#So nowhere near done with the shawl

[kaiyonohime]

Look at all the lovely leaves growing from my needles! Got a solid three hours of knitting time this weekend and am nearly at row seventy!

Next weekend I should get a ton more knit as my husband is taking the tiny tot to a marathon to cheer. Although I do need to put the second hank on the swift to wind, I'm hoping to get that done some time this week. Tiny tot has started sleeping well when put down at night, so that does free up an hour or two. Though I've been using that time for getting things done for work. A nursery school teacher's job is never done.

[when-pigsfly]

WITCHING HOUR [EXCERPT]— 18+

MINORS DNI! NUH UH!

fem!reader x arthur morgan

summary: most people in the area had issues with coyotes. yours wore a cowboy hat, but you let him in anyways.

a/n: putting off several papers to write out a dream i had about Arthur’s hat was NOT what i had on my bingo card. but who am i to deny the late night hornies? no hornies in this excerpt, though. but soon, very soon…

(i’m 5k in and nowhere near close to the end, plz pray that i get this done before it consumes me)

Arthur Morgan was a sly kind of handsome; the kind that mothers knowingly ushered their daughters away from, and the kind that the fathers of said daughters would brandish their guns against. But the crux of the matter was this: the mothers almost always had heated glances to spare, and even the fathers were envious of a man cunning enough to run circles around the authorities for as long as he had.

Which is exactly why, when he shows up on your front porch one late winter night, you take up the hefty mantle of digging your loaded barrel right into his sternum.

He raises his hands in mock surrender and cracks a rakish smile, bright as the moon peeking out from behind the top of his hat. There’s a rich blue winter coat that hangs open; a little odd, but people have made do with less. His black bandana is scrunched up around his neck instead of around his face this time—and you note with a squint that he looks a bit less like an outlaw, and a little more like a fumbling idiot.

Still, Morgan cut quite the figure when he wasn’t sneaking chicken eggs from your coop. You try and hold fast to the promise you’d made to yourself only a short while ago, catch him, catch him, catch him. But if the agitated shifting of the muzzle against his chest is any indication, you’d been doomed from the start.

The moonlight isn’t doing your resolve any favors either: it drapes itself over the smooth arc of his shoulders, caresses a strong jaw shrouded in long-forgotten stubble, kisses burning blue eyes that look as close to bashful as you’d ever seen them. There’s something else in there, too. Lurking deep beneath the blue and wading through the slight dilation of his pupils. It urges him closer—or is it you?—like the distance between the two of you isn’t sustained by the twitchy arms of a woman holding a rifle.

But there’s an abrupt breeze that fiddles with the cotton threads of your chemise, and you’re suddenly struck with the realization that no, your hunting rifle isn’t loaded, and you’re a tad overexposed. In your haste to get to the door of your cabin, you’d forgone the shawl and left your boots still haphazardly strewn in the doorway. But it’d do you no good to show your hand this early. So like the hiss of a rattlesnake, you keep your voice low, and you keep it lethal.

“You’ve got ten seconds to convince me not to unload this lead right into your chest, Morgan.”

[jungle-angel]

The Night Singer (Rhett Abbott x Reader)

Summary: Rhett could never imagine what real magic was like until he was awoken by the sound of your voice on a summer night

Rhett had always had trouble sleeping during the summer despite the house remaining consistently cool with the mini-splits you had put all over the place. Perhaps it had been the days leading up to the full moon when everyone and their mother became easily agitated or the heat which had been particularly bad the last few weeks. Whatever it had been, it had put him into a state that made him restless and unable to sleep. 

When he blinked his eyes open, the light of the full moon spilled into the bedroom he shared with you, but you were nowhere to be found. The covers had been pulled back, the indent of your form still in the mattress where you always slept.....right next to him.

