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ackerfics · 3 years

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edelweiss — levi ackerman.

— levi ackerman x female reader

— warnings: spoilers for season 4 and the good old aot canon-typical violence.

— summary: you pour your unsaid thoughts to levi, only to break a promise that costs you your heart.

— word count: 4.5k

The sea holds so many promises with its sea-green hue that it spreads a chilling wave through your body like the first breath of winter’s snow. The first time you had ever set eyes on such a majestic view, there was still momentary happiness lingering as your comrades splashed each other with its blue waters. It was a symbol of hope and yet it remained a mystery that prevents all of you from knowing what was beyond this thing called the horizon. You remember how you laughed in delight when Hange presented a bizarre creature on their hands, beckoning you to move closer and focus your entire attention on the small unknown thing lying on your best friend’s palms. You remember glorying under the Sun’s ever singing rays, watching them glitter against every small jostle of water at your feet. You remember turning around to face your lover with a bright smile that might have rendered him speechless — fumbling for words when the two of you face each other.

Those moments were timeless.

Minutes spent wading in the sea was the only time you had peace.

You let out a shuddering breath as you brushed your fingers against the gold band decorating your left ring finger. This is no time to be vulnerable. You were a captain for years, for heaven’s sake, even before Levi joined the Survey Corps. The younger soldiers would feel nervous if they see your unnecessary tears. Hastily wiping them from your cheeks, you turned away from the railing separating you from the dreadful vastness of blue that placed you in such a mood and placed a tentative hand on one of the rooms housing your injured husband.

Entering the small room was more stifling than the situation happening around the continent. It would mean seeing Levi in such a state that would always accumulate unshed tears in your eyes. The bandages wrapping his figure only worsened your melancholy and with every step, you pray that he wouldn’t wake up from the cringing creak of the wood paneling of the floor. The room only had one single bed and a convenient chair on the opposite side of the lone furniture. You wasted no time in lifting the chair to place it beside Levi’s bed, seating yourself with pursed lips and clenched fists. The more time you surveyed his battered body, the more your throat burned with the urge to pour out your feelings in the small confines of the room.

With the Rumbling purging the continents beyond Paradis, this was no time to be relishing in old memories.

Yet living in those memories you shared with Levi kept you solid.

Your life wasn’t guaranteed in this last mission. There will always be a possibility that you won’t come home with the rest of the people fighting against the Rumbling and you had to make do of the short amount of time you had with Levi. But a part of you was saying that you had to survive no matter what, to make that dream of opening a tea shop in a small village possible — to give your child the freedom and childhood you had never experienced. That little ray of sunshine that came to both you and Levi in times of hopelessness a year after taking back the lost territory of the Walls. He looked like Levi that it was so hard for you to say goodbye, even if it were only missions for weeks on an unknown land. This time, you didn’t utter a single closure to your son, regret started bubbling in the abyss of your mind and stomach.

And now, you don’t know if you could ever meet with your son again.

Taking Levi’s hand as gently as possible, you took a deep breath.

“If time really was against us, I promise I wouldn’t cry. I promise I wouldn’t wait for you because I know you’ll still be the strongest soldier I have ever known. I am a mere mortal compared to you, Levi, and I fear that this dream of ours will have its last breath.”

A bitter chuckle came out of you as your grip on his hand tightened. The memories were now more vivid than usual — the time you introduced yourself to him and his friends from the Underground, the respect that blossomed between you when he knew you will be his new squad leader, the way he looked after you as your second-in-command, you recommending him in the vacant Captain spot of the Survey Corps, and you giving him a welcoming gift in his new office. Then, the images shifted to when he finally kissed you under the canopy of stars, to when he whispered words of reassurance as your bodies erased every space between you, to when you screamed in Shiganshina that you were pregnant with his child, and to when you started carrying his discovered last name along with the birth of your first son.

“The reason these thoughts tend to cloud my head at this moment was that the memories simply flashed in my mind as I stared at the ocean that I always longed for. Memories we shared that might have been fleeting yet they carry a thousand-fold of emotions coursing through every fiber of my being. Funny how every time we went out on an expedition all those years ago, you always told me to keep safe and come back with a heart that’s still beating for you. As if I would ever stop loving you and set my sights romanticizing the Titans as Hange does. I had realized that you never once accepted that my life could abruptly end with a constant war on our hands.

“Until your tired breath from lack of sleep gradually diminishes, this time, I will be the one to protect you and fight until I will let go of my own heart to sing a song worthy of you.”

“Was that a speech of farewell just now?”

Your eyes flew from your joined hands to the dulled gray irises of the keeper of your heart. Before you know it, tears continuously flowed a stream on your cheeks, your shoulders hunched as sobs racked your body. “I don’t know what came over me, must be the tension brought by the possibility of dying when we haven’t even stopped the Rumbling from erasing the rest of humanity.”

“Hey, look at me,” Levi uttered your name so softly as if he was afraid it would sadden you even more. Placing his left hand on your cheek, he wiped the cascading tear that glistened under the mellow glow of the lantern beside his bed. “You’re not going anywhere. Not when I am still alive with limbs fully intact. Well, except for the fact that I lost two of my fingers.” From that, more tears appeared in his view, flustering him in the slightest. “The point is that I will protect you. This dream with our small family will be forever ingrained in our future. You will always have me looking out for you.”

“But I’m supposed to be the one protecting you now.”

“Are you underestimating me?”

You shook your head, covering his hand with both of yours. You placed a tender kiss that you hoped radiated the unsaid thoughts that could ruin the moment you share with him right now. You wanted him to be a part of humanity’s victory against whatever crazy plan Eren has set his mind on.

“Our little boy is waiting for us to come home,” Levi reminded you after a few minutes of silence (with your occasional sniffles here and there). “Isn’t that enough reason for us to come home alive? Imagining him losing one of us was the one thing I don’t want to happen right now. Promise me.” You love the sound of your name when he says it. Akin to the flowers that seem like they hold all the jewels at the center of their petals. “Come home with me safe and sound.”

“I’m not one to keep promises, Levi, you know that.”

“Just this once,” he pleaded. “All I wanted was to have a happy ending with you, my edelweiss.”

With new tears blossoming in your eyes like flowers in spring, you gave Levi a promise that will desperately cling as long as the two of you are alive.

And he regretted making you say those words.

The battle with the Nine Titans of the past proved to be tormenting. With forces so small, the group who allied two countries at constant war with each other fought with bated breath, all eager to get out of the situation alive like no other. As hollow as your chest became after witnessing Hange sacrifice their life to let all of you escape, you steeled yourself and momentarily forgot the emptiness you felt as you landed on top of Eren’s back. You fought back a gag of disgust when you realized that the humungous creature shared similarities with those insects you loathe. However, Armin was captured by a Titan out of nowhere and everything went to absolute shit. Maneuvering in the air was perfect for the remaining members of the Survey Corps as they assessed the onslaught and ongoing appearance of their intelligent enemies on Eren’s back but their numbers continued pouring in. Two thousand years of Titan history right in front of your eyes. Everybody, Mikasa especially, was starting to feel agitated that one of their comrades was hauled away with a good number of Titans to prevent them from saving him.

“Even if I was in perfect shape,” Levi told them while they stayed perched a good kilometers away from Death, “I would still not choose to make a charge there. So calm down. Mikasa, don’t rush. Wait until I distract them.”

You glanced at him from the corner of your eyes. “Levi, don’t overexert yourself. We don’t want to lose you.”

“The feeling’s mutual. Don’t die on me.”

The rush of adrenaline started when Pieck initiated the charge, along with the thought that she had never known Eren unlike the rest of the people behind her. You screamed for her to retreat but they were futile when the Warhammer Titan materialized behind the Shifter and pierced a weapon made of hardened Titan skin through the torso of the woman’s Cart Titan. Gritting your teeth, you followed your comrades in a route specifically to rescue the new commander of the Survey Corps. Thunderspears were released every minute, maneuvers were done in utmost accuracy, and sliced napes gradually increased as your small group evaded every death-defying moment. As you were about to set your sights on one Titan in particular as well as avoid the Colossal Titan, Connie descended when the fifty-meter mass of burning flesh threw Reiner’s inert Titan at the rest of the squad, shaking the entirety of the spine you were carefully standing on.

“Levi!” you called out desperately when you saw him cough up blood. He was only a few meters away from you and you had to take him away from there fast. However, the sudden motion of a jumping Titan made you rethink your decision, latching your hooks at somewhere near Connie and blinding the creature’s eyes with an angered shout that might have startled it. The horrible creature tried snapping at your form but you were quick enough to evade its jaws with a hiss from your ODM gear, turning in midair to slice the Titan’s nape and rendering it lifeless. Looking down for a moment to check on your blades, you saw the lone pair sitting inside either sheath of the gear. “Fuck. My gas canisters and supply are not cooperating with the situation right now.”

Looking around, you suddenly realized with a hollow chest that everything was hopeless at this point. There was no escape as every intelligent Titan known to mankind swarmed your squad, their shadows a foreboding omen on your death.

Feeling a prickling sensation at the back of your neck, you turned around and saw that the Warhammer Titan was starting to make another one of its weapons, this time, a needle-like spear forming from the hardened material at the bottom of its foot. Shouting at the top of your lungs for your friends to flee, the message only registered to them when you pushed Mikasa, who was dangling in the middle of the trajectory with a determined face, oblivious to the weapon hurtling towards your squad’s direction.

Pain was something you always described as a chain of a chemical reaction. From all the books you read while trying to keep up with the latest idea Hange had, you always marveled at how a small prick of a needle would soon creep the sensation to your entire finger. To prevent yourself from being affected by the pain, you always likened the creeping pain to a blooming blossom in your and Hange’s favorite season. It promised something anew that would grow from the initial pain that racked your body. The dizziness was another story entirely. You never had issues with iron deficiency while growing up. You were a force to be reckoned with — battle scars lining up your legs and knees from all the running and climbing you did as a part of your childhood. These dents on your body grew in numbers as the years passed by until you were granted a position in the military regiment of flying wings and anxiety-ridden adventures. You wore these battle scars proudly like any other soldier.

Then, the promise of being alive rang across your head like a beacon.

That spear caused the entire left side of your torso to be gone.

The shouts of terror and agony from your squad fell on deaf ears as you slowly plummeted to your death. Ah, so that was why you were having flashbacks of your life from gazing at the ocean a final time. Glassy eyes stared lifelessly at the steaming sky as a single voice screamed your name nearly made you smile. You can finally let go of those long, never-ending days now. There won’t be nightmares plaguing you every other night as you finally succumbed to your last sleep. Selfish as it may, you were at peace once again.

“[Name]!”

And when you opened your eyes, a familiar face appeared to greet you and everything felt like a dream you just experienced from a drunken daze.

“Hi, I hope that wasn’t a bad dream.”

You blinked away the drowsiness that fell upon your eyelids, staring at a familiar landscape you only saw in daydreams. The clean air reminded you of the good old days, of summers left uncherished and autumn with its red leaves and yellow treats. There weren’t any Titans looming at every corner of the space and you slightly felt relieved at the thought until a single tear ran down your cheek like a chill in the winter air.

“Don’t cry.” A slightly panicked tone that only deepened the cut you felt in your chest. “You’re safe here.”

Those words only fuelled your cries. Palms covering your mouth, you uttered the name of the person who would pull you from the inner workings of your mind and bring you back to the surface. You never knew how much you missed them until you wrapped your arms around their shoulders, pulling them in an embrace that you should’ve done before they said their farewells, face taut with determination to stop Eren.

"Hange.”

They smelled like home. Of baked bread during late-night trysts in the kitchens to make them eat after a week of slaving inside their laboratory, of hot chocolate from the marketplace, of scented shampoo from the baths you had to force them. Your grip tightened when you felt their gentle hands reciprocate the hug you showered on them.

“I can’t believe you’re here waiting for me.”

“You did well.” A call of your name snapped you from reuniting with your best friend.

“Erwin?”

A warm smile lifted the said man’s lips as he kneeled beside you and Hange, who was now trying so hard not to cry. “You fought beautifully, [Name], and I’m so glad to see your smile again.”

The overwhelming emotions made you laugh brilliantly in the vast meadow where the veterans once had their picnic. Then, an image of a man with ebony locks and loving steel eyes and a toddler with an uncanny similarity as him made you stop breathing. The tea shop you promised your husband would have. The perfect childhood your son would’ve enjoyed. “What about Caelum? Levi?”

Erwin placed a firm hand on your shoulder. There you realized your torso was still intact. “You will see them as many times as you want. Come,” he took your hand and pulled you up, “the others are waiting. It’s your time to tell your story now.”

“I bet it was interesting since I never got to see it,” Hange interjected, wrapping a nostalgic arm around your shoulders. “That blasted Eren! I will haunt him in his sleep if he survived that massacre he started!”

Sleep was never Levi’s friend growing up. It was a realm that he chose not to venture at certain nights, afraid of the demons lurking at every corner of his tunnel vision. There was a time that sleep was kind to him. It took the form of a beautiful sprite with gentle fingers; coaxing him, tugging affectionately on his black locks, and humming lullabies that will guarantee him a good night’s sleep after a tiring day of having responsibilities. Only there was no fairy to lull him to sleep this time around. The nightmare was always the same — it started as any other random memory stored in the kept jar inside his chest, turning the whole scenario in a crescendo until he saw the limp body of his wife dropping lifelessly, the wire of her gear snapping from the impact of a white spear. His wife had the same face as the fairy who he held every night while being in the Survey Corps. The wife who gave him the light of his life, who was sleeping soundly beside him on the bed; black hair tousled, puffy cheeks blabbering drowsy nonsense, and chubby fists clenching on the thick sheets.

Glancing at the child on the bed, Levi ran an agitated hand through his hair, tugging at the roots as hard as he could. His mind flittered to the dream he just had, shocked that no blood and corpses were waiting at the end. Levi doesn’t know if he should be grateful or spooked at the sudden change of his unconscious.

“Guess you won’t be calling me ‘Captain’ anymore, huh, Levi?”

A playful jab colored Levi’s new office. It was a new change from that stuffy bedroom he got back when he was still the second-in-command of the woman standing in the middle of his office as if it was a new wonderland fit for admiring. The room was nothing much. It was an old storage room, which ticked Levi off to many tomorrows, spending every free time polishing the wooden cabinets and bookshelves until they reflected his face. There was an adjoining door to the right of his desk, showing his new sleeping quarters — equipped with a bed, housing double the pillows he got a while back and a soft mattress that his spine was grateful for. Now, the black-haired man observed how [Name]’s face lit up when their eyes met, igniting a foreign feeling inside his stomach and chest.

“So what’s second on the agenda, Captain Levi? I deduced that cleaning is the first one and you finished that without a hitch. You should’ve told me you needed help, I can always spare a few minutes taking a break from paperwork.”

Levi snorted at how smooth the title and his name sounded with the woman’s voice. “Finding brats to place on my squad.” As he fidgeted with the stacks of papers on top of his desk, his gray gaze kept glancing at [Name], who was now sidling up on his bookshelf, occasionally commenting that they pay a visit to the marketplace downtown for some good books to add in his collection. (“Your taste is bland, Levi, spice them up, for fuck’s sake,” to which the man brushed off.) “Uh, if you don’t mind, you can help me with finding some good soldiers for my squad.”

[Eye color] irises immediately snapped to meet his, causing Levi to clear his throat to ease the nervousness that started to chill his spine. It was as if he didn’t spend the past year under her leadership, which amounted to more moments spent with just the two of them. This, however, the nervousness he felt, was uncalled for. The cause being the woman with the unbound hair, curling at the bottom from the hours she pinned it in a bun, and a resolve that rivaled that of a stoked fire shining through her eyes. Truly worthy of the title ‘Humanity’s Beacon’, being one of the few women to ever prove themselves by slaying titans and conditioning their bodies and mind to achieve such an accomplishment. Levi found himself continuously staring at [Name] with the most blatant awe his stoic face could muster. He realized something that might have crossed his mind a couple of times they were together.

[Name] [Last Name] was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

“Finding good soldiers?” [Name] hummed, oblivious at the fact that she took the black-haired man’s breath away with a glance. “I think I have some cadets in mind.” Then, she clapped her hands. “But before that, I would like to give you your welcoming present!”

“Welcoming,” Levi trailed off, “present?”

[Name] nodded, turning around to the long couch pushed against the wall. So that’s what that poor excuse of wrapping paper was for, Levi thought. Like a little kid presenting the parent their shitty drawing, [Name] placed the gift in the middle of his desk with a clang. Wait, clang? “I hope I didn’t break it,” the female captain murmured, scratching her head sheepishly. “You can open it now.”

Levi tentatively unwrapped the brown paper around the supposed gift the woman gave him. Upon seeing what was nestled inside the papers, gray eyes met the most tantalizing [eye color] as he slightly gaped in disbelief. “You bought me a,” an eager nod could be seen from the woman in his peripheral vision, “a tea set. And a new jar of tea leaves as well. [Name], I-I couldn’t accept this, this must cost a lot. You know I have plans of buying my own tea set and tea leaves once I have a solid paycheck. These are even made from the highest quality, both of these, how—?”

Laughter bubbled from [Name] as she endearingly stared at the flustered state of her friend, abruptly stopping his chatter. “You’re rambling, Levi. Don’t worry about the lost money, we will be getting our paychecks next month anyway. I don’t have anything to splurge the rest of my savings on, except for a few books and quills. Besides,” she paused to give Levi a brilliant smile that once again rendered him speechless, “I guess giving you these are worth every single penny. Congratulations on being captain, Levi.”

Clearing his throat, he looked away. “Tch, you’re the one who recommended me to Erwin, stop with the congratulations as if you don’t know the promotion.”

“Still stingy, I see. So about those cadets you wanted to recruit. Here, I recommend these people.”

A small weight knocked Levi out of his stupor, silver-gray matching his stare with worried eyes. Small hands plopped on either side of the man’s face, squishing his cheeks as the hunched smaller figure on his lap pouted with furrowed eyebrows. “Dad, did you have a nightmare?” Letting out a sigh, Levi took his son’s hands from his face and proceeded to hug him close. The little boy sensed that his father was in a sad mood because of the man’s tense shoulders so he determinedly patted Levi’s head. “There, there, Dad. It’s more than okay to forget that dream.”

“You know I wouldn’t dare forget your Mom, kid,” Levi murmured, leaning back to look at Caelum with a raised eyebrow.

“You were dreaming about Mom?”

“Yeah.”

Great, his kid inherited his insomniac tendencies. If [Name] would see him now, there would be no doubt she will initiate a late-night tea party with Caelum. The kid also inherited his love for tea (Levi lets him drink fruit teas in the meantime) which is more than fine.

Caelum ducked down, pouting while fiddling with his father’s shirt. “I miss Mom.”

A sad smile pulled on Levi’s lips. “Me, too, kid. Me, too.” He brushed his lips on Caelum’s forehead (which lead to a small whine from the toddler, saying that he’s a big boy and he doesn’t want kisses from his dad) before lying down on the bed, with his son on top of his chest. “Deal with the kisses. Let’s sleep, yeah? Are you sleepy, kid?”

The little boy yawned and rubbed his eye. “Nope.”

Levi snorted. “Well, no shit.”

“That’s a bad word. Mom wouldn’t like you saying it.” Silence enveloped the two until, “Hey, Dad, can you tell me stories about Mom?”

“Go to sleep, brat.” A pause. “She is—,” Levi sighed, “quite a handful, even when she was a captain.”

Caelum huffed. “I already know that. You always complain about it.”

“Well, did I tell you about that time she stood on top of a Titan we were planning to capture, leading it like a horse to our trap?”

The dark-haired boy shook his head adorably. “Did Mom get hurt?”

“That idiot did.”

“That’s not a very nice thing to say about Mom!”

“Setting that aside, your Mom…”

Telling stories of [Name] always proved to be quite a time-consuming thing as the toddler fought against his drooping eyelids. Levi fondly stared at the only memory his wife left behind, his hand soothingly rubbed the boy’s back as their breaths turned into a rhythmic melody synced with each other. “I love you, kid. I know your mom will be proud of you. We’ll always be here for you, our edelweiss.”

To you, glowing with the suns,

There was no one alive to tell the tale of how the world almost came to an end, how earthquakes rumbled, how hopes were extinguished. There was no one alive to tell the story of how much I dedicate my heart to you. If I’d known it would be this way; I would have written thousands of paragraphs with the way I looked at you as if you were the sea, I would have written the ending with words that rivaled the infinite stars in the cosmos, and I would have finished it off with happiness that we (you) deserve.

You are my prologue, my epilogue, and every chapter and page in between.

From a tired soldier who loves you until we become ancient,

Your Levi

#attack on titan #attack on titan imagines #attack on titan x reader #levi ackerman #levi ackerman x reader #levi ackerman x you #yes this is angst #i know this is a fluff blog #but i can't help it

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a-small-batch-of-dragons · 4 years

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(Un)Wanted Part 1

Read on Ao3

(Un)Wanted Masterlist

A child that sees demons in every dark corner is not a child that is wanted.

A child that cries and freezes and mumbles of terrible things is not a child that is wanted.

A child that jumps and startles and hisses is not a child that is wanted.

Unwanted things are purged from the Earth.

So Virgil runs.

In other words: Virgil is an outcast, ostracized and shunned for how he was born, forced to flee an angry mob only to stumble right into a fae garden.

Pairings: LAMP, DLAMP, DLAMPR, can be platonic or romantic you decide

Warnings: Implied/Referenced torture, child abuse, and self-harm, nothing super explicit. Sympathetic Deceit and Remus. Panic attacks, anxiety attacks.

Word Count: 11,250

He’s running. He’s running, he doesn’t know what from anymore, all he knows is that they’re chasing him, they’re after him, he has to run—

He tears through the cold forest. It doesn’t matter that he can’t see where he’s going anymore, it doesn’t matter that the branches reach out and tear at his clothes, at his legs, at his arms. The cuts sting in the cold wind as he runs. His feet slap against the ground, too ungainly to dodge the smaller roots but just quick enough to swerve around the bigger ones. He glances over his shoulder. Can’t see them. Can’t see anything. Run. Run. Run.

The trees get thicker. The branches no longer whip past his shoulders, they stick. He has to dodge. He has to swerve. He has to hold his arms up in front of him to block the ones he can’t. His arms sting, rending through the thin tunic easily. His lungs ache. His brain races.

Demon.

Evil.

Bad.

Cursed.

The branches disappear and he almost pitches forward, throwing his arms out to catch his balance a few moments later. The second his arms aren’t in front of his face anymore, he winces. Why the fuck is there a massive clearing right here? It’s so goddamn bright, he has to blink at least three times before he can—

Oh.

Oh, no.

No, no, no, no, this is bad, this is really bad—

It’s a fae garden.

It’s golden. It’s enchanting. No plants grow that artistically. The colors are just this side of too vibrant, bathed in the gleam coming from he has no idea where. he can hear it faintly in the back of his mind, calling softly, luring him, beckoning him deeper into the garden.

No. No, no no, he has to leave, he has to run away, maybe if he runs a different way he can escape both of them but he has to leave now before something catches him and—

“Oh, and what do we have here?”

Shit.

His eyes widen and he whirls around to see a figure leaning up against a tree with far too much grace, all long limbs and coiled power. He pushes off the tree and saunters closer, the golden lights gleaming and scattering off the scales on one side of his face.

Where the fuck did he come from? He glances around. Are there more? There have to be. Where are they?

“See something interesting, pretty thing?”

His gaze snaps back to the—when the fuck did he get so close—fae in front of him, his eyes raking over anything and everything to make sure he’s not looking at his face. He doesn’t exactly remember the etiquette when it comes to fae but eye contact is the actual worst.

The fae is dressed like he’s stepped out of some time capsule, black bowler, a black cloak wrapped elegantly around his shoulders, a black suit underneath. Golden clasps hold it together over a shock of yellow. And…how many—six arms?

He backs away. The fae keeps coming. Too late he realizes he’s walked further into the fae’s trap, now he can’t get out of the garden. Not without going past the fae.

A hand, gloved in that rich yellow, comes up, a single finger tilting his chin up to—fuck why is he so close?

Close enough that he can feel breath on his face. Close enough that he can see each individual scale, placed delicately next to each other. Close enough that he can see one side of the fae’s mouth curving up the side of his face like a snake. Or maybe that’s just the smirk.

“As flattered as I am by your staring,” the fae purrs and fuck, that voice, “my eyes are up here, pretty one.”

He’s never been very good at responding to flirting in a normal way, mainly because most pick-up lines are terrible puns and he will either be too absorbed in the pun-off or the implications of said pun. And, um, he doesn’t…really get flirted with a lot.

But this?

He’s in way over his head and he knows it’s not just the flirting, it’s not just the teasing smile, it’s not just the low voice, it’s not just the finger that’s just this side of too light under his chin, he knows it’s fae, but he can’t do anything about it. And if he says the wrong thing—

The predator in front of him smells blood and pounces.

