#I know what I drew is inaccurate I tried to piece it to together from screenshots

[st-hedge]

I can’t believe they’d managed to animate kusuriuri’s insane character design and then decided to make it even more insane. The most character ever

[threeminutesoflife]

Don’t Forget

Pairings: Steve x Black!Reader Summary: A look at family life for Steve, Reader and their daughter after reader suffers problems with her memory  Warnings: slight angst/ends happy, memory loss due to injury, smut, slightest breeding kink Word Count: 1.8k

prompt: 50 First Dates

a/n: @allaboardthereadingrailroad❣️🧡​ thank you for hosting the Diversity Challenge 

a/n2: piece is purposely choppy and randomly placed to reflect the reader’s struggle with memory. Also, references to Dark Knight, Love Actually, Say Anything, 50 First Dates.

___ A monetary, momentary impact- cause and effect:

Bank robberies were many things. Successful ones were more. Timing, precision, determination; a well-mapped out plan, and methodical dedication to achieve a streamless end result.

It was that sort of successful robbery that cemented you, an involuntary participant, on a repetitive course of choppy, foggy memories. Despite the jovial clown designs of the robbers’ masks, the severity of the situation was real.   

Because things really do play out in slow motion as dramatic events unfold- a deafening crash, a cloud of dusty sunlight pouring in through the bank's broken entrance. Stilted, broken flashes of your life projected themselves on the backs of your closed eyelids.

Unfortunately, you were within the range of the propelling debris when the school bus reversed into the building.

Because of that day, your memory would skip and strip. 

____

Exhilaration- friendly fear of tickle monsters:

The sound of tiny feet slapping the floor drew closer from down the hall, ten little toes against high-gloss maple.

The bedroom door crashed open with no regard to the plaster behind it.

Giggles cut through the room as thirty pounds of mischief in footed pajamas launched itself straight at you.

“Mommy!”

Your three year old squealed before bombing her limbs upon your stomach, "Daddy’s gonna get us!”

___

No time for regret, when you’re in the moment of gratitude:

Steve found you standing in front of the vanity, staring at the mirror- unfocused. Frowning slightly, he knew what you were doing to yourself.  

“You okay, sweetheart?”

“Steve, do you ever think... it’d be easier if you didn’t ask me out all those years ago?”

“Which time?” Steve tested the waters with the usual joke, gathering time to prepare himself for the familiar, spirit-dampening conversation.

Every few months you’d ask him if all this was worth it- if the extra work to be with you was what he wanted. He’d always reply with, ‘Loving you's a blessing, not a chore.’

You’d hesitate at those words, at his sincerity- until he was able to coax affection back into your field of vision. Because you were worth it to him. 

“Steve, come on. I’m being serious.”

“Me too. I’m lucky to be as stubborn as people claim me to be-“

“Oh, it’s a fact," you snorted. "Not a claim. You’re stubborn.”

“Good thing for me then, huh?" Steve smiled, relieved by your humor. "Otherwise, I’d miss out on everything that’s good in my life.”

___

She’s got jokes:

A documentary splashed itself across the television screen as you sank into the couch next to Steve. Pointing your toes, you rested your legs over his lap and cracked open the fake memory journal's spin. 

Watching you from the corner of his eye, Steve hid his excitement that you brought the book out by him. 

You usually looked over it alone, too self-conscious to try remembering things in front of others. He always encouraged you to sit and read it with him. He liked resharing the stories you created together, but your underlying guilt for not recalling events easily shut the door on those conversations.   

Turning the page, you caught Steve glancing at you before shooting his attention back to the screen with a cough. 

Smugly stretching your legs, you bit your lip and rubbed your ankle over Steve’s bulge. Catching the way his thigh jumped and flexed under his thin sweatpants, your eyes darted back to the journal. You couldn’t wait to play out your prank. 

Keeping his eyes on the screen, Steve picked up your ankle and rolled his knuckles along the arch of your foot. As much as he appreciated the way you riled him up, he wanted you to open up.

Chuckling, you mumbled to yourself how great that day must have been before turning the page and complimenting another pretend event. 

Another faux memory praised, Steve twisted towards you before shaking his head and turning back to the screen. Pressing his thumb harder into the sole of your foot, he was unsure how to proceed. 

Delighted by his confusion, you complimented another memory with a theatrical dreamy sigh.

Giving in to his curiosity, Steve paused the television and gave it a shot, “What are we looking at?” 

“I thought it might be nice to talk about the stuff we did- like you’ve wanted.”

The smile that spread across Steve’s face almost made you feel bad for the prank.

“Yeah, yes- I’d like that,” he shut the tv off, practically dropping the remote in excitement. “What are you reading, what’s making you laugh?”

“How you asked me out using cue cards you made. The messages you came up with were sweet.”

“...Cue cards?”

“It was special of you, Steve. Taking the time to write out something on each one. Here. Look at this sentence, you called me perfect. Reading what you did and how loved I felt, you’re so wonderful.”

“...Honey...” Steve’s voice cracked slightly, “I don’t, I don't know anything about cue cards-”

“-And then the time you stood outside my bedroom window with that boombox. Holding it obnoxiously high above your head. Thank goodness for biceps, am I right?" You teased, nudging Steve with your elbow. "That gesture might be a little too much for some but reading how you made me feel, it meant so me.”

“You wrote that?” Steve questioned, an edge of concern creeping in. “You think I actually did-... you remember these things happening?”

“My favorite is right here. When you built that little house out of waffles at the diner. Setting up a kiddie pool of syrup for us to dip the roof in and a jacuzzi of hot chocolate nearby. And then your expression- when I said I'm more of a pancake person. You argued how pancakes aren’t sound enough for construction.” 

Keeping your poker face intact, you tried not to flinch as Steve inspected you intensely. 

Suddenly, he jetted forward and snatched the fake journal from your hands. Sailing it over his shoulder, he knocked your legs from his lap and climbed off the couch to loom over you. 

Before regret set in from your play of inaccurate historical accounts, your body snapped backward as Steve yanked you down the sofa by your ankles. 

“Hysterical. Pancakes over waffles” Steve scoffed dryly at your teasing, boxing himself over you and settling his knee between your legs. “I know you too well. You’re in for it now, sweetheart.”

____

Adoration, a promise of tradition and support:

You sat in bed with her snuggled by your side, a little nose peeked out from under her blanket. Her little hand wrapped itself around your shirt, her other held a well-loved, stuffed bunny. 

Scooping her up, you cradled her in your arms. Warm security. Peeling a corner of the blanket back, you kissed her cheek. 

Between giggles, she raised the rabbit up in the air and you played along- one kiss for her, another for her stuffed friend.

She settled in slowly with a yawn as you hummed the lullaby your mother softly sang to you before bed. The same rich melody draped with the lyrics your grandmother sang to her children. 

Tears gathered in your eyes as you willed yourself not to forget this moment.

___

Gratitude and gratefulness:

“Can’t you see how beautiful you are? Knowing I’m yours- that you’re mine... when you come out of that bedroom each morning, I witness that recognition of love on your face when you see us...” Steve’s body tensed, his shoulders shook as he stumbled over the words. "...getting to see you with our girl each day."

“Hey," You called to him, pulling himself out of his thoughts. "Hey, handsome."

Steve pressed his forehead against yours and tried to push down his anxiety. 

Your eyes locked to his as you promised teasingly, “You and our daughter- seeing her each day- that’s my happiness. You're just a bonus.”

Sputtering a laugh, he closed his eyes and relaxed from your fingers threading through his hair. Steve never took for granted how you soothed him, especially during the times when he should actually be comforting you. 

“Thank you,” Steve whispered. 

“Some things are easier to remember than others for me.”

“Yeah?” His lips ghosted over yourself, a half-smile raising the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah. The journal's a great cheat sheet, makes it easier to recall I have a husband. Now, if only I could pick him-”

Steve moved quickly, cutting off your joke. His mouth trapped your next words when his tongue swept over your lips. 

___

Muscle memory:

“Hold your legs. Spread'em wide for me,” Steve instructed between a husky, broken grunt. “Wider, sweetheart.”

He stroked himself in front of you as you laid naked on your back. Your arms were sandwiched between the fold of your legs and hands locked around your ankles. You provided your husband more access and an even prettier view with your feet in the air and legs parted. 

He ran his fingers over your folds, circling your clit. Lining himself up, he thought how these were some of his favorite moments with you, the intimacy and the need.

Caught up in the stretch and sensation of him slowly entering you, you almost missed his next words over your moans. 

“Want…” Steve stuttered, “want to be deep in you, beautiful.”

You mewled under him, squeezing him from his words. Releasing your ankles, you grabbed his arms for support as he slowly slid deeper. Steve’s movements faltered with a groan, feeling you tighten around him.

He closed his eyes to concentrate as you felt goosebumps run down his forearms under your palms. 

“Fuck,” Steve cursed and praised, thrusting harder. Your legs bounced above your arms from each snap of his hips.

“Free your legs. Give me your hands, sweetheart,” Steve instructed, massaging your breast.

Pulling him down, your hands wrapped around the back of his neck. You inhaled his woodsy shampoo as you dragged your nose along the light shadow of his beard. Capturing his mouth with yours, you tasted salt on his top lip.   

With a quick bite along your collarbone, his chest rumbled when you ignored his instructions. Collecting your wrists in one hand, he secured them over your head and ground into you harshly. 

“I love you,” Steve said, slowing his pace. 

You replied with a roll of your hips, earning a dark moan from him, "I love you, too.” 

Steve rocked back on his heels, dragging away his length and slipping out of you completely. Your body immediately began to cool from his lack of touch. 

Propping yourself up on your elbows, you called out, "What's wrong?"

“Your empty journal sheets bother me,” Steve stated, running his hands over your knees. "We're fixing that."  

His thumbs circled up your inner thighs, looping closer to your core. Spreading your legs further apart, he pushed them into the mattress. Taking himself back in his hand, he palmed his erection and rocked his shaft along your folds. 

"Let's have another baby, sweetheart," he smirked, teasing his tip into you. "Gotta fill up all those pages.”

[starr-fall-knight-rise]

Earth is Space Australia, “Plagues of Earth.”

I finally got to write an earth is space Australia ft. (Australia) lol. I hope you guys have fun, i enjoyed making this, though I had less time than I wanted to elaborate. 

Also inspired by a cover of “The Plagues of Egypt” Done by Johnathan Young in a heavy metal style. I would suggest listening to it when you think about this piece. 

Also, sorry if I said anything inaccurate about anyone’s country. I had less than two hours and a quick google search for facts 

“Their planetary defense is strong, but they prepare for battle on a large scale.If we bring our troops to the surface in small drop ships, and lead their military carriers away by attacking their nearby colony. We will take the planet.”

“What would be the point of this?”

“Humanity is held up as deity by the rest of the galaxy. As long as they fight, the GA fights with them. But if we destroy them, crush their planet at the source, then we crush the morale of the rest of the galaxy.”

“Where do we drop out soldiers?”

“Everywhere, on every major landmass, near every major city. But we do it quietly, drop them into the wilderness first so the humans won’t see them coming.” 

“If we can defeat the humans, we can defeat them all.”

***

Location: Upper-Mid Merianda (Previous US/Canada border rocky mountain region) 

The burg landed in the thick forests of the north. The human planet was lush and green, and the temperature was moderate, though it leaned slightly towards cold under the canopy of branches. There were sounds everywhere, the chattering of wildlife and strange flying creatures flitting through the trees. The nearest human residence was not far off, maybe a ten cycle march down hill.

They would reach it in no time, and make their sneak attack.

Their team commander barked his commands to the following Burg soldiers and together they began making their way down the hill.

None of them noticed when things began to go wrong.

They had never been to earth, and so were not aware of the sudden silence in the forest that comes before a coming storm.

You see, the Burg are similar to the Iotans, in that they give off a pungent smell. Not so pungent as it tends to affect humans, but pungent enough to affect the nearby wildlife. A wildlife that was not pleased with their presence.

It might have been fine, if they hadn’t stumbled into the den.

It started with a light squeaking. A sound that gave them pause as they looked around for the source. One of the burg pushed aside a green fern to reveal a hole dug into the embankment. He would have investigated if it weren’t for the loud piercing howl that echoed through the trees just to their right.

They all leaped upright in confusion and fear backing into a circle.

Another howl pierced the forest from their left, another form their right. Until they were surrounded by the sound. Shapes flitted through the trees, furry on all fours and hunched.

A howl from directly behind them.

They spun in place.

As the wolf leaped from the top of the embankment her teeth flashing.

As it turns out wolf pups are fond of Burg flesh

***

New Brazilia (Somewhere in what was once central Brazil, Border rain forest district)

This was the perfect climate, nice warm, dark and moist, shady below the trees that towered overhead in great twisting arcs. The foliage below them was very thick and hard to cut through as they made their way towards the human colonies. This was surely going to be their element, and they laughed at the idea of making the humans suffer as they waded their way through the trees.

The ground before them opened revealing an embankment on the side of a river. There was a hole in the foliage here, and the ground was dry. The burg stepped down onto this spot, their feet crunching slightly in the dirt.

One of them slapped absently at one of it’s segmented legs, brushing away a small insect that had crawled onto its body. Another party member did the same.

One of them even shrieked in pain, “It bit me!”

They looked down brushing the little black bugs off their bodies, only to find that the ground was absolutely swarming with them. One of the Burg shrieked, and tried to run his entire body now covered with hundreds of these little black creatures, however he tripped and fell onto his face.

His entire body was black.

The others began to scream as well, swatting at their bodies and their weapons falling to the riverbed as they were overrun by a massive troop of army ants.

They would never make their destination.

***

United Slavic  Districts (North/eastern Russia)

This forest was both humid and somewhat cold. It was early morning in the summer, and yet frost still built up on the leaves of the plants overhead. The burg weren’t particularly pleased about this, but they were going to have to deal with it.

It was best to keep moving at times like this, and they hurried their way through thick banks of early morning fog towards the not-to-distant human civilization. Their feet were nearly silent over the frosty forest floor dirt compressing under foot.

They had been walking for some minutes when they heard the sound. A strange mournful cry from the woods almost like the cry of a human infant, though slightly deeper. THe sound made them excited. Where they were infants there were likely humans. And who knows that could be a human noise.

They followed the sound looking about the foggy forest.

The noise came again, so close.

Ah, and there it was, though they were disappointed to find it was not a human at all, but  two fuzzy brown animals no bigger than waist height. They were so small, so pathetic and pitiful and they cried out in terror when the burg approached.

One of the burg raised it’s weapon angry.

The bellow came echoing through the trees rending the very air around them and sending birds scattering into the sky.

The burg turned on their heels as the massive brown bear came charging out of the forest bellowing her teeth flashing.

As it seemed the great land, of what was once, Russia was not pleased with their presence.

***

East Trans African Belt (former Ethiopia)

It was hot and dry, and the burg didn’t like it. But at least the ground was mostly flat, and the dirt was easy to navigate. Tall grasses raised to either side of the shallow river just to their left. Animals grunted off in the distance and the sky above was bright and blue. Dust rose up from their feet as they made their way towards the edge of the river, hoping that the water would help to moisten up the air around them.

The grunting grew louder.

They glanced over seeing large bulbous shapes in the water. It didn’t much matter to them, and they mostly ignored the creatures, knowing that anything that big was likely to be equally slow. They were making their way up the riverbank now, and the creatures rested in the water just to their side.

Distant grunting grew louder.

One of the burg was standing just next to the bank now when the water exploded casing great droplets into the air as the Hippo burst from the river mouth open wide at it’s four foot extension and bit down upon the unsuspecting burg dragging him violently into the water.

The others tried to run, slipped on the mud, and were set upon by the rest of the family.

***

Southern Indasia (India) 

The river bank was calm, nothing but floating logs out on the distant water. One of the burg officers was listening to her communications.  There were reports form all across the human’s home planet, that many of their parties had gone radio silent. She wasn’t entirely sure what that could mean but it worried her. Many of them had been traveling along river pathways just like her and her group, and she wondered if that had anything to do with their current situation.

One of the young burg stood at the edge of the water kicking stones into its murky green depths.

“We should definitely move along  from this area.” She was saying moving back up the bank and towards the forest of trees.”

One of he logs had floated closer to shore.

The young burg agreed and bent down to retrieve his weapon from the bank.

A moment later his head had disappeared vanished inside the mouth of a crocodile who then began to spin violently  dragging the burg into the water. Alerted to the frenzy others came as well racing up onto the bank.

There was never any evidence that the Burg had visited india, though there were reports about strange noises by the river that morning.

***

Australia (still just Australia)

They came as the sun was rising. A low mist had coated itself over the land, though the day was lucking to be annoyingly hot. 

They were just coming up to the edge of the human settlement when they saw it. A distant shape silhouetted between two trees. At first it looked like a man, but as the fog drew back they found a strange creature staring back at them.

One of the burg snorted.

The thing looked like a Tesraki almost, but dumber and a bit taller with large pointy ears, an absolutely massive trunk, and a very long back tail that it used like a Tesraki to stand on iits back legs.

One of the Tesraki crouched down in the foliage resting his hand on a low garden wall.

“Just shoo it off.” Their commander ordered, and two of the Burg moved up to confront the dumb looking creature.

Three things happened at once.

First the crouching burg cursed violently flicking his hand and tossing the angry funnel web spider into the bushes. 

A hiss rose up from the leaves.

And the kangaroo violently kicked the first burg in the chest collapsing his carapace beyond repair before moving over to stomp his friend.

The death adder struck.

Two  of the Burg were convulsing on the ground, another two lay silent and broken. The next two ran off in different directions, one towards the nearby beach and the other back into the forest.

No one is entirely sure what happened after that. All we know is one was found belly up at high tide near the docks where blue ringed octopus are known to be found, and the other was completely gone, though they did spot a rather bloated and very happy looking python chilling in the bushes not far from where the incident occurred.

More and more berg had stopped answering their calls.

Most of the burg would never find out what happened.

But we do.

Burg were found dead all over the world.

A young girl reported a burg attack in the outskirts of London, though her rottweiler had made quick work of that enlisting another pack of suburban dogs to protect the little girl from the freaky bug things.

Alligator attacks in Florida.

Six burg were found plowed over by a speeding bullet train in Japan.

in  Lower Mid Mericanda, a group of self-claimed hillbillies  with cutoff sleeves and unironic mullets were speeding through the forests on the back of four wheelers taking pot shots at anything remotely burg shaped. They had  at least ten confirmed kills, and the creatures never made it out of the swamp.

Another group of burg had made the mistake of landing in one of the last nuclear fallout zones in eastern europe, and ended up cooked by the radiation, their bodies to remain rotting there until cleanup finally made it to the site. It was likely they didn’t last more than twenty minutes.

A surfer off the coast of New Zealand watched a school of dolphins ravage a group of burg who had through a water approach would be more prudent.  He had no idea how the dolphins knew the burg were intruders, but they seemed very interested in helping out.

One group of burg had managed to land themselves in a city in the european provinces, and found themselves beaten to death violently by a group of drunk civilians carrying improvised weapons, one of them even brandishing a pool cue.

Two more teams froze to death before they reached their destination.

Another was washed away by a minor flood.

One of the burg ended up tipped off a cliff by a massive eagle, falling to his death hundreds of feet below. 

Another entire group managed to walk their way into a patch of poison ivy breaking out in horrible boils, which later necrosed as they lay paralyzed on the forest floor. 

Somewhere someone was trampled by a moose, while their other friends were whisked over a waterfall.

In yellowstone (yeah it still hasn’t blown up yet bc the vents are a good pressure release) at least another team of burg found themselves cooking in the natural hot springs after ignoring the signs that said (keep on the walkway).

Those who chose to land in the city were not greeted cordially either, packs of marauding street dogs, gangs, the homeless, drunk civilians, angry policemen, and a high school baseball team supported by the high school chess team.

Long and short of the story is that earth was-not-having-it.

The burg had made a grave mistake. 

Mother earth was fond of her children, even the human ones. 

[mysanderssidessideblog]

A Good Day

Warnings for Sides fading out, major character death, unsympathetic Patton, angst, gaslighting, not a happy ending.  

Written for #UnsympAndAngstSidesBingo

Link to AO3

“I'm very disappointed in you kiddo.”

Janus looked up from his book, frowning.

True, he knew his occasional appearance in the Lightside was not exactly welcome, but he had been slowly trying to help the others acclimatise to his presence by sitting quietly with a book from time to time.

He'd even carefully set out a tea set and biscuits this time, rather than his usual tea for one, making a subtle gesture that he was open to company. So far, none had taken him up on the offer.

Yet, he could not fathom source of Patton's discontent. He was <i>trying</i>, and short of dragging Virgil out by his ear to reluctantly sit with him, he was not sure what more he could do.

“Patton. Will you not join me?”  Janus had learnt that the use of the word 'not' had evolved to ambiguous meaning; 'I could care less' tended to be treated the same as 'I could not care less', even if the wording was inaccurate. As a result, he leaned heavily into the word to help mask his lies.

“No.”

Morality's face, usually lit up with a bright smile, was stern.

Janus pursed his lips, and feigned indifference. “As you like.”

“You had one job, and you have failed.”

That took him aback, Patton not usually so confrontational. lowering his book, Janus schooled his expression into neutrality, opting for addressing the accusation in a calm and civil manner. He inclined his head so that he appeared interested in what Patton had to say, while opening his stance to appear receiving to discussion.

“I am not sure I follow. Please, help me understand.”

“You were to keep the undesirable elements of Thomas hidden, secret. <i>You</i> were supposed to stay away, out of sight, out of mind.”

“Ah.”  Janus straightened, and clutched at his book, trying to hide the hurt from his voice. He had thought he and Patton had reached something of a truce, that Patton had seen that he had some merit in being known, in being active participant in the mindscape.

“I believe we agreed that repression was not of benefit. That I could keep things hidden, but it would be best for Thomas to be more self-aware, to learn that he had sides to him that were not always...”  Janus struggled for an appropriate word, “...good.” he finished lamely.

It was hard to argue with Morality; he held great power and influence, and his view of the world was parsed down into good and evil. Janus sought to teach him of the deeper complexities, but Patton was reluctant to even consider than lying could have small benefit in theory, so the idea of applying small untruths to day to day happenings was unthinkable to him.

“It is not working. Thomas is more stressed than ever with so many conflicting opinions, and then there is Remus! He is disgusting, and vile, and Thomas does not need him and his corrupting presence!”

 “And don't think I have not noticed Logan's more regular angry outbursts. The influence of the dark sides has gotten out of hand, and must be corrected.”

Janus was glad of his gloves that hid how white his knuckles had turned with how tightly he held the book.  He swallowed nervously.

“Patton, I understand that this is a time of change, and that change can be daunting, even uncomfortable. However, change is important for growth, for improved insight. This will help Thomas become a better person, eventually.”

“Thomas was already perfect before the dark sides came along! Things were better before!”

Patton's face then broke into a smile.

Janus did not like that smile, not in the slightest.

“Maybe that is answer.....”

He was about to get to his feet, about to retreat, when Patton walked towards him.

“You could not keep the dark contained.” he said, as the air around them grew dense. Janus felt uneasy, as Patton's eyes narrowed behind his glasses. “So I guess it's a father's duty to step in when a Kiddo has failed....”

Janus did try to get up then, but found himself held down by Patton by a hand upon his shoulder, surprisingly strong.

“You'll help me, won't you Kiddo? Help me fix up your little mistake...?”

“I don't understand Patton, what are you talking about?”

“You, and Remus, all the dark sides, are a bad influence on Thomas.”  Patton then stretched his lips  wider, his face a rictus parody of a smile, “It's high time someone did something about that....”

Janus shook his head. “Patton, you cannot just deny that Thomas has dark sides to him, same as everyone! We are just as much a part of him as you are!” he lifted his hand, tried to push Patton from him. He could not make Patton's hand budge at all.

“Thomas needs us. Needs all of us!”

Patton's grip shifted, instead of holding Janus down, curling his fingers past the fabric and into the flesh underneath, so tight Janus felt like Patton was reaching to leave fingerprints upon his bones.

“No. Thomas needs to be good.” Patton gave a short nod to himself. “Thomas will be good.”

Janus cried out, in pain, in fear.

“Let me go!”

“I can't do that Kiddo. See, if I'm gonna make everything right again, I'll need to borrow just a tiny bit of your power.”

“You can hide things, and I have high influence over nostalgia and memories. I think that if we really put our minds to it and work together, we can hide the memories of the dark sides so deep that they will never be thought of again!”

“Patton, Thomas needs all aspects of him. He needs to understand that others have the capacity to lie so he is not taken advantage of. He needs the ability to get angry when things are not right so he can sort it out.” “He even needs Remus, the core of his jokes that are a little crude, a little naughty....” “You cannot just.... delete those vital pieces of him; that way lies madness!”

“You are one to talk about lies mister!”

“OK, OK, I have lied, and will likely do so again, but you have been told that repression doesn't work... that didn't come from me, but Logan. And you trust Logan, right?”

Patton tipped his head, thoughtful.

“Hmm. Good point.”

Janus sagged slightly, relieved he had managed to get through to Morality.

“I guess we'll just have to remove the the dark sides entirely!” he said brightly.

Janus froze, unbelieving. If it had been anyone other than Patton, he'd have accused them of a off-tone joke..... but Patton wasn't lying.

“I will help you!” he snarled, shaking his head, the lie unsubtle and obvious.

Tutting, Patton looked down.

“If you are not part of the solution, then it seems to me you are part of the problem...”

Patton's hand clawed, and Janus felt something creak within his shoulder.

He felt Patton tug at his influence, and thrashed and fought to keep what he was whole. He hissed and bore his teeth as if he might bite.

The hand across his throat stilled him, surprised, shocked that Patton would do such a thing.

“Stop fighting me, I know what's best for Thomas.”

“I will not help you destroy the dark sides!”

Patton's grip, both on shoulder and throat tightened in irritation. Janus struggle to fight back, to even draw breath, but Morality held much more sway than he did, and he could not break free.

He struggled, cursing himself for dismissing Patton as native and weak. Janus knew he was merely stalling for time, that Patton would eventually win. There was a small hope that one of the others might happen upon them and intervene, but he was not well liked, and he did not trust that another side would not work with Patton against him.

Patton looked down over his glasses, considering, and Janus desperately tried to stop Patton from draining his power, his essence.

Patton's grip round his throat relaxed, and Janus drew desperate and painful breath.

It took him a moment to realise that Patton was stroking against the side of his neck, affectionately. “You have an affinity for self-preservation, yes? Give me your power, willingly, and I shall let you survive.”

His mismatched eyes widened as Janus took in how very serious and set on this course of action Patton was.

Terror gripped him as the fingers round his neck tightened again, and he feared for his life.

A better side would have stood up for what was right.

A stronger side would have fought harder.

A clever side would have found the words to make Patton reconsider.

But Janus was a selfish side.

Weakly, he nodded.

Janus tried to cry out as Patton syphoned his strength and his power, but he could only hiss which what remained of his breath. His gloves and cape leached their colour, turning dull and grey as Patton stole from him.

He did not hold out much hope that Patton would ever return what he had taken.

When it was done, Patton released Janus, standing tall and confident, radiating energy.

“You made the right choice. Well done kiddo.”

Janus, sagged in the chair, tired. He managed to bring his head up to look at Patton.  

“Patton, wait...” he managed to say, each word needing so much effort to utter than before, lie or not, “Please take a moment to think.. to reflect... You would be interfering beyond your realm of expertise. Do not do this!”

“Oh my silly little snake!” Patton leaned down to plant a fond kiss upon Janus's forehead.  “It's already done!”

“What? No!” Janus clutched at the chair, as if it might hold him steady against this new revelation.

“All those nasty bits that Thomas doesn't need are already disappearing from thought. If you wanted to say your goodbyes, I would hurry. They are fading fast.”

One thought came to mind.

“Remusssss!”  he hissed, and with a lurch, Janus swung himself downwards, sinking through the floor.

He landed in a landscape in disarray, the features of the darkside twisting and fragmenting, everything coming apart.

Remus was there, trying to shore up a crack in the wall with what looked like a mix of blood and cement.

“Snake-butt! Something's happening. Something's wrong!” he hollered over the low groan of the mindscape rejecting the dark.

Janus looked about in despair, only to see Remus staring at him, the crack beyond repair and stretching out. Horrifically, Janus could see the crack behind Remus, as the darker creativity grew translucent and hazy.

  “My head feels fuzzy like mould on a birthday cake, and what's up with you? You've gone all grey.”

“It's Patton, he is not unmaking the dark side!”  even in desperate times, Janus could not speak truthfully.

“What does that even mean?!”

Remus's voice was strange, softer as if he was shouting from a distance, but that did not hide the fact that he was scared. Janus could not ever recall Remus sounding scared.

Janus looked to him, halfway transparent and afraid, and the surrounding walls crumbling apart.

 He forced a smile.

“Everything will be all right.” he lied, as he reached over and wrapped his arms round Remus, so the other would not see the tears in his eyes.

The sounds of unmaking crescendoed about them, and then, grew quiet.

Remus, and the darkside, and all that it contained faded to black... no, not black.....

Nothingness.

*********

Janus had had to claw his way back from the nothingness, drawing on what little power he had left.

He shouldn't have made it, should have faded out with the rest, but Morality's promise of his own unworthy survival held true.

The effort of returning to the lightside caused him to stumble, and he landed gracelessly in the common area.

Logan, writing down something in a note book, looked up. He gave curt nod.

“Janus.” he acknowledged, and then returned to his writing.