Something didn’t quite feel right. Rhett made his way down the hall to where Amy’s bedroom was but the two year old was nowhere to be found. Rhett felt his heart jump in his chest. The unlikely had begun to race through his mind, thinking that Perry had somehow broken in and taken the both of you, but no. The doors and windows were always and thoroughly locked at night. 

He grabbed his cowboy hat and a white t-shirt off the bedpost and left the house, sneaking out the kitchen door so as not to wake the dogs. The moon above was full and huge, illuminating the land in a soft, silver-white glow while the grass rippled with the hot summer wind. Rhett looked up to see the stars all flecked across the skies like silver dust while the sky itself was a deep, dark blue velvet. 

A sound had suddenly reached his ears, quiet at first and so faint that he could hardly hear it. Rhett followed it, listening between the incessant chirping of the crickets and frogs coming from the pond while the humidity made the hackles on the back of his neck and the hairs on his arms stand straight up. It grew louder as he wandered through the groves of gardenia, forget-me-not and other pale blue and white flowers you had planted near the house. Closer and closer he came, the singing having grown louder and louder until he reached the spot in the garden that was your favorite place of all. 

The Fairy Ring. 

Rhett, Royal and Wes had planted the huge ring of lilac hedges shortly after you and Rhett had gotten married. Rhett never minded them in the least although he could have done without the frequent allergy attacks in the spring. Yet he loved the smell, one he had always associated with you. 

He could hear your voice, clear as day coming from inside the ring where the flowers were in full bloom with their pale, soft purple blossoms. The soft strum of the lyre you had made in the woodshed filled the night air along with Amy’s little giggles. You looked like a dream in your white satin and lace slip and your stringy white crochet shawl, your fingers plucking away at the strings while Amy crouched in the grass near your flat topped rock, her little baby voice singing along with yours to the same song you and Rhett had sung to her when she was first born. 

“Edelweiss, edelweiss Every morning you greet me Small and white, clean and bright You look happy to meet me Blossom of snow, may you bloom and grow Bloom and grow forever Edelweiss, edelweiss Bless my homeland forever”

Rhett felt himself getting teary-eyed when he heard that song. His grandmother, Heidi, had always used to sing of that beautiful little flower that grew high in the mountains of her homeland, bringing them to Wabang when she had left Switzerland during the war and had married Rhett’s Irish grandfather. He could still hear Oma Heidi’s voice in yours, wishing she could be here to rock Amy to sleep and to sing to her the way that she used to when Rhett was a baby. 

“Edelweiss, edelweiss Every morning you greet me Small and white, clean and bright You look happy to meet me Blossom of snow, may you bloom and grow Bloom and grow forever Edelweiss, edelweiss Bless my homeland forever”

You smiled and turned to find Rhett entering the fairy ring, his voice joining yours. You noticed the tears starting to form in his eyes as he tipped his hat upwards and pressed a gentle kiss to your lips. 

“Did I ever tell you how beautiful your voice is darlin?” he asked. 

“Once or twice,” you chuckled. 

Rhett leaned in for another kiss, the tears dripping from his eyes onto both your cheeks. “What’s wrong Rhett?” you asked.

“Oma used to sing that to me all the time,” he croaked. “Grew’em in her garden and everything when she came to the states.” 

“Oh sweetie,” you cooed, brushing a shiny tear from his cheek. 

Rhett laughed a little bit, unable to control it from slipping out. He sat with you on the rock, watching Amy play in the moonlight while the two of you sang together, making the heat of a summer night just a little bit more bearable. 

[apocalypticavolition]

Let's (re)Read The Eye of the World! Chapter 10: Leavetaking

I feel like saying "Hello" at the start of these is silly, but I don't know what else to do to start up each section of this reread! This reread is filled with more spoilers than a Cliff's Notes Omnibus, so if you're trying to avoid them you should avoid this post too. Run away like the gang is skipping town!

This chapter has Moiraine's staff for its icon and I think it's just because she's taking charge of everyone's fates now, or trying to. The Wheel's gonna weave though, whether she likes it or not.