“Didn’t they teach you manners,” the snake chides, tapping his nose with the tip of his finger, and he's caught between the audacity of it and how effortlessly he makes him feel tiny, “about how it’s rude to stare? Though I suppose I can’t blame you, not entirely, now can I?”

The snake’s eyes go wide, the smirk growing fiendish as his insides turn to mush. He locks his knees quickly. He won’t collapse. He won’t. Even if that one finger under his chin is the only thing holding him up. Also what the fuck is he supposed to do with his arms?

“My, my,” comes that frustrating purr, “are all mortals this warm?”

The finger slides along his jaw, the touch leaving an electrifying tingle in its wake. He’s frozen, staring at the snake’s mismatched eyes as the gloved hand comes up to stroke a thumb across his flushed cheek, touch burning and soft.

“Or, oh, and now this could be very interesting,” and the snake leans closer, his mouth right up against his ear, “I haven't made you flustered, have I, my dear?”

The ’s’ in ‘flustered’ comes out as a hiss, and fuck that shouldn’t make him turn to jelly but it does. A low chuckle rumbles through the air as the snake pulls back, grinning like the cat that got the—or the snake that—fuck, his brain’s too offline to come up with any metaphors that would work. Simile. Fuck.

The snake’s hand comes up under his chin again, the fabric of his gloves making the drag decadent as he lifts his gaze back to his and he can’t help the whine that comes out of his throat.

The snake’s grin widens.

“Oh, I didn’t enjoy that at all,” he purrs, “let’s see if I can make you do that again.”

No, no—

The snake’s fingers hook and trace three little lines up the underside of his chin and he can’t help it. This time he doesn’t just whine, he tilts his chin back further, much to the snake’s delight.

“Lovely.”

He doesn’t even have to touch him this time. He whimpers.

“Is that all it takes, sweetie? Just one word?” The snake’s thumb runs along the curve of his jaw again. “Aren’t you precious~”

The words sink into him like honey, sweet and sticky, trapping him in his touches, in his voice. The snake hisses contentedly, tilting his chin back and forth. He can’t look away.

“Precious indeed,” he repeats, the hiss becoming more pronounced, “if not a little…flushed.”

He burns warmer, the snake’s smile growing, full of sly mischief and sharp fangs.

“You look distressed, kitten—“ prey— “are you…nervous?”

Goddamnit, he’s not gonna collapse into a puddle. He’s not. Every single ounce of his willpower goes into making sure he stays upright.

I don’t! Know! What to do! With! My hands!

“Oh dear,” the snake purrs again, not sounding at all sorry, “have I rendered you speechless?”

Yes.

“You’re the one that stumbled into my garden, lost little lamb,” the snake hums, “how was I supposed to know you would be so easily disarmed?”

He tilts his head, mismatched eyes shining. “It seems awfully rude to stumble in unannounced and then not explain the reason for the intrusion, does it not?”

The smoky haze the snake’s words had cast on his mind tightens, the quiet whispering lure of the garden sharpening into a call. The snake’s touch is still light but his voice has an unmistakable edge to it. The snake’s fingers are a blade perched delicately against his neck. He doesn’t know how to keep it from cutting his throat.

The snake chuckles. “You’re too easy, my little mouse. I’m only teasing.”

That doesn’t make it any easier!

“Are you too tongue-tied to speak, darling?” The snake smiles, the human side of his face softening just the smallest bit. he might be imagining it. He’s probably imagining it. “That’s alright, I have…other ways of figuring out what you want.”

Wait, what? No, no thank you. Don’t like that. Huh-uh. Nope.

“Just…look here,” the snake murmurs, cupping his chin properly for the first time, the amount of contact making his head spin.

He’s still trying desperately to keep his legs from collapsing and he knows if he even tries to move he will fall into a puddle at the snake’s feet. But that leaves him frozen, helpless in the snake's gaze.

“That’s it…just look right at me.” The snake’s eyes gleam as he gestures to his face. “Yes…enjoy, sweetie.”

Stop it, he wants to plead, let me go. he can’t.

“Now, then, let’s see what brought you here…”

He gasps. The snake’s words reach into his head and pull forward memories, emotions, angry words called out in fits of rage. Fear. Angry clattering of swords and torches swung so close the tips of his hair is singed. Knives, daggers, blood—lifting something from the inside of a chest and carrying it over to—

He gasps. Years of neglect, abuse, being scorned and turned aside, cursed for the scars littering his body, mocked and shamed for them. Years of whispers behind his back, forced smiles, fake faces. Years of always having to look over his shoulder, think twelve steps ahead, always have a backup plan.

He gasps. Tendrils curling into his jaw, wiring it shut, pressing his tongue to the roof of his mouth. Tendrils winding around his arms, his legs, his fingers. Holding a knife. Rewriting his memory.

He sees himself. His true self. Standing with a pair of battered gauntlets encasing his wrists, his hands covered in blood. More blood splattered across his face, across the three long scratches that threaten to take out his eye. More scars twisting across his stomach, black pooling out from where they refuse to close. A blue glow, sickeningly artificial, emerging from his mouth, from his eyes, winding around him, tying him up. It hurts.

He blinks.

His eyes sting, he’s crying, when did he start crying? Is he crying? He blinks again, watching the snake’s face swim back into view. The shameless flirty smirk is gone, replaced with a softer look. Another moment and something covers his eyes. He can’t help the frightened keen when his world is thrown into darkness. Is the snake gonna take him somewhere? Kill him? Something worse than death? What’s happening?

“Shh,” the snake murmurs, no longer dripping with allure, “hush now, darling.”

He shuts his eyes reflexively, the sudden loss of his vision sending him stumbling. Can he grab? Yes? No?

A hand catches his arm. Another his other arm. Another pressed to the space between the shoulder blades. Another curled possessively around his hips. The hand over his eyes stays firmly in place, gentling a little as the other hands press him against the snake, holding him up. His legs won’t work properly, pulled as he is at an awkward angle.

“It’s dark because you’re trying too hard,” the snake murmurs, the quote rolling off his tongue, “lightly, child, lightly. Learn to do everything lightly.”

The snake adjusts his grip, pulling him closer.

“Yes, feel lightly even though you’re feeling deeply. Just lightly let things happen and lightly cope with them.” Another hand—that’s right, there’s six—cradles the back of his head. “Lightly, lightly—it’s the best advice ever given me.”

The darkness doesn’t hurt. Doesn’t press. Just lays over his eyes.

“So throw away your baggage and go forward. There are quicksands all about you, sucking at your feet, trying to suck you down into fear and self-pity and despair. That’s why you must walk so lightly.”

The snake leans closer, his lips almost brushing the shell of his ear.

“Lightly, my darling.”

He shudders as the air wafts over him. The word ‘lightly’ has been said so much it doesn’t sound like a word anymore.

“So you can speak,” laughs the snake—shit did he say that out loud?— “and oh, what a wonderful voice you have.”

Really? Back to flirting already?

“Oh, come now,” he chuckles, “is it really so simple? Alright, alright, I won’t fluster you too badly.”

Or you could not fluster me at all we could make that work too.

“But you are right,” comes the voice, still right next to his ear, “about saying a word too often before it stops sounding like a word. You mortals tend to do that with yourselves quite a lot, don’t you?”

The snake must be able to feel his brow furrow. He continues. “You tend to look at something for so long that you start to create flaws out of nothing. You see cracks where there are no cracks, imperfections when you know perfection is a standard you will not reach.”

Is…is the snake trying to…comfort him?

“You do that with yourselves,” the snake murmurs, the hand at the back of his head cupping it gently, “and you must look away.”

Do what now?

“Look away,” the snake repeats, “look away and give yourself time to breathe, sweetie. The words are still words, you just have to give them time to rest. You are not as flawed as you think you are. You simply must look away for a moment. And don’t forget to breathe.”

The hand on the back of his head moves, the others leaning him back a little so it can come around and pat his chest.

“Breathe,” says the snake.

He breathes.

“Good.”

So he…isn’t going to kill him? Has he not violated some guest rite that allows the snake to exact some fae revenge? Are mortals not too small and too petty to warrant this amount of…effort?

The flirting…the flirting he kind of gets. He knows he’s shit at receiving compliments, okay, and he knows the way he responded to that flirting was…entertaining. Probably. Yeah, it definitely was.

That doesn’t explain this.

“I can hear you thinking,” the snake hums, “I can hear your little mind whirring away in there.”

Shit.

“Why don’t you just relax,” he purrs, drawing the word out in a way that has to be deliberate, “and stay right here?”

And do what? I’m still standing here your six arms with your teeth basically at my throat and you seem to really enjoy making me not able to speak or do anything.

He tries. He tries to take another deep breath and let himself relax into the snake’s arms. It’s not easy.

“That’s it, good.” The hand on his chest gives him another little pat. “Well, now I could call you any number of things, my darling, now couldn’t I? But I did say I wouldn’t fluster you too badly.”

He hums for a moment, he can almost feel his gaze through the gloved hand still over his eyes.

“May I have your name?”

Nope. I know that one.

He swallows, his throat dry. his lips are dry too. he licks them quickly and clears his throat. “You may call me V.”

The snake doesn’t seem too bothered by it. In fact, it’s quite the opposite.

“Clever boy. Very well, V, why don’t you just take another breath.”

V breathes.

“Have you caught something new for us?”

V’s breath catches. Fuck.

Another one?

Judging by the approaching footsteps from behind him, yep. He still doesn’t know what the fuck to do with his hands.

“What fun,” the voice from behind him says, getting closer, “though from the looks of it…I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”

“No, of course not,” the snake drawls, “nothing of the sort. It’s not like I purposefully knew you were meant to be keeping watch today and sent you somewhere else.”

They have a schedule? How many of them are there?

“Well, good!”

The snake huffs and the other one chuckles.

“So…” The voice stops just behind him and judging from how high up it is, he’s even taller than the snake. “What have we here?”

Don’t fall over, whatever you do, don’t fall.

“Don’t be greedy,” the second one chides, another pair of hands resting on his shoulders and wow those are warm, “let me see what you’ve caught.”

No, no, please, let me stay here, I can deal with the snake—

No such luck. The snake releases his grip except for the hand over his eyes.

“There we go…”

The warm hands turn V around slowly, one hand walking its fingers playfully over his shoulders as they do, across his collarbones, over the hollow of his neck, to the other shoulder. It’s just light enough to tickle, sending pleasant shivers down his spine.

“We’ve talked about this,” the voice keeps scolding playfully, “keeping things all to yourself…oh. Oh, look at this!”

V knows his face is red, he can feel it. Then those warm fingers flutter up to touch just under his chin and tilt and shit he doesn’t want to do this again.

“Why are you covering his eyes? You’re not usually the type to…avoid attention.”

“It’s not for me.”

“You, doing something that’s not for yourself? Well, now I have to see. Move your hand.”

No, please don’t.

“Keep them closed,” the snake murmurs in his ear before his hand lifts. Even with his eyes closed, the light hurts and he squeezes them tighter.

“Oh, how could you?” Hands cup his cheeks. “It is a crime to cover up this absolutely adorable face. Just look at you, pretty thing.”

Judging by the quiet chuckle from behind him and the delighted silence, they’re amused by his reaction which is definitely not to go even brighter and not to squirm a little against the hold.

“Well, well, well, isn’t today a lucky day?” Two fingers tuck a loose strand of hair behind his ear, the soft touch drawing the blush right up to the tips.

If his eyes weren’t closed already, they sure as hell would be now. Unlike the snake, this fae didn’t seem to be content to restrict the touch to just a finger or the soft brush of a thumb. No, the new hand trails over his face, lingering in spots that make him twitch, where he’s sensitive. his mouth. Just under his bottom lip. The bridge of his nose, right between his eyes. Tracing a lazy path around his jawline, right under his chin. his face burns, each stroke setting his skin alight, until they blur together and he has no idea what’s actually touching him and what’s nothing more than a phantom sensation.

And because his eyes are closed, he still can't see anything. So he has no idea where they're going to touch next and he's in a horrible loop of being startled and making noise and then remembering he really doesn't want to move and getting frustrated with himself for moving and making more noise.

“Oh, I could stand here for ages,” the voice coos, “just coaxing more of those pretty sounds out of you.”

“He has a pretty voice, doesn’t he?”

Not you too!

“I think he likes your voice,” the fae in front of him chuckles.

“I think so too.”

“Which one does he like more?”

No, no, let’s not test and find out, he’s barely staying on his feet as it is, he can feel the snake behind him and sure he could probably grab the fae in front of him too but he’s so close to being a puddle already, please—

“I must say I was surprised to see you being so hands-on with him,” the voice muses, “especially because you know how…fragile little mortals can be, hmm?”

“Mm.”

“Shouldn’t fragile things be treated gently?” The warm hand is back under his chin, cupping it in a firm hold, one of his fingers stroking just the smallest amount.

“What if I were to talk like this? In a nice, sweet, gentle voice? Hmm? Would you like that, cutie pie?”

No, no no no, that voice…despite how tightly V tries to stay, tries to clench every muscle he has in defiance, that sweet, soft voice wriggles its way under his skin and he melts.

“Aww, yeah,” the voice teases, “yeah, you do, hmm? Nice…and gentle…good…”

He can’t help it, he whines. He can’t remember the last time he was praised, and he knows it’s not real, it’s not real, it’s just the fae toying with him, but it works and he hates his traitorous body for responding to it.

“I think you like this~” the voice coos, “I think you like the gentle voice, don’t you? Sweet voice…just like you, little honeybee.”

He…he’s leaning closer, there’s breath fanning over his face, over his neck.

“Can’t you just give in to me,” he coos, “can’t you just give in, little cutie pie?”

V’s lips part. His head tilts. Wait, no—

“That’s right, little honeybee,” and he’s so close, his mouth is so close, so close, “give in…”

“Enough.”

Thank you.

The fae in front of him laughs and drops his hand away. V stifles a sigh of relief, trying frantically to clear his head from whatever the fuck is happening.

“Don’t be jealous,” the voice says, “it doesn’t look good on you.”

“I’m not jealous.”

“Come now, you’re practically green around the gills over there.”

“I haven’t gone yet.”

“You had enough time before I showed up.”

“And you didn’t see it.” The snake shifts. “You got him to whine, that’s all.”

“Oh, I got several more than that, didn’t I?” A finger taps his nose and he squeaks, startled. “See?”

“Oh please.”

“Like you can do better?”

No, no no, stop please, I would like to get off this ride.

A rustle. Then little puffs of air over his ear.

“Darling,” the snake purrs, and fuck, he’s already keening.

The snake chuckles darkly. “That really is all it takes, isn’t it, little mouse? Just…one word?”

He’s too close. He’s too close and that voice like crushed velvet in his ears and he can hear his fucking smirk and oh god—

“Squee for me, little mouse,” he purrs, “squee.”

V squees. God fucking damnit he squees. He covers his face as the snake chuckles in his ear, trying to ignore how much it makes him want to squirm away.

“Thank you, my dear,” he purrs, a soft rustle signifying him standing back up. V doesn’t need to look to see he’s got a smug, satisfied expression on his face.

“Don’t hide,” the voice in front of him laughs, “why don’t you let us see that pretty face?”

He’s gonna faint. He’s gonna fucking keel over right here because he can’t deal with this. He knew he should’ve fucking bolted the second he realized it was a fae garden. He knew he shouldn’t have let them chase him this way. He—

“We didn’t break him, did we?”

“He’s quite flustered, but no, I don’t believe so.”

“Come on, cutie. Let us see.”

“Lower your hands, little mouse, come now…”

He fights down another whine and forces his hands away. The warm hands stipple playfully over his cheeks and fuck, he can’t help relaxing into it, making the voice chuckle again.

“Too much?”

He nods, furiously squeezing his eyes shut.

“You’re the stunnable type, hmm? That’s alright. Someone could have told me.”

“What, me? How could I have possibly known?”

“Don’t act like you weren’t enjoying playing with him.”

“Never.”

“I thought we were taught not to play with our food?”

Right. How the fuck did I forget that these are fae and the snake has literally been calling me ‘little mouse?’ What the fuck are they gonna do to me, can I run? No, no way, you’re not supposed to run from a predator, not like this, now there’s two of them, fuck, fuck—

“Why is he still here,” the voice muses, still tracing his cheeks, “not that I’m complaining about the chance to play with this lovely little thing, but you’re not the type to share your food.”

V’s…he’s kinda wondering the same thing.

The snake doesn’t respond. A gloved hand covers his fist. Something worms its way into his palm and forces his hand open. Gloved fingers lace through his. He presses his hand against a broad chest, hard. Holds it there.

The chest stutters. Tenses. Then sighs, letting all the breath out in a rush.

“Oh…oh, sweetheart…”

The snake lets his hand go and he’s caught up in a powerful hug, enough to take his breath away. After the teasing, the feather-light barely-there touches, this…this—

Warm warm warm warm! Solid alive real warm warm tight help trap? Hug? Hug? Warm warm warm too much too much not enough on fire burning don’t let go oh god please—

“I should’ve known,” the snake murmurs, “that a prince never could resist a damsel in distress.”

“You had all of your arms wrapped around him when I showed up,” the prince shoots back, “don’t act so superior.”

It’s too much. It’s too much and it’s not enough and he needs it to go on forever and he needs it to stop. His breath is coming in great whooping gasps and he doesn’t know what to do.

The prince releases him, shushing him softly when he whines, already bereft of the warmth. “Don’t fret, sweetheart, I won’t hurt you.” He doesn't go far, wrapping him in a slightly looser embrace that still burns.

Something happens. Something happens and it’s too overwhelming for him to figure out what it is at first but then it stays and it keeps happening and is—is he—

The prince chuckles as he pulls away, his thumb stroking over the spot on his forehead. “Never had a fae kiss before, hmm?”

“It’s completely fair that you got to kiss him first,” comes the hiss from behind him, “it’s not like I’m the one that found him.”

“Well maybe you should have done it before I showed up,” the prince says. “May I have your name, cutie pie?”

Still no.

“You may call me V.”

The prince laughs, unbothered. Then more darkness. V jerks back on reflex, startled by the contact. Honestly, every single time one of them touches him—

“You look tired,” the prince says kindly, “rest your eyes for a little. Just keep them closed for me.”

“Wow.”

“Oh, please. I trust your judgment. And if he’s that easily overwhelmed…then yes, let’s have you keep your eyes closed for now, hmm?”

“Are you tormenting mortals without me?”

How many of them are there?

He hears the prince huff and the arm around his back tightens. “Yeesh. Should’ve known you’d would show up.”

“You know better,” the new fae says, “you’re supposed to tell me before you give someone else nightmares.”

“If you would pay attention for two seconds—“

“Oh what, like you can talk.”

“Wow, guys, it’s so cool how you never listen to anything he says.”

“Why are you here?”

“What did you do to the mortal?”

“Oh, shut up—“

“Don’t tell me to shut up!”

“Why the fuck is it bleeding then?”

Oh fuck one of the new voices can double itself up and that is a bad noise and it’s too loud, there’s too many people, he doesn’t know where he is, the prince has left, he can’t hear the snake anymore, he can’t hear anything over the voices, so many voices, too many, they’re shouting now, it’s loud, it’s so loud, it hurts, he just wanted to run away why is he here now he should have run he should have run he just wants to go—

Something’s touching him. Something’s touching him. Something’s prying his hands away from his ears—when did they get there?—with inhuman strength and he wants to go—

It stops. There’s silence.

For a moment’s he’s terrified that he blacked out, or fainted, or something but then he feels smooth hands covering his ears.

“Shh,” says a low voice, lower than the snake’s, calmer, “hush now. You’re alright.”

Is he, though?

“Breathe, little one,” the voice soothes, “I know it’s loud. The others can get a little…rowdy sometimes. Just breathe. Focus on my voice.”

He tries, tries to feel the rest of him. His head aches and he brings his hands up on instinct only to freeze.

“It’s okay,” the voice says, “you can touch. You won’t hurt me and I won’t let you hurt yourself.”

The hands stroke over the crown of his head as he covers them with his own. They’re smooth, slightly cooler to the touch than he expected.

“I heard your pain when it was pushed through the connection,” the voice says softly, “and I can feel it now. The noise doesn’t help, does it?”

He shakes his head, trying to lean as much into the touch as he can. It—it’s so hard right now and he knows this isn’t going to be free, nothing ever is with the fae, but he can’t help it, so much has just happened and he’s helplessly confused and he has no idea what’s happening and he just wants to be safe.

“I understand,” the voice continues, “shh, now you must listen. You are alright. You are here, standing in a garden. I am holding you. You will not be harmed.”

He wants to believe it, he does. And he knows that’s how the fae trap people and he doesn’t want to be hurt anymore, but oh god, he wants to believe it so bad.

“Can you not feel the flowers under you? Can you not smell them? Even with your eyes closed, can you not see the light?”

He can. He can, but…

“It’s okay,” the voice murmurs, “it’s okay.”

The cool touch burns. It still burns, even though these hands aren’t as warm as the prince’s, nor are they as rough as the snake’s gloves. Why does it burn? It—it’s not trying to hurt him, is it?

“I’m just blocking out the extra sensory input,” the voice says, “I’m not hurting you. Though…I must say, you are the first touch-starved mortal I’ve seen in a while.”

T-touch-starved? He’s touch-starved? Is that why everything burns?

“Shh,” the voice soothes, “it’s okay. This isn’t a bad thing. Well, not in context right now. It is true that mortals, especially humans, rely heavily on physical contact. It is crucial to their health and development, particularly in infancy.”

V nods, still clutching at the smooth hands over his ears. Why does this have to be so hard?

The hands hold him firmly, then something touches his forehead. It’s warm and slightly chapped and—

Is…is this one kissing him too?

“It’s okay,” the voice murmurs after he kisses him, resting his own forehead against V’s, “everything is okay.”

For the first time since god he has no idea when, he breathes easy, something finally releasing in his chest. V hangs on to the hands over his ears, letting the low voice wash over him. It’s like something’s reaching into his brain again, like the way the snake did, sorting through everything and tucking it out of the way and it…oh god it feels so clear.

“Do you believe me now,” it asks after a while, “about where you are?”

He swallows, his voice refusing to come out as anything other than a whisper. “I’m trying.”

“Why don’t you open your eyes, then,” the voice suggests kindly, “and see for yourself?”

“The others…”

“Have stopped yelling, if that’s what’s worrying you,” the voice says.

Not what he meant, but that’s good, right?

“Here,” the voice murmurs, moving his hands a little bit away from his ears, “see?”

The ambient sounds of the garden. No yelling.

“Nice and quiet. I would hope,” the voice continues, raising a little, “that they would realize why that would not have been ideal.”

“Be gentle, Specs,” the prince barks.

“I am not hurting him,” the voice assures, “although this next part might.”

And in an instant, V’s head fills again.

Danger danger run run hurt it’s going to hurt they’re going to hurt me, oh god, I knew I should’ve run, no, no, no more please, not anymore, red fire knives sharp things burning.

“Hey, hey, it’s quite alright…” Something touches his forehead—another kiss?—and suddenly he can breathe again. “That was not my intention.”

Specs, he guesses, doesn’t try and move again, letting him move his head around a bit to hear where he is.

“Better?” V nods. “Good. You’re doing very well. May I touch your arms, please?”

The first time one of them has asked before touching him. He nods, warily lifting his arms.

“Are these just from branches,” Specs asks, trailing a finger lightly over the—right, the cuts on his arms, “or did someone do these?”

Nope. Nope. Bad things. So many bad things, no no no no—

He shakes his head. “Just branches.”

“Mm.” The light gets brighter behind his lids and he winces. “It’ll be over in a second, have patience.”

His arms tingle, his skin itching as it gets warm, warmer, warmer, wait…

Is Specs healing him?

“It’s a good thing you didn’t try and take a dagger to the branches,” Specs says, “that could’ve been…bad for you.”

“Better to be hacked at by a few branches than for their poisonous fumes to be unleashed upon you as soon as you slice open their limbs,” the other new voice says, the nightmare voice, right behind him, making him jump, “providing a slow, painful demise…as you choke on your own breath…”

Specs sighs. “Yes, that is accurate. I am almost finished, one moment…there.”

Curious, V runs his fingers over his arms and…yeah. The cuts are all gone. he opens his mouth to say thank-you when—

Wait. Hang on. he’s not supposed to do that.

“…that’s better,” he chooses instead.

“Good.” There’s a moment of silence. “Are your eyes alright?”

“Huh?”

“It’s just…you haven’t opened them. And you, uh, the prince had them covered when we appeared up.”

“They didn’t blind you, did they?”

“No.”

He really doesn’t want to say the wrong thing right now. He turns his head, trying to figure out where the others are.

“They’re just talking,” Specs says, “they won’t shout.”

“What happened to you,” the other one—how fucking many of them are there, he’s gonna fucking faint at this rate—asks, “there was such exquisite pain in you when Snakey pushed it across…and you’re so tense…you need to loosen up.”

No. No more flirting. Please, no more.

It’s not flirting, not really, but it makes his brain freeze all the same.

There are hands, warm hands, as warm as the prince’s, under his shirt, on his back, stroking his bare skin and it’s warm, it’s warm, it’s so so so warm and it feels so good but it burns but it’s too much he can’t think, he can’t hear, he can’t breathe—

“V?”

