a mug.

Azvalath went up to the door. "I'm sorry in advance," he told her, then gave the door three hard knocks.

The door swung open with a screech on its rusty hinges. The laughter and yelling inside poured out and nearly deafened her. A man with the stature of a tree branch greeted them. "Hey there. What the hell are you doing? You know you can just come right in."

Azvalath crossed his arms. "Isn't it polite to knock?"

A much larger man shoved the twiggy-looking one out of the way. "Why, if it's not the First Sword of Styzia himself. Where've you been, Azvalath? Out on some grand adventure?"

Azvalath scoffed. "Just some field work. I'd rather not talk about it."

"That's what you always say, big man. Now get in here and stop freezing your pants off out there." He laughed and yanked Azvalath inside.

Kolo watched her companion scramble, and the sound of her laughter alerted the huge stranger to her presence. She froze up when he looked at her.

"Ey, I don't bite, dear." He smiled with teeth that were mostly broken. "Naughty Nack's wouldn't still be open if I did. Welcome in." He grabbed her by the arm and tugged her inside, slamming the door behind her.

Kolo yelped, smacked him off her, and made him holler with the force of her blow. "Hey, Azvalath, what the hell's your little friend's big deal?"

He stepped up and pulled the two of them apart. "My apologies. She's a little rough around the edges. New to the pack and all. You know how it is." He locked eyes with her. "Kolo, let's just try to get a room. Well, two rooms if you'd like space, but it's probably better if we don't hang out down here."

"No can do, Azvalath. Didn't you see the sign? No vacancy!" The big man, whom Kolo assumed had to be the establishment's owner, tapped his foot on the stained floor. "Or did I forget to change the sign?"

"It never said 'no vacancy.'" Kolo's voice cracked mid-vacancy.

"Well, then you can pardon me for thinking we'd have a place to rest." Azvalath scowled at the owner. "Can't someone leave?"

"First come, first serve, even if you're Styzian, pal." The owner clapped Azvalath's shoulder and made fall forward a bit. "That being said, I imagine the polite gentleman who booked Room Four might be willing to have some company."

Kolo watched Aza's face turn bright red.

"I'm kidding. You want a drink?" He scratched his beard, then shouldered his way through the crowd and toward the cupboard.

"Just ignore Mr. Nack. He's a pain." Azvalath put his head in his hands. "It's too loud in here."

Kolo looked around to see where Mr. Nack had gone. He seemed like a safe person. She ended up stepping on a woman's foot. "Hey! Watch where you're going, kid."

"I'm sorry!" Kolo yelped, but the woman was already occupied with someone else. Whatever she said led to an eruption of laughter. Kolo covered her ears. Aza was right about this place being too loud. She stumbled to the other side of the room and bumped into a table in the corner. Kolo took a step back and noticed a young man sitting there. His golden-blond hair fell over his face in a way that annoyed her in an instant. She wanted to fix his hair but remembered something vague about keeping her hands to herself. Did that mean all of her hands? What if she were to use an invisible one?

"Can I help you?" the man asked.

Kolo shook her head. "Nope."

"You're staring at me," he pointed out.

Kolo averted her eyes.

"Staring at the table isn't much better." He brushed his hair out of his face. "Hey, I saw you came in with Azvalath. That's him, right? I've heard so many stories." The young man got a dreamy look in his eyes. "Styzia's best and greatest..."

"Best and greatest mean the same thing." She went back to staring at him. "And he's not. The masters are."

The man sighed. "What's your problem?"

Kolo folded her arms. "I don't have a problem."

He glanced over at Azvalath, who looked like he was trying and failing to turn down Mr. Nack's offer of a drink. "You picked some damn fine company." He got that dreamy expression again. "Must be nice."

"It's not." She said it matter-of-factly.

"Well, I still don't know what your problem is, but I know I'd love it if Azvalath there so much as looked my way." The young man smiled. "By the way, why are you wearing snow goggles inside?"

Without much thought, Kolo pulled them off.

"You're a Ferash Therall too? Lucky." He leaned back in his chair. "I can't be one. I don't have gods' blood or whatever it is you need. I'd love it if I could work alongside Azvalath and all the rest of you every day."

Kolo grimaced. This was getting strange fast. She was about to walk away when she noticed Azvalath approaching. Great, she thought. Fantastic. It was about to get even more awkward.

"You've got the right idea, escaping the crowd." Azvalath rubbed his eyes. When he noticed the other man, he cocked his head. "Making friends, Kolo?"

The young man flushed. "Azvalath? First Sword of Styzia?" He looked awestruck. "I'm Staffen. I'm actually on the town council, so if there's anything you need, anything at all, I can..."

"Aren't you a bit young?" Azvalath straightened his dark brown hair. "And about that, Master Xigon asked me to deliver this to the town council." He pulled a sealed envelope from his pocket.

"Youngest on the council." Staffen smiled wide. "Doesn't mean I'm not qualified. Should I read this now, or at the next meeting?"

Aza shrugged. "It's just a quarterly report."

Kolo found herself uninterested in hearing any more of the conversation, so she wandered off and tried to find someone who seemed to be having a more interesting conversation.

"Hey, I heard you got a new horse. What's his name?"

No, not interesting.

"Can't get my son to fix the leaking roof."

Tedious.

"I'm telling you girls love men with scars and stories."

Not in the slightest.

"I heard there's a new arrival at Styzia. Been a while, hasn't it?"

That caught Kolo's attention. She stopped and listened. Two women – at least, she assumed they were both women – sat at a table with only one chair. One was in the chair, and the other perched on top of the table like a cat.

"Ami, for goodness's sake, get off the table already." The one in the chair prodded the one on the table. "See? That person's staring at us."

Kolo looked away. "Sorry, am I being rude?"

"No, Ami's being rude." The one in the chair stood up and pushed Ami off the table. Everyone who saw it laughed. Ami got up with an indignant grunt. Then the laughter went dead silent as a scream erupted from the corner where she'd left Azvalath. Staffen screamed at the top of his lungs. It was a bloodcurdling sound of pure terror, then she heard someone fall. Then the whole place lost its voice.

Kolo couldn't see what was happening over everyone else in the room, but she heard the woman from the riverbank speak up. "I thought I knew you from somewhere, sabretooth devil."

"Gods be damned," Ami whispered. "That's not something I thought I'd see tonight."

[valentineforlemonandcherry]

Foxtail & Wolfsbane Part 17

Summary: Your lifelong obsession to hunt down the Nine-Tailed Fox has not gone as expected, and seventeen years later, you find yourself coming back to the place where it all started: Hogwarts. However, with Sirius Black’s escape from Azkaban and Headmaster Dumbledore’s hire of a certain Professor R. J. Lupin, you suddenly find yourself intertwined in the fates of those with whom you thought you had parted ways with long ago. [Multi-Post Story] [Rowan Scamander x Reader] [Remus Lupin x Reader] [Young Sirius Black x Reader] [Tristan Graves x Reader] [Severus Snape x Reader] [Warning: Story Contains Explicit Smut.] [Warning: Rough Sex.] [Warning: Light Degradation.] *Note: Rowan Scamander, Tristan Graves, Susana Holmes, Cas Carneirus, Henrietta Weiss, and Thomas Picquery are OC characters. *Please do not repost or copy my work without my permission. Thank You!

☾ Click Here for Foxtail & Wolfsbane Home Page (All Chapter Links) ☾

As soon as you and Tristan walked into Tina’s office, Artemis, who had been sitting on Tina’s desk, leapt into the air and bounded up to you.

“Art!  You’re okay!” You bent down and picked her up in your arms. “Thank God you’re okay. I was worried about where you were!”

Artemis gave a low whine and nuzzled your neck with her snout. Clearly, she had been very concerned about you.

“I’m all right.” You soothingly tucked her in against your chest with one arm and patted her little head with your other hand.

Artemis decided that you deserved a soft bite on the shoulder, because of all the worry you’d caused her and because you still smelled… different. Artemis couldn’t quite place it, but for some reason, you had started to smell just the slightest bit more like her. A human nose could never detect the difference, but Artemis certainly could.

“Ow, Art,” you mumbled. However, realizing that her admonishment was a sign of her care for you, you continued to pet her lovingly.

Just then, Tina, who had been talking quietly with Tristan, stood up from her desk. She addressed you. “Mr. Graves tells me that you are possessed by the Nine-Tailed Fox. Is this true?”

You lifted your eyes from the little fox in your arms. Your eyes met Tina’s dark, steady eyes. Strange. Her energy feels so different from her son’s.

“Yes, ma’am,” you replied quietly.

“How did this come to pass?”

Inside of your chest, you felt a flurry of silvery tails flick warningly. Artemis let out a surprised yelp. You clutched onto Artemis a little tighter as you said, nearly in a whisper, “I don’t know, ma’am.”

“What?”

“I don’t know,” you repeated.

Tina’s brow furrowed.  “You don’t care to share exactly what happened to you?”

“I can’t,” you said honestly.

“Well, that’s going to be a problem,” Tina spoke matter-of-factly. “No one will ever be comfortable with letting you leave if you can’t even explain what happened to you.”

Then I’ll just have to escape, you thought to yourself. But in that moment, you chose not to say anything.

Walking over to her desk, Tina picked up a long piece of parchment from her desk and held it up to you. “This is a demand from the Aurors that we lock you up.”

You stared at the scroll. It had a long list of signatures running down it.

“Tina, that demand has no legal authority,” Tristan remarked. “Aurors aren’t in charge of deciding who goes to prison.”

“No,” Tina replied quietly, “but I am, and so is Madame Justice Picquery.”

Tina put down the list and she walked back over to you. With a degree of toughness in her voice that you had never heard from anyone before (except perhaps Molly Weasley), she laid out her situation to you very matter-of-factly. “What I need to know is this: If I decide to fight with Madame Justice Picquery on this issue – on keeping you out of jail – will it be worth it?”

Your brow furrowed in confusion. Obviously, you would be a fool to consider saying anything other than “yes.” Yet, just as when you had first met Tristan, here, too, you couldn’t quite understand: Why would Tina Scamander stick up for me?

Tristan glanced over at you, still hugging your fox. Just say yes, he thought to himself. Say yes, so she’ll help you.

However, you responded to Tina stoutly, lifting your chin in the air as you said, “You can try whatever you want with me. I won’t stay in prison, or even in America, for that matter, just because you want to keep me here.”

Tina’s eyes narrowed, but Tristan smirked. Right, she’s not exactly a helpless little thing, is she? Not with that personality, and not when she’s got the full force of a mythical spirit inside of her.

“She’s right,” Tristan said, backing you up. “If you acquiesce to the demand of locking her up, she won’t be the one who gets hurt.”

“What do you mean?” Tina asked, rather skeptically.

Tristan explained, “We already know, Tina, that if we put her in jail, some of the Aurors will come after her and try to kill her. All Aurors are authorized to enter the prisons. But when they try to harm her, the Nine-Tailed Fox possessing her won’t sit still. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was the Aurors who ended up dead.”

Tina stood stock still for a moment. You could tell that she was trying to make a decision inside of her head. Finally, with a soft sigh and a shake of her head, Tina murmured grimly to you, “Why did you have to take go aboard an American ship? You should have taken a British ship. Then, you might have been able to go home and avoid this colossal mess.”

You blinked, taken aback by how regretful Tina genuinely seemed for you.

“Why do you say that?” you ventured to ask. “Don’t you want to be sure that I’m not an ally of Voldemort? From your perspective, isn’t it better that I came to you?”

Tina shuddered slightly when you spoke aloud the name ‘Voldemort.’ But she merely replied, “Creatures are not as easily tamed or allied to humans as MACUSA seems to think. It takes a lot to sway creatures to take a side in a human war. I am not as concerned about this Nine-Tailed Fox of yours as the rest of MACUSA is. I imagine that she has lived too long to concern herself with such things.”

Inside of you, you felt a subtle glow in your chest as the Nine-Tailed Fox nodded her assent.  

“An Obscurial is a different matter. An Obscurial is a human,” Tina replied. Her voice fell into a deep sadness. “They must be protected at all costs, before they fall into tragedy and take many lives along with theirs.” Her eyes flickered over to Tristan.

For a moment, you looked at Tristan, too, and you swore that you could see a cloud of grey arise in one of his emerald eyes.

A long silence arose. You broke it by asking, rather reluctantly, “Well, what would you have me do?”

Tina shook her head a little, as if waking herself up. “I suppose the only thing you can do is stay under Tristan’s protections for now. I can’t take you under my wing; it would be too open of a defiance against the Aurors and Madame Justice Picquery. But the Aurors can’t move easily against Tristan, and Madame Picquery can’t move easily against me. So, what you can do is to stick besides Tristan. At least, until my husband and my son return.”

“What will change when Newt and Rowan returns?” you inquired. Rowan. It feels funny to say his name now…

“If Newt can confirm that you are not an Obscurial and that, as such, you are not dangerous, then we will have a better chance of convincing everyone that you should be allowed to go free,” Tina explained.

“But in the meantime…?”

“As I said, stay with Tristan,” Tina replied to you, with a note of finality in her voice. “There’s not much else we can do.”

“You can be my Secretary,” Tristan suddenly decided. “That’ll give you an excuse to stay besides me.”

“What?”

“Well, I’m not going to be giving you food and housing and all that for free,” he said bluntly. “And I’ve already got a maid.”

You barely resisted the urge to roll your eyes at him.

“Unless you’d rather be sleeping in the streets,” Tristan goaded you.

“Tristan,” Tina reprimanded him sharply.

You shot Tristan an irritated look before you muttered out grudgingly, “Fine.”

Tristan gave Tina a brief nod, and then he turned away and left the room. He left the door open, clearly indicating that you were to follow him.

Shaking your head, you began to leave as well, when Tina suddenly called out softly, “You’re not what I expected.”

You looked over your shoulder. “Excuse me?”

“When my son wrote to me, asking me for a favor for a girl he fancied, I imagined someone… different. You aren’t at all what I expected.”

You blinked in confusion. What is she talking about?

“Never mind, I’m talking foolishly, aren’t I? Forget what I said. I’m sorry. Go.”

You left rather uncertainty, and you never heard Tina whisper to you, “After how much my son was rooting for you, child, I’m glad you found your fox.”

*     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *

After the meeting ended, you and Tristan left Tina’s office. You expected to leave right away, but Tristan led you back to his office. “Stay here for a moment.”

“Are you going to chain me up?” you asked resentfully, already backing away from him.  

Tristan shook his head quickly. “Just sit on the couch and stay there.”

Before you could reply, he was gone.

“Strange man, eh, Art?” you muttered, as you were still carrying her in your arms.

But Artemis was acting strange, too. She pawed at your arms, trying to escape your embrace. Finally, she jumped out of your arms and leapt onto the floor. Putting her nose to the ground, she began to sniff attentively.

“What?” you said confusedly. “What’s got you all in a frenzy?”

Artemis kept sniffing, eventually making her way to Tristan’s bookcase. Then, she pushed her nose at a row of very heavy-looking books.

You got up off of the couch and you went over to the bookcase, too.

“What’s over here that’s got your attention, hm?”

Artemis let out a soft bark as she pawed at one book in particular.

You knelt down and pulled out a thick volume resting on the bottom shelf. You read the title of it: “The Sorcery of Metals.”

“Well,” you remarked, “this looks dull as nails.”

Artemis barked a little louder, offended.

“Sorry, but just look at this.” You opened the book and began to flip through the pages. As you predicted, from the very start, the pages were covered with miniscule, old-fashioned type.

However, after only a handful of pages, the book suddenly opened up to reveal a secret hiding spot. You gasped in surprise. “It’s hollow!”

The volume was deceptively thick in its cover, for the actual contents of the book in terms of writing was only about a hundred pages long. But the book was a container, too, and there lay – your wand.

“Oh my God, my wand. It’s my wand.”

Trembling with happiness at seeing your wand, which you’d been deprived of for so long, you reached out and grasped it again. A burst of silver and blue lights, each shaped like a foxtail fern, blossomed into the air.

Artemis blinked in amazement. Her tail flickered once, and then she was off, rearing up onto her back feet and trying frantically to catch the lights between her paws.

Once the lights faded away, Artemis came back to you, walking very proudly, with her little ears all perked up and her chest puffed out.

You smiled and gave her a good rub all over, making her wiggle in happiness. “Good job, Art! I could never have found this without you. Thank you.”

Artemis barked happily and showed you more of her fuzzy tummy.

You laughed softly. “Guess it was a good thing I let you use my wand as a fox pacifier all these years, huh?”

Artemis nodded, her eyes turning into pleased little crescents.

A few minutes later, you picked up the book again. You started to close it, when you heard a soft clunk inside of it. Reaching back into the secret compartment, you pulled out a small, elegant pocket watch.

“Why does he want to keep this pocket watch hidden, I wonder?” you mused, turning it over in your hand. On the back of the pocket watch, you saw inscribed –

“Isn’t that the Graves insignia?” you wondered aloud in surprise. “It’s inscribed on this bracelet of mine, right here…”

You closed the book. Your eyes traced the title again: The Sorcery of Metals.

“Maybe you’re right, Art.”

Artemis, who was now sitting dutifully besides you, cocked her head up curiously at you when you said her name.

Looking down at her, you admitted, “Maybe the book is more interesting than I thought.”

“And it seems that our friend Tristan Graves is not as straightforward as he seems. I always knew he was good at magic. He does wandless magic with more ease than I’ve seen anyone else do it. And the way he held off four Aurors at once…”

You paused, and the silence of the room seemed to buzz around you.

“Where do you think he’s gone off to?” you wondered. “It sounded like he was only going to be a moment. He didn’t even bother to chain me up, thank Godric.”

Curiosity began to bubble up inside of you. You tried very hard to stay still. But a moment later –

“Let’s go see where he’s gone to. It’s his own fault, isn’t it, Art, for not chaining me up? He can’t except anything other than disobedience me by this point, or I’ve sorely overestimated his intelligence.”

With that, you left the room, your confidence surging now that you had your wand back, and you started to peek around corners with Artemis, searching for Tristan.

*     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *

As it turned out, Tristan hadn’t gone very far.

You’d hardly peeked around a few corners when you glimpsed him in the hallway, speaking lowly yet fervently to someone. It took you a second before you recognized who he was speaking to – Cas, the young woman with short, boyish red hair, who was also an Auror.

They seemed to be arguing. You pressed yourself up against the wall and tried to listen.

“… thought you said you weren’t ready to love anyone yet, that you were afraid of being with someone after what happened to your mother and father - ”

“ - It’s true, Cas. I didn’t lie to you - ”

“ - And then I hear you making love to some girl you barely even know!”

“Cas, I don’t love her.”

“Oh, is that supposed to make everything better?”

“No. But I am asking you to be patient.”

“Patient? For what? For a man who doesn’t even know if he’s capable of loving someone?”

Tristan drew in a harsh, short breath.

“Listen,” Cas said furiously, “I could have captured her so many times by now. That time when she escaped in the alleyway, I had my wand on her the entire time. I’ve been holding back from dragging her back to MACUSA because I trusted you. See, I thought you had a reason for protecting her. But if this is just some strange, twisted thing, where you want to keep her for your own pleasure - ”

“God damn it, Cas, stop deliberately misunderstanding me.”

“You think this is deliberate? You think I want to be in pain?”

“You’re in pain?” Tristan suddenly sounded very uncertain of himself, which was quite rare.

“How can I not be?” Cas replied.

You couldn’t see Cas, but you could hear the tears sparkling in her eyes, as she continued accusingly, “First, you told me you couldn’t be with me because you didn’t know if you had it in you to love someone. Then, you told me you couldn’t be with me because you thought that my associating with you would hinder my career.”

“You know that I’m right about that. People would think I gave you a heads up, and you would never get the credit you deserve.”

“But now, I have to hold back because of you! Just the other day, Gregory asked me if I was losing my touch! He said I had never taken so long to capture a fugitive. Then, I realize that you’re off making love with this woman! You don’t think that hurts me?”

“Cas…” Tristan sounded quite sad. It took you a moment to place your finger on the exact emotion, for Tristan had never showed that kind-of vulnerability to you.

He doesn’t even sound like himself, you thought. And you felt a strange kind-of pity for Tristan Graves, not in the least because he was being misunderstood on account of helping you out.

Tristan finally said, “Perhaps it’s foolish to think that we could ever be together.”

Cas remained silent for a long beat. But then, you heard her turn on her heel and walk away.

You let out a long, low breath. Wow, that was intense.

Suddenly, Artemis, who had been trailing after you, sank her teeth into the bottom of your jeans and began to tug harshly.

“Hm?”

You looked down at her.

She blinked furiously up at you, signaling, He’s coming! Coming now!

“Oh, Merlin,” you muttered, abruptly returning to your senses.

Hearing Tristan’s footsteps coming towards the corner, you grabbed Artemis rather unceremoniously, picking her up and shoving her under your arm. Then, you booked it all the way back to Tristan’s office. When you managed to race into his office, you hurriedly slammed the door shut behind yourself.

Only a minute later, you heard the knob on the door behind you turning. You threw yourself into Tristan’s office chair with enough force that Artemis yelped as her snout accidentally bumped up against your chest.

“Sorry,” you whispered to her, as Tristan opened the door and walked in just then. When Tristan saw that the couch was empty, he frowned. Then, turning to his desk, he saw you, sitting impertinently at his desk, with one leg casually thrown over the other.

You tried very hard to keep your breathing down.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Tristan asked you in a clipped voice. “You better not have been looking through my documents.”

You silently took a deep breath before you retorted, with sarcasm dripping in your voice, “Oh yes, that’s exactly what I was doing. Because, you know, I just can’t wait to be your Secretary.”

You felt a sharp burn in your chest as you forced yourself not to gasp for breath.

Tristan merely shook his head at you. Then, he said, “Come on. Let’s go home.”

*     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *

Tristan Apparated home, bringing you along with Side-Along Apparation.

When Tristan opened the front door of his grand house, you stopped at the doorway. You stiffened, and Artemis tensed, too, her tail going very still. Seeing the hallway made a sudden, unsettling spurt of apprehension burst in your stomach, as you half-consciously remembered a series of rather frantic, dark memories.

I can dimly remember someone choking me. And that someone was -

You gasped, as Susana suddenly appeared in the hallway. She was totally silent, appearing rather as a ghost instead of a human. What was more, she looked gaunt and haggard, as if she had not slept or eaten for several days.

Artemis blinked worriedly, and her ears went flat on her head. You started to slip your hand inside of your sweater, for you had smuggled away your wand right at your hip, where the band of your pants helped to keep the wand in place.

“Susana?” The worry was clear in Tristan’s voice, too, as he greeted his maid.

“…Master,” she croaked.

Her voice… You shivered. You felt a low rumble sound out in your chest. Apparently, the Nine-Tailed Fox did not like this woman, either.

“Susana, what is it? Are you ill?” Tristan asked, with impressive calm.

“Someone… Someone cast the Imperius Curse on me,” Susana whispered. “I know it. I can – can feel it in me. And it’s – it’s pushing me to DO THIS!”