“I looked,” Perrin replied. “There’s nobody here but us. Why would anybody hide—”

Why would anybody try to destroy your hometown, Perrin? I think people think you're slow because of stupid questions like this.

Rand thought about flourishing the sword, but Lan being there stopped him. The Warder was not even looking in his direction, but he was sure the man was aware of everything that went on around him.

Rand's constant need for Lan's approval in all things is wonderful and I'm going to point it out every time it happens. If you don't like it, join the people afraid of spoilers.

“Master Luhhan made it about two years ago, for a wool-buyer’s guard. But when it was done the fellow wouldn’t pay what he had agreed, and Master Luhhan would not take less. He gave it to me when”—he cleared his throat, then shot Rand the same warning frown he’d given Mat—“when he found me practicing with it. He said I might as well have it since he couldn’t make anything useful from it.”

A DIscord buddy of mine said that Perrin is basically what happens when King Arthur grows up next to Crystal Dragon Jesus, and boy is he desperate to prove it, since he also has a weapon inherited from a father figure but it's nowhere near as cool as Rand's Bladed Certificate of Badassery.

Anything can be a weapon, if the man or woman who holds it has the nerve and will to make it so.

Lan, meanwhile, once accepted a challenge to defeat a rampaging Trolloc army by using all the items in an abandoned Borderlander farm once each. Kind of a shame that we end up sticking mostly to traditional weapons and magic as the series goes on; stuff like Rand boiling the Trolloc with the kettle always has an extra fun element.

“We left notes,” Mat said. “For our families. They’ll find them in the morning. Rand, my mother thinks Tar Valon is the next thing to Shayol Ghul.” He gave a little laugh to show he did not share her opinion. It was not very convincing. “She’d try to lock me in the cellar if she believed I was even thinking of going there.”

Frankly Mat, I think that as long as you weren't being dragged off in irons, your mother would be quite happy to have you out of the house for a few months to grow up and not cause trouble.

Also, it's really weird that Perrin only mentions the Luhhans and not his own family. I'm aware that as Perrin is an apprentice he needs his teacher's approval to do things, but you'd think his parents would have a problem with this too. I hope Perrin actually left them a note too instead of just Luhahan; it would really suck if he missed this opportunity to say goodbye what with their imminent demise.

“Not without me.” Egwene slipped into the stable, a shawl-wrapped bundle in her arms. Rand nearly fell over his own feet.

One of my favorite things about the story is that our young lady is jumping at the chance for adventure and taking every opportunity to get while our young gents are being painfully dragged towards their doom. Egwene's not a ta'veren because the Pattern doesn't need to drag her around by the heels like it does with the layabouts; she's probably already planning on becoming Amyriln and she doesn't even know she can channel yet.

Do you think you three are the only ones who want to see what’s outside? I’ve dreamed about it as long as you have, and I don’t intend to miss this chance.

Sadly though, she does have a tendency to project. Absolutely none of the boys are leaving out of curiosity about the outside world; camping trips to the mountains are as far as they're interested in going.

A startled expression darted across Lan’s face. It was gone in an instant, leaving him outwardly calm, but furious words erupted from him. “No, Moiraine!”

It may seem a bit strange for stoic Lan to be having this outburst, but I stand by my fake dialogue from several chapters ago: dude is (rightly) convinced that Rand is the real deal and (wrongly) convinced that the others are just a waste of time. Now Moiraine's not even adding plausible candidates to their entourage, and who gets to hide all of their tracks? Lan. Dude might be loving the idea of becoming the Dragon Reborn's personal sword sensei, but babysitting the rest of these idiots is making him long to just go die in the Blight like he was going to twenty years ago.

“That will not be possible,” came Thom Merrilin’s resonant voice from the hayloft. Lan’s sword left its sheath this time, and he did not put it back as he stared up at the gleeman.