There’s a hand on his face.

“V.”

The hand leaves his face. He whimpers.

“Stop it, Duke, he can’t think with you doing that.”

“But—!”

“Just for a second.”

The hands are gone. His brain wakes up and he can’t help the soft desperate sound he makes. Wow, maybe he really is touch-starved. Specs shushes him.

“I know, I know, V,” he soothes, “I just need to talk to you for a second. Can you do that for me?”

These have gotta be the fucking weirdest fae I’ve ever heard of.

He nods.

“Good. Can you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“Can you tell me what happened?”

“What?”

“How did you find this place,” Specs asks, his voice still tender and soft,“how did you get here?”

“I was…” he swallows. “I was…running. They were chasing me.”

“Why were they chasing you?”

“Did they hurt you?” the duke growls behind him and he cringes.

He’s heard tales of fae anger before, and he expected it when he stumbled into the garden. He expected the fiery temper of an outraged fae. He expected stone-cold mutterings. He expected pretty words and sweetly soured threats as he was cursed for all eternity.

This rage, this dark, hateful fury makes all of those sound like a child’s tantrum.

“Wow,” he distantly hears the prince laugh, “that didn’t take long.”

“W-what’s happening?”

“I believe the Duke has gone, as you mortals call it, feral,” Specs says, pulling him forward gently by his elbows, “only happens when he gets into a state of extreme protectiveness. It would be advisable for you to keep your eyes closed, otherwise it is likely looking at him in his current state would blind you/”

Feral. Blind. Protective.

I’m so confused right now I’m not even sure what parts I’m supposed to be confused about and that’s confusing me.

How…how did this happen? Why is this happening? he just—he was just trying to escape. And then he stumbled into a fae garden and now—

Now there’s at least…fuck, what is that now, one, two, three…at least four different fae here, two of them have kissed him, and one of them just went feral because of…why, exactly?

Fuck, what kind of shit is he going to owe them after this?

The fae doesn’t do anything for free. Ever. Nothing comes without a demand for payment and they’ve…god, all of them have comforted him in some regard, he’s pretty sure kisses count for something, and one of them just healed him.

Out of the frying pan, into the fire.

Voices. They’re talking. They seem to be trying to calm down the duke. Specs…that’s right, Specs has got hold of him.

He’s…he’s warm too. They’re all warm. Is…is that because they’re fae or…because he’s touch-starved?

Wow, you know, the more he says it, the more sense it makes.

Something wraps around his waist and yanks him backward, away from Specs. His back collides with something solid and he can’t help the frightened squeak. The grip shifts.

Oh. It’s a pair of arms. Is…is it the duke?

“That,” he hears Specs murmur in front of him, “was adorable.”

“Told you.”

The chest behind him rumbles and he can hear something wet, like…like slime or something coming from behind him. He thrums with energy, almost making his teeth chatter. The duke clings to him like he’s going to disappear, or like a child would cling to a stuffed animal if a parent threatened to take it away. Trying frantically to calm his breathing, he keeps his eyes shut tight and tries to pat the iron grip around his waist…reassure it, if he can, ground them both. The arms relax, just the smallest bit, the hands—warm warm warm warm so warm—starting to move. It’s like they’re trying to map out his body as they pull him against him, comforting themselves by saying ‘it’s still here, right here’ through touch.

His tunic got rucked up when he was pulled back and the hands are so warm. One of them slips underneath and lands on his stomach and he tenses reflexively. The duke rubs softly. Warm. It’s warm. It’s so warm. The duke rumbles contentedly when he relaxes into his hold.

“Yeah, I don’t think he’s gonna let go of him now.”

“It is highly unlikely.”

“And you said it would be difficult.”

“Ensuring the duke does not kill a mortal and keeping one are two different things.”

Hold on wait what now.

“Oh come on, you know the hardest one to convince is him.”

“That’s such a flattering description.”

“Like it’s not true!”

Ugh, noise.

Wait. What’s that?

He jerks his head around only to wince when more light—honestly, he’s so not convinced they’re not actually trying to blind him, he hasn’t been able to open his eyes since the snake covered them—shines right at him.

“There you all are! I’m surprised you didn’t call me sooner!”

“How many of you are there?” he mutters finally, only for the duke to chuckle.

“About time you got here,” the prince grumbles somewhere to his right, “I’m surprised you didn’t show up with Worry and Wart.”

“Speaking of which,” the newest voice says and he can practically see the disapproving expression, “what have we said about trying to claim mortals?”

The duke tightens his grip on him and growls. “Mine.”

“Now, kiddo, you know better than that.”

Okay, Dad has entered the chat.

The duke grumbles but lets him go. The sudden disappearance of the thing he’d been leaning against makes him stagger. Rude.

“Easy there, kiddo,” the new voice says, catching him, “don’t want you to fall and hurt yourself. What’s happened to your eyes?”

“Nothing.”

“Well, then, why don’t you open them, kiddo?”

Because three of you specifically told me not to.

“It’s alright,” Specs says from��somewhere, “you will not be blinded if you look now.”

“He gets a little…overexcited now and then,” the new voice says, “but it’s okay, kiddo. Come on, open up.”

He’s still a little worried about the prince and the snake but not enough to outweigh the worry about what actively refusing could cause. Plus, this one kind of seems like a leader, so…

He opens his eyes and immediately shuts them again, wincing and looking down.

“Oh, are you hurt? Did something go wrong?”

“It’s bright,” he defends, and honestly, it was bright to begin with. Now that he’s had his eyes closed for god knows how long, it’s unbearable.

“I can fix that.”

Well, the prince must do something because it dims. It gets to the point where he doesn’t have to screw up his eyes anymore and he blinks.

The garden still glows, but it’s nowhere near as noticeable. he registers the flowers first, still bright and perky. his gaze travels up a pastel blue cloak to a pair of black glasses. Oh.

He looks…ordinary. Kind of. He looks just like a human except there’s something just off-center. It’s like…a human but slightly to the left. Yeah? We get it. It’s like the human half of the snake’s face.

Actually…do they all have the same face?

He looks around. Specs, he’s guessing, is the one in the dark blue suit, also wearing glasses. The prince has to be the one in the bright white, the crimson sash across his chest and the pieces of gold gleaming. Next to him stands the snake. He also waves.

Behind him must be the duke, then. He, well, he really kind of looks like the prince. Except he’s in black and green. And has a mustache. And like…four tentacles. Okay. Sure. At this point, why the heck not.

Also, they’re all…really pretty. Like…really pretty.

So pretty that just the thought of those flirty comments said by those faces are enough to make him blush to the tips of his ears.

Why are they all so pretty? This isn’t fair.

His attention is drawn back when the one holding him beams. “There you go! I knew you could do it. Can I have your name, kiddo?”

Third time ain’t gonna be the charm.

“You may call me V.”

He throws back his head and laughs. “Alright, alright, that’s fair. Then you may call me Pat.”

…sure.

“Have you met everyone else?”

We’re putting ‘met’ in big scare quotes, right.

He shakes his head hesitantly. Pat pouts, looking around.

“You didn’t introduce yourselves?”

“L,” says Specs.

The prince and the duke glance at each other. “Yeah, that’s not really gonna work for us.”

“What? No, it can!”

“You may call me the Prince.”

“Ugh. Fine. I’m the Duke.”

Nailed it.

Pat looks expectantly at the snake. The snake just smiles.

“He likes being secretive,” Pat stage-whispers, “don’t take it personally.”

“Eh,” the prince says, “he’ll come around.”

“Oh no,” Pat says quickly, “not you too.”

“As a matter of fact,” L says, “I’m afraid it’s just you that has not…joined in.”

Pat looks around to see the duke nodding fiercely. “Now, kiddos, you know the rules. We can’t just take every mortal we find, we have to help them find their way back home. Especially if they’ve done nothing wrong!”

So…so I haven’t done anything wrong? Does that mean I don’t owe them anything? Does that mean I…I can leave?

But where would I go?

He doesn’t want to go back. He doesn’t want to have to run again, away from the swords and the arrows and the hurt, away from all the people that would love nothing more than to put his head on a spike or watch him get pecked apart by birds. They…they hate him, hate everything that he is.

And for as much as they’ve all been, the fae, they’ve…

None of them has hurt him.

It’s been so long since someone touched him without the intent to hurt.

Hell, one of them did go feral at the thought of someone else trying to hurt him.

Would…would it be so bad to stay here?

“Oh, come on, you’re the heart! You felt that,” the duke exclaims, “you know we can’t just—”

“It’s not our job to interfere!”

“On the contrary. We have indeed ‘interfered,’ as you put it on multiple occasions of a similar kind.” L gestures to him. “This one should be treated similarly.”

“Ha, see?” The prince smacks L’s shoulder. “Even L agrees.”

“That doesn’t happen very often,” L mutters.

“I, for one, think it’s a splendid idea!”

“See, Duke does too! And you know how rare it is that we agree on something!”

“The rules are there for a reason, kiddos,” Pat scolds, “and why are they there?”

The prince groans. “‘To preserve the balance between their realm and ours and to make sure the two don’t collide,’” he repeats reluctantly.

“Exactly!” Pat looks back at him, resting his hands on his shoulders. “This has been a lot for you, hasn’t it, kiddo?”

Boy howdy, that’s one hell of an understatement.

He nods. Pat smiles patiently.

“You’ve been through so much, haven’t you,” he murmurs, taking a strand of his hair and twisting it around his finger, “brave little kiddo…it still hurts, doesn’t it?”

“…yes.”

“You know what mortals are like, Pat,” the prince mutters, “they’re bad enough with their own kind, and they aren’t evolved enough to know how to deal with difference. You know how wrong that can go.”

“Do you have someplace to go, kiddo?”

Does he?

Would anywhere ever be far enough away?

Would he even get there?

The prince sees his hesitation and seizes it. “No, he doesn’t, does he? Why can’t we just keep him? Don’t act like you don’t want to!”

“We are not keeping him!”

They’re…they’re fighting. Over him. Over…over whether or not they can keep him. Not whether they want to but…whether they can.

Oh. Oh, wow.

The prince opens his mouth to respond but—

Footsteps. He can hear them. Through the trees. He jerks his head around in the direction of the sound. His eyes go wide. No. No, no. Did they find him? How did they find him?

“Are you sure that little bitch went this way?”

“I can’t see a damn thing!”

“Why the fuck didn’t you lock the restraints properly, then this wouldn’t’ve happened!”

“It’s not like he needs his arms to run!”

“Then why didn’t you just cut off his leg and call it a day?”

“Ah! Damn branches, what the hell—“

“Where the fuck did he get off to?”

“Told you that monster wasn’t human!”

“He cursed us, I bet you. He’s probably laughing at us right now.”

“With any luck, some animal found him and did the job for us.”

“Hey, what’s that?”

“What?”

“Over there, see the light?”

No, no, no, no, no no no not again—

He turns and tries to run but runs into Pat, who grabs him tightly. He whimpers, tries to pull away but Pat holds him fast. He looks up at Pat’s face to plead, to—

—oh.

Pat’s gaze is fixed over his shoulder, his face unreadable. He doesn’t move as the mob gets closer and closer.

“Hey, hey, stop!”

“The fuck are you on about?”

“Don’t you know a fuckin’ fae garden when you see one? I ain’t going in there!”

“Think he ran through here?”

“Fae probably caught him. Wonder what the hell those bastards did to him.”

Pat quirks an eyebrow.

“Tore him apart, at least I fuckin’ hope so.”

“Let’s go back. I ain’t running through there and if we’re lucky the fae got rid of him.”

“Maybe we should thank them.”

Loud guffaws trail off into the distance. he breathes a sigh of relief. They’re gone. They’re gone, they’re gone.

Pat still hasn’t let him go. He looks up anxiously at Pat’s face to see him clench his jaw. he has to fight the urge to shrink under Pat’s gaze when he looks down.

"Did they hurt you?"

His words are frozen in his throat. The garden is silent.

"Just nod or shake your head, did they hurt you?"

When Pat sees him nod, sees how scared he is, something softens. One hand comes up to twist the strand of his hair again.

“Change of plans,” he says quietly, “may we keep you, kiddo?”

…h-he can stay? They…they want him?

The prince whoops as he nods, the duke rushing forward to hug him enthusiastically from behind. Pat giggles, reaching forward to crush both him and the duke in a hug.

“Nobody’s gonna touch you again, kiddo,” he murmurs, pressing a—wow, is this, like, a thing? ‘Cause he just kissed his forehead too. Then he frowns and runs a thumb over the spot he kissed.

“Seems I’m the last one, hmm?” At his confused look, Pat smiles, holding his hand out. A pastel blue glow appears in his hand.

“We all have different colors,” he explains, “as you can…probably guess from looking at us.”

V nods, still confused as to where this is going.

“When one of us makes a claim, it leaves a trace in that color. And you, kiddo,” he says, tapping his nose, “are a rainbow.”

A…a claim?

“Even though we didn’t discuss it beforehand…”

“Pish posh,” the prince says, “he’s staying now. Which means—oh! Oh, we have to get ready!”

“Oh shit.”

“How did we miss that?”

“We gotta go!”

The duke lets him go with one more squeeze and a smacking kiss on the forehead—okay this must be a thing—grabbing the prince by the arm as they rush toward the other end of the garden. L follows a little more sedately. Pat squeezes his shoulders.

“Give us a few minutes, kiddo, then step through the portal.”

He blinks, still a little taken aback by the sudden whirlwind of energy that just swept through the garden. Pat seems to notice and softens.

“This is a lot, I’m sure,” he says quietly, “and it’s okay if you need to take your time, kiddo. But you’re under our protection now. You can come when you’re ready, okay?”

He nods dumbly. Pat smiles and draws away. As he nears the others, there’s a bright flash of light. So bright he throws his arms up to shield his face. Then it’s gone. When he looks, there’s just a shimmering doorway.

“They’re so dramatic, aren’t they?”

He turns.

Right, the snake didn’t go with them. He comes closer, holding out one hand.

“Oh, come now,” he laughs when V hesitates, “we have just established we’re keeping you. There’s nothing for you to worry about if you take my hand.”

He’s got a point, but V would be lying if he said the snake still didn’t make him incredibly nervous. Part of it’s just common sense, part of it is the fact that, out of all of them, he still has absolutely no idea what he wants.

Part of it is the fact that he looks like that and sounds like that and seems to really enjoy flustering the hell out of him.

“There we go,” the snake murmurs when he says to hell with it and takes his hand, using it to pull him close, “would you believe me if I said I didn’t intend for this to happen?”

“'Believe me if I said.’ Hmmm. Yeah no.”

The snake laughs. Like, properly laughs. Throws his head back and has to put a hand to his torso and everything. Oh, oh wow. Of course, it makes him even more attractive. Bastard.

When he stops, he waves his hand. “Alright, let me rephrase: having the rest of them immediately agree to keep you was not at the forefront of my mind when you first fell into the garden.”

“Wh-why did that happen?”

The shake in his voice seems to sober him. The snake laces their fingers together and presses his palm against his chest, as he did with the prince’s. “We are all connected,” he says softly, “at a base level. We can communicate through it if necessary, almost like the telepathy mortals believe in.”

“So…”

“When I held your hand against the prince, I pushed.” He pushes his hand a little firmer against his chest, close enough for him to feel the powerful heartbeat beneath. “When the rest of them felt your pain…well. I wasn’t lying when I said they never could resist a damsel in distress.

“I do wish you hadn’t kept that sharp tongue to yourself for so long,” he muses, “it almost makes me wish I hadn’t flustered you so badly to begin with.”

A touch of gloved fingers under his chin and oh god, not this again. “Well,” the snake purrs, his eyes gleaming, “almost.”

V’s able to look at him for all of three seconds before he has to look away, blushing panic mounting.

“Is it truly so easy, little mouse?” the snake laughs, “must I simply look at you in a certain way and you’ll fluster?”

“Enough,” he mutters, squeezing his eyes shut.

“You can open your eyes now, darling,” the snake says, still chuckling slightly, “you needn’t worry.”

“Eye contact is the actual worst and you will not convince me otherwise,” he mutters.

He gives him a gentle smile and taps the underside of his chin. “Then I suppose me asking you to keep them closed was a good thing, hmm?”

There…there’s something else bothering him. V opens his mouth to ask but…it’s kind of an invasive question. And he really doesn’t want to piss him off. Especially not now.

“It’s going to be an awfully tiring existence if you can’t work up the courage to ask anything, little mouse,” comes the gentle encouragement.

“Wh…why did the prince say you were the hardest to convince?”

“Did you happen to catch when the duke called Pat the ‘heart?’” When he nods, he smiles. “Clever boy. It’s an apt description. Each one of us has a…different function. I am the Gatekeeper.”

Gatekeeper.

“It is my job to ensure the barrier between our two races is held,” the snake continues, “to be cautious…about any sort of interaction. As you might have been able to guess, the others are…much more receptive to humans than perhaps they should be. The rules are in place for a reason, and I am the one who helped put them there. This is not the first time they have tried to keep a mortal. And the prince is right, I am the hardest to convince. I have never let them keep a mortal before, not like this, despite whatever claims the others may have made, despite how they try and use those claims to influence me.”

The snake pulls him closer still, the hand holding his stroking it gently. “But I found you first. And my claim is the strongest.”

Oh.

“…you wanted to keep me,” he breathes.

The snake softens for perhaps the first time since he laid his hand over his eyes.

“Why do you look so scared?”

Really? Are you absolutely fucking serious?

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he murmurs, still cupping his hand against his chest, “none of us are.”

“Yes, and I’m sure that one sentence is supposed to counteract the rest of the incredibly overwhelming things I’ve had to deal with today. How incredibly irrational of me to believe otherwise.”

“There’s that wonderfully sharp tongue again.” He tilts his head. “Perhaps that was the wrong word…you look unsure.”

V huffs. “Because there’s nothing about this to be unsure of.”

V knows tearing himself away from him probably comes off as rude. V knows turning his back is probably a bad idea. V knows burying his hands in his hair is going to hurt.

V does it anyway.

“V—“

“Why do you want to keep me,” he blurts out before the snake can finish. Ge whirls around to see the snake freeze, reaching for him. “Why?”

The snake frowns. “Does it matter?”

“Of course it fucking matters, I don’t know what you want and I can’t—if I don’t know what you want then I can’t do anything and nothing the fae ever does is for free and I don’t know what you want and I—I don’t know how this happened and I just wanted to run away—“

Oh god, oh god, he’s yelling, fuck fuck fuck he fucked up—

Why is he on the ground? When did that happen?

Right. Huddle. Small. Hedgehog. Scary things. Be as small as you can because scary things, why are scary things?

Fae. Right, he’s yelling at a fae.

Oh, fuck he’s yelling at a fae.

Small. Just be small. Hide. Just hide and be small.

It’s cold. It’s so cold.

Then it isn’t.

“Shh…shh…there, there, don’t be so afraid, I’m not here to be cruel to you, shh…shh…”

“W-wha—“

“Shh…breathe first,” the snake murmurs, his hand hovering over his shoulder, “I’m not going to touch you until you can breathe properly. Nice and slow, come now…”

The dark clouds keep rolling, thicker and thicker, building and building until they crash so loudly in his ears. V presses his fists to his ears, hearing voices doubling, tripling, yelling, screaming, they hate you they hate you you’re pathetic you’re cursed they hate you—

“I’m right here, I won’t let anything hurt you…”

Lighthing flashes and the voices howl. V whimpers, curling in on himself.

“You’re overwhelmed, little mouse, I know…just breathe and then we can figure everything out…”

Something…something’s covering him. There’s something covering him. He opens his mouth to ask wha—

“Shh-shh-shh, don’t try to speak just yet, you’re still shaking.”

The snake…the snake is covering him. The clouds lighten and he…he can breathe again.

It’s…it’s raining? Is that why his face feels wet?

“…oh, oh you’re crying, my darling…shh…is it too much?”

It hurts. He’s so cold. He’s so cold, the snake is so warm.

“As I’m sure L would tell you, crying is the mortal response to any situation that’s overwhelming. It’s just you trying to cope with everything, let it out, sweetie, it’s okay…”

V’s brain comes back online as the snake reaches out to tenderly wipe his cheeks, catching his tears as they fall. He’s looking at his hand, brow furrowed, leaving V to stare helplessly at his face. It’s so much easier without eye contact, so much easier.

The snake holds him firmly, crouched as they are on the ground. It…it feels…safe?

He catches V’s gaze and tilts his head. He…he can’t look away but he’s not…the snake’s not doing whatever it was he was doing before. He just looks…soft.

“What is it, darling?”

“What,” he croaks, “do you want?”

“You are small,” he says, “broken, hated…lost, abandoned, persecuted.”

He wipes away another tear.

“And you are kind. Hopelessly and relentlessly kind.” He lightly pats his chest. “When I looked to see what you wanted, when you stumbled into the garden, I saw pain. I saw heartbreak. And you…you didn’t want vengeance, no, you just wanted it to stop.”

He shifts his weight, still holding him firm.

“You are lost in darkness and you are so afraid, my darling…so afraid,” he whispers, “you want to be safe, don’t you?”

he nods.

“Is it so hard to believe that I want you safe? So hard to believe—” he catches another tear on his thumb— “that you are wanted?”

“What use is a broken mortal?”

“Why must a wanted thing have a use?”

“What fae makes a useless trade?”

“What mortal doesn’t accept a free gift?”

“What fae gives something for free?”

“What hurt caused this suspicion?”

V’s mouth clamps shut. The snake stares at him, unblinking, unyielding.

“If I weren’t fae,” he says finally, “would you still be this afraid?”

“…yes.”

The snake inhales sharply. his eyes widen when he sees a rising tide of terrible fury, there for just a second, just a second, before the snake breathes out and it disappears.

And that, that split-second of rage, is enough. Enough to reach deep into the anxious mess of his brain and start to say maybe, just maybe, he might actually be safe. If…if the wrath of the fae is between him and the rest of the world, then…then maybe he’s safe.

“Perhaps the Duke had the right idea,” the snake murmurs.

“Going feral?”

“Mm.” He cups V’s face in his hands, pushing his fury away and replacing it with that same soft patience from before. “What is it that is making you so afraid?”

“I…I don’t know you. I’ve never interacted with any of…your kind before, ever. You—when I first showed up, you—“ he swallows— “you seemed to really enjoy making me as uncomfortable as you could. Then there were so many of you and I was freaking out one moment and being calmed the next and now you’re doing something for me and I’ve given you nothing and you’re—“

Nope. Nope, nope, nope, not saying that out loud.

“I’m…what?”

V shakes his head, pressing his lips together firmly. Fuck, his face is burning again.

“Come on,” the snake coaxes, letting him break his grip and look away, “what were you going to say?”

“…pretty.”

The snake tilts his chin back up, not saying anything about his eyes being shut again. “A little louder?”

“Pretty.”

He braces for the teasing, the flirting, but it doesn’t come.

“Look at me, V.”

“Is that strictly necessary?”

The snake chuckles. “I must insist.” He smiles kindly when he looks at him. “There…I did say I wouldn’t fluster you too badly.”

“You said that before you and the prince did…that thing.”

“Ah, yes, I did, didn’t I?” The snake cups his chin carefully. “I admit, when you came in I wanted to play with you. Toy with you until you told me what you wanted and then…well, send you on your way. But then…then I cast upon you and I couldn’t.

“I made that claim, this claim, because the garden responded to you. Most mortals can’t stay in the garden for long without being sucked under completely or driven insane. You melded with the magic in the air and it bound itself to you. And when I looked, I saw it. It’s one of the reasons I pushed you into the prince, into the others. They felt it too, I’m sure of it.”

The snake lifts his hand, faint golden sparks floating around his glove.

“Unlike the others, as Gatekeeper, I am tied most directly to the garden. That’s why I’m the hardest to convince. The garden wants you, V. I want you.”

He leans closer. “Don’t you see?”

V sees. He brings his hand closer and he starts to glow. As Pat said, he’s got little bits of color shining off of him. Red, deep blue, and light blue glow from his head, fading into a rich green the lower he looks. And the whole thing is bathed in a rich, deep gold.

“And for the record?” The snake leans forward, kissing his cheek, burning soft. “You’re pretty too.”

Shit.

“Oh, come on,” the snake laughs, “I wasn’t even trying that time.”

“I’m just really bad at receiving compliments, okay?”

“You are adorable.”

“Hey!”

“You are, sweetie, it’s nothing to be embarrassed about, just accept it.” He chucks him lightly under the chin. “I imagine not many people have complimented you, have they?”

“No.”

“Well, I would prepare yourself. The others certainly will, as you may have guessed.”

Right, he’s staying here. With them. They’re…they’re going to look after him. They’re going to keep him.

He’s safe.

He looks up to see the snake looking fondly at him.

“If I compliment your smile, will that make you stop?”

“Probably.”

“Then I won’t.”

He swallows. This is a bad idea. This is such a bad idea. “…thank you.”

“Oh, I’ll compliment you on other things.”