“Logan!” Janus hissed out, struggling to his feet.

Logan looked again, and adjusted his glasses at the sight of Janus bereft of his usual colouration.

“You have a new outfit. It is... monochromatic.”

“Do not summon the others. It's not important!”

Logan frowned, “If it is of such little import, then why can you not do it?”

Hands clenched weakly at his sides, Janus swayed where he stood.

“I can!” he lied, and then cursed himself for not speaking clearly as Logan stood back expectantly.

It did not take long for Logan to realise that Janus was making no move to call the others to them.

“Oh. You are lying.” Logan's lips tightened, “Very well.”

Roman rose with a flourish, and Virgil popped up sitting on the stairs.

“Patton has not done something terrible!” Janus started, then caught himself. He took a breath.

“Patton has done something terrible. He has destroyed the darkside, and all those still connected to it.”

Virgil frowned in thought, “I thought I felt something weird... ”

“Or it could have just been your usual constant worry of something about to go wrong.” Logan reminded, to which Virgil gave reluctant nod.

“Even if that were true, which I very much doubt it is coming from you, then why are you still here?” Roman asked, sceptical.

“I....” Janus swallowed his pride and spoke aloud his grievous mistake. “I made a deal with him to survive.”

“but he took my power, and used it to unmake the darkside!”

“Patton wouldn't do something like that.” Roman said confidently.

“Patton wouldn't do something like what?”

Janus pulled back as Patton approached, smiling cheerfully.

“Janus thinks you have done something bad.” Logan explained.

“Are you sure you didn't mishear him that I've done something 'Dad'?”

Janus snarled.

“You destroyed them, all the dark sides! Pieces of Thomas, ripped apart and gone!”

Patton laughed, “As if I would do anything to hurt dear Thomas!

Roman and Logan nodded with Patton, that of the two, Patton was far more trust-worthy than Deceit.

“Anyway, Thomas doesn't have dark sides, save for you....” Janus did not like the way Patton looked at him, as if he was nothing but another problem that needed 'fixing'. He shuddered.

Patton continued, “But don't worry, we'll all help you find your place and learn to be good! Just like Virgil!”

Virgil gave an uncomfortable shrug at being pointed out.

Janus turned to Roman, desperate, “Roman, your twin! He is... he is gone Roman!! Patton killed him!”

“My brother?” Roman frowned, and reached to the back of his head to rub against a fragment of a memory.

He looked to Patton for guidance, deeply confused.

“Don't be silly, you don't have a brother.”

Roman's hand dropped, and he shrugged at Janus. “I don't even have a brother. Don't speak such lies Snake!”

“You did! His name is... is... was.....”

Janus's eyes widened in horror, as he could not bring the name to mind.... nor the face....

 Patton had not just destroyed the dark sides, but he had erased even the memories of them. How could Janus convince them of Patton's misdeed, when he had cleared every scrap of evidence from the mindscape?

How long before Janus himself forgot what Patton had done?

He lunged then at Patton, furious. He was stopped by Logan's arm easily blocking him and pushing him to the side.

Patton folded his arms, face full of fake concern.

“I was merciful before, but I think you need a time out Janus. Go to your room. In fact, I think it would be for the best if you were to stay there for the time being, and stop telling such terrible lies.”

“Roman, be a dear and take Janus to his room for me.”

“Sure thing Pat!”

As Janus let himself be led away, disbelieved and defeated, and destined to forget what he was and be moulded into whatever Patton deemed acceptable form of Deceit, Janus heard Patton address the other sides.

“Oh Kiddos, I'm just so happy! I have a feeling today is going to be a <i>good</i> day!”

[nicknellie]

I had Thoughts™️ about Reggie so I wrote them down. A lot of what I say in this post will be me drawing from my own experiences so I’m asking everyone to be respectful when adding to this or giving criticism or whatever.

TW for dementia, specifically Alzheimer’s.

When Reggie was little, until about the age of five, he was really close with his grandfather (on his father’s side)

His grandmother had died long before Reggie was born, so his grandad lived alone

When little Reggie visited or when his grandad babysat him, Reggie would always have the time of his life

His grandad was a talented artist - he and Reggie would paint together, and no matter what Reggie’s end product was his grandad would stick it to the fridge and proudly ruffle Reggie’s hair

Reggie would help his grandad in the garden because caring for his plants was always a comfort to his grandad

His grandad would tell little Reggie stories about all the plants - how the fuchsias were little ballerinas, and toadstools were their homes, and how the dandelions would dance with the daisies and the daffodils

Reggie loved hearing all his grandad’s stories and they always made him giggle

They would play music together too; his grandad had a marvellous old grand piano and although Reggie was more suited to guitar he enjoyed plonking out chords to go with the pieces his grandad would play

One day, when Reggie was six, his father picked him up from school early

They drove straight past Reggie’s house, so Reggie asked where they were going

His father told him very simply, trying not to frighten or worry him, that his grandad had tripped over so they were going to go to the hospital to see if he was alright

Reggie was immediately worried - he didn’t want to see his grandad hurt

They found out that when he fell his grandad had hit his head and hip - his hip was broken and while he was in hospital he needed multiple surgeries all very close to one another in order to keep him alive

He was in hospital for months, having surgery after surgery

The doctors hadn’t thought that the head injury was that serious and they had been correct, but the many surgeries caused some sort of other trauma to Reggie’s grandad

Eventually, he was discharged from hospital and Reggie’s dad bought him a frame to help him walk

As the months and years went by, Reggie started to notice small changes in his grandfather’s behaviour

It started with the smallest things

“Blast,” his grandad would say, “I’ve lost my bloody keys, I bet that awful neighbour stole them!”

And little Reggie, only seven and very confused, would say, “They’re here on the table, grandad.”

And his grandad, usually mild-mannered and very kind to Reggie, would snatch them up off the table and snap, “You probably put them there, trying to hide them from me. Trying to make me look stupid.”

Whenever things like that happened, Reggie would put it down to his grandad being in a bad mood

But things just kept getting worse and Reggie couldn’t understand it

Once, he asked his grandfather to make him a sandwich

“What?” his grandad replied

“A sandwich,” Reggie had repeated, thinking his grandad just hadn’t heard him

He got a blank look in return

“I... a what, son?”

“A sandwich, grandad.”

“I... I don’t know... No, I can’t.”

Reggie hadn’t had an explanation for that one. He got up and made his own sandwich and one for his grandad too, which remained uneaten

Another day, when Reggie was about ten, he and his grandad were going to go on a walk together

“Don’t forget to lock the door, grandad.”

“Lock the door?”

Reggie had turned around to see his grandad stood in the open door, looking utterly bewildered

“Yeah,” Reggie said. “Come outside and lock the door behind you, then we can get going.”

His grandad slowly came outside and shut the door behind him, but then looked to Reggie for help

“Do you have the key, grandad?”

“Of course I’ve got the key.”

He didn’t actually have the key - Reggie had to go back inside to get it and found it on the kitchen table

He came back outside and showed his grandad how to lock the door

“Well, of course I knew how to do that,” his grandad huffed

For the most part, Reggie could ignore it - old people forgot things all the time, right?

And it wasn’t like his grandad forgot everything; they would still paint together and they’d play music and his grandad would tell him all his stories about his garden (maybe just not as eloquently as before)

When Reggie was eleven, his grandad said, “Pass me the television remote, Arthur.”

Reggie had laughed and handed him the remote, saying, “It’s Reggie, grandad. Arthur is my dad.”

Reggie’s grandad had looked bewildered

“Reggie?”

Reggie had nodded, starting to feel concerned

“Yeah, Reggie... I’m your grandson, remember?”

His grandfather hadn’t said he remembered, he had just looked away and got back to changing the TV channel

Similar things kept happening: he would call Reggie ‘Arthur’, or the name of Reggie’s uncle, or what Reggie learned from his father was the name of someone he’d befriended in the war

“Why does grandad get my name wrong?” Reggie had asked when he was twelve

His father had sighed and run a tired hand over his eyes

“He’s got dementia, Reg. Your grandad, he’s going to forget a lot of things. Like names, and how to do easy things, a—”

“And his own family,” Reggie had said, remembering how his grandad hadn’t known who he was

“It’s not easy, Reg. And I’m sorry that he doesn’t always know who you are.”

“How do we fix him?”

His father had looked away - later Reggie would realise that it was because he was crying. “We can’t. There isn’t a cure.”

It had taken Reggie a while to understand what exactly dementia would do to his grandad - it was hard to understand how he didn’t know how to swallow a pill when he could sing entire songs off by heart before the lyrics had even started

Reggie tried to carry on as normal as possible

He learned to respond to the names Arthur, Brian, Oliver, Christopher, Ted, and any other name that wasn’t his own

He learned that when his grandad said “spoon” he actually meant “cup”, which was an easy enough link to get

But sometimes his grandad said “pillow” when what he really meant was “washing machine”, or he’d say “bird” when he really meant “paintbrush” and mistakes like that were harder to unpick; it made communication hard and his grandad would get frustrated when he wasn’t being understood

Reggie was keen to find ways to connect with his grandad, but it all felt bittersweet and painful

His grandad still loved it when they would paint together, but where he’d once been able to create beautiful sweeping landscapes there were now only blotches of dilute colours and the odd shape here and there

They both still loved playing music together, but now his grandad’s fingers would stumble over the piano keys and he’d lose his flow

His grandad could hardly get outside to attend to his garden safely anymore

Reggie’s father started hiring carers to go in every day and look after him

When they were around they would boss Reggie about and tell him not to get in the way

He understood they were just trying to do their job, but he didn’t like the brisk, harsh, matter-of-fact way they handled his grandad

His grandad didn’t deserve that; he deserved patience and kindness and to be helped gently rather than forced

Visiting started to get painful - Reggie would go to his grandad’s house and he would have deteriorated severely even overnight

Conversations had become repetitive and almost impossible - Reggie would answer a question and be asked the same one not a minute later

Reggie visited less and less

He never stopped completely, but sometimes it would hurt so much that he would leave weeks in between visits and his grandfather started to forget him even more

He couldn’t help how much it hurt - he had all those memories of spending time with his grandad, talking and laughing and being loved, and his grandad was losing it all; Reggie was losing his grandad right before his very eyes and there was nothing he could do to stop it or make it easier

He just had to watch as he became less and less like the man Reggie had once known

Reggie tried writing songs about it once Sunset Curve formed

Luke helped him sometimes, but Reggie didn’t like it when he did that - Luke didn’t have the right experiences, so his lyrics were forced and inaccurate and sensationalised and they didn’t show what was really going on

He never managed to finish any songs about his grandad

One day, Reggie was going through some old stuff he’d found under his bed, and came across a box of paintings he must have done with his grandad

One of them was a black background with a white emblem on it, a sweeping line almost like a road

Reggie spent the entire night painting the same thing but on a much bigger backdrop, emblazoning it with the words ‘Sunset Curve’ and adding splashes of colour

He was no artist but he drew upon every technique his grandad had ever taught him and it looked good in the end

He brought it to the next rehearsal, asked the others if they could use it, and they all agreed

When Reggie was fourteen, his grandad was deemed unfit to live at home by himself and was moved into full-time care

He couldn’t take everything when he moved into the home, so Reggie and his parents had to sort through it all

His mother just threw anything away that didn’t seem important; his father kept things with sentimental value; Reggie didn’t want to throw anything out at all

By the end of two weeks, his own bedroom was filled with things he didn’t need but couldn’t bring himself to get rid of: old cigarette cards, a collection of toy cars, a dozen flat caps, a broken walking stick, toys Reggie had played with as a child, hundreds of other items

The magnificent old grand piano now was in Reggie’s living room

Reggie would visit his grandad at the home

His grandad despised living with all the other old people, but the carers were good at making him happy

He liked seeing Reggie even if he didn’t have any idea who he was

Reggie would bring his bass sometimes and have the volume as low as it would go, playing for his grandad in his room

His grandad loved it

Sometimes it could get too much for Reggie to be there - usually a carer would notice and provide him with an excuse to leave or take a breather

It hurt having to leave without saying goodbye, but it saved a lot of pain and confusion

A few days after Reggie’s fifteenth birthday, his dad got a call from the care home

His grandad had fallen again and was in the hospital

Reggie visited with his dad

His grandad was in bed, practically immobile - the doctors said he had broken his hip again

Nobody told Reggie, but it was obvious that recovery was unlikely

His grandad was sent back to the care home to be looked after, but was bed-bound

Reggie visited as much as he could, trying to make up for all the time he had missed when it had been too painful to go

One day, Reggie was shown into his grandad’s room and sat beside his bed as usual

His grandad turned to face him, smiled, and took his hand

“Reggie. It’s so lovely to see you. Thank you for coming to visit me, son.”

It had taken everything in Reggie’s being to stop himself from bursting into tears

He clutched his grandad’s hand tighter and shakily breathed, “Always, grandad. I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too.”

There was a pause

“I will miss you,” Reggie whispered

“And I will also miss you.”

That evening, just as the family sat down to eat dinner, they received a call from the care home telling them that Reggie’s grandfather had passed away in his sleep

It was over

Whenever Sunset Curve made money from gigs, Reggie made sure to donate some of his share to dementia charities and the care home that had looked after his grandfather

He tried writing more songs for him, but still couldn’t find the words

Every now and then, he would find a birthday card or something similar that his grandad had written him - his handwriting and spelling had got worse and worse as his dementia had progressed but Reggie’s heart swelled when he read them

‘Dearest Reggie, happy birthday. I love you very much. Grandad.’

Reggie kept that little note with him wherever he went

When Reggie died, he almost hoped he would get to see his grandad again, but he was glad that he didn’t - that meant his grandad had crossed over, which meant that his life had been fulfilled

And for the rest of his life and afterlife, fuchsias remained Reggie’s favourite flower

He would see them dancing on a breeze and hear his grandad’s voice telling him they were beautiful ballerinas who lived in the toadstools

It comforted him on his darkest days

This is a link to a post I made where you can learn more about dementia and donate to Dementia UK and the Alzheimer’s Society.

[multifandomimagin3s]

Succubus ¬ Erron Black [Smut]

Warnings: 18+, essentially porn with a plot, demon stuff (duh)

Erron quirked a brow, hazel eyes following your form as you swiftly made your way through the crowd. The Black Dragon Fight club was infamous for its brutality - as if to prove his point, one of the ‘competitors’ hit the ground with a dull thud, laying limp in a pool of their own blood and sweat, all life leaving their form as the victor raised their hands in feral triumph. It was no place for someone as delicate-looking as yourself. 

Then again, he never underestimated women; he’d dated assassins in the past - full-blown killers, in some cases - who on the outside were as beautiful and perfect as a carefully-crafted porcelain doll. Stunning, but wouldn’t hesitate to rip you to shreds. It was how he liked it - the thrill of knowing that he could be killed by whoever he was having rampant sex with gave him the adrenaline rush he craved - at least, for a short while. 

It made him wonder if you really were as pure as you looked on the surface. To be fair, you were in amongst mercenaries, thieves, smugglers, and the like - you were obviously a brave one. The Gunslinger took a sip of his whiskey, as you side-stepped men and women alike who tried to block your path to instigate a conversation, without sparing them so much as a glance. Yep, definitely brave. 

“What brings a pretty little thing like you to a place like this?” Erron purred as soon as you were within earshot, cocking his head to the side when you turned to him in slight surprise,” Y’ come here often?”

“You tell me - you’ve been staring at me for the last ten minutes,” You retorted with a smirk, cocking your head to the side coyly. He hummed at your bluntness, staring into your (Y/E/C) eyes as you took a leisurely slow step towards him

“Just admirin’ the view, Darlin’,” He leaned back, elbow against the bar top, as you came to stand almost shoulder-to-shoulder with him. Whatever perfume you had on was...amazing; he was never a man to really care about such things - as long as those around him didn’t stink to high heaven, he didn’t care. But you smelled different - he struggled to focus on anything other than you, as if everything else didn’t matter in that moment. 

“Is that so? Aren’t you just a charmer - your reputation proceeds you.”

“And what reputation would that be?”

You bit your bottom lip with a coquettish smile, hand raising towards his holsters, index finger tracing over his gun. It was strangely attractive, his gaze trained on how small your hand was compared to the weapon - so delicate,” Word travels fast, Erron - from what I’ve heard, you’re very...efficient in more ways than one.”

He swivelled round slightly, his body effectively blocking you from view from anyone next to him. His eyes traced up and down your form, appreciating the tight clothing you adorned; a tight pale-pink dress, with a low neckline, giving him a good view of your cleavage. Paired with your heels, it left him with a sense of longing. He wanted you.

“Well, words are one thing, Dollface, but being able to prove it is another kettle of fish.”

You hummed, slowly walking your fingers across his belt, tapping your nail on the brass buckle. Erron huffed a laugh: “ You’re a forward woman, huh?”

“Are you complaining, Erron?” He shook his head ‘no’,” My species can’t afford to be soft and sweet all the time - if we were, we wouldn’t last long in this world.”

He clicked his tongue in realisation, the pieces coming together in his head. He shifted slightly on his feet,” You ain’t as human as you look, are you?”

“Yes and no - I’m a Succubus,” You informed, hand coming to rest against his lower abdomen, flashing your demonic red eyes as proof. He, unsurprisingly, was undeterred, but instead seemed more drawn in to your form than he was before,” I trust you know what that is?”

“Yeah, I know - never met one until now though,” His gaze fell to your plump lips, before coming back to your (Y/E/C) irises,” Gotta say, you’re a lot prettier than what I expected.”

You huffed on a laugh. Most of the scriptures were unflattering, to say the least - depicting you and your Succubine sisters as ugly monsters. It was demeaning, not to mention completely inaccurate. 

“I’m glad.”

His mask hid his cocky smile from view, but the crinkles around his eyes were an obvious tell. He knew why you were talking to him now - he knew how your kind fed - he just needed the conformation,” So, how does this work? Do I have t’ go crash out on that couch over there before we can have some real fun, or what?”

Your brows knitted together in irritation at his statement; it had the opposite effect that it was supposed to have, as he thought it was adorable,” No - I can’t speak for my sisters, but I certainly don’t prey on sleeping people - it’s fucking weird.”

Erron held his hand in surrender with a chuckle,” Sorry, Darlin’, my apologies...”

His hand caught yours, using it to tug your body closer to his. Your skin was unbelievably soft - it felt incredibly in comparison to his calloused hands. Erron took in your shocked expression while it lasted, the small slip in confidence giving him an ego boost. He managed to fluster a sex demon, who’d have thought it?

“Apology somewhat accepted,” You smiled, eyes half-lidded. Erron found himself becoming drunk on your pheromones, being in such close-proximity to a sinfully perfect being was intoxicating. He hadn’t even had you yet, but he didn’t want to let you go. 

“Oh? Then what’ll it take for you to fully forgive me, Babydoll?”

“I have a few ideas...”

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

Erron let out a deep groan, his fingers twisting into your hair as your mouth bobbed on his cock. He would have thanked every God and deity he knew of for having you grace his path, had his brain not been reduced to mush in your hands...and lips. He grunted, as you slowly slid back down the length of his member, tongue dragging over the vein on the underside of his cock with perfect precision. 

“Christ, you’re fuckin’ amazing, Darlin’,” Erron uttered, brow furrowing in pleasure as you hummed appreciatively, the vibrations only adding to his euphoria. His hold on your hair tightened as you peered up at him through your lashes, doe-eyed and innocent, hand stroking up and down his cock languidly. The sensation of your palm sent his nerves ablaze, so soft it was unreal, in contrast with how you slurped his sensitive head into your sinful mouth - his brain short-circuited. 

You giggled, thumb stroking over his reddening head, turning your attention to his balls, cradling them in your free hand. He hissed, teeth biting down on a clenched fist in a bid to control himself. It was undeniably hot as fuck, watching such a composed man crumble in such a way. It was addictive, your primal urges taking in the image before you hungrily, not quite satiated but damn was it beautiful. 

His hand came to push slightly on your jaw, pulling your mouth from his length with slight urgency,” Easy, Darlin’, I wouldn’t have lasted much longer if you’d kept that up.”

“What’s the matter? Couldn’t handle the pleasure, Erron?”

He huffed, warm hands latching onto your waist, tugging you down onto the mattress with him, his weight pressing you firmly into the sheets. You squirmed slightly, letting out a mewl as his hand connected with your ass with a firm slap; he grabbed the plump flesh with an appreciative hum,” You’re perfect - so hot.”

You wiggled your hips, biting your lip as you peered up at him over your shoulder. He cursed as his gaze fell onto your glistening slit, his cock twitching at the sight. Erron jumped slightly as something tickled his leg. He rocked onto his arm, peering downwards. 

Your tail trailed up his bare leg, the black appendage serving as a reminder as to what you were. His brows raised slightly, as your red irises stared up at him, the heart-shaped prong at the end of your tail tickling the inside of his thigh. You chuckled as he shuddered at the feeling,” What’s the matter? Second thoughts?”

Erron let out a groan as your tail lightly brushed against his aching cock, words leaving him for a moment as his weight rolled off you. You slowly turned, hand cradling the back of his neck, your sharp nails lightly scratching his scalp. 

You let out a whimper, the building pleasure and sexual tension sending your senses into overdrive. It was a wonderful sensation - being fed...but it wasn’t enough at the same time. Not when you’d come this far. This man would be the death of you. 

The Gunslinger smirked lazily, connecting your lips to his in a bruising kiss. You hummed - the sound turning into a squeak as his fingers traced your folds, the tip of his index finger just tickling your clit. He was teasing you - dipping into your wetness, only to draw back and leave you hanging. You caught hold of his wrist in your hand, catching his bottom lip between your teeth,” Don’t tease me.”

Erron nipped your jaw, a deep groan sounding in his chest as he sank his index finger into your pussy. Your walls tightened around his digit at the intrusion, as you threw your head back with a purr. He drew his finger back, adding his middle finger, pushing in roughly, drinking in the sight of your hips jumping to meet his palm. 

“That feel good?” He breathed into your ear, sucking on the lobe as he slid his fingers in and out at a leisurely pace. You whimpered, as his thumb stroked over your clit, his fingers bending as he sped up his movements, bumping against your g-spot harshly. He added a third finger, and you babbled his name, left hand winding into the sheets while your right gripped onto his bicep for purchase. 

“You-You’re too good at this,” Your compliment was met with a chuckle. It wasn’t often that you met someone who could make you feel as good as this - most took the pleasure you gave them, and left without reciprocating any of it. It didn’t matter much because you fed from their pleasure, not your own, but still - it wasn’t the point it was the principle. 

He pulled his fingers from your heat, licking his lips as he watched your hips all but follow the movement of his hand, whining at the loss of contact. Erron flexed his fingers, a string of slick connecting his digits to your sopping heat. You whimpered, as he lifted one of your legs onto his shoulder, biting onto the inside of your thigh playfully,” Such a pretty pussy.”

You bit your lip as he placed his tongue over your clit, rolling it across the sensitive pebble in tight circles, swiping down the length of your pussy. He hummed against your heat, his fingers sinking back into your walls with ease, massaging your spot with each in-stroke. It was a beautiful sight - watching a Succubus fall apart before him, clutching at his hair as he sucked and slurped her sweet juices. 

“Sh-Shit, I’m gonna cum!” 

The Gunslinger pinned your hips to the mattress, devouring your core like a man starved, groaning deeply as your back arched off the bed. He let you ride out your orgasm against his mouth, as you came with a shout of his name,” Holy shit.”

Erron grunted as he was suddenly flipped onto his back, your form shifting over his, straddling his hips. His hand drew back, landing a slap to your ass. You giggled, reaching back to stroke his hard cock,” You’ve been so good to me, Erron - I can’t wait to ride your big cock.”

He grinned, hands gripping onto your hips roughly as you rose upwards, aligning his head with your folds, slowly sinking down on him. Your mouth fell open in an ‘o’ shape, the sensation of being full sending you into bliss. He grunted, head falling back against the sheets as he tried to keep himself grounded,” Fuck, you’re so tight.”

Your hands pressed against his chest, as you slowly lifted yourself up, allowing yourself to feel every inch of his cock. Erron flicked his thumb against your clit, your walls clenching in response as you slid back down. The man underneath you was clearly growing impatient, as his grip assisted in quickening your pace, his hips thrusting up to meet yours with each down stroke. 

“You feel so good,” You moaned, leaning down to connect your lips to his, fingers fanning across his cheek. Erron’s stomach fluttered, as your walls tightened around him, a deep groan rumbling in his chest.

“You gonna cum again, Sweetheart?” He purred encouragingly, watching your wetness dribble down his length, pooling at his groin. 

You nodded with a squeal, as he flipped you both over, thrusting hard into your pussy, drawing your legs up onto his shoulders. His cock drove deeper, sending you tumbling into your second orgasm of the night. Instinctually, your teeth latched onto his shoulder, arms winding around his neck.

The mix of pain and pleasure were euphoric, and Erron found himself falling into his orgasm without warm, groaning gruffly with each hot spurt of his seed. You hummed, licking over the bite mark briefly; it had broken the skin, but it wasn’t deep. Erron eyed it with a cocktail of curiosity and amusement, as he noticed your apologetic smile,” Don’t worry - you’re not the first lady to bite me during sex, I’m kinda into that sort of thing.”

“Good to know,” You smirked, as he rolled onto his back, pulling you with him. You rested your head on his chest, drawing random patterns on his chest as he played with your hair. 

“Where the hell were you hiding that?” You snorted as he eyed your tail. You swished it in front of his face, the soft heart-shaped prong tickling his nose. He grasped it gently, stroking over it curiously. You let out a gasp; he froze,” Did that hurt?”

“N-No, it felt good actually...it’s very sensitive.”

He gave you a lop-sided smirk,” I’ll keep that in mind, Darlin’...are you ready for round 2?”

[violetnemerald]

Late Night Diner

A/N: I wrote this last year and finally got around to finish editing it, so sorry for anything that may seem inaccurate or my writing is different. I’ve also aged them up for this, and also Damian has become batman. 

It had been a really long night. Damian couldn’t catch a break. He reached up to remove the cowl from his face only to feel sharp pains emitting from his ribs. “Shit.” He muttered under his breath. Damian couldn’t even think of which battle this even came from. Each fight seemed to blend together with no indication of when which brawl started and which another had ended. Growing up in the League made him used to pain but he still knew when a rib was broken. Damian took one last look at the monitor in the batmobile, multiple little red dots lit up across the map of Gotham, indicating call ins from the police. The Wayne boy, now man, sighed and flipped a switch.

“Nightwing?”

“Yeah, D.” Dick’s voice rang throughout the car.

“I’ve had enough. I’ve been at this for 8 hours now, I need a break. Can you take over for now?” Damian looked over his attire for holes or stab wounds he may not have felt, being hyped up on adrenaline and other drugs.

“Fine, see you soon.” With that Damian shut off the communicator. Sliding the gear shift into place Damian pressed his foot down to the floor and drove off.

………...

The little bell at the top of the door rang and in strolled the son of Bruce Wayne. Damian took in one whiff and felt so distant from the man he was just moments ago. To Damian the son of Bruce Wayne wasn’t the real him but being the Bat wasn’t entirely him either. But in this little diner in the poorer parts of Gotham he didn’t have to pretend to be someone he wasn’t. The young man strode forward sitting down in the booth furthest from the door.

Damian lifted the hem of his sweatshirt high enough to reveal a bruise on his abdomen. I guess the night had been rougher than I initially thought, Damian thought.

“Can I get you something to drink?” Startled, Damian quickly released his grip on the shirt, the fallen fabric covering his bruise.

“Uhh… umm… yeah a, a coffee would be nice.” The waitress handed him a menu and Damian reached to grab it. The cuff of his sleeve slid back revealing yet another bruise on his forearm. He scrambled to cover it up with his other hand. The bell sounded, making the waitress scurry off to help the other poor soul awake at this hour. It was 3:34 AM after all. The only people typically awake at this hour was him, the rest of the Bat family, and the scum of Gotham.

The sounds of heels and pots and pans being moved were the only thing preventing the diner from being silent. Damian looked down at the menu. What was he in the mood for? He had no idea if he was even hungry or if he was just trying to take his mind off something. All he knew was something drew him away from the action. The leather booth creaked as someone sat across from him.

“What are you doing here?” Damian asked, his head still buried in the menu. He knew who it was the second she walked inside the door. He didn’t need to see her signature navy blue, almost black, hair to know when Raven was near him. Their connection allowed them to feel each other’s presence. It was a connection Raven had put in place when they first met. It was initially only supposed to be for healing and communicative purposes, but as their feelings for each other became stronger, the connection got deeper and deeper, allowing for more powerful abilities to take place, such as sensing presence.

“Dick said you took off early and I figured you didn’t want to go home either.” It was then that Damian looked up, his eyes meeting her deep purple eyes. A smile tugged at the corners of his lips. Damian couldn’t help it, whenever he looked at her his stern face would always soften into a smile. No matter how hard he tried it happened every time, the only time it doesn’t is when they are arguing.  

Her hair was in slight waves and fell just past her shoulders. Around her neck was a necklace Damian had constructed to hold her crystal, the crystal holding her father prisoner. She wore a light gray shirt covered by a long black jacket. He didn’t need to look under the table to know that she was wearing black jeans. Based on her appearance Damian knew she had been waiting up for him. He wished that she would have spent these last few hours sleeping instead of worrying about him.