If this chapter was from Lan's POV, this is the point where his internal monologue would be lots of funny Borderland swears. And jeez Perrin, you "didn't think" of looking in the loft? That's like the most obvious hiding place!

Thom put his feet on the stable floor and turned from the ladder, brushing straw from his patch-covered cloak. “In fact,” he said in more normal tones, “you might say that I insist on traveling in company. I have given many hours over many mugs of ale to thinking of how I might end my days. A Trolloc’s cookpot was not one of the thoughts.”

Also, Thom may be using the Trollocs and lure of Tar Valon (not quoted but mentioned earlier) as excuses, but they're both BS. He knows damn well that he's not a target and that Moiraine's party is, so joining them only increases his risk. Further, he has no reason to go to Tar Valon unless he's ready to die by trying to off whatever Red Ajah witches killed his nephew, and right now he doesn't even know their names. He's just worried that one of the boys - all of the boys - might have the ability to channel and that they're being led to their doom, and he's willing to put up with a lot to save them if that's the case. Nobody in this stable is a paragon of morality, but they all have the hearts of heroes. As far as I'm concerned, all of them EXCEPT Mat (who doesn't wanna be) are bound to the Horn and this is just one hell of a crossover episode.

“Bela,” Rand said, getting a look from Lan that made him wish he had kept silent. But he knew he could not dissuade Egwene; the only thing left was to help.

Speaking of good hearts, I love the way that the EF5 are almost incapable of getting along but will still assist each other at nearly every opportunity.

The only horse left riderless was Cloud, a tall gray with a black mane and tail that belonged to Jon Thane, or had. 

Rand started this story with Bela and now that he's realized he's eight or nine years overdue for a properly mid-life crisis, he's traded her in for a racing model. Boy is gonna go through a lot of horses before this is over. Current horse count: 2

(There is no way I will remember this count by the time we get to the third horse, let alone the finale.)

“Wolves!” Perrin exclaimed, and the Warder favored him with a flat stare.

Foreshadowing! Boy deserves some since he hasn't really had much yet.

“Two Dha’vol Trollocs would have them all for breakfast,” Lan muttered when the sound of their boots had faded, “but they have eyes and ears.” He turned his stallion back. “Come.”

We don't know much about the Trolloc bands, but we can probably gather from this that the Dha'vols (guess the etymology!) are some of the least threatening.

Rand peered at the high-peaked houses in the dark, trying to impress them on his memory. A fine adventurer I am, he thought. He was not even out of the village yet, and already he was homesick. But he did not stop looking.

Don't be too hard on yourself, Rand. You're not coming back, not in this lifetime, and maybe even not in the next. Also your home is several miles away so you're further off than all the others.

A black shape flew slowly across the silvery ball of the moon. Rand’s involuntary jerk on the reins halted the gray. A bat, he thought weakly, but he knew it was not.

Meet the draghkar. I'm not quite certain where their name comes from (it seems to be a dragon variant), but they're pretty obviously (suc/in)cubi with hints of siren or vampire. Like the other variants of Shadowspawn seen thus far, draghkar are made from human beings, which makes me wonder: is there some sort of Fade equivalent to them, like what Trollocs have? Or is the genetic manipulation severe enough that the channeler gene doesn't exist in them, so no such throwbacks occur? Both options are frightening in different ways.

Also note that despite being potentially really effective threats against our heroes (one almost takes out Moiraine in book two after all), they pretty much drop off the face of the earth after book five or so. Sanderson brings them back for the Last Battle though, but sadly not in a way that really lets them shine. It might have just been too hard for either author to keep coming up with organic ways to include them that didn't end too much like previous encounters or with the readers going, "Yeah that person should be dead now." Or maybe the gholam ended up filling the same sort of niche too well.

It was Thom Merrilin who answered her hoarsely. “In the war that ended the Age of Legends, worse than Trollocs and Halfmen were created.” Moiraine’s head jerked toward him as he spoke. Not even the dark could hide the sharpness of her look.