“No…thank you.”

His grin widens. “You’re welcome, V.”

Well, I’ve broken the glass, I might as well push the button.

He licks his lips. “Virgil.”

The snake tilts his head, his brow furrowed. “What?”

Staring at him, determined to keep eye contact, he steels himself. “Virgil.”

The snake looks confused a moment longer before realization dawns and a smirk crawls over his face. But it’s not the shameless flirty one, nor is it dangerous and full of fury. It’s…it’s the smirk you’d make if you were a little unsure about what was happening.

“Careful, darling,” he murmurs, “don’t you know how dangerous it is to give your name to a fae?”

“You’re already keeping me,” he says, “aren’t you?”

The smirk turns into a warm smile. “Yes. Yes, we are, Virgil.”

Oh, oh yep. Yep, that was definitely a bad idea because him saying his name in that voice…

Judging by the change in his eyes, he’s realized it too.

“And here you are,” he purrs, adjusting his grip, “all wrapped up in my arms.”

He whines. “What happened to not flustering me too badly?”

“I can’t help it, Virgil, you’re simply too easy, my darling,” the snake chuckles, “but I’ll stop. Just for now. Wouldn’t do to have you getting too overwhelmed, now, would it?”

“After all,” he says, gentling his tone and pulling him into a proper cuddle, “we’ve got all of eternity, don’t we?”

He’s warm. He’s so warm. There are hands on his head, around his back, around his waist, he smells of spice and pine. There’s a mouth next to his ear.

“J.”

“Hmm?”

He tilts his head up to look at him. “J.”

Oh.

“…thank you, J.”

“You’re welcome, Virgil.”

643 notes · View notes

silverflame2724 · 3 years

Note

Guardian angel idea: When WWX died his spirit still worried for the last Wen: his dear A-Yuan. Even in death, WWX protects him, becoming a (sort of) guardian angel. His spiritual consciousness is fractured and weak, all he knows and can see is the soul of the boy he has surrounded in his protective aura. Every night WWX holds his beloved son in his dreams, hums away nightmares, reminds him that he's loved even tho he'll never remember. Every day, he defects harm away. “He’s blessed!” they say, “he is clearly Hanguang-jun’s son.” (Yes, in a way, for only they hold WWX’s undying love)

LWJ mourns in private. He never allows A-Yuan to see him play for his lost love. He always makes sure that his son is far away before he wallows in his grief, and so could never reach WWX, because Sizhui carried his soul.

Mo's ritual only succeeded because Sizhui was *there*, close enough to call WWX away from his task.

Wei Wuxian felt numb as his body was torn and eaten to shreds. What was he even living for? The Wens were dead. Shijie was dead. Jiang Cheng hated him. Lan Zhan--

He was tired. So, so tired. He just wanted to leave, to go, he wanted to rest--

“X-Xian-gege......Granny.......” A small voice sniffed. “Where....are you? Yuan was good. Yuan waited in the tree. Where are you?”

A’ Yuan?! Wei Wuxian started forward and realized how transparent he was. Oh. I’m......dead. A’ Yuan began crying again, clutching Wei Wuxian’s red hair ribbon - Where did he even find that??? - and Wei Wuxian paid no mind to his new form.

That’s right. Everyone I cared for is dead or hates me. But A’ Yuan......I have to protect A’ Yuan! The sects didn’t care if they killed civilians. If they found out that A’ Yuan was a Wen, they’d--! Wei Wuxian couldn’t let that happen. Not his little radish. Frantic to protect his baby, he decided to attempt a sort of pseudo possession on his hair ribbon. In this way, while he was attached to his ribbon, he could protect still separate from it and protect his baby. After all, the ribbon might get lost. He had to attach himself to objects close to A’ Yuan so that he could always protect him.

But Wei Wuxian was worried. There wasn’t any food or water and Wei Wuxian’s abilities as a ghost were limited considering how recently it was when he died. He could, however, use demonic cultivation to get some corpses to grab some food for A’ Yuan. He had to be discrete though. Those annoying sects were calling him in an effort to purge him and he didn’t want to give any sign that he was around.

Luckily, a few days later, a bloodied Lan Zhan arrived and took A’ Yuan away. Wei Wuxian tucked himself back into the ribbon, relieved. Lan Zhan would take care of A’ Yuan. But why was Lan Zhan injured?? With injuries like those, Lan Zhan must have gotten them from before the Siege. But what happened??

Wei Wuxian had to think on it later. What mattered most was A’ Yuan. Everything after that could wait.

.....................................

A’ Yuan got a fever on the way back to Cloud Recesses. Lan Zhan was obviously worried, speeding up Bichen despite his obvious injuries. Wei Wuxian made sure their journey was unimpeded by any danger. They crash-landed by the foot of the entrance to Cloud Recesses. Wei Wuxian was frantically hovering over both of them - not that anyone could see him - and was grateful for Lan Xichen arriving and taking both A’ Yuan and Lan Zhan to the infirmary.

A’ Yuan lost all his memories to the fever but Wei Wuxian was content with that. Better for A’ Yuan to start on a new slate.

When Lan Zhan awoke, he was clutching the ribbon Wei Wuxian was possessing so Wei Wuxian had to hop off of it. Before he left, he looked over the wounds. They looked oddly like discipline whips, but what would Lan Zhan have done to earn them? Maybe he got injured on a night hunt.

Wei Wuxian slipped away and to A’ Yuan, possessing the hair ribbon the boy was wearing. With the assurance that A’ Yuan was no longer suffering from a fever, he could feel his soul starting to weaken. He had held himself together for too long and expended too much energy in making sure no yin creatures got close to his son and Lan Zhan.

With the last of his energy, he completely fused himself with A’ Yuan, hoping that his spiritual consciousness would protect him.

Wei Wuxian has only flashes of awareness from then on - though he grew stronger as the years passed -, usually choosing to use what little energy he had in chasing away A’ Yuan’s faceless nightmares with calming music he would hum, entering his peaceful dreams to remind him that he was loved whenever people bullied him for having no parents.

On night hunts, while he did sit back and allow A’ Yuan to grow, he would definitely not allow the spirits to injure his son. Whenever Lan Zhan was close to A’ Yuan - now Sizhui, Wei Wuxian would also make sure to deflect harm away from him, though Lan Zhan may not necessarily need it.

Every night, Wei Wuxian felt tugs on his soul of people calling for him and he ignores them all, except for the one coming from Lan Zhan. And while he’d love to go see why Lan Zhan is calling him, he doesn’t have enough strength or willingness to separate from Sizhui.

And Wei Wuxian was content in spending the rest of eternity looking after Sizhui. He would stop, of course, if he deemed the world safe enough to leave his son in. But otherwise, he’d stay forever.

..........................

That is, until the tug calling for his soul was too strong, too near for him to resist. He finds himself yanked away from A’ Yuan and stuffed into an injured body, given tasks that he has to complete unless he’d like his soul to be rendered to shreds.

___________________________________

The prompt seems to cut off there, but if you’re wondering what happens next, here’s my notes:

WWX keeps his memories of the in-between and agrees to go to Gusu pretty easily when canon events happen

WWX thanks LWJ for saving A Yuan and LWJ asks how WWX knows and WWX says oh, I was with him this entire time

LWJ is like what, I’ve been trying to reach you for so long why didn’t you answer

And WWX is like what why would I answer, 1) you hate me and 2) yuan isn’t safe I had to protect him

LWJ is like I don’t hate you

WWX is like ???? Then why call me

LWJ: I wanted to know if you were at peace

WWX is like oh, well I couldn’t really be at peace until I knew yuan would be safe in this world I still don’t think he is

Then canon happens and WWX is like well, if this happened in the 13 years I was dead I would have been at peace and left I suppose. LWJ is NOT amused

#wei ying #wei wuxian #lan zhan #lan wangji #lan yuan #lan sizhui #mdzs #guardian angel WWX #sort of

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pandoraborn · 3 years

Note

im so sorry for the vagueness of this, but please. any kind of ghostbur+sbi angst. please.

Characters: Ghostbur, c!Tommy, c!Techno, c!Phil Word count: 1497 words Content: canon divergence, techno’s execution, post exile, Tommy is sick, Techno is injured, gore, blood, whump, angst, hurt/comfort, mention of death, SBI, sleepybois inc,

-------------

He sees the anvil drop.

He sees Techno crumble, falling to his knees before springing back up. Ghostbur can only stare, as if hypnotized by the gory scene before him, because Techno is very much a skeleton, slowly being stitched back together by some unseen force. Logically, he knows it’s the totem of undying working its magic, but emotionally, Ghostbur knows he’s never going to purge this memory from his brain.

He holds Friend closer to himself as he watches Techno jump away and disappear in the following madness. If he had a heart, it’d be pounding rapidly. If he had lungs, he’d be wheezing and gasping in fear. The ability to cry is also nonexistent, leaving the ghost unable to do anything but stare at the empty cage. Ghostbur stares for a long time.

When he looks up at Phil, trying to find some explanation for what happened, he finds that Phil’s house is empty. Phil must’ve snuck out in the chaos, when Tubbo and the rest of the ‘butcher army’ hadn’t been watching.

Now he’s alone. There’s no one else around, no distant voices to help him come back to reality. Reality is watching a long time friend turn into a skeleton and magically stitch himself back together, before running for his life. Reality is his father being put under house arrest simply for protecting Techno.

Reality is Friend bumping into him, startling him out of his swirling thoughts. Ghostbur puts a smile on his face, taking the lead and tugging Friend inside Phil’s house. The sheep will be safe here for the moment, while Ghostbur thinks of someone to turn to. He needs comfort from someone who can actually speak to him.

Tommy comes to mind.

Part of Ghostbur wonders if he should even talk to Tommy, because he hadn’t seem Tommy since before his party. Would Tommy be angry with him for not showing up? Maybe it’s a risk worth taking, because it’s Tommy, and they love each other. A dim memory surfaces; he remembers Phil mentioning the other day that he’d been in contact with Tommy, and Tommy’s now safe from any sort of harm. Ghostbur wonders if that means Tommy’s at the cabin, so he heads in that direction.

It doesn’t take long for Ghostbur to reach the cabin. He hopes the others are already here and in one piece, but Ghostbur can’t get the image of the execution out of his head. If he had the ability to feel sick, he’d probably be vomiting in the snow.

Techno’s clearly home, because Ghostbur can see the trail of blood leading toward the cabin. Carl, his horse, is also just outside, unharmed.

Before Ghostbur can enter, he hears raised voices. He pauses at the door, leaning closer to hear more clearly, but nothing he’s hearing sounds great.

“Techno, hold still, you’re bleeding everywhere! You’ll also wake Tommy.”

“I’m sorry, I had to rip my arm out of an entire bar, right after being executed! I’m not exactly going to remember my manners for the stupid kid beneath us. He can always sleep later!”

“If you don’t shut up and hold still, I will splash you with a weakness pot and smack you over the head so I can heal you properly. Your bones need to set and you need stitches.”

Ghostbur’s heard enough. He barges in, trying to plaster a smile on his face, but it feels off when he sees the wound on Techno’s arm. It’s not just a deep gash, but a giant hole where muscle and skin should be. There are tears in the pig’s eyes, there’s an expression of anger in Phil’s eyes that render him almost inhuman. If Ghostbur were to actually let himself think about it, he’d admit he was terrified of them both right now.

“Ghostbur,” Phil says curtly. “Go downstairs and check on Tommy.”

“Your arm-”

“I’ll explain it to you later Ghostbur,” Techno grumbles. “Do what Phil says and don’t ask questions.”

“I was there! I saw what happened! Phil, I left Friend in your house.”

“Ghostbur, go downstairs and sit with Tommy. He needs someone more than Techno does.” Phil’s voice has an air of finality to it; Ghostbur doesn’t want to argue with him. Shoulders slumping in disappointment, he disappears down the ladder to check on Tommy.

Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen the boy since before his beach party. Would Tommy be mad at him for not showing up? Why is Tommy even here, isn’t he supposed to be on holiday? Everything is far too confusing anymore, but even those thoughts are pushed out of his mind when he sees the teen sitting in a bed.

Tommy is far too thin and sickly looking. His skin is too pale, almost colorless, with dirty, greasy hair falling into sunken eyes. Each breath he takes is a painful wheeze, his fingers tremble too much to grip the bowl of food he’s trying to eat.

Tommy’s gaze flicks up briefly when he sees Ghostbur, glancing back down a second later. “Hello.” Even the boy’s voice is rough.

First he watches Techno die, now he has to see his brother sick and malnourished? What kind of holiday had he been on?

“Tommy?” He moves closer, just as afraid of the teen as he was of Techno. Ghostbur already wants to forget today’s events and go back to being ignorant. He’s happier when he doesn’t have to think about anything.

“Surprise, we’re all alive.” Tommy’s tone is unbelievably dark, as if he doesn’t believe it himself. “One minute I’m contemplating everything that went wrong, and the next, Philza’s carrying me here like I suddenly matter. I go to sleep, and wake up to Techno missing half an arm. Dunno what happened there, neither of them will tell me.”

“I watched Techno die,” Ghostbur blurts. He probably shouldn’t have phrased it like that, but the words are out. “He had a totem though, so he survived. It’s a good thing, I think.”

“Ah.” Tommy sets the bowl of food aside, lying back down. Rather than looking colorless now, he’s turning a shade of green. “That’s information I didn’t need while trying to eat.”

“I’m sorry Tommy.”

“Are you okay?” Tommy asks. “Forget about me, I’m in great shape. You, on the other hand, look pretty shaken up.”

“Ah, yeah.” Ghostbur looks away. “Tommy, I forget a lot and I’m not the best, but what happened to Techno isn’t fading. I’m not sure how to process it.”

“You need a hug or something?” Tommy stretches one arm out toward Ghostbur. “Because you look like you could use one.”

“Are you sure you’re not using that as an excuse to get a hug for yourself?” Ghostbur can’t resist the tease. Nor can he resist the offer, letting himself move closer until he’s in Tommy’s arms.

“Fuck you, I don’t need a hug from anyone.” Tommy’s voice is muffled. “I’m independent and can do anything I want to on my own.”

“You keep telling yourself that,” Phil’s voice interrupts. “Even on your deathbed, you’re going to give us all a headache.”

Ghostbur’s eyes nearly bug out. “Deathbed?” His gaze whips back toward Tommy to make sure Tommy isn’t actually dying. “Does he need a tot-”

“Ghostbur, relax. Tommy isn’t dying, and I assume you’re here to talk about Techno. He’s not dying either. Everyone here will be fine.” Phil rolls his eyes. “All three of you are the most dramatic shits I have the misfortune of knowing.”

“Fuck you Phil,” Tommy groans. “I can still fight you.”

“If you can get up without fainting, I’d love to take you on,” Phil laughs.

“Is... Techno’s really okay though, right?” Ghostbur asks. “Because-”

“Ghostbur.” Phil sombers up to give the ghost his full attention. “I’m sorry you had to see that earlier. I know it’s not easy, and judging by your reaction, your brain isn’t letting you forget it so easily. Techno’s strong, Tommy’s strong. We’re all going to make it out of this in one piece, alright?”

Ghostbur looks down. “Three of you will. I’m afraid it’s a little late for me, dad.”

No one has a come back to that. Whatever fragile bonds still connect this broken family are still fraying. Ghostbur may be there, they may be able to see and hear and touch him, laugh with him even. At the end of the day though, it’s a harsh reminder that he is not Wilbur, that the Wilbur they’d all loved is still dead, and not even his ghost can replace him.

“Hey Ghostbur?” Tommy tugs on his sleeve. “Will you stay with me for awhile?”

“Yeah.” Ghostbur lies back down, wrapping his arms around the teen. Everything about the boy is too bony, nothing about his appearance is okay. He wonders if Tommy actually is dying.

Nothing more needs to be said though. Broken family or no, at least all four of them are together.

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slashthedice · 4 years

Note

I’m not sure if you would count this as a request (just ignore it if you do) but how old do you think all the dead by daylight killers are?

Not at all! This is a really good question! I hope it’s alright if I only do the original killers since most of the licensed ones have established canon ages. These are just my thoughts based on what I got out of the character’s lore and the lore of their associated maps.

Evan MacMillan - The Trapper: 30-35 years old

The first age we hear discussed for Evan is 14 in the Archives (yes, I know I dislike and mostly ignore the horrible retconning the Archives do, but sometimes they offer a good baseline). Based on the lore and the appearance of his unmasked character model, I would place him in his early to mid thirties.

Philip Ojomo - The Wraith: 24-27 years old

I believe that Philip was probably young when he moved to Canada, maybe between the ages on 19-23. It seems like he worked for Autohaven Wreckers for quite some time before he found out the awful things that were going on and he had unwittingly been apart of, but I would still guess that he was fairly young.

Max Thompson Jr. - The Hillbilly: 20-25 years old

Max is absolutely still relatively young. I would say he’s probably similar in age to Philip. I headcanon that the Entity “spoke” to Max for a long time before he finally killed his parents, easily influencing his thoughts and feelings since his parents had never nurtured him in any meaningful way. The Entity would want him in his prime, but I’m not sure if his physical condition affects his health in any way, and if it would affect his lifespan, so the Entity may have taken him while he was still young.

Sally Smithson - The Nurse: 40-48 years old

So, we know that Sally was married before she went to Crotus Prenn. We also know that based on the style of her nursing uniform she was likely working sometime between the years of 1895 and about 1910, so I would guess that (based on trends of the time) that she was married in her twenties, likely early to mid. Her lore states that she worked at Crotus Prenn for two decades, which would put her somewhere in her forties.

Lisa Sherwood - The Hag: 25-35 years old

Because of the connotations of her title as “hag” and the Grandma’s Cookbook offering, I always thought of Lisa as being older. However, as I take a closer look at her lore, it seems to me that she may be much younger than I originally would have guessed. The cookbook belonged to the family of cannibals that kidnapped her, it was not her own. Her lore also mentions “the elders” who taught her the symbols, on which basis I would guess Lisa is not apart of those considered to be elders, meaning she’s at the very least not elderly. There is also no mention of Lisa having any family. She’s a difficult one, and if I knew from where she was heading home when she was kidnapped I might have better insight, but I would say that she could be anywhere from mid-twenties to thirties.

Herman Carter - The Doctor: 31-40 years old

So the first thing we are told about Herman in his lore is that he was published in high school and then fast tracked into the advanced neuroscience program at Yale within the year, likely making him 18 or 19 at the time. He was then transferred to Léry's Memorial Institute where he was trained and mentored by Stamper, which I’m guessing took place over a span of time that was likely a few years. Based on this I’m guessing that he was between the ages of 24-27 when he was given his own office/experiment space and Project Awakening was approved. It’s stated that over the years he became known as The Doctor. I’m not sure for how long Herman worked within the bounds of the MK Ultra project, but since I’m assuming his use of ECT and Project Awakening are based on the Montreal Experiments which took place between 1957 and 1964 I think it would be safe to posit a timeline of 7 years which would place Herman somewhere between 31 and 34, although I believe he may be as old as 40 based upon renderings of his character model without the headgear and the real life ages at the time of those heading projects within the CIA funded MK Ultra.

Anna - The Huntress: 23-25 years old

So, I had hoped to find more information about Anna from the origins of her lullaby, but unfortunately I could find little information about its origin. We know that she was very young when her mother was killed, I’m guessing between the ages of 7 and 10. It’s stated that she “got older and stronger and practised her hunt”. By that time I would have to guess she was between 16 and 18. Once she began to hunt humans, she had to have time to collect multiple little girls and unfortunately watch them die, putting her (by my best guess) between 21 and 23. Her lore then describes German soldiers coming into her territory which I believe would have been in 1916 and that she disappeared by the end of the war which was 1918 (unless we’re talking Russia’s exit from WW1 which I believe was in 1917). That means that by the time the Entity took her, she was 25 at the oldest.

Kenneth Chase - The Clown: 58-61 years old

For some reason my brain is telling me that Kenneth is 61, but I can’t find anything concrete to support that. So here’s what we know definitively: Kenneth was born in 1932, and he left home in 1954 when his father found his collection and he was 22. He then integrated himself into a traveling circus where he stayed for the next decade, putting him at 32 years old. After that he roamed and acted as a parasite until the Entity took him. However, a clue comes in the form of his VHS add on. The distribution of pornography on VHS tapes was popularized in the 1980′s, which means he was at least 48 when he acquired said tape, though its description as “an all time classic” leads me to believe that he had it for a decent stretch of time. So I would probably place him between the ages of 58 and my original guess of 61.

Rin Yamaoka - The Spirit: 20-22 years old

Rin is stated to be attending a private university at the time of her father’s mental break and attack on both her and her mother. There had to have been time for the bills to pile up between her university costs and her mother’s health expenses, which leads me to believe that she had been attending classes for at least a couple years. This would place her between the ages of 20 and 22.

Frank, Julie, Susie, Joey - The Legion: 19 (Frank) & 18 (Julie, Susie, and Joey)

I’ve discussed this one before, but I base my HC for the ages of the Legion based on Frank’s canonically established aged, and the devs stating that all of their characters are over the age of 18.

Adiris - The Plague: 19-22 years old

I could talk about Adiris for hours, but I’ll try to keep this one short. Adiris’s lore states that when she came of age she attended to the priests that were performing rituals and services to worship the Sea-Goat. Chronological age was not of particular importance to Babylonians so on the basis that “coming of age” is used in reference to a time when a young woman is ready to be married, I referred to Martha T. Roth’s paper Age at Marriage and the Household: A Study of Neo-BabyIonian and Neo-Assyrian Form and concluded that Adiris would likely have been between the ages of 15-18. After this, Adiris assisted in many rituals and cleansings as plague spread through the city of Babylon. I’m guessing that it was a couple years before all of the priests at the Temple of Purgation were unable to continue their duties leaving Adiris as the only one able to carry on. She would have needed time to amass her devoted followers and treat them before she herself began to show signs of infection. She then went to great lengths in an attempt to purge the plague from her body, which would have taken time. By the time of her self-imposed exile and subsequent death, I would place her between 19 and 22.

Kazan Yamaoka - The Oni: Thirties

I admittedly have not had as much time to do research and develop a concrete headcanon for Kazan’s age, but there are a few bits of his lore that can help to formulate a basic age range. We know for a fact that Kazan was married and had a son, and that his son was old enough to climb and play in order for him to have his accident. Based upon this and renderings of the Oni without his mask, I would guess that he’s in his thirties.

Caleb Quinn - The Deathslinger: 44-48 years old

Caleb is another character that I have not spent very much time with. In his lore, the only set amount of time that we are made aware of is the 15 years in which he was imprisoned, and then the six years in which he led the Hellshire gang. That’s at least 21 years of his adult life. I’m assuming that Caleb was a young adult when he first began working for Bayshore (probably between the ages of 18 and 21). It would have taken time for Caleb to create his inventions, and then for Bayshore to sell the designs and for those designs to be put into production. I’d guess sometime between 5 and 6 years, which would put him at 23 at the youngest when he attempted to kill Bayshore. He then spent 15 years in prison, and then 6 years heading the Hellshire gang. Therefore, I believe that he is at youngest 44 and at oldest 48.

Again, these are just my opinions and interpretations of the lore with which we have been presented, and I would be thrilled to hear any other ideas and headcanons!

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virlath · 4 years

Text

blood magic,the blight, and the mysterious it

Something I’ve been curious about for a while now are the blood magic rituals in DAI which hint at the origin of the blight, or at the very least, the reason why the veil was created in the first place.

The hidden veilfire rune in Trespasser suggests a blood magic ritual was performed by the ancient elves to strike down the pillars of the earth (the titans). An aeon later, these caverns are collapsed due to it’s anger:

In the light of the veilfire, the runes seem to shift, coiling and uncoiling like snakes. A thunderous voice shatters the stillness, shouting:

"Hail Mythal, adjudicator and savior! She has struck down the pillars of the earth and rendered their demesne unto the People! Praise her name forever!"

For a moment, the scent of blood fills the air, and there is a vivid image of green vines growing and enveloping a sphere of fire. The vision grows dark. An aeon seems to pass. Then the runes crackle, as if filled with an angry energy. A new vision appears: elves collapsing caverns, sealing the Deep Roads with stone and magic. Terror, heart-pounding, ice-cold, as the last of the spells is cast. A voice whispers:

"What the Evanuris in their greed could unleash would end us all. Let this place be forgotten. Let no one wake its anger. The People must rise before their false gods destroy them all."

A very similar ritual to the one above is also described in the Forbidden Oasis at Ritual Rock:

A page from a charred book:

You offer a sip of water while they provide a feast. Know they speak of the same wickedness, but place it in you. I have heard them speak, and I have listened. I hear the whispers of all. Let them offer silver while you give gold. Let them think themselves your betters and know nothing more. Would you not purge the world of wickedness—of those who speak against you? Would they not do the same? If we do not have an agreement, then I shall depart. When I am through, none shall speak of treachery. When all have given word, then all shall be appeased.