It was her night off after all. But Raven hated being away from him. She knew just how reckless he could be, especially when she wasn’t around. This made her worry and how could she ever sleep knowing that Damian could need some help at any moment. She leaned forward placing her hand on his. He was in front of her and in one piece. They had been through so much together that seeing him was all she needed to find comfort. A loose piece of hair fell in front of her face blocking Damian’s view of the girl he loved. He took his other hand and reached across the table tucking the loose strand behind her ear; letting his hand linger there feeling the cold laced into hair before moving it down twirling at the end of the strand.

The waitress placed the scalding hot coffee in front of Damian and placed another mug filled with chamomile tea, which Raven had ordered as soon as she walked in. The aroma from the coffee and tea quickly filled the pair’s nostrils, taking over all of their senses.  Damian quickly reached for the handle but missed, as Raven had used her powers to slide it away from him.

Damian shot a glare at Raven. He wasn’t smiling any longer. She was messing with him and he was in no mood for games. But neither was Raven, at least not here. Raven wrapped her hands around the rim of the other mug pushing the hot tea in front of Damian.

“Now maybe you will sleep when you get back home.” Raven smiled a devilish glint in her eyes. Not her normal devilish eyes but a little glimmer showing she had been planning this since the second she heard from Dick. Although Damian knew she was right. The caffeine would only keep him up until he had to go to his day job, and seeing Raven here only confirmed his need to be sleeping next to her tonight. Then it hit him, harder than any person had that night. He just wanted to be next to her, and that was why he took off the rest of the night.

Raven quickly scooched out of the booth and grabbed the coffee filled mug. She took the hot mug and plate with her and placed it on the counter as well as some money to cover the two drinks.

Damian looked over his shoulder watching Raven. He drew in his lips at the sight of her hips swaying. It drove him crazy. Raven knew this too which was why she was exaggerating the movements of her hips as she walked. Just as Raven turned to go through the door, Damian looked back to where his love just sat. He was so happy to call her his. He rolled eyes and raised the tea to his lips, letting his smirk be filled with the herbal taste of chamomile.

[weaverlings]

bone beneath the gums

Summary: All the divinity in Hornet's blood cannot spare her from the demands of her mortal shell.

Content warnings: gore, discussion of self-harm (not acted on), body horror, emetophobia, disordered eating, body image, detailed (if scientifically inaccurate) depiction of spider eating. There's also a doctor appointment.

This deals, once again, with some degree of hypothetical post-Silksong character development having already taken place, and Hornet and Lace are living together in Pharloom.

Also no, I don't know how hunting works. I also did a smidge of research for spice re: molting, but mostly I'm winging it. They're fantasy bug people.

Finally, Lace is French unfortunately :( Poor petite champignon.

alt link (because this is super long)

chapter 1

The stillness of the forest broke to allow Hornet through. A flash of silver, a blur of red, and she landed in the earth beside the trap she had laid.

A lillifly had met its end there, unable to free itself from the tight configuration of blades. Hornet knelt down and retrieved it. The metal sprang apart for her at the press of a switch. Except one keen edge, stuck in the lillfly's layers of wing. 

She tilted it considerately, then adjusted it in her grip to scratch her wrist. Her claws clicked against her palm as she caught herself and pushed aside the itch in her shell. 

Here, she had a puzzle. As long as she focused, and did not rush, having her hands full would help keep her mind clear of any pesky prickling. 

Her clawtips worked to loosen the trap, pinging against the lethal pieces as she eased them precisely apart, peeling back the brittle chitin of her prey, until at last the creature came free. Then she cut it open the rest of the way, cleaned and packaged it, and stowed it away with the others that she had claimed. 

She would need to take the trap back with her for maintenance, but she had enough others to check. The day went on, and she found enough food waiting for her. 

But, in her few idle moments, she still found herself scratching. 

The itch would not abate. If anything, it was spreading, winding deeper, gnawing at the underside of her carapace where she could not reach it, but felt compelled to try whenever her hands were empty. 

Even knowing better than to indulge this impulse did not spare her. It undercut knowledge and appealed to reflex. Had she been bitten without noticing, or cut herself on some thorn, full of poison unknown to her? 

Unlikely. But it was not a risk she could afford to ignore. She found a place to shelter, quickly cutting free a patch of bramble - a plant she knew to be harmless - and slipped into her makeshift den to check herself over. 

She was unharmed. Only the familiar tracery of scars marked her, many from old wounds before she'd learned how to bind properly, but enough which were more recent. These had been deeper, from the bite of steel pins and the lash of silk.

So she sat there, hidden away in humidity and vine, in this little den so like the places she used to sleep. She sat there, and she itched, and she frowned to herself. Her shell was unharmed, but something was amiss. 

She found the first sign of what on her wrist. It took much of her will to avoid dragging her claws over where she brushed, but when she simply pressed down, the chitin crinkled and twisted. It burned, and she gasped. 

She understood now. She swore quietly. And then she stood and stretched, and slipped away into the forest again. Whatever problem this posed, for now it was only that. She'd be better off completing her work while she could.

*

 Lace had had an eventful day herself.

"And it took three of us just to wrangle it! And I know she knows better than to compose so carelessly, but she somehow believed the melody would..."  

Hornet tried to listen. She stared at her plate, tapping the prongs of her fork against the meal's centerpiece - silverfish with a citrus sauce. A favorite of hers. Beside it was a thick slice of bread with greensap butter, and she had been given an extra raspberry fruitlet, as well. An award for being such a delight, according to Lace. 

"...and here I quote her, 'work itself out'? Truly!"

Hornet wanted to eat the fruit. She could suck out the juice and nibble on the skin; a habit of hers which had once been discouraged, the last time she'd had regular access to fruit. It was, according to Lace, absolutely adorable. Hornet doubted anyone else would think a spider draining fruit dry like a prey bug was anything but vaguely unsettling, but it meant no one would stop Hornet now. She could eat how she liked. 

She touched none of it. She reached for her wine, and took a sip. She held it in her mouth. The bitterness was worth savoring, but it was more that she found herself reluctant to swallow.

She set her glass back down, and stared at her plate. She scratched her wrist absently, catching herself with her thumbtip digging in. The slight pressure still burned. Hornet hissed under her breath.

"In the end, we moved it to- Hornet?" 

"Hm? I'm sorry, what was that?"

Lace tapped the rim of her wineglass. "I know you're hardly listening, darling. And you haven't touched your dinner, and now… What's the matter?" 

"I'm molting," Hornet answered, and then reconsidered. "Well, not presently. When I am, you will know. It will be difficult to miss." 

Lace hummed, and spread her fingers on one side of her plate. Her gloves were off; her thin, fungal flesh was clearly visible. Her curiosity was just as plain, in the lilt of her voice. "My. I've heard that can get messy." 

Hornet grimaced. "You've heard correctly." 

"I suppose you've done this before?"

"Indeed I have."

Lace tilted her head. "Would it be a personal question to ask how many times?"

"It would. But you are allowed this. Four, I believe." Hornet fangs drew together thoughtfully. "It's been some time." 

"You're worried." 

"Somewhat. I could not have been much younger than I am now when it happened last, but it has nonetheless been some time," Hornet observed. An eerily casual perspective on the warping of time, as only someone who had spent so long so strangely alone in it could have. 

She slid one hand toward the center of the table. "Still. It's only some mess."

"So you're worried, and you're trying to convince yourself it's nothing to worry about." Lace placed her hand over Hornet's. "Come now, dear." 

"It isn't anything to worry about," Hornet said. She flipped her hand over to grasp Lace's. "Truly. Some would say it's a cause for celebration. Though I'm beyond that age, if you'd like, you may put a little candle in my prey for the night."

Lace laughed. "And what a fine cake you would hunt, no doubt." She jabbed her fork forward, and gave it a fine flourish. "But don't think you can evade the point! It's nothing to be worried about, very well. But you are nonetheless worried." 

Hornet leaned back in her chair, although she kept her arm stretched to hold Lace's hand. She said only, "Such persistence." 

"You deserve nothing less."

Hornet squeezed Lace's hand once, and let go. "I really rather would let it pass. It's bound to happen." 

"Very well." Lace recognized the boundary she had reached. "What about dinner, then? Can you manage that?" 

"I think not. I find that I'm not hungry." Hornet hadn't realized how true that was until there was food in front of her. The smell didn't precisely turn her stomach, but perhaps tilted it, just enough to put her off her meal. "Something lighter, perhaps? I'm sorry." 

"Nothing to be sorry for." Lace stood, and took Hornet's plate to wrap. "We'll just save this, and perhaps you can have it tomorrow. But if not, we'll have silverfish another night." 

Hornet joined Lace at the counter. While Lace stored the leftovers, Hornet put some water on to boil. Though significantly less appealing, her absent appetite made oatmeal the best option. At least Lace waited for it to be ready with her, lingering at Hornet's side and pulling her hand down when she noticed Hornet scratching. 

"Ah." Hornet gave her a rueful smile. "Thank you." 

In answer, Lace reached around and scratched the spot herself, more gently. 

Hornet shuddered. The relief, even from such a small gesture, was relentless. "Enough- enough."

Lace stopped. Hornet folded Lace's hand in both of hers and held it, still and pressed to her chest, until the kettle shrieked for her to finish her preparations. 

They finished their different dinners together. 

 *

 It had been long ago, but such a difficult lesson that Hornet had never forgotten the learning. It was one of the clearer memories she had of her mother - Hornet's pain had become a blur, absent even when the rest of the scene revolved around it, but she remembered looking up into her mother's face through her own tears. The rare fear there, as the yet-unnamed heir to the Nest squirmed and sobbed in her little bed, too soft in her shell for even Herrah to be sure of touching her safely. 

Midwife had been called for. The two beasts had run the heir a bath, and Hornet remembered the silk they'd wrapped her in, soft enough to make any flower envious, more than she remembered the way her old shell had scraped the new. No matter how gentle her caretakers were, there had been no helping it.

Still, they got the molt off. She'd heard from Midwife that she'd cried herself to sleep, and Herrah nearly did, too. But the joy when she woke up, as bubbly as ever and with all her limbs in proper alignment, was too mirrored by Herrah. No doubt this was among the greatest happiness ever experienced in the Nest. Yet another gift their heir had brought. 

She had been such a happy baby, Midwife had said. 

 *

 A rustling in the brush pulled Hornet from her thoughts. She scolded herself. She knew better. If she was to be so easily distracted, she may as well just wait at home. 

She stopped scratching at her shoulder, and tightened both hands on her weapon, drawing focus as always from the chill of the metal. She had left her traps to rest for a few days now. Needle in hand, she hunted. 

She listened to the underbrush, picking through the rustling around her to find its components - the breeze in the canopy above, the shuffling of creatures nearby too small to be of interest. 

Her shell itched. She let it alone. Her hands stayed firm on her needle. The rustling changed. She heard, not footsteps, but the barest displacement of fern and foliage around a creature. 

The head of a nowlet poked free of the brush. Her needle flew. 

Action. Reaction.

She pierced the nowlet's heart as it was exposed, halfway from the bushes. She yanked the creature back to herself, and peeled it off of her weapon, the shell around the edges of the wound crunching quietly. 

Action, reaction. If only the world could always be so simple, so exhilarating. 

She cleaned and packaged her prey. Her hands moved steadily, not straying from her task, and not scratching. Not scratching. Not scratching, blast it. 

Cleaned, packaged, and into the sack the creature went, with the rest of her catch. 

What she had was more than sufficient, for her purposes. She examined the sky through the trees. Dusk was far enough off, and she could carry more if she wished. She ought not to waste time, nor ability, while she had it. 

Certainly not, she told herself, closing her hand around her wrist, on account of some discomfort.

But such thinking was dishonest. Suffering in bed for a week would have likely been better for her health. Soon enough she'd have no choice. Until then her impulse was to run, and she allowed herself this because the alternative was clawing at her carapace until chunks came away. 

Focusing on her work as a hunter - even when she had hardly slept for two nights, even when each meal grumbled and grouched in her gut, no matter how light - was preferable to true endurance. She was hunting, her catch was proof of that, but she was also hiding. Cowardice. Children molted. 

She had done it. She remembered it well: her mother's face, looking down on her. She remembered.  

She pulled her needle close, and rested her head against the handle. A moment to breathe, that was all. A moment to breathe, there in the undergrowth. Then she would move on. She tugged a watershell from its pocket, and took a long drink - longer than she meant to, long enough that she was left nearly breathless when she stopped up the shell again. 

She felt awful and uneven and she was being foolish. She was misaligned, or becoming so. Unable to even tell how thirsty she was. Were she to waste her mother's gift on a hunting accident, she'd never be forgiven, although she did not spare the thought to consider who would hold this grudge. 

Lace, perhaps, would bear some resentment. But that was different, not a matter of debt.  

And yet, Hornet had come to the woods to hunt. She fulfilled these duties as a compromise. It was all the restraint that she could bear. Some part of her demanded that she retreat from the city, into the woods. Make another little den and camp there, just until this was over. The creation of her shelter the other day had reminded her: once she had only felt safe in such places, where no one could reach her. 

Once. Not anymore. All she could do was hold tight to the present, and draw focus from this: she had somewhere to return to.

 *

 She slept no better that night. It was hard to tell what woke her. She slipped out from under the covers, and into the bathroom. 

She kept the lamps covered. The mirror showed her only the thinnest outline of herself. A silhouette, barely defined by shadow. The gleam of her eyes and the twitch of her fangs. She was movement more than shape. Movement was more real than her shape. Her shape was due to change any day now. 

Form was a fickle thing. Shape had its own whims. She had every reason to understand that. 

As she stood there, with one hand braced against the countertop, the other found her temple, and she finally caught up with herself. Her disorientation was not only lack of sleep. There was a pressure behind her eyes. A sensation between fog and bunched fabric. Not a headache, but the promise of one. 

Is this normal? Is this how it happens? Gods. I don't remember.

It had been too long. She tipped her head back, and exhaled. Cursed carapace, cursed that she should have it at all. What had she done to earn it? Her father had given up so much for his, fool that he'd been. And her mother. Her mother. 

Gods. She laughed, short and bitter. Right. Cursed kin .  

She truly wasn't feeling well. And that truly changed nothing. This would happen. She could not run from it. 

She cupped her hands under the sink and let the water pool in her hands. She splashed some first over her face, and then gathered more to take several cool gulps.

There was a knock on the door. "Ma petite araignée? You've been in there a while. Are you alright?"

Hornet glanced over her shoulder, her fangs clenched. She hadn't meant to wake Lace again tonight, but they were both light sleepers, to put it kindly.  

"I am. I will be out in a moment." Hornet urged, "Go back to sleep. There's no reason both of us shouldn't." 

"I'm sleeping just fine. You needn't worry about me, dear."

Hornet dried her face, and opened the door to see Lace's outline in the dark. She was sitting up in bed, her bright eyes far too alert for what should have been a restful hour. 

"That is not sleeping," Hornet told her.

"Of course not. I wanted to wait for you. Come here?" 

Something in Lace's words caught at Hornet. There was no sharpness in Lace's melodic voice, and that absence dragged in Hornet's thoughts like claws in silk. She moved mechanically, returning to bed herself and drawing the blankets back over her lap. But she did not lie down. She had little enough hope for sleep, in any case. She turned to Lace, instead. 

Lace reached out and took one of Hornet's hands. "You've been so quiet, Hornet. How are you feeling?" 

"Poorly."

"What can I do for you, darling?" Lace's thumb brushed over her knuckles.

"There is nothing for it but time." 

"Nonsense. There must be some way to make you more comfortable."

"Your determination is enough," Hornet assured her. "More than. I know I've posed quite an inconvenience." 

"You know that, do you?" 

"Is it not true?" 

"Not at all. I'd never dismiss your suffering as a mere inconvenience."

"Don't speak so soon. I think, starting tomorrow, I will need to stay home for, mm, several days?"

"Alright. Would you like me to stay with you?"

"That won't be necessary." 

Lace hmm ed. "I did not ask if it was necessary; I asked if you'd like me here."

"I might." Hornet sighed. "I don't wish to become an imposition, but I think it will be that or leave entirely. I'll be unable to go back and forth." 

Lace angled Hornet's face down to meet her eyes. "One moment! Leave - you mean - what do you mean, exactly? Where did you mean to go?" 

"Nowhere. Unless you wished otherwise. In the morning, when I had meant to discuss this." She turned away, tucked her knees to her chest, and laid her forehead onto them. At such an angle, she could feel the weight of her horns tugging on the rest of her. 

"Did you think I'd want to be rid of you?" Lace did not demand, nor accuse. She only asked. 

Hornet laid one arm over her head, curled tighter, spoke into herself. "No. No, I only thought it might be best."

"And why did you think that?" 

Hornet was silent. At length, she said, "I do not have an answer that would satisfy you. It was only the first option that came to mind. Or perhaps it felt safe, but-"

She shook her head. had to hold on. Hold tight to what was in front of her, and draw focus from it.  

She felt Lace's hand on her back. "If that's what you're worried about, let me watch over you! It doesn't bear thinking about, oh, my dear Hornet… all alone out there, in such a state..."

Hornet's laugh was short and humorless, emerging from the cocoon she'd made of her limbs. "It isn't necessary. I've been through worse. I'd only come back, shiny and new for you." 

"Oh. Oh, I see. You've been through worse."

Hornet turned her head. Now Lace's voice had its keen edge back.

Lace drew herself upright, shifting to sit on her knees and fold her arms over her chest. "You have. I know it. Alone, out there. Haven't you had enough of that?" She offered one hand out, palm raised dramatically. "Be... inconvenient , if it helps you. Impose." 

"What a regal suggestion." 

"Fine. If you so dislike that, then consider..." Lace laid a hand against Hornet's cheek. "I'd miss you terribly."

"Is that so? No." Hornet shook her head, but she held Lace's hand to her face. "That is, no, I know you mean what you say. But I warn you, I'll be poor company." 

Lace shifted, drawing Hornet's arms around her and the rest of her forward. Hornet let Lace pull her close. Hornet let her body do all it seemed good for now: understanding the way they fit together, her cheek settling improbably well on Lace's shoulder. Hornet could feel Lace's soft, cool flesh against her face, through the sleeve of Lace's nightgown. 

Lace asked, "Tell me. Tell me this, do you want to go?"

Hornet fixed her arms around Lace, clasping her hands again between and below Lace's shoulders. She confessed, to herself as well as Lace, "No."

It was more that she didn't know how to stay. Inaction was always the harder path. 

"Then I won't allow it," Lace promised. 

 *

 Hornet had been confined to her bed. That was fine. 

Everywhere else was too big and too bright, so bright it felt like there was no air to breathe, only light. She could never shake the feeling her father was watching when she stepped out of her room; she was sure he was, at least he could have done the courtesy of pretending otherwise. 

But she had been left alone in her room for the better part of a week now. Bugs molted alone, and she was one of her father's subjects, his daughter, a bug of Hallownest. That was fine . It was just how she wanted it to be. She wanted to be alone. 

She didn't remember the moment that her shell gave. It must have. 

She remembered being dragged to the royal tailor after, whining about it. And, well, she stood by that to this day. Their handling of fabric had been an insult, compared to the weavers' work. 

She remembered that when it was done, she wished she could do it all over again. At least if she molted, she could be alone. 

 *

 Morning came. Sunlight through the curtains had turned the room pale.

Something was wrong.

Hornet's heart crashed against her shell. Beating and beating. Ruthlessly alive. 

A warning. Too fast. 

Something was wrong. 

She untangled herself from Lace and shoved herself upright on the nearest surface, which was Lace's side. Lace jolted awake, coughing, the wind knocked out of her, but already reaching after Hornet.

She was halfway to the bathroom, and her body hated her for this turn of speed. Her sides were coming apart, not the shell, not what was meant to happen - as if the muscle itself was splitting.

What is wrong with me?

That painless sense of pressure had fulfilled its promise, built into a drumming that blurred her vision, into vertigo that pitched her stomach into her throat; she swallowed sour but it would not stay down. 

At least she made it to the toilet before she was sick. 

She knelt there even after it was done. Retching up nothing. Shuddering and tensing, trying to force herself to be still. She finally sat back on her legs, and slowly regained her breath. She laid her hands on the cold tile. Her own gasps echoed in her head, but she focused on the smooth, carefully-laid floor under her hands as a reminder - she was not being too loud , the noise would not draw any foe to her, to see her weakened state. 

She was in the bathroom. She was home. There was movement nearby, but she could recognize Lace's light tread from the other room. Coming closer. Closer. Hornet's breathing was so loud.  

She lifted her head and hissed. Her fangs rose in warning. Lace met the eyes of a frightened demigod beast, one prepared to bite. 

Lace knelt down next to Hornet, her nightdress fluttering against the tile. Her hands were clearly visible, and in them were two objects, a cup and a bowl. She held out the cup, and instructed, "Rinse." 

Hornet snatched it so quickly that water sloshed over the edges and drank. Lace offered the bowl up. She said, "Spit." 

Hornet did. She repeated the process, draining half the water that way, and then swallowed the rest. 

"Thank you," she rasped. That voice didn't sound like hers, but then, she didn't feel like herself. It sounded like a voice that belonged to whoever this was. 

"Hornet," Lace said. "What's the matter?"

"Something," Hornet answered, and as vague as that was, her desperation was so plain that Lace reached out to stroke Hornet's cheek, but she could not be soothed so readily. She shook her head. "I don't know. I don't - it's-"

She grasped at her side. Lace leaned in, "May I take a look?"

But Hornet withdrew.  "Limbs. New limbs." 

She could feel a knot in the chitin under her claws. The chitin wasn't right, wasn't fixed in place - it shifted under her touch like a blister, and beneath that, something. Something. She found a matching lump on the other side. "Arms? It must be. Unless something has gone wrong."

Lace's delicate voice only emphasized her insistence. "Has something gone wrong?" 

"I don't know ."  

She tried again to remember if this was at all normal. But it wasn't. None of it was. Time and distance had made this all strange to her. "Has it been too long? I don't know. I don't know what it did to me." 

She should have grown past any resentment by now. She would have thought that she had, long since. But it seemed that she was not done growing at all. 

If something had gone wrong, she might well be in danger. Was she doomed to lose yet more to Hallownest? Her hand was still clamped over her side, and her stern gaze was locked onto her hand, as if she could interrogate her own chitin. 

She had borne worse pain. If someone had threatened her in that moment, or Lace, or this kingdom where they had carved out shelter, then Hornet would raise her needle and fight. But there was no foe to stir her blood, and so she was stuck here on the floor of the bathroom, trembling. And it hurt. She hurt. There was no disguise or distraction she could claim. 

"Hornet," Lace whispered. "What do you need? Can you tell me, darling?"

"To tear it off," Hornet spat. Her grip tightened, and her own touch seared. "If something has gone wrong… Perhaps it's best to remove it, here and now." 

The pain become as thin and watery as the rest of her. Her head was all murk and depth, and her thoughts were swimming in it. If she could only pull free of herself. Just once. Resolve this by claw, as she had so many other problems, as that damnable itching itself seemed to demand.

Lace threaded her fingers with Hornet's, and pulled Hornet's hand into her lap. Lace promised, "I forbid it. I'll catch you in your own silk if you try." 

Hornet's mouth dropped open. Then she snorted. "I would not. I know that much, I know it would only- I don't know what to do."

She bent her head, the tip of one horn coming to rest on Lace's shoulder. Lace squeezed the hand she held, and laid her other palm over the horn. When Hornet did not pull away or protest, Lace stroked there. 

"I wish I knew, darling, but I don't. Would anyone?" 

"What? Who could possibly-"

Gods, this kingdom isn't dead. 

It was not, in fact, just her and Lace. This was beyond their power, and if it was truly a matter of the stasis warping her, then there might be nothing anyone could do. But certainly, there would be those better suited to handle something as crucial and as common as a troublesome molt.

All the tension coiling in her gut unwound viciously. Hornet's laughter was so sudden that it turned blunt, throbbing down her sides. It didn't last long. "Lace?"

Lace's answer came perfectly prim. "Yes?"

Perhaps this was larval behavior. Hornet was no infant, to seek soothing for every ache. Nor did she. She'd never done what she was about to do. "There are doctors in this kingdom, yes?" 

"Yes, of course."

Although it might have been easier for Hornet to invite Lace to duel her, Hornet asked, "Will you help me summon one?"

Lace's eyes lit. "Certainly, dear. Let's get you back to bed, shall we? And then I shall fetch someone at once."

"Alright." 

Lace helped her up, and then to lie down again, as promised. Lace even pulled the covers over her, and Hornet considered asking Lace to stay, in spite of the task Hornet herself had set out. Only for a moment, only enough that she would not have to stew in her thoughts for so long. 

But when Lace kissed her forehead and promised to be back as soon as she could, Hornet was in no position to argue, much less follow after. 

 *

 Lace's search took her across half the city. Not that it took her long to traverse, but she was acutely aware of every second. It would have been worse to sacrifice quality for speed, however, and she had a suspicion. Pursuing this line of questioning, speaking to several laypeople and doctors alike, she finally found the doctor that would suit Hornet's needs.

She let herself in without knocking, and closed the door firmly behind her. 

The bug behind the desk kept at their writing, but said, "You may as well have a seat, then. Is it an urgent matter?"

Lace stayed standing. "Quite. You are Iris, aren't you?"

"That's right." The doctor dotted their quill on the page, and looked up. Their eyes narrowed. They spun the quill in their clawtips. "And you - how do I know you?" 

"My name is Lace, and I-"

They stilled their quill abruptly and thrust the tip at her. "You are the princess' partner."

"Hornet's," Lace corrected, covering a coy smile with her hand in a way that made it more obvious. "Only I may call her otherwise."

"Quite a turn from the norm. But I suppose... Well. I'm afraid I must ask, since you've come to me: how is she?"

"In need of your services." Lace folded her arms. "She's molting. Which she tried to insist was merely inevitable, and I suppose it is, but she was ill this morning and has clearly been unwell."

"Normal? Well, I suppose she'd have to do that, same as anyone." They tapped the point of their quill on the blotter for a moment, then shoved what they'd been working on out of the way and claimed a fresh sheet of paper. "Ill in what manner?"

Lace huffed, "Isn't it better for you to just come and see? I'll bring you to her."

"I need to know what to expect."

"We can talk on the way, then. Come along."

The doctor frowned, but pushed away from their desk. "You're fortunate that I have no other appointments this morning. Nothing I cannot miss for her sake, at least."

Lace beamed. "I'd thought that might be the case. Let's be off! I have some questions for you, as well." 

"Naturally." 

Iris gathered their supplies, and the two of them set out.

chapter 2

In the Hive, Hornet had lost her ability to smell honey long ago. She was surrounded always. The noise was constant. 

So of course someone came to check on her regularly, until she indicated more icily than she should have that she would rather have been alone. She would apologize later, she told herself, but in truth she would forget.

And then she was alone, and it was what she had asked for. Alone in her shell that didn't fit right.

She had thought about the midwife and her mother. That had been - that was the past. Even then, that was the past. 

When her shell finally split, she thought of nothing. Not her mother, not Queen Vespa's kindness. Certainly not offering apologies.

At least there was plenty of honey to eat when she was done, and she stood a little taller than she had before. Her needle fit better in her hand. 

She would yet live up to her name.

 *

 Hornet heard the front door open. 

A voice she didn't know spoke. "...somewhere comfortable. Or at least have some blankets ready."

"Hmm. I see." Lace said, "Wait here. I'll go and get her."

So Lace had succeeded at her task. As expected. 

Hornet set down the cradle of thread she'd fidgeted into existence, and stood up. She was feeling - not better. But resting had given her some energy back, to combat her symptoms, to think through her headache. She stood and reclaimed her cloak, and then sealed her mask over her face. Lace opened the bedroom door to find Hornet waiting before the threshold.

"Hm, and I was going to provide you an escort. Never mind, I suppose." Lace leaned in to whisper, "How are you?"

Hornet answered in the same low tone. "I'd like to finish this, and we have yet to start. You trust this person?"

"Yes. Although we're only just acquainted." Lace took Hornet's hand, and kissed it quickly. "But your kin are quite skilled in many fields, after all. I found a weaver to tend to you."

Hornet drew back, and looked over Lace's shoulder. She said, louder than she'd meant to, "A weaver?" 

The weaver in question raised their head only to incline it politely. They had affixed a silver disc to their forehead on a strip of cloth, and it made them look even rounder than they already were. They unwound a stethoscope in their top set of hands, while setting various instruments on the coffee table with the other two. 

In spite of their preoccupation, they said, "It's been some time. Thank you again for what you did." 

"Ah. Yes. Think nothing of it," she said. 

"It was hardly nothing," they said mildly. "But neither is it why I'm here. And I suppose I have you at a disadvantage - my name is Iris, and Lace has told me you require some assistance."

Hornet nodded warily, but did not move otherwise. It was one thing to ask for help, another to receive it from a stranger, weaver or no, in her own home. A third thing altogether, to realize how close she would have to stand to this stranger, unarmed. As though she didn't have other means to defend herself, and certainly, certainly, it would not come to that. She risked letting her nerves get the better of her.

Lace squeezed Hornet's hand again. "Let's get this over with, yes?"

Hornet stepped forward. "Indeed." 

They joined the doctor by the coffee table. Lace took a seat on the lounge, but made sure to leave Hornet with another kiss on the cheek. Hornet returned the gesture swiftly. 

She had understood Lace's reasoning in finding a weaver. As the examination began, Hornet was grateful for the choice. 

The doctor asked her to remove her cloak, and she did, folding it carefully before setting it aside and standing stiffly, her arms crossed. Her body was an error from the weaver template - not her words, nor words she was meant to have heard, but they had always sounded right enough. She'd held onto them, even when she'd gone beyond minding. 