Moiraine was born eons too late-early to watch Star Trek: The Next Generation, but if she could see it, like me she would absolutely hate it when Picard asks the away team what's happening and Riker answers, "Trouble" or something else that is only an answer in the most useless sense of the word. She really doesn't appreciate it coming from someone who knows they need to be quiet and whose contributions are doing nothing but scaring the children she's trying to kidnap. Thom, meanwhile, really doesn't appreciate it when women are Aes Sedai in his presence. Naturally, Jordan thinks they're soul mates.

But that's an unsatisfying romance for another book, and we're closing out another chapter, bringing us closer to the somewhat unsatisfying romance in this book! Next time: The Road to Taren Ferry!

[criticallyacclaimedstranger]

28 & 79 for the fic writing asks.

Rachel, my dear, thank you!

28. What area of writing do you want to improve in?

Make words better. I'd like a richer vocabulary. I'd like to not mess up my prepositions all the time (it's my first two languages that do that, but thank goodness for F7 in MS Word). I have to practice on the showing, not telling. I realize now that these are several areas, but I guess they're all related to the language aspect. I don't have a problem with my (non-existing) plots, but I'd like to just improve overall on language and grammar.

79. Do you have any writing advice you want to share?

Unpopular opinion: I do believe there is such a thing as writer's block, but I also thin that it's nowhere near as common as people on Tumblr make it sound. Problem with writing is that it's so surrounded by all these myths and romantic notions. Writing is A JOB. It's HARD WORK. You just don't sit in your perfect little attic with an English garden outside your window, sip tea from a huge mug that your neighbour made, with your big crocheted shawl around your shoulders, and just write away with plots and words and ideas just tumbling out of you. I mean, if this is you: congratulations. But most writing is just sitting down and grinding, grinding, grinding. I've said it before and I'll say it again: writing a dissertation was the best writing practice I had, because I learned that if you really, truly want to finish this work, you have to sit down and write. You can't wait for inspiration. You can't wait for words to magically appear. You have to WRITE. The next day, you may have to revise everything, but guess what? It's a process. It's difficult. It's sometimes very easy and often so, so satisfying.

The big problem for most of us is that this is fanfiction. The majority of us isn't getting paid for it, reader engagement is down which means we don't get as much feedback as we'd like, we have real life shit going on which impacts writing time. So it's not as easy as just sitting down for an entire day and making yourself write.

Before this answer draws on any longer, I'll summarize:

Ask yourself: Do I want to write or do I just feel like I should? If the answer is no, I actually don't want to write, that's totally fine! Don't write. Go do something else.

If the answer is yes, then you decide how much time you have, and how much you want to write. Do you write for 15 minutes straight, or do you want to finish this scene, or do you aim for a specific word count?

Write. If all that comes out on the screen is cock and endless balls, no worries. You wrote. You can revise tomorrow. Well done! You're a writer!

[spaghettibaseddreams]

What remains of family Hwang part 1

a stray kids fanfiction inspired by the game "What remains of Edith Finch"

Description: Chan is a producer living in Melbourne that's currently suffering from a serious case of writers block. He stumbles upon an antique shop where he finds a journal and a key, these two objects send him off on a trip where he learns the unfortunate history of family Hwang.

(Readers can insert themselves as the character "Jin" who isn't decribed physically and are referred to by they/them pronouns, also I'm sorry for any grammar mistakes that I am bound to make.)

Chan would describe himself as quite a hardworker, he doesn't like procrastinating and wants to get things done days ahead so he doesn't have to worry about them later.

He's also quite good at what he does if he may so humbly add, so why in the name of god can he not come up with this beat? Sure he had started a few times but those were scrapped so fast since they felt so half-assed and Chan knows he can do better than that. The man swears that he can actively feel grey hairs appearing, not that they would be there for long since at this point he is so close to ripping it all off of his scalp.