With a feral scream, Susana suddenly pointed her wand right at you. “Cruc -!”

You drew your wand in front of you. “Prot - !”

“NO!” Tristan roared. Without even pulling out his wand, Tristan ran straight towards Susana. Grabbing her wrist in his hand, he managed to point the wand tip up towards the ceiling just in time to redirection the spell into nothingness.

Tristan barreled into Susana with enough force to push both of them backwards onto the floor. “You’re not yourself! Resist the Imperius Curse!” Tristan yelled. “Susana, hear my voice!”

But Susana continued to struggle against him most ferociously. You were stunned at how physically powerful this old lady was.

With an unwilling growl, Tristan finally slapped Susana – not hard, just hard enough to ‘wake her up.’

Susana went limp for a moment, but you kept your wand pointed directly at her. With your other arm, you were still holding onto Artemis, ready to protect her from whatever ghastly thing was unfolding here.

Thankfully, Susana seemed to return to herself, as she whispered hoarsely, “Master, forgive me…”

Tristan immediately helped Susana up. “Are you all right?”

Susana was shaking all over. “No. It’s the – the indignity of it all. I cannot forgive myself.”

Tristan shook his head firmly. “It’s not your fault, Susana. You mustn’t blame yourself.”

“Master, you know I cannot let this go.”

Tristan’s gaze tightened, as if he realized he was facing something inevitable. But for the moment, he simply asked, “Tell me. How did this happen?”

Susana’s eyes darkened fearsomely. She whispered through bloodless lips, and in a tight, tense voice, “It was him. The absolute scum of the earth.”

“Who?” Tristan urged. “And when?”  

“During the fight, he took advantage of the chaos to cast an Imperius Curse on me. Then, he made me choke her.” Susana looked up at you.

You were still standing beside the door, wand out before you, shivering slightly in your hand.

Susana continued to recount her story. “I heard his voice in my mind, pushing me to capture her, to knock her unconscious, and to bring her to Voldemort.”

When you heard the name “Voldemort,” you felt an intense tremor run through your body. Voldemort. That was who I was fighting against when I was a part of the Order, you thought, mind whirling. But what in the world would Voldemort want with the likes of me?

Your heart was pounding quite heavily. In fact, your fox ears had popped out, though you didn’t realize it.

“Susana.” Tristan leaned forward and he grasped Susana’s shoulders in his hands. “You’re safe now. I’ve got you. But you have to tell me – who cast the Imperius Curse on you?”

Susana growled fearsomely between gritted teeth, “Theodore Fontaine.”

An image of one of the Aurors who ambushed you and Tristan just yesterday (though it felt like ages ago) popped up in your mind. If you weren’t mistaken, Theodore Fontaine was the young man with caramel locks and handsome black robes.

With surprising vigor for such an elderly woman, Susana reached out and gripped Tristan’s jacket collar tightly in her hands. “You must let me go after him.”

Tristan hesitated. “Is this really what you want?”

“I must, Master. Or else I will lose control. I already feel it seeping out of me. If this goes too far, I will not recognize even your call.”

Tristan gazed into Susana’s eyes, searching for something – what, exactly, you didn’t know. Finally, he decided, “Very well. But you understand, don’t you, that you’re to come straight back to me afterwards?”

Susana whispered, in a voice full of emotion, “Yes.”

Then, the most amazing thing happened. Susana lifted her hand, showing a simple metal ring bearing the Graves insignia. At the same time, Tristan pulled out his necklace, bearing the silver lock on a dark silver, almost black chain. The lock also bore the Graves insignia in its metal.

Tristan touched his necklace to Susana’s ring.

From the moment the two metals met, Susana began to transform. Her wrinkles started to smooth out. Her white hair deepened to a fair blonde. Her posture changed and she literally seemed to grow taller, with her bones and muscles seeming to strengthen before your very eyes.

Your mouth dropped open in total astonishment as Susana Holmes, Tristan’s elderly maid, was revealed to be a young, dignified, and rather harsh-looking woman.

When she spoke again, her voice was much lighter than before, but there was a quality of biting iron to it that nearly made you shiver. “I will take care of Theodore Fontaine,” she stated, as matter-of-factly as though she were pronouncing a death sentence on an already captured man.

Tristan only said, in a careful, muted tone: “Remember your restraint.”

Susana whirled around lithely. She made for the door, which you were standing in front of. You and Artemis were both stunned. Neither of you seemed to remember how to move.

“Miss, if you would…” Susana gently shouldered you out of the way.

It wasn’t until Susana - or some likeness of Susana, you weren’t sure anymore -  left the house, closing the door behind her, that you breathed out, rather underwhelmingly, “Merlin.”

At this, Tristan chuckled, though the sound was quite weary and rather dark, “I think the more appropriate exclamation here is ‘Morgana.’”

“But she – Is she -?”

“Yes, that’s her true form.”

“But how? And why?”

“The how – I suppose I could explain it to you, but I don’t care to. After all, it took me several years to re-discover the secrets of my family’s magic. Why should I lay it out so easily to you? Especially when that bracelet of yours is the only thing keeping you here, seeing as you’ve somehow gotten your wand back.”

Tristan gave you a reprimanding look as he eyed the wand in your hand. You flushed, having forgotten that you were still clutching onto your wand in plain view before Tristan.

Tristan continued smoothly, “As for the ‘why,’ well, that’s her story, and only she can decide whether or not she wishes to reveal that.”  

“I think she owes me an explanation, seeing as she’s nearly killed me twice,” you said bluntly.

“Perhaps.” Tucking away the necklace underneath his waistcoat necklace, Tristan beckoned to you. “Come. We should get you to bed, or else you’ll be begging for me to make love with you again.”

“What?”

“Your fox ears have appeared again.”

“They have?”

“Yes. Hard not to notice, actually.”

“Well, it’s no surprise, is it? I thought Susana was going to kill me.”

“It was Theodore Fontaine who was trying to kill you. He had Susana under the Imperius Curse,” Tristan explained. “If anything, Susana saved your life.”

“Oh, sure, I’ll believe everything you say, especially after discovering that the woman who lives in your house is actually a completely different person than who I thought she was,” you said dryly.

“Your sarcasm knows no bounds,” Tristan said flippantly, as he led the way down the long, dark hallway. “Is it a British thing?”

“No, it’s a common sense thing,” you pushed back.

“Well, as I said, common sense would be putting you to bed. Else, you’ll keep me up all night, and I’d prefer to rest tonight.”  

You scowled brilliantly at him. “Just know that if it wasn’t for the Fox inside of me, I would never give you the time of day, Tristan Graves.”

Inside of you, the Fox laughed enchantingly. Oh, little one, you must learn to keep that temper of yours under control. It’s so very cute.

Tristan, already fed up with your indignation towards him, merely said, “Yes, yes, I know. Now, go.” He pushed you none-too-gently down the rest of the hallway, all the way to the last room (the guest room) where your bed was.

*     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *

You couldn’t sleep that night. Of course, by now, you knew that the more tired you became, the more the Fox would need to be satiated. However, sleep was simply impossible tonight, for the image of Susana’s form changing from to a charming-looking elderly woman to a rather sharp-looking young lady overflowed your mental capacity, keeping your thoughts buzzing and your consciousness very much awake.

Is nothing as it seems? you wondered to yourself, staring up at the faintly moonlit ceiling. Is the world of magic beyond just spells and potions – but truly one of myth and legend? I mean, I always suspected that it was. That was why I believed in the Nine-Tailed Fox. But I thought the Nine-Tailed Fox was an exception. But what if she’s not? What if it’s the norm?

The Nine-Tailed Fox’s ears twitched in irritation. I am not the norm.

You ignored her.

Sleep, little one, the Fox reminded you, or else we’ll need to feast on that young man’s soul again.

You dutifully closed your eyes and tried to sleep. Still, once again, you found yourself wondering whether Susana had found Theodore Fontaine yet. Your eyes flashed open once more.

The Fox teased you, Well, then, perhaps you rather fancy this Graves, do you? Seeing as you don’t seem to want to go to sleep.

No, you replied to her in your mind, I do not fancy him.

Oh, child, of course you do, the Fox responded easily. I can feel how willing you are to give yourself to him when the two of you are making love.

That’s not true!

The Fox smirked in your head. There, there. It’s not entirely your fault that you got carried away, after all.

Of course it’s not! You shouted back in your head. This is all your fault! Your stupid magic, enhancing all of the – the…

- Pleasure –

- Strange feelings – you corrected her at once. Anyhow, what would you know of my true feelings? you retorted, not without a twinge of bitterness.

You are my gateway to the physical world, to the human world, the Fox reminded you. If you had not had any attraction to Graves at all, then I wouldn’t have been able to call to him. But I can. That means something, and the meaning is of a kind that I can only exploit, but not create.

You’re making that up, you said, suddenly very annoyed.

The Fox smirked. We’ll see whether or not you like him tomorrow, then, when he’s making love to you yet again.

He won’t be.

Well, he’ll have to, seeing as you’re not sleeping.

You scoffed.

But just then, the Fox suggested slyly, this time, let him take you fully. It will last me longer, you know.

Fully…? you thought nervously.

Let him finish inside of you.

What? No.

It’s the highest point of the experience, the Fox admonished you. It’s when you truly forget your restraints. It’s when you can truly share something between the two of you. Him, taking you. You, letting him take you like that.  

Not with Tristan Graves, you said, scowling in disgust. There will be no ‘taking.’ There will be no ‘letting.’

Well, well, we’ll see, the Fox said, highly amused. She rather enjoyed taunting you like this, playing funny little games with you. A human’s mind is truly so simplistic, isn’t it?

Hey, I can hear you…

Well, yes, I said it out loud. The Fox laughed again. It was meant for you to hear, little one.

Irritated, you grabbed your pillow and shoved it over your head, trying to block out the voices and thoughts pestering you in your very own mind.

But only a moment later, you peeked out again, lifting the pillow just enough to be able to see past your bed, to the chair besides it. You scooted over a tiny bit and you reached out. You managed to slip your hand into your jeans pocket, and you pulled out the pocket watch you had found in that secret book today.

Why did Tristan hide this? And what was that book about, anyways, ‘The Secret of Metals’?

So many mythologies, you thought again, thinking of Tristan’s lock, Susana’s true physical form, and of the Nine-Tailed Fox swishing her tails inside of your soul. And then, there was that mystery that haunted you every single day of your life, the mystery of the Grim, that huge, black, spectral hound that Sirius Black turned into every month…

I guess Rowan was right, you thought sleepily, there are other types of magical creatures out there, too. And the really strange, inexplicable ones… Well, I would name them… Hm… I would name them…

The Fox’s silvery voice melded into yours, as you whispered together, Humans.

*     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *

Ripping, tearing, shredding…

“Lovely… Lovely, please, look away!”

“Remus! Remus, no, please! Don’t push me away! Let me help!”

Broken glass everywhere, torn wood pieces scraping gratingly against cement walls, and the sound of a deep, dark growl…

“Go! I can’t – I can’t be with you anymore…”

“Remus!”

Darkness… Followed by a white haze…

“Remus… Remus…”

The haze grew thicker, until it became clear that it was fast-falling snow.

Inside of you, the Nine-Tailed Fox sighed as she gently laid her tails atop your fractured soul. Rest, child. Be at peace. No matter how much you’re hurting, you have to learn to let go. Whether mythical or real, time is cruel, and requires you to move along with it… Else you will become lost in this white forest of mine, where time truly stops.

*     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *

Damn it. I told her to sleep. But now, here I am, unable to sleep myself.

Tristan sighed. He sat up in his bed. He brushed his dark hair out of his face before he slipped his robe around himself. As he stood up, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. In the dark, his eyes caught that silver streak in his hair and the dull grey cloud in his left eye.

He grimaced. He hated it, all of it – who he was. He wanted to break it into pieces.

He remembered what he had told you. “My soul is broken. It has been for years.”

He only wished he had splintered that much more, until he could just forget his own identity.

Perhaps that’s why she’s so alluring to me. Her silver hair, the snowy mist that she invites me into, that silver haze of dream-like pleasure… Having her, and focusing on her, it lets me experience a different version of the world. Once where silver is not the color of haunting, but of healing.

Before he knew it, Tristan was walking down the hallway. He knocked gently on your door. But there was no response.

Tristan sighed. Please don’t tell me that letting her keep her wand was all a big mistake. Please don’t tell me she’s tried to escape again.

With these prayers in his head, Tristan carefully opened the door and peeked into your room.

Tristan could make out your silhouette in the bed, a soft curve under the covers. But just as he poked his head into your room, you twitched and rolled over, facing him.

Tristan, wondering if he had woken you up, stepped into the room. “Hey.”

But you didn’t respond.

Oh, so she is sleeping, after all. Tristan made to turn away from you, but the moonlight bounced off of something in your head.

Tristan paused. Did I just see… what I think I did?

He slowly turned back and stepped quietly over to you. Your hand was half-underneath the sheets.

Holding his breath, Tristan waved his hand in the air. The sheets gently turned over at the top, only to reveal…

Of course she took the pocket watch. Damn it. So she really did find the wand properly.

Shaking his head at you, Tristan flexed two fingers and then bent them towards his palm. The pocket watch gently slid out of your grasp and hovered in the air, slowly floating towards Tristan.

Tristan gave you a little glare, despite the fact that you were asleep. He had never had his hands quite so full as he had with you. To put it another way, he had never been as annoyed by anyone as he was with you.

Tristan started to turn away from you again.

However, you moaned softly, almost as though you were in pain. Your now-empty hand shot out and you grabbed the sleeve of Tristan’s robe.

“No…” you begged. “Don’t make me leave… Don’t…”

Tristan paused. She’s having a bad dream. But of what? What’s she dreaming about?

“…mus…”

Tristan’s brow furrowed as he tried to catch what you were saying, but it was impossible.

Tristan slowly slid his sleeve out of your grasp. He took your hand with his other hand and gently slid it back under the covers. He gazed down at you for a moment. It’s hard to remember, when everything seems so vague and high-stakes, but seeing her like this, I realize that she’s just a young woman…  

Tristan watched a tear slowly fall down from your closed eyes, and streak down the side of your face. For some reason, in that moment, Tristan heard Cas’ voice in his head, speaking the words that had hurt him deeply today.

“You’re in pain?”

“How can I not be?”

Tristan had always had a soft spot for Cas. He’d never met someone so unapologetic of themselves, yet lacking arrogance. Tristan felt that he was opposite of Cas – all arrogance and no confidence.

Tristan looked down at you again. Slowly, he reached down and wiped away the tear line from your cheek. I don’t know much about you, after all. I don’t know if your stubbornness is backed up by confidence. But I suspect it’s not. I suspect you’re just as lost as I am. Maybe that’s why I feel like I have to help you. Maybe that’s why I’m so drawn to you. Because I do want you, and it goes beyond the magic that the Nine-Tailed Fox casts over me.

Yes… Tristan gently traced the side of your face with his fingertips. There’s something about you that I feel sympathetic for, little one. Maybe it’s that I understand how your stubbornness is a front for the hurt deep in your soul. You’re just as lost as me, aren’t you?

Tristan hesitated. His fingers came to rest gently atop your eyes, with his fingertips feeling as cool as snow against your skin. Because that was when he realized: I wonder if that’s how the Nine-Tailed Fox got into her soul in the first place – by occupying the lost part of her soul.

*     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *

As soon as you woke up the next morning, you raced down to the main room, but it was empty. There was the sound of glass clinking in the dining room, so you went in there.

Tristan was sitting at the dining table, sipping a cup of coffee. Without looking up from his newspaper, he greeted you, “Up early, for once.”

“How are you so blasé?” you asked him, genuinely amazed. “You just found out that one of your Aurors might be a Death Eater. Aren’t you concerned at all?”

Tristan folded the newspaper and tossed it down casually on the table. All he said in reply was, “Susana will take care of it.”

“So, you’re not worried at all?”

“No, I’m not.”

“But it doesn’t look like you’re planning to go to work today. Are you waiting for Susana to come back?”

Tristan frowned, displeased with you for noticing this fact. “What?” he said, scowling at you, as he tried to get you to shut up. “Are you that eager to become a Secretary?”

At this point, you dropped the matter. Because, as Tristan very well knew, you hated the thought of being his Secretary.

However, when Tristan stood up, and taking his now empty cup, walked towards the kitchen, you followed him in.

“Seriously, how are you so sure?” you pressed.

When Tristan saw you tagging after him, he sighed. “I said, ‘don’t worry about it.’”

“All right, but tell me why I shouldn’t worry.”

Tristan folded his arms over his chest as he regarded you. “Listen. That morning that you jumped out of the library window to escape, didn’t you wonder why with all of the defensive barriers placed around my home, you were still able to escape?”

You hesitated. I did think it was strange, but I wasn’t going to take it for granted.

Tristan nodded. “It’s because those magical barriers weren’t constructed to keep intruders out. It’s to keep Susana in.”

You paused. What?  To keep Susana in?

“Anyways, we should wait,” Tristan said, glancing out the window. “It wouldn’t do to get in her way.”

“Besides,” Tristan continued, and the marked change in his voice, which now contained a strong bent of sternness in it, made you turn your head and look at him with your full attention, “I’ve another thing to speak with you about.”

You hesitated. “Yes…?”

Tristan reached into his robe pocket. “Care to explain how this made its way to you?”

“Oh.” You swallowed nervously. “It… Er… I happened upon it.”

Tristan snorted. “Happened upon it.” He walked towards you quietly, pinning you against the wall in no time at all. “You didn’t happen upon anything, you little thief, unless you mean that you snooped again my office, went into my private books, and stole my family heirloom for yourself.”

Rather startled by how suddenly you founded yourself cornered, you shifted and fidgeted, trying to slip away, but not quite sure how to. Your hands met Tristan’s chest, whether to push him away, or use him to steady yourself, you honestly weren’t sure.

Tristan reached up and easily gathered both of your slender wrists in one hand. Holding onto you rather tightly, he growled, “Where are you going so hastily, little fox? If you keep following me around like this, you think I’ll just let you slip away whenever you want?”

You struggled against him for a brief second. But quickly realizing that you were not going to win this fight with brawn, you instead glared up at him and retorted snappishly, “I’m going away. Far away from you.”

“Is that so?”

“Of course. You knew that, so don’t act so surprised,” you said impatiently, now deciding to press your hands on Tristan’s chest.

Tristan stiffened, but he only said, “I did know that. But perhaps I underestimated you.”

“Well, that’s your own fault,” you told him. Then, flashing him a brilliant grin, you eagerly dug all ten of your nails into his chest.

“Ow! For fuck’s sake!”

As soon as Tristan dropped your hands, you made a run for it. You high-tailed out of the kitchen. You started to run for the guest bedroom, but deciding that that was too obvious of a place to run to, you suddenly turned right and went up a flight of stairs – up into the attic.

*     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *

Half an hour later, when Tristan couldn’t find you in your bedroom or in the library, he started to grow concerned.

Did she leave?

At that moment, Artemis, who had been dozing on the rug in a little patch of weak sunlight (the best she could find in this gloomy house), got to her feet, yawning.

No, Tristan decided, she would never leave her fox behind.

At that moment, Artemis stretched. Then, putting her nose to the ground, she began to sniff. She went right out of the room and out into the hallway. She sniffed several times in front of the guest bedroom, where you had slept last night, but then Artemis passed right on, continuing down the hallway, with her soft paws padding along the rug.

She’s looking for her master, Tristan realized. 

So, that was how Tristan ended up resorting to stealthily, if not a bit ridiculously, following your fox, in the hopes that he might figure out where you were.

Never thought I’d be tracking a non-magical fox, Tristan thought. He sighed and shook his head. This is so undignified.

Artemis sniffed her way all the way down the hallway and up the stairs…

Tristan stayed just outside the attic trapdoor, keeping himself out of view.

Sure enough, a second later, he heard you call out in welcome, “Art!”

Tristan meant to storm up there immediately, but your next words stopped him.

“Art, did you ever think we’d be all the way out here in America… ? Hiding away like this… What are we even doing?”

Tristan heard you sigh.

“We’re so very far away from home, aren’t we?”

There was a pause. Then, you murmured, so softly that Tristan thought he might have imagined it, “How’d we end up here, huh?”

Tristan found himself hesitating. He wasn’t sure why, but all of a sudden, he felt ashamed to approach you. It took him a few minutes to steady himself against this unexpected bout of hesitation.

By the time Tristan opened the trapdoor and made his way up to you, you had gotten yourself into a comfortable position with Artemis. You were leaning against some antique rugs, all rolled-up and stacked on the floor behind you, and Artemis was curled up in your lap. Your eyes slipped shut as you lazily and lovingly stroked Artemis. It all seemed so peaceful.

Tristan decided to break into your serene little world, stating with false impressiveness, “From thief to hideaway, you’re moving up in the world.”

Your eyes opened in surprise. “Graves? How the hell did you find me?”

“Your little fox pawprints led all the way here.”

You paused, realizing that Tristan had followed Artemis up here. You gave him a resentful look. “Can’t you give me a moment’s rest?” 

But Tristan retorted firmly, “Can’t you? You know I’m trying to help you, and yet, you make it so difficult to protect you.”

You sighed. Sitting in this small, dusty attic, old memories were revisiting you, and you felt more tired than usual. Instead of snapping back at Tristan, you finally opted for the truth. “You may not understand this, Tristan, but for me, freedom means infinitely more than protection. It always has…”

Tristan stayed silent for a moment, studying you as he recognized this rare moment of vulnerability. Then, he walked over to you and knelt before you.

Startled, Artemis suddenly sat up and inhaled. But with her sensitive fox nose, that was immediately followed by what could only be described as a fox sneeze. The tiniest little “achoo” left her snout.

You couldn’t help it – you laughed. Artemis looked up at you, a bit affronted. Her ears twitched in displeasure. Then, she got up, shook herself free of imaginary dust, and then trotted from your lap out the trapdoor and back down the stairs.

Your eyes followed Artemis out the trapdoor, and so, at first, you didn’t notice that Tristan had reached up to grasp the silver lock on his necklace. Then, Tristan reached down and grasped your wrist in his hand.

“What are you doing?” you asked, but in a hushed voice, as you already knew what he was doing, only you couldn’t fathom why.

Sure enough, just as Tristan had touched his lock to Susana’s ring to free her from her physical restraints, Tristan now touched his lock to the bracelet on your wrist, the bracelet with the Graves insignia that he had placed on you when the two of you had first met.

You watched with wide eyes as the bracelet unlocked on its own and then fell to the floor.

“Graves?” you whispered in surprise.

Tristan grimaced at you, as he let go of your wrist. “I told you not to call me by my last name.”

“What do you mean by this?” You held up your bare wrist.

Tristan merely looked at you, as though you had asked the most boring and obvious question ever, as he replied simply, “You’re free. You can go.”

“But why?”

Tristan lifted his eyebrow at you. “Do you really want to question my decision now?”