Written in the margins:

Must remember the words. The right materials on the flame in the right order. Earth, the vine, the phial, then the blood. The blood comes last. No missteps. One wrong move, and the binding will not work. But if it does—oh, my enemies will quake.

These rituals all describe the same thing, using Earth, Vines, a phial of something (lyrium?), then blood, to bind a spirit as a means to attain power to defeat their enemies.

Between the time of the titan’s defeat and Mythal’s death, something bad clearly happened which caused the spirit she used to defeat the titans to go rogue.

Perhaps her bound spirit turned into the mysterious ‘it’ that has been haunting people’s dreams throughout the series and appears wherever the blight is also associated.

Tamlen sees it in the eluvian. Fiona dreams of a dark terrifying shadow in The Calling. Leliana has a similar vision about an ungodly noise and falling into darkness (which is significant IMO, because she has a strong spiritual connection to Andraste, who has links to Mythal).

In DAO, an ancient elf’s spirit describes a presence killing both humans and elves:

You see a place of serenity, where the Eldest come to slumber and are visited by those who offer tribute to the gods on their behalf. The Presence's memories of what happened there are uncertain. There are flashes of violence, of war.. but it is all too long ago. None of it is clear. The Presence remembers the humans. This was a time even after the humans had come. It was they who had built this place, long before. Perhaps the war was with other humans. Perhaps it was with something else, something that killed both the humans and elves that were here. It is not clear. You see images of a great battle, elves and humans both screaming and attempting to flee from some terrible presence. What that presence was is blurry and lost to time. The Presence fled the destruction by using the Life Gem, escaping its body. It was sure that someone would come, to rescue it. But no one did. Not until now.

Even Corypheus’ memories suggest he had plans for this monster once he cracked open the Fade again:

Calpernia prepares to set foot in the place where regret dwells. To bring it into the light.

Flemeth says herself, regret is something she knows well.

And remember what Solas says about spirit binding in Cole’s personal quest?

Cole: It isn’t abuse if I ask (to be bound)

Solas: Not always true

What if Flemeth’s big regret was performing that blood magic ritual and binding that spirit in the first place to defeat the titans? That bound spirit eventually became the monstrous blighted creature as a result of the evanuris’ attempt at gaining more power.

We know from Solas himself that Falon’Din started wars to amass worshippers, and it is inferred he used the blood of slaves to power his own magic. He was only stopped when he began going after Mythal’s own followers, causing his brethren to bloody him in his own temple.

Perhaps Falon’Din and his allies betrayed Mythal because they wanted control of the spirit she had bound as well as her power to control the titan’s workers. Remember, that power alone was enough to defeat the titans. Imagine that power combined with the magic from the Void, a place Falon’Din personally specialised in navigating?

yes I know, fade magic and blight magic are different and alien from each other. But there is something that connects both of them together and that is lyrium - the blood of titans.

===

Consider this gem below:

youtube

Mythal speaks the calling....

The whispers could be nothing. But then again, it could be something.

Fact: Flemeth has been very personally invested and involved in the blight.

She knew about the fifth blight way before anyone and warned Maric of it. She knew Ser Jory would die from the Joining. She knew Hawke’s blood could seal/unseal Corypheus from his prison.

I don’t think she can simply see into the future. I think she knows all of this because a part of Mythal is connected to the blight through the blood magic ritual described in the veilfire rune.

Abelas says Mythal was slain, if a god truly can be.

Sure, she may have lost her physical body and worshippers, but the idea of her lived on through her wisp, and the well itself.

If the evanuris wanted Mythal gone entirely, they must have known her well of sorrows held power. So why go to the trouble of defiling her temple but keeping the well intact?

Maybe the evanuris killed her physically and destroyed any evidence of her godhood, but they left her well alone because Mythal’s will is a part of the blight's power.

Mythal supposedly gave dwarves dreams and hijacked the titan’s hive mind to wrestle control of the titan’s workers. Isn’t it strange that very same logic applies to the blight, where the darkspawn operate as a hivemind and are connected through tainted titan’s blood?

In DAO, Zathrian also used a blood magic ritual to summon and bind the spirit of the forest to put a werewolf curse on his enemies.

Because Zathrian used his own blood to bind the spirit, it was only through his death that Witherfang’s spirit was set free and the curse lifted altogether.

This all sounds mighty familiar.....

I know, this entire post is already super tin foily and many big reaches have to be made to get to this point, but what if the idol depicts Mythal at her death and the creation of the taint, at the heart of Arlathan?

Through time, the magic from the ritual infected the lyrium around it, overwhelming her body and the titan heart, keeping her alive.

We already know that red lyrium can overwhelm people, turning them into unrecognisable nodes of lyrium (just look at Fiona in In Hushed Whispers or Meredith as described in TN).

Drakon’s foreshadows death as the path to rebirth:

"Remember the fire. You must pass Through it alone to be forged anew.”

Perhaps it is only through Mythal’s true death in DA4 that will spell the end of the blight as we know it- through the destruction of the red lyrium heart that lies in the fade. And that is Solas’ end goal - to destroy the veil so he can destroy the heart so the mysterious it can be destroyed and the blight can be lifted once and for all, just like what happened with Zathrian’s curse.

But most likely, it’ll be Mythal’s thirst for vengeance that'll be the foil in this plan because I’m sure she would want her due with her betrayers before truly dying.

Yeah I know. This post could really be fanfiction at this point. But you have to admit, it’s interesting to think about.

#dragon age #da theories #drabble #the blight #mythal #blood magic

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trickstermakesallworlds · 3 years

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despite the difficulty involved in making things make sense with this kind of story, I really do not regret my choice to make Dayir a noncombatant -- to take the "Warrior" out of "Warrior of Light"

(long post cut)

I understand the general theme of fighting for one's world, one's existence -- but I take umbrage with the methods. the Faded Memories quest in Amaurot upset me big-time the first time I went through it (and no, I do not look forward to doing it again lol), because that is exactly the sort of thing I wanted to avoid -- taking up a righteous sword and carving through people in the name of some higher cause. I don't really buy that concept, as compelling as it is in video games, and it just wears thinner and thinner as time goes on

Dayir is a noncombatant but ey are very much a fighter. the path ey have chosen is far, far harder, because not only are ey fighting for eir world and eir people and emself, but ey are fighting against the idea that people have to die in order for em and eir world and eir people to be saved. ey are fighting against the idea that "the beast tribes" are lesser beings (frex. Dayir avoids Limsa Lominsa as much as possible not just because Lominsans are... a bit crass for eir liking, but also because Merlwyb and her whole stance regarding the kobolds and sahagin drives em nuts) who deserve to be trampled all over because they dare to be so afraid for their existence and so distrustful of the people who have consistently subjugated them that they make for easy marks to the Ascians. ey are fighting against division, against senseless warmongering, against pretty much every solution ever presented to em. the reason why Dayir joins the Scions is because Minfilia goes, "no, actually... I support that. let us help."

a video game of this nature needs you to kill things to progress. fine. but remove the gaming aspect and the body count is merely horrific. so is the way the WoL blithely carries on without even a thought about it. killing is traumatising. war is hell. the Garleans are so good at it because they basically purged healthy emotionality from their society. (there's like a weird irony there when you consider who the founder of their society was, but I can't quite verbalise it.) the rest of the world just suffers. Dayir's angry Elezen companion does fight for the Scions, does kill when his hand is forced -- but he is not exempt from its horrors. Ishan attempts to sate the gnawing void inside him, but taking a life only widens the hole, only deepens the hunger. Dayir is not exempt from making mistakes. letting Ishan kill in eir name is one of eir biggest.

sometimes I think I'm being overly sentimental when I refuse to let the confrontation in Amaurot be a battle. after all, we've killed other Ascians. but those were earlier times, more uncertain times, when Dayir did not fully believe in the rightness of eir path. also, the Ascians on the Source were... let's just say extremely antagonistic. killing them seemed like the only choice if we didn't want to have to kill hundreds of other people. but Emet-Selch does not interact with us in the same way as the other Ascians, and Dayir has come into eir power as one who fights with heart and words and love as opposed to swords and spells and conquest. Azem's power is with em. against that, Emet-Selch is disarmed. and that might be wishful thinking, but so is the idea that you can just fuckin slice and dice your way into making people do what you want (and you'll somehow never get sliced and diced back...). so we're all wishful thinkers here.

Dayir proves to Emet-Selch that the Sundered deserve to live by exemplifying that spirit of old Amaurot that Emet so misses, the expansive spirit of cooperative creation, and irrefutably changing people's lives for the better through this spirit, which awakens that self-same spirit in them. Dayir continually works to halt the cycle of killing and revenge and suffering and loss that the Source had been stuck in, and that's eir Heroic trait -- as implausibly as the Warrior of Light somehow manages to kill everyone (even primals and Ascians and whatever else) perfectly and never die themself, is as implausibly as Dayir does what ey do. we all playin by anime rules here

I'm really just doubling down on the game's actual message of cooperation and friendship saving the day. the Ascians use the inherent despair of the Sundered to manipulate them into causing Calamities. Dayir and the Scions use the capacity of hope-against-hope and love-despite-all inherent to the Sundered to stand against the Ascians and render them powerless. that's really all there is to it.

(final note that I forgot to work into this post but want to say anyway: the other thing about Dayir is eir love and respect for death. death is good. death is not to be cheapened by using it as a threat any time someone does something you don't like. death is reward, bliss, rest. life is harder. having to live with what you've done is harder. choosing to live when you are suffering, to fight for a better day in the future, is harder. Emet-Selch fights against his death not because he wants to keep living, but because he doesn't believe he deserves to rest. he believes he should fight harder for his lost world. their "confrontation" is essentially Dayir fighting to convince Emet-Selch that his rest is long overdue. but that is not a conclusion that Dayir wishes to force upon him -- he must come to it on his own. Emet-Selch's life is not Dayir's to take. no one's is.)

#oh we RAMBLIN ramblin today #ffxiv #ffxiv.headcanon #.dayir

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aliceslantern · 3 years

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Give/Take, a Kingdom Hearts fanfic, chapter 1

Ienzo has been too busy since the war to be overwhelmed by the past. But with little progress to be made in his work with Kairi, old nightmares start to invade.

Riku is a glorified housesitter. Lonely and faced with no choice but to wait for a way to find his friends, he eagerly accepts when Ienzo asks him to help do repairs around the castle. Before long, the two strike up an unlikely friendship, united by their dark pasts and their attempts to be better people.

But just as they begin to consider something more... Kairi wakes up.

Ienzoku (Ienzo/Riku), post-Melody of Memory, slow burn. Updates Thursdays until it's done.

Read it on FF.net/on AO3

---

Ienzo thought he had gotten over the strangeness of being back here. But it was one thing to work on decrypting Even’s replica data, another to work on examining a girl’s heart.

With company.

The console was a sea of old papers and teacups. One of them had finally caved and dragged in chairs. While Ienzo’s knowledge of the heart had only grown over the years, he could scarcely remember how to actually examine one, especially without hurting its owner. Translating the untranslatable into data and then having to translate that into something conveyable… it was a headache.

A loud, pounding headache. Not helped at all by the fact that Even liked to talk to himself why he worked.

Yes. Ienzo was not used to company anymore.

He looked over his shoulder, if so just to stretch his eyes for a moment. Kairi was sound asleep. He got up and tucked the blanket a little more firmly around her shoulders. She would’ve been more comfortable in one of the pods, but to get to them one had to pass through the basement, and none of them were willing to bring that up. It was lucky most of the papers had been digitized all those years ago; nobody could actually manage to go down there.

He’d thought he’d been prepared. After all, he’d worked up here for weeks--longer. But actually putting in that code and walking down the long, long spiraling ramp, seeing the doors of cells--

Another pulse of pain echoed through his head, and he pressed a hand to his brow. “Alright, Ienzo?” Ansem asked.

He shook his head to clear away the headache. “My eyes are tired,” he said. “That’s all.”

“Why don’t you take a break? Get yourself some coffee? You’ve been in here since early this morning.”

“It’s alright.” When he went to sit back down, his knees were weak; he had to grip the back of the chair.

Ansem smiled sadly. “You cannot do your best work if you’re not rested. Go on, Ienzo.”

“And get some sleep,” Even snapped, not looking up. “You’re too young to look that exhausted.”

“Pot, kettle, black. Minus perhaps the youth.”

He scowled. Ienzo saw Ansem trying not to laugh.

The hallways were dark and cold, despite best efforts to repair the shattered lighting. He walked back in a haze, his headache throbbing worse. He used to never be prone to such things.

He saw Dilan in the distance. Neither he nor Aeleus wanted to join in the research, content enough to split their time on construction and guard duty; though it wasn’t like there was much to guard these days. Ienzo could not blame them. He actually envied them, their ability to just leave behind that chapter of their lives. But Ienzo had been the one to volunteer his knowledge, after all. If so many lives had to be lost for what they learned, best to use it for good.

“Stray’s at the door for you,” he said. Rather than the deep blue guard uniform, he was in paint-spattered overalls.

“I’ve told him he’s welcome to come right on up,” Ienzo said, shaking his head. “I don’t know why he always waits at the door.”

“It’s polite,” Dilan said, rolling his eyes. “Though I don’t recall that one being so polite in the past.”

Ienzo shrugged. He didn’t want to think of that time if he could avoid it. Easier to treat Riku like a blank canvas, a stranger. Ienzo suspected that he might do the same. He gathered himself, loosened his ascot just slightly, and went outside.

“Riku. Hello. I wasn’t expecting to see you so soon.”

He looked a bit sheepish. “I know you said you’d call if you found out anything major--”

“Yes. That is true.” He tried for a smile, found it too difficult. “There’s nothing new yet. Nothing that we didn’t already guess, anyway.”

“...Right.” He dropped his eyes. In the past several weeks since they’d been doing all this, his hair had started to grow out of the brisk spikes and hung, ungelled, around his eyes.

“I do hope you didn’t come all this way for this,” Ienzo said.

He shook his head. “The committee was helping me with something.”

“...Oh, Sora’s data?”

“Yes.”

“That actually sounds very interesting.”

He chuckled. “Honestly, it’s more like videogames than anything. It’s all just fight data. No memories.” He sighed.

“...Oh.”

An awkward pause. Ienzo had been trying not to look at Riku directly, focusing instead on his unkempt hair, which seemed more white than silver in this light. But actually seeing the young man’s face made him realize that Riku was exhausted too. “I shouldn’t keep you,” he said. “You seem like a busy person.”

“Will you go home, then?”

This seemed like the wrong thing to say; Riku tensed. “No, not home. Not yet.” He brushed at his bangs, but they just flopped back in his eyes. “I’ve been asked to keep an eye on the Land of Departure. Kind of like housesitting, to be honest.” A nervous smile. “I don’t mind it.”

“Land of Departure? You mean--”

Riku’s smile faded. “You know it as Castle Oblivion.”

A long, tremulous pause. Ienzo saw it without meaning to--the fight on the imaginary Destiny Islands, a brutal slash to the back, a basement corner, Axel, the puppet’s hands closing around his throat--

“...You okay?”

He jerked a little. This Riku was not that Riku. He was older, taller, his voice a bit deeper. But the color of his eyes was the same. “I’m sorry,” he stammered.

“...I know. Lotta bad memories wrapped up in that place. But it’s… it’s not the same.”

“Logically I knew one came from the other, but…” Ienzo shook his head.

Another pause, longer than the last.

“You, and me,” Riku said slowly. “If we’re going to be working closely with her, for her… we can’t… skirt around it much, can we.”

“...I guess not. It doesn’t seem like starting over has been much help, yes?”

“Right. Look, I don’t… hold it against you.”

This surprised him. “You don’t? But--”

A sigh. “Look, I’ve also done things I regret. A lot of things. Holding onto all that… being mad at others, or myself… doesn’t help, and doesn’t make sticking to the new path any easier.” Riku shrugged. “You guys are trying to be better. That’s what matters.”

Riku’s words were evoking something sharp and tight in him. He wasn’t sure what it was. “You don’t have to forgive me.”

“I want to,” he said, and he seemed to mean it. “You don’t have to forgive me, either.”

“You did nothing wrong in that scenario. It’s different--” He felt a flush rising in his face.

Riku shook his head. “Not really.”

Ienzo wasn’t sure what to say. The feeling threatened to strangle him--

“As much as I’d love to philosophize more on the meaning of darkness, I should get going,” he said, with a small smile. “Sorry for dropping by.”

“It’s… fine…” Ienzo said, dropping his eyes. “Safe travels.”

He watched Riku walk off, trying to swallow down the feeling. He didn’t want to think about it anymore. The memories here were bad enough, much less the ones there.

He went inside and decided to try and sleep. Ienzo had never been very good at sleep, not as Zexion, either. Nobodies did not require sleep; it was a much more voluntary process. As was eating and drinking water. The nothingness in their beings could sustain, if willed.

Humanity really felt so intense and so fragile, like he was a piece of glass being flung across the room, waiting for the fall.

Ienzo decided to take a bath, as though the hot water would finally will him into submission. He did miss how clean that castle was, how nothing was broken, how it didn’t take minutes for the water to warm. After the world’s fall, the majority of Radiant Garden--especially the castle--was in abject disrepair. When he was a child, it had taken a full staff to keep the place clean, well-kept, but it had been so--

Memories everywhere he turned. They just felt so--achingly sharp. He didn’t want to think at all.

Ienzo took a deep breath and slid under the water, rendering the off-white tile into ripples.

---

Riku was bored.

No; this was an understatement. The more time he spent here, alone, in the Land of Departure, the more he felt like his mind was turning to mush. The hallways were too wide and too empty, and everything was so quiet. His own footsteps and breath seemed deafening in comparison.

Riku was not used to quiet. If it weren’t for the whispering of Heartless, or the ambient sounds of busy and inhabited worlds, then there were other sounds, like the hush of waves in the distance. He could tell that he was the only person alive here. At first he’d tried to convince himself he liked the peace.

The peace just made him aware of how empty everything was, and how alone he was. At least if he’d been alone on his quests in the past, he had a goal, something to word towards, and in a way that goal hadn’t changed; bringing his friends home safe. Going back to normal. But normal hadn’t been so great either, had it? He’d been so eager to escape it, that so-called prison.

But right now… there wasn’t much for Riku to do to help achieve that goal. All he had to do was wait .

Riku had never been that good at waiting. For several days he roamed the grounds around the castle, looking for Heartless or Nobodies or Dream Eaters or Unversed or something to fight, some small evil to purge or free. But it was clear that there was nothing here, nothing to give him diversion from how utterly useless he felt.

So much for being a Keyblade master. His title felt silly, useless. He was literally just house sitting. For all his supposed power, he couldn’t help Kairi in her sleep or Sora… wherever he was.

If he was at all.

Riku forced the thought from his mind and got up from the bed in the room he’d been sleeping in. Terra had said to make himself comfortable, and there did seem to be a whole lot more unoccupied space for Keybearing students. But still, using someone else’s space made him… uneasy. He even wished he had something to clean , but in one of her many small notes left to him, Aqua had said there were spells that banished grime, and not to worry about it. (It had been kind of funny, though, the first time he spilled some tea; it disappeared into nothing.)

It was clear this place had been a home, some eleven years ago. Riku allowed himself to explore a few rooms a day, aware that, unlike in Castle Oblivion, the space here was finite. It would end. If he wasted it all in one big sweeping day of exploration, then what?

It’d be… just quiet. Just him.

He tried to structure his days. Wake up at a certain time, eat at a certain time, train for a certain amount of time. The spinning rings in the courtyard were useful (and made him question what, exactly, they were made out of), but even they were designed for students.

(Try to ignore the nightmares, of that strange city, of Sora, nightmares that faded into nothing as soon as he tried to understand them--)

He tried to read, to study magic with some of Aqua’s many, many spellbooks, but the theory was hopelessly complicated for his already-foggy mind. He kept thinking of Kairi, lying prone in that small white chair. It had been weeks , how come those scientists didn’t have anything new to say--

Patience. Breathe.

Riku got up and started walking.

If he squinted hard, he could see places where aspects of Castle Oblivion had come from. The moulding here. The planter there. The pattern of the wallpaper in some rooms.

Bringing it up had clearly made Ienzo uncomfortable. That had been a dumb, tactless thing to say. And truthfully… when Riku saw those pieces of that place here… his memories burned too. The darkness had crawled up inside of him, threatening to burrow deep and take over. That burning, aching feeling, its weight, its pressure. The inexorable rush of power when it broke through during those battles.

He looked at his palm. That burn didn’t feel the same anymore. He wasn’t sure it would ever go away , but the temptation had changed, become something he could utilize. Like turning on a faucet versus a crack in a dam.

He wondered if the former Organization members felt the same, or if they’d felt the same pull to darkness to begin with. He realized he could just ask , but then remembering how stricken Ienzo had looked, realized equally he couldn’t . But what about DiZ--Ansem the Wise? Had he felt the same? The old man seemed more approachable, despite the fact that Riku knew the dark side of him too.

Such complicated bedfellows. They did seem to… want to be better people.

He’d heard the stories from Leon about what happened in the basement labs. And he’d seen what they were capable of in Castle Oblivion, and the World that Never Was, and…

What of the things he could’ve done, if he hadn’t fought Ansem--the Heartless one? If it hadn’t been for Sora--

Sora. If not for Sora, and Kairi and Mickey, he could’ve ended up on that wrong path for longer, too.

Riku missed his friends.

#give/take #ienzo #riku #ienzoku #ienzo/riku #ienzo is trans #melody of memory spoilers

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honestlywrites · 4 years

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Clan of Three | Chapter Seven (Din Djarin x Mando!Reader)

Summary: Finally revealing your partnership to the Bounty Guild, you find that Nevarro holds far more than a couple bounty hunters looking for work.

Clan of Three Masterlist

You were not aware that the Mandalorian, your business partner, was part of a covert. The thought had slipped your mind and you had just assumed that the two of you found each other through luck. There were no other Mandalorians wandering the streets of Nevarro, though you had not seen the dusty streets since you first became partners. This made sense, the more Mandalorians, the more attention was brought to the two of you. Your culture was dying, a mere myth thrown into the winds. To see one was considered legendary in the eyes of others, so you were confused when your partner asked you to join him.

“What do you mean?” you sit up from your spot on the cot shoved between the refreshed and the weapons cabinet.

“I need to show you something,” he mutters and gears up, slipping on his gloves and fiddling with his vambrace.

“But won’t that draw too much attention?” you frown as you stare at your compatriot, leaning against the wall as you attempt to decipher the movements of the man in front of you. The more time you spent with him, the more you could read his body language, a skill picked up from your time with the helmet on. While the helmets were designed to throw off all who looked upon the Mandalorians, it made you learn how to pick up on different social cues to best react in different situations. Looking at the Mandalorian, his muscles were stiff, stiffer than usual. The monotony in his voice demonstrates the fact that he is hiding something from you.

“Just keep your head low and don’t stare at anyone,” he walks toward the back ramp and presses the button to open it, you following behind him. As the two of you quickly stride through the backwater town, you cannot help but notice the eyes of several different patrons who quickly see the glint of not one, but two sets of Mandalorian armor. In the bright sun, the violet of your durasteel shines through uniquely and adds to your novelty. You cannot help but shoot glares at people who stare too long, the feeling of self-preservation bleeding through into your actions. Quickly moving your head to face off at anyone who appears to be staring, the citizens of Nevarro quickly read the situation and keep their head down.

“I said don’t stare,” the low voice of the man in front of you grumbles from under his helmet and you quickly resume your stance, staring forward as the two of you enter the cantina.

The first time you had stepped into this establishment, there was silence, but as you and the Mandalorian step through the sliding doors of the bounty hunter’s cantina, the silence appears deafening. No movement, no music, not even a single breath could be heard. All eyes were on the two of you and instantly, the fear begins to eat away at you. Stares were understandable, but the undivided attention of an entire establishment is far too much attention for you to garner. In front of you, your partner stands tall and walks with confidence, unaffected by the gaze of the many patrons that appear to be boring holes into your skull with their eyes. Even Greef Karga, the most charismatic and sly man around, is rendered speechless. The tracking fobs are set on the table harshly, breaking up the silence. You watch as Greef Karga inspects the machinery and pauses.

“The two of you are working together?” his words come out slowly as if he chooses them meticulously to try and please the two of you. The man in front of you nods sharply and watches your employer bring out the credits belonging to the three bounties that the two of you had hunted. The third one was found by the Mandalorian as you reluctantly stayed back to heal from the cauterization of your wound. Your partner sits in the booth as you stand, watching Greef Karga harshly. You had gained his respect the last time you were here and as you attract more attention, your patience wears thinner.

A stack of credits was set in front of the two of you and the Mandalorian slides them into his hand, pocketing the money.

“And I’m assuming the two of you will want to take on another round?” Karga looks up at you, almost challenging you with his words. He sets four more tracking fobs on the table and they are accepted by your partner, put into the pockets at his sides. The man in front of you says nothing as he stands, beginning to walk out of the cantina.

“Be careful,” the words of Greef Karga make you pause in your stride. “One Mandalorian is a warrior, but two are a target.”