Still this true weaver made no remarks as to her physiology or nature. They only asked, "Lower your arms, please? Thank you."

She complied. They heard her heart and her breathing with their tools. The icy metal on her shell stung, but she held still. So still that they had to remind her to breathe at one point, in order to finish. Otherwise, they spoke only to question her as they worked, and she went over her symptoms in more detail. 

Iris frowned as they returned certain implements to their bag. "I see. You've eaten recently, haven't you?"

"I have had little appetite lately. But I have made sure to eat what I can."

"Oh- No, you see…" They snapped their bag shut, and asked gently, "It's been some time since you last molted, you said? Since Hallownest, I'd imagine?"

She nodded. "Indeed."

"Before molting, usually about a week or so, you aren't meant to eat. There are several theories as to why. Most of these resolve around considering... the magnitude of the process is such that even digestion is… Well, I won't bore you. That, however, is why you were sick." 

"That's all?" 

Something so simple. She wasn't sure whether to feel relief or shame, as if she had a choice but to feel both.

They answered, "I expect so. It would be a textbook case. However, you mentioned some other concerns… May I continue?" 

"Yes, you'd best."

They checked her sides next. Her breath quickened as they tested the shell around the protrusions. When they brushed the spots themselves, she grunted and stepped away. They straightened up again, and did not call her back. 

"Those are sore," she repeated inadequately, but they didn't seem to mind.

"No doubt." Iris only confirmed what Hornet had suspected. At least this time she was more distinctly relieved, when they said, "You'll be getting some new limbs soon, it seems. They're going to be very stiff. I think they're doing well, otherwise, but be gentle with them." 

The mention of her headache had caught their attention, as well. Until then, Iris had said nothing about her mask, but in order to carry on, they had to. 

"I'm afraid I'll have to ask to see your face." 

Silently, Hornet touched the back of her mask. She did not part the seam. Her face, they said. 

She'd have to shed it soon enough, anyhow. 

"Very well," she agreed, and lifted her mask away. "Lace, hold this for me."

Lace had already leaned forward to receive it. "Give it here, darling." 

Hornet passed it to her, and Lace held it to her chest in one arm. 

Hornet turned to the doctor. Their hands were careful on Hornet's face. Clinical and quick. She kept her eyes open and her own hands still, claws ready at her side. They brushed beside her eyes, and she tilted her head reflexively, enough to meet theirs. Whatever they saw there, they drew back and frowned, showing a flash of anxiety for the first time.

Then they jabbed her straight in the eye. She yelped, and snatched their wrist even as they were already withdrawing. Even with their hand gone, her head pulsed from the blow, down her neck, all the way to her sides. 

Lace hopped up from her perch again, but Hornet waved her away with her free hand. This, she was prepared to handle. 

"What do you think you're doing?" She demanded. She could feel their chitin straining in her grip, and the irritation under her own. She held on.

The doctor lifted their other hand in a disarming gesture. 

"I'm sorry. Did I catch you in the eye?" They asked, quiet, thoughtful. 

"You most certainly did!"  

They gave her a reassuring smile, one for an upset patient, and not a lost princess. She let go of their wrist, and they immediately took it into their own hand, stretching it out as they explained, "There isn't an eye there. Not yet." 

Hornet's hand flew to her face. She felt at her forehead, just above her eyes, even as the doctor said, "Wait-"

She pressed down sharply enough to draw a hiss from herself. There it was. Still deep under the shell, waiting in its new socket.

Iris winced sympathetically, and Hornet glared, drawing herself up as best she could, a certain lofty bearing that spoke of her birthright over her better judgment. 

They assured her, "Now, I can tell you: you should be fine. This may not be common, but it seems normal, for such new growth."

"Normal," echoed Hornet flatly.

"Thankfully. Unfortunately, that means all I can advise is rest. If you must take something for the pain, you may, but bear in mind-"

"There is a reason I may not eat, even if no one knows it."

They nodded. "That's right. I know this is a great deal to hear at once, but I think you ought to know..."

Iris turned to Lace. "Both of you. Allow me to give you some general information, what to watch out for from here and such. You ought to know such things."

Hornet agreed readily, her relief apparent. "That sounds wise. Yes. Please."

She wandered around to the other side of the coffee table, and sat down next to Lace. Lace took Hornet's hand, and when Hornet squeezed back, Lace dropped her head onto Hornet's shoulder. Lace whispered, "You're doing so well, dear."

Hornet squinted at her. By all metrics of performance Hornet could think of, she was… doing. If skill was a concern, then well would not have seemed like the correct word. But she knew Lace well enough, and if Lace was trying to mock her, Hornet could not have mistaken it. So she only said, "Perhaps." 

Iris coughed. "When you're ready?"

Hornet nodded. "Go on."

So Iris offered their medical expertise, anticipating as many questions as they could, and concluded, "You seem healthy enough - just stop eating until you're done, and then it is my professional and personal opinion that you'll require a feast." They nodded. "That's all, unless you have any questions."

There was only one, and Hornet decided she would only have this chance to ask it. "Why now?" 

They considered this.

"There's quite a bit we've yet to learn about this process," the doctor explained, "So I can't say for sure. Especially given your heritage and circumstances."

"Indeed," Hornet agreed drily. 

"However, I will say, we do know - or strongly suspect - that a bug must be secure in order to begin the process. One would think that the symptoms of delay would complicate that, but- That's not relevant to you, you aren't showing any of those."

"Then what is your point, praytell?" 

"From what we know of molting, you have to feel safe enough to do it. And from what we know of you, you wouldn't have, for quite some time." The weaver dropped their gaze. "So you'll pardon me, if this is too bold, but I'm glad to have needed to make this visit. I wish you a speedy recovery, of course."

Iris bowed to her, and nodded to Lace. They gathered their things, and Lace saw them out.

Hornet tucked her legs up onto the lounge, and slumped back. She hadn't felt the interaction draining her; it was only now that she registered a complete absence of energy. 

"I'm a fool." 

Lace tsked. "No, you're not. You didn't know. I didn't, either."

"You are a mushroom. I have enough spider in me for that."

"You asked." Lace tilted her head. "That's what you do when you have questions, isn't it? Or have I been dreadfully mistaken?" 

Hornet grunted, and buried her face in her elbow. As if her questions were ever answered so easily. And yet, what else had just happened? Asked and answered, whether she liked it or not. 

Lace's fingers brushed the tip of one horn. A considerate touch. Gentle. And yet it tangled in Hornet's nerves, thorny as they were. She tensed, and that sent a wave of fresh pain through her, and she raised her head enough to reveal one eye. She commanded, "Do not touch me." 

"Oh, I'm sorry, love."

Hornet saw Lace hop off of the armrest, where she'd come to rest, and wander into the bedroom. Hornet lowered her face again. She counted her breaths, trying to force her pulse into submission. 

Lace came back. Hornet did not look up at her, and Lace spoke before Hornet could make any inquiries of her own, "One question." 

"Ask it." 

"Aren't you cold like that?"

"I'm sorry?"

Hornet looked up, and Lace unfurled a quilt with a flourish, showing all the colors as if it were the proudest banner. 

"Oh. Not especially, but I'll take that."

Lace waved the quilt high, and let it settle over Hornet. Hornet grasped it and pulled it up to her chin, curling up tighter to make sure it was covering her. 

"Thank you." 

"You needed something, yes? And I know better than to let you brood." 

Hornet looked up at Lace and flicked her fangs in a rather rude gesture. Lace smiled at her.

Hornet scoffed. "I should have known, Lace. Such a simple thing, and I have done it before." 

 "Alright, two questions." 

"Yes, yes. Ask."

"Did anyone tell you what was happening? Did anyone ever talk to you about it, or did they simply mind you?" 

"That was three." Hornet thought, anyhow. "I don't know that they minded much." This time, consternation showed in her twitching chelicerae. "I hardly recall much, one way or the other."  

"Well, there you have it. Even if you were told, you were otherwise occupied."

"That is one way to put it."

"You were a child being shuffled around like a doll moved from one shelf to the other?" 

Hornet snorted. "True enough." 

"You're here now, and here you'll stay." 

Lace perched on the armrest again, and slid down onto the seat proper. Hornet lifted her head, and let herself down again in Lace's lap. Now, Lace stroked down one horn. 

'It is customary," Lace told Hornet, "to have a treat after one does well with the doctor."

"For children, yes? Though I think most children do better than I did."

"And many adults do worse. If you won't give yourself credit, then I shall," Lace proclaimed. "So what would you like?"

"It would hardly help anything."

Lace tilted her face into one hand. "I don't think you understand what a treat is."

"Perhaps not."

"Fortunate, then, that best way to learn is through experience!" Lace repeated, "What would you like?" 

Hornet teased the quilt in her clawtips, tearing open a seam and then binding it again. "There may be something I have been missing."

"Perfect! What is it?"

"Goodness, give me a moment to say!" Hornet huffed. "Those meat buns. From the dragonfly's stall." 

"Just over the way? Oh, certainly, certainly-"

"Wait. A feast, they said? Did they not?" She hit upon a rare streak of petulance, bitter humor dragged out of her by this mixture of exhaustion and comfort, lying on the lounge. "And it would be foolish of me to ask for advice and not heed it. So I want a dozen, when I can eat again." 

Lace's mouth twitched, and then settled into a smile. She giggled. "That can be arranged. But I won't help you eat them, remember that." 

Hornet turned onto her side, settling more comfortably in Lace's lap. "I shall." 

Now she had something to look forward to.

 *

 The infection had resurged. The stasis held Hallownest squirming in its grip, trapped but not yet dead. Unable to die. Her own mangling metal was less cruel.

And so this had come upon her once again. Likely it had been creeping up on her slowly, and only just reached her.

Shivering, wrapped in her cloak like a blanket. Until she shredded it off. Her flesh went not long after.

Days lost in a webbed-over den. 

Shades of color behind her clenched eyelids, blue and orange and beyond naming. The taste of blood in her throat.

And when she was done, she stood up.

 *

 Days lost. 

The ache had set in. A deep, bitter thing, pinning her. 

At least she had something to occupy herself. A comparative study of various kingdoms' weaponry. Entertaining, and simple enough. She read.

But these blades were often poorly balanced, unless the grip could be...

She marked her place in the book with one claw and scratched at her side, avoiding the knot in the chitin there. Lace caught her hand, anyway. Hornet mumbled something vaguely grateful and flipped the book open again.

But these blades were often poorly balanced, unless the grip could be...

Her new limbs. Better not to disturb them, to let them do the last of their growing. It was something to look forward to, greater than even the promised feast - what new tricks might she master with her needle and thread, with the number of arms a weaver ought to have? 

But these blades were often poorly balanced, unless the grip could be...

Except now, the mere thought of movement left her tired. This was a slow unraveling; various discomforts and pains picking her apart. She longed to strike back at these, to lash out at anything at all - perhaps movement would finally tear her open, when her body seemed to be stalling. But the doctor was clear about that, delays were not her concern. 

Yet if Hornet could marshal her will for even a moment, stand and grasp her needle now, recall her own power, then perhaps she could best this. This fraying form. This lapsed shape.

She did not. She could not. It was not within her power. She hadn't eaten in days. She had slept no better. For this to be what pushed her, what broke her, was infuriating. It was normal, perfectly so, painfully mundane. 

And here she was. She couldn't even focus well enough to read anymore, not really.

At least she was healthy enough to be bored.

"Shh," Lace soothed.

Hornet hadn't realized she'd made a sound. She wondered what it had been. Pitiable, no doubt. She said, "This will pass. I know."

"But that doesn't make it easier, does it?"

Hornet pressed her arm over her eyes. "I'd just rather it have passed already."

Just another memory, vague, nearly absent, the details blurred by their intensity. 

"What if I promise you it will be over soon?" Lace lilted.

Hornet groaned. "Then I shall grant you a swift death when I am able. Anyone else would not be so lucky." 

"What mercy. I'd have gutted anyone who tried to tell me that, were I in such a condition." 

"You have always been more ruthless."

"Why, thank you." 

Hornet laughed. Short and strained, but with unmistakable fondness. "You'd be right, in any case. I'm sure it will be soon."

Lace was silent, at first. And then she asked, "You'll need to be alone, won't you?"

"I believe so. Yes."

"Then you will tell me when you're ready. When you're done. Call for me."

Hornet only nodded. 

 *

 Days lost in a webbed-over den. 

Shivering, wrapped in her cloak like a blanket. Until she ripped it off. Her flesh went not long after.

Shades of color behind her eyes, blue and orange and beyond naming. The taste of blood in her throat.

 *

 Days lost, and not Hornet's alone. 

Hornet spent as much time as she could curled loosely in on herself, with her aching head in Lace's lap. She understood that this could not continue. 

All she wanted was a little warning. "When will you be resuming rehearsal?" 

Lace said, "Hmm? It isn't as if it's stopped." 

"Mmm. Let me know… Only let me know before you depart, then?"

"Before I… Oh. Oh, no." Lace hummed. "Did you think you'd be rid of me that easily?"

"I was not trying to be rid of you," Hornet answered frankly. "But you are busy. I know."

The train of thought had her already half-upright, pushing herself away to let Lace up. Lace merely scratched between Hornet's shoulders, and the sudden relief had her sprawled out again. Lace drew the motion out, from the base of Hornet's neck to the small of her back, and Hornet made a noise dangerously close to a whine. 

"I was teasing, sweetness." Lace assured her, "I gave them all the warning they need. They know I have more important matters to attend to." 

"Nonsense," Hornet muttered.

"What is? That I'd rather be here with you than anywhere else?" 

Lace said it so easily. Hornet sighed. "I'll be alright. I have no wish to keep you from your responsibilities."

"Of course you'll be alright. I'm here. I'm here," Lace repeated, "because I want to be. You couldn't keep me from anything I wanted, and right now, that is to give you what you want."

"And what if I did want to be alone?" It was ungracious, and Hornet knew it. 

"Then I would leave you," Lace said. "But I would come back if you changed your mind, or when you were ready. Do you want to be alone?"

"No." 

"Then I'm not moving, and neither are you." 

 *

 The taste of blood in her throat. Shivering. Wrapped in her cloak.

Tearing it off. No longer able to stand the passive sensation of fabric on flesh.

It wasn't long after that.

 *

 Hornet's heartbeat spiked. Again. Harder. This time was different. She could it rippling in her own blood, the membranes of her organs quivering from the force of it. 

She stiffened, and pushed herself out of Lace's arms.

"I. Need a moment."

She staggered forward, toward the bedroom, into the coffee table, the coffee table which had been their since before she had lived here and which she had always known was there and which she was now damaging, her claws digging into the wood for purchase as she fought to rise. 

Her nerves existed in duplicate, each sensation rang twice, blindingly. She was breaking. She was going to die. Her heart was beating as though a blade was bearing down on her. She was going to die, if, if she didn't-

Lace caught Hornet around her waist, and she cried out. Lace did not lift her gently, knowing better than to try, and in doing so prolong this. She moved with speed, instead, cradling Hornet against her chest. 

Hornet's claws rumpled Lace's puffed sleeve.

Lace asked, "Come on. The bathroom, yes?" 

Hornet nodded, her fangs clenched tight. Lace took her there, but after she crossed the threshold, Hornet convulsed. There was a crunch. Squelching. A stain spread down Lace's shirt, too pale for blood.

Hornet hissed, "Put me down!" 

"Let's just get you-"

Hornet thrashed. Unable to loosen her fist, she claimed the chunk of fabric she'd been clutching from Lace's sleeve. 

" Now! " 

Lace only lingered enough to make sure that Hornet was on her feet before she left. She closed the door behind her. 

Hornet was alone. 

"You will call me when you're ready, understand?" Lace called. 

Almost alone.

Hornet did not answer. She stood there, and she needed. She needed something. No. Somewhere. Her gaze swept the bathroom. Something, somewhere.

She reached the bathtub. She stood trembling, feeling herself, feeling how she would break, with her hands braced on the edge. She stepped into the tub, and even there, her focus was not something she could switch off. She could not merely permit herself to collapse. 

She lowered herself against the back of the tub. Her head dropped back against the porcelain, resting on her horns. She reached up, and set her clawtips against the sides of the tub. The silk came readily, thread after thread drawn over the top, sometimes dragging her body forward on the strands, until the top was shrouded over.

At last she lay down on her side, then rolled onto her stomach. Her heart was stuck pounding in her throat, the sensation of her own pulse thick enough to gag on. 

Her shell gave. Her nerves, too.

chapter 3

No pain. Just ripping. A sucking sensation as the too-tight carapace slid down the sides of her back. She fought to get her hands under her, pushing up into the convulsions, her fangs parted in a snarl she had no air for. They couldn't even part wholly, trapped in their old casing. 

Then she sucked in a mouthful of fluid.

Coughing, she fell into the side of the tub. Her limbs tensed, crackled, and ripped like damp paper. She kicked, and her legs came free. Her arms next. She could feel shredded strips of chitin trapped in and around her joints. But otherwise. Otherwise, she was free.

chapter 4

Hornet slid down to the floor of the tub. The tension went out of her limbs at last, those that held her. Now she had no strength to keep herself from collapsing, her head spun, her body was something soft and strange to her. 

She had so many nerves. She'd never really noticed how many nerves she'd had until that moment, and now nerves where there had been none before, too. 

Her new arms were loose, unfurled over and under her sides, but the muscles were so weak that they seemed jointless. She made the effort to stretch them, to turn onto her back.

It worked. She swore loudly. It left her trapped on her back, helpless and sick, eyes wide. 

Eyes and eyes and eyes. She brought her hand, one of those familiar to her, to her face. It was at once clear and shrouded in a milky fog. Her perception fought itself. 

She pressed her hand to her face and scrubbed away the film over the lenses. Then she could squeeze her eyes shut, all of them. 

She didn't know how long she lay there. Long enough for the remnants of fluid to grow sticky over the tub, and on her. 

Long enough - and with such a complete lack of awareness, of time passing, of lingering soreness, of anything at all - that she must have slept for some of it. She opened her eyes, hoping to prevent herself from drifting off again. 

Her head protested, ringing soundlessly. She closed her eyes again, but, no, pried them back open. She couldn't stay here. She could have stayed there, possibly for days, but she didn't want it. The fluid was drying onto her shell. 

She remembered: You will call me when you're ready…

Was Hornet ready? 

Did she need it? However great her discomfort, it was only that. She'd be fine soon enough. Better for her to be patient. There was no blood, nor missing limbs. None of the complications she'd been warned about. This was hardly a matter of life or death now, and apparently it never had been. 

And what might Lace think of what she saw? All this gore and trouble, and Hornet's own discarded shell, lying limp beside her. 

No. Even in this condition, Hornet dismissed that thought. Lace would think what she always seemed to think of Hornet, which was: handsome. 

Then what did she need? 

A list, some structure. Pull herself together. Determine the steps she must follow. First, she needed food.

Food, and. 

Gods she was so hungry.  

Now that she thought of it, she needed something to eat. She needed food. She dug the claws of one hand into her palm. They were too weak to make much of an impression. 

Food was but one thing. Surely there were more. There had to be more. But it was no use. Her hunger was sharper still, such that it had turned rapidly to nausea. She could not evade it. 

The steps would have been clear, before. A few days recovery. Take up her needle, tear free of her hideaway, prop herself up until she could find a slow enough crawler to eat.

But now was not then. She was not bound to a ruined kingdom. She was in an apartment in a thriving city.

And she was not alone. Lace.

She forced her eyes open again. She hadn't meant to close them. 

Enough of this.

"Lace?" She did not call out, as such. It was a question, in fact more to herself. To hear how the name sounded in her mouth, to test her resolve - could she handle being seen, right now? 

But Lace must have been waiting nearby. Perhaps right at the door, because there was an immediate answer in that melodic voice, "Yes, Hornet?"

So immediate, in fact, that Hornet hardly understood. She had no time to process, she simply hadn't expected-

There was a polite knock on the door. "Hornet? May I come in?"

"Lace-" Hornet caught her breath. She wasn't sure how she'd lost it. "Yes. Come in." 

Lace stepped inside, and smoothly closed the door behind her. Footsteps echoed in the small room, and then there was another tap, soft against the webbing over the tub. 

"Darling?"

Again only, "Yes… yes."

A gloved hand tore through the messy thatch of silk, and Lace leaned over the opening. 

Hornet looked up at Lace.  Lace looked down at Hornet. 

The old shell lay crumpled beside her, a warped, papery echo. Scraps of silk had fluttered down and stuck in the molting fluid, and her chitin was dull under the mess, fragile, tender. But all her eyes met Lace's with too much alertness. 

Lace's hand curled over the rim of the tub, her fingertips tapping silently. "You're not going anywhere any time soon, are you?" 

Hornet shook her head. 

"It's a good thing I brought this, then, isn't it?" Lace held up a limp lillifly, its blood still wet around a single puncture wound. Fresh in the extreme. 

Hornet pushed herself upright, so driven that she caught herself on both arms on one side. She shook with her own weight. Her fangs quivered; she was hungry enough that they dripped venom. She rasped, "Give it to me."

"It's all yours." Lace passed her the bug with a smile.  

Hornet snatched it. This left her with only her new arm to support herself, which didn't last long. She fell onto her back, but it didn't matter. She smothered the offering in silk, and dug in. 

She pumped it full of venom. The organs softened into nothing, the membrane of heart and gut dissolving into the blood. The smell was more divine than anything she, personally, could recall experiencing. She hissed into the creature's flesh, starving even with food in her face. When she pulled free, strands of melted viscera glistened on her fangs. She tipped the contents of the shell into her mouth, and drank. It was gone in too-few gulps. 

She hadn't even set the shell aside when Lace handed her another. She was panting from eating too fast to breathe, but that received the same treatment, and then a third went a little more slowly.

Lace cooed, "There now. That's better, I hope." 

"Yes," Hornet agreed. 

Lace peeled away more silk. "May I join you?"

"Yes… Oh." Hornet frowned. "You. You will certainly get dirty." 

"Oh, however will I live?" Lace lilted. She hopped into the tub and slid down beside Hornet in a single, graceful movement. "Can I hold you? I won't hurt you, will I?"

"I think not. I am. I should not be so fragile as. As that."

She gathered Hornet into her lap, heedless of the dark smudges this left on her bright outfit. "Poor dear. You must be exhausted." 

Hornet clutched at her, and shook her head. "It. It's done now. That's all. It's done. I'm alright."

"Mhm." Lace held Hornet as close as she dared. "You were screaming."

"Ah. I just," Hornet tried, "Just. I'm alright. I just need…"

"Tell me," Lace murmured, "Tell me what you need, dear, and you'll have it."

"Such a simple thing. Is it?"

"Of course. I just can't say no to you."

"You could." 

"Fine. I don't want to," Lace conceded. "Now, tell me what you need."

"Mm." Hornet sighed, "Sleep."

"Hornet." Lace sounded. Something. She certainly had a specific tone. Affronted, perhaps. 

It was hard for Hornet to distinguish much about Lace, beyond how soft she was. 

Lace pressed, "Is that all?"

"A bath. Perhaps."

She did feel disgusting. Now that she thought about it. Now that she was no longer so ravenous that she could think about it. There had been quite a lot of fluid. There still was, so. She could do to get rid of that. But such things would have to wait until after a long nap and, likely, yet more to eat. 

She added, "But it can wait until I get a chance to clean up in here."

"Hornet, beloved. Listen to me."

"Mmm? What is it? "

"I am entirely capable of cleaning out a bathtub. Would you like me to do so, my dear?" 

Hornet gave her a bemused look. "I will be capable, soon enough."

"Oh, ma petite araignée." Lace leaned down, and purred into Hornet's ear. "Would you like me to clean out the tub while you rest, so that you can have a warm, lovely bath?" 

Hornet opened her mouth, but Lace did not stop.

"And then I'll bring you some fresh pajamas? I've just brought in some laundry, you see, it's still warm from the sun..."

"I suppose…"

Lace put a finger to Hornet's fangs, and finished, "And then you can sleep as long as you'd like in those soft, clean sheets we have out there, waiting for you on our very own bed? Doesn't that sound simply delicious?"

Delicious did not begin to describe it, as Lace well knew. Hornet murmured, "You're an awful temptress."

Lace giggled, "I'd like to think I'm rather skilled."

"Doubtless," Hornet said solemnly. "I suppose. If it is not too much trouble." 

Lace turned her gaze up, and lifted her free arm as if to entreat, "Oh! Oh, what a troublemaker you are, to ask for even the meanest help after you've just kicked free of your own flesh!" And then that arm was around Hornet, too, and Lace's gaze, flawlessly serious, met Hornet's. "You're worth a little trouble, Hornet."

"Lace." An admonishment, although Hornet wasn't sure what for, and spoken into Lace's chest as she was held close. 

And Lace just had to ask, so innocently, "What's the matter?" 

"There's no cause for that," Hornet tried. 

"Why, yes, there is. Did I not just say? For you," Lace went on, as if she were musing, as if she hadn't already thought all of this out, "I'll bring you all the food you want. You can sleep in for a few days. Let the rest of them worry about the hunt. Just until your handsome shell hardens." 

"You're fawning on me," Hornet accused. 

"No," Lace assured her airly. "I'm giving you nearly the minimum of care that you deserve. But now that you mention it, I ought to fawn on you. Spoil you, perhaps."

"It isn't as if I could stop you."

"It isn't as if you would want to," Lace teased, and then, once again, grew serious. She invited, "Do you? Perhaps I misunderstood?"

"No. No, you didn't. I only expected…"

"Nothing?" 

"I suppose. Nothing."

"Then allow me to defy all your expectations," Lace sang. "To start, the promised bath, yes? Give me just a moment. Ah, and I suppose there's but one barrier to begin-"

"And as you so wisely observed. She is not going anywhere any time soon."

"We shall see. Can I lift you safely?" 

"Careful of the joints. Especially those new." 

Lace leaned forward and secured her arms under Hornet. She stood, balancing easily on the slick floor, and stepped out. Next to the tub was a pile of towels and old blankets, worn soft. When she had assembled them was a mystery, but one Hornet quickly forgot about, once Lace set her down again. 

Hornet curled up on her side among the bedding. The cold porcelain had done her no favors, and this, haphazard as it was, was like paradise. She secured an armful of blanket and buried her face in it. 

Lace hummed and fussed about the bathroom. There was the sound of running water, blending with her thoughts, turning them gently to fuzz, and then-

"Hornet? Are you awake?"

"Mm! Now! Yes." She scrambled at the bedding, pushing herself upright, gasping as her arm threatened to fold. 

Lace caught her shoulder. "Gently, gently."

"Right. Yes." Hornet flexed the arm gingerly. "I'm alright. Everything is still the right shape. It's alright." 

"I'm very glad to hear it," Lace said primly. "I'm sorry for waking you, but your bath is ready."

"Ah. Thank you." She felt the blankets shift as Lace knelt, and shook her head into them. "Wait. I must try…"

Hornet held out a hand. Lace took it, and allowed Hornet to brace against her.

Hornet stood. The simple motion came apart into several, more complex. Her balance was not where she expected it to be. Her arms stretched out, but the one Lace supported made it worse on that side, such that she tilted forward and grabbed Lace's waist with the lower arm to catch herself. Her chest heaved with exertion. Her legs quivered; she could feel her own weight on her limbs - they could bear her, but she could feel them threaten to bow where there was no joint. 

She stepped forward, and Lace stepped back. Lace let Hornet lean on her stepping into the tub, and helped her settle back into it - into the water this time. The warmth enveloped her. She inhaled sharply, and then measured the air on its way out. 

"Thank you," she said again. 

"Of course. Take your time."   

Hornet scrubbed herself lightly. The water soon turned murky around her, and each sweep of sponge was rougher than it should have felt. She persisted, and with each pass, she observed. Many of her scars were gone now, save for faint traces of the most heavily marred tissue. 

She soaked only enough to let the frayed fragments of shell soften, too, and pick them from her joints. The water had cooled around her by the time she finished. 

Lace gathered up the blankets and shoved them into a laundry bin, and finished some swift mending of her own, to have clothes ready for Hornet. Loose-fitting and well-worn, the nightshirt's side had been cut partway, from the sleeve down. It would easily accommodate all of Hornet's arms. 

She changed into it as soon as she was dry. The fabric was no longer warm from the sun, but it was clean, and so was she. 

Lace said, "Time for bed?"

"Past time." 

The blankets folded around Hornet like they had missed her. If the little nest Lace had arranged for her was like paradise, then this was the truth of it. Her bed, their bed. Whatever desperate chemical in her blood had kept her awake was faltering now. She was going to sleep. Not an action, an inevitability. 

Lace was by the window, drawing the curtains shut, banishing the light for an afternoon nap. She was, for a moment, a haloed silhouette. And then shadow restored her definition - her flouncing steps, the smile she wore, always a little cutting, the way Hornet loved, her own fondness for sharp things unerring.

Hornet reached out. Two hands one one side, unintentionally; one of them caught under the sheets. "Lace?" 

Lace was already coming over. She sat down, and pushed back the sheets just enough to take both offered hands. "Yes, darling? What is it?"

"What is it…" Hornet echoed. She'd had something in mind a moment ago. Watching Lace. Being here. A fluffed pillow under her head, and a comforter almost as plush over her. No matter her condition, she was cozy - it was as undeniable as it was unbelievable. 

And yet, selfishly, she wanted more. Right. That was what she'd thought.

She tugged on Lace's hands. All direction and no force. "Stay with me."