“Er…”

“I thought not. Take the opportunity while you can, and go,” Tristan said matter-of-factly. “You have your wand. You can protect yourself. And Cas won’t hurt you, despite what she said.”

You paused.

“Yes,” Tristan remarked shortly, “I know you were in the hallway yesterday.”

“Oh…” 

“At this point, I think it might actually kill you for you to stay put,” Tristan said wryly.

You bit down on your tongue, trying to stop yourself from asking the question you’d wanted to know the answer to since yesterday. But a moment later, it burst out of you anyways. “Do you love her?”

Tristan looked rather alarmed at your question. “What?”

“Cas. Do you love her?”

Tristan’s hand, now resting atop his knee, slowly gripped into a fist. But Tristan maintained his calm, controlled voice, as he told you, “It’s none of your business.”

“Tristan.”

“You know what? I don’t think I like it when you use my first name, either. In fact, just don’t call for me at all.”

You reached out and you gently placed your open hand over his fist. “I’m sorry if I got in the way. If it helps, you can tell her the truth once I leave.”

Tristan’s fist cautiously opened underneath your hand.

It was curiously slow, how it all came about, with Tristan’s hand opening like a shy blossom, and then Tristan turned his open hand over, so that, a long moment later, your hand was in Tristan’s. The two of you weren’t holding hands, just resting your hands together, palm-to-palm.

“Tristan,” you said softly.

Tristan didn’t reply, but you knew he was listening.

“The Nine-Tailed Fox said that… Well, she said that if there truly wasn’t any attraction between us, then she couldn’t work her magic for us. Do you – Do you think there’s any truth in that?”

“Do you?” Tristan asked you.

“No,” you answered quickly. “I don’t like you.”

“Likewise.”

“Good.”  

Tristan lifted his eyes to yours, and he lifted an eyebrow, as if to say, Well, then…

“Then go,” he said brusquely. “You’re free now. If you don’t have any reason to stay by me, then you should go.”

You meant to reply at once, “I’ll get right on that.”

But in those haunting emerald eyes of his, you were momentarily distracted. Before you knew it, you found yourself murmuring aloud something that you had always noticed about Tristan: “There’s a cloud in your gaze.”

A flash of deep pain ran through Tristan’s eyes. But he didn’t look away from you. In that moment, you confirmed that Tristan had told you the truth when he said that his soul was strong. You marveled at the fact that he could hurt so deeply, and still hold your gaze like that. It was more impressive than the stoic, cold version of him that you had first met.

A moment later, Tristan sighed. Then, he replied to you, in a soft, hovering voice, “I know. It obscures everything.”

At that moment, a single snowflake streaked across your vision, fluttering past Tristan’s face. You hesitated, surprised. “Tristan - ”

Just then, the sound of a door opening below rang out, and Susana’s voice followed, ringing out clearly despite the distance between the attic and the front door. “Master.”

*     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *

Instead of going down to the front door, Tristan headed to his study. Susana somehow knew to meet him there. You weren’t technically invited, but you tagged Tristan into his study anyways.

“It has been done, Master,” Susana said. She stood proudly, with not a hair out of place.

“Good,” Tristan said. “And you are not hurt?”

“No. As if.”

“I had to ask.” Tristan looked up at Susana from his desk with a stern expression as he said, “And did you manage to find out how this came about?”

Susana’s brow furrowed. “No. I attempted to use Legilimency to see into his mind, but he had already fallen unconscious. However, I did notice a strange marking inside of his arm. It was a skull, with a snake coming out its jaw…”

“That’s the mark that Death Eaters have.” The words fell out of your lips knowingly.

Susana and Tristan turned to you.

“You have to pledge allegiance directly before Voldemort to gain that mark. It’s not enough to simply be an ally,” you explained.

Tristan was quiet for a long moment. Then, he said, “Susana, you didn’t leave any traces.” He spoke with certainty, making it a statement rather than a question.

Susana gave a grim smile. “Of course not.”

“Where did you leave him?”

“Strung up in his own home. He’s still alive, just unconscious. And he might find that pieces of his mind have been… carved out.”

You shivered as you realized that Susana was talking about what she had done to Theodore.

“MACUSA will just think that it’s the Death Eaters that came after him,” Tristan calculated quickly. “I’ll report this to Tina, then.”

Susana walked over to Tristan, with a look of determination on her face.

Tristan looked at her with a quite serious, almost chiding expression. “You don’t have to do this, you know. I don’t mind helping you, but I think you should give yourself some more credit, Susana. You should feel confident in trusting yourself.”

But Susana gently pulled the necklace from under Tristan’s shirt. Then, she touched it to her ring again. A sheen of energy seemed to shiver through her body – and then she was back to how she had been when you first met her: a charming, elderly lady.

*     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *

You knew you ought to give Susana her space. After all, what right did you have to ask her about herself?

But you couldn’t help it. Your curiosity had always defined you. You often thought it was because of your overwhelming curiosity that you’d been put into Ravenclaw. You had never cared for school, and you didn’t see the point in gathering useless facts in your brain at all. But when you were curious about something…years could go by and you’d still be thinking about it and searching for the answer.

That was the case now. You tried to keep away, but finally, you not-so-subtly meandered over to the library, where Susana was dusting the shelves, as if today was the same as every other day in her life…

“Well, don’t just stand there, dearie, come in.”

“Oh…” You slipped into the room and closed the door behind you.

Susana flicked her wand, and the feather duster that had been going down the shelves disappeared. Turning around to face you, Susana gave you a cheeky smile. “I’ve never seen you so quiet. You’re usually up for a good fight with Master Tristan.”

“Yes, well, he’s…” you mumbled uncertainly.

“He’s a good man, though he’s got some sharp edges to his personality. He’s still sorting things out, I’ve afraid. But I wouldn’t be surprised if he carried his demons all the way through to the end of his life. No one could blame him.”

“What do you mean?”

Susana paused. “What do you know about him?”

“Nothing much, except that he’s the Head of the Aurors.”

“His father was before him, you know.”

“Oh, yes…” you said, vaguely remembering. “Tristan once told me off for calling me Mr. Graves. He said that that was what his father was called.”

Susana nodded. “Mr. Percival Graves was the Head of Aurors when Tristan was very young. Now, at that time, there was another Dark Wizard on the rise. I’m sure you’ve heard of him – Gellert… Grindelwald.” The name fell rather oddly from her lips.

“Yes, of course,” you agreed. I’ll bet there’s not a soul in the Wizarding World alive today who doesn’t know that name.

“Grindelwald was very clever. He attempted to use a young boy, an Obscurial - ”

“Wait,” you stopped her. “What’s an Obscurial? The term keeps cropping up, but I don’t know what it means.”

Susana’s eyes darkened. “Our history is not the same as yours, I’m afraid. In America, No-Mags were aware of witches and wizards – unfortunately, they feared us. So, you see, we didn’t grow up peacefully along the No-Mag community. Instead, they openly persecuted us.”

You frowned, not understanding where this story was going.

“Because of the persecution, sometimes a young witch or wizard would try to suppress their magic instead of embrace it. If that happened too often, if that child tried to deny who and what they were, a dark parasitical magical force, called an Obscurus, would grow inside them. The young witch or wizard would then be what we might call - ”

“- An Obscurial,” you finished for her.

“Precisely.”

“But why does MACUSA fear Obscurials so much? If it’s just a child, I mean.”

“No, it’s much more than a child,” Susana corrected you. “Imagine years and years of suppressed magic bursting out of your body uncontrollably – it kills the host, the child, and damages everything in its path until it dissolves.”

Your mouth fell open. Suddenly, you felt sick. “It… kills the child?”

“In most cases, yes,” Susana answered grimly. “But there was one case where it didn’t kill the child. The child grew to be eighteen years old. But the Obscurus within him grew in proportion. Yet, the child did not die. The child’s name was Credence Barebone.

“As you might imagine,” Susana continued, “Gellert Grindelwald did everything in his power to turn the boy to his side, since having the power of an Obscurus by his side would be incredibly frightening and useful. At the time, every Auror opted to kill him on sight should he appear. Grindelwald knew this, and he wanted this to happen, because he realized that would trigger Credence’s full potential. However, there were three Aurors who thought differently, who wanted to try to save the boy.”

“Who?”

“Percival Graves and his wife, Mary Graves, priorly known as Mary Jauncey. They were Tristan’s parents. The third Auror was Tina Scamander, then Tina Goldstein.”

“What happened? Did they manage to save the boy?”

Slowly, Susana shook her head. “No. Even though they were three of our best Aurors, they couldn’t stand up against an entire crowd of Aurors. At first, Mary tried to defend against all of the spells that the other Aurors were throwing at Credence, but it was impossible. So, Mary stopped trying to block the Spells, and instead, she turned to Credence to try to calm the boy. She knew that she was giving up her own life, but she still chose to do it. However…”

“However?”

“Tristan, who was only four years old at the time, had been brought to the scene for his own safety.”

“What? Why?”

“Percival believed that either Grindelwald or the Aurors would target Tristan if they were to leave him behind.”

“So Tristan was there, at the scene with the Obscurial?”

“Yes,” Susana said somberly. “And when liittle Tristan saw that his mother was about to be hit with many life-threatening spells, he tried to save her. Before anyone could stop him, he raced forward to save his mother. Grindelwald appeared just the. He had been hiding in the shadows, making the Aurors do all the dirty work, but he couldn’t help except to take the opportunity to kill Percival and Mary’s most precious thing - their son. Percival saw Grindelwald, however, and Percival, threw himself in front of Tristan to shield him. Percival died, not only from taking Grindelwald’s Killing Curse head-on, but also from simultaneously being hit by numerous misfired Spells from the Aurors. Meanwhile, Credence became overwhelmed and the Obscurus within him exploded once and for all. Mary Graves, who was standing right in front of Credence, died immediately from the explosion of the Obscurus within him. But Tristan, young Tristan, standing in-between his mother and father, lived. But he saw everything, of course. At the age of four, he had witnessed the loss of both of his parents.

You stared at Susana wide eyes, not daring to even breathe, as this tragic story slowly entered your mind.

“Tina took Tristan in. Even when Tina married Newt and had her own boy, Rowan just a few months later, Tina continued to raise Tristan. The two boys, Tristan and Rowan, grew up together until Tristan went to Ilvermony. Newt, however, preferred his alma mater, Hogwarts, and Tina agreed to send Rowan there.”

“Yes,” you whispered numbly, “I know.”

“At Ilvermony, Tristan quickly revealed himself to be a prodigy. He was already an intern for the Aurors while he was taking final exams at school. As you know, he rose remarkably quickly to his position now, as the Head of the Aurors.”

Susana paused here, as if deciding whether or not she should go on. Finally, she continued, “I happen to know that on the very first day that he sworn in as the Head, a pivotal case came before him.”

You listened intently, wondering where the story was about to go, where the story could go after such a horrific beginning.

“The Aurors caught Grindelwald’s hidden child,” Susana recited. 

“What?” you said, stunned. “Grindelwald had a child? I’ve never heard of this.”

“Yes. Apparently, Gellert Grindewald had fathered a daughter, who had been in hiding all these long years. The Aurors discovered her, captured her, and dragged her forward. She was to have her fate decided by Tristan Graves. Of course, MACUSA has its Supreme Court, but everyone knew that the Courts would defer to Tristan, short of any true miscarriage of justice. Perhaps the only person with more of a moral right to decide Grindelwald’s child’s fate was Albus Dumbledore, and he refused to step into American politics.

“Anyways, that day, the courtroom was lined up with what seemed like everyone from MACUSA and even many citizens from the public. They brought the girl forward and the crowd began to chant in anticipation, eager of seeing the last of Grindelwald’s filthy bloodline purged.”

Susana’s voice rose in tempo and volume, dramatizing the scene so beautifully, as if she had been there herself. “The crowd cried, ‘Off with her head! Off with her head!’

Susana’s eyes turned hard. “Then, Tristan Graves looked down at her, at Grindelwald’s child, the blood child of the man who had taken everything from him… and Tristan decided to save her life.”

“What?” you blurted out, shocked.

“Yes.” Susana nodded solemnly. “As you might imagine, the crowd was in an absolute uproar. But no one could turn an innocent verdict, only a guilty one. However, the crowd fast became a mob. Tristan helped the girl to escape with her life, though just barely. Afterwards, the girl came and found Tristan and asked for his help. She admitted that it was true, that she was predisposed to Dark Magic, because that was all she had ever been trained to do. She said that she had tried to stop using magic for years now, because she was so afraid of her own identity. Tristan said that he would do what he could to help. He taught her cleaning magic. He put up defensive barriers around the house to keep her in, to keep her safe from herself. And he gave her a ring…”

Susana slowly lifted her ring up into the air. “…To change her appearance and to hide her from the world…”

Your mouth fell open. You quickly became paralyzed with complete disbelief. No… It couldn’t be… Susana is Grindelwald’s long-lost daughter? And Tristan lets her stay here and helps her to control her Dark Magic…?

“It’s absurd,” you heard yourself say. “Absolutely absurd. It can’t be.”

Susana stepped closer to you.

You drew back from her, but Susana merely reached out, slowly, until her fingertips touched your chest. Softly, she whispered, “Is it as absurd as housing a Nine-Tailed Fox within yourself?”

*     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *

You were sitting numbly in the library, trying to make sense of the whirlwind of new discoveries spinning around in your mind.

“Ah. There you are.” Tristan briskly walked in. Snapping his fingers at you, with his hands clothed in his black leather gloves, he said, “Come on. We have to go.”

“Where?” you asked blanky.

“To MACUSA. Didn’t you hear what I told Susana? I have to report this to Tina.”

“Oh… Okay.”

Tristan frowned. “I don’t know what’s going through that strange little head of yours, but you need to snap to. You’re my Secretary, remember?”

“…Yes.” You got to your feet, by which time Tristan was already striding out the door again. You watched his back for a moment, recalling Susana’s words.

“He taught her cleaning magic. He put up defensive barriers around the house to keep her in, to keep her safe from herself. And he gave her a ring to change her appearance and to hide her from the world…”

Absurd, you thought to yourself again, and the thought only became more pronounced, growing into a ‘truly and perfectly absurd’ situation in your mind, as you followed Tristan all the way to MACUSA.

*     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *

“Well, I’d prefer if my Secretary looked more professional.” Tristan remarked, after giving you an unimpressed once-over.

You were dressed in MACUSA wear, but your face, which had a cloud looming over your brow, and dark bags under your eyes to match, was a sight that made Tristan tired just by looking at you.

“But if it’s you, I suppose it can’t be helped,” Tristan finished with a sigh.

“I’m British, remember?” you retorted. “Of course I don’t feel comfortable in this ridiculous garb.”

“Oh, yes,” Tristan snorted condescendingly. “Because it’s the fact that your nationality is stamped across your forehead that makes you look unfit to be Secretary.”

“Glad you understand,” you replied cheekily.

You tried to resume your normal tongue-in-cheek manner of speaking with Tristan, but as soon as he had turned his back on you to walk over to his desk, you found yourself eyeing him with a bit of newfound respect… and a colossal mountain of doubt.

And yet, you could not deny the story entirely, for you had seen and heard for yourself what Susana really was. You’d seen Susana transform before your very eyes. What was more, this morning, Tina had confirmed everything that Susana had said – that Theodore Fontaine had been found strung up in his own home, disorientated, and bearing the Dark Mark on his arm.

Just then, Tristan flicked his wand and a pile of papers were magically shoved into your arms.

You sputtered in surprise.

“Get to it,” Tristan told you briskly. “Find all the signature forms and mark them for me.”

You scowled at him. Maybe, just maybe, Tristan Graves is an extremely honorable man, but it doesn’t change the fact that he’s an arrogant prat.

*     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *

Two hours later, Tristan looked up from his desk, stating, “When you’re done with that, you - ” 

He fell quiet, however, when he caught you unmistakably passed out on your pile of forms.

Tristan rose from his table and he strode over to you, only to confirm that yes, you were dead asleep. Irritated, he said, “Excuse me, Secretary.”

You blearily opened your eyes and peered up at him. “Yes?” Your voice cracked magnificently in the space of that one syllable.

Tristan glanced down at the stack of papers he’d given you to see that you had marked all of…

“One. One slip.” Tristan’s eyes narrowed into a glare. “That’s all the work you’ve done in the space of two hours.”

You merely stared up at him. Really? He’s the one that did all those brave things, who saved Susana in such a noble and self-sacrificing fashion?

As if to fuel the doubt inside of your mind, Tristan reached down and gently knocked his fingers against the side of your head. “Are you sure you’re possessed by a Nine-Tailed Fox and not, let’s say, a sloth?”

No, Susana must have been lying, you said to yourself. Right? I mean, just look at his arrogant, pompous, condescending man before me. 

“What are you doing?” Tristan asked, uneasy, as you suddenly, but very slowly, put your hands down on the small desk in front of you. Leaning forward, towards, Tristan, you rose from your seat.

“What?” Tristan asked suspiciously. “Is the Fox within you calling for strength again?” 

But even though his words were borderline taunting, there was genuine concern in his eyes. And you knew, without having to ask, that if you said, “yes,” Tristan would try to help you again, whether that was by making love or in some other way. 

You hesitated. Well, I suppose it’s true that Tristan has gone out of his way to protect me, all this time. It might have been because he was friends with Rowan, and maybe Rowan mentioned me to him once. It might have been because he was less doubtful that the Nine-Tailed Fox really could exist, and so he decided I deserved a chance. Or it may just be that he saw that I was scared and completely alone in a foreign country, and he didn’t want to see me harmed before I’d even realized what was going on…

Your eyes searched Tristan’s for a long moment, before you gently shook your head back and forth. You remained silent for the rest of the day, and even when you followed him home.

*     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *    

“What are you doing back up here? Set your heart on being a hideaway, have you, little thief?”

You started. With every intention of avoiding Tristan that evening, you had headed back up to the attic instead of your bedroom. You had always liked these smaller, cozier rooms, where you could sit and gather yourself and your thoughts.

Tristan crossed his arms over his chest. “I supply you with a perfectly fine bedroom, and you prefer this?”

“And besides that,” Tristan said matter-of-factly, “didn’t I free you? Why are you still in my house at all?”

For some reason, you found yourself bristling at this last comment by Tristan. I’m trying to figure you out, you numbskull, and you won’t even give me a moment of peace to think well of you.

“Fine. I’ll leave, then,” you said shortly and unexpectedly. You got to your feet, and walked out of the room, brushing right past Tristan.

However, you only made it to the foot of the staircase leading up the attic, when your feet tripped to a stop.

You turned around and looked back up at the attic trapdoor. I didn’t mean to say that, you thought tiredly. Damn it. Damn it. With a sigh, you began to climb back up the stairs.

You slowly entered the room again, closing the trapdoor quietly behind you.

Tristan was still standing in the middle of the room, right where you had left him.

Seeing you again, he said quietly, “I thought you left.”

“I know. I thought I was going to, too,” you said honestly.

“If it’s because you can’t find Artemis, she’s in the library, sleeping in front of the fireplace,” Tristan informed you.

You paused. “You know where Artemis is?”

“Yes.”

“I thought you didn’t care about my fox.”

“I don’t want to,” Tristan replied gruffly. “But if I’m not careful, I’m afraid I’ll step on the stupid thing and she’ll get hurt and you’ll be upset about it - ”

You walked forward until you came right in front of Tristan. Then, grabbing the front of his robe, you buried your head against his chest.

But Tristan reached out and grasped your face firmly in his hands. “What?” he demanded, forcing you to lift your face up to look at him. “Are you not well? Tell me.”

And this time, you could so clearly see that despite his gruffness and his arrogance, his words were laced with care: “Are you not well? Tell me.”

“Tristan,” you whispered. “You don’t like when I call you Graves. You once said it was because it reminded you of your father.”

“Yes.”

“Why don’t you want to be associated with your father?”

Tristan’s eyes turned cold. “Because he could have been someone great, and he threw it all away for the sake of one helpless person. I don’t want to give myself away like that. I have to be better than him. I have to do the things he couldn’t.”

Tristan’s brooding gaze was so dark that you wanted to look away from him. But when you swallowed down that feeling and you continued to study him, you glimpsed a glimmer of tears in Tristan’s eyes.

Your voice dropped to a whisper, as you asked what you knew could only be an intensely painful question. “Tristan, you say that you don’t want to be like your father, throwing away all chance of greatness to save one helpless person. But when you say, ‘helpless person,’ do you mean… Are you referring to yourself? Are you referring to the fact that your father died to save you?”

Tristan’s eyes flashed. His entire body went completely stiff.

“Tristan,” you breathed out in shock. “How could you…? How could you regret that your father saved you?”

“Because,” Tristan said finally, and his voice sounded not at all like him, “I haven’t been able to find myself since. Everyone says I’m the spitting image of my father, that I’m the reason he can live on. But how can that be, when he’s gone because of me?” His voice cracked, as he tried to carry on, “I can’t see myself clearly. I have never been able to. I believe, in some form or anything, that the remnants of the Obscurial lives inside my left eye… The anger and hate I feel for myself in having killed both my parents - ”

“ – you didn’t - ” you interrupted.

But Tristan kept speaking, “ – lives in this eye, where I keep my feelings suppressed. But I’m afraid that one day, it will eat me alive, and those I love most – Cas, for example, will be hurt by it. At least with Susana, I know that if this Obscurial ever gets out of hand, she has the power to kill me. And you – you’ll leave at first chance. So, I’m not afraid for the two of you. But with Cas… I don’t know. I don’t want to give up. But nothing’s clear. Like I said, everything’s obscured.”

“Well…” The voice of the Nine-Tailed Fox suddenly blended beautifully into your voice, but in this moment, you welcomed it and were grateful for it. “While truth erodes in obscurity, experience gains significance. In the obscurity, you can heal, if you so choose. In obscurity, you can forget your own pains for a little while. You can re-invent yourself, until you’re strong enough to face the light of day again.”  

“Is that what you offer me?” Tristan asked, almost pleadingly. In his mind, he was thinking desperately, almost begging, let me lose myself in you again. Lead me to the place where the mist surrounds me, so that I forget who I’m expected to be, and can just… breathe.

*     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *    

It wasn’t clear who reached for who first. Perhaps it was Tristan, suddenly pushing you down against the rugs. Or perhaps it was you, leaning forward to press your lips against his, only to feel him grasp your waist in his broad, strong hands, and push you down.

But we can argue over who started all this later, you thought blurrily, as you tangled your fingers in his sleek, black hair. Although, more likely, I will never see him again after today, so we will never get to argue again at all. With that thought weighing heavily in your mind, you encouraged Tristan to kiss you deeper, pulling him closer to you while opening your own mouth a little wider.

Oh God, I want to taste him, you realized, almost in surprise.

A moment later, when Tristan gave you what you wanted and kissed you deeper, even slipping his tongue into your mouth for a moment, to taste you, you closed your eyes and moaned softly into his mouth in gratitude.

Your legs naturally parted, and Tristan’s hips sank down atop yours.