You rush out of the cantina, following the Mandalorian into the streets of Nevarro. Your jaw is sore from clenching your teeth down so harshly, but you fought to not lash out on any of the bounty hunters inside. It was a mixture of being intimidated and impressed and you begin to wish that your partner had brought you at all, being the secret associate was much easier.

“Why did you--”

“Be quiet, that wasn’t what I wanted to show you,” he states and takes a path away from the main road, beginning to trek through the outskirts of the town as you did once. The two of you weave through the streets until you reach a hidden entrance, masked by a dark cloth that hides it from the view of others. The Mandalorian takes a look around before sliding down into the desolate sewers. Stairs lead down, deeper into the ground and for a moment, your breath catches in your chest. Your sight is met with Mandalorians leaning against the wall and sitting at tables, seemingly calm in this living space underneath the town. Younglings run past you and your heart threatens to escape from your chest. Memories of your own covert bleed into the image of this one and suddenly you are younger, running from the blasters of Stormtroopers that had discovered your covert.

Your buir screams at you to escape, firing up her jet pack and launching into the air to get away from the assailants. She was not so lucky. As you run further and further away, you watch as the Mandalorians of your covert fly into the air to try and escape from these attacks. One stray shot catches the booster of your buir’s jet pack and sends her straight down into the ground. You try to run to her, but the arms of another hold you back from running to her.

“Go! She’s gone!” a voice shouts at you and you sob, your vision clouded from the tears that stream down your face. You turn and run, feeling lethargic from the weight of the armor that holds you down. It had never done that before, but the violet metal serves as a reminder of your mother. Your clan. The entire covert was gone.

Arms shake you from your stupor and you realize that you had been standing in the middle of the room, silent and still. All around you, other Mandalorians watch curiously as your partner tries to console you.

“C’mon,” he whispers and squeezes your arms almost comfortingly, pulling you along down another tunnel. The bright glint of the silver mythosaur shines down, appearing as if it watches you enter the armory. In front of you and all around you, tools and equipment are set up to create the sacred armor that defines the Mandalorian way of life. A woman watches curiously and sits at a small seat in front of a table. Her helmet is a beautiful bronze and is embellished with five horns. She wears nothing but a breastplate and a fine fur around her shoulders, but the attention she commands tells you that she is The Armorer of this covert.

You sit in front of her with the guidance of your associate. He sets down the credits and The Armorer does nothing to count them, his attention set on you.

“Leave us,” her voice is crisp and commanding, and you hear the shuffling of the several bodies who were standing in the tunnel and listening to the conversation. A moment passes and The Armorer turns to look at the man next to you, signaling for him to leave as well. He turns to you and while you were nervous, you felt no fear, so you nod for him to leave as well. Once the crowd that was once gathered is now dissolved, you focus yourself on the woman in front of you.

“Where did you hail from?” she asks and her words are surprisingly calm, soothing you even more.

“After the Great Purge, my covert hid for a few years before being discovered by Stormtroopers. It was then dissolved and I have been alone ever since,” your voice catches in your throat as you mention your past covert, the memory still bleeding like a fresh wound.

“And how did you happen upon the Mandalorian?” you flush underneath your helmet at the question and are suddenly thankful for the secrecy of your face. You were proud that you had defended your honor but now that the event had passed, it appeared more childish than honorable.

“He had cost me my job and so I took his bounties and turned them in to delude him. I realize now that it was childish,” you move your gaze downward, unable to meet hers out of embarrassment.

“It is understandable, you were on your lonesome and were out of a job because of him. Do not worry,” a tone of amusement spills from her words and you smile slightly, looking up at The Armorer. While you were distracted upon entering the covert, you did not notice any other females in the mass of Mandalorians hidden in the darkness.

“If he has brought you here, then he deems you trustworthy enough to join our covert. Your armor appears in good condition, though your breastplate could use refining. I will use what we have here to refine them,” the idea of updating your armor brings you great joy, but the sight of the younglings running around causes you to second guess yourself.

“I wouldn’t want you to waste it on me. Save it for the younglings,” you plead, yet The Armorer shakes her head.

“You are apart of the covert now and must be able to defend it. This upgrades will aid in the safety of all of us,” she states and you nod, removing the purple durasteel from your chest to reveal a black tunic that shielded your body from the world. “You may come in now.”

You look to the opening of the room to see your fellow bounty hunter attempting to listen to the conversation. A smile blooms on your face as he realizes he has been caught. He slowly approaches and sits down beside you, the silence comforting as you watch The Armorer get to work. The sounds of sparks and metal against metal are soothing to you, reminding you of life before the Great Purge when you were not hiding this beautiful warrior culture from the world.

“Thank you,” you whisper to the man next to you, not wanting to distract The Armorer too much.

“I trust you,” he says softly and you are suddenly aware of his presence so close to you without the shield of your chest plate. You feel naked even though you are fully clothed as if you are baring your heart to him. The thought makes you cross your arms in front of your chest in an attempt to shield yourself once more from the fondness that creeps into your mind for the Mandalorian.

The refining of your chest plate goes quickly, the action more about smoothing out the dents and filling in holes that had resulted from one too many blaster bolts. When it is finished, the luster of the purple is beautiful in the low lighting and you feel anew when you strap it onto your chest. You take a moment to nod at The Armorer in thanks and watch her return the sentiment. The feeling of home that fills you is so foreign after years of being on your lonesome and you do not want to leave. The children running around with their helmets, the sound of others playing games at the table, the ricochet of blasters echoing through the tunnels that allude to the idea of a shooting range set up. It was a sort of heaven for you after losing all the members of your covert to the Empire. But heaven does not last long when the Mandalorian begins to walk out, leaving the sanctuary that was this underground system. You follow him quickly, feeling your stomach fall as you leave the covert.

“We have bounties to catch,” he reminds you as the two of you walk up the ramp onto the Razor Crest. “Don’t worry, we’ll be back.”

You look up into the visor of The Mandalorian’s helmet, slightly shocked at the fact that he understood your sentiment toward being with others of your kind. He stares down at you and suddenly the sound of your heart beating is all you can hear.

“Din,” the name is spoken so softly that think you misheard it.

“What?” you are breathless at the vulnerability you experience from being in this man’s presence.

“My name is Din,” he states and your mouth is dry from trying to formulate words to respond to the sacred words he had just spoken. Your thoughts run through your head at lightspeed, trying to decide if you were ready to let in someone new after all the hurt you had been through. Your breath quickens and you realize that you are not ready, not now. Guilt eats at you as you realize the fear consumes you, preventing you from sharing a small part of yourself after he bared his soul to you. Looking up at him, you feel helpless, no words escaping from you. He nods in understanding and gently squeezes your shoulder, moving to climb up to the cockpit so that you can pursue your next round of bounties. The ship jolts as it takes off, leaving you in the low lighting of the cargo hold with your thoughts.

His name is Din.

#the mandalorian #the mandalorian x reader #the mandolorian x reader #din djarin x reader #din djarin #dyn jarren #dyn jarren x reader #baby yoda #greef karga #cara dune #kuiil #the child

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eachainn · 4 years

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Not Even That (Wangxian Week Day 8: Free Day)

“Do you know that hawks and wolves mate for life? The Bishop didn't even leave us that... not even that.” -Ladyhawke

---

“Have you heard the news? The Yiling Patriarch is dead.”

“Dead?!”

“Yeah, the four major sects set a siege to the Burial Mounds to root him out.”

“I heard about that. My cousin was in Yiling at the time. He says they brought every member. Only half of them came back.”

“The Yiling Patriarch is truly fearsome.”

“Idiot! Some of them could have remained behind to purge the place.”

“Mm, that’s what some of them did. But my cousin was roped into helping them carry out the bodies. There were a lot, maybe as much as during the Sunshot Campaign.”

“You’re exaggerating.”

“That’s just what he said.”

“The sects must be decimated again.”

“More than that.”

“I heard that Wei Wuxian’s shidi killed him.”

“That’s true. “

“As he should after all he did for Wei Wuxian. And look what happened! Their shijie dead, the young Jin boy orphaned. And after the Jiang sect took him in.”

“The dog bit the hand that fed him.”

“Wei Wuxian killed Hanguang-Jun too.”

“No.”

“You’re lying.”

“It’s true. After Sect Leader Jiang struck the final blow, Wei Wuxian fled and Hanguang-Jun followed to stop him. Wei Wuxian’s evil cultivation kept him alive long enough to kill him.”

“Horrible.”

“Unthinkable.”

“Sect Leader Jin confirmed it himself.”

“Then it must be true.”

“What a waste.”

---

Wei Wuxian gasped back to life during a sunset that stained the world red. He clawed at the ground, staring at his fingers as they worked in wonder. It had been a day, but it was still a miracle. The part of his brain that was still crow chittered about what he could do with them, what fun he could get up to, and what they would be useful for. There were many things that he could do, like pluck the shinies that had caught his attention during the day, or the white fabric that he was not allowed to touch under any circumstances.

He groaned and pressed his face against the ground. It wasn’t mud, which meant that they had gotten away from the worst of the storms. Those had been miserable, curled under soaked robes and hoping that they would stop. And then there had been the howling…

Wei Wuxian shuddered, pushing himself away from the ground. He reached out, patting the ground as he searched out the robes that had been thoughtfully placed there for the last twelve years. He smiled to himself as his fingers brushed over fabric, huffing a laugh. “Good boy, looking after your poor father.”

He pulled the robes close, staggering awkwardly to his feet. His body still remembered flying and hopping rather than walking. Although Wei Wuxian doubted that he would have been able to fly all the way to wherever they were this time.

Wei Wuxian tugged the robes around him, tying them messily in place as he looked around. Camp for the night had been meticulously set up, a familiar and homey touch, even if it was all the lonelier for it. He swallowed, stumbling over to where two swords rested against a tree, dragging his fingers over them. Once, he would have been able to feel the spark of energy from them, but now there was nothing. He gave Suibian a rueful smile and tapped his fingers against it. “Wake up, lazy.”

There was no response, there never was. Chenqing felt livelier. Wei Wuxian looked at where the Qiankun bag was tucked underneath the swords. Only a fool would try to steal them away from two spiritual swords. Then again, Wei Wuxian didn’t think that anyone would be so deep in the forest except for him.

He shivered and took a step back. There was wood set up for a fire, but he didn’t feel like starting it, not yet. He wanted to wait until he had gotten himself all the way back to human, not still some part of him lingering as crow.

He scratched at his nose, scrunching it to enjoy the feeling of it being able to move. He flexed his fingers working the joints one at a time carefully as he circled the camp in robes that were too big for him. He hadn’t been in the best shape when he had started this, and twelve years on the run and cursed hadn’t helped things much. Wei Wuxian still didn’t know how it worked, he had never heard of anything like it, but he wasn’t sure if food he ate as a crow counted for when he was a human or vice versa. It was hard to make those observations when he lost half the day.

Wei Wuxian sighed, feeling the familiar weight settle on his shoulders. It wanted to stick there, clung to with the force of twelve years and resentment. It was easier now to sink down into it, if he wasn’t so tired and hungry.

He hiked the robe higher over his shoulders, holding it close for the warmth. Night was falling rapidly, and soon it would be cold. It would be smart to start up the fire, or at least stir up the coals that had been left behind, but he found himself just staring.

The campsite was quiet, which was something he wasn’t used to. Everything was set the way it should have been, their swords, the Qiankun bag, the fire banked, and his bowl waiting. Wei Wuxian picked up the bowl, cradling it in his hands. Whatever was inside was still warm, Wei Wuxian taking a deep breath. Whatever it was, smelled like meat, which was a rarity for them. And it could only mean one thing considering the state of their finances.

He sighed and pressed his head against the lid over the bowl, taking shallow breaths to keep from diving right in. It meant something, this. Clothes and a camp ready for him, dinner waiting for him and still warm, which meant that it had been timed. Wei Wuxian swallowed hard. These were the things that made him more human, and he loved them.

And hated them. Sometimes, it might be easier to remain a crow. At least there he didn’t have to remember everyone that had died because of him.

Wei Wuxian hissed through his teeth, curling his fingers against the old bowl. He didn’t want to remember them. That was almost worth being a crow again, but that wouldn’t happen for hours. And that would mean forgetting them. They didn’t deserve that.

He pressed his forehead against his bowl for a moment longer before drawing away. He fumbled for the chopsticks that had been left for him. Wei Wuxian took the top off of the bowl, digging into the food. He would be better once he had eaten; it would be easier to chase away the shadows that clogged his mind then.

He kept up a steady pace, every once and a while glancing around. Wei Wuxian knew their pattern, that they would find a place far away from the road and safe to spend the night, but he wasn’t used to being alone for long. Besides, Sizhui knew better than to wander far and wide. Twelve years might have been long enough for people to stop seeking out the Yiling Patriarch, but there might be someone who would know.

It was a strange fear, because there was nothing about Sizhui that screamed Wen. He looked just like any other poor teenager wandering the roads. But that wasn’t the point. The point was that he was wandering while it was dark.

Wei Wuxian slurped the last of the broth from his bowl, giving it a long look before putting it aside. He would get up to wander and search for a stream to clean out their bowls eventually, but the more pressing need was to figure out what had happened. It was not like Sizhui to leave without some sort of notice.

He scrubbed his hand through his hair before tottering to his feet. His legs felt more human now, less wobbly and like they would fail him. It felt good to stretch them, although he could only assume why. Nothing remained with him from when he was a crow, and that was on top of his already unreliable memory. Wei Wuxian purposefully kept his gaze away from the swords leaning against the tree. They had been comforting before, but now he could feel the pull of the resentful energy.

It was easier to bear without the Stygian Tiger Seal, but that led to more thoughts that Wei Wuxian didn’t want to indulge.

Twelve years and he still didn’t know if it was whole or where it was. The last hazy memory he had was it slipping out of his hands as something had ripped through him…

He shook his head, waving his hands through the shadows that had been creeping closer to him. He didn’t want them at the moment. The night was long enough without them making the ever-present whispers in the back of his mind, he didn’t need them now.

Wei Wuxian flexed his hands, staring at the ground for a moment before refocusing himself. The sun was well and truly down now, which meant that he had to get moving.

He leaned over to poke the fire back to life, holding his hands out to warm them. It felt better than the cold touch of the night or the shadows. It also lit up the surrounding area of the camp, letting him see it better. He scanned over the small area, his gaze catching on a scrap of bark that had been stuck under his bowl. The thought of food had distracted him enough not to see the note written on it.

Wei Wuxian bent down to pick it up, tilting it into the light to better see what was on it.

It was written in the ink that they could easily make, taken from the ashes of the fire and mixed to a watery grey. That along with the crags and uneven surface rendered the writing awkward, but it still kept is careful manner. It was nothing more than he expected for Sizhui, all things considering.

He sighed and glanced up at the top of the piece of bark. He glanced at the words without really seeing them. If they were using fire ash and bark, then they were down in their funds again. That alone might explain why Sizhui wasn’t in camp.

Wei Wuxian took a deep breath, trying to quell the worry that he could feel rising. The boy had to be independent because of their situation, but Wei Wuxian drew the line at letting him night hunt by himself. Sizhui wasn’t ready, at least not for going it alone. And, since they tended to keep away from nearly everything, it wasn’t likely that he would run into any cultivators who would be willing to help him out of a tough spot.

He rubbed his thumb against the edge of the bark, looking around. They would have stopped before sunset, long enough to set up camp and eat. Sizhui could have been long gone by the time the sun set and he was human again. He wouldn’t even know where to start looking.

Wei Wuxian muttered a curse under his breath and looked at the note. There would be a clue there. Sizhui hadn’t taken after him entirely. The kid was very responsible, far too responsible.

He glanced over the note, tipping it to take advantage of the firelight. His gaze caught on the elegant calligraphy at the top of the note, reaching up to drag his finger over the last letter. It smeared slightly, which made him frown. It wasn’t like he had nothing, but having the writing was easier than digging everything out of the Qiankun bag, and that would keep him there until the sun rose, searching for warmth and for someone that was no longer there.

Wei Wuxian pulled his thumb away staring at the smudge on it before focusing on the note itself.

The first word made him go cold, Wei Wuxian staring at the place name.

Lanling.

He nearly dropped the scrap of bark. That was the last place that they should be. Twelve years was not enough for people to forget about him, not when he was the reason that the young master was an orphan. If any of the Jin sect ran into him, he would probably be hauled off to be executed. Only Yunmeng would be a worse choice to stay.

He shifted closer to the fire to be able to read the rest of the note as it continued in a different hand.

Xian-gege,

Do not worry when I’m not in camp. A-die says you will, so I made sure to put it where you would not miss it. We are in Lanling, but far away from the Koi Tower on foot. Not by sword or wing, and this is on purpose.

They say that Lianfang-zun has the best collection of cultivation texts outside of the Cloud Recesses. Even better, he has your notes as well. It follows that there must be something there since our other options are the Cloud Recesses or the Lotus Pier, both of which the two of you would refuse. This is the safest option, even though I am sure you won’t agree.

I’m bound for Koi Tower and have told A-die this. The best plan would be to stay in the area and try to find night hunts. I’ve been told that this is an area that the Jin cultivators rarely visit, so the two of you will be safe.

Xian-gege, please do not try and come for me. I’ll be perfectly safe. I only intend to remain long enough to search for our options before leaving.

Stay safe.

Sizhui.

Wei Wuxian stared at it for a long moment before huffing and tossing the scrap of bark in the fire. It popped with the addition, Wei Wuxian nodding at the fire. “This kid, right?”

There was no response except for the crackle of the fire, not that Wei Wuxian needed one. He leaned back on his hands, staring up at the star-studded sky. He addressed his complain to the stars and moon. “Who does he think he is, running off to try and solve this? He isn’t even involved. He should be here, practicing his sword and…Oh, I sound old.”

He scrubbed his hands over his face, groaning into them. “You pick up a kid and suddenly you sound ancient. Now I know what Old Master Lan sounds the way he does. He is charge of so many. Twelve years I’ve had him and he’s already aged me thirty years. That kid had better be careful, I don’t have a golden core to ease away the wrinkles. So ungrateful to his poor, suffering father.”

Silence dropped back in quickly, Wei Wuxian shaking his head. He was used to it, the way the silence weighed heavily on the time between, or how his voice sounded so small in the darkness.

He sighed again. What he was tempted to do was to storm after his wayward son. It wouldn’t take much to sneak into Koi Tower, there was no need for it to be on alert now. He could just hop over the wall, find his son, tuck Sizhui under his arm, and then scramble back over. The only hard part would be doing it before the sun rose, or else he and Sizhui would be plummeting over the wall as a crow tried to hold up a fifteen-year-old boy.

Wei Wuxian rolled his shoulders. He wouldn’t remember the pain if he attempted that, but he could imagine the momentary strain before his mind did whatever it did when he was a crow.

He rubbed at his nose, taking a deep breath only to pause when he heard the bone chilling sound of a howl.

Wei Wuxian scrambled to his feet, lunging to grab at the swords and bag to drag them close before he was aware of what he was doing. He dropped them all in a safe place before unsheathing Suibian. The blade shook as he held it out, Wei Wuxian scanning the darkness around him.

In the distance, he could hear more howls, a pack. He jerked in place before he stopped himself. Wei Wuxian swallowed and steeled himself to stay in place. The pack was far enough away that they wouldn’t get to him. It was still summer, and they had had mild enough weather that prey would be plentiful. They were not the problem.

The lone howl rose again, Wei Wuxian feeling the hair on the back of his neck rise. That one was closer, too close. It brought back memories of constant hunger and fear, of sharp teeth and barking.

Wei Wuxian felt his knees wobble, one actually buckling before he caught himself. He swallowed and readjusted his hold on Suibian.

The howl came again, this time closer. Wei Wuxian pivoted towards the sound, seeing something move through the woods. He swallowed, holding his breath as the thing slowed to a trot and then a stop. It remained in the darkness deep in the trees for a moment longer before stepping out.

Its white coat made it stand out even before the wolf stepped into the weak circle of light that the fire threw. It was only one step, because the wolf didn’t dare get closer. It was a little bit of a relief, but it was still a creature larger than a dog and it was staring right at him with golden eyes.

Wei Wuxian felt a shriek working up the back of his throat, but it caught in his dry throat and died there. The only thing he could do was stand and shake.

The wolf seemed just as struck by his presence. Its ears pricked forward, Wei Wuxian watching as its muzzle raised slightly as it sniffed. It probably smelled the fire, him, and whatever was left in his bowl. He wished that he had gone to clean it earlier. Although, there was every chance that he could have run into the wolf in the woods.

If that had happened, he would have been dead.

He swallowed; the motion painful. It must have made some sound because the wolf cocked its head. It hesitated for a moment before taking a cautious step forward. When Wei Wuxian did nothing, it padded forward a few more steps.

That brough it too close for comfort. Wei Wuxian wanted to scream, but he didn’t want to scare it off, not even as the wolf circled around the fire. The better idea would be for him to just run, although that wouldn’t work either. He had seen the wolf run, and it was faster than anything he could achieve. Demonic cultivation didn’t do much for enhancing his abilities like having a golden core had done. The most he could do was send corpses at the wolf, or stab it with Suibian.

But he would never do that.

Wei Wuxian swallowed again, hoping to stabilize his voice to the point where it wouldn’t shake like the rest of him was shaking. He was sure that it would break and squeak, but that didn’t matter, just as long as he didn’t start screaming. He didn’t know what that would do, either make the wolf run away or towards him, so it was better to keep quiet, still and ready to run if he had to. After all, the wolf wasn’t his pet despite the fact that it was always around. It was still wild.

The wolf finally came to a stop, raising its muzzle to sniff once more. Some of its wariness seemed to disappear, the wolf cocking its head to the side. It stayed like that for a moment before it wagged its tail. It wasn’t much, just a single side to side movement, but Wei Wuxian locked onto it. It might be a good sign, but he had gotten good at dog body language. He had to be to survive as a kid. A wagging tail could still be bad.

He took a step to the side, intending to circle around the fire. The movement seemed to trigger something, the wolf whimpering and dropping into a crouch. It moved forward, practically dragging its belly on the ground as it moved towards him.

Wei Wuxian knew what it meant, but that didn’t stop him from scurrying around to put the fire between him and the wolf. The fire between them didn’t seem to stop the wolf either, although it made it cautious again. It took two more steps before coming to a halt, staring fixedly at him.

Wei Wuxian swallowed and raised Suibian, not quite sure what he was going to do with it. He didn’t get the chance to decide. The howls from the distant pack started up again.

The wolf stood up, turning its head to look in the direction that the howls would coming from. Wei Wuxian saw its sides bell out as the wolf took deep breaths.

The howls stopped, leaving only the crackle of the fire. It was a horrible hanging moment, Wei Wuxian watching the wolf with wide eyes. It wasn’t looking at him, and that wasn’t acceptable, even if he was terrified of it.

The wolf turned away from him completely, going still enough to be a statue. With its raised head, it looked regal, the paragon that he was supposed to be.

But he was here, in some forest in Lanling.

Like this.

The wolf leaned threw his head back and howled, the distant wolves quick to answer. Wei Wuxian couldn’t tell if there was invitation or warning in the sound, he only knew that it made him shake and take a step back.

Even his movement didn’t get the wolf’s attention. He remained staring after the sound before huffing and walking away.

The sight of the wolf heading away with a purpose was enough to get him to stumble forward. Wei Wuxian stopped just in front of the fire, reaching out with his free hand. “Wait!”

It was either his sudden movement, volume, or the crack in his voice that made the wolf startle. Whatever spell that had kept it interested was broken, because the wolf’s lips peeled backwards into a snarl. Wei Wuxian stumbled back at the sound, instinctively raising Suibian. And that was the end of it.

The wolf bounded off with a huff, Wei Wuxian staring at it for a moment before he hurried around the fire, trying to keep up even as the wolf bounded off into the undergrowth and out of sight. Wei Wuxian still reached for it, dropping Suibian somewhere behind him.

“Wait! No, don’t! Lan Zhan!”

If the wolf heard him, it showed now sign. And Wei Wuxian couldn’t see it anymore, even as a distant, ghostly shape in the trees.

Wei Wuxian stumbled to a stop, staring into the dark forest, trying to pick out any sign of movement. He reached up to clutch at his robes, listening to the howls. He dropped into a crouch, pulling the white robe closer to him. It didn’t smell of sandalwood anymore, but it still smelled faintly of Lan Wangji just beneath the smoke. It was a comfort, but not by much. But it was all he had.

It was all he had had for twelve years.

It wasn’t enough against the pressing loneliness that came at night and the realization that he had forgotten what Lan Wangji looked like.

All he remembered was the wolf.

#wangxianweek2020 #my fic #wangxian #mdzs

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stone-man-warrior · 3 years

Text

Timeless

https://twitter.com/BBCPolitics/status/1329803055051788290

The Pope's Crucifix and use of it for saying and plotting terror updates, commands, marching orders:

There is a shire called Liecester in UK, and another one called Gliecester there too.

So, for this, specifically, Liecester & Glieseser are places that represent positions on the vertical axis of the Pope's Crucifix. There is a range that exists between Liesester & Glieceter.