"Of course! Of course, I will. Anyone who tried to remove me would taste my pin." 

Hornet only repeated, "Stay…" She was falling asleep. Not an action, an inevitability. "I do not…" Her grip tightened. "Don't want to be alone." 

"Then," Lace said, as if it was simple, as if it was as plain as could be, as if it was anything like how the world worked, "I won't leave you."

The mattress shifted as Lace did, easing closer to gather Hornet into her arms again. 

 *

 And when she was done, she stood up.

 *

 Hornet stirred in the same place where she had fallen asleep. Lace was lying high on the pillows, so that Hornet rested against Lace's chest. Hornet shifted, nestling closer, encouraged by a hand rubbing her back.

"Good morning, sleeping beauty. How are you feeling?"  

Hornet only sighed, "Lace..."

"And none other." Lace repeated, "How are you?"

Hornet tipped her head back. She saw too much of the world. What had once been periphery now filled her vision; there was too much of the wall and ceiling above Lace. She would adjust, but for now, it made her head hurt, and she buried her face against the other woman again. There was nothing she could say.

"Mmm. Just a moment." 

Lace nudged away. Hornet tried to hold on, but Lace said,  "I'm only going to get you some water, dear."

That did not sound so terrible. Hornet nodded, and relaxed her grip. It made little difference. Lace could have freed herself easily.

Hornet maneuvered herself into a sitting position, hunched over, with her head in her hands. The old two. The top two.

No. She already had a headache. 

She accepted the water when Lace brought it, drained it, and dropped back onto the pillows. "Thank you." 

"You're quite welcome. To that, and more; I'll see to it." Lace set the cup aside, and drew the covers back up to Hornet's chin.

Hornet sighed. She needed Lace to understand. "No.... No. Thank you for staying."

Lace tilted her head into her hand. "I said I would." 

"Of course," Hornet murmured, with that specific kind of honesty brought on by exhaustion, "But you see, you are the first to do so." 

Lace's eyes narrowed. Her hand settled on her hip, although her pin was elsewhere, and those who hadn't stayed were yet farther, or dead. 

"There is no worthwhile vengeance," Hornet said quietly.

 Lace hummed. "I see. So instead I shall have your company all to myself. How lucky I am."

Hornet said nothing. How she had spoken was a testament to something rooted deeply in her, something from far beyond the soil she tread now. She couldn't even wish to dislodge it. She couldn't know this in herself. 

She could only lean into Lace, and that was answer enough. Because Lace was still here. Hornet wrapped her in a tangle of fragile arms. Lace held her back in the dark of their room, feeling Hornet's claws fix in her shirt. 

Hornet needed to sleep. She tried to, and perhaps that was the problem. But now she had recovered enough to be aware of how vulnerable she was, and whenever she drifted close enough to rest, she lost touch with her surroundings, their room, their bed, Lace's arms. 

Back on that old soil, too familiar with isolation to be lonely. Or back in the brightest-gilded places of Pharloom, high up and hunted, before they had done their work. In the Nest, before Hallownest had changed her and she'd called it Deepnest like the rest of them.  

Lace noticed, felt Hornet tense, felt her slow breathing turn short and sharp again. Knowing her arms were not enough, Lace sang. 

Not a song Hornet knew. Not words she needed to understand. Nothing of the past. All that mattered was, Lace would not let Hornet's sense sit empty. Lace sang in her delicate voice until Hornet finally relaxed.

 *

 Hornet was growing, now that her shell was soft enough for it. And this meant a great deal of soreness and stumbling, when she did try to move. 

Which was more often than she should have done, but otherwise she'd have done nothing but to curl up and wait, and when she grew stiff that was an issue best resolved by stretching anyhow. 

Ten repetitions, twisting at the waist. A simple exercise. Lace watched her, sprawled out on the bed, her satisfaction undisguised. 

Hornet flexed her claws. "Some might find a beast's nature frightening."

"Some people are cowards. Are you accusing me of cowardice, my love?"

"Never," Hornet answered solemnly. She dropped back into bed beside Lace. Already it hurt less than it had yesterday.

But it still hurt. She reached out. Her hands tightened; one around Lace's hand where it found hers and another on the same side, rumpling the sheets. She buried her face in the pillow, further muffling a faint groan.

Lace stroked a thumb over Hornet's knuckles. "What is it, dear?" 

"I would like some tea."

"Anything else?" 

"My needle."

"Far be it from me to stand between you and your needle. I can bring it. But-"

It wasn't as if Hornet was in any danger. "I know, I know. You are on watch, as such. Tea, then. Please."

Lace kissed the back of Hornet's head, and hopped out of bed. 

Hornet was left alone in their room to wait. 

Their room. Walls around her, not just dirt and moss, and within those walls, almost anything she could ask for. Tea to calm her tormented nerves, and food to nourish her. Their bed with its clean sheets. Even the book she'd abandoned in the living room, so that she wasn't bored while all she could do was curl up and wait. Lace had brought it to her.

She flicked through the pages with a clawtip. Here, within these walls, she had time to worry about being bored. Even her restlessness seemed like an indulgence. As much as she longed to move, she did not have to. 

She pressed her hand to the cover of the book. It took up more space there than it had a few days ago. Lace found Hornet testing the joint of her wrist with her thumb. 

As Lace set the tea down, Hornet asked, "Is this what it's like to have such soft flesh? How do you stand it?" 

"By being too fast to cut." 

"How bold. We ought to evaluate such a claim."

"I'll prove it to you soon enough." Lace pressed a mug into Hornet's hand. "But for now, drink your tea."

Hornet took a slow sip, and then held the mug close to her chest. The warmth spread through her shell. The smell was bitter, clarifying. Even inhaling the steam unwound some of the tension in her. She stared into it, watching the liquid settle again. 

"I am glad I stayed." 

Lace pressed a coy hand over her smile. "We're of a mind about that, then." 

"I suppose I should not be surprised." Hornet took another sip of tea, and frowned. "Why am I surprised?"

"You've never been appreciated. Poor thing." 

"When you put it like that, it only sounds pitiable." 

"It's sympathy, dear. Or it's meant to be, anyway." 

"I see. Well, enough of that."

"I can hardly switch it off, can I?" Lace tutted. "I love you."

"I love you, too." Hornet set down her mug, and opened her arms. All of them. "I love you. I'm glad that I do." 

 *

 Lace beckoned Hornet into the kitchen. "Come now, my love! You've waited long enough!"

There was a plate on the table. There was a foil-wrapped bundle on the plate. There was a flickering candle jammed into the food, through the foil. 

Hornet recognized the packaging, and the mark holding it shut - a lattice like a dragonfly's wing. She barked a laugh. "Truly?"

Lace bowed, and swept an arm out at the table. "Remember what I said about your treat?"

Hornet sat down. "I do. But it was hardly necessary."

"You're feeling better. That's certainly cause for celebration." Lace fluttered into the chair across from her, and instructed, "Blow out the candle, and be sure to make a wish when you do."

Hornet regarded this gift. She leaned forward on her elbows, with her lower arms folded over her stomach. 

"I have no interest in wishes," she said.

"Oh, no?"

"No. I have more than I had ever imagined having right here before me. I have no interest in more." Hornet considered, and then smiled faintly. "But if it pleases you. I have decided."

Lace nodded coyly.

Hornet blew out the candle. Then she stood and braced herself over the table on both pairs of arms, which brought her mostly to Lace's side. "Kiss me now. That is my wish."  

Lace threaded her fingers behind Hornet's neck, and pressed her mouth to Hornet's. Then she whispered, so close that Hornet's raised fangs brushed Lace when she spoke, "Your wish is meant to be a secret. But just for you, I'll break the rules."

She gave Hornet another quick kiss, and plucked the candle out as she pulled away. 

Hornet tore back the warm foil, and the scent of fried dough and meat was overpowering. Not that it sickened her, she just had half the bun in her watering mouth before she comprehended it. 

Her delighted exclamation was caught against the perfectly-seared pilplit inside. She forced herself to slow down and chew properly, to savor this. She needed to breathe, at least.

Lace plucked a bag from under the table, and withdrew another bun from the bag. She placed it in front of Hornet. "No, no, go on." Lace sighed, "Well, I suppose it wouldn't do for you to make yourself sick. But there's more than enough."

"Indeed, I would rather avoid that," Hornet said, once she'd finished. She eyed the bag Lace held. "Lace. How many of these did you buy, exactly?"

"One dozen," Lace announced proudly. "Don't worry, I ordered them in advance." 

Hornet laughed. "Why ?"

"Because you asked, ma petite araignée." 

"Ah. That I did," Hornet muttered. Then she jammed the rest of the first one into her mouth, finished it off, and said, "Fine then. I'll have another. And you have one. More, if you'd like."

"Hm! I seem to recall saying I wouldn't help you with this." 

"I am not asking for help. I am asking to share this with you." Hornet gestured with her bun, giving it her needlepoint's gravity. "If it is my celebration, then you will join." 

"Oh!" Lace laughed. "I couldn't possibly deny such an invitation." 

They ate until neither of them could anymore. 

chapter 5

Needle and pin joined. The clang of metal against metal resounded over the rooftop, echoed by the light song of Lace's laughter. 

Hornet leaped back. Her cloak flared around her as she caught herself on her lower hands. She held her needle in the top set, and with her balance so well-kept, she recovered and had Lace on the defensive in the same breath. 

Her needle came down overhand. "Ha!"  

"Oh!" Lace caught it on her own blade, and smiled up at her.  

Hornet only changed her grip, pulling her needle down in both right hands and slashing inward. The flat came to rest against Lace's side.  

Then Hornet smiled back. "Match."  

"Hmph. Only because you're having too much fun." 

"Nonetheless, the match is mine." 

Lace bowed, before twirling her pin into its scabbard. "So it is, ma petite araignée."  

They stood together, breathless as much with delight as from their bout. Lace laid a hand on Hornet's shoulder, and traced down to her upper arm. She squeezed appreciatively through Hornet's cloak.  

"Though I suppose you're not as little anymore."

"But I have no hope for another term of endearment?"

"No," Lace giggled. 

"I thought not." Hornet nodded wisely. "Then I'll have to claim another prize." 

She scooped Lace into her arms, one under her knees and one around her back. Lace threw her arms around Hornet's shoulders. "Oh my! What is it you have in mind?"

Hornet strode to the edge of the roof. The wind whipped cold and cutting, where they stood. Hornet pointed with her needle. A tower, on the other side of the courtyard.  

"There." Hornet mused, "I wonder who it's really a prize for… But I've been stuck in one place for too long. Would you like to fly with me?"  

"Oh, yes!" Lace tightened her hold, and stretched up to kiss Hornet's cheek. "Take me soaring!"  

That was all Hornet needed to hear. She cast her needle out, and it caught on the tower's window ledge. She yanked on the thread. It held firm.  

She jumped twice. First onto the parapet, and from there, into the air over the courtyard far below. 

For one instant they plummeted, and their hearts and stomachs did, too. Lace shrieked with laughter. 

Hornet grasped Lace close to her. She laughed, too, as the sensation of height turned to speed. She wound them both up on her thread, and then it was the very next instant that she caught the side of the open window in her free hand and swung them through. Her needle came free of the wood cleanly, and she pulled it in after them. 

Lace did not let go, or make any move to get down. She was still giggling. "Marvelous, oh! Marvelous! Can't we do that again?"

"Oh? Would you like that?"

"I most certainly would."

"Hmm. Perhaps I shouldn't, then. Perhaps it should be your prize, for next time. If you can win, that is." 

"Oh! Oh, you're dreadful!"  

"Am I, now?" 

"Yes! And I love you for it!"  

"How fortunate, then, that I love you, as well." 

Hornet sat back on the windowsill, with Lace in her lap, and tilted her head down for a kiss. Lace obliged her eagerly. They kissed, Lace caught up in all of Hornet's arms, and Hornet held in place by Lace's fingers threaded behind her head, and all Hornet wanted to do was stay.

[scripttorture]

My OC underwent unethical medical experimentation and (essentially) torture in hopes of "breaking" him in- obviously this didn't work/is an inaccurate belief and he was left traumatized + with chronic pain afterwards. I was wondering about three parts: a.) if it were realistic for his memory issues to relate both to details of his torture and to manifest in day to day life (forgetting what day it is, important dates, etc) (realism 1/2)

b.) if you'd have any advice on realistically writing torture/trauma-related nightmares, and c.) if it would be realistic for him to turn to an unhealthy coping mechanism (in his case, drug use) in order to cope with his pain and anxiety. Thank you in advance! (realism 2/2)

-

I’m going to start with the last question because I think it’s the easiest. Yes that is unfortunately a common response.

 I don’t have any data to say whether it’s more common in survivors who have chronic pain but it’s easy to see how one could lead to the other if a survivor isn’t given the option of proper treatment. Especially in a country where there’s over-prescription of addictive pain killers.

 I’ve seen some research (not using torture survivors) that suggests addiction could be less likely if people are given proper support. However I am not an expert on addiction and I don’t know how accepted that position is.

 Your idea for the character’s memory problems are also possible.

 The way I break down memory problems and describe them is more about helping writers then how the brain functions. All of these systems are inter-related.

 Survivors can show one predominate ‘type’ of memory problem. They can also show mixtures of all of them. So far as I know all of them are caused by very similar underlying neurological (and sometimes sleep) problems.

 But breaking them up into chunks- I guess I just think it helps writers consider the options and impact, making a complex issue more accessible.

 All of which means: yes what you’re planning is realistic.

 Now nightmares are something I have a lot of fun with when I’m writing. I really enjoy the crazy juxtaposition and logic of dreams.

 And they are a big part of how we process emotions and events. So they can be a great way to show what’s on your character’s mind.

 I found keeping a dream diary for a couple of months incredibly helpful. I kept a notepad and got myself into the habit of writing down any dreams I remembered, in as much detail as I could in the morning. Sometimes I drew out characters, scenes or objects from the dreams and some of them have gone on to feature in my stories.

 This exercise can get you used to the disjointed way dreams put things together, especially if you take the time to think about the visuals afterwards.

 Going back through my old notes here are a couple of examples from my ‘normal’ dreams.

 I was walking through a rainforest with two of my friends, talking. We walked along a path beside a river and the foliage around us was all white and cream. The flowers were all scarlet and they were mostly long, tubular things like part-opened lilies.

 At the time the imagery of the plants struck me and I wanted to paint it. So I went over what I remembered several times, trying to figure out how to capture it.

 And while I was doing that I realised that the path beside the river was real. It was the route we took from our student accommodation when I was an undergrad, along the river, to a quiet part of town with a nice cafe. At the time I had the dream I probably walked along that path at least once a week. Every twist and turn, the height and depth of the plants, had all been recreated perfectly in the dream.

 I’d just turned the plants into something extraordinary.

 Another dream I wrote out involved a ‘house-boat’ that was like the house from the end of a row of terraces, sliced off and floating down the sea. It also had a piratical theme and excellent lizard-monkeys.

 The house was a place in Cyprus that we often stayed when visiting my Cypriot relatives. The beach and the sea were a few minutes down the road from that real house.

 My mind had kept the floor-plan, the structure, the walls. It had kept the very bright white walls of Mediterranean buildings and the sea around Cyprus in the summer. It had just… filled the inside with objects I’d seen in movies and creatures that didn’t exist.

 Capturing that juxtaposition is the key to writing any dreams convincingly.

 I approach trauma dreams by thinking about the real incident and picking out parts of it that the character dwells on. I’m essentially looking for little sensory details that can be spun out into something bigger.

 The last time I wrote a dream scene that detail was the smell of beer and the smell of blood.

 The character had witnessed a violent attack in the street. He’d been approached by one of the attackers who told him to move along. The attacker’s breath had smelt of millet beer. The confined corridor the attack took place in had smelt of blood.

 And in the witness character’s dream these combined, so he imagined himself at his job behind a bar, pulling pint after pint of blood instead of beer.

 Use details (from both the everyday and the traumatic incident) and then muddle them up with the fantastical.

 The set up of the room experiments took place in, covered in moss and plants. When he tries to pick the tomatoes growing out of a piece of equipment they open their mouths and scream.

 There’s a monster from a movie he saw as a child chasing him but his knees hurt and he keeps getting slower and slower and- The route he’s fleeing, through nondescript TV sci fi corridors, is the same as the one from his cell to the lab.

 The guard he was most afraid of it talking to him, but their face is upside down. When they open their eyes there are teeth in the sockets. When they smile he sees rows of eyes where their teeth should be.

 That’s how I approach it. I hope that helps :)

 (Oh and do let me know if any of you had to hide behind the sofa, I thrive on positive feedback.)

Disclaimer

[writersrealmbts]

Harvest Moon

Description: Halloween! Werewolf!Taehyung x Reader: You live a normal life, in a normal little town, but it’s the Wolf-Harvest Festival, and the moon is full.

Posted: 10/30/2019

Tags: Werewolves, Werewolf!Taehyung

Wordcount: 3,422

A/N: It’s almost as good as the first time I tried to write it and the computer deleted it. 

You grinned as the man breathed fire into the air and his fellow entertainers juggled torches, slowly walking to the next source of entertainment. The smells of food, the cheer of crowds, the all encompassing warmth of the Wolf-Harvest Festival. Your village and the neighboring villages were all excited for this. It’d been a good year, an extra long growing season with extra harvests. Everyone would eat well this winter.

You smiled as one of the children gave you an caramel apple slice on a stick, smiling as they skipped away with the other children.

You ate as you observed a dance performance, interpreting the wolves that once roamed the towns according to legends and old tales. The protectors of children and guides to the lost.

And who would occasionally take a villager as their mate, which was what was being depicted inaccurately onstage. When werewolves chose mates it was more romantic. The villagers were the wolves true-mates, and they would court the villager quite successfully before then leaving with said villager. No one who left with the wolves ever returned, or if they were it was by force and it didn’t go over well.

But that wasn’t nearly dramatic enough for performers.

You shook your head, and continued along, checking the goods at each stall to determine if you wanted any of them, but ultimately loosing yourself in the crowd. Surrounded yet alone.

A hand gently brushed along your shoulder, then down your arm, drawing your hand out until his fingertips barely parted from yours.

Your gaze was drawn to his face, and the seductive smirk he wore as he regarded you. His tongue flicked over his lower lip, and his head tilted ever so slightly, beckoning you to follow him.

You nodded ever so slightly, following even though some part of your mind knew that this was a dangerous thing to do.

But his face was enchanting. Unreal.

The smile fluctuated from amused to alluring, entirely godlike. You couldn’t tear your eyes away from his face, even though you could glimpse his gorgeous neck, the golden skin of his collarbone, how his shirt was opened ever so slightly to reveal more of the golden skin of his chest. His eyes glowed in the firelight, drawing you further into his hold over you.

You vaguely noticed that you were entering the forest, drawn away from the crowds.

The light was dimmer, yet his eyes still glowed, turned partially away from you, holding onto you by the fingertips. Trees encompassed you, but you couldn’t keep track of the path you were taking. It was as if every time your mind would start to wander to your surroundings, his touch would grow just a little more enticing.

You could tell the forest was getting denser, trees and branches closer together and blocking what little light was able to permeate the canopy from the sunset.

An eyebrow quirked, head rolling and exposing his neck seductively. His tongue slid along his lips again and then you were staring at his lips.

A deep chuckle came from his throat, and you felt breathless, but it was enough to break the hold on you long enough to realize that the only thing you could clearly see was the man, and his glowing eyes, and you definitely didn’t know where you were despite having explored the woods around your home your whole life.

Then his hand encompassed all of yours, warm and strong.

Your gaze snapped to his hand.

Long fingers. Long, gorgeous, sinful fingers.

His grip tightened and he jerked your through some sort of plant-y barrier and suddenly you found yourself gazing out over a grassland. In the distance you could see the shimmer of a lake and a different forest, and the moon was just peeking over the horizon, opposite of the sun.

You loudly drew in a breath as if you hadn’t been breathing the whole time.

He was standing behind you a little, the fingertips of his right hand brushing over one shoulder while his left hand brushed the loose hair from it. “You’re brave,” He murmured, and gods! His voice! As if he wasn’t already unearthly, his voice just seemed to embody it more. “And beautiful.”

You didn’t know if you would ever breathe properly again, but you slowly turned to him, gaze on the ground at first, but flicking up to his face once his shoes came into your field of vision.

Yeah. Still godlike.

He chuckled again, very close to you, very close to your face. “Do you know what I am?”

You felt a trill of fear and apprehension, but also excitement. And attraction. You swallowed, piecing together your fractured thoughts and answering before you really could acknowledge your own thinking. “A werewolf.”

“Are you still unafraid?” He asked cheekily, long fingers tilting your chin up until you were no longer staring at his smile, but his eyes. Gorgeous, entrancing eyes. “Because you don’t seem to be?”

“I…know the stories….” You whispered, licking and then biting your lips. “And it’s not…that I’m…unafraid….”

His nose suddenly brushed lightly against yours. “Do you know why you’re here?”

You nodded slowly. “I’m…your mate.”

“My true mate,” he whispered, and—gods, could he just give you two minutes to breath? One of his hands rested lightly on your waist. “Is that okay with you?”

“Isn’t it a little late to be asking that?” You whispered.

He shook his head, and suddenly his lips brushed against your eyebrow. “I could return you to your home next full moon, and you could live your life as though this never happened.”

“Except my job would be gone. Can’t run a school without a teacher.” Your mind was starting to catch up. “And where are we?”

“This is neutral territory, space between our land, the witches, and the vampires. Used for festivals. I’m actually surprised that there isn’t one tonight with a harvest moon. Over there, where you that first hill is where pack territory starts, and extends far beyond the lake.” His voice was low, and his lips touched your neck, causing you to gasp. “You’d never be an outcast again, y/n.”

You froze, mind beginning to race. “How do you know my name?”

“The moon has been full since yesterday,” He replied, stepping back only a little, so he could look you in the eyes. “I was drawn to your scent, but I didn’t want to approach you until I could discern your attachment to that place. You have no family, one friend who forgets you in lieu of her own happiness, and though you’re fond and attached to the children, you’re scorned by their parents. Even if you choose not to be my mate, there could still be a place in the pack for you.” The smirk was long gone, and he looked utterly serious. Sober, and compassionate. Sympathetic.

You forced yourself to turn away, unable to think clearly in his presence. “I would have to become a wolf, wouldn’t I?”

“Eventually,” He replied. “The pack is close, we couldn’t bear to watch one of our own age while we stayed young.”

You turned back, confused. “Werewolves don’t age?”

He shrugged. “Not after reaching peak adulthood. Whenever that may be. Packs move around, new packs are formed. My pack is a younger one. Wolves die, don’t get me wrong, but we don’t age. Makes our bonds deeper, more important.” His fingers trailed along your face, filling you with a warmth that had been missing in your life for a very long time.

“Y-you said I could leave if I don’t like it?”

He nodded slowly. “I’ll still check on you after, though. I’ll need to.”

You nodded as well. You figured it would be harder on him for the mating to not go over well. “Um, I guess show me to your territory?”

He suddenly grinned, and instead of being super seductive and alluring, it was adorable and playful. “Okay! I’ll be shifting once the moon is fully over the horizon, and then you can ride on me to the territory. It’s farther than it looks and you’ll be safer riding me than walking. Then the others will know that you’re mine and will stay away.”

“Others? Like, other werewolves?”

“Oh, no, they’re probably already waiting for me to return. No, other creatures. Vamps, witches…spriggans….” His gaze drifted out over the valley, as if just remembering the last creature. He looked back to you and smiled, looking amused. “They’ll be out and about soon, but they know not to come between a wolf and his mate. Too much trouble for everyone involved.”

“Should we at least start walking while we wait for the moon?” You asked.

He nodded, offering you his hand, but this time it was with a playful grin instead of that smirk. It was like he’d done a one-eighty. A completely different side of his personality showing, and yet you were still attracted to him and that adorably boxy grin. This side of his personality felt more…human?

He stopped to pick some of the flowers, being particular about what ones he did, and leaving the stem nice and long. He walked along with a spring in his step. “I think you’ll like it with us. We had a good harvest this year as well, so we’re going to eat well. And we had limited hunts for the past couple years so that there’s more prey this year. We’re going to start the hunt soon, so we can smoke the meat and make sausage.”

“When?”

“Two days time,” He answered, looking toward the lake. “I’m sad that it’s happening while you’re with us.”

“Oh, it’s okay. I could help. My father was a butcher. I used to help in his shop.” You watched his fingers twist the stems together, smiling a little as you recognized what he was doing. You taught the girls in the school how to make flower chains like that earlier that day.

He finished the ring, then added flowers to it to look fuller before turning and placing it on your head. “Pretty.” He skipped ahead a couple steps to stoop and pick more flowers.

You paused beside him as he was fiddling with a rather troublesome stem, watching as the moon slipped fully from the hold of the horizon.

Taehyung looked up at it, face blank before he smiled softly. He placed the flower crown in your hands. It was larger than the one you wore. “Here, put it on my head after I shift.” He unbuttoned his shirt, sliding it off his shoulders.

You looked away, flustered.

He made a pained sound, then you heard a low growl that turned into terrifying howl.

You shivered, shrinking in on yourself until you noticed the flower crown draped across both of your hands.

He made a soft sound, and you turned toward him.

He had gorgeous fur, with a couple darker spots on his face that you figured were freckles in his human form. He was sitting, looking at with his head tilted cutely. Tail wagging. He lowered his head a little.

Which would have been cute if he was almost as tall as you were, sitting down.

“Wow,” You whispered, then let out a breath all at once. “You weren’t kidding about being big enough for me to ride.”

His tail started wagging, and his nose touched your fingertips—cold and wet.

You looked at your hands and remembered the flower crown. You carefully draped it on his lowered head, making sure to hook it around his ears.

He stood up afterward, seeming pleased, and nudged his clothes toward you.

You picked them up, folding them carefully and putting them into the bag that he had been carrying.

He crouched down, using his muzzle to nudge you toward it.

“Right, I’ve only ever ridden horses, so forgive me if I hurt you.”

He yipped playfully, rubbing your hip with his muzzle before settling down to wait for you to climb on.

You carefully hopped up, swinging your leg over and then shifting forward a bit to grab onto his scruff to keep yourself in place. “This is probably the craziest thing I’ve ever done.”

He wiggled, then stood when he felt your grip on his scruff tighten. He slowly started walking, then set off in a trot toward the lake, letting you become accustomed to riding him before picking up his pace.

You could glimpse some bats flying through the air and you could swear you heard a cackle in the distance.

But though some of the bats definitely circled around you, they didn’t come within reach of your wolf’s sharp teeth.

He barked once, when a bat came too low, too close.

The bats quickly flew away.

It was only a few more minutes before he slowed to a trot again and the lake was much closer.

Another wolf came running up, silver fur rippling in the orange light of the moon, it stopped when it spotted you, though. It was shorter than your wolf, but only slightly. It seemed smaller since this wolf seemed to have a slighter figure, elegant or graceful.

Your wolf lay down, and you slipped off even though it scared you.

He gently tugged on the bag with his clothing and you took it off and set it down before turning away.

You turned back when he tapped your shoulder.

The other wolf had shifted as well, wearing pants and a loose shirt as well. He had a mysterious and elegant air to him still. “Taehyung?”

“Jiminie! This is Y/n. She’s my mate!” Your wolf grinned at the other man. “Y/n, this is Jimin, he’s my best friend.”

Jimin’s expression softened, and he smiled a bit. “Hello, y/n. Tae-tae, we were worried about you. You ran off without a word.”

“I followed my nose through the portal, sorry Chim.” He gently guided you closer to him with his hand on your shoulder blade. “Where are the others?”

“Near. I’ll go find them and tell them to come…clothed,” Jimin regarded you with an amused smile, then jogged away.

The flower crown Taehyung had worn as a wolf was hanging around his neck now, and his shirt wasn’t quite buttoned correctly.

“Like I said, my pack is a young one. Last year the older members moved on, just the seven of us stayed behind. It’s the our pack has lived for ages, when a new alpha comes that’s ready for a leadership position, either the rest of the pack splits off or the new alpha leaves with those that wish to follow him. Namjoonie-hyung is a good leader though, and it’s nice having more space to roam.” Taehyung picked up the bag, then smiling at you. “You’ll be a little outnumbered, though.”

“Outnumbered?”

“Well, none of the others have mates just yet. I’m actually a little young to have found mine. Usually we can’t tell until we reach complete maturity. Jungkookie is our youngest, he was a little young to stay behind with our new pack, but we’d been raising him ever since his parents were killed when he was…thirteen winters old? He’s seventeen winters old now. He’s our pup.” He smiled lovingly at the thought of his pack-mates. “But none of the others have found their true mates yet. We’re still sort of establishing ourselves. We work with another pack that’s nearby, trading labor and goods where we can. They’re pacifists, and they’re mostly grateful that we’re between them and the witches and vampires and spriggans. They’re popular for those raising pups. A lot of the packs have their moms and pups stay with them until the pups are old enough to consciously shift in and out of wolf form instead of shifting with their moods. Usually around the time they start to really run around. But a lot of folks stay longer, and I’m sure they would love to have a school!”

You had begun smiling again as he sort of rambled, realizing he was doing his best to make sure you’d want to stay. “Sounds like a nice idea that we can look into some other time.”

He looked at you and relaxed a little more, sort of staring at your face in a soft sort of way. “You really are the most beautiful creature I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

You looked to the ground. “You’re pretty handsome yourself, you know.” So handsome that it was enchanting.

“Thank you,” He said, beaming happily when you glanced up at him. Then he turned quickly. “Hyungs! Jungkookie! Come meet my mate!”