Feeling Tristan’s warm and strong body settling down on top of your smaller frame, your hands fumbled down his body, touching him all over. You meant to undress him entirely, but with your fingers slipping clumsily over all the front of his robe, you finally decided to give up on finding the actual robe belt and you simply and ungraciously pulled the front of his robe open entirely.

You felt Tristan’s lips curve up a little against yours. “Finally learning how to get what you want?”

“S’long as it doesn’t have any buttons on it, I’m a pro,” you murmured back, relieved and pleased to see Tristan returning to his usual sense of humor.

“Let me return the favor,” Tristan whispered. He smirked as he yanked open the front of your white robe, so that the sides of the robes fell to either side of your body, revealing your beautiful curves to Tristan. Then, with another quick tug, Tristan ripped your panties right off of your hips.

You growled at him. “Tristan, at least be civilized.”

“Says the fox girl,” he retorted quickly. As he spoke, Tristan’s fingers quickly found your waiting little cunt, and he slipped his fine fingers past your pussy lips, quickly catching your clit between his index and middle fingers. He played with your clit softly, making you breathe a little harder and your heart beat a little faster.

Meanwhile, your hand had traveled down Tristan’s sculpted abs and traced over his hips and then fell even lower to his cock. Your fingers rubbed up against the tip of his shaft for a moment before your hand slid around him, gripping it just hard enough to let him feel the warm, soft, and blurry friction of your hand on him.

Still trading kisses, and with Tristan’s other hand tangled in your hair, and your other hand gripping the shoulder of his black silk robe, the two of you touched each other slowly, yet sensually. Your little fist started to grip his cock a little tighter, while his fingers moved lower and lower towards your little hole.

Finally, you whispered fervently, “Tristan...”

Sliding your hands inside of his black robe and grasping both of his hips, you shifted yourself up a little and then, spreading your legs open wider, you slowly started to rub your wet cunt against his length.

Tristan stiffened. He closed his eyes, enjoying the feeling of you pressing up against the base of his cock and then sliding up, leaving a sleek little line of wetness down the underside of his shaft. At one point, the tip of his cock briefly slipped just over your pussyhole, and you both moaned softly.

Tristan put both his hands up onto the pile of rugs behind you, which you were resting your back against, so that his hands were on either side of your head. When he lifted his hands up like that, his shoulders also naturally lifted, and his silk black robe suddenly draped beautifully down his body. As he was now leaning over you, his robe covered you, too. If someone were to look into the room at this precise moment, they would see his black silk robe covering you both from view, while your open white silk robe pooled out from your body, down the rugs, and onto the floor around you both.

What was more, in this dim attic, the only light that came in was the faint, golden light from a crescent-shaped window above, and so a half-halo of shimmer light rested upon your bodies, carving out his shoulders and the left side of your body, illuminating your curves, and then curving back in on the floor just underneath both of your feet. In that crescent shape of hesitant, morning light, the two of you were a strange play of silhouettes, just as you had been the first night you had come to find each other in that library.

It looked as though the two of you were on your own island, with white sands and shrouded in a dark mist, where a parallel sense of time and space existed for just the two of you. For both of you carried a strange emptiness that breathed hollowness into your very beings. Knowing that, feeling that within you and recognizing it clearly in Tristan now, you found that it all led right back to that initial moment, where you had asked Tristan to simply let you die – and he hadn’t. Stranger though he was to you then, he hadn’t let you go.

Tristan, who had been kissing you slowly, but quite deeply, all this time, finally opened his eyes and gazed down into your eyes. Leaning down to press his forehead against yours, he whispered, “May I…?”

You nodded, your forehead slipping just a little against his. You reached down and slid your hands under the back of your thighs, and you lifted yourself off of the floor a little, to present to him your wet little cunt. You looked up at Tristan, no longer hiding from the fact that you wanted him. You wanted him inside you. You needed him inside of you.

The Nine-Tailed Fox began to dance her beautiful and mythical dance inside of your soul so that, despite the gloomy atmosphere of that dark, gothic house, and the abandoned feeling in that strangely lit attic, the Fox’s mythical, healing snow began to fall around you both, until it affected even the lighting of the room. All at once, everything seemed brighter, livelier, and sweeter.

In that softer, yet brighter, lighting, Tristan took a moment just to admire you, holding your legs up like that, showing him your sweet little cunt. He could see the way your fingers were gently pushing into the softness that was the back your thighs. And if he simply looked up a little, he could appreciate the loveliness of your soft breasts, too. Then, there was your pretty face, with your fox-like eyes, looking up at him with silver lights now dancing around your irises once more, as alluring as a woman’s gaze could ever be.

You can never truly have me, you seemed to be saying. But for now, I’ll let you pretend. If you make love to me, I’ll let you pretend that I’m yours, just for the moment.

That was all Tristan wanted in this moment, too – to feel like you were his. Tristan guided himself to you. Then, he pushed his hips forward, pushing into you slowly, but without pausing, as he spread you open, going deeper and deeper down your soft, silky pussy walls until finally - 

“Ah!” you cried out softly, and your hands shot out and pressed themselves against his abs.

Tristan huffed out a tense breath. Always so tight, this girl.

“W-Wait,” you whispered just then, thighs shivering sweetly.

Tristan nodded understandingly, and he stopped, giving you time to adjust. He felt your little pussy throbbing already on his cock, because of how tight you were. It must have been throbbing in time to your quickening heartbeat, Tristan thought, because at that moment, Tristan saw your soft, white, fluffy fox ears pop out of the top of your head.

Once again, you didn’t seem to notice, for you had closed your eyes and were focused on finding your breath.

Tristan watched as your ears twitched nervously, as you did your best to relax so that you could take Tristan deeper. Examining your fox ears, Tristan found himself wondering, did you come find me in the same way that Artemis finds you? As a little fox, using her instincts to run towards whatever will offer her shelter and protection?

Your eyes suddenly opened, wide with surprise. Tristan abruptly realized that he had accidentally asked that question aloud.

You cocked your head gently to the side, regarding Tristan with a curiosity that Tristan had never quite seen before. Suddenly, Tristan understood how, with your spirit, you could have found the Nine-Tailed Fox.

It’s this curiosity of hers, he realized. It’s how she discovered the Nine-Tailed Fox, when the rest of wizardkind only thought of the Nine-Tailed Fox as a mythical creature. It’s also why, I suspect, she stays besides me, even if she doesn’t trust me. Because she’s curious.

Seeing the way you blinked your bright eyes up at him, Tristan felt himself feeling quite protective over you. She’s just a curious little thing. Everything else is a front she puts up. She pretends to act all tough whenever she gets caught, but in truth, she really is just like a little fox, poking her nose in all the things she shouldn’t.

As Tristan was so patiently waiting for you to adjust to his stiffness and his size, you truly did begin to relax in his arms. You ran your hands up and down his chest, pausing for a moment to touch the silver lock resting around his neck. It burned ever so slightly for you to touch it, and you knew why now – because, it, too, was a form of ancient magic. The Nine-Tailed Fox within you was responding to it, intrigued to recognize old magic from her times, and yet, wary because she wasn’t quite sure what it was.

Tristan watched you for a moment, gently toying with the silver lock around his neck.

“I think you’re all right now,” Tristan murmured, a moment later.

“Hm?”

“You’re all soft and puffy inside your warm little cunt. I think you can take me now.”

“Yes,” you said softly. “Yes, take me.”

In truth, in so easily giving yourself to him, you were forgetting yourself, and forgetting what you had started to learn about how Tristan made love, which was that no matter how soft he seemed with you, you were submitting to him when you agreed to let him take you. For, as in everything else he did, Tristan was careful and focused. He never seemed to lose control of himself. Thus, when he started to make love to you, to push his hips against you, it didn’t feel overwhelming at all. It felt lovely, and rhythmic, to be taken this way, to have Tristan begin to thrust softly inside of you.

“Ah…” you breathed out. “Ah, ah, ah…”

At the very same moment that you fell back against the rugs, your hair changed, cascading back into the silvery hue that made you look more like an illusion than any real lover.

“A-Ah…” Your breath hitched slightly, as you were beginning to feel the friction build up inside of you. The Fox purred happily inside of you. But she was purring not only because of the pleasure she was feeling through you, but because she sensed the intensity that was coming - that is, the intense love-making Tristan was about to lavish on your little shape.

For this was the deceptive thing about Tristan: Because he was so in control, he was never too rough, never sloppy with you, but he was relentless. So, when the friction started to flare up all right between your legs, there was no way to soothe it, or stop it. It kept growing, like a train you could see coming, when you were still tried to the tracks.

Yes, by the time he had your hips thudding softly against the rugs, it was too late.

“Tristan, nngh, T-Tristan,” you moaned out, your voice dipping into a rather pitiful moan. There was so much tension building steadily inside of your little tummy. You needed release. You – Ah, your mind gasped softly before it broke into a series of soft breaths.

You used to think of breath as a physical thing – oxygen to carbon dioxide, breath by breath by breath. But the conditional space of breath was not physical, but spiritual. To breathe, in any significant way, to have the effect of condensation (of turning air into liquid and have the droplet trickle down the glass that separated you from everything you once held dear), you had to have the space within your soul to breathe in and out. To constrict, but then to release – that was an exercise of the soul, as much as anything. And certain things in one’s life, including parting from a loved one, trauma from a difficult past, the feeling of humiliation from being misunderstood, they all made that space a little smaller, so that it now cost you something to breathe.

Tristan could see it in you now, how it cost you to pant for him. You reached out for him just then, whimpering slightly, and Tristan realized that you wanted him, not just inside of you, but to hold you, to anchor you somehow. When your fingertips shivered, stopping just shy of his chest, you let out a soft, desperate gasp. You couldn’t quite lift yourself up enough from the rugs to close that distance, because Tristan kept pushing your hips back down, pushing you down on the ground in his rhythmic, deep-hitting strokes. Not quite able to touch him, but wanting more than anything to be touched, you whimpered his name in a soft huff of breath, “Tristan…”

Tristan reached out to you and he gently grasped both your wrists, almost pulling you up just a little, until your arms were straining in the air because of how he was holding you up to fuck your tight little cunt. Tristan noticed the way your soft tummy buckled in more with each thrust now, because of how he was holding you up a little.

Trembling, you wrapped your legs around his waist to gain a sense of balance. But all that did was let Tristan rock into you harder and deeper. You cried out, shivering more intensely because of the strain it was putting on you to be held up in this position. Yet, now that you were being touched, being held by Tristan, you couldn’t deny that you were losing yourself entirely to him, and that felt good; more than good – it felt intense. Before you knew it, you had bowed your head down, and Tristan saw your fox ears curling up again at their silver tips.

“Nngh, huff, mmm…!” Tight little sounds came from your lips, as you had pressed them together. Now that you were almost sitting up, your ass rocked back and forth on the floor, shifting in time to Tristan taking you as his woman.

A moment later, you held your breath, trying to fight that feeling of desperate need that was rising quickly in your body. But Tristan stuck to his rhythm, not letting up at all. If anything, he was pushing his hips into you just a little more, because your pussy got so deliciously tight right as you were about to cum.

“U-Uh,” you whimpered softly, almost sounding like you were about to cry. “I’m – ‘M gonna – Ah!”

With a loud gasp, you came in a sudden burst, a sudden release of tension.

Even Tristan paused, because your cum was so warm, and it was everywhere.

Tristan looked down, only to see – “Knew it. Knew you were a squirter.”

“Mm – Mmm!” you moaned loudly, trying to protest however you could, as Tristan smirked at you.

Tristan continued to tease you meanly, “I knew it from the second I first touched you, and you came from just two fingers. You’ve got such a wet little pussy, don’t you, baby?”

Right as Tristan mentioned your “wet little pussy,” he pushed two of his fingers inside of your heaving cunt, and he jerked his hand back and forth, making sure you heard your own wetness, still deep in your pussy, despite having drenched your thighs already.

You barely heard Tristan teasing you this time. Instead, you’d sprawled back on the rugs again, breasts heaving as you fought to get your breath back.

“Answer me,” Tristan whispered. Reaching down, he slapped his hand lightly against your pussy, and the wet sounds that sounded out were undeniable.

You flushed and lifted your head. When you looked at the mess you made, you quickly looked away, embarrassed.

“Mhm, I thought so,” Tristan teased you. “Squirting from your pussy like that. You are a little slut, aren’t you?”

“But… But usually only for good men,” you retorted feebly, as Tristan continued to touch your little pussyhole, petting you and massaging your wetness all over your sweet little pussy.

“What are you implying?”

“That you’re bad,” you mumbled out, still looking away from Tristan. “And mean.”

“Really? But then why does that Fox inside of you take to me so well, hm? Didn’t you say it’s because there is some type of attraction between us?”

“She’s wrong,” you said, shaking your head. “You make me feel so… so b-bad… Nngh…”

Tristan smiled deviously at you, as his fingers continued to work at your beautiful cunt. “You sound like you mean to say something else, something different…”

“No, you’re j-just bad,” you repeated stubbornly. “End of story.”

“How long can you fight it?” Tristan whispered to you. “How long are you going to deny that the Fox was right, and that you are attracted to me – as yourself?”

“N-Never,” you told him, but even you had to admit that your denial would have been a lot more convincing if it wasn’t followed by a series of soft, needy, “ah, ah, ah!”s as Tristan gently stuffed his fingers into your cunt again, pumping them into you softly.

You turned your head away, to the side, as much as you could, not wanting Tristan to see how clearly mindless you were becoming under his touch – with your glazed eyes and pretty, panting mouth.

However, Tristan took advantage of the fact that you were looking away to surprise you. He suddenly hoisted your ass up in the air a little higher. Then, he plunged his cock deep – fucking deep – into you wet, wet cunt.

“Ah!” you gasped so loudly that the end of your sudden gasp was slightly hoarse.

Tristan growled, and he pounded into you hard – not fast, but in tight, controlled thrusts that hit all the way up against your center. “You’re the bad girl, all messy and like. You’re so wet I have to clean up after you to finish making love to you. I have to pet your little pussy again until you’re all ready to take cock again, don’t I? I have to fucking spoil you, little one, just to make you take my cock. Isn’t that right?”

“Ah – yes!” you cried out nonsensically, not even realizing the words spilling out of your mouth. “Yes, yes, yes! Mmmm!”

“How does it feel?” Tristan asked, his rich, elegant voice growing quite dominant as he said the filthiest things to you. “How does it feel to have my cock pounding into this wet, wet little hole of yours, huh?”

“Good!” you babbled out, whimpering. Your hands scrabbled at Tristan’s shoulders, until his robe finally came off. It gathered on his waist for a moment before slipping off of his body and falling onto your tummy.

You clutched at it as though it were a lifeline. And thank God you did, because at that moment, Tristan reached down and pushed his fingers against the bottom of your clit, stimulating you even as he had filled you up all the way with his thick cock.

“P-Please!” you cried out loud, blinking furiously as tears appeared in your eyes. Your hands gripped tightly at the robe, squeezing the silk as hard as you could in your fingers. “I – I – Ah! Ah, ah, ah! F-Fuck!”

Tristan groaned heavily, “You’re going to cum again, aren’t you?”

“N-No!” You abruptly yanked the robe to your mouth, and you bit down on it hard, trying to stop yourself from losing control entirely. 

“You are,” Tristan growled, feeling your pussy walls spasming and fluttering all around his shaft. “You can’t help it. You can’t help but cum for me, my little slut.”

“Nngh!” you moaned through gritted teeth, mouth stuffed with black silk, as Tristan rammed his cock back into your little hole.

You couldn’t hold on for much longer. He was right. You were going to – You were going to – to cum -

“Uhnnn!” Your tummy jolted. You suddenly drew in a sharp intake of air. The silk robe fell from your mouth. Then –

“Mmm, good girl,” Tristan praised you, his own voice become quite husky and low. “You feel so fucking good when you cum like that, little one. Squirting from your little pussy, and still so tight. Fuck, you’re such a good slut. Such a dream come true to fuck.”

You whimpered. You blearily felt around to hold onto the robe again, but it was gone. Finally, you had to give up and draw your hands back onto your own soft tummy. You placed your hands on the lower part of the tummy, where the burn was strongest. 

“Say it again,” Tristan demanded. “Tell me how it feels. Tell me what it feels like to squirt all over me.”

“G-Good,” you finally confessed, in a defeated moan, as you pressed softly down on yourself. “Hah… Ah… Feels s-so fucking good.”

Tristan smirked, watching the way you were holding your tummy, as if to soothe yourself from how deeply you’d been fucked and how hard you’d just cum. He bet that little tummy of yours was already worn out. Shaking his head, he chided you, “Should’ve just been honest in the first place.”

“W-What?” you murmured blearily, finally opening your eyes, only to see snowflakes twirling down from a glorious white winter sky.

“Because you’re all spent, but I haven’t finished with you yet,” Tristan whispered, his voice seemingly neutral, but with a satisfied smirk ever so slightly appearing on his handsome face. 

True to his word, Tristan kept fucking you, kept plunging his cock into your cunt.

“Oh God,” you moaned out. Your hands slipped off of your tummy and onto the rugs on either side of you. Your legs slowly fell apart from being crossed around his waist, and Tristan had to hold up your thighs to keep your pussy right where he wanted.

It did feel incredible, to have his cock stuffing you full like this over and over again, but it was just… just too much. You started to go limp in his arms, and your little feet flopped softly in the air as your hips jerked back and forth, tugged this way and that by Tristan mercilessly plunging his cock into your perfect pussy.

“Tristan, I c-can’t take it… Too much, ah…!” you blurted out.

“Almost there. Just a little longer, love. I’m so close,” Tristan whispered fervently. There was a clear change in tone, as he was no longer teasing you, but he was being genuinely warm with you, even pleading with you.

“Can you do that for me?” he asked you in a feverish, low whisper, asking you if you were okay, if you really could take it.

A warm glow spread inside of your chest, as a silvery voice said sweetly, Yes, she can. The Nine-Tailed Fox nodded her head at you. We can, can’t we, little one? You know what he’s about to do. What he’ll give you, but only you ask for it. So, ask for it.

You shook your head at her, unable to form a coherent sentence even in the sanctity of your own mind. You started to slip down the rugs.

Tristan reached up. Grasping your wrists in his hands, he firmly pinned you down against the rugs, holding you up. “Little one,” he whispered. 

You were panting furiously, and your whole body felt alight, all feverish and tingling. But you managed to moan out, “If you’re c-close, then k-keep going.”

Having heard your permission, Tristan did not hesitate as he pushed into you again. You moaned out lowly.

Glancing down at you, Tristan saw how bright pink your cheeks were, and how your little mouth had dropped open as you fought for breath. Wanting to support you, Tristan leaned forward and pressed down into you. That way, even though he was still pinning your wrists down, you could at least press up against him and lean on him.

But Tristan didn’t quite realize that he had effectively cornered you, so that all you could see and feel was him. As his chest pressed lightly into yours, the silver lock touched your chest, and you shivered at the sudden sensation of the cold. You tried to draw back, away from the cold metal, but there was nowhere you could go. With Tristan both holding you up and pressing into you, there was no escape – nothing but him.

Relax, the Nine-Tailed Fox whispered to you soothingly, he’s not going to hurt you, child. You know that.

You meant to respond, but just then, Tristan growled as he slammed his cock into you.

“Ah!” you cried out, shutting your eyes tightly. Then, a low moan left your lips unintentionally, “Uhhhnnn…”

Tristan moaned, too, and leaning down, he buried his face against your neck for a moment, biting and kissing your throat. “Fuck,” he choked out, “fuck, I’m so close.”

The Nine-Tailed Fox whined softly, and she fanned out her eight tails behind her, signaling every way she could that this was your opportunity, this was the moment -

“Tristan,” you whimpered, “p-please.” The words fell out of your lips without much thought, but as soon as you heard yourself plead aloud like that, you knew that you meant it. You were finally letting him know how much you desired him.

Give it to me, give it to me, you begged in your head. I want to feel you finish inside of me. I want to know that my little cunt’s filled with your cum. I want it. I want it, want it, want it - please! 

Tristan, too, even without you explaining exactly what you meant, knew what you were asking for. And in that moment, he became a gentleman for you. He didn’t take advantage of this golden opportunity to tease you. Instead, he simply gave you what you wanted. He thrust hard, sheathing himself in your tight little cunt, making you moan out loud for him – and then he gave it to you – his thick, hot, white cum, as deep as he could possibly give it to you in your tummy.

“Ah…!”

It wasn’t just because of how deep inside of you he was, although that was certainly part of it. But feeling Tristan cum in you like this, recognizing the way his hands curled protectively, daresay possessively, around your wrists, and taking in the sensation of his harsh, last pants against your now marked-up neck, you melted, too.

You breathed with him, intuitively matching your own pants with his. In that moment, you were no longer alone. Suddenly, you weren’t afraid anymore.

When, after a long moment, Tristan breathed out to you huskily, “Show me. Open your legs,” you returned the favor, and you did just as he requested. You leaned back and very slowly opened your legs for him.

Tristan breathed out slowly, finding it almost difficult to breathe, as not only was the very act of you opening up your legs for him so sensual, but taking in the gorgeous sight of your pink little pussy stuffed absolutely full of him gave him a sense of power and pleasure that he had never known before. Your thighs were still trembling softly, adding a lovely blurriness to a vision that Tristan knew he wouldn’t be forgetting anytime soon.

Tristan couldn’t help himself. He reached out and using his index and middle finger, he spread your pussy lips out, and he glimpsed what he wanted to see - his cum throbbing inside of you Fuck, that’s perfect. She’s perfect. Mmm…

At that moment, his cum started to drip out from your cunt. At first, he pushed it back in for you. But then, taking your hand in his, Tristan guided your hand and, holding onto your wrist, he made you finger fuck his cum back inside of you. You watched in a sort-of awe as you saw your own hand go up and down, slowly but surely, making sure you kept his warmth inside of you for as long as you could.

With an exhausted breath, Tristan finally fell to the side of you, now also leaning against the rugs. He let out a long, low breath.

You turned to your side, closing your legs and wrapping your silk white robe back around yourself as you did so.

You gazed at Tristan. He had closed his eyes and was breathing softly now. As you watched him, you saw, as clearly as you saw anything else, soft piles of pure, crystalline snow piling up on his chest.

“Tristan,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, “it’s snowing. For us, that is.”

Tristan didn’t open his eyes. He merely replied, “I know. It always is, with you.”

You blinked in surprise. “You see it, too?”

Tristan nodded. “Yes, but it’s a false world, isn’t it? It’s like we’re trapped inside a glass world, and it’s only snowing for us. It’s the Nine-Tailed Fox’s magic, right?”

“Well, it is and it isn’t,” you replied, only just making sense of it yourself now.

“What do you mean?”

“It is the Nine-Tailed Fox’s magic, but her magic is manifesting because – well, but don’t you see? This is the only place that the likes of you and I can heal, Tristan. Our souls know how to survive, but something deep inside of us is fragile and fractured, Tristan. And this is the only place where we can…”

“Breathe,” Tristan completed your thought for you.