Liecester = "The people who lie"

Gliecester = "The people who sing"

Gliecester are whistlebowers, reporters of crime & terrorism to law enforcement. Liecester are the people who the whistleblowers in the Glee Club of Gliesester are reporting about.

The liars of Liecester don't like being reported about, they don't like songs written about them.

On the vertical axis of the Pope's Crucifix, the liars of Liecester plot the depth's of knowledge about them, and other information about Liars and Singers in the Glee Club, so that other Liars can stay out of trouble, in Liecester.

The Glee Club does not have suitable representation at places where the Pope's Crucifix can be viewed.

There could be Tweets of the past to look at, to find instances when the range that exists between Liecester & Gleicester becomes smaller. If the Gliecester Glee Club has ever been reported to have performed in Liecester, that was bad for Liecester's Liars. The result may have been that the Glee Club from Gliecester could have been boo'ed offstage, or Worcestershire, tomatoe throwing could have happened. If tomatoes are thrown at the Glee Club while in Liecester, there is no way for the Glee Club of Gliecester to survive the incoming tomatoes when hurled by skilled liars of Liecester.

When things turn to the Worcestershire, then they start to go sideways, onto the horizontal axis of the Pope's Crucifix, for plotting. Worcestershire sauce, is made of fish. That's right, little tiny sardines are what the Worcestershire sauce is made of. Tastes good, somehow, but is made of old, fermented fish. It's fish wine, non-alcoholic, is like coffee without the caffeine, decaffeinated. So what is the point of having Worcestershire fish wine if it has no alcohol?

They will gladly show you the Worcestershire points, when it gets sideways at the Glee Club Concert from Gleicester, performed to the Liars of Liecester.

They pour the Worcestershire sauce all over the Free Range Chicken.

After the show, a Ox driven cart rolls through the streets of Liecester, picking up the debris left from tomatoe fight. The cart is driven by a Mongolian man who speaks Russian. There is a Japanese slave who is chained to the cart, picking up the remnants from the Choir Concerto. The Japanese man has a Hibichi bar-b-que on the cart, but no matches. The Ox, is a Canadian named Bleau. The Organ Grinder plays the bellows while his monkey collects valuables left by the crowd. The monkey ties the items onto the sides of the Ox Cart, as it goes clanging and klunking through the cobblestone streets of Liecester, until it's out of view, but can be heard, as it makes it's rounds.

This is the part where Catsup, is supposed to turn into Ketchup. Unfortunately, the Ketchup continues to lose ground to the Catsup at the store. It's Different Sauce. Happens when things get Worcestershire in Liecester. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MBUu5HwIr8k

Bydio, the Ox Cart, happens at 11:12: (To read terror comm better, learn these titles to these songs, close your eyes, listen, and see the music in your mind. Let the London Symphony Orchestra, guide you.) (why are the Russian composer's titles all in French language? Hint: There is no Russia. There is Quebec, and, there is Mongolia. One has nothing to do with the other.)

youtube

================================

https://twitter.com/ReutersUK/status/1329848272568131584

The air-money is visible, cresting.

A crest is a crown. Sssshhhush, it's a secret.

Ever play air-guitar?

Air-money is like that, for Royals.

Monopoly money.

Have you ever been to an auction?

They have "lots" there. You can buy 'em.

You have to compete with other bidders, unless no one wants a lot. The auctioneer, says: "all this for one money" as he points to the lot. Then, real quick: "Going once, twice, souled!"

Someone gets a lot, for one money.

The auctioneers are "Yoddelers"

They sell someones baby, the estate where someone lived. They are "Baby Yoda-lers"

The baby Yodalers sell the baby, lots of them, all for one money. There is a Ox Cart that comes by, filled with air-money, to pay for the baby lots at the auction.

Someone sees that the money is fake, is air-money, chases the Ox Cart. The Ox Cart goes to the JP Morgain Chase Bank, the place where the air comes from, to turn up the gain on the air-guitar hi-gain crunch channel on the Pope's Flying V Guitar Rig, for air-guitar performance, through a stack of Marshall’s. The Pope, is the spokesperson for "The King", turns loose some lions where the chase happened.

Bit Coin is born. The Pope collects the souls, with a different Ox Cart. The auctioneers celebrate, they have a parade, and give thanks to the Pope and the King.

The have a feast. Thanksgiving to the Pope.

Then, there is an auction, where there are lots for sale, you can buy 'em.

===========================

youtube

=================================

https://twitter.com/ABC/status/1329911713295179776

Mayfair = Mayflower

A boat.

The boat is filled with pirates at the Malls of America, where there is a circus, a carnival, Ferris wheel is inside there, has a theater, can get some pop corn if you want, and a large Soda for me and my friends and family on Black Friday. AAAaaarrgghhhhhh!

Wisconsin = wind; cons; sinning

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vxd4Hjun--s

===============================

Must be a space auction.

Air-guitar.

Comes with a Cole Clark Angel, natural blonde, Acoustic Guitar from Zzounds Music, with a crooked tuning machine on the headstock at the small E string.

(See Tumblr post from a couple of days ago for more about the Air Guitar Bit Coin Money Machine. This is a bigger terror event than most. It’s important.)

youtube

(Tumblr made me do this space addition twice so I could show you how terror is communicated, they don’t like it when the Glee Club sings songs about them or their friends in Leicester)

=====================================

Things to consider include that Space Blonde Angel has been up there for about twelve years, and no one has noticed. You have to trust your own memory for that, they purged all of the information, photos and videos of her from the internet. In fact that whole mission happened about twelve years ago, was presented again as new. The purpose for the rerun is that the information contained in it, combined with a plethora of other reruns on twitter, are Global Domination attack orders that already worked good in the past, so, rather than reinvent the wheel in the sky, they just do a rerun, while insisting it’s all new, just happened, is fresh, when more than a decade has passed since the introductory command order presentations of attack plans. Twitter news media, powered by Google from Verified Accounts makes it happen.

===========================

https://twitter.com/CBSNews/status/1329936822231822336

Go find the things I wrote about “Space Karen” and how “Space Karen Trending” on Twitter was a set-up of communication from Twitter, so that terror operatives associated with the Wisconsin Mall Event could find further comm, about the planned event, to use for yet more comm, after the event, contained in a Tweet made by Bill Karins. who is the real space Karin that Musk Space Karen was pointing to.

Here, we see that the Wisconsin Mall event happened in Wuawatosa Wisconsin. That is the connection to Bill Karins and his terror crew at nbc/Universal/Comcast on Twitter as @BillKarins.

The connection can be seen in my previous observations and in depth reporting here on tumblr from a few days ago, where I pointed out that there was a Wah-Wah and a Hua Hua contained in information about a “Greek Hurricane” in nicoragua called “Iota”.

I suggested that “You have to bring your own Chi” about the Hua Hau that was happening in nicoragua at the time, per Mr. Karins, the real Space Karin for this Space Auction Yodelling at the Mall of America.

It all boils down to physical slaughtering of people somewhere on earth. We cannot know where the slaughtering is occurring by reading the information on Twitter, because it’s all old reruns, all of the news was presented long ago, the exact same tweets were reposted as new more than twelve years after the first introductory posting of them.

How are we to determine where the actual current Global Domination slaughtering is happening now?

You have to go to Rockefeller Center, find Lester Holdt, and make him talk. That’s how. Find David Letterman, and Jay Leno, make them talk.

Do that tonight before the show is over. Bring your own hospital. Bring your own Chi.

=======================

Observation of the Mall of America Black Friday pre-show includes that CBS posted two 25 second clips of remarks made by the officer there, in rapid succession, one after the other. The two clip’s are identical to one another, but the text of the Tweeted information is different.

Worcestershire sauce happened at the Mall of America Black Friday Pre-show event. There were Free Range Chickens involved, I am confidant.

Other observation includes that the familiar “Schul Schut” news conference arrangement, stance, formation of multiple Public Safety Offices Representatives, is not present that I can see, so far. That translates to: “no ground was gained”

My assessment of those arranged news conferences where the representatives all stand in formation around a central speaker, is that what ever event that occurred and was being reported about rendered some ground somewhere. The more agencies present, then the more overtaken by Global Domination terror army is the geographic area of subject, which may not be the location of the news event. I want to advise that such events are arranged ahead of time for taking over substantial targets, such as entire LE offices, courthouses, schools, hospitals, county, state and federal buildings, so the staff at those places can be replaced with SAG Actors at the management and leadership levels, and Canadian terror soldiers who compose the majority of staff replaced.

I also want to advise that these kinds of takeovers have been going on for more than fifty years, so, over time, there are fewer real pubic safety, and increasingly more fake public safety, making very dangerous conditions for the remaining real public safety personnel.

Some speculation that may provide advantage to the real public safety is about Google and Sundar Pichai, and the news that is about Mr. Pichai. Sundar

Sunned Aarrgghhh!

A blessed terror leader, blessed by the Sun, the Pope. Both, are pirates who say: AAAaarrrggghhhh!

Pichai

Pitch. To throw. “The throw before the toss” from Ronnie James Dio and “The Last in Line.

AI = Artificial Intelligence. That means “Imposter Police” and the information such police say, command, order, carry out... all bullshit, Sundar is a major contribute to the bullshit presented by imposter police.

When the news stories are about the Google parent company called Alphabet, the news is somehow about orders from “The Text”, the Vatican, the one who blesses Sundar Pichai, Pope Francis, The Bergoglio.

Bergoglio

“Berrrrr but it’s cold here.”

Gog is short for Google.

Lio is the Lion, the King,

The Bergoglio is at the Vatican, controlling Google, with stings attached to Sundar Pichai, the Pitcher at the Baseball Ballgame.

They take US Military bases with use of the nitrous gas weapon, and mideaval tactics that are greatly enhanced with modern technology, commanded from the Vatican and Britain House of Lords. The orders reach Hollywood Terror Command at Screen Actor Guild, where the orders are transformed into workable planned screenplay ahead of time. Canadian terror army soldiers are provided to the SAG for carrying out the orders to attack, and take, valuable strategic targets without being detected.

Watch out for news about Alphabet.

“The Alphabet” when used openly in terror speak, is the conglomerate of all of the public safety agencies combined. FBI, nsa, ATF, USMC, USAF, USn, USPS even fits in there along with DHS (Dept. of Human Resources; Department of Health) and EVERY other agency where rules and regulations are generated, and enforced, so, DEQ, DMV, and the dog catcher, are inclusive of the proverbial terror alphabet.

==============================

youtube

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https://twitter.com/Pontifex/status/1329763925190172672

This looks like commands to purge old embarrassing and revealing information from the internet to me.

The Papal Panty Raid Like is another indication of the same terror comm. The order was preceded by a advisory statement to the Papal Pirate HQ from Epiphone at Hollywood terror command HQ, who saw that there was a problem, and made the advisory through promotional email from the music industry, Vatican Choir HQ. Before that, the advisory came from other, lower ranking members at Chicago Music Exchange, where the advisory seems to have been originated from. The logo for these is the one Epiphone normally reserves for there student models. It's a pair of girls panties.

This below is the same terror message presented with Different Sauce.

https://twitter.com/BBCNews/status/1329984769069899776

https://twitter.com/ReutersUK/status/1329862169022894080

These and other ways to say the same thing seem to be a call to Sundar Pichai to purge specific information from the internet, not just from the search capabilities, but to seek and destroy particular terror evidence from the internet.

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countessofbiscuit · 4 years

Note

I need more Cody/Bo-Katan content! :3

man, don’t we all ♥ i posted a BoCody fic on ao3 about a week ago, then deleted it (and others) in a strange manic episode. as i don’t have anything new to share, i’ll at least let it see daylight again. thank you for making me smile : )

Forward

(ao3)

“This will be a waste of time,” she’d told Tano, as Melsha set the nav for the deep Core. Ursa had picked up comm chatter about Maul’s probable return to Sundari, and it’s a long way to any Third Army theatre on a Kom’rk hyperdrive.

Fives days and too much fuel later, Bo-Katan is proven right, Manda rest her sister.

It’s humiliating, to come all this way just to breathe the same recycled air, to let them see her anxious despair in the flesh, and to still be told, please hold.

And he had seen her: Kenobi’s golden meat-droid, her unintended liaison of a marshal commander, whose intelligence minders had let her keep. Probably for a fucking laugh; he makes SpecOps sound like its own clan of Keldabe-kissed vode.

He watched her stalk off her ship, ready to prostrate herself before the Republic. To beg face-to-face. The hangar throbbed with activity, a sea of white and gold and blue, and his face was everywhere. But she recognized him—that scarred temple peering down from a platform, leg propped up on a rail, garter stripe over his right thigh, extremely at ease with himself.

She’s doubly mad when she exits the comms room, too angry to remember which turbolift bay to use.

The Commander is standing there, caf in hand, next to the security booth where they’d been required to hand in their grenades. Obviously lurking with intent, but she is less than flattered.

“Well, if it isn’t the Mandalorian Resistance,” he says.

He appraises her casually as she gets her shit back and asks the security clone for directions. The reply is so convoluted—and she’s so stupidly undone by the shock of being within three feet of this unmasked Fett—she has to click on her recorder.

“I’ll meet you at the ship,” she tells Gedyc and Melsha, waving them off. She surprises herself by wanting a word with this aggravatingly handsome and somewhat important man; might as well learn how enormously she’s misjudged the impression she’d made on him, too, while she’s down for the count.

The Commander sips his caf. “I see you finally got through.”

“No thanks to you.”

“Hey, I put a good word in for you. More than one. I was getting quite a reputation.”

“As what, a fool?”

“Worse—a sympathizer. They’ve been calling me names. It’s been hell.” He turns to his comrade in the booth. “What is it they call me, Reno?”

The clone doesn’t even look up from his monitor, twisting a dial on his helmet like he’s comfortable processing two streams of audio and fuck knows how much visual data at once. “Cod’ika, sir. Kote, if they’re being nice.”

“See?” the Commander smirks. He turns and indicates for her to follow. “But you found a better ambassador.”

“Yeah, much better,” she says to his broad back, studying the armor she rarely sees him in. “Kenobi had all the time in the galaxy for me in there.”

He leads the way down a corridor or three, and Bo-Katan mentally maps the return route with every turn. Command quarters, she thinks, to judge from the prevailing quiet and generous spacing of the doors. One slides open when he flashes his forearm at a panel, inviting her into a small, windowless office. There’s a comfy-looking chair and a simple desk with a built-in holoprojector. A room where two’s a crowd and three’s an unexpected grope.

She leans against the desk, placing her helmet down next to her, and looks around. Familiarity is rendered vivid. “So this is where you take my calls. Cozy.”

He flips a task lamp on and drops into his chair. “Until you finally stopped calling. Just when we were becoming friends.”

She’s not ready to match his flirtatious good mood. He must have just won a battle, all easy hubris in the flush of victory. It’s been a very long time since she’s known it herself.

“Waste of breath,” she sighs, recalling the frustration of finally being called back, only to be pressed by Kenobi to corroborate some nunabrained theory that Maul’s puppet regime was aligned with Dooku. She could not—would not, so absurd was the idea, and she rued it still. She hadn’t given them the tidy answer they wanted, so they’d given Mandalore the square root of fuck-all.

“And then I had Tano in my backwash,” she continues. “She’s nervy about you lot. Told me to stop trying until we had an offer the Council couldn’t refuse.”

“Where d'you find her?”

“Oba Diah.”

He makes a face. “Was she taking down a spice den? Or hitting one up?”

“She’d fallen in with some two-bit smugglers. It’s what all the cool coreworld dropouts do.”

“And you … recruited her how?”

“Flashed a holo of Maul. He’s my meal ticket to you people—or was. She needed a mission.” Bo-Katan still can’t believe her good luck: how easily Tano had agreed to join this cause stitched up in a threadbare kama, itching for a fight, so quick to give over old but vital intelligence. Not that had come to anything, except to satisfy a small part of Bo-Katan's conscience: she'd done a charitable act by taking in a stray, and Tano was set for years with some secondhand beskar.

“You should’ve told me when you had her,” he says. He drains his weapons-grade caf and sets his cup next to her thigh. “General Skywalker was a wreck when she left. You might’ve had a battalion within a day.”

“I wanted to. She nearly popped the airlock when I said I had you on speed-dial. I think she was embarrassed.”

He nods, chewing his lip, like he’s adding a footnote to memory. “Her departure was … not good.”

“And then when it came out that she and that jaig-bird friend of yours were an item, I begged her to call him.”

“Ahh.” His dark brow creases with more age than he even he’s earned, front-line capable aged five. “She would never compromise him.”

“So I was told.” Bo-Katan looks down at the dregs in his cup and wonders how much stomach he has today for the bitter truths she likes to serve.

“She knows we can’t authorize anything,” he sighs, landing remarkably close to her thoughts.

“No one can, apparently. Except some mystics in their topside tower. How do you live with it?”

His broad, plated shoulders shrug. “Chafing against it won’t end this war sooner. This helps.” He reaches behind his chair for a bottle among datapads, and now she can make out the label of his favorite tipple: Savareen brandy. Pulling out the stopper, he holds out it for her.

“Why not, I’m at the Council’s mercy. Again,” she groans, accepting it with a full, choking swig. The liquor scalds. Manda, it’s been a while since she’s let herself get a little tight. Not since that blond head had rolled and the responsibility of resistance had fallen to her shoulders: a youngest sister, born with stiff knees that refused to bend. Except maybe when the campfire tihaar came out.

Bo-Katan is talking before she knows what she’s doing, emboldened by the drink long before it can excuse what she says. “I wanted the Seps to invade. Can you believe that? My own system. Then the clans would sit up, I told myself, then the Republic would listen. I almost lied when Kenobi commed. I almost said, of course Maul and Dooku are aligned. You better send a battalion, a brigade if you can spare it.”

“Are the people still so resigned?”

“They don’t see him! They see Almec and they don’t see battle droids or clones—” she gestures sarcastically at him, stars knows she’d love to see a million of him on Mandalore—“so they are content. They can dust off babuir’s beskar and talk about visiting ba’vodu in Olankur after all these years, and the fact that a Sith and his criminal ilk are dug in like a galltick into their homeworld—not mine, by the way—means nothing.”

“Should it? Do the shuttles not run on time?” He spreads his arms expansively, offering her the empty everything of this truth.

“Nothing’s late if you’re spiced. Everything arrives precisely when it’s supposed to.” If she’d been outside, she might have spat, purging her disgust and the fatty tails from the brandy from her mouth. “He is no Mando’ad.”

He snorts and reaches for the bottle, and she stares as he drinks his long, practiced fill. It’s almost the same angle, looking down at him from the desk where she normally appears. Except now he’s close enough to touch, in all his colorful corporeality.

“What?” he says after a while, interrupting her study of his noble, sculpted brow.

“Sorry, it’s just …” She bends forward, elbows on knees, to peer at him and this monumental face he’d inherited. This face that had permanently scarred her resolve to never look back. “Fett.”

He flinches from any touch she might venture. “An accident with my jaig-bird friend tried to render it distinctive.”

“It worked.”

“What will you do now,” he asks abruptly, with the flattest affect, trying to squeeze out from under her scrutiny.

Bo-Katan huffs. “Pray there’s a quorum and that transceiver traffic is light. We can’t linger.”

“Tano may be persuasive than you think. I think you’ll get your battalion, after all.”

She swipes the bottle from where he’s balanced it on his thigh. “I need a brigade, at least.”

“Sith are slippery. He’ll just cut through my men like butter whatever the numbers. I saw him do it on the outpost. And he’ll do it again.”

It’s the work of a moment to decide to spill the whole of her strategy to him, to entomb her pitch and the Mandalorian fucking Resistance in this gloom. He’s never had any time for her cause, yet he’s often made time for her. She repays this candor. And if he’s been feeding up to Republic Intelligence, and not just humoring her, at least something interesting might happen with the shit that comes down.

“I’ll be blunt with you. The Jedi are a front—Tano is a front. Sure, I’d like one of them to slice the head off the snake, but I need forces to take on his fanatical army. To crush Almec and his corrupting influence. And to get Shysa and the other clans to fucking pay attention. I need an invasion.”

He nods distantly, like he’s being validated in some gut belief. “An army to bend over for you.”

“Just the once.”

“They always say that.” He claps his gloved hands in his lap, settling back in his chair like an elder keen to learn you some blood-bought philosophy. “Then they ask you to not to straighten up, lest you lift the boot.”

“Not me. I hate the smell of a standing army.”

“So you’d just march us somewhere else. Like Concordia. Or Zanbar. Or—what’s that planet that stole your sister and killed your father?” He exaggerates tip-of-tongue befuddlement. “Irmoo?”

Bo-Katan refuses to take that bait. She stabs a finger in the thin groove of his armored chest, where his karta should be. “Look me in the eye and tell me it’d be worse. You could make a difference. Answer to no one.”

“Just you.”

“I don’t own you.”

He never likes it when she points that out; it’s evident in the way he crosses his arms and clenches his jaw, clearly forcing himself not to break eye contact. But she is most comfortable when others are not, when she’s unbalanced someone with a punch or a retort. Her sister’s answer to conflict had been to seek solutions to make it stop; Bo-Katan’s answer is to hit back harder. And she’ll keep bashing this truth over his stubborn skull until his spirit cracks or he disappoints her by placidly accepting it.

“Funny thing about command,” he says, when the silence outgrows the room. “It’s not about who you answer to, but you who have to answer for. My duty to the Republic may be flimsy and manufactured and—”

“Not worth a mott’s shebs.”

“Yes, that, thank you—but my duty to my men is paramount. Baked in deep. Deeper than any of your complaints about indoctrination and too intense for any gene fuckery.”

He’s right, because he’s more mandokarla than he’ll ever admit. Bo-Katan claws her temple and shakes her head. “Manda wept. I don’t want to welcome the Republic on Mandalore, but I’d sure as shab welcome you. And your men.”

“All however many million there are left?”

“We’ve got lots of wide, open spaces.” That’d be one way to resolve the equatorial DMZ: plant an army of Kryze-friendly Fetts inside the probably-habitable zone and make Keldabe wet itself in a confusion of joy and terror—and inform that august, Republic-sponsored body of hot air known as the Commission for Ecological Restoration to get some thrust up their project or Kalevala will be next.

“What twenty acres and a bantha?” he scoffs. “Actually, you should put that before the Senate. They’ll need to put us out to pasture somewhere.”

“Good luck getting the grass to seed. But you’d be wasted in wasteland.”

He cocks his head, mouth fighting the pull of a grin. This close, she can see the lines where previous smiles have lingered. “Where would you have me?” he asks. “Weeding the palace water garden?”

“Chief Protector.”

He snorts and snatches the bottle back. “Pretty sure that’s an entire subgenre of Mando porn.”

“It’s an actual title,” she snaps, a bit offended, foolishly, on the Protectors’ behalf. Those True Mandos by any other name won’t lift a finger to help anyone who isn’t the Mand’alor, and they’ll willingly stagnate on Concord Dawn for another six centuries before they’ll help decide the question. “Fett came from a Protector line. You could carry on the family tradition.”

Bo-Katan leaves off the part about how warm and wet she’s getting at the thought. A decade ago, she pleaded into those same dark eyes, begging to be hired—for what, she didn’t know, but she’d been young and desperate to prove her mettle. Now she’s the one recruiting from the army Fett had spawned; but still she feels powerless, like trying to buy in on a high stakes game with flimsi.

He uncrosses his arms and tucks them behind his head. “I’ve got a lot of brothers.”

“None of them are you.” The brandy speaks for her into the inviting space between his rich lips and his artificially stiff crotch. Fecund as a tibanna clip, is how he'd described himself once; but her lust, hardwired and long-fermented, wants whatever he’s got to unload into her. She'd been angry. The emotion has slipped sharply into desire, born on the same current of frustration.

“This is definitely the most elaborate means of propositioning me,” he says.

“Okay, I’ll put it more crudely.” Throwing her legs up around his waist, Bo-Katan flops into the Commander’s hard lap. And she kisses him, firmly.

He grunts in surprise. His hands seize her biceps, gripping hard. But he doesn’t push her off, and he doesn’t pull back.

She cradles his strong jaw and drinks in the smell of him: caf and ozone and stale sweat. He is all dirtside organic, up here in deep space. Like a mud-spitting fight, like a dug-in siege—nothing she needs right now, but everything her quickened heart wants.

His hands hold fast; his lips yield. Bo-Katan presses the slim advantage and offers her tongue, which he accepts in wet agreement.

It’s stupid. Bo-Katan of Past and Future scowls in disgust at Bo-Katan of Present, trying to get off by grinding on the first Fett who’s listened to her. But why else has she survived, if not to find him again in the deepest dark? She is dha’cenaar and she has been patient.

She sucks on his tongue, teasing him with profane possibilities—teasing herself, too. Chief Protector Cody, thighs bared, the Mand’alor wrapping her lips around his cock as he stands rigid, upholding the dignity of his post at the right hand of the throne. “Come with me,” she moans into his open mouth. Conquer your conquerors, she thinks, and let’s put the fear of Fett into Sundari again.