You stepped closer to your man, feeling a little shy.

They were all different, and yet handsome. Not nearly as handsome as your man, but in their own ways.

“This is y/n! Y/n, this is Namjoon-hyung, our leader—”

Namjoon dipped his head and you returned the gesture, smiling nervously.

“—Then that one is Seokjinnie-hyung, the short one next to him is Yoongi-hyung—”

Seokjin offered you a kind smile while the other just sort of nodded tersely.

“Hoseokie-hyung is the one next to Jimin, who you met, and hiding behind Seokjinnie-hyung is our little Jungkookie!” Taehyung pointed everyone out.

Hoseok had a bright grin.

Jungkook didn’t seem nervous, calmly watching you from behind the safety of Seokjin’s broad shoulders.

“So, y/n, you’re from which village?” Namjoon asked, and he sounded…kind.

You told him the name of your village, darting a glance up at Taehyung.

Namjoon smiled and nodded. “I remember it. They still celebrate the wolf-harvest?”

“Yes, they do. Tonight, actually,” You answered softly, still glancing to Taehyung for reassurance.

He kissed your temple. “You looked so pretty in the firelight. Ah, I should have bought more treats for everyone. I did get some candied nuts, though!” He pulled out a bag of the nuts from his satchel, tossing them to Jin, who immediately opened the bag and started tasting.

The other boys were quick to gather around him and the bag.

You smiled a little. “You all act like you’re starved for sweets.”

“Well, we’ve had to use our sugar sparingly. Haven’t had the chance to trade with the neighboring pack quite yet,” Namjoon explained.

You looked up at the moon, then at Taehyung. “I just realized I don’t even have clothes.”

He glanced toward the moon as well, looking worried. “I don’t think I could get us both there and back before the moon disappears.”

“Then would you go, at least?” You asked. “I don’t need much.”

You swore his face was red.

“Um…yeah…yeah, I can go…um…could someone show her to…where she’ll be staying?” He seemed flustered.

Jimin nodded, stepping forward. “I can.”

Namjoon was looking at the moon. “I better go with you, Tae, just in case. I can open the portal for a few extra minutes if we need to.”

Your thoughts raced and you came to a conclusion before you could stop yourself. “Actually, just…bring whatever you can? I don’t think I need a month to decide to stay here.”

Taehyung seemed to calm instantly, looking like you hung the stars in the sky. “Really?”

You nodded. “I mean, still no promises on the whole mate thing, but I can find a place here just as easily as I could back there.”

He grinned and nodded. “Okay!”

“In that case, you’ll probably need extra help,” Yoongi said, his voice unexpectedly deep. “While Jimin takes y/n to the cabin Seokjin cleaned out this morning, we can go clean out the house. With all of us, it shouldn’t be that hard to get back before the moon sets.”

“And I’ve got some magic bags from my trade with the witches earlier this evening. Apparently, they can’t get their baneberry to grow as well as ours is.” Seokjin grinned and held up a couple satchels that had been slung over his shoulders. “But we should hurry.”

“Right, let’s go,” Namjoon ordered, discarding his shirt.

You glanced at Taehyung one last time before darting to Jimin’s side.

“Oh, welcome to the pack, y/n,” Namjoon called out.

When you glanced back, six wolves were sprinting across the grassland.

One with a ring of flowers around its neck, dark fur tinted orange in the light of the harvest moon.

Yeah, you made the right choice.

 --

Masterlist

[askmalal]

Neeve shrugged his shoulders against the cold as the seals of his hab-cube closed behind him. It was a cold, quiet night on 23-18, and the wind whipped around him so fiercely that his robes, well insulated against the temperatures of the cold laboratory facilities seemed as if they veritably struggling to keep his temperature above freezing. Neeve rarely went outside the facility. The planetoid was roughly terraformed, base line tolerable with proper clothing, but the laboratory technicians and tech adepts rarely bothered. Plans to make the little world a veritable paradise had collapsed in M38. Pity that. It would otherwise have been a lovely place to live.

As chapter serfs, the inhabitants of 23-18 were blessed in having intellectual freedom - at least by the standards of those who worked directly for the administratum or the cult. Indeed, being commoners in the service of the Ultramarines, they were serfs in name, only. Only those who served the Salamanders had more freedom, or so it was said. Neeve hater Salamanders. Neeve hated Ultramarines. No... no.. perhaps that was too personal. He had no reason to hate either Chapter: representatives of both had been kind to him. They’d even smiled in that comradely way that said they understood his humanity and valued it. No, what Neeve hated were Space Marines, in general.

Neeve walked down the path, his eyes watching for any sign of interruption. But it was late, it was a mandated night off, and the few people out and about were visiting friends, totally oblivious to the rail thin man in the blue, insulated robes and the waterproof jerkin. He doubted anyone would see him. If they did... he clutched the holdout pistol in his pocket. If they did... “I will not kill without reason,” he muttered to himself, “the choice is not given unto me.”

He turned the corner, passed eyes left and right down the deserted alleyway, and moved in, past shadows of cooling units whose effluent was too toxic to permit anyone to use the alleyway as a shelter. Neeve slipped on his rebreather and moved on, to where the gasses were so concentrated that the only sign of life was the occasional desiccated form of some unlucky avian blown in during a storm. He shuddered. Dead birds disgusted him; these were little more than mummies. It was still enough. Even mortuary technicians had their limits.

At last, Neeve came to the spot he was looking for, a particularly useful dead-zone. He removed his left glove and drew a small, silvery knife across the palm with his right hand. There was a momentary twinge of pain, though he was used to that by this point in life, and the knife, whetted with blood, sparkled in the gloom. The moments that passed were short, but seemed an eternity.

At last she came. She was beautiful, was this messenger. He could not help but notice. He was a hard man, but a man just the same. And he could not but notice the beauty of her face, the line of her chin, the nobility of her nose, the way her dark hair contrasted so sharply with the pallid tinge of her skin. It was not an unhealthy pale. Neeve knew unhealthy: and this was not it. But he could not place it. It seemed inhuman, was that the word? Which of course,it was.

“Mistress,” his voice was deeper than his slight frame suggested. “Thank you for honoring me with your presence.” She nodded, her eyes hidden by the lip of the hooded cape she wore about her shoulders. She removed her own right glove, drew a similar dagger with her left hand, and cut the palm, ever so slightly. They pressed their palms together, then withdrew them. “Neeve. It has been a very long time, my boy... and what have you got for me?”

Neeve shook a little. Whether from the cold or the strange power of the ritual, he was unsure.

“Something useful, I hope.”

She frowned, “So do I.”

“My Lady, the Ultramarines retrieved a group of bodies from an engagement in the Gallic cluster. Heretics and Renegades.”

The beautiful lady smiled. “It was a gravity well trap, yes?”

“It was, Mistress.”

“Go on.”

“I would not trouble you with this, except that...” he swallowed. “One of them was an Astartus.”

She smirked, “Say it isn’t so, Neeve!”

Neeve blanched, “Your patience, My Lady. This wasn’t any old reject from the Warp. This one... this one had HIS mark.”

She froze. Her hidden eyes considering the thin, robed figure before her. Her black painted lips curled with curiosity, “Is that so? He has many marks, Neeve.”

Nerve nodded, proud that he was not undone. “I will fear nothing,” his mind echoed, “for He alone is Fear.” He considered how best to broach the subject. “Not any of the ones you might mean, in this case,” Neeve said. “A special mark. One the priesthood showed me as a boy.”

“Ooh...” her lilting voice was amused. “A -special- mark? One even I would not think of. She placed an arm against the wall, leaning slightly. “We are bold today, aren’t we, my handsome little sociopath?”

Neeve drew in a breath. “Not what I meant, My Lady. Merely a very uncommon one. Very uncommon.”

She frowned again, “How uncommon?”

Neeve withdrew a piece of vellum from his pocket. “I risked a great deal for this, My Lady. But for Him.. well. May His Will be advanced.” He handed the vellum to the woman, and backed away respectfully.

Adunaphael the Vengeful eyed the mark, sketched in Neeve’s precise hand. Her hidden eyes grew wide. He was a talented artist; it was no wonder the Daemonettes had tried to eat him for lunch all those years ago. “This.. is this what you saw, Neeve? Personally.”

“I saw a pict capture. I magnified it. If it is inaccurate, the fault is mine. But you know my talents. I have an eye for this sort of thing, Mistress.”

Adunaphael considered. “I will take this under advisement. What do you know about the Astartus?”

Neeve relaxed. “Asphyxiated in the void. Armor was mostly intact; markings on the exterior were none I recognized. It was the symbol on his inner carapace I noted. They didn’t. Too subtle perhaps if you aren’t looking for it, but...”

“Just wavy lines,” she reflected.

Neeve nodded, “Just wavy lines.”

Adunaphael considered, “Anything unusual about him?”

“No mutations, of course. But then, there probably wouldn’t be. Not the visible kind. His occulobe was apparently not functional, or at least damaged. It was withered. They removed tissue, so I didn’t get much else of use from the corpus.”

Adunaphael opened her mouth, “Withered? Now there... there is a very rare catch. Excellent fishermen, these Ultramarines. Tell me, Neeve.. was there anything about his asphyxiation? Anything unsual?”

Neeve nodded, warmed by her approbation. “Apparently,” he said, “the Astartus had survived for a very long time. Days, even. In coma state of course, but...”

“Right. I see.” Adunaphael smiled, “I see. Thank you Neeve...” the vellum crumbled to ash. “Thank you.”

“Of course...” he watched the ash fall away. She was a woman of many talents, this creature. “I serve of my own will.”

“And He blesses your efforts,” she replied. “Well, then, dear heart. Unless there was anything else?”

“No, My Lady, should I...?”

“Oh yes. Deliver the report to your handlers. Tell them everything you told me.”

“Everything, Mistress?”

Adunaphael smiled, thinly, “Well, except for the bit about you knowing his mark, of course. Tell them you have no idea what it is. Looks like some sort of occult marking, you think.”

“Of course, Mistress,” he looked at the ground for a moment, “but our...”

“Our arrangement. Yes, Neeve. I remember. Ask your question, and make it a good one.”

Neeve kept his eyes lowered, “I know not how to ask but.. what is He.... is He...”

“What is he like?” She smiled, the scent of spice in her exhalation.

“Yes. What is it like being in his presence?”

She considered for so long that Neeve thought he had offended her. Just as he was about to ask her forgiveness, she had his answers.

“He is like... he is like the final intake of air before the last breath.”

Neeve was quietened by this. Unsure what to make of it. But she was gone.

Neeve sighed, and placed the dagger into his pocket. It was indistinguishable from any other scalpel. His palm had already healed. With a force of effort, he replaced the leather glove and moved back, down the alleyway to the street. Like final intake of air before the last breath. He shivered. But not from the wind.

The transmitter was not far, wired into a street lamp, and tomorrow, he would deliver his report to the Alpha Legion.

Just as Adunaphael the Vengeful had instructed.

[biavastarr]

Co-Workers

Pairing: steve rogers x you (fem!reader)

Warnings: language, mild (?) violence, injuries, inaccurate medical descriptions, inaccurate passage of time

Word Count: 3,968

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to any of the media or characters mentioned in this story.

Author’s Notes: okay so this is my first fic that I’ve written since seventh/eighth grade and since the theme is nostalgia and I’m the writer who has the power to do whatever I want I’m gonna disregard like half of canon and make this fic post-Civil War except they all got along and everyone’s alive and happy and Pietro and Bucky are living at the tower too and it’s not the compound mainly bc I want it to be in the city. reader is an ex-SHIELD agent who joined the Avengers like a month ago bc she’s been on the run since it fell. I just,, I love them both. I’m definitely being overindulgent and this is way too much exposition for stuff I don’t think really gets mentioned.

this is for @whirlybirbs and her endgame writing challenge, the nostalgic thing in this being the innocent “they all lived in the tower together” era that I loved so much. this is my first time writing for Marvel but I hope you guys enjoy!

Summary: Being a former SHIELD agent left you with a lot of walls that a certain blonde super-soldier is all too good at tearing down.

This mirror, you decided, has got to go. You were staring at yourself from ten different angles and the A.I. was reciting a full rundown of your skincare routine and it was quite frankly creeping you out. Ever since you moved in to Stark Tower last month, Tony had been trying to charm you with increasingly technologically enhanced appliances and you were starting to feel like Belle, what with having to tell your fridge that no, you are not hungry but thank you for the concern.

You carefully smoothed over your dress, a black, crushed-velvet thing with a high neck and flowing sleeves, a cinched waist, and wide skirt that fell delicately at your knee. If you could appreciate one thing about the mirror, you mused, you could admit that it let you know you look damn good. You slipped on a pair of pumps and left your little pseudo-apartment as quietly as you could manage, praying that your years of SHIELD training didn’t fail you in your time of - dare you say desperate? - need.

Tragically, as though the gods themselves had it out for you - you’d curse Thor for this later - you only managed to make it down the hall before delighted crowing from one genius billionaire playboy philanthropist made himself known. You turned slowly, bracing yourself for this inevitable interrogation-slash-please-be-friends-with-us speech. The man strolled over to you with a smirk on his face, Captain America himself trailing awkwardly behind him. Your heart fluttered pathetically at the sight of the blonde soldier. No, you reminded yourself sternly. Coworkers are coworkers.

Blissfully oblivious to your sour expression, Tony clasped your hand and spun you wildly, your dress flaring out around you. “Do my eyes deceive me, or are you finally gracing us acquaintances with your presence at movie night tonight?” He drawled out his comment, glancing far-too-knowingly at a certain slack-jawed supersoldier.

You winced, knowing that he’d just quoted you from a check-in report you had given Fury the other day that the other Avengers had found and pouted over. You didn’t have any specific issues with them, you knew, but they were your coworkers. The last time you had trusted the people you worked with, you had ended up with a gun to your head in a room full of Hydra members. It was easier - both for you and your heart - not to mix business with pleasure. That being said, you also knew that it’s never wise to be rude to a man who’s quite literally housing and paying you. Ever since SHIELD fell, Tony Stark had taken it upon himself to finance this whole initiative.

You sighed dramatically, faking a put-upon tone. “I suppose I can promote you all to glorified roommates, if you would like, but no, I’ve got a date.” Your eyes subconsciously drifted to Steve, drinking in his appearance as you admired his absurdly tight shirt straining over his chest.

At this, Tony lit up, his grin only widening further, eyebrows dancing high on his forehead. “Oh, really,” he questioned, “and with whom, may I ask, are you going out with? Can they really outmatch ole’ Capsicle here with his puppy eyes?” He winked at Steve, who was doing his best (which was not very successful) not to stare too deep into your eyes.

Smiling playfully, you pinched Tony’s cheek, laughing at the blush that painted his face in reaction. “Aw, Stark, that’s for me to know, and for you to never find out.” With a swish of your dress, you stepped around him, nodding kindly at a still-silent Steve Rogers, and entered the elevator.

As the doors closed, you waved shyly at the pair, trying not to think too hard about how none of the walls you had built, those defenses so painstakingly made, could ever really protect you from those incredibly blue eyes that still looked your way.

---

Steve hated when Pietro picked for movie nights. The last three time in a row had granted the Sokovian complete and utter control and he was dying, he was sure of it.

While they normally rotated turns, last week was what the Avengers had hoped to be your turn, but you had shrugged and said you had a mission, passing it off to Pietro, despite him literally picking the week before, not that Steve was still bitter about it or anything. Not at all. Tonight it was supposed to be Tony’s turn, but he had picked up on Steve’s exasperation with the speedster’s movie taste and gleefully handed the reins to Pietro once more.

Wiggling his eyebrows (ridiculously), Pietro popped the DVD for Not Another Teen Movie into the player, flopping down into the seat beside his sister with a bright grin. “Look, Captain,” his heavily accented voice drew Steve from his thoughts. “You may even like this one, it’s a play off all the other flicks we’ve been watching. Also, the guy who plays Jake is hot.” He winked unabashedly at Steve, who was now contemplating how hard it was to fake a heart attack if it meant he could leave the inevitable teasing that would come from tonight.

No, not because he was an “old man who can’t appreciate fine cinema” (Natasha’s cutting words after he said he didn’t particularly enjoy High School Musical 3), but because your absence meant that the others could safely - and loudly - tease him about you.

Bucky, whose metal arm was slung casually around the seat next to him, was currently bearing a shark-like grin, and Nat, who had draped herself across an entire half of the couch, much to Tony’s chagrin, had a smirk painted on her face as they watched everyone settle in, easily noting that you, like always, had elected not to come.

“Where’s our new recruit?” Wanda inquired with an air of fake innocence, oh, Wanda, not you too, not you, thought Steve in alarm, the young witch looking around as if she really needed to search for a person she knew was not attending.

“Oh, haven’t you heard? She’s got a date.” Tony said, drawing out the last word as if he treasured it dearly.

“No!” Wanda mock gasped. “How did I not know this!” She turned to Steve, the bowl of popcorn shifting dangerously in her lap. Sam nimbly scooped it up before it fell, and Tony mumbled something grateful about stains in his carpeting before stuffing his face with the buttery popped kernels. “Who’s she out with?”

Sam grinned at her slyly as he tossed a piece of popcorn at Natasha, watching her catch it deftly in her mouth. “It’s probably Pepper’s new assistant, Jared, I think? He’s always staring at her like she hung the moon or something, bet he finally got the balls to ask her out.”

Natasha shook her head incredulously. “No way, that kid is so nervous he rivals Steve in his eloquence around her, I swear. Maybe she met someone outside of the Tower. She does go out without us a lot.”

Steve flushed considerably, cursing his Irish skin for betraying him so. He tried to focus on the movie again, preferring the embarrassment of the whipped cream-covered protagonist to the current situation he was facing. “I do not get nervous around her,” he grumbled, more to himself than anything. Bucky’s head shot up at this, his damn super-hearing once again being the bane of Steve’s existence.

“Yeah, punk, and I don’t have an arm made of Vibranium,” Bucky snarked, throwing his metal hand up for emphasis. “What, like it’s just natural for you to fall off your chair mid-debriefing?” Steve, again, bemoaned his reddening state, doing his best to ignore the group around him smirking at the memory.

Sam patted his leg consolingly, having stretched out on the pillow-laden floor for better access to the snacks. “Look, man,” he started carefully, “you’ve just gotta say something, sometime. You don’t want to wait until it’s too late and you definitely don’t want to say it when you don’t mean to. She’s an Avenger, just like the rest of us, despite how much she tries to act like she’s not, and it’s not going to make life any less complicated for her if you’re stewing on feelings she doesn’t know about.”

Steve laughed a little disbelievingly. “What, you think I’ll tell her in the middle of battle? C’mon, man, give me some credit.” Sam rolled his eyes eerily in sync with Nat and Bucky.

“Alright, Rogers, whatever. Act like you don’t need us.”

---

Oh fucking hell, you thought, sprinting frantically through the streets of Paris as the city lights twinkled tauntingly above you.

Your date, as you had called it eighteen hours ago, was actually at a gala hosted by an arms dealer Fury suspected was Hydra, and now, with a gash carved across your leg and a head wound that wouldn’t stop bleeding, you felt that he had been quite justified.

Pausing for a moment in a flower-covered alcove, you held your breath, hoping that whoever had been tailing you had finally called it quits and moved on. You were tapping out a message on your phone, letting him know what went down, when you caught sight of the man tracking you.

Shit, you thought to yourself. It was the man whose very arm you had entered the gala on, and he was the most trusted goon of the suspect you had been investigating. You knew it was safer to head back to the Tower, check in with Maria and Fury, and then return for further evidence, especially considering the USB drive you had tucked into the pocket of your dress, but you had already gotten so much from this mission that you hadn’t expected and by god if you weren’t a relentless and slightly reckless pursuer of justice.

Narrowing your eyes as you continued to observe your oblivious pursuer, you opened up your purse, quickly wrapped your calf wound, and carefully slipped on the stealth suit and matching boots, packing away the dress and frowning slightly at the new tear in the seam. One of the surprise pains of being an Avenger was the tragically short lifespan of your closet.

Padding behind the man silently, you finished your message to Fury, punctuating it with the update of your plans to infiltrate whatever base the man was headed to. Breathing in deeply, you slid your phone into one of the straps across your thigh and winced slightly at the pain still screaming in your leg, hurrying on behind the burly man.

---

Maria groaned exasperatedly at the message blinking on her monitor, swinging her chair around to face Fury. “You see this?” She pointed at it in frustration, finding no other words for your stupidity.

“Fucking dumbass. She always does this. Thinks she can get all the motherfuckers out of sheer will.”

“God, I mean, she’s a good agent, but she has no regard for her personal safety. It is such a pain, Nick, I’m telling you, I’m going to get gray hair just from having to be her handler.” Maria tugged at her dark locks as if to display them for inspection. She and Nick both loved you, but they forgot how dumb it was to send you on a solo mission with no back-up; you were never sated with just satisfying mission objectives; with no one to stop you, you wouldn’t be finished with the job until at least an entire base was wiped out or you were carried away on a stretcher.

Nick shook his head and picked up his phone again, signalling to Maria that she needed to respond to you, well-aware that you’d ignore their protests anyways. Dialing his backup plan, he internally groaned at the voice that picked up.

“Hey, Stark. So I borrowed your new agent-”

---

Oh fucking hell, for real this time, you thought, wincing at the heavy manacles they left you in. You were a little grossed out that these things looked like they came out of a medieval torture museum, and had the rust to prove it, but you supposed that was a later issue. You had gotten your tetanus shot, you reminded yourself as a new grimace shook you when the metal dug painfully into your wrists.

No, your current issue were the two Hydra agents staring you down in the harshly lit room. You assumed it was the designated unwillful-interrogation room, but you clocked no less than three potential exit points, from the door to the vents to poorly concealed hollow panel you bet you could kick in with a hearty shove. Finishing your assessment of the room, you waited until one of the agents cleared their throat before turning back to them.

“Who do you work for?” His gruff voice ground out, grabbing the chain that kept your bulky cuffs suspended in the air. Your lips curled into an expression of disgust at his proximity.

“I mean, a) cliche line, seriously, and b) why do you even ask? If I’m from anywhere worth being from, it’s not like I’d tell you. Also, you guys should have, like, basic investigative skills. Facial recognition technology. Literally anything.”

The man growled again, rattling the chain as if he was trying to shake you around like a ragdoll. Your head swam and you were reminded of the blood draining out of you from a wound with an ever-slipping wrap.

Figuring that waiting longer would only worsen the situation, you yanked your arms up and wound the chain tightly around the agent, choking him out while his partner sprang up towards you. She shot straight at you through him, clearly not caring whether he survived this attack, but you launched yourself up and over his shoulders, snapping his thick neck with a twist of the chains. Angling your wrists up so that the next bullets hit the cuffs, you wriggled your hands out of the pinched, burning hot metal and lunged at her before she could react.

Scrabbling at her hands while trying to grab the gun, she managed to sling you over her shoulder so you landed with a thud on the ground. You kicked out at her feet and she fell heavily on top of you, but you flipped yourself over, straddling yourself over her hips. She tried to jerk her head up, but you dodged quickly, circling her throat with your hands and forcing your knee down on her thigh so you could follow the momentum and twist with a loud crack of her neck.

Letting her body slump to the ground, you dusted yourself off and looked around. Electing to exit via the vents, as it seemed to be the safest way to stay out of sight, you braced yourself against the chains hanging from the ceiling and pulled yourself up and out of the room.

---

“Barnes, Rogers, Romanoff, Wilson, c’mon, we’ve got a mission to ‘supplement,’ as Nick so delicately put it.” Tony was speedwalking through the common area, ignoring groans of protest as he smacked the whining assassins. “Shut up, Barnes, you can lose to Natasha at chess on the quinjet, we’ll have plenty of time on our way to Paris.”

“Paris?” Steve parroted, joining Tony at his side. “Does this have anything to do with the fact that this alleged ‘date’ has lasted a day and a half?”

“Relax, Cap, your girlfriend is fine-”

“She’s not my girlfrien-”

“Right, you wish!” Natasha cackled loudly, high-fiving Sam and Bucky while Steve turned and gave her the best kicked puppy expression he could. This only served to make them laugh more, and Steve once again questioned why he ever let these dorks - his dorks - all meet.

---

“Yes!” You whispered quietly to yourself, beaming at the storage room full of explosives you could see below you. Dropping down as quietly as you could manage, you let yourself land on the shoulders of the lone guard and knock him to the ground, stabbing him in the stomach with knife you had pulled out of your boots. Pausing once again to readjust the bandage you had tied around your leg, you let yourself lean against a crate for a moment, your vision wavering.

---

“Tony?” Natasha’s concerned voice rang out from the cockpit, causing everyone to worriedly look in her direction. “Was this base supposed to be on fire?”

Steve stood up and rushed to the windows, his own eyes confirming one of his biggest fears. He had a team member down there, and he didn’t know if she was alive or dead, and worst of all, he didn’t know what he could do to help her.

“Sam, Tony, you guys get out now. Fly over and try to get us visual on any activity going down. Let us know if, if you see her.” Steve shook his head at his stumble, pausing momentarily. “Bucky, Nat, as soon as we land this thing, we’re all going to split up. Cover as much ground as we can. Where’s our closest landing point?”

“I’ve got it, Cap, calm your beautiful, beefy-”

“Do not even finish that sentence right now.”

“Rogers that.”

“That doesn’t even work, Tony!”

---

It had been a whole 273 seconds since Steve had touched down on the ground and there was still no sign of you, and with the few Hydra agents stationed at this base being found dead or dropped already, this left his mind all too open to thinking up terrible situations that you could’ve found yourself in.

Don’t be ridiculous, he chided himself, the knocked out agents, the explosions are a good sign. She’s a capable agent; if she did that, she’s out here somewhere. He clenched his jaw in concern over the state of the base, though. He was guessing that it was you who blew it to near pieces, and rubble was still crumbling and settling. He just hoped he didn’t find you trapped under any of it.

Suddenly, a piercing scream curled out from around a corner, and he whipped his head in search of the chilling sound. Jogging into another collapsing room, he breathed a weighty sigh of relief upon discovering your bloody but intact body on the ground. He followed your horrified line of sight to discover a kevlar-clad severed leg, drenched in blood and soot.

He knelt before you, bringing your head to his chest and wrapping his arms gently around you, trying to quiet your panicked cries, though puzzled at the sight - as an agent and then Avenger, you certainly were no stranger to gore. Steve rocked you slightly, and your shrieks quieted enough for him to bring his face level with yours and search your eyes earnestly. You watched him, your face blank, as his large thumb brushed tenderly against your cheek, wiping the stray tears and dust from your face.

“Hey,” Steve whispered, “are you okay?” He took your hand in his, gingerly stroking the back of your hand in soothing circles, and you marveled at his soft touch despite the rough leather of his gloves.

“I,” you started helplessly, “I’m, uh.” Tears continued to escape you, and you tried to fight the humiliation of crying at work, no matter how grave your situation was. You nodded brokenly at the bloody calf across the room from you, hoping he would put two and two together, and your shoulders shook once more. Steve looked at you quizzically, fighting the urge to kiss your fluttering lashes until the unidentified pain went away.

“....What?”

“What do you mean what?”

“I, just, what?”

You wailed again, throwing up your hands in frustration and instinctively standing to go and show him yourself when suddenly you glanced down in wonder. No, your eyes did not deceive you, you were standing on the same two legs you had entered this mission with. “Oh, that’s not my leg!” You gestured excitedly at the limb you had mistaken for your own, glancing back at your own leg that had a matching gash down the back of the calf. “I had just assumed I couldn’t feel it because of shock, y’know, and-”

“Do you wanna go on a date with me?” Steve’s breath hitched as he realized what he just said. Oh god, he groaned internally, this isn’t technically in the middle of battle, but-

“What?” You were blinking, a lot, more so than what Steve thought was normal. He tried not to read too much into your eyes, those eyes he found himself lost in, prettily framed by those long lashes and holding a gaze he couldn’t understand.

Shit, his mind was racing, stumbling over his words once more. “I, uh, I don’t, um, know why? Why I said that? Oh, god, I mean, we’re not even there yet, not that I’m expecting you to have to be there, ever, oh god, I am so sorry, I’ll just-”

“Steve,” you cut in, gasping a little and clutching a ridiculously thick arm of his for balance. “Fuck, uh, my leg, my actual leg this time-” With a painful whine, your body toppled against his as you blacked out, warm blood still trickling down your calf.

---

You squinted your eyes open, trying to avoid the glaring fluorescent light the filled the room. The hospital room, you realized, turning your head with a wince to see a large window whose natural light was tragically obstructed by cream-colored blinds. You let your eyelids droop again, hoping that you could avoid the effort of revamping your lighting by just falling asleep, but you had no such luck. You settled for letting your gaze wander aimlessly around the area, which you assumed to be a local Parisian medical center and not the Avengers medbay you had yet to visit - Tony would never allow such an ugly tile pattern within fifty feet of his home.

Shifting carefully, all too aware of the throbbing pain that still burned in your leg, you looked to the other half of the room and stifled a gasp - the one and only Captain America was asleep at your side, leaning heavily to the side of his fragile-looking plastic chair. Your eyes fell to his still-gloved hand, which was clasped in your own, and you briefly wondered how out of it you were that you hadn’t noticed this immediately.

Dragging your free hand over to cradle his face, you called his name softly. Bleary-eyed and painfully cute, Steve blinked his way awake, coming back to you. His shoulders sagged in relief at the smile on your face.