You nodded. “Yes, exactly.”

Tristan still kept his eyes shut, but he reached out and gently pulled you to him, so that you were pressed against his side. He kept his arm around you, with his hand curling up softly on the dip between your hip and your waist.

“I suppose this means the Nine-Tailed Fox was right,” you finally admitted. “It’s because we had something in common, some understanding of each other that we shared, that she could manifest her magic between us.”

“So,” Tristan said, a bit playfully, “does this mean that you need to take back everything you said about my being a bad man?”

“No,” you whispered, smiling, “you’re still a bad man. But I like that about you.” You shut your eyes, too, and you snuggled closer to Tristan, slipping your left hand onto his chest and resting your head on his shoulder. In that moment, you felt like you had found a partner – not to love, not to share your life with – but to rest and grow old and die with, by never moving from this spot, until the snow piled above you both and then froze, preserving you both as ice sculptures, a mere figment of myth that no one would ever understand or even speak about again…

Tristan found that he rather liked having you there, at his side, too. He knew he would come to miss you when you left – and you would, he knew, because, as you had told him so honestly, you valued freedom above all else. Though he would never admit it, Tristan was glad to have met you, despite all the trouble you’d caused him. Because the truth was, even with his eyes shut, he could see the snowy world that you were talking about, and he found that you were right – that he could heal here. You, and your mischievous Nine-Tailed Fox, had been the ones to guide him here, and he would be forever grateful for that.  

“Go,” Tristan said softly, even though he was still holding you. He heard your silk robe rustling, and he felt you lifting your head to look at him.

Tristan finally opened his eyes. He looked over at you, with his black fringe falling to the side of his face, which revealed how truly young he was again. “You should go,” he whispered. “You said you want to be free.”

You smiled wistfully, almost regretfully at him. Reaching out slowly, you gently traced the left side of his face, just beside where his eye contained that cloud, that strange mark of his past, of his survival. You asked the Nine-Tailed Fox within you to bless that mark, so that it could heal. You felt her swish her tails powerfully inside of you.

A moment later, Tristan suddenly breathed in, as he felt a haze of coldness suddenly spread from your fingers to his face.

Wait a second. Tristan blinked in shock, as your lovely face came into clear view. I can – I can see clearly again!

“Tristan.” You whispered his name so very softly.

Tristan stared at you in awe. Her gaze is so tender, even with those alluring, fox eyes. Has she always looked at me this way?

Amazingly, you didn’t even acknowledge the miracle that you, with the Nine-Tailed Fox’s power, had just given him. Instead, you reminded him gently, “You and I, in our own ways, we need to come alive again. You have to be strong for Cas, Susana, Rowan, and all of those Aurors who look up to you.”

Tristan nodded, accepting your words and the responsibility that came with them. Then, he asked you, “And who do you have to go back to? Who do you have to be strong for?”

Your eyes fell slightly, but you stayed strong. “Nobody,” you answered honestly. “I don’t have anybody. Well, I suppose I had a home… once. But I know now that the loneliness I live in is the price I pay for wanting to be free.”

Tristan nodded again, though more slowly this time, as he felt your pain. Reaching out, he caressed your cheek lovingly. “You take care now, little fox,” he murmured. “I’ll remember you.”

“You will?” you said wonderingly.

“Yes, I will,” Tristan reassured you, reaching up to gently trace your fox ears one last time. “By the shape of your little pawprints.”

Tagged User: @areomalfoy 

[timebird84]

🎄 PotO Advent Calendar 2020 🎄

By @from-aldebaran​

Snow Angel

    As grey dawn broke over the streets of Paris, the Opera Ghost stood high atop the roof of the Palais Garnier, surveying the thick snowfall that had settled over the city in the night, snow still falling, perfect flakes settling on his cloak, their crystalline shapes unmarred, becoming bright additions to the subtle jet beadwork adorning his collar and shoulders.

Erik had suspected this change in the weather when he had completed his rounds last evening with a final stop on the roof.  The air had smelled of impending snow, reminding him of days long ago on the road in Russia, where learning the signs and portents of the weather’s whims had been a matter of life or death.

The light-bejeweled city had been beautiful from the heights last night and was even more so now, all ugliness revealed by the daylight hidden beneath smooth snowy white curves, like the mask which shielded the malformed side of his face from the horrified gaze of the world.  And this was not winter in Russia.  His life no longer danced upon a knife’s edge from day to day.  He stood here, atop his Opera House, warmth and beauty and home within, snow kept safely without, waiting for the dancers and musicians and singers to come fill his halls with bright life and music, which he shaped as always subtly from the shadows.  

Well, and there was no more time to stand here gawking while snow collected at an impressive rate on the brim of his hat.  There was much to be done this day, before the Palais emptied for the Christmas holiday, with a concert by the Opéra Populaire scheduled after, for the holiday season, and a new production starting in the coming year.  The day would hold Christine’s early morning vocal lesson, a full concert ensemble rehearsal on stage at noon, with  breakout practices and recitals in the afternoon.

The Opera House always bustled with life during the day, but never more so than at the holiday times.  The artists, young and old, were caught up in what Erik understood to be the spirit of fellowship of the season, exchanging gifts, holding impromptu gatherings, filled with Christmas cheer, and above all, anxiously awaiting the time away from their work that the Christmas break provided.  The days leading up to Christmas were filled with a palpable energy, waiting to be released as the company headed out on holiday. 

Then, ah, for him a few days of what had used to be blessed solitude, when he could roam the halls at will, mindful only of the few beleaguered guards tasked to work the holidays.  Never very happy about it, they typically stayed close to the main guard station, leaving the gilded halls free for him to enjoy in peace, to marvel at the beauty contained within the Palais and of course to attend to more practical matters, ensuring seldom used secret access points remained in working order.  Yes, the holidays were a perfect time for a survey of his Opera House, top to bottom, drifting purposefully alone through the long winter nights.

But this year was somehow different.  Sweet solitude held less allure.  He had grown accustomed to the new lessons with Christine, their daily interactions.  Seeing her progress, shaping her voice into a beautiful reliable instrument to serve her all her days.  Speaking with her on matters musical and personal.  Using his guise as an angel to gain perspective on facets of human behavior that he had either been unaware of or which had somehow eluded him completely.  Not that he truly cared, mind, nor would he have much occasion to put this newfound knowledge into practice, being the solitary creature he was. 

Still, she fascinated him…that is, what she had to say fascinated him. 

It was a good thing, then, that the work to be done in the Opera House, still and empty and quiet for the next few days, would occupy his time so completely.

Erik turned to go, his footprints from his earlier traverse already erased by the snow, leaving no doubt his new footprints would be obscured as well.  He swept his hat off, releasing a sudden tiny blizzard into the wind.  He felt the unexpected kiss of snowflakes on his cheek, and a warm flurry of sensation in his chest which he recognized with surprise as anticipation, anticipation of a pleasant day indeed, with all proceeding according to plan.

*****

Christine was late.  Very late.  Christine had never been so much as a minute late before, not for their morning lessons.

Erik fretted behind the mirror until the moment when the door to the dressing room flew open and Christine burst in, her arms full of bags and parcels, her blue cloak damp about her, her usual outside-of-the-opera upswept coiffure fallen, sending her auburn curls cascading about her shoulders, sparkling with snow.  The vacant tableau of her dressing room came to vibrant life with her entrance, her cheeks and lips rosy with color as she spun to close the door behind her, calling for him immediately.

“Angel, oh Angel, I am so sorry!  Are you here, did you stay?”

He had not the heart to make her wait a moment for his answer, though her calls for him were their own sweet music.

“My child, I am here.  What befell you?  And what is it that you carry there?”

“Oh, Angel,” Christine began, as she set her various burdens down on the vanity, easing woolen mittens from her hands, unfastening her cloak and tossing it over the dressing screen to dry. She perched her mittens precariously atop the screen as well.  “It has snowed, have you seen, a very great snow, the most here in Paris in years and years!”  She pulled a small pair of hair combs from the pockets of her dress, trying in vain to roll the snow-dampened curls of her hair and secure them away from her face.  

“I did see, and this delayed you somehow?”  He felt like a fool.  He seldom had to go abroad from the Opera House in inclement weather, unless he wished to, and he had not even considered the snow as a reason for the lateness of her arrival.

“Well, yes, it is not only snow, but ice beneath and walking is treacherous, especially for those not accustomed to snow!  I daresay I spent more time helping people up this morning than I did on my own journey here.”  Christine laughed, adding with sudden astuteness, in apparent consideration of his angelic nature and his potential ignorance about the meaning of her northern origins— “I am Swedish, you see, and used to the snow!” 

She busied herself sorting various packages that she fished from the bags she had carried, explaining as she worked.  “We exchange gifts with each other for Christmas, the ballet girls do, and these are the presents I have brought with me to give.”

Of course.  Gifts were customary at this season, he thought, as his chest inexplicably tightened.

Her hair came loose from the combs again and she pulled them free, rummaging in her vanity.  “These are entirely too small, they always have been.  I simply need to get larger ones, and give these away.”

She pulled a larger pair of combs from the drawer, evidently much used by the battered look of them and was finally able to set her hair away from her face to her satisfaction, though the rest of the snow-swept curls she left free, here in the confines of the Opera House, where the rules governing a young lady’s expected hair arrangement were a moot point at best among the bohemian members of the Opéra Populaire.

His eyes caught on her face as she peered into her vanity mirror, and he was struck suddenly that beneath the rosy glow imparted by the winter weather, she was pale, and somehow drawn, with faint lilac shadows beneath her eyes. 

It was not like her to complain about anything, especially something so inconsequential as a set of hair combs.  Perhaps…

“Are you well?  Are you agreeable to our lesson today?” he enquired. 

He drove her very hard, came the abrupt thought, as his gaze traced the stark line of her cheek, with these lessons in addition to the not insignificant demands of her duties in the company, singing in the chorus and dancing as well, under the also quite strict supervision of Monsieur Reyer and Madame Giry respectively. 

For all that she held these responsibilities, and for all that she had been through these past years—things she had shared with him during the time of their lessons and on other occasions when she called to him and he was able to answer—she was, he suddenly realized, still quite young. 

Young in a way he had never been allowed to be, and with a sudden hollowness expanding in his chest, he wondered if he was complicit in rushing her into adulthood with his stern expectations.

“Oh, yes,” Christine said, shaking her hair back one last time and coming to stand in the center of the room, poising herself for her warmups.  “Some of us had hoped…well, had thought, that the day’s rehearsals might be cancelled due to the weather, but—” a look approaching worry crossed her face—“but I would never miss a lesson with you, Angel.  And as it turns out, the day’s full schedule remains firmly in place.”  Here her lip quivered, just slightly, and she cast her gaze down in what looked very like disappointment.

Oh dear.  Abruptly, he was at a loss.  He cast about for what to do and decided he needed more information.

“My child,” he said, “you know we have discussed before how I am ignorant of many things in this mortal world, and that I rely on you to be my guide in such matters.”

Christine  lifted her head, nodding to the corner of the room where he had sent his voice to speak from.

“You must tell me truthfully, Christine.  What had you and your companions hoped for this day?  And please, dear one, sit down.  Warm yourself before you even think of warming your voice.”

Christine crossed to the vanity and settled upon the little chair there, chafing her hands together and tucking them in the folds of her skirt.  “Well, it seems so silly to say aloud, especially to you, Angel.  Such trivial matters to concern you with, and really of no importance.”

“We have had this discussion before as well.  There is nothing you cannot lay before me.  Music is not made just with the voice, you will recall, but with the spirit.  If the spirit is troubled or,” and here he paused, to rid his voice of any emotion save comfort, “or the body is tired, you must tell me, Christine.  I am not always able to discern these things without your help.”

She shifted on the little chair, and then spoke.  “Well, it is just, yes, we are tired, all of us, and we had hoped to be able to go out…and play.”  She flushed, her pale features pinking in the soft light of the dressing room to match the high color of her cheeks and lips.

Play.  In the snow?

Erik considered her in silence, information and observations assuming new configurations in his mind, Christine again leading him to a new perspective.  He had anticipated a high level of energy from the company today, this he had observed before during previous holiday seasons.  People with their minds on future plans, on gatherings with loved ones, eager to be done with their work.

But this morning, the Opera House fairly vibrated with the company’s restrained energy, and at last he understood—it was due to the snow! 

And Christine—not just his promising student, but a member of that company, a member of humanity in a way that he was far removed from, in a way that he had utterly failed to take into account.

Erik pulled in a deep breath in his place behind the mirror, letting it out slowly and quietly as he gripped his hands tightly together.  She would work herself to exhaustion, catch her death of cold, to not miss a lesson from him.  Her health could take a turn, due to illness or overwork, two things he himself was never troubled by—and he would be responsible.

He could not and should not hold her to his impossibly warped standards.

And he—he had had no consideration for her at all, none, not even arranging for something as simple as a holiday gift…

It simply would not do.

Perhaps there was something that could be done, to make amends.  He addressed her, sending his voice again from the corner of the room.

“Play?”  He hoped he did not sound nearly as confused as he felt. 

“In the snow, you know.  It happens so rarely here!”

“Ah,” he said wisely, feeling thoroughly unenlightened.  “And how, exactly, does one play in the snow?”

“Oh!” She leaned forward, clasping her hands, her voice animated and eyes bright.  “There’s sledding of course, and snow forts, and snowmen, and snowballs…oh, and snow angels!”  Here she laughed again. 

“I see,” he said, though he saw nothing of the sort.  He remembered looking out of his shuttered window as a child, at a group of children throwing balls of snow at one another in the street, and from his Russian travels he knew what sleds were, but all else was mystery.  His tone must have conveyed more than his words, because Christine continued, explaining.

“Well, sledding is riding something smooth down a hillside covered in snow.  Snowmen are figures made out of large balls of snow, stacked with a bottom and middle and a top for a head.  You can add branches for arms, buttons or coal for eyes, and a carrot for a nose.  And then things like scarves and hats if you like.  Oh, and snow forts are like walls made of snow, or sometimes square or domed houses.  To play in, you see, or hide behind, especially in a snowball fight.” 

Christine tipped her chin down, shaking her head slightly, yet still smiling.  “Snowball fights sound very mean when explaining them to an angel, but I promise you they are very fun!  You make fist sized balls out of snow and throw them at one another.  If you are feeling very wicked, you can pack them tightly, so they sting your target a bit.” 

She raised her eyes, skin coloring once more, and brought the subject back round to virtue. “Snow angels are when you flop down in a field of soft snow, flat on your back, and then you move your arms and legs to make shapes.  The legs, see, make a robe and your arms make the wings.  At least—” and she glanced again at the corner his voice issued from “—that is what we think angels look like, though we have no way to be sure they look anything at all like what we have imagined.”

Well, and time to change that topic.  It all seemed very silly…but perhaps that was what was needed here.  Some time not to be serious.  Some time to simply…play.  At the very least, he would cut this lesson short and give the girl a break this morning.  She had dance practice very soon and then the full run through of the holiday concert with the whole company, dancers, chorus, and orchestra assembled on the stage. 

Today was the last day before the brief holiday break, and the show to commence very soon after everyone returned.  They were already well practiced though, he had seen it for himself.  The management could have made a different decision and called today’s rehearsals off altogether with no harm done.  They were clearly as foolish as he himself had been.

It was time for that to change.  And, he thought, his mind a whirl of ideas, time to share the lesson he had just learned. 

“Christine, a few scales please and that will suffice for today.  Warm up properly prior to your rehearsal later this morning.  You will want to be well prepared for anything.”

She rose from her seat to move to the center of the room again.  “Oh, Angel, are you certain?  I can do anything that you ask.”

“I am very certain, dear one.  Sing today, then go from here and rest your voice, body and spirit until you return again next week.  You have given me the lesson today, Christine, one this angel had not considered, that people need time to rest and play, to stay well for their work.  I shall not forget it.”

*****

Erik lounged in casual repose in the flies high above the stage, which hummed with activity dozens of feet below.  The flies were empty save for himself; there was only one backdrop needed for the post- Christmas concert the Opéra Populaire was preparing to rehearse, and that already in place, leaving the stagehands to concentrate on ground level tasks.  Joseph Buquet’s many little nests of old drop cloths, where he napped away the hours hidden safely from view above the stage, were empty, Buquet himself busy sharing a flask of holiday cheer with the dayshift guards at their station.  This set of circumstances had saved Erik quite a bit of time in dealing with unwanted attention, and ensured he had no audience for the completion of the project that had consumed his morning hours, and gave him also an excellent vantage from which to observe today’s proceedings.

He had been right about the effect of the holidays, and Christine’s observations about the snowfall enabled him to see even more clearly…no one wanted to be here today.  They wished to be out, in the snow, left to their own devices

Idly, Erik observed the rehearsal layout.  The orchestra was ensconced in the pit, doing their warm-ups as the conductor, Monsieur Desplat, presided in dreamy, absent-minded glory, bent over his sheet music, his hair a cottony white nimbus about his head.  Desplat lived fully in the world of music, which condition Erik could understand, but alas, the music in Monsieur Desplat’s head often drowned out the real world shortcomings of several members of his orchestra. 

As if on cue, the Third Trombone hit a particularly sour note, causing Erik’s fingers to clench.  And of course, the Second Trombone’s chair was empty, the man over in the string section, pressing his dubious attention upon one of the violinists—it scarcely mattered to Erik which one, nor, he suspected, did it matter much to the Second Trombone, whose criteria in choice of partners boiled down to alive and available.

Stage left stood the twittering semicircle of the chorus, no uniformity to their dress as they were not yet outfitted in full Christmas costume.  Monsieur Reyer as usual strutted before them like a bantam cock, all nervous energy and sharp movement, his incessant frustration confined only by his perpetually too-tight jacket and too-small hat.  Erik had to admit that the man knew his business, else Erik would have made it his business to have the répétiteur replaced years ago.  No, Reyer was quite competent, and then some, despite a distressing tendency towards favoritism and inclination to fawn over said favorites, resulting in a failure to correct their slide into bad form.

And there stood the favorites themselves, La Carlotta and her partner Signor Piangi, at the downstage end of the chorus’s semicircle.  La Carlotta, true to her character, alternated between looking bored and disdainful, while Piangi’s good nature asserted itself as he chatted with chorus members, yet, with the ease of long practice, and perhaps a well-developed sense of self-preservation, he remained constantly aware of and attentive to the ever-changing moods of his lady diva.  As usual, Piangi had done a thorough warm-up, his pleasant tenor an accompaniment to Erik’s morning efforts in the flies, and also as usual, La Carlotta found warm-ups beneath her, which contributed to the daily erosion of her once supreme talent.

Stage right, a drift of tulle and satin, the ballet dancers fully costumed in their holiday concert regalia, complete with tall tiaras each adorned at the highest point with a glittering golden star, in sharp contrast to the stern black-clad presence of Madame Giry, staff at the ready.  And there, speaking animatedly with Madame Giry’s blonde-haired daughter Meg, was Christine.  Erik narrowed his eyes—he had heard Christine warming up as he worked and knew she had no dance role in this concert.  If she were not careful, she would risk—

“Daaé!”

And there it was, Monsieur Reyer’s nasal voice rising above the sounds of the orchestra and sending Christine rushing across the stage to her place in the chorus.  One would think, Erik mused, that a vocal coach of some renown would have made some effort towards making his own speaking voice less of an assault on the ear, but sadly, this was not the case.  One of the ballerinas, a particularly unpleasant girl with dark eyes and scornful brows, far too aware of her own beauty, laughed and muttered something to her compatriots, while Meg frowned fiercely at her.  Erik cocked his head, and made a mental note of the scoffer’s position. 

All in good time.

He settled back to wait for the rehearsal to begin.

*****

The company was restive, there was no doubt of it.  Errors in previously solid performances abounded.  The ballet girls had missed their cue again and stood sullenly until a broad overblown note from the First Bassoon, a young man relatively new to the orchestra, sent them into a fit of giggles which seemed to set them more at ease.  A deliberately overblown note, thought Erik, knowing a player of that caliber and on that fine of an instrument would have to work at producing such a sound. 

Yes, and that reminded him, strings and woodwinds.  Special consideration would have to be taken for strings and woodwinds...

The chorus was also off, and Monsieur Reyer was growing more and more heated, stopping the songs, launching into his familiar tirade of “No, no, no!  Nearly, but no!” repeatedly, which was ostensibly supposed to be both helpful and comforting and which in reality was neither.

Erik caught sight of Christine’s pale, strained face amongst the chorus as the rehearsal moved forward into the third selection.  Three selections out of twenty, and at this rate hours upon hours of work for the beleaguered members of the company, and every bit of this realization showing in her expression.

It was time for the lesson to begin.  As taught by Christine to her Angel, thence from Angel to Opera Ghost, and now, with very great pleasure, from Opera Ghost to the whole of the Opéra Populaire…

The ensemble was several bars in, orchestra, chorus, and dancers striving for synchronicity, when Monsieur Desplat was roused from his world of music by the sight and sound of his woodwind section and his string section ceasing their play, and standing to put away their instruments with some haste.

“Here, now,” he sputtered, as the brass played gamely on, the singers and dancers onstage continuing, determined, it seemed, to make it through this song come what may.  “What are you doing?”

The First Violin spoke up.  “Why sir, only what you told us!  You said rehearsal’s off, to pack our things and go!”

“I said no such thing!” Desplat declaimed, as the strings and woodwinds persisted, that no, they had all heard it, plain as day, as though he had spoken right in their very  ears…

On stage, the chorus gamely continued, but the lack of complete accompaniment and the distraction of the many standing figures in the pit finally threw them off, and Reyer brought them to an uneven halt as per usual.

“No, no, no!  Nearly, but—”

SPLAT!

Seemingly out of nowhere, Reyer was hit in the back of the head by a wickedly accurate snowball, which knocked his hat off amid a spectacular spray of glittering snow.

A second whizzing sphere smacked the headdress off of a particular ballerina, icy cold snow wiping the ever-present smug expression off of her face.

In the stunned silence which followed, an odd sound was heard, dozens of ropes passing through dozens of pulleys, as an equal number of buckets descended rapidly to every far flung area of the stage, coming quietly to rest amidst the company.

Each bucket was heaped to overflowing with snowballs.

And it was on.

High above the fray, Erik rocked with silent laughter as the stage devolved into a battlefield.

The orchestra wasted no time in storming the stage and commandeering ammunition, the strings and woodwinds with their instruments safely stowed (thanks to the early warning they had received) versus the later arriving brass section, all of them at one point joining forces to pelt Monsieur Desplat rather mercilessly until he seized a music stand as a shield and made his way out of the orchestra pit to the safety of the far reaches of the auditorium.

Madame Giry made a small attempt to control the corps de ballet and might have done so, had not her canny instincts led her to glance upward at the flies, where Erik allowed her to see him.  He waggled a snowball at her from his own private stash, and she sighed, stepping back and releasing the ballet dancers to do their worst.