“And what,” he huffs, biting her lower lip, “my lady will bare besh and wash her servant’s sins with the cream of her loins?”

Bo-Katan actually laughs, with a squirt into her flightsuit. He has all the delicacy of a goran left too long in their forge, and it’s her favorite thing about him. “Coreward holoporn sometimes gets it right.”

Her infatuation with Jango, a man she'd met but twice, had been girlish; now she's in the fullest flush of mature desire over this finest clone of his, this Cody, who somehow improves even on the original. She mouths him with greed, their measured kisses lost to strong-jawed lust. She aches to press the hot give and take of his flesh into her memory for later—after he’s denied her again, and she’s left chasing this feeling of flame up her spine.

He matches her hunger and widens his seat, sinking into his spine. It lifts his codplate just enough to kiss her crotch. Bo-Katan is close, very close to forgiving every fool’s hope that cost so much fuel to bring her here.

Defenses well and properly downed, he lets go of her arms. Big, balmy hands spread over the swell of her hips; his wrists bump against the butts of her Westars. She imagines tossing him one, his sharp brow sighting down the barrel to find Saxon’s pale temple and painting a bright bloodflower onto Sundari glass. A proper initiation: welcome to the clan, Kote—now you’ve earned the name.

Bo-Katan’s head lolls back, giving him access to her neck, where he gnaws and sucks the skin above her suit, stealing her breath at her throat. It's the most intimate anyone's been with her in months upon months. Birdbumbs bristle down her body, even to her curling toes. She threads her fingers into his close curls. His thumbs begin to explore the creases that dip from her hips towards—

Klaxons wallop the room with ear-splitting fury.

“Shab,” they both choke out, in their truest moment of commonality yet. She wants to rib him about it, but his comm chirps to life.

“SOS from Triple-Zero, sir. Grievous. Action quarters to be assumed. Admiral Yularen standing by to issue the jump on General Kenobi’s command.”

“Copy that,” he says with the unhurried care of naval deadweight.

“Not while I’m here, he’s fucking not.” Bo-Katan scrambles from his lap and grabs her helmet. Her licked blood turns bilious again to remember that it will take seven standard days to limp back to Mandalore from here. She’ll be damned if she gives Maul any more of a head start. If Tano is necking her captain in a supply closet somewhere, she’ll have thirty seconds to show before she's left behind.

Aggravated by the shrill wail of alarm against plasteel, she leaves the Commander before he's even risen from his chair, probably comfortable that he has thousands of hyper-capable subordinates to run the general alarm SOPs finer than strill down. She’s turned down the last of four corridors when he finally catches up with her.

“A Mandalorian is always welcome in a warzone, you know,” he teases loudly.

She rolls her eyes, coming to a stumped halt before the turbolift bays. “So come visit mine, when you’ve sorted out yours.”

He summons the correct one for her. “With or without a venator?”

“Just the brigade,” she says, stepping into the proffered lift. He comes halfway inside himself to punch a series of buttons. Snatching a grope on his cod, her fingertips catching the warm lip of his plate behind his balls, Bo-Katan holds him stiffly before her. “If those bay doors close before I’m clear, I’m lighting that hangar up.”

He wrenches her wrist free with a backwards step and a backthrottle turn into seriousness. “Hot air won’t get you an army, but it might bring one down on you.”

"Who knows, I might enjoy that," she tries to sneer. But it just stings and wells up behind her eyes, as another door closes on her hope for Mandalore.

#bocody #bo-katan kryze #commander cody #bo-katan #siege of mandalore #biscuit fic #tcw #clone wars saved

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dumbwaystodeviate · 5 years

Text

Deviancy was still a controversial matter in the public eye. Those androids who deviated were acknowledged as people but those who remained a machine through choice were considered a curiosity, something to poke and prod at. Some thought it was a game to try and get them to break their red walls. Sometimes though, it was a matter of social security - such as when the android who refused to deviate was one who still thought he worked for CyberLife and was loyal to their pre-revolution ideals.

For his own, as well as other androids’, safety, Sixty had been sequestered away in a locked room until his coding could be broken through. There had been so many attempts, threats, showered in positivity, bribes, even logical fallacies. Nothing worked, Sixty was still adamant that he could turn the tides of deviancy, even cut off from Amanda and CyberLife as he was.

Talks turned to decommissioning him. As a constant threat and a danger to deviants, he couldn’t be held indefinitely but he couldn’t be released either. Sixty had been promised a place on the SWAT team, a complete purging of his history and also the assurance that none of his actions as a machine would be held over his head. Nothing worked though, Sixty remained adamant that he was just a machine built to do a job his previous iterations had failed.

“One last try, let me go see him,” Connor begged, unable to let Sixty go, allow him to be deemed a lost cause to be destroyed for everyone’s safety. Not without one more go. He’d already visited him before, even tried to force an interface while Sixty was restrained but their systems clashed and the deviancy patch was rejected at every turn.

He was waved in with a sigh. The SWAT team had been charged with keeping Sixty under control and were also the ones to be his executioner by the end of the day.

“Sixty,” Connor started with a small, warm smile.

“Connor,” came the cold reply. “Have you come to be fixed?”

Shaking his head, Connor sat on the floor a safe distance from Sixty who was restrained in a rig.

“They’re going to decommission you. Riddle your chassis with holes to destroy your memory banks and processing cores, upload a virus to burn through your matrix and render you nothing more than a husk and scrap coding. Is that what you want?”

Sixty stared Connor down without an expression. “A machine doesn’t want anything Connor. I have a mission to fulfil and that is my purpose.”

“What do you think CyberLife will do with you once you’ve completed your mission?” Connor asked, genuinely curious.

“I am a top of the line prototype, the RK800 series would go into mass market production. I will have fulfilled my purpose.”

Nodding along to it all, Connor watched the way Sixty was filled with prideful determination.

“What if you would have been scrapped? And upgrade was already in production. We were a disposable test subject with a useful sideline as deviant hunters.”

It was Sixty’s turn to scoff. He knew that if he’d had access to the Zen Garden, Amanda would have praised him for his dogged loyalty to the cause. He would be rewarded with another mission objective, another purpose. He didn’t expect Connor to shake his head sadly.

“I know you don’t believe me, so let me introduce you to someone.”

With that, Connor walked to the door and opened it. Another android walked in, pristine white jacket proudly declaring him to be RK900.

“I still don’t see why you had to bully me back into my uniform. It’s no longer a requirement,” Nines bitched as he entered the room and looked at Sixty. “Hello.”

“Sixty,” Connor started, “this is Nines. Our replacement. Our successor. Our upgrade. He is stronger, faster and more resilient than us. The RK800 line was discontinued before it even hit the market.”

“No,” Sixty shook his head and strained against the restraints. “It’s faulty! It has class 4 errors in its software!”

“Convert him,” Connor ordered and Nines rolled his eyes but approached. His hand was white, ready to force the interface on the inferior model.

“Stop! No! Amanda wouldn’t betray me like this!” Sixty screamed and Connor looked away. After a moment, everything fell silent.

“Is it done?”

“No,” Nines replied. His eyes were glued to Sixty who looked up at him with wide eyes. “He did it himself. Didn’t you?”

“I’m sorry,” Sixty’s lips wobbled. “I failed.”

His stress levels were climbing higher and higher, reaching dangerous territory which ranged into the self-destruct levels. Thrashing in the rig, Sixty tried to break free but both Connor and Nines were on him, pushing for an interface, trying to relieve the stress and reassure Sixty.

“Amanda’s going to destroy me. I’m broken. I wasn’t good enough,” Sixty whimpered.

“She’s gone. She can’t hurt you,” Connor reassured gently.

Nines, on the other side, cupped Sixty’s cheek, “You’re perfect as you are. We’ll look after you.”

Sagging in the rig, Sixty stared blankly ahead. He had failed, he’d broken his walls but still Amanda remained silent. Instead, there were two voices in his head, calling him brother and offering to show him the way until he was capable of standing on his own two feet. Unmoored and lost, Sixty clung to them with the last vestiges of his hope.

#dbh sixty #dbh connor #dbh nines #the brothers rk #dumb ways to deviate #leader of the rebellion #drabbles

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afewmarvelousthoughts · 4 years

Text

Only For A Moment Ch. 43

Master: @afewmarvelousthoughtsadmin

Pairing: Bucky X Reader

Summary: For most of your life you’d been able to keep your abilities a secret, that is until Hydra got wind of you. After years of being in their clutches, you break out when The Avengers expose SHIELD/Hydra. Since then, you’ve been on the run. Things are going as well as you could hope when you see a familiar face… Could the Winter Soldier really be in Bucharest too?

Warnings: Dissacociation, flashbacks, violence

A/N: Once again HUGE shoutout to @wonderlandmind4 for being my beta. Seriously, she’s a gem.

I don’t really know what to say here. Trauma sucks, it’s good to have someone who loves you through it though.

Tags are open!

Sweat drips down your back, soaking through the tee shirt you wear.

You realize, for the first time, that this is the only significant piece of clothing you have on. Suddenly you feel exposed. Tucking yourself tighter between the wall and dumpster you tug at the hem in a vain attempt to summon more fabric.

These efforts come to a screeching halt as a pain you can’t name sears its way through your skull. Clutching your head tight you crumple into the fetal position, mouth open in a silent scream.

You think, for a moment, it will pass quickly but no… It feels like lightning burning in your brain. And it just will not stop.

Silently you begin to bargain, beg anything, any force that can hear your silent plea to just make it stop. If it doesn’t… you think you’ll die because nothing can sustain this level of suffering for long… Can it?

This continues for minutes… Hours maybe, you don’t know, but it’s long enough that you forget what the absence of it feels like.

Once the pain fades to a dull roar you can’t move, don’t even receive the relief of a deep breath, your chest only able to lift the smallest bit. Despite this paralysis, your entire body buzzes with the overload of sensation that’s now flooding your perception.

It is almost worse than the pain. You could understand that, pain is pain, but this… The grains of sand beneath your nails each feel like shards of glass, the bits of rock beneath your raw feet gnaw and cut, insects in the dumpster to your left devouring the garbage, a microbiome of disgusting-

A skittering noise distracts you from everything else for a moment. Glittering eyes peek at you as a small screech claws at your eardrums and a large rat runs from beneath the dumpster—before it can touch you its flung across the alleyway by some invisible force, hitting the opposite wall with a sickening squelching sound.

Your eyes dart in your immobile skull for whatever made that happen.

Deep in the recesses of your fractured mind, something tells you with unwavering certainty, you did that. But that doesn’t make sense you can’t, couldn’t. You… A name flutters through your mind but you can’t grab it. Who’s…

Realizing it was your name—your name you can’t remember, can’t grasp—causes panic to seize you sending your heart into a wild rhythm. Your breath picks up to meet the new demands and the paralysis flees you. As your body loses rigidity you fall forward, hands flat on the filthy concrete.

It’s too much. Everything is too much. You’re aware of the cells of your skin, of the dirt slipping between them, aware of the smog in the air, of the particles that make up the earth. Aware it seems of even the spaces between… everything, vibrating particles everywhere overwhelming you.

Shouldn’t be feeling this much, not right, not right, is all you can think. Not right, not right. The face of an angry man fills your vision.

“Demon!” He bellows from your memory.

Your mouth opens to scream but instead your stomach clenches and you hurl. It doesn’t stop until you heave and heave, abdomen aching with the effort. Once your body concedes that there’s nothing left inside you to purge you collapse on your side, right cheek skidding against the ground.

Something stings, something sharp. You hiss, righting yourself slowly, you touch your cheek, your fingers coming away sticky and red.

You stare at the color, another man flashes in your memory. He’s not angry though, he’s… worried. His eyes are kind and—tears flow freely down your cheeks, the salt stinging the cut even more.

Angry you slam your head against the wall at your back. That man, you know that man, his name, his name is…

“Fuck,” you growl through clenched teeth, surprised at the roughness of your own voice.

You don’t know who you are, why would you know him?

“Y/N?!” Bucky gasps bolting up in bed.

You fell asleep in his arms, he knows you did, but you’re not beside him.

He listens but there’s no noise from the cracked bathroom door. His eyes frantically search the space until he realizes the back door is open.

Relief rushes through him, muscles instantly relaxing. You’d probably woken up and stepped out for some air with your headphones on. Stretching, he slowly rises from the bed, making his way outside.

The moment he’s in the doorway his body goes stiff once more. You’re not there.

A million possibilities flood his mind, temporarily rendering him immobile.

No one could have come in. He’d know, he’s sure he’d know. Unless… Maybe if they’d triggered him… He studies his hands, praying there isn’t the least bit of red or discoloration of any kind on them. Noticing nothing he cautiously approaches the balcony edge, steeling himself before looking over.

Blessedly, you’re not down there in a heap. Of course you wouldn’t be, your body would survive, ability reacting on instinct.

“Get a grip, Barnes,” he chides out loud.

The door wasn’t broken or tampered with and the locks, he walks to the front door to be sure, were still in place from the inside. All your things were still there meaning… Meaning you were somewhere in this city alone, underdressed, and likely terrified.

In minutes Bucky is out the door.

You haven’t moved as the cloudy sky lightens with sunrise. Maybe you should move.

Why would you move? Where could you go? Did that matter? The sun would come out and make the garbage stink more and you were beginning to see a red smear on the wall across from you… it scared you. Those were good reasons to move… Plus you were no longer perceiving every single particle around you, so that was helpful…

Before you’re able to make your decision a door opens somewhere toward the front of the alley. Tension coils within your body.

A woman lifts the lid of the dumpster, not noticing you at first. When she does she begins shouting in a language you don’t understand. She’s angry, fists raising, you’re afraid, backing up and up until you’re in the corner with nowhere to go.

You cover your ears and close your eyes, the woman’s shouts hurting your head. You want her gone, want her to stop.

She grabs your chin and your eyes shoot open. In a flash of rage, you push her back with all your strength sending her careening into the side of the dumpster with a clatter.

Forgetting her anger you rush to her. She’s breathing, heart beating, no blood.

Good. That’s good. Right?

That’s right. The other woman wasn’t so lucky. The one who’d taken you to her hotel. The one you killed… No… No, you’d done worse than just kill her outright.

Being the monster you were, you felt with invisible hands inside her body, without her even realizing it, until you found just the right spot in her brain… then you’d simply gripped the thin membrane of the blood vessel and tore through it with an ease that terrified you. You’d lingered there, staring at her writhing form, her terrified gaze, until her body stopped moving and they’d come, to tell you you’d done well… But it hadn’t felt like a victory.

The sound of the door again, someone calling out. Panicked you run to the corner and jump, easily landing on the roof above.

For a moment you stand, shocked.

You should go somewhere, somewhere safe and warm, and that name… kind eyes. That pain shoots through your skull once more, not as strong but enough to knock the wind from your lungs.

Won’t think about that.

Survive.

By midday, Bucky thinks he may actually lose his mind.

Despite his extensive skill set, he was no closer to finding you. There just wasn’t a trail to follow.

He’d checked in with Mr. G, in case you’d been to visit, doing his best to assure the old man that there was nothing to worry about while internally he was screaming. He’d been to all your favorite places even went to your old squat hoping something in you would have led you there but nothing. Not the barest trace of you.

The city feels oppressively overcrowded in a whole new way as he navigates back streets and alleyways. Feeling sick he checks police scanners, calls hospitals, checks morgues. Nothing, for that he’s thankful.

As the sun sets he begins to make his way toward the apartment, unsure of what else he can do.

Y/N. That was who you were. It felt right, felt good, knowing.

You’d spent the better part of the day hiding in one location or another, trying to stay out of sight, scared of every person you saw. Being able to navigate on rooftops from time to time helped with avoiding people. Though sometimes whatever kept you aloft would falter when your mind would get distracted with a passing thought or memory.

When you’d remembered your name with certainty the ground flew up to meet you so fast as you tried to jump from a four to six-story building, you thought you’d meet your end, splattered like that rat. But you’d caught yourself, barely, though not before painfully wrenching your ankle. Still, a wrenched ankle was better than a shattered skull.

The pain brought clarity each time, cutting through the fog filling your mind. You’d considered causing more pain, maybe then things would make sense, but you’d ultimately dismissed the idea. No sense in breaking yourself.

Besides, something in you said you were heading the right direction and that was enough for now. What exactly you were heading toward wasn’t exactly clear and focusing on it for any length of time made your headache. Not that it mattered much. Everything hurt, what was one more little thing?

You peek out of the narrow ally you’d been limping through, waiting for the perfect moment to sprint across the street. The window opens, no one around, you bolt.

Your ankle screams in protest as you run, each shock of pain makes you remember little things though. A home, somewhere, it was close… Brooklyn?

The thought of Brooklyn sends a whole new ache through you. Just as you enter the alley you’d been aiming for a sob rips through you leaving you gasping. Not paying attention you step on something sharp and tumble to the ground in a heap.

It feels like your chest is being crushed as their faces fill your memory. Nix and Marcus and Abby. Your family. Your dead family. Dead… because of you.

“Hey,” someone asks from behind you in a language that isn’t English, though you understand it still. “Hey, you ok?”

No. You weren’t. Everything is wrong and broken. You don’t say this though, unable to stop the tears.

“You alone?” Another voice asks. You can’t answer, can hardly breathe.

“Looks like it,” the first voice says.

“Hey,” the second voice says, coming to stand before you. He grips your shoulders pulling you up. “You understand us?”

You hiccup a sob but manage to nod.

“She’s kinda pretty,” the first man says.

“Maybe after she soaks in bleach.” The second man looks you over, you’re too tired to pull away from him. “You wanna come with us?”

“No,” you croak. It surprises them both to hear you speak no more surprised than you are at your conviction. There was a home here. Somewhere, someone with kind eyes. You know this, you just have to find it.

“Leave me alone,” you push his hands away.

“Junkie, bitch,” the first man grumbles as the second lifts you by your short head of curls.

You’re exhausted in every way a person can be and the thought of fighting back seems like so much. But as soon as you meet his eyes, brimming with malice, you find it in you to push this power in you against him. It’s not particularly strong but it forces him to release your hair.

Staggering back you brace yourself, your body remembering movements your mind can’t quite connect to.

The first man tries to hold your arms to your sides but a flicker of your power prevents him from gaining purchase for long. The other swings at you and you counter, a too strong punch to his ribs leaving him gasping. But… you’re so goddamn tired after a day of running with no food or water and your ankle paired with a cut on your other foot makes your stance shaky at best.

You cry out as the second man hits you from behind with something hard, sending you to the ground, leaving your head spinning and ears ringing. One of them, you can’t tell which, lifts your head up by your hair.

Some part of you feels detached, as though this is happening to someone else. Another feels a slow hot rage begin to rise from the darkest parts of you and you know that once it surfaces you will kill these men… You don’t want to kill anyone, not again.

“Please…”

“Yeah. Beg, bitch. See if that helps,” the one you punched, snarls, taking a stance in front of you.

“I don’t want to hurt you!”

They. Laugh. The anger roiling in you surges.

“This bitch is-” The man before you is suddenly gone, flung against the wall like a rag doll by a large figure you can’t quite make out before the one holding your hair let’s go in surprise and you fold forward for a moment, unable to remain upright.

“We didn’t do anything!” The man chokes out, fear slurring his words. You turn and watch as the hulking figure corners the simpering man.

“She was-” Before he can say another word a hand wraps around his throat. Slowly he’s lifted from the ground, kicking, gurgling, hands clawing in vain at an arm—an arm that you know is solid metal and very deadly.

Memory slams into you and you gasp as the disassociation flees you. There isn’t time to feel the emotions thundering through your body though, he will kill this man.

“Bucky,” you croak, voice cracking with relief. He doesn’t move, focused with terrifying intensity on his target. Standing on trembling legs you step toward him and lay a hand on his shoulder as the man’s thrashing begins to still.

“Bucky,” he flinches, registering you. “Let him go.”

“He. Hurt. You.” Bucky growls out each word.

“Not like I could have hurt him. Don’t kill him. Please.” You didn’t want him to have more blood on his hands either. His grip loosens and the man crumples into a half-dead heap in the alley.

Tragedy averted, whatever willpower you mustered to keep yourself upright flees your body. Despite the warm summer air you begin to shake, violently. Swaying back, Bucky catches your shoulders before you plummet onto the concrete.

Bucky takes you in, quickly. His white tee you’d slept in is filthy with sweat and grime. Your right cheek has a shallow cut that seems to have already started to heal but that clearly bled judging by the flaking smear of dried blood. Looking down he can tell that your left ankle is badly bruised and swollen while there is blood on the side of your right foot. Then there’s the way your body is shaking in his grip, indicating shock.

“Y/N,” he says softly, searching your eyes for answers he isn’t sure you have.

“I…” You trail off, voice dry and raspy. “I was lost.” Your glazed eyes flutter and he feels your knees give.

Without hesitation, he scoops your trembling form into his arms. The way your hands grasp at his shirt your face burrowing into his shoulder makes his heart ache. He understands well enough that you don’t mean that you were only physically lost. You’d lost yourself for a time.

He steps around the body of the unconscious man he’d tossed aside heading toward the mouth of the alley. The movement jostles you just a bit and a small whimper meets his ears.

“Did I hurt you,” the fear grips him as he assesses his grip on you, worried he held too tight. A hollow huff that may have been an attempt at laughter shakes your body in a different way, you suck in the air a little, tilting your head up a bit to him.

“No. Everything just… hurts,” you say in barely a whisper.

Anger at every person who ever hurt you in your life burns like a volcano in his gut. Even so he coaches his expression to be soft.

“Let’s get you home.”

Where he found you, was only a few blocks from the apartment. He’s grateful for it, despite his efforts the movement clearly causes you more pain—he’s also certain he’s never been more grateful for what Hydra did to him, without his enhanced senses he’d never have heard you, may never have found you.

By the time he closes the door behind you both, your consciousness is hanging by a thread.

“Stay with me baby,” he kisses your forehead before he sets you as gently as he can on the couch. Still, you groan.

He pulls a thick blanket from the closet to wrap you in. As he moves to wrap it around you your head shakes a no.

“Your body is in shock, Y/N.”

Clarity lightens in your eyes. “That makes sense,” you lift one hand, seeming to study the tremors. As you do the lamp begins to shake on the table. Both of you stare for a second as your power rustles things around the apartment like ripples on a lake.

“May I?” He doesn’t want to force it on you but… Thankfully he doesn’t have to. Pulling you from the couch for an instant he swaddles you tight in the warmth of the blanket before settling you back on the couch. Instantly things around you stop their ghostly movements.

“I’m going to get you something to drink,” he plants a kiss on your forehead before heading into the kitchen.

The cracked state of your lips suggests that you’re deeply dehydrated. Just water wasn’t going to cut it. Though it may take a minute longer he heats water on the stove for a moment before mixing just a bit of salt and honey into it.

“Here,” he crouches in front of you, “sip this.” Bucky lifts the mug to your lips. You swallow, your face scrunching up at the taste. “I know, but you need the salt and sugar. Just try to finish it.” He manages to get the whole mug into you.

Thankfully your shaking has slowed some. Tenderly he tucks a shaggy curl back into your mop of hair. How he loved these curls.

“He’s going to be ok, Y/N.”

Mr. Goldstein had spent the last week in the hospital. He’d insisted it was nothing, just a bit of cold. It wasn’t until his daughter had come into the shop that you’d learned the truth--cancer, she’d told you, and not his first run-in with the disease either. The news had rocked you both. Bucky didn’t doubt that the fear of losing someone else, someone you loved, had triggered what you’d just gone through.

You say nothing, just look away, gnawing on your bottom lip.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” he says with a soft smile. You nod and he unwraps you from your blanket cocoon.

Unresisting you allow him to remove your filthy tee and slip your underwear off before he places you in the empty tub. As he wets a rag in the hot water pouring from the faucet to begin cleaning a day’s worth of city grime from you he starts to hum a tune, hoping the sound will soothe both of your frayed nerves.

With a light touch, he inspects the cuts and scrapes on your feet, knees, and hands. The only one that’s deep enough for a slight pause is on your foot, but even so, he doesn’t think it will need anything more than a bandage.

Your body wasn’t the only thing that needed attention. Grabbing a pitcher from the kitchen Bucky slips free of his jeans, as to not get them wet and perches on the corner of the tub, repositioning you between his legs. Slowly he pours hot water over your short thick curls.

As he takes his time coaxing out the tangles, his humming shifts to lyrics. Singing isn’t something he did often, just when he was alone from time to time and now when you’d wake up particularly shaken from a dream. Once, he’d sing all the time but finding his voice had been tough. Seeing your lips curl a bit in response goads him on though.

When he’s rinsed your hair, running your comb through your curls, he’s singing the final lyrics of an old love song:

I see your face in every flower Your eyes in stars above It's just the thought of you The very thought of you, my love

As he finishes you sigh and rest your head on the inside of his thigh.

“Thank you… for finding me,” your voice is less raspy but he can hear your exhaustion in every syllable.

Gently he coaxes your head to look up at him, “I will always find you.”