“Hey.” You weren’t necessarily one for feelings or overaffection, but you hoped Steve didn’t notice the embarrassingly obvious adoration in your voice as your eyes drank him in.

“Hey.” His tone matched yours, sleep-husky voice still loving and velvet. You started to draw your hand away, relishing the warmth that emanated from his skin, but he caught your wrist cautiously, gentle enough to let you slip away if you wanted but firm in his request.

You stayed like that, together, for a dreamy few seconds, before he cleared his throat awkwardly. “Listen, uh, so, I’m sorry, about asking, not that I didn’t want to ask because I did, but it was unprofessional and unfair to you and-”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“I said yes, Steve.” He blinked at you adorably in question.

“But I thought you didn’t want anything like that with a, um, coworker?”

You swallowed and looked down at your clasped hands. You had spent far too long keeping people at arm’s length because of your fear, and you knew you could trust the Avengers. You made a tiny, tentative promise to yourself, to give people chances like they had given you. Bringing your eyes to match his, you gave him a small smile.

“Well, I guess it’s a good thing that Captain America is my coworker, and it’s Steve Rogers who’s asking.”

[quinzelade]

Making One’s Bones (Chpt 11)

Chapter List

--

Porter Gage is in a pickle. Nuka-World needed a new boss and some woman just killed her way to the top. But a pre-war Mafia boss on the theme park's throne? Well...at least she'll have experience.

--

Hello, everyone! Welcome to my newest fanfic! While this is technically a ‘sequel’ of By No Constraint, you don’t need to read BNC to read this. It can be read as standalone.

--

Needle

--

“I’ve almost forgotten what it feels like to be young.”

Gage turned to Bossanova, frowning. She was staring at the towers of Kiddie Kingdom, reminiscence clouding her eyes, as if it were a castle made of gold.

He surveyed the crumbling walls and chipped, plastic lollipops and said, “Must have been a shit childhood if this junk makes you nostalgic.”

She shot him a sharp look and then grinned. “I was in my fifties by the time they built this place. But I did organise a hit here.”

“Bet the kids loved that.”

“I know my guys did. They spent all day stuffing their faces and going on the park rides before the mark showed up with his family. I was told Joey threw up in a trash can from too much cotton candy.”

Gage didn’t know why anyone would eat the putrid solid mess he'd found festering all over Nuka World, but chuckled anyway. He supposed it must have been different back in the day. A scuffling noise made him whip around, just in time to see the ghoul leap at him. It knocked Gage clean off his feet. He hit the ground with a thud and a grunt of pain, holding the thing back with his rifle. It shrieked and snapped its teeth, tearing at every inch of him it could reach. In the distance, echoing cries of more ghouls sounded back.

There was a flash of metal, and the ghoul’s head fell off, smacking Gage painfully in the face. He pushed the body away, when Bossanova dragged him to his feet and shoved him into a nearby bush.

“Shut up and stay still,” she hissed.

“Boss, you can’t take on all of them by your—” he began, trying to get back up.

She grabbed him by the shoulders and forced him down. He always forgot how strong she was. “Shut up,” she said again, “and trust me.”

Gritting his teeth, Gage obeyed, ducking lower into his hiding place.

Bossanova straightened, opening her arms wide as she faced the hoard of approaching ghouls. Now that he wasn’t preventing his nose from being bitten off, Gage had time to study them. They were painted in a horrible mix of clashing colours, the paint peeling off their rotting bodies. The effect reminded him of the stupid getups of Mason’s Pack.

Gage tensed, his rifle at the ready. She was fucking insane. They would eat her.

His mouth dropped open as the ghouls slowed, sniffing Bossanova’s feet, and then butting her with their heads like dogs begging for food and ear scratches. Bossanova laughed and petted the nearest one, and the other ghouls clamored around her for attention, ignoring the corpse on the ground.

“Alright, go on. Shoo,” she said, flapping her hands at them. They clicked their teeth mournfully, but obeyed, slinking off towards Kiddie Kingdom.

Bossanova waited until they were out of sight, then hurried back to Gage. “You okay?”

“Yeah, fine.” He picked twigs out of his hair and stared at her. “What the hell was that?”

She shrugged. “Ferals don’t attack other ghouls. I thought you knew.”

“How? Do I look like I’ve been cooked by radiation?”

“Clearly you’re not as worldly as I imagined.”

Gage was left trying to figure out what this meant while she directed her attention back to the park.

“Judging by how many came out for a little tussle like that, the whole place will be infested. She glanced at him. “Did you bring the stealth boys?”

Gage nodded and patted the satchel he’d grabbed back in Nuka Town. “Enough for a few hours.”

“Good. I’ll walk ahead, you use one of them. If it’s just ghouls, we can clear them out easily. But if it’s more than that…”

“Boss,” Gage said, unable to contain himself. “Why didn’t they try to eat you?”

“I don’t know how it works. I’m one of them. That’s all that matters. Same as raiders really.”

The conversation died as they drew near to the entrance, and Gage fired up the stealth boy. A cold rush passed over him, followed by an odd, rippling warmth that seemed to hover just above the surface of his skin. He held up his now seemingly transparent hand to his face, studying it. Good enough.

They crossed the threshold, and Gage halted, the green haze in the air causing his salvaged Geiger counter to crackle. It wasn’t the best—in fact, it was an inaccurate piece of shit. But it was enough to tell him when the air was thick with radiation. Before he could say anything to Bossanova, a rasping voice crackled over the intercom.

“Well now friends, it seems we have another uninvited guest to...the…” The voice trailed away. “One of us?”

Bossanova tilted her head, searching for the speaker.

“Oh, you won’t find me out here. But…” The voice hesitated, and then continued, the tone harsher and clipped. “She said there was a new leader. A leader like us. So that’s you, is it? A traitor. A killer. You think you have me fooled, bitch, but I know. Oswald the Outrageous always knows.”

“I’m sure you do,” Bossanova called out cheerily. Gage wondered if this Ozward—or whatever his name was—could actually hear her. One of the ghouls shuffled over, and she patted it gently on the head. “Your friends seem to like me, though, so why don’t we have a chat instead? I’m sure we can come to an agreement.”

“Steve, get away from her!” barked Osbald. The ghoul paused and then slunk off. Gage was sure if it had a tail it would be between its legs. “So where are you going to shuffle to, little overboss? The tunnels, maybe? The funhouse?” He let out a maniacal cackle. “Plenty to see and do here. Plenty of treats in store. Be seeing you…”

The speaker cut out, filling the park with silence. The ghouls milling around seemed indifferent.

“Loves the sound of his own fucking voice, that one,” muttered Gage. “Boss, hang on. Need to deal with the rads.”

Bossanova crouched down next to him. “Got enough medicine?”

He opened a bottle of rad-x and took a few pills as he nodded. Then he remembered the stealth boy and said, “Yeah, it’ll last a little while.”

“I think we need to have a proper chat with this Oswald.”

“Oh, so that’s his name.”

“What did you think it was?”

Gage’s cheeks suddenly felt hot. “I, uh...nevermind. What’s important is he sounds deranged. We need to kill him and quick.”

“Half the people in this park are deranged. What we need to do is speak with him, give him a chance to talk. Might be he can offer us valuable resources. At the very least it seems he’s in control of the ghouls—if we can find a way to take over his ownership of them, we’ll have an army of ferals at our disposal. If not, we convince him to leave.”

“Why are you so goddamn determined just to let people walk away?”

“Because it’s cleaner than killing.”

Gage scowled, though he knew she couldn’t see him. Again she was trying to make friends rather than doing what was practical, though he had to admit it worked last time. Still, he felt uneasy. This seemed a little too much, but if anyone was going to convince a mad ghoul to work for them, it would be her. “You better know what you’re fucking doing.”

Bossanova grinned. “Always.”

--

They pressed on. Whatever Kiddie Kingdom had been in its prime, it was now a walking deathtrap. There were runaway carts on hidden tracks, hurtling past at breakneck speed. There was an arena filled with giant, spinning teacups the size of brahmins. The sprinkler system was pumping out constant radiation. And the place was teeming with ghouls. Gage found the remains of what looked like two raiders near an old trash can, scraps of meat still clinging to the gnawed bones.

He shivered. It was lucky the ghouls seemed to like Bossanova, otherwise they might not have got very far. They milled around her vying for attention, only drifting away when Oswald’s angry voice told them to move on. The one called Steve kept coming back, and in the end the speaker stopped bothering to shoo him. Bossanova looked delighted.

They walked on for a few minutes, when there was a loud snap and a shriek of pain. Gage whirled around to see Bossanova on the floor, clutching her leg. He crept forward as quickly as he dared, and saw the old, rusted bear trap buried deep into her calf.

Ah shit.

Oswald’s laugh rang out over the speakers. “Hurts, doesn’t it?” He continued to chuckle. “Good. You deserve a bit of pain. Your raiders hurt people. Beat them to a pulp. Even children.” His voice broke for a moment, and then he hissed, “Tell me, do you think you’ll bleed out before the infection gets you?”

“Ghouls don’t get infections,” Bossanova called, trying to prise open the trap. Her blood-slicked hands lost their grip, and the trap snapped shut again, tearing another scream from her throat. Steve the ghoul sniffed her head, clearly agitated, but not knowing how to help.

Gage snuck over, carefully avoided the ghoul, and crouched down next to her. “Together, boss,” he whispered, taking hold of the trap. “One. Two. Three.”

The trap opened with grinding metallic noise, and Bossanova yanked her leg out quick. It snapped shut again. She pulled herself to her feet, batting his hands away as he tried to help. A second later, Gage realised why.

“Oh, got out of it yourself, did you?” Oswald said, clearly disappointed. “Well hurry up and die. I have places to be.”

“Radiation heals ghouls,” Bossanova shouted back, a look of inspiration flickering across her face. She grinned. “Sorry. Looks like your little trap won’t do much good.”

“Oh yeah? We’ll see about that.”

The sprinklers suddenly cut. Gage’s Geiger counter went silent. Bossanova turned in his general direction and winked. Then she pulled out a handful of stimpaks and set to work mending her leg, leaning against the wall for support. Two stimpaks would have probably done the job for Gage, but she needed four. Finally, she bound her leg up, using a broken fence post as a splint, and gingerly tested her weight on it. The leg held.

“Come on, Steve,” she said loudly. “We’ve a lot of work ahead.”

She hobbled away, using the wall for support. Gage quickly caught up with her, tucking his arm under hers so she could discreetly lean on him. Bossanova shot him a quick smile. “Thanks,” she whispered.

“Don’t mention it.”

--

The Funhouse loomed over them, looking oddly menacing considering it was brightly painted and decorated in lollipops. Gage held the door open for Bossanova as she limped her way inside, and Steve followed. Two more ghouls were waiting, but they took one look at Steve and went back to lying on the floor.

Holding his breath against the smell, Gage followed them. The walls were plastered with blue and pink peeling wallpaper, the floor so covered with filth it was impossible to tell what the original colour had been.

Oswald was quick to greet them. “Welcome boys and girls to...the Funhouse!”

“How long are you going to keep this up?” Bossanova replied, wincing with every step. She pushed open a double set of doors, which revealed a strange hall full of tarnished mirrors.

“Until you are dead!”

“Steve likes me. Isn’t that good enough for you?”

“No! Steve’s an idiot! Always chasing after girls…”

Gage trailed behind Bossanova as she wound her way through the maze of mirrors. Though he couldn’t see his own reflection, he could see hers, multiplied into the great beyond. The effect was quite nauseating. Steve suddenly pounced on a nearby radroach, biting its head off and chewing noisily.

“I still think we should have a nice, grown-up talk,” Bossanova went on pleasantly while Steve let out a loud burp. “I think I have more to offer you than you know, and can grant you protection. Who knows the interests of ghouls better than a ghoul?”

“You didn’t look after Sarah,” snapped Oswald. “Came to me black and blue she did. Your raiders beat her, near killed her by the looks of it. And she still went back to them. Where was your protection then?”

Bossanova’s thousand images frowned. “Sarah? I don’t know a Sarah.”

“She’s one of us! And if you gave a damn, you’d know that!”

Her face lit up in recognition. “Ah, the ghoul girl. I’ve only been the boss for about...a week or so? And I’ve been out on the field, not playing meet and greet. If the raiders are abusing my people, I’ll put a stop to it. But I’ll need someone to help me. I think you’re the perfect man for the job.”

“Liar!” howled Oswald. “You’re a liar! A goddamn liar!”

The speaker cut out.

“Nice try,” murmured Gage.

Bossanova sighed.

The rest of the mirror maze passed without incident, and they made their way to what looked like a corridor on top of a long conveyor belt. There was no way Bossanova was out-hobbling that.

“Let me go ahead and just fucking shoot him,” Gage hissed, indicating the glass observation room where a figure in a top hat could be clearly seen. There was a strange glow surrounding the person, but he didn’t pay it much mind. Glowing or not, they could still be shot.

“I said no,” Bossanova snarled.

Gage grumbled with frustration, but stopped as Steve looked around sharply. After a few seconds, the ghoul relaxed and resumed sniffing Bossanova’s feet. She looked down at it, then back to the conveyor belt.

“Steve, do you think you can help me?”

Steve showed no sign it had heard her. Bossanova shifted her stance, lifted her bad leg up, and swung it over Steve’s back. She landed heavily on him, and Steve flinched, letting out a disgruntled growl. Gage gripped his weapon tight, ready to fire, but after a few seconds of looking like the highest treachery had been committed against it, Steve settled. Now Gage thought about it, the ghoul was very tall, despite being so emaciated, and held Bossanova’s weight with ease.

Bossanova pulled a Fancy Lad snack cake from her pocket and waved it in front of Steve. The ghoul perked up immediately, eyes rolling in its head trying to follow the cake. “Steve, fetch!” She threw it with all her might, and it sailed down the corridor, bouncing off the wall and disappearing out of sight.

Steve bolted.

Bossanova had time to let out a surprised shriek, clinging to Steve’s neck for dear life, before the ghoul was off, charging unsteadily on all fours down the corridor, Bossanova’s legs trailing out behind them.

Gage clung to the wall in silent laughter, while Oswald’s furious yells of, “Steve, no! What are you doing? Steeeve!” crackled over the intercom. The figure in the observation room banged their fists down on a console as Bossanova and Steve flew around the corner from sight. Several panels in the ceiling opened, sending grenades bouncing down the conveyor belt towards Gage. He just had enough time to sprint back down the way he came, running straight into a mirror wall, before they exploded.

Gage groaned, putting a hand to his aching forehead. Had he knocked himself out? He blinked and realised he could see his hand. The stealth boy was dead. Gage fumbled for another one and activated it.The familiar cold then rippling warmth engulfed him, and he got unsteadily to his feet.

Two left.

They needed to hurry up here or he was going to be in a lot of trouble.

Gage staggered back into the conveyor belt hallway to find the observation room empty and the floor mercifully still. He jogged down it and found Bossanova in the next room, flat on her back while Steve was playing with the snack cake wrapper in the corner.

“You alright, boss?” he said quietly as he reached her.

“Remind me never to do that again,” she replied, clutching her leg, her face tinged green.

“Never do that again,” Gage said. Bossanova picked up a stone and threw it at him. It missed, sailing clean over his shoulder. He looked around at this new area, and shook his head. Pre-war people were crazy.

The room consisted of a large pit, half full of stagnant water. In the centre were two giant Nuka Cola bottles, one red, the other a patchy blue, with a little platforms jutting out on one side. They were spinning fast, the platforms only being within reach for seconds. A single false move would mean falling into the water, and who knew what was lurking in there.

Gage glanced around. There were no cameras he could see, and the observation window was empty in here. Making up his mind, he scooped Bossanova into his arms.

“Gage!” she hissed, gripping his shoulder and looking around, panicked, for any sign of Oswald. “What are you doing?”

“Shut up and keep a tight hold on me.”

“What—?”

Gage turned around, waited for the nearest bottle to complete its revolution, and then sprinted towards the gap. He heard Bossanova let out a squeak as he leapt, and then a grunt of pain as they crashed haphazardly onto the walkway. They rolled, nearly sliding off the edge, but Gage managed to hook his arm around the metal barrier, and kept them in place.

Slowly, Gage stood up. The momentum was making him feel sick, but he ignored it, picking Bossanova up again and aiming for the next bottle. This one was even worse. He staggered as they hit the platform, lost his balance completely, and went barrelling forward. At the last second he managed to steady himself, teetering on the edge, and then made the final jump. They hit the deck with a thud, and Gage lay on solid, unmoving ground, panting and resisting the urge to vomit.

“Well done,” Bossanova wheezed, looking as bad as he felt. “I think I just need a moment to—”

There was a horrible, ear-splitting shriek. Gage glanced up to see Steve charging towards them, tongue lolling out of its mouth. It bounded across the spinning platforms with ease, landed untidily next to Bossanova, and began licking her face.

“Steve!” she spluttered, trying to push the ghoul away. “Alright, alright!”

Gage bit back a snicker and slowly sat up, massaging his stomach. With any luck, the next area wouldn’t be too bad. He wandered over to the door and opened it.

Bright, spinning green lights and revolving spiral patterns greeted him. Gage took one look at it, gripped his stomach, and ran back to the pit to stick his head over the side.

--

The Hypno Room—or as Gage liked to call it, the ‘Spinny Fuck Off Room’ was an absolute nightmare. Swirling images dominated every corner, the tunnels revolving, sending him staggering everywhere, and some even with glass blocking the way. More than once he felt the urge to just smash through, but thought better of it. Sick as he was, he didn’t want to attract the attention of the ghouls.

Finally, they made their way to a room that looked as if it was upside-down, the furniture nailed to the ceilings and walls. Gage ignored it. After the previous shit he’d just been through, this was nothing. At least the furniture was staying in place.

However, they quickly returned to the nausea-inducing hellscape. As Gage threw open the last door, ready to just start shooting everything up if it meant escaping the Funhouse, he stepped forward and found his feet pulled out from underneath him. He caught a brief glimpse of a circular room filled with ghouls, the floor one big, spinning green and black spiral, before he was flat on his back whirling around. Gage rolled over to see Bossanova and Steve jump in after him. The door slammed shut, and suddenly he had no idea where the exit was, let alone where they’d even come from.

His stomach was churning, the smell of the ghouls forcing him to clamp his hands over his mouth, trying to keep everything down. God, people used to come to this shit for fun?

“Round and round and round!” screamed Oswald, laughing at them. The doors lining the walls were opening and shutting, more ghouls piling into the room, flashing lights flaring and dying. “I couldn’t save Sarah! I couldn’t make Rachel stay! I couldn’t stop my people’s illness! But I can—kill—you!”

Gage groaned and covered his head, trying to block everything out. Bossanova told him not to use his gun. But he just couldn’t take this shit anymore.

“Steve, no!”

Gage glanced up. Steve had approached one of the open doors, activating a tripwire. A grenade bounced down, while Steve simply stared at it. Then Bossanova grabbed hold of the ghoul as she kicked the grenade back into the room and dragged Steve away. The grenade went off, blowing the door off its hinges.

The spinning stopped.

Slowly, Bossanova sat up, staring up at the ceiling as if waiting for Oswald to throw his next trick at them. Instead, silence reigned for a good minute before his strained voice filtered out over the speakers.

“You...you saved Steve? Why?”

“Why?” Bossanova scowled, petting Steve’s head, who was huddled up against her lap and trembling. “Why? What have I been telling you for the last hour, boy? Or don’t you know how to listen? I am not here to hurt ghouls!”

Again, Oswald didn’t speak. The other ghouls were pawing the smouldering door, while Steve remained by Bossanova’s side.

“Okay. We’ll talk.”

--

Like the rest of Kiddie Kingdom, the castle had seen better days. Though the walls were still white, they were stained with the centuries of strife. Dead plantlife hung from the signs, and even the candy decorating the turrets and towers looked washed out and stale.

Steve walked ahead, helping Bossanova navigate around the traps, and Gage kept close to her heels.

They walked up stairs and over bridges and through grand, decaying courtyards, until finally they made it to the front door. Inside was an immense theater, light cutting through the gloom to reveal a dusty old stage. Oswald sat waiting for them, a faint green glow lighting up his top hat and black and red jacket, revealing a sword strapped to his side. Gage’s stomach turned. Glowing ones were dangerous. The fact this one seemed to have kept all his marbles meant they were in for a rough time if things went south.

Oswald looked up as Bossanova approached, and gave a curt nod.

“Follow me,” he rasped, standing up and walking away without waiting. Bossanova stumped after him, face screwed up in pain. Gage wondered how well her wounds had healed.

Oswald led them up high through the building, past dressing rooms, a kitchen, and even a rec room, breaking the illusion somewhat. Finally they made their way to the very top, an open, spacious attic with most of the roof missing, where natural light filled every corner. Barrels of radioactive waste littered the edges, their warning labels peeling away. Gage’s Geiger counter started to crackle again, but thankfully Oswald didn’t seem to notice.

“Here,” said Oswald. He took hold of Bossanova and his skin glowed brightly, filling the room with green. Gage’s Geiger counter got louder, more frantic, and he pressed his hands over it trying to drown out the noise.

Bossanova stared at Oswald, then reached down and pulled away the bindings holding her splint in place. Gage’s mouth fell open. Her leg was fully healed. Even her fancy gun hadn’t managed that.

Oswald let go of her, glaring. “Right. Down to business. You say the raiders are under your control, but they’ve done nothing but hunt us, torture us, and kill us. Even if you are in charge, why the hell should I join you?”

“How long do you really think you’ll be able to hold off against the raiders?” Bossanova replied, her hands on her hips. “And be honest with yourself.”

“I’ve lasted two hundred years,” he snarled. “I’ll last another two hundred more.”

Already, Gage didn’t like Oswald’s tone. He stuck by his earlier assessment—the ghoul was batshit crazy. How long had he been holed up here alone with only ferals for company? Gage made a split second decision. If this went tits up, he was gonna have the ghoul in his sights no matter what. Throwing a careful glance at Oswald and Steve, Gage inched his way over to the stairs and crept up to the walkways above. It was the wisest decision he’d ever made, because as he reached the shadows, his stealth boy died.

“This isn’t just about you,” Bossanova retorted, equally sharp. “It’s about what’s best for everyone.”

“Everyone? You mean raiders.”

“I mean your friends. You think you can stay safe forever? The people outside are multiplying. Sooner or later, they’ll outnumber you. And when they do, they’ll take this from you in a heartbeat, radiation or not. I’m giving you the chance to join forces with me. To keep the raiders in their place. Because once I have them under my thumb, I’m going to crush them.”

Oswald stared at her. So did Gage. She must know he could hear her. So this had to be a lie. But she said it with such conviction, for a moment he was thrown. No. Of course it was a lie. Don’t be so fucking stupid.

Oswald opened and closed his mouth a few times, then swallowed. “I don’t believe you.”

“I could have brought them all here. Wiped you out.” Bossanova smiled faintly, tilting her head to the side. “Instead I came to you alone. Right from the very beginning, all I’ve tried to do is speak to you.” She patted Steve on the head again, who was nuzzling her legs. “If you really thought I was a threat, you wouldn’t have me here.”

The ghoul watched her petting Steve for a moment and licked his lips. “No...I guess not.” He sighed. “I’m too old to start again. This is all I know anymore.”

“Take it from this old lady—you can always start again.”

Gage inched forward, resting his sights on Oswald. Sooner or later he would figure out the boss was lying, the game she was playing. Or at least Gage hoped she was playing a game. The alternative was uncomfortable—not at least she was stupid enough to announce her plans of betrayal in front of him. He shuffled to the side a little, and reached down to his satchel to get out another stealth boy.

Crack.

Gage’s foot went straight through a rotten plank, and he yelled as he sunk into the walkway up to his thigh. His rifle slipped from his hands and clattered down to the floor below.

Oswald glanced from Bossanova to Gage, his face twisted with fury, but Steve was already on the case. The feral raced up the stairs, shrieking and hissing, and launched himself at Gage. Gage grabbed the thing’s arms, twisted sharply, and the ghoul plummeted, landing on its head with a sickening thud.

“Raiders!” Oswald roared, drawing his sword. He raised his hand as Gage scrabbled for his sidearm, but it was pinned against the hole he was stuck in. Try as he might, he couldn’t get to it. He was utterly helpless.

“No more!” the ghoul screamed, swinging the sword wildly around as he strode towards Gage. “No more slaves! No more terror!” His skin glowed a bright, venomous green, building and building at the palm pointed up to the walkway. “I’ll make your skin bubble and crack! I’ll make your eyes melt! I’ll—”

Bossanova appeared from nowhere. Gage had a split second to register the knife in her hand, before she buried it in Oswald’s neck. He jerked, trying to pull away from her, and the green light engulfed the two ghouls. Gage’s Geiger counter went ballistic, and he could just see the darkened silhouettes in the centre, one of them plunging a knife over and over into the other’s chest and head. The light flickered and died. Oswald was still struggling, but he could no longer sustain his only lifeline. His gargled screams filled the air as the gleaming knife bit into his flesh, blood spraying in wide arcs with every brutal thrust, until finally he collapsed to the floor.

Bossanova fell with him, dropping to her knees as her knife clattered away. She bent over Oswald’s twitching body for a moment, her fingers digging into the floor as she panted. She raised a trembling hand and grasped momentarily at her own face, before her head snapped up in Gage’s direction. “Are you hurt? Did he get you?”

There was a definite tremor to her voice, but Gage ignored it. She had just saved his life from a situation that was entirely his fault.

“I’m fine,” he croaked, struggling to free himself. “Just...stuck. You okay, boss? The green shit didn’t hurt you none?”

“Radiation doesn’t hurt me. How many times?” she snapped, getting unsteadily to her feet. She deliberately avoided both of the ghoul bodies, running up the stairs to Gage and offering her hand. He took it, though it was so slick with blood she still struggled to pull him out. Eventually she managed and together they made their way back to the lower floor.

“Boss.” Gage picked up his gun and studied her closely. “You sure you okay?”

“Yeah, I…” She dropped her gaze, wiping the blood from her pale face. Her voice was the merest whisper. “I didn’t think he’d...he struggled so much. Made it so much worse. I…”

Her words were cut off as Oswald groaned. He raised a bloodied hand in the air and she shied away, looking terrified. Gage stared at her for a moment, and then felt his immediate annoyance dissipate. He wasn’t angry. He couldn’t be. Not after this.

Gage strode over to Oswald, slamming his foot into his chest, and shot him in the head. Bossanova flinched. “There,” he said. “My fault. Not yours. Come on.” He grabbed her arm and steered her away.

“Gage, I—”

“Guy was a fucking nutjob,” Gage said firmly. “Let’s find you a drink.”

[starssayhello]

How the Moon Fell In Love With a Star - Part 7

Fandom: Harry Potter, Marauders Era

Pairing: Sirius Black x OC (Remus’s twin sister)

Word Count: 1,875

Summary: Lilliana Lupin is just starting her seventh year with her twin brother and best friends. The only catch: she’s in love with one of them. When James hatches a plan to make both Lily Evans and Sirius Black notice James and Lillie, she is hesitant. Until it works.

Series Materlist   Masterlist

A/N: Wowie, it took me so long to write this part. Hope it was worth the wait!

Part 1    Part 2    Part 3    Part 4    Part 5   Part 6

A week later, the boys and I were sitting around the fireplace working on homework. Sirius had just dropped his books on the table next to me when James said, “Come on, Sirius.” James stood and stretched. “We've got Quidditch practice.”

“Already?” asked Sirius. “Bloody hell, I just sat down!”

I shook my head at the two of them. Sirius ruffled my hair as he passed. James leaned down, put a hand on my cheek, and pressed a quick kiss to my lips. When he pulled away, his eyes shot towards Lily, who was sitting at a table in the corner. He smiled at me, patted Remus on the shoulder, then led Sirius out of the common room. Sirius’ scowl didn't go unnoticed by me.

“Since the two of them are gone,” Remus said, turning to me. “Will you finally tell me what's been going on?”

I shrugged. “James asked me out, I said yes, we've been dating ever since-”

“Lillie, you know that's not what I really meant,” Remus interrupted.

I sighed, then glanced around the room to make sure no one was listening in. “You know me better than anyone, Remus. What do you think?”

Remus thought for a moment before stating, “I think it's killing you a little on the inside.”

“Well then, you would be right,” I mumbled. Remus nodded sadly.

Surprisingly, my brother was the first person to figure out that I loved Sirius. As more than a friend at least. I didn't really tell him, simply gave little signs that only my twin would have picked up on. James figured out soon enough after, and the teasing carried from third year all the way through fifth when I finally had enough of it and returned the favor by teasing James about Lily. In front of her, though, because that boy had no shame.

“You know,” Remus drew my attention back to him, “you could always break it off with James and ask Sirius to the ball.”

“Don't be ridiculous, Remus. Do you think I'd ever have the nerve to do that?”

Remus shrugged. “Anything's possible if you've got enough nerve.”

----

Christmas at Hogwarts brought that happy sort of feeling. You know, where everything is right in the world.

Except everything was not right in the world. News of James's and my relationship had spread like wildfire and it seemed to be all the school could talk about. Going between classes, I always caught snippets of conversations between girls about how James was only dating me because I was his best friend and needed someone to go to the ball with. Others said I had asked James out and he only said yes out of pity. Still others hit closer to the mark: James was using me to get Lily's attention. Those weren't completely correct but not completely inaccurate either.