The chorus, who rather sportingly had not attacked the still recovering Monsieur Reyer, and who had instead turned gleefully on each other, solidified into a unit when faced with the raging attack of the ballerinas.  Reyer’s immunity was short lived as he was caught in a blistering crossfire, not at all by accident, as Erik was able to discern from his superior vantage point. He noted with both surprise and delight that Christine got in a few hits on him herself.

In fact, Erik’s one concern, for Christine’s safety, had  dissolved immediately as he saw her good Swedish instincts and good Swedish arm turn her into a smiling yet fierce combatant.  She was well-liked by the company and not the malicious target of anyone that Erik could tell, save the scornful ballerina who, while she was a talented dancer, had no arm at all.  Her mistaken attack on Christine was decisively countered and Erik added a hard packed ice ball to the middle of her back for good measure as she attempted to flee the stage.

Piangi, an enormous but well-liked target, was spared and used his seeming immunity to shield Carlotta, who huffed in red-faced outrage as he attempted to maneuver her off the stage before the worst happened.

And he would have made it, too, thought Erik, as he considered trajectories for a hit on Carlotta which proved impossible due to Piangi’s intercession—until the stagehands arrived.  Arming themselves from a row of untouched buckets at the back of the stage, they fired at will, and with enviable accuracy, at La Carlotta, their bane and tormentor for many long seasons, reducing her despite Piangi’s shielding presence to a sodden bedraggled state in a matter of mere seconds.

Erik sought out a few especially irritating company members for his own strikes from above, and had then turned to amusing himself by lobbing high arcing shots into the orchestra pit, sending snowball after snowball into the bell of the abandoned tuba, when he caught sight of a particular nemesis, the Second Trombone, heading away from the fray towards the far backstage.

The man was a menace, his insatiable nature and never ending supply of willing partners resulting in innumerable trysts, and Erik had grown tired of stumbling across him all throughout the Opera House in the most unexpected places…and positions.

Sure enough, the Second Trombone had again seized the day with one of the violinists, and as the couple prepared to conduct a private symphony of their own backstage, Erik took great delight in dumping a full bucket of icy snowball melt upon them from the great height of the flies, bringing their performance to a chilling conclusion.

Satisfied, Erik returned to his perch above the stage.  The battle still raged.  Christine had switched allegiances back to the corps de ballet, and stood now shoulder to shoulder with Meg.  They dodged and weaved incoming missiles with dancer’s grace, laughing all the while.

Never had he seen Christine so animated, so vibrant.  So simply happy.  His fingers, icy cold from snow, warmed as he pressed his hands to his chest, feeling his heart alive beneath his palms.

His attention was drawn away to Monsieur Lefèvre arriving stage left.  Erik watched in astonished bemusement as Madame Giry made her way serenely from stage right, through the pitched battle, not one single member of the Opéra  Populaire so much as daring to dream of throwing a snowball anywhere near her, to confer briefly with him.   The two concluded their conference, Lefèvre threw his hands up and stalked away, and Madame Giry turned, striking her staff sharply upon the stage twice, bringing an immediate cessation of hostilities.

“Rehearsals for the day are concluded,” she announced.  “We will reconvene next week, after the break.”

She silently surveyed the wet and disheveled assemblage of supposed professionals before her.

“Merry Christmas,” she intoned, and she sighed.

*****

Erik returned to the roof in time to see the liberated company, now hastily clad in their winter gear, spill out onto the front plaza of the Opera House.  The snowball fight was quickly rejoined and spread out along the sidewalks and across the streets, and grew in intensity with the addition of staid bankers and stolid businessmen to the combat, grinning madly beneath their top hats and homburgs.  Mesdames and mademoiselles joined in as well, in plain spun aprons or hats the height of fashion.  Snowballs made equals of them all.

But there—there she was, Christine, with Meg, joining in the snowball fight.

Even at this distance he could see the silver and blue glint in her hair that meant she had found his gift when she returned to the dressing room for her cloak and mittens.

Hair combs, a pair, a design of intricately carved silver set with sapphires that matched her cloak and her eyes.

Erik cast his mind back to the warm Persian night, as far from the crisp air and glittering snow-covered streets of Paris as could be conceived, when he had been gifted the combs.  There had been a boy, missing a leg above the knee, and Erik had had a thought of something that could be constructed, jointed at knee and foot, to allow the boy to walk.  So simple really, it had taken him mere days to construct.  His parents had been overjoyed, and the mother had offered the combs in gratitude.  Erik had made to protest but ultimately had been unable to refuse and really, despite their uselessness to him, the combs were so beautiful they were hard to resist. 

The combs had made their way back here with him, surviving the travels and adventures he had had since leaving Persia long ago.  It had been a simple matter, among his tasks this morning, to return to his home beneath the Opera House and fetch some things away, the combs, a bit of pretty paper to wrap them in and a few other oddments that were here with him now in a cloth bag tucked by his feet.

Writing a note to accompany the gift had been quite a bit harder.  He had decided against lengthy explanations of how an Angel could possibly gift a material object…if the subject were broached later, he would come up with something.  Disguising his handwriting was old hat—his own handwriting was often rushed and scrawled as it attempted to keep up with the flow of his mind’s ideas.  The Opera Ghost had very different penmanship indeed than his own.  And so must the Angel, in a hand differing from both.

It was the sentiment that eluded him.  He settled upon writing that he would see her upon her return after the Christmas break, to remind again she needn’t show up for their lessons for those few days.  And then he thought to finish with “Merry Christmas” and realized he had never written, or spoken those words for that matter, in all the many and varied years of his life…

A sharp gust of wind that threatened to snap the edges of his cloak from his grasp brought him back to the rooftop.  Clearly the gift and note had been found and must have been passable, for Christine had already set the combs in her lush curls.  She was closer now, on the crowded sidewalk below, snowballs flying as a lone bicyclist, head down, rode close enough to become an instantly popular target, pelted with a will by all parties, save Christine.  The cyclist fell, knocking his cap loose, as his bicycle slid beneath him on the icy street. 

The bombardment was merciless as he attempted to retrieve his bicycle from where it had fallen…until Christine, arms raised, stepped next to him.  The assailants, seemingly chagrined, turned their attentions back to each other as Christine brushed the bicyclist off, retrieved his cap for him and sent him peaceably on his way.

Erik shook his head, his hands unaccountably warming again.  He would know her anywhere, he thought, simply by her actions.  A merciful, caring young woman, who would forgive her poor Angel for not understanding that people needed to play and rest.

The combs, silver and sapphire, sparkled in her hair. 

He was glad to have been able to gift her some laughter today as well.

She and Meg made their way to the front plaza to join a group constructing figures out of snow.  Ah, these must be snowmen, and snow ladies as well, for the figures were those of the principals of the Opéra  Populaire.  Simple shapes, made of three large snowballs stacked atop one another; nevertheless, due to the accompanying accessories it was easy to tell who was supposed to be who.  Christine and Meg helped with a figure of Piangi, a very large snowman indeed.

After a time, the girls left the group, and started, he knew, on their way to their homes.  Madame Giry drifted gracefully out to join them, and they began their walk.  Meg suddenly stopped, pulling her mother’s hands to stop her too, and she and Christine made their way over to an untroubled patch of snow.  Laughing, they flung themselves backward, arms sweeping vigorously from their sides to above their heads and the position of their feet indicating that their legs described arcs worthy of da Vinci as well.  Carefully rising so as not to disturb the patterns they had made, they hopped back to the sidewalk to admire their handiwork.  There, in the snowfield, two angels now appeared.  Christine patted at her hair, checking for her new combs, he fancied, and the trio, after some dusting off, continued on their way, to their waiting homes.

Erik watched until she was out of sight, watching longer still as the day began to fade toward evening.  The snowfall, which had continued on and off throughout the day, was on again, lazy flakes riding the wind and spiraling down like falling stars.

And now, he supposed, it was time for his own lesson. 

For Erik and the boy he had never had a chance to be.

He looked around the snowy expanse of the rooftop, and thought of Christine’s list.  The snowball fight had been accomplished.  Sledding…was not an option.  Oh, it would be quite possible on the higher, steeper pitched portions of the roof of the Palais Garnier, but the inevitable conclusion must give one pause.

Snow forts….again he considered the snow-covered Opera House.  Well, and he already had the grandest snow fort anyone could imagine.

That left only two items on the list, and he set to the snowmen with a will that surprised him.

In short order, he had two figures, one tall, one smaller.  He eyed the bag he had brought with him.  It contained buttons for eyes, blue for Christine, brown and blue for himself.  For his own figure, he had brought a hat, unused since a midnight sortie some months back had gone rather awry and he and the hat had had to make a quick detour into the Seine.  And for Christine’s, well, he had brought away the small unwanted hair combs when he had delivered his gift to her dressing room.  They would be returned of course, as the snow melted.

But…even with these accoutrements accounted for in the final design, the figures struck him as clumsy and unrefined. 

If he was meant to be having fun, damn it, it should be fun for him, not an assault on his artistic sensibilities.

He set to the figures again, shaping, sculpting, a dress here, a cloak there, adding snow as needed until the figures took on a fuller semblance of life.

He finished Christine first, her face taking shape beneath his hands, her hair now tumbling about her shoulders, a cascade of sparkling snow.  He stepped back, to consider.  Yes, this was recognizable as Christine to anyone who had even a passing acquaintance with her. Soft yet strong.  Demure yet commanding attention.  Graceful even at rest.

The buttons for eyes did not suit this sculpt, but the combs...  Carefully, he set them amid the snowy waves of her hair, and was pleased with the result.

His own form took shape even more quickly, lean straight lines, the billows of his cloak, long hands with icy frozen fingers of snow, shining slicked back hair.

The  face…  He sculpted the left side first, smooth unmarred features, half of a firm-lipped mouth, the long straight line of one side of his nose, jaw and cheekbone and brow sharp and defined.

And then he stopped, eyes closed, brow furrowed and surely it was only melting snow he felt upon his cheeks...

The decision reached, he faced himself again and with trembling hands worked on the right side of his face, sculpting not a mask, but a semblance which matched the left, his face as it should have been, in some world out of time where he had been born a boy who could go outdoors, who had learned how to play, who had known the joys of family and home and love.

Stepping back, he saw a man he did not know, but somehow wished to.  And next to the man, the girl who was fast becoming his teacher, perhaps leading him to come to know this strange version of himself at her side.

Shaking his head at his odd evening fancies, Erik delved into the bag, finding the hat, well suited to the figure before him, the hat having seen and been through much and lived to tell the tale.  Settling it on the figure’s head, he tipped it low on the right side, as he wore his own, and acting on some instinctual impulse, with his finger he drew a line on the snowy visage, slanting from the left forehead to the right corner of the mouth, which he found comforting in some unknowable way.

Well.  That left only one item on the list. 

Removing his cloak and hat, he sat in the snow some small distance from the snow people, and laying back, moved his arms and legs in great sweeping, freeing arcs, his length of limb creating a startling large angel when he stood and inspected it.

An Angel of Music. 

Something he and Christine genuinely had in common.  Long before he came into her sphere, she had been visited by the Angel of Music; it was evident in her talent and passion and power. 

And despite the vagaries of his life and birth, one thing he was truly grateful for, one thing that had saved him time and again, one thing that he believed in above all else, was his own visit from the very same angel.

It seemed fitting that these snow versions of himself and Christine had their own angel, as well. 

He drew a staff in the snow between angel and student and teacher and with careful touches from the toes of his shoes, wrote a song in the snow for them to share.  Although at this point, on this day, on this night, it was really rather moot now as to who was the student and who the teacher.

Erik dusted himself off, donning cloak and hat again, rolling the bag of buttons small enough to tuck into his pocket, and strode to the edge of the roof to look out over the city.

Paris lay covered in an absolution of pure white snow, a forgiveness of drifts that gleamed and glittered in the city lights below.

Snow swirled in the wind, and he knew by morning, his and Christine’s snow features would be blurred into generality, the angel windswept to a soft impression of the powerful muse he knew, the snow song unreadable and unknown except to those who had been there when it was written. 

All fading into the past, leaving only tomorrow in view.

He felt again a tingle that he recognized as anticipation.  The break would not be too long.  Christine would return.  Their mutual lessons would resume.  Who knew what they would learn together?

Leaning out, over the roof’s edge, he spoke, and watched his words turn to mist, carried off by the ghost of an evening breeze.

“Merry Christmas, Christine…”

 -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

BONUS by @gracie-p8-officialblog​

[how-masterful]

In Sickness And In Health

Dhawan!master x reader

Summary: when faced with the possibility of your death, the Master reflects on how much you've changed him, and just how unready he is to be alone.

Notes: here's some good old hurt/comfort for you all. There's some angst, but mostly just fluffy confessions of love and flirting. Lots of fluff and flirting ❤ feedback is always appreciated!

Warnings: mentions of blood and bodily harm

You'd learnt early on the Master despised seeing you hurt. The moment he saw you injured or upset, planets would be burnt, lives would be taken, and you'd wind up in his arms deep within the TARDIS walls, his lips trailing over your skin as an unspoken promise to never see you hurt again.

Which made the current situation you'd found yourself in really, really inconvenient.

You'd been ambushed by creatures aboard shuttle Alpha 9, viscious creatures who'd unluckily caught you just before before you could make your quick escape. They'd clawed at your arm, leaving a nasty gash on your bicep that burnt like hot acid. You'd howled in pain, pinned to the floor as the leader strangled you against the metal platform, weight kneeling on your hip and making you shriek- the strangled sound ripping against your throat.

You'd managed to get the upper hand, breathlessly shooting the creatures with one of the Masters weapons, scrambling to your feet as you raced through the corridors to find quadrant 35, as per his instructions. He'd set the whole place to blow in 4 minutes, and you'd sprinted towards the entrance, the sound of oncoming footsteps making your heart race.

"Master!"

"Darling, right on time!"

His eyes were alit with murderous frenzy, a laugh perched on his lips. You practically threw yourself against him, stealing a desperate kiss as the distant roar of the creatures pulled you from your mania. "Missed you too, dear" he grinned, before gripping your gashed bicep in a flurry and dragging you towards the TARDIS. You yelped in agony, noise lost over the thunderous screech of the creatures, the Master snapping his fingers as the TARDIS doors flew open in a flourish.

He let go of your arm as he twirled around the central console, the TARDIS raring to life as you closed the front doors behind you. You leant against the wood panneling, desperate for breath- your whole body ached, arm pulsating as blood soaked your jacket sleeve. You groaned lowly. The wound was deep, your throat and hip tender to touch. You felt truly battered, and had to fight back the pain as you lowered yourself down against the wall.

The Master was flipping levers and flicking switches, manic laugh encompassing the console room as he moved in a blur of tartan purple.

"Where next, love? Ooh, how about we crash an alien auction and find you some lovely new jewels, hmm?" He grinned dangerously, his back to you as he typed something onto a pannel.

"So many dynasties out there to overthrow! Planets to burn, chaos to cause!"

You bit your lip as you pulled off your jacket, holding back a whine as you inspected your arm. Your blouse was gashed, exposing your skin and the copius amounts of blood that stained the material. Your breath was thin as your throat ached raw.

The Master laughed giddily as he fiddled with a dial, eyes wide with malice, gaze focused on the controls. "That plan's really got me going Y/N, theres so much more we can do! Now I dont know about you, but on days like this theres nothing better after blowing up a colony than hearing a good scream and shedding a little-" the Master reached towards the scanner, and suddenly stopped.

He tilted his head and inspected his palm, merriment falling from his expression as his eyes rapidly looked down to follow the sticky red trail he'd unknowingly left over the TARDIS controls.

"Blood..."

The timelords hand was wet with warm blood, the controls smeared with leftover crimson. His eyebrows furrowed as he brought the hand closer to his face, inspecting it curiously. He furiously thought back to where it could've come from, mind racing at warp speed. He hadnt killed anyone earlier, unless with the TCE- and it certainly wasn't his blood, he hadn't been hurt. He hummed in confusion, until it suddenly hit him.

The inhabitants of Alpha 9 bled a frozen green.

The only creature aboard that ship that bled hot red was you.

"Y/N?" The Master span around to face you. Your body was slumped against the doors of the TARDIS, chest heaving as the blood pooled down your arm onto the floor. Your eyes fluttered in half consciousness as your coat lay strewn at your side. His gaze shot wide. "Oh no, no no no!" He sprinted across the TARDIS floor and crouched at your side, hearts racing in his chest as he scrabbled for your face. "Its ok, you're gonna be ok love, hold on."

The Master didn't often openly panic. Even when his life was threatened in the most dangerous of ways, he'd face death with a smile and a giddy wave of whimsy. Fear was for weak, petty little humans, not for powerful beings like himself. He shut off his emotions like a tap, only showing the world his glorious joy or furious anger: The basics the universe needed to fear him. But per usual, you'd come along and shook up his routine- and as you bled out on the TARDIS floor, his hearts raced beyond comprehension.

"Stay awake for me, hey, c'mon don't fall asleep." His grasp had left a bloody handprint on your cheek, your head limp in his hold as he desperately scooped you up into his arms. "C'mon Y/N, stay with me." The TARDIS hummed in distress as he carried you through the corridors. She seemed as upset as he did, having taken a strong liking to you the moment you stepped through her doors.

"Master..." You croaked out, struggling to meet his gaze. He weakly smiled down at you.

"Good girl, i'm here, everythings going to be fine" you returned a pained grin, lips parted as your eyes fluttered shut. "M' Masters good girl" you hummed, exhaustion taking over as you fully went limp.

The Master clutched you tighter to his chest, a desperate snarl ripping from his throat. Even in near death you still devoted yourself to him, a sick irony in truth- it was because of your devotion to him you were hurt in the first place. The TARDIS hummed again, pulling the Master from his thoughts, the hallway lights indicating the way to the distressed timelord.

She moved the medical bay closer to the the console room, the Master racing through the doors and tenderly laying you down on the bed, silently thanking her.

"You're not dying on me little madam, don't you dare try dying on me today." His trembling hands fought to unbutton your bloodsoaked blouse, your bare skin exposing the extent of your injury. Under normal circumstance, you being shirtless would stimulate something inherently primal in the timelord, your body drowned in lustful kisses. But now, it was a race against time to halt your excessive bleeding: and the Master was never known for his patience.

Shaking hands pressed hard on your wound, bandaging tight around the bleed as a drip was firmly placed into the crook of your arm. Coat tossed aside, the Master rolled the dark sleeves of his shirt to his elbows, a sight he knew you'd be drooling over were you not close to death. Your face was ghostly pale, a stark comparison to the dripping crimson. The master gently tilted your head, eyes fixating on the dark blotches blooming on your throat- if he wasnt so fearful for your life, he'd be furious. But now, the timelord decided, wasn't the time for theatrics.

Tender fingers smoothed a balm over your bruise covered hip and throat, a healing concoction he'd stolen from the Sisters of Plenitude after a thrilling turn on New Earth. It was sure to deal with the bruises quickly. He smirked weakly, a laugh lost in his throat. You normally loved the bruises he gave you, wearing them with pride under your clothes, a mark of the Master owning every part of you- much to your delight. His bruises told a story on your skin, littered over your collarbone and thighs like a devotion of love- But these bruises were angry, mocking the timelord with vengeance. He supposed this was the creatures' revenge for the destruction of Alpha 9. The thought of it made him sick.

Your stillness was agonising, the mystery of the unknown rivalling the maddening pound of the incessant drumming in his head.

He grabbed hold of an intricately shaped tool, scanning over your body with shallow breath. Your vitals soon appeared on the dark wall, graphs and statistics plastered across the space. With a huff, the Master turned to you, hand caressing over your cheek. He placed a tender kiss to your forehead, lips soft against your damp skin, before sitting down at your side.

You lay there for what seemed like centuries for the timelord. The wait was pure agony.

A warm washcloth had been taken to your skin, all traces of the blood disappearing from your skin. The Master furiously scrubbed at his hands and forearms, the red staining his skin like a vicious reminder of your injury. The TARDIS luckily cleared the pool of blood in the console room, the Master gently patting the wall in thanks and recieving a warm hum in return. His hands were red raw by time he was sure no blood was left, trembling fingers brushing the hair from your face as he tenderly cleared the blood from your cheek.

For hours on end he sat, holding your hand in his own. You were far too still for his liking. He was used to you reaching out for his touch constantly, always a tacticle creature. He sighed and placed a kiss on your knuckles, brushing over them with his thumb.

"You humans...you're all so delicate." He mused. "I never could understand why the doctor kept a troupe of your kind around. Typical- now I do, and the one I actually take a fancy to is knocked out cold." The Master sighed, running a hand through his messy hair. You still didnt move.

"What've you done to me, love? You've turned the universe's big bad Master into a sentimental, lovesick schoolboy. I hope you're proud of yourself."

He leant back in the chair, gently patting your hand. He sighed again. "You managed to make me fall for a human, you beautiful creature. If I didnt know you better i'd call you a fool, running into the arms of a being known for the destruction of everything in its path. But that wouldnt change anything, would it? You always were beautifully stubborn."

Silence. The master bit his lip.

"I took you in because I was bored, wanted something to tease and prod and play with. Maybe I was secretly lonely. God knows why you stayed." He let out a weak laugh, rubbing at his chin. "You put up with me all that time. You saw something, I still for the life of me can't figure out what you managed to find inside all the cruelty I sent your way. But you stayed, and now i'm the one begging you to stay with me. Strangely poetic, isn't it love?"

He would never admit it to anyone outside the TARDIS walls, but he was terrified- instinctively he knew at one point you'd be hurt. Humans just werent as durable, he knew that. But the pain of seeing you hurt? Now he certainly didnt expect it in as full force as it came to him.

"I can't lose you. Its supposed to be you and me, travelling the stars and causing chaos together- you're mine. Finally, something I care more about than myself-and the universe tries to take it from me."

He took your hand he refused to release in both of his own, placing his forehead on your knuckles and taking in a shaky breath.

"Despite my, and i'm directly quoting you here Y/N, 'devilishly handsome' new face - Im old, really old, i've been around for a while. I've seen things, things you wouldn't believe. Done things you couldn't begin to imagine. I've ran for prime minister and became the dictator of the world, explored a planet of cheetah people, turned the whole of planet earth's dead into cybermen- and i even did that one in a corset and heels."

The Master laughed, but it fell on deaf ears.

"It was all 'been there, done that, killed their people.' It got boring fast. But with you, its like the universe is this new, incredible thing- the look in your eye when we step out this tardis makes me feel like im doing all this for the first time again."

The master shakily laughed, kissing your fingertips. He'd blame it on the exhaustion, but tears began to well in his eyes.

"But this time... i'm happy. Sure, the anger never leaves, the need to destroy is still incessant and those god damn drums still plague my mind every single day: but now i'm happy. You make me so happy, love. You, with your wonder and excitement and cheeky little darkside, your willingness to see the world for whats real and not just whats good."

The Master sniffed, placing your knuckles against his lips as he looked at your unmoving form. He knew you'd normally squirm and blush at the sensation, your stillness hurting him even more.

"You kneel at my feet, stand by my side, lay in my arms and you call me your Master- and every time, you say it like a god damn prayer. You looked into the eyes of the universe's most messed up soul and said 'I love you'- and I thought I was the mad one. " The Master laughed weakly again, placing a kiss on your knuckles. He let out a breathy sigh and pondered for a moment.

"When you wake up, i'll show you the stars. Not like before, no. I'll take you anywhere your heart desires, show you the universe you want to see, and hold you in my arms. This TARDIS, my TARDIS, is your home. You belong next to me, not in a bed close to death but past that console room, out those doors, exploring space and time and making you as happy as you make me. Anything you want, you'll get. I'll even teach you to fly the TARDIS, eh?" He gave a pained smile, tapping your hand. "You've always wanted to know how to fly the old girl, havent you love?"

The master interlaced his fingers with your own, holding your hand like it was the most precious thing in the world.

"So you just wake up now, darling. Save this old mans hearts from breaking. I cant be alone anymore, I can't walk the stars without you next to me. I need to share this life with you." The master paused, breath caught in his throat.

"I love you too much to let you go."

He'd said it before, in secret moments and late night confessions, but it still felt strange on his tongue. The Master didnt love, that was the Doctors job. The master was the cruel one, the monster that sought destruction across the universe, while the doctor dragged their bunch of tagalong pets behind him to pick up the pieces. It was an old game, a legendary one. But he couldnt do it alone, not any more.

Thats when he felt it- The gentle twitch of your fingertips against his hand. The timelord held his breath, straightening in his chair. You slowly began to stir. You were mumbling under your breath, eyelashes fluttering as the room slowly crept into view. Your lips were dry, voice hoarse, and as you pulled yourself from slumber you weakly called out his name.

"Master?"

The hand holding yours squeezed lovingly, brown eyes soon coming into your hazy field of vision. "I'm here, love. Im always here."

You smiled at that, tenderly pulling his hand towards your face and sighing into his touch. The master gently held your face, thumb brushing over your cheek. "Now what time do you call this, young lady?"

You laughed weakly, the force on your throat causing you to wince. The master shook his head, moving closer. "You're just a little trouble magnet, arent you?" He teased. A small smirk played on your lips as you leant closer into his touch. "Well, I learnt from the best."

It was the Masters turn to laugh now. "That was beautiful, what you said." You quietly murmured, gaze meeting his own. The Master paused for a moment, the internal debate going on in his mind evident on his face. You could see in his eyes he was raring to downplay his confession. "Don't try and deny it, pretty boy. I heard every word."

The Master finally relented, standing up from his chair and pulling his hand away from your face. You whined at the loss of contact, hand weakly reaching out towards the timelords arm. You felt a lump build in your throat- had he gotten annoyed at that? "No, Master i'm sorry, please don't leave." You whimpered out. He raised an eyebrow and gently shushed you.

"Hey hey, down girl. Give us a second." he smirked, pulling off his shoes and shedding himself of his waistcoat. You watched, transfixed, the Masters shirt and pants soon following, leaving him stood in his socks and underwear. The timelord returned to your side, pulling up the covers of the bed and signalling for you to shuffle over.

You limply moved to the side as the Master slipped under the covers, his arm curling around your shoulders. You instinctively nestled into his arms, head resting on his bare chest, your legs tangling together in a jumble of limbs. The Masters arms felt like safety, his fingertips trailing over your back, rhythmic heartbeat against your temple. You hummed contently. "What was that for?"

The master smirked cockily. "I said i'd hold you in my arms when you woke up, love. I thought you said you heard everything. Or did you just get distracted by the thought of me in a corset and heels?"

"Shut up." You weakly gave a playful push his chest with a groan, a low rumbling laugh following from the timelord. The Masters lips ghosted over your forehead, hot breath a sharp contrast to your cold skin as he placed a slow, gentle peck. You sighed contently into his hold, eyes fluttering shut with bliss.

"Thank you Master, for being there for me." you murmured lowly, your fingertips drawing circles over his warm skin. The Master hummed, head resting atop of yours.

"Always, love" he replied, thumb caressing over your shoulder. "As you humans say, 'in sickness and in health'."

You let out a soft giggle, the sensation making the Master shiver, goosebumps forming on his skin. "Normally, that's said during wedding vows." You supplied, biting your lip. "Its something reserved for a married couple."

The timelord brought you tighter to his chest, a smile playing on his lips. "Well then, if we're ever going to get to that point Y/N, you're going to have to stop trying to bleed out in the console room. I'm not cleaning up blood on our honeymoon." He jibed, smirking as he felt your heartrate quicken. The notion of you being wed seemed to excite you. He filed that thought away for later.

You craned your neck to face the Master, a tired smile gracing your lips. "So no 'til death do us part?'." Warm browns turned to meet your lazy gaze, a tender expression on his face as he shook his head. "Lets just focus on the sickness and health bit first, hm?"

You nodded gently, satisfied, the Masters hand gingerly taking hold of your cheek. The distance between you both soon closed, your lips meeting his. You quickly sank further into his hold, letting him guide your mouth, his touch soft and considerate. A soft smile spread across your face as you let him take control- even in his most gentle moments, he was still certainly your Master.

Time melted away, you had no clue just how long you'd submitted yourself to his kiss, the Master letting you break for air when you needed to before diving right back in and taking ownership back of your mouth. Eventually you parted, both of your lips red and glossy. You sank back into his chest, nestling deep into his arms as exhaustion took hold once more.

"I love you, Master" you mumbled into his skin as you began to fall back into slumber.

The Master smiled almost proudly, before letting his own eyes flutter shut. He didn't need sleep as much as you did, timelord biology never requiring them to rest. But he decided he'd make an exception for you- another one to add to the ever growing list.

"In sickness and in health" he purred in reply, before letting the coaxing lull of sleep pull him down into the comforting dark.

------------------------------------------------

[ducktracy]

186. september in the rain (1937)

disclaimer: this review contains racist content and imagery. i do not condone any of this content whatsoever—it’s being displayed purely for educational and historical reasons. with that said, i have much to learn myself. PLEASE let me know if i say something wrong or offensive. it’s never my intention to do so, yet i want to learn from my mistakes and own up to them provided that should happen. thank you for your patience and understanding.

release date: december 18th, 1937

series: merrie melodies

director: friz freleng

starring: james c. morton (various), danny webb (various), wini shaw (blue dye bottle, morton salt girl), mel blanc (louis armstrong’s speaking voice)

(original title card courtesy of jerry beck.)

the final cartoon of 1937 is an interesting one: it’s the shortest cartoon in the WB library, with a runtime of about 5 minutes and 50 seconds. when the cartoon aired on TV in the ‘90s, the blackface caricatures were cut, further shortening the runtime to about 3-4 minutes. not only that, but a bulk of the animation is recycled from previous cartoons, such as how do i know it’s sunday? and clean pastures—both freleng entries.

like we’ve seen from many a cartoon before, this short chronicles the adventures of store products coming to life and putting on various acts.

open to the interior of a store on a rainy night (hence the title), the eponymous song underscoring the scene. the camera pans right, closing into a bottle of blueing singing “am i blue?”.

the gags, at least in the first half, are relatively disjointed: immediately after the blueing sequence, a snake charmer prompts a bottle of toothpaste to squirt out a strand of toothpaste and wave in the air like a snake. little time is wasted cutting to a can of searchlight (salmon), a searchlight on the can’s label sparking to life for a full 3 seconds before moving onto the next gag: maids from “old maid cleanser” doing a dance, a gag repurposed from how do i know it’s sunday?

a loose precursor to the camel’s breakdown in porky in egypt (which is much more thrilling than what is presented here), a rubber glove comes to life, inflating itself and serving as a makeshift pair of bagpipes, accompanying a line of camels strutting along on the camel cigarettes logo. reused from freleng’s 1935 entry flowers for madame, two dandelions perform the highland fling along to the music. 

wipe to a bunch of apples, where a worm pokes its head out from a hole and tentatively crawls along. stalling’s bumpkin score of “in the shade of the old apple tree” is fitting and fun to listen to, as are treg brown’s sound effects of the worm inching its way along. however, bad news for the worm: a line of hungry chicks plastered on the bon ami powder cans (here labeled “my am i”) pursue the worm, who flees like he’s never fleed before. stalling’s score is masterful, the score morphing into a flurry of excitement as the chicks all gang up on the worm. one of the chicks manages to swallow the worm, who thus is thrown about and inches along like the worm as it struggles to be freed. finally, the worm manages to separate itself from the chick, and hurries back into an apple for safety. while nothing new, stalling’s music score manages to breathe some life into a tired scene.

the next scene is directly reused from how do i know it’s sunday, just with different vocals: the morton salt girl and the u-needa biscuit boy sing a duet together beneath the “rain” from the shredded wheat box’s waterfall. if anything, it’s interesting to see old footage now colorized.

cue the barrage of blackface caricatures: the al jolson caricature from clean pastures sings the title song--the jolson way, of course. the premise of jolson singing this song would be reused in future cartoons, such as the grand finale to 1941′s porky’s preview. he and aunt emma (a parody of aunt jemima) engage in the whole “sonny boy” shtick--i suppose if anything, subtle movements on jolson such as the head tilts bring a nice feeling of depth and construction to him (i wonder if this is the work of bob mckimson?), but the entire sequence is merely too gross and uncomfortable for it to have any merit. jolson finishes the performance by singing “good evening, frieeeeends!”, an opening/closing line that he sung on his radio show shell chateu. daffy would borrow this as late as 1950, closing out his own rendition of “the merry go round broke down” in bob mckimson’s boobs in the woods.

caricatures of fred astaire and ginger rogers dance together to a perky waltz rendition of “september in the rain” as an interlude. the animation is rotoscoped, and therefore quite elegant, though i do wish they had attempted to push the caricatures just a bit more, especially when the two of them begin their tap dance routine--the graceful, realistic human designs fit well with the waltz, but seem a bit out of place with the mood shift brought on by the ending tap dance. nevertheless, props to carl stalling for finding a way to turn the title song into a waltz. his music is the highlight of the cartoon.

 (friz freleng’s september in the rain on the left, 1937, bob clampett’s 1943 tin pan alley cats on the right.)

fats waller and louis armstrong (whose caricatures are reused from clean pastures) don a box labeled “gold rust twins”, a parody of fairbank’s gold dust washing powder (warning for blackface with the link). mel blanc voice’s louis’ cry of “SWING IT, BROTHER!” cue an admittedly rousing rendition of “nagasaki”, with fats waller on the piano and louis on the vocals. the animation of waller playing the piano would be directly reused in bob clampett’s tin pan alley cats in 1943, proving to be a rather anachronistic caricature in comparison to the more streamlined--yet equally offensive--caricatures brought on in that cartoon.

though the entire sequence is gross and uncomfortable, the energy it possesses is much needed in comparison to the rest of the cartoon. it feels much more on par with the energy in clean pastures. ken harris does some great smear animation of two chickens angrily bobbing their heads to the music, and the animation of aunt emma dancing to the music is snappy and jaunty. all of this is being analyzed from a technical standpoint--good animation does NOT make the caricatures or content being animated any more okay, but the techniques put into conveying the animation do constitute some recognition. at the very least, here, it feels as though freleng actually has his heart in the cartoon. the rest of it, not so much.

the sequence draws to a close, as does the cartoon: we do one last pan across the shop, trucking in to the shop’s window, revealing the rain pouring in the night sky. iris out.

this cartoon is not one of freleng’s stellar entries, even without all of the disgusting caricatures. if anything, this is more of an obligation than a cartoon, something to please the boss with song and dance numbers and tired gags that have been antiquated since the mid ‘30s. reprehensible as the caricatures are, the “nagasaki” number at the end was admittedly the short’s highlight. the animation is snappy, fun, energetic, and stalling’s score is infectiously energetic. however, that doesn’t redeem any of the content being animated, or the short in total for that matter. you are not missing anything by skipping this entry.

but, despite such a sour end to a great year, 1937 has been a GREAT year for WB, undeniably the best year of cartoons thus far. the acquisition of mel blanc was the turning point. porky is finally growing some personality and is able to display it, more and more notable characters (such as daffy and even elmer, despite being a prototype) are popping up, the directors are all feeding off of each other and competing to put out funnier cartoons, etc. this is the year where the tunes become truly loony. and 1938 is even better! porky and daffy become an established duo, tex avery hits the sweet spot with his cartoons, chuck jones becomes a director of his own... there’s much to look forward to. we’re only just getting started!

as per tradition, here’s a link to the cartoon--obviously view this with discretion.

[sothisbound]

Nasrin gasps at the surge of heat behind her back. She turns just in time to see a human form collapse into smoldering ash, and her stomach does a backflip. The mother has crawled up out of the wrecked cab, and magic pulsates around her, thick and angry.

“Madam, get down — ”

More screams, and Nasrin turns again to see Miri swinging her shamshir, now wreathed with fire. The attackers, masked mages in black, have no chance to scream, and her eardrums shudder as their wards collapse with thunderous cracks.

More of the mages converge on them, appearing out of the rainy wood like shadows. There are too many of them. Miri, although swinging her shamshir in a flaming arc at them, stands alone between them and Nasrin. With a silent prayer, Nasrin braces herself and raises a ward. The sight of Miri fighting alone is terrifying, but she has to protect —

A screech shudders in the air, high above the trees — a wyvern call.

One of the mages drops, an arrow embedded in his brain.

And in a flurry of water and mighty wings, a white wyvern bears down on the attackers, breaking their formation and throwing the skirmish into chaos.

@goldenschemes

Byleth can't focus. Her vision swims around her, blurring until all she can percieve is a mix of burning green and orange, and dark, dark blue. Everything moves, dancing about like the twisting flames slowly engulfing the forest around them.

A screech of rage rends the air.

She can't control it.

Her right hand flies up to grasp tightly at her left arm when it spasms in pain. Flames drip from her fingers without cease until she digs those razor-sharp claws into her own flesh, bringing back a modicum of control through the sharp pain.

There's something above.

The world tilts as she steps forward, falling out of the carriage and into a heap on the ground. Her lips are pulled back in a pained grimace, revealing gleaming white fangs and her eyes are clenched tightly shut against the feeling of her skin goin taught.

Bodies hit the ground, people scream, shout, rage.

Byleth stands. Slowly, weakly, swaying like a newborn colt. Hunched over, her hand still clutching her arm. Blood drips from the self-inflicted wound, but she no longer notices.

"Go away," she wheezes, barely above a whisper, certainly too low to be heard above the chaos.

But she can still hear the baby crying.

Her scalp itches. She can feel feathers falling loose, being replaced.

She takes an unsteady step forward, and then another.

"Go. Away," she tries a little louder, and this time one of the twisted figures hears and raises a hand to attack - the angry swirl of purple magic barely begins to form when she rushes him, ripping his throat open with her claws alone.

He falls, like those before him.

Her shoulders are starting to ache.

Another rushes her, and falls like his brother.

And she steps forward. And again. And again.

Bodies fall before her, one by one.

Fire rises in her chest, rumbling in her throat, and then -

"GO AWAAAY!"

The roar - for it can be described as nothing less - rends right through the chaos and sends creatures for milss scurrying away in fear.

[darkmindsthinktwistedthoughts]

TLC

Fandom: Ikemen Sengoku

Pairing: Hideyoshi Toyotomi x Naiya (female OC) x Masamune Date

Word count: 4,507

Warning: Pampering, Fluff and sprinkle of spice.

Written by: darkmindsthinktwistedthoughts

Tagging @umbralaperture​ for this commissioned piece.

Masterlist 

---

TLC

This was getting beyond a joke. Every breath was agony, something clawing at her throat and pulling on her lungs like they were a set of bagpipes. Lack of oxygen meant every minor ache and pain suddenly sparked throughout her body a thousand times worse.

She tried to move only to be hit with a blinding pressure pain buried somewhere behind her eyes making her wonder who planted an axe there. Sleep was desired and never came. Endless exhaustion added to the melee of things that now just made up a list as long as she was tall for what was wrong.

Duvets, blankets and pillows clung around her like a nest. Somehow, she had managed to crawl into bed. Medication hadn’t worked the way it should, it hadn’t worked at all. She groaned against the faint light creeping into the bedroom from the curtains and became aware of something loud enough to shake the gates of Hell.

“Ugh… not now.” She grumbled and tried to bunch the pillows up around her ears but the hammering didn’t stop. “Fine, not like I can sleep anyway.”

She peeled back the layers of comfort and dragged her body as close to vertical as she could muster. Using the wall to steady herself, as well as any furniture along the way, she slowly made it to the front door. Her fingers fumbled against the lock. The bolt slid back and the door cracked open.

“This had better be good. I put off dying to be here.” Before she could even focus on who had come to call on her, the door was pushed wide. A set of strong arms wrapped her up in a bone-crushing hug driving what little air she had in her body out along with her ability to stand under her own strength. “Oof!”

“Naiya! Thank god you answered I was this close to kicking in the door.” The familiar comforting voice of one of her usually level-headed boyfriends sounded muffled from her position against his broad chest.

“Yoshi mate, you might want to ease up on the whole bear hug before you really have a need to worry.” Masa reached out with one hand ruffling her hair as he reminded Hideyoshi of a human’s requirement to breathe. “Sorry Lass. I brought food.”

Masa held up two bags he had in his free hand giving them a light shake before brushing past her and Hideyoshi to get into the house.

“I can see that. I thought you guys had a key for here anyway?” She couldn’t really focus on what was happening but was really trying to follow along.

“We do but someone left it in the bowl back at ours.” Masa called out from the kitchen. She could hear the bags being emptied along with the thud and clink of produce being laid out on the counter.

“If you hadn't distracted me before we left, I wouldn’t have forgotten to grab it from the bowl in the first place.” Hideyoshi grumbled his arms releasing their tight hold as he chided Masa.

“How was I distracting you? I was trying to think of things to get from the store on the way over. It was your idea to get the key bowl anyway.” Masa appeared again a teasing grin on his face before changing his voice to give his best impersonation of Hideyoshi. “Can’t just have keys hanging around we need some order in the place.”

“You kept asking if I thought today was a cheat day or not. And I do not sound like that!” Hideyoshi sounded exasperated and a little embarrassed. He was normally the reliable one so forgetting something like the key to their girlfriend’s house proved he was worried.

“Well, it makes a difference to Kitten.” Masa chirped back.

“Hey guys as much as I enjoy the Saturday night live experience, I’m just gonna let you do your things and crawl back into my pit.” She tried to remove herself from the loud, all be it amusing, interaction. It was taking a lot more strength than first imagined to remain upright and she didn’t want to worry them anymore.

“Hold up.” Hideyoshi reached out and grabbed her as she swayed on her feet. Apparently urging herself to try to move forward had failed. His attention left Masa and was now completely focused on her. One of his large hands swept back her bangs as he inspected her. “I knew it, you’re sick.”

“I’m not sick. I am perfectly healthy for a bag of infested, cursed… you know what? I can’t even be bothered finishing that.” Hideyoshi’s hand felt cool against her face which was enough to tell her she was probably running a slight temperature. Great if there was one thing I don’t need right now; it’s my whole system shutting down with some weird bug.

Naiya silently hoped that whatever was happening was just a result of her failed meds. A nasty side effect from inhalers or something not clearing her airways.

“You really look pale, Lass.” Masa came to join them. His piercing blue eye peered out from under his hair and began to rove over every inch of exposed skin she had.

Hideyoshi’s inspection was one thing. It made you feel like you were being wrapped up as he softly moved over you. Masa’s inspection was just as caring but wilder in its execution. If one man was good at making her feel bound, the other was good at making her feel exposed. Between one kind of smothering and the other, it was impossible to hide anything from these two.

“You haven’t been looking after yourself, have you? I told you not to work too hard.” Hideyoshi huffed, the furrow of his brow becoming deeper as if he were the one suffering a splitting headache and not her.

Sensing the start of one of the dreaded lectures on observing better self-care Naiya wriggled in Hideyoshi’s grip freeing herself. She then attempted to sidestep Masa who had moved in a pincer movement to keep her in place without touching.

“It’s not a question of working too hard Yoshi. Its allergy season and my damn meds are useless. With everything going on I can’t go into work, I got told to rest.” In her flurry of explanations designed to defend herself, she could feel whatever little energy she had failing her with every word.

The room felt like it was spinning and she ended up finding herself steadied with a strong arm from Masa as he wrapped it around her waist.

“So naturally you didn’t.” Masamune was still smiling but she could tell by his tone even he was concerned. His gaze really was stripping away at her masks. As fast as she put one in place, he was there to remove it piece by piece.

“Hey what is this gang up on the sick person?” She batted at Masa’s chest that was ever so slightly visible under his black shirt. In a moment of clearer breathing, the smell of his own natural scent mixed with the spices and soap he used at work hit her stronger than they normally would.

“You just said you weren’t sick.” Hideyoshi pointed out the flaw in her exasperated argument.

“I’m changing my mind if it means I got two fussing mother types crowding me.” She didn’t so much manage to break free of Masa’s grip as he backed her up against the sofa and allowed gravity to work its magic. Her legs gave out with very little effort and she bounced on the cushioned seating feeling the lurch of her body reacting in a sickening wake up call.

“Right here’s how its gonna work Kitten.” Masa said as he crouched down at her side and held her hand. Making sure she was focused on what he was about to say before continuing. “I’m gonna go in the kitchen and cook dinner for three. You are gonna eat however much of it you can and I’ll turn the leftovers into meals you can eat over the next few days. I’ll even make a big pot of chicken soup for you.”

“With dumplings?” She knew she sounded like a child right now but dammit if someone else cooking meals for her and preparing them so she just had to reheat them later didn’t sound like a slice of Heaven.

“Sure, with dumplings if that’s what you want.” Masamune chuckled and began to ruffle up her hair. She hated to think how bad it looked but it felt nice to feel his touch.

“While that is happening. I’m going to run you a nice refreshing bath and you will soak in there while I tidy up a bit.” Hideyoshi said as he bent down to pick something up off the floor and she could already tell from the way he was looking around the room that he was silently appraising the lack of housekeeping.

“Hey just so you know I haven’t been home much and—”

“You said you weren’t going into work!” Hideyoshi pivoted on the spot, discarded magazines and papers in hand making him look like he had begun to sprout wings.

“Oops.” She became defensive and inadvertently put her foot right in it.

“Don’t ‘Oops’ me, Madam. I was right to be worried about you. When we hadn’t heard from you in the last couple of days I just knew --.”

“Hahaha, you tell her Bud.” Masa applauded with a slow clap as he laughed.

Masa had been practically vibrating attempting to hold back the laughter while watching Hideyoshi as he flapped around. It didn’t take a genius to work out why. The papers in his arms really did look like feathers when he moved.

“Masa you are not helpful.” Naiya was struggling to hold back a fit of giggles as well. His laughter was contagious and it didn’t help that Hideyoshi seemed to have transformed into the mother hen he was always teased of being.