What bugged me the most was Sirius’ reaction to it all. In the beginning of this whole mess, his annoyed face made it all worth it. However, the closer it got to Christmas, the less I saw that face. Instead, he let his face wash into an amused smirk whenever James and I did something remotely romantic. Now, I doubted if any of this was even worth it.

My brother was convinced James and I were driving Sirius up a wall and that he would snap soon. Peter tried to stay out of the mess. Like always, he didn't like confrontation. James insisted we should keep the charade up a little longer. I didn't really know how I felt about it. And I had absolutely no idea how Sirius felt.

James's plan had always been to make Sirius crack and admit his feelings, and James was convinced that the only way to do that was to go to the ball together.

One night a few weeks before Christmas, we all sat around the fire working on homework or, in James's case, using his wand to make figures dance in the fire. “Hey, Lillie?” James said.

“Mm?” I hummed.

“Go to the Christmas ball with me?”

Sirius’ head shot up. “Sure, Prongs,” I replied.

----

The morning of the ball, I woke up to the sound of muffled voices. Rolling over in bed, I noticed the bathroom door was shut but light leaked out through the gap. The dorm door opened and in walked Alice. “Good, you're up. Lily was planning to dump a bucket of water on your face in the next few minutes,” Alice giggled. I groaned and rolled out of bed.

“That girl is infuriating sometimes.”

“Well, she wasn't going to have you miss this!” Alice pulled you over to Marlene's vanity in the corner. “Now, what are you thinking for your hair?”

“Honestly? I haven't thought of any of this once,” I replied, sighing.

“Well, that’s alright, because I intend to make you look stunning.” Alice smiled sweetly at me in the mirror.

I returned her grin, internally wincing at the thought of who I would be looking pretty for.

----

“You look absolutely stunning,” James grinned. “Doesn’t she look stunning, lads?” He spun me under his arm. Sirius’ gray eyes followed the swirls of my green dress, from the heels on my feet Lily forced me to wear up to the intricate rose braid my hair wove into. Remus leaned over and pressed a kiss to my cheek.

“Beautiful,” Sirius agreed. He shook out of his trance, grinning brightly.

James shot me a look before holding out his arm. “Shall we?”

----

The next three hours involved dancing stupidly, sneaking drinks of firewhiskey, and acting like complete fools with my best friends. When I finally sat down to take a break, Sirius joined me, eyes bright and awake from alcohol.

“You really do look beautiful, Lillie.” My eyes shot to his face, searching for some sort of lie.

“Thank you, Sirius.” We sat in comfortable silence, content to observe. Suddenly, he stood up.

“Can I have this dance?” I looked up at Sirius, his hand outstretched to me. I sighed before taking his hand and allowing him to pull me to my feet.

“You know, that is actually incorrect grammar. It should be 'may I’ not 'can I’ because ‘can’ asks for the ability while ‘may’ asks-” Sirius pressed his lips to my cheek, hitting the corner of my mouth.

“Would ya just shut up, Moonbeam? I'm trying to be a gentleman.” In my state of shock, his hand drifted out of mine and he was halfway to the dance floor before realizing I was not, in fact, following him. He gestured toward the floor. “Are you coming or not?” I just stared, lips parted and brain whirring. He huffed and sauntered back to me. “Come on.” With that, he wrapped his arms around my waist and hoisted me up over his shoulder, carrying me away from the table.

“Sirius! Put me down!” I protested. He didn't respond, instead continuing to walk. “Sirius Orion Black, if you don't put me down, I'll-”

He dropped me on my feet, smiling smugly. “You'll what?” I lost my words. “That's what I thought,” he chuckled.

I shook my head muttering, “Idiot.”

“Hmm? What was that?”

“Nothing, Siri,” I giggled. He rolled his eyes, sliding a hand to my waist and taking my other hand in his.

“You know, I was thinking about asking you?” Sirius offhandedly commented.

“Are you serious?”

He grinned. “Of course I am!”

I shoved his shoulder playfully. “Not like that. I mean, were you really thinking of asking me?”

“Of course I was. I've been planning it since before you and James got together. Of course, he had to go and mess up my plan by asking you out first.” Sirius shrugged. “It's not like I've been in love with you for years-” He cut himself off causing me to jerk back from Sirius.

“What did you just say?” I demanded.

“I-um…” For the first time in my memory, Sirius Black was speechless. We froze, staring at each other for a moment. Then Sirius bolted.

“Sirius! Wait!” I hiked up the skirt of my dress and rushed after him. He was already out of the Great Hall as I passed James, Remus, and Peter.

“Lillie!” James yelled. He tossed me a piece of parchment which I immediately recognized as the Marauder's Map. I nodded at him before spinning on my heel and sprinting out of the noise-containing Great Hall.

Sirius was nowhere to be found so I pulled out my wand and tapped the map, muttering the ever-familiar incantation. I found him easily, as most everyone in Hogwarts was in the Great Hall. The seventh floor in the hall of Barnabas the Barmy's tapestry. A moment later, he disappeared. I sighed before making my way up the marble staircase. Halfway up, my shoe caught on the edge of a stair and fell off. “Who am I? Cinderella?” I muttered, pulling off my other shoe and tucking them both behind a plant at the top of the stairs.

It only took a minute to reach the Room of Requirement, thanks to shortcuts the boys had found over the years.

“Sirius?” I pushed into the room, letting the door slam with a resounding bang. Sirius sat by the fireplace, staring into the burning logs. The flames reflected in his eyes, turning the gray irises gold. His tie hung loose around his neck in that boyish I don’t care about anything look. I dropped down next to him, laying back on the pillows strewn about the floor. “Is it true?”

Sirius nodded.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Why do you think?” He whispered. “I didn’t want to ruin...this.” He gestured between the two of us.

I took a deep breath and let the words flow out before I could stop. “I love you too.”

Sirius’ head whipped to look at me. “Then why are you with James?”

I sat up abruptly. “That isn’t real, Sirius. James came up with this clever plan to make you realize you were jealous and to get Lily’s attention. For a while it was working. He was convinced you would do something eventually, but when you didn’t, he thought going to the ball together would be the last straw.”

“This was all a prank? A joke?” Sirius’ voice cracked. Though his face was blank, his eyes betrayed a pain I had seen few other times. “You and James were faking it!” I nodded slowly, not quite sure where he was going with this. “I can’t believe this! I hated James for months because of this!” Anger seeped quickly into his voice. “You thought I was dumb enough to try to steal the girl my best mate was dating? Even though I had loved her for years! I can’t believe either of you.” My heart skipped a beat. An angry Sirius was not someone I enjoyed dealing with. His voice turned deathly indifferent. “I hope you’re happy now.”

I was frozen in place, staring after the boy I loved as he pushed his way through the room, a scowl etched on his face.

“What have I done?” I whispered, letting the dam break. Tears streamed down my face as I curled into a ball and sobbed.

Part 8 (last part)

A/N: I’m thinking of three more parts to this, max. I may do an epilogue where they meet again during POA, but not for sure.

Tags:  @paradoxical--intentions @knowledgeisthebomb @watson-38 @athenamalfoywinchester @bestillmystuckyheart @annino112 @siriuspadfoot14 @xsuperwholockaddictx-blog @ghostgirl1609@whysoseriouspadfoot @bubblesbts @sly-vixen-up2nogood @sleepingalaska @nicolebeaudry @saynotodrugsyestotacos @mysweetcookie99 @mrstomlifford @shootingstarsaretearsofheaven @avengersassemblee @aestheticallymarauderss @love-dria @superwholockgeek18 @lonelyheart-jadedsoul @barikawho @hahawannadiehaha @panicatthelonelymountain @cutie-bug @ssolaced @captivatingcosette @mayakblack @j-brielmalfoy @ideas-nocturnas @elsie2018

Send me a message or comment down below if you want to be tagged in future parts :)

[theperidotshade]

@distressedherbalist, here’s the start of the Blind!Ardyn fic, as promised.  This is the very rough beginning, the scene will be completed when I’m finished with Thanksgiving-related stress.

Kindness Is the Language

Regis could feel his life starting to slip away as Glauca drew back his sword to stab him once more.  He braced himself for the final moment of pain.

It never came.

Regis fell to the floor as a heavy thud echoed behind him, followed by cautious, hurried footsteps and a skittering, clicking noise of some sort.

Darkness settled over Regis as gentle hands framed the wound in his back.

Regis woke to the heavy stench of smoke in the air.  He was lying on a cushioned surface of some sort, wind roaring overhead.  He groaned, his whole body throbbing.

"Rest, Your Majesty," a voice he thought he should recognize said, "We're almost to safety."

Regis let out a long breath, relaxing into the softness beneath him.  He drifted off once more.

Regis woke again. Warmth was spreading through him, easing pain he'd been aware of even in unconsciousness.  He stirred, sighing.  The hands lifting themselves off his back paused.

"Your Majesty?" a particularly distinctive voice asked.  He recognized those tones—but their presence was concerning.  He opened his eyes.

Regis was resting face down on what seemed to be a cheap hotel bed—the pillowcase under his cheek scratched as he shifted his head further to the side to look around, and the smell of hotel laundry detergent was hard to forget.

Sitting in a chair pulled up to his bedside was exactly the person he expected—the Imperial Chancellor, golden eyes unfocused and a furrow etched between red-violet brows.

What Regis had not expected was the man hovering behind him.

Clarus sent him a grin.  "What, old friend, did you think you'd be rid of me so easily?"

Regis gave a helpless laugh, reaching out a hand.  Clarus took it firmly between his own as Izunia rolled his eyes, the motion stretching the scar tissue that covered over half the official's face.

"Do recall that you very nearly were removed to the Beyond permanently by the time I arrived," the Niflheimr said, standing carefully and trailing a hand along the arms and back of the chair to guide himself to the small desk set against the bland eggshell-white wall.  He picked up a glass of water and two pills, which were handed over to Clarus.

Clarus, in turn, set them on the nightstand and leaned forward to help Regis turn over and sit propped against the headboard with a bunch of pillows shoved behind his back.  He offered Regis the glass and pills.

At Regis' questioning look, Clarus explained.  "They're just painkillers.  When he healed me, I was sore for a few hours afterwards, and he was just treating me for the impact with the wall.  You were run through, Regis, and required a phoenix down and two rounds of healing.  It's going to hurt when the effects of his magic wear off."

Regis took the pills, swallowing them down with a few sips of water.  The liquid soothed a dryness in his throat that he hadn't known was bothering him.  He drank some more.

Then the realization hit him as he processed the full extent of Clarus' statements.

Nearly choking on the water, Regis swallowed cautiously, then tried his best to keep the incredulity out of his voice.  "Healing?"

Izunia, moving slowly about the room as he prepared and heated some instant chickatrice broth in the microwave, snorted.  "Yes, healing.  How else would you foolish creatures have survived what Glauca inflicted on you?  I assure you it would have been very unlikely if I'd relied solely on scientific means."

"He calls us foolish," Clarus stage-whispered, "But I saw him warp-strike a magitek armor using his cane.  By hearing alone."

Izunia sniffed.  "When you've lived without sight for two thousand years, then you can tell me what's foolish or not foolish."

Regis blinked, looking between them.  "I…am more confused now than I was when you started speaking."

Izunia sighed, returning to the chair with a mug of broth, which he handed to Regis before sitting.  "It's not the most straightforward of tales, though I would have thought this—" he gestured at his scarred face, "Would have clued you in to my…history with magic."

"Well…yes," Regis said, "But I assumed Niflheim had attempted to recreate the Ring."

"Not an unreasonable assumption," Izunia said, running his fingers lightly over the spiderweb of old burns splayed across his face, "But inaccurate.  These scars were actually inflicted by the Ring."

Regis' eyes widened.  "How?" he asked, stunned.

Izunia smiled sympathetically, patting Regis' knee.  "It's quite simple, really.  I am…well, to put it frankly, older than the kingdom of Lucis.  I held the Ring at its nascence."

Regis blinked, looking to Clarus for confirmation—receiving it in the form of a slow nod.  Huh.  Izunia…might be telling the truth.

"I think perhaps I ought to hear this tale of yours from the beginning," Regis said about two seconds after the silence stretched out into awkwardness.

Izunia settled back in his chair.  "Ah, yes, the beginning.  First, you should know that the Lucis Caelum line dates back to Solheim, a noble family very distantly related to the Imperial bloodline that made its fortune manufacturing airships—hence the name, the House of Heavenly Light.  When Solheim fell, the second son of that House was the only survivor of all his relations.  He salvaged what he could, migrated east to what is now Leide with a group of other survivors, and adopted a lot of the local customs, even translating his family name into the language.  He married a Galahdan woman from one of the nomadic trading clans, and they had a daughter, Mira.  She later changed her name to Regula, and that is where this tale truly begins, with her."

Izunia turned his face away, rubbing the palm of one hand slowly.  "Regula was a political genius, a true prodigy in the art of statecraft.  At the age of nineteen, she began to unite the Solheimr that remained, integrating them into the society of the Lucian natives.  Within ten years, she led the bare beginnings of the nation that became Lucis—within twenty, she was undisputed Queen of the Kingdom of Lucis.  Though we didn't call it that, not until later."

The Chancellor sighed, longing for something indefinable crossing his face.  "Regula had two children with a Lucian noble, the first of whom was born in the very early years of her endeavor, nearly a decade before her younger child.  The second, her son, you are familiar with: Somnus Lucis Caelum, called the Mystic and the Founder King, despite not actually being the founder."

Izunia half-chuckled, shaking his head.  "The first…well, he never cared much for anyone's ideas of what his gender ought to be, so let's just refer to him as her eldest child.  He was naturally gifted with magic, a healer of some renown, whose gifts only ever failed him thrice: first, when he could not save his mother from the accident that took her life; second, when the Starscourge made its way out of Solheim proper to decimate the survivors; and third…we'll get to that later."

Regis, listening closely, felt as though he was on the brink of some astounding realization, if only he could piece it together.  He watched Izunia's fingers pick at a loose thread on the cuff of one of the official's voluminous coat-sleeves.

The Chancellor continued.  "This healer inherited his mother's position of leadership at twenty-five, assuming guardianship of his fifteen-year-old brother at the same time.  It quickly became clear that despite the effectiveness of his quarantine protocols, the Starscourge would, if left unchecked, kill off every human in the entire region.  So the healer took a risk—he bargained with the Astrals for the ability to save his patients from the Scourge."

The loose thread snapped in Izunia's hand.  "Bahamut meddled with the healer's magic, creating three very significant changes—first, he tied the healer to two powerful magical artifacts, granting Regula's eldest child and the entirety of his line the use of other types of magic; second, the King of the Astrals rendered the healer functionally immortal, preventing him from dying of the Scourge he'd be exposed to in the course of healing his patients; and third, and most importantly, Bahamut altered the healer's gift so that he could take the Scourge from his patients—and into himself."

Regis sucked in a breath.  Izunia sent him a strained smile in response.  "I'm certain you can discern the problem with that."

Regis swallowed, throat dry.  Clarus appeared unsurprised by any of this, instead watching Izunia closely…and was that concern in the Shield's eyes?  Oh, oh, Izunia was—

"What happened, then, to the healer?" Regis asked, suspecting he knew what the answer would be.

"I was wearing the Ring when the amount of Scourge-parasites I'd taken in became too much for the Crystal to handle," Izunia said.  He gestured at his face.  "You see the results."

Regis let out a shaky breath, closing his eyes.  That—was about what he'd expected, yes, but it was still unsettling to have one's worldview turned upside down in the span of a few minutes.

"So, your name isn't actually Izunia," Regis said.

"It was my father's surname, but as my mother's heir, I always bore the name of her House."

"Ardyn Lucis Caelum."

"Exactly."

There was a moment of strained silence in which Regis tried to process everything he just heard.  The mug of broth in his hands grew steadily colder.

"I am so glad you told me this beforehand," Clarus addressed the Chancellor.  "I can enjoy the look on his face without dealing with my own shock."

Regis scowled at his friend, who just grinned in response.

The Chancellor laughed, but the subtle signs of strain still remained in his voice and the set of his shoulders.

"Well," the ancient immortal said, "I suppose I'll have to live with the disappointment of not seeing either of your expressions for myself, especially since the rest of my tale will have to wait.  I need to check in with my secretary before they think they need to start searching for alternate employment.  Excuse me, Your Majesty, Lord Amicitia."  He stood, retrieving his cane from its leaning position against the nightstand, and pulling his phone out of his coat pocket.  He approached the door, cane tucked under his arm and reaching out to feel his way down the door to first the deadbolt and then the knob.

Regis cleared his throat.

The Chancellor's head cocked, the official pausing with his hand trailing down to rest on the doorknob.

"What do I call you?" Regis asked.

The Chancellor turned his head in Regis' direction with a faint smile.  "Call me 'Ardyn,'" he said, "And don't think your lack of sipping that broth has escaped my notice.  You'll need to stick to liquids until your insides re-accustom themselves to being whole.  Do try to consume some of it before I return, yes?"

Ardyn opened the door, slipping out into the hallway.  The door shut firmly behind him, and a moment later the scrape and click of a cane dragging along carpet was heard.

Regis turned to Clarus, taking the healer's advice and sipping the lukewarm broth.  It didn't have the most pleasant of flavors, but it was comforting and eased the empty feeling in his stomach a little.

Clarus, noticing Regis' questioning look, came to sit in the chair Ardyn had vacated.

"So," he said, "I guess we have a lot to discuss."

Regis sipped the broth again, savoring the way it slid down his throat.  "Do you trust him?"

Clarus hummed, settling back into the chair.  "With our lives?  Yes, he seems to need us alive, for now.  With our best interests?  I don't yet have enough observations to hazard a guess.  With Lucis?  I couldn't even begin to tell you."

Regis nodded.  "So we remain on our guard, and hope for the best."

They exchanged grim smiles.

"What happened, exactly?" Regis asked.  "I sent the Ring with Lady Lunafreya and Glaive Ulric, but I do not know what happened after Glauca stabbed me."

"Ran you through, you mean," Clarus said with a reproving glare.  "I don't know all of it, but after Glauca missed me with the sword, I blacked out for a moment and came to around the time Ravus Nox Fleuret started screaming.  Right after you fled into the elevator with the Oracle and Ulric, the Chancellor came in.  Glauca was caught off-guard, I think, because he started arguing with Ardyn.  I don't think he was supposed to even be in the city, let alone in the thick of things.  They only stopped when Ravus pointed out you were getting away."

Clarus ran a hand over his head.  "Glauca took off after you, and Ardyn came right over to me.  He was wearing these magitek goggles with a matching earpiece that were narrating his surroundings, I think, because he got over the corpses everywhere with no trouble.  He knelt next to me and only paused to ask my permission to treat my wounds.  I didn't think he could do much for me, but the next thing I knew, his hands were glowing and I started to feel a whole lot less like I'd just been flung into a wall."

Regis hummed thoughtfully, sipping more broth.  "Was it at all similar to an Oracle's method of healing?"  That could have interesting implications for the application of Regis' ancestral magic…

Clarus shot him a look of fond exasperation.  'You utter nerd,' the expression seemed to imply.

"Do you want to hear the rest or not?" Clarus asked.

Regis sighed.  "Fine.  Go on."

Clarus shook his head, but continued.  "Ardyn told me to stay put while the magic settled, that he was going to see whether you'd managed to escape.  Around the time I was able to stand, he came back in a hurry, his hands streaked with blood.  He told me you'd been injured, and asked me to carry you to his car so we could all get out of the city.  Naturally, I followed him down to where you were lying next to Glauca's corpse, and we got out of there as fast as we could.  I'm about ninety percent certain he killed Glauca himself, though I'm not sure how and he's been his usual level of eloquent-while-saying-absolutely-nothing-of-substance about it."

Regis thought over those last few minutes before he blacked out and nodded.  "Oh, he did, I'm certain of it.  Glauca was about to stab me again, and then I fell to the ground because Glauca had fallen too.  The last thing I heard before I lost consciousness was that cane of his."  He paused.  "Wait, did you say he had a car?"

"That's what you latched onto?" Clarus asked, amused.  "Yes, Ardyn has a car.  He doesn't drive it himself, apparently—has his secretary do it, mostly, or badgers the Nox Fleuret boy into chauffeuring him around.  I drove us out of the city while he kept a watch on your vitals.  He's got a ton of medical degrees, he said, in addition to the magical healing powers.  Those he told me about while we put some distance between us and anyone who might have followed.  As long as I kept my face covered, the Nifs would let us right through the blockades—they know his car, it's pretty distinctive."

Regis laughed.  "Is it anything like his clothes?"

"Worse," Clarus said, "The clothes were what he wore back when he could see, according to him, and he just had them recreated in a bunch of different colors and materials every time he needed new ones.  The car, he had someone come with him to rate how much each option stood out in a crowd, and chose the one they said was most eye-catching.  That was the point, supposedly, because he needs to describe the car to whoever is going to be driving him around."

"Sensible," Regis said, smirking.

Clarus grinned back.  "I'm certain that's not the whole reason, though I couldn't get him to admit it.  I think he just likes people's reactions to his being outrageous."

"Seems likely," Regis replied, "Did you happen—"

A tap at the door interrupted him.  Clarus stood and walked over to the door to look out the peephole.

He gasped, reaching for the doorknob with what Regis thought might be…eagerness?

The door swung open.

There, standing in the entryway looking tired and like he was going to have a nervous breakdown any minute, stood Cor.

Regis stared, mouth opening and closing helplessly for a moment.  How in the name of the Six had Cor managed to find them?

"Well," Cor said, "Aren't you going to let me in?"

Clarus crossed his arms.  "Not until I know for sure it's you."

"Fair enough," Cor replied, pulling out his phone to show Clarus something on its screen.

Clarus raised an eyebrow, but nodded, and stepped aside to let their friend pass.  He shut the door firmly behind him.

Cor strode straight to Regis' side and knelt by the bed.  He said nothing, but took one of Regis' hands in both of his own, pressing his forehead to it.

Regis gently rested his other hand atop Cor's head.  "I am glad to see you again, my friend."

Cor raised his head, causing Regis' hand to slide off awkwardly.

"Your Majesty," he said, "I mean this with the highest degree of respect, but what the hell were you thinking?!?"

Clarus snorted, covering his mouth with his hand.

Regis glared at his Shield, then turned his irked gaze on Cor.  "I was hardly in a position to act otherwise.  The treaty—"

Cor rolled his eyes.  "Not that.  What's this I hear from Ulric about you taking on Glauca alone?"

Regis snapped his mouth shut.  Ulric?  Ulric made it out…Lunafreya and the Ring were safe.  Thank the Six.

Cor sighed.  "Look, I know why you did it, but if what I hear from Ardyn is true, you would have bought them very little time at all.  The reports I've been getting seem to confirm that most of the Glaives who survived the initial attack were traitors, Ulric the most obvious exception.  He says Ostium's on the up-and-up, but pretty much everyone else who was loyal?  Dead.  The rest would have been in pursuit of Ulric and the Oracle, with all the resources of the Glaive to aid them."

Regis shook his head.  "I suspected.  But I could not have kept up, not in the state I was in, and it seemed the only way to give them a chance."  He paused, reviewing Cor's words.  Had he said…?

"Cor," Regis began, slowly drawing out his friend's name, "Why exactly are you on given-name terms with the Chancellor of Niflheim?"

Clarus stiffened, eyeing them warily, ready to spring into action.

Cor smirked.  "He's not just the Chancellor.  But that wasn't what you were asking.  Remember the anonymous source that's been passing intel on to us for years, the one that will only contact me?"

Regis blinked.  "Are you saying…"  From the corner of his eye, he could see Clarus relax slightly as the implications hit him.

Cor nodded.  "I've known him for—decades, really.  Ardyn was the one to patch me up after I dragged myself out of Taelpar.  His situation's complicated, but he's not in Niflheim entirely voluntarily."  He shook his head.  "It's not my story to tell.  But after he delivered the treaty terms, he confirmed that Niflheim was up to something, and that he intended to act as soon as he could to do damage control.  We were going to meet here no matter what happened to touch-base, and I knew by the absence of his usual drivers that he'd succeeded in getting someone out."

[homemadesterekpie]

Waiting

Submitted and written by @jessicalangeslefttit 

Author’s Note: Canon typical violence, poor coping mechanisms, and questionable wildlife control practices on the part of the state of New York.

Somewhere in New York, a jet black wolf sits atop a lonely dirt patch under a towering pine tree. It doesn’t bother anyone, and none of the locals dare disturbed the huge, ruby-eyed beast. The wolf will growl at anyone who passes too close, but gives no pursuit. It just appeared there one day, out of the blue, on top of a pile of fresh dug earth. The wolf has tread around the path so much it’s worn a groove into the dirt where grass does not grow. No one knows why it’s there, and just what is in the earth that it guards so jealously.

+

Blood. Derek remembers blood, so much of it. The stuttering final beats of his beloved’s heart, the feeling of the pack bond unraveling and snapping as the breath left Stiles for the final time. There wasn’t even time to say goodbye. They had tracked a series of brutal killings in the southern Adirondack Mountains to a werewolf, and had come to dispatch the creature. Instead, he caught the drop on them, seizing Stiles and pressing his talons to his neck. The rogue alpha’s claws cut so deep Derek could hear them scrape along Stiles’ vertebrae. He was unconscious instantly, and gone in a few seconds. He doesn’t remember killing the alpha, but he must have, because he is an alpha once more.

Stiles never went cold. His heart did not beat, and he drew no breath, but he did not cool. What little blood was left in his body did not pool at the lower extremities, nor did he grow even paler. As the hours passed and Derek lay over the corpse in a trance of unthinking agony, rigor mortis did not set in. When the sun rose over the horrid scene, and Stiles still did not stink of death, he knew.

Derek only slips away in the dead of night, shifting only long enough to rush to where the Camaro is hidden in the underbrush, and place a phone call to John Stilinski, who, as far as he is aware, Stiles is only comatose, healing. Which isn’t an inaccurate statement, per se, but the damage was deep. It could take weeks, even months for the transformation to heal the deep claw marks that have shredded his trachea.

So Derek waits. He waits, day and night, rain and shine, summer and snow, under the tree where he commended Stiles to the earth to heal. He waits so long he forgets what he is waiting for. He forgets everything. He does not remember his name, or any other. He does not know what a name is. He only knows that he must defend that plot of dirt and what is below it for as long as it takes. There is a sense of anticipation deep in his hindbrain, but he cannot ascribe it to anything.

Just waiting.

+

Lydia knows it must be him. It’s been months since they heard from Derek, and reports of the strange wolf of Moreau, New York are catching supernatural ears. She books a flight from San Francisco to Albany in April, and lands on a cool, overcast day. John called in a favor and got her rental car, so she drives up the Northway to the correct exit, and finds herself on a lonely dirt road in the forest, parked outside a log cabin.

“It’s not far from here, just a few feet off of a trail.” The local man tells her. “I’d be careful, though. Thing’s gotten more territorial over that dirt lately.”

Lydia nods, thanking him. “I specialize in wolves, but I’ll be sure to be careful.”

The red headed woman walks into the lush forest, following the trail to a towering white pine, where she catches sight of the wolf. Derek, no doubt. He looks up at her approach, flattening his ears to his head, but baring no teeth.

“Derek? Derek, sweetie, it’s me. It’s Lydia.” She tries, holding out a hand to sniff.

The werewolf gives a lone inhalation to her offered limb, before snarling at her. He doesn’t recognize her. Lydia mentally curses, but she prepared for this eventuality. In a ziploc bag, she stuffed a flannel of Stiles’ she’d found buried so deep in a mountain of clothes that it had smelled of Stiles even to her weak nose, so many months after he’d last been in his own bedroom.

Removing the flannel, she holds it out, letting the curious wolf smell it. Immediately, Derek jumps up, yelping and whining, spinning in circles atop the bare dirt. Suddenly, the wolf’s spine seems to snap, deforming. Derek is unceremoniously ripped out of the full shift, and stands in the foggy forest bare nude, with a feral look in his eyes. When his own orbs lock with Lydia’s, she can watch as he processes and remembers.

“Derek.” She says. “Where is he?”

He nods solemnly to the lonely little grave. “The alpha… he- he turned him. The hard way, the way that takes time. Like her.”

Derek cannot bring himself to say it. The alpha murdered Stiles, but left him in a state between life and death, slowly transforming into one of them. Lydia pieces it together quickly enough, and furrows her brow.

“It only took a few weeks with Ka-”

She is cut off by Derek’s snarl. “Don’t say her name.”

“She only took a few weeks. It’s been almost a year, Derek. Are you certain?” Lydia asks, laying a hand on his bicep.

“I know it. He wasn’t even cool, all those hours later. He has to be.” The werewolf insists.

She bores into his eyes with her own, sizing him up, before nodding. “Three more months. After that, you come home, and so does he.”

“Okay.”

+

The wolf seems more frantic. It guards more closely than ever before, barely straying from its post. April becomes May, May becomes June, June transitions into a blazing hot July. Even when the thermometer hits a hundred, the enormous canine waits, panting into the humid air. Derek prays, the memory of Lydia’s words ringing in his ears even louder with each day that ticks by. He wants nothing more than to forget, but he cannot. He can only be more aware of the passage of time and the approach of the deadline.

The record-breaking heat wave ends with a long overdue rainstorm, the kind that seems to awaken the world from its heated delirium. As raindrops patter on his slick black fur, Derek listens and waits, hoping against hope for a miracle. Then, he hears it. Perhaps it was a heavy raindrop catching his ear just right, perhaps a tree fell and rattled the earth. But, the second time around, there is no denying it, what’s happening in the dirt below his feet.

There is a heartbeat, soft but vibrant, coming from below his feet.