“Little kittens that are as weak as you at the minute can’t complain. Now go along with Yoshi and his mothering while I go sort out food. I’ll even help with the housework while it's heating up.” Masa dragged her forward on the sofa so he could plant a loud kiss on her forehead before leaving the room again to vanish into the kitchen.

“Fine.”

*

It took the entire time the bath was running for Hideyoshi to finally calm down enough to take in what had been happening without butting in with ‘I told you so’ or ‘Why didn’t you call me?’. He checked the meds she had taken and called someone who sounded grumpy enough to be Ieyasu.

Steam, taking time out and sleep. That was what he ordered alongside the bath to get cleaned up and generally try to relax in. It wasn’t anything she hadn’t already heard from others and sleep was harder to come by than they all made it sound. Logically she knew they were right, if she could sleep some of what she felt would clear but her lungs we against it.

The water was just the right temperature with clusters of candles lit around the bathroom and fragrant bubbles popping against her skin. Too bad her nose was so blocked in the humid atmosphere she couldn’t really enjoy the whole sensory experience.

Laying there submerged in the hot water she heard the two men moving around her home. She wasn’t worried they were both so good at domestic stuff it put her to shame more often than not. She was only feeling guilty that she had caused them to worry so much.

As she breathed in and out, she willed her lungs to stop that rasping rattle she had come to associate with trying to live. Asthma, allergies… what were you supposed to do if most of the environment you lived it was hell-bent on killing you?

After about 10 minutes soaking it felt like some humanity had started to return to her. She wasn’t magically fixed but the warmth of the water had managed to regulate her own internal thermostat and she was at least a normal temperature again.

She slipped down so her shoulders went under the waterline and tilted her head back to get her hair wet. While her head was under the water, her ears picked up a muffled noise and pulled herself up just in time to see a panicked Hideyoshi rushing to her side from the now open bathroom door.

“Naiya, are you alright? I knew I shouldn’t have left you for so long in the bath when you are not well.” His hands brushed back her wet hair from her face and she was thankful for the bubbles in the tub giving her a veil of decency.

“I’m fine. I was just getting my hair wet.”

As she scrambled to grab the bottle of shampoo it was plucked from her wet grip.

“I’ll wash it for you.” Hideyoshi didn’t sound as if he were treating this like a chore. Still, it felt a little strange to have this happening and she found herself naturally trying to decline the offer.

“You don’t have too I’m fine.”

“You just gave me a mini heart attack. Let me.”

The cap popping open felt like it was echoing in the room. She watched the viscous liquid pour from the bottle and coat his hands.  His hands softly covered the crown of her head and she closed her eyes against the heavenly sensation of his fingers working in circles and patterns over her scalp. The sound of foam squelched near her ears sending a tingle up her spine.

Callused fingers, softened by the warm water, brushed softly over the shell of her ears. Following her hairline to her nape and then returning back up to the crown again. He lightly rinsed his hands in the water before easing her lower, carefully supporting her head on one arm as he rinsed her hair free of the soap with a small jug.

Naiya’s eyes opened to see her dreamy, blissed-out expression reflected in his soft caramel gaze.

“There now all better?” He asked while kneeling at the side of the bath. The last of the suds from her hair ran freely over his bare arms highlighting the lines of toned muscle.

“Y-yes.” She stuttered. She had been sure her temperature had returned to normal until her overactive imagination began to take over. Drawing lines and connections in a game of dot to dot with little encouragement that only served to fuel a fire in her cheeks.

“That’s my girl. I left your towels here but if you want, I can help you get out?” He got up and paused at the door waiting for her reply.

“No, I should be fine.” The bubbles in the bath were nearly depleted as they fought against the soap of the shampoo. She was becoming aware again of her own vulnerability.

“Ok. I’ll just be the other side of the door so don’t struggle if you can’t manage.” He was still worrying.

“I’m feeling a bit better I can…” She trailed off. Acting tough was not going to work when he had already seen her looking rough as hell. She forced herself to meet his eyes and nod. “Fine, I’ll call if I need you.”

“Good girl. Take your time.” Hideyoshi either didn’t notice the budding embarrassment or he was being too much of a gentleman to call her on it.

She was thankful to the bath for giving her skin an all-over flush, masking a lot of her give away blushing response to him. The door shut and she could hear Masamune shout up the stairs.

“Grubs up!”

*

She pushed herself a little too much to get dressed quickly so as not to keep them both waiting. When she returned downstairs. She was wheezing and trying to hide the fact she was once more in pain with her lungs rattling in her ears.

“Here Lass sit down before you fall down.” Masa joked but he was clearly trying to care for her without making it into a big thing.

Her back sunk into the sofa cushions as her eyes fell on the spread of food that was laid out on the coffee table. She hated her nose right now because if looks were anything to go by the food would have smelt divine.

“What is all this?”

“Breakfast, Lunch, Dinner… Supper.” Masa indicated all the different dishes like he was on a game show before giving a shrug as if to say it was all no big deal.

“If you were gonna cook all this why bother asking if today was a cheat day or not?” Hideyoshi came in carrying a big jug of water, slices of orange and lemon floating under a layer of ice. Placing it on a side table where some glasses were and took a seat next to her on the sofa.

“Hey, Cheat days are Cheat days only when you are healthy enough to be on a diet. When you are sick you should eat whatever you can and whatever you feel like so you can get strong again and continue to fight those pesky calorie demons.” Masa defended his cooking taking a seat on the other side of her.

“Haha, I like your logic there, Master Chef.” She giggled even more at Masa’s comments because of the huffy look that was now gracing Hideyoshi’s face. She shouldn’t take joy in him being put out but she didn’t have the energy to tell herself that.

“Why thank you.” Masa bumped shoulders with her grinning.

She once more found her mind wandering in a fog of fantasy as she registered the fact, she was the filling to this comforting boyfriend sandwich. As distractions from ill-health went it could have been a lot worse.

“However flawed it may be.” A tall tumbler of iced water appeared like a cold wedge between them as Hideyoshi passed out drinks.

“Yeah well, I’m sure the whole idea of wrapping Kitten up in bubble wrap thing is also a flawless plan.” Masa accepted the glass giving a teasing side-eye to the sandy-haired worrywart.

“Alright enough of that. Let’s eat before all this good stuff goes to waste eh?” Aware that something was about to kick off Naiya raised her voice to prevent Hideyoshi snapping back with what was no doubt going to be the start of something very witty that meant the friendly disagreement would continue till all the food was stone cold.

She regretted her words quickly as now both men had shut up and started a silent war. They pressed closer to her than necessary the feeling of being in a comfortable sandwich was becoming a distant memory. She wasn’t allowed to plate anything for herself and found her own dish filling up with bits of everything as the silent battle of caregiving continued.

Her body objected to the sudden influx of food and her stomach lurched. Eyes should not be allowed to pass judgement on what you put in your belly. As hungry as she had been it was also a while since she had eaten anything in this volume. She wanted to curse her upbringing for conditioning her to the fact that it was both rude to the cook and a waste of food to call it quits in the middle of a meal.

Sensing something was wrong with her both men stopped serving more of the dishes. Their intonations of ‘if you eat that you have to have this with it’ and ‘a balanced meal is important if you wish to get healthy’ died as they both exchanged glances over her.

“You alright Kitten?” Masa quietly asked his hand touching hers.

“Yeah.” Naiya nodded and regretted moving her head at all. She slipped her hand from Masa’s and without sparing the men a glance she left the room headed straight for the bathroom.

*

Naiya returned to the living room after freshening up. The harshness of the mint in the toothpaste felt a little sharp against her tongue but it was better than leaving things as they were.

The room had been completely cleared of any signs of the meal. Candles had been lit which meant the bright light from any lightbulbs was not going to cause her any issues. The DVD player had also been set up to play a movie.

All of the cushions had been dragged from the sofa to the floor making it look like a mattress had landed on the rug.  The coffee table was missing but it did look like all her blankets and duvet had been artfully arranged so her previous nest now looked like a luxurious retreat.

“You’re back.” Hideyoshi came in carrying two cups with Masa trailing close at his heels with a third cup of steaming liquid and a plate of something sweet.

“Here Lass try sipping this it will help.” The warmth of ginger spread through her mouth rounded out by calming honey. “Sorry kinda went a little far before.”

He didn’t avoid her eyes but the sincerity in his voice warmed her more than the drink.

“It’s fine I should have said no but I just couldn’t when everything was so good.”

“Careful there Kitten, you’re gonna start giving a fella ideas talking all seductive like.” Masa’s voice was a low purr against her ear, his wild chestnut brown hair brushed against her cheek igniting her blush further.

He brought one of the sweet treats from the plate to her mouth the softness of the dough melted against her tongue replacing the mint and ginger with a buttery sugar spice.

“Churros?”

“Masa we agreed.” Hideyoshi reprimanded.

Masa pulled back with a playful smile as he licked his own lips. He had a way of looking like a hungry predator ready to pounce and nothing seemed to trigger that more than watching her enjoying his food.  

“Yeah, Yeah. C’mere Kitten we got something special for you.” He took her by the hand leading her to the spread of cushions carefully taking her cup from her while she settled into position and then handed it back.

“You have a way of making things sound dirty even if they aren’t. I do wonder if you haven’t been hanging around a certain white-haired friend too long.” She smirked taking another sip of her drink.

Her spirited tease had a thrill that was short-lived. She could feel Hideyoshi move in behind her and sit on the frame of the cushionless sofa.  Her shoulders became encased in the space between his legs as he planted a foot either side of her.

Before she could ask what he was doing, his hands wrapped over her shoulders his fingers moving in circles. The flexing pressure of his grip as the heel of his hand came into play smoothing out the knots, he found almost had her drop her cup.

“Oops! Careful there Kitten, you are already sick you don’t want to get burnt on top of all that.”

The cup was once more liberated from her failing grip while soft sighs and little moans crept out of her mouth. Masa positioned himself at her feet taking one in his hands and began copying Hideyoshi’s movements as he focused on massaging her feet.

Every now and then her leg was raised just enough to let Masa’s fingers travel past the point of her ankle and find the tension trapped in her legs. Every time she felt the release of the stressful tension, he brought his lips to the spot and trailed kisses along it.

She gasped each time he did this. His upturned blue eye was dilated to the point of stormy and his chuckle left vibrations against her skin. The pressure on her shoulders and neck tightened in her response. Hideyoshi was not to be outdone or ignored at times like this. His gentleness could be torture when used correctly and this man was a master at that.

Hideyoshi’s hands slipped to her arms before moving back to her neck and travelling down her spine until they found that sweet spot in her lower back. The one that caused her to arch against his palm as her body reacted instinctively to the pleasure of his touch.

Attacked from two sides at once the little moans became louder as she felt her body begin to hum with affection being lavished on her. Tension, aches, pains they all seemed to melt right out of her as her body temperature rose to a comfortable heat.

They only stopped when she looked as if she were on the verge of breathlessness. It felt like she had just been the victim of a huge tease but it was clear that this was the line neither men were going to cross until she was stronger.

Her body became the filling once more in a boyfriend sandwich. Masa’s arm draped around her shoulders his hand landing on Hideyoshi’s shoulder where it began to play with the gap between his shirt and bare flesh. Hideyoshi cast a glance his way but said nothing to put an end to it.

Dropping her head onto Hideyoshi’s chest Naiya could hear his heartbeat pattering out a private salsa in his body. She smiled knowing that the two guys had made up after their silly little spat.

“Ready for the movie now Princess?” Hideyoshi clicked play on the remote and the opening sequence for Nightmare Before Christmas started.

“Oh my—you got me another copy!?” Naiya snapped back up between the two men eyes sparkling as she watched the screen.

Whether she knew it or not she was moving her body ever so slightly in time with the music which only made her boyfriends chuckle behind her.

“Couldn’t have you without your beloved movie, now could we?” Masa smiled as his hand was removed from Hideyoshi’s neck.

“If we couldn’t do at least this much we aren’t really living up to the title of your men, now are we?” Hideyoshi laced his fingers with Masa's, planting a biting kiss to the back of his hand before releasing it.

The teasing going on behind her did little to break her concentration on the movie. Each man reached out with one hand to drag her back down into the space between them.

Hideyoshi’s long legs stretched out on the cushions, his feet wrapping with Masamune’s while her shorter legs balanced over the top of both of them.

It wasn’t a miraculous cure and she knew that all she had been feeling would at some point find her again. Right now though she was content. Wrapped up in the arms of two of her greatest loves, Naiya’s eyes fluttered shut. The warmth from both men seeping into her with the music on the DVD acting as a lullaby. That was when the sleep she craved finally took her.

---

[rwmhunt]

Leviticus, chapter 27

1. Smoke.

2. Indeed, at the time, to the roles ascribed, as unto a gender,

Be it so aligned, that you wouldn't find to express by yourself

Such ways as others divined, as otherwise, you might have thought to.

For it is that they wouldn’t look the way you would mean to appear,

Nor would they be pursuant of the actions that you wouldst be undoing of;

But, tis normal to be inspired- so

Then experience revelations, and the found skills that're of being alive;

To acknowledge them and allow for their alterance as unto others irrevocably.

See, Erotion can never go back.

Her auxiliary capacious desire is here ignited and thrust.

It is this passion that both excited the lord,

and hath made of her the compulsive conclusion.

For where the lord hath giv'n unto her

Of a low forrid, owl features, a froward, evilfavouredness–

Yet, hath she a mallum, passive and usable; and of how many shekels?

We shall see.

But the freedom that hath brought me to her

Might moreover be wrought agin us.

Here, you really have to drill down on the mental illness,

As I, my own actress.

3. Come madame,

Come all the rest.

O

Shagahll ahnaaah-

Which translate here as

Escrow, usufruct,

Lo, my

Incarnate ignominy,

In relatively tepid water,

Whimsy, say, jsyk, that

She'd hair like a whip

And pretty good eyes,

And if it be a female,

By such metric

As flux the matrix, yet,

I know not who I am, Erotion,

So know me only by my appetites.

4. Only in death,

At the courts of love,

Doth a woman gain of herself

Judgement as unto crime's advantage.

And still, I mean,

They're shaken still, as unto this day. 

For that they have still not recovered

And I know not that ever they will.

I love you as

Can experience

Nothing through you

O wait, but didn't I just?

That gait, that fate, that lately

Fell to someone else's statement-

Leviticus? That you? I know why

You’ve got to focus on this sort of stuff, 

But I really think, I think really that that is not 

Where the numbers are;

I’m talking to today,

As women

Imagine their bodies

To be their own.

5. To every little girl watching tonight;

Of five years, even unto twenty,

That thy worth shouldst be as a fifth

of thy fathers-

Those men who hath brought you forth,

For as thy be their daughters,

Here to see what I will prove

Unable to do;

In the singular vow-

To shew verily

What you need

Is a system of value judgements,

Set out so, before the lord. In shekels.

And where social shame provideth not enough discipline,

Graft unto it from the rod of cultural capital-

Say, that because the Children are inherently bad,

And aware only of their denial, might they

Be tripped into taking an onus

That isn't rightly theirs, so do good by it,

Or else, bloody-minded,

They hyperchargeth the tendencies that demarkate

My eternal and internal boundaries, or,

Maybe, my babies,

It's time to join the can cult;

To get a new book-

If such be my contribution,

Then such is enough.

6. Non-mathmatical aesthetic identities,

According to the valuation, as clearly uttered-

Though it be of an accident, with a minced oath attachment,

And baked-in with wild conjecture, yet, me thinks, I heard-

Piled high, of thousands, a pressure mountain, ah,

But we have a different scribe here to the last, imho.

So Mose has handed over the keys, though, I don't know

The hand that handled the sword as his, really, either...

For here, calculators are wrought, and to the ready,

But we'll dispatch with them, it is not necessary;

Set that ceaseless bucket down.

7. And the bawling of missives, meant for one, there unto all-

The original context collapsing; grafted deep onto him in death,

Riding out his memory towards a destiny of Her own choosing, who,

By whatever generosity in prior tact the intended might have possessed,

As wouldst prove to be a benison, if brought unto the conflagration, it's lost;

Even, forced out beyond itself, and the function,

Encouraged to carve up the message unto its own ends,

Where the loss of context is pulled out of its context and loved.

8. The imposition of women,

A short for sacrifice of well-being,

As She, ultimately, makes sacrifice of herself for her appetites,

But, de gustibus, in grafting them unto her in death,

So She truly hath lived, there be no defeat-

And riding forth her memory towards a hell of her own choosing,

As to scrutinise the system, adequately substantiates it's requirement-

Thy confirmation, by corroboration with a backward-thinking;

Too poor to be valued, a daylight over static water,

O whimsy,

That a priest should find a way with,

What’s lower than an afterthought?

I don't remember.

9. Is death hell?  Sheol? A well

Avernus, tartarus, hades,

A shale shell,

Too deep to see the stars from?-

Doth your bird speake?

Not as a rule, but as

A narratal tool-

10. Exchanges are not to be made,

Lo. but if they, yet so; then holy be-

I heard she'd words with the chatty rat,

That as earn you side-eye from fellow travellers-

Nae, twas just a flurry of feathers,

Like pigeons who momentarily flummox eachother

Into a figment of a fox, by misreading of the other's,

Otherwise meaningless, sudden motion;

So only as you are;

Never shall thy speake.

11. And should a priest do as he be bid,

And look the gift horse lowly, well,

He hath abused his powers,

And abusers are cowards,

Feared of their just desserts,

Should they try to revert

To a precedent

That's slumpt, inert,

And just is.

12.  To drop the eyes, so take

the focus off the waiting.

One handed,

Straineth, and,

Before I lose my medical status,

Make a mimesis to

The viability-shield

Of barrier nursing.

13. And there was an evening

When she cursed,

Turned white overnight-

Not even only just her hair.

And it ran on for days,

Days as months

That aged like years;

So, acuity straid,

Don't say impaired-

We just hang on.

14. In unspoken dotage,

She ordered a home report unto

My eternal and internal boundaries,

As global eyes be a-watching you;

In real time, you can't go back.

Lo, not like that you can't-

Details fetishized, or forgot,

And writes that she loves Jhwh,

Using an exclamation point to add an extra emphasis.

- I don't think I need to do anything else.

- I don't think I do either.

Alright then.

I'm saved, as while outside,

The world is raging,

As global eyes swell watching you,

The forgotten who fell from the storm;

Here, you really have to have a drill-down on the mental ills.

15. Yet after all the work, the depth,

I do think now only of numbers;

Where are the convolutions

That a life as this requires?

Lo, but my cut please.

16. Out to the field, the trap, she went,

Lifting the flap

From the batter'd tent,

The old vhs player, the old liniments,

Tinctures, unguents, hartshorn, clinked,

One silver shekel, minted anew,

Glinting from a box of screws,

Fungus sprung from a seam in the pattern,

Tins of yam and of sacred beans,

A scientologist's half-filled-in questionnaire,

Some garden tools, a dressing gown,

The buried bones, exhumed again,

The climbing harness, the bathroom rug,

The old kitchen table, stained with blood-

A water-damaged iliad upon it, still,

As everything was- quite sodden.

17. So, by visitation,

To or from Aunt Miriam

That changes were rung

Within the domestic routine,

Being within walking distance

To the Post Office

And from what comes of the tent of meaning.

18. Lo, for she loved her processes

As a kind of glockenspiel

And when arose opportunity,

Tinked it for the rest of us

- That it ran through us all-

A thimble's klang; O Jubilee.

19. If tears are the understanding of grief,

Then differential can be deferential,

- But do not let Miriam be led

Like a baby that is born dead,

As dead things that never were,

With a body that is only half there,

To be wondered of a second childhood-

So here Mose crows, plied to a strain

Unknown in the voice, alone,

- Please Lord, make her well!

And there was no water for the congregation.

20. And went down

Through Joppa

To watch the waves rolling in,

21. And Erotion ascribed unto each,

Meaning,

22. And farther out

Were many waves

That couldn't be

determined,

As everything that

Has already been said.

23. Yet Erotion still tried,

And was always happy

With her answers,

And so was I.

24. Where tiny grains of hail

Should swell into orbiting moons,

And pull at bodies,

And make wider water move,

That might be discerned

And distanced, and rifled for meaning

As mere memorandum.

25. That you may not break the speed limit

Does not mean you may not run,

Whence, from one chair

In her kitchen,

She may not push

The boundary of human thought

Where she may yet

Press of her own;

26. And rising, she taketh a step,

The like which is more of a push from the back

Than a reaching with the front

Of such manner as Dr Molock wouldst

Consider to be good; nevertheless,

She doth so switcheth on the radio

And is met with applause.

27. Theory of relativity ran thus-

Trained to shoot missed rounds at centre-mass,

Against the retroviral doctrine of lache's mutinous strikes;

A high-stress phase, where stakes hit low-calibre bystander.

But when she read, of the self-help book,

That no sense could thus be made,

Where each of the examples

Suffered a circumstance

Different to him,

She deemed.

28. Notwithstanding no devoted thing

Being here redeemed, evangelicals,

The difference between being washed over,

And taking something up from the wash-

And coming back with it, and thence,

holding it to a burthen, is easy to see, 

Only after.

29. Ransom and be gored,

As all masacres, undertaken

To guarantee the peace;

So let the bodies pile high: 

Same customs revolved, same characters.

You can take his horn-torn shirt unto thy sister;

That she was tough as old eggs,

In returning from the engine room;

Unctioned only; as still alive;

The perpetual repair.

30. Finally Miriam,

Over the hill,

Rose out

From the face of family impasse,

Repurposed the old

To adapt to the current;

Rode forth

To the corner,

In  'de Gustibus,-

The Solid Scran Van',

She says she means of herself

A safety net, to be

The wheel in the street,

31. And looketh up to see

God's face in the moon

Or whatever it was

That can't be drawn

And I won't be drawn.

32. As round the tent entrance

of a palace of cloud, plastered in doubloons,

And cannot be kept from my imagination,

And what I perseve is right lively to the world-

Das ding und sich and such and but;

For I'll be the judge of that, and to my bias-

Whatsoever cloys under the great varnisher,

Who layers the crack in the camel's back,

That yet, we all must press low under,

In sweetness and/or in revulsion,

Where we too are fallible, still

The lord must only be cute.

Lo, but i hold no decree

And yet am repulsed

By vitric surfactants.

33. A relationship, broken in three places,

Months after a tremendously successful campaign cycle,

Where I, a simple volunteer, am accused

Of such stuff as I do not do, while the A.B.C.

Confirmeth or annuls the meaning,

With one Boeing E-6B Mercury flying off the East Coast;

With another high over Oregon- lo, practically,

Laws are abstract,

And will not bend

To their being wrong,

When unto him a dybbuk,

And; the series is severed,

The characters gone.

Don't look.

Gives you memories.

34. So be.

- For, it's that we're made

Of an edible stuff, mulled the steer.

-Nae, for I ate my piglets and now

I'm glad of it, said the sow;

Lo.

-All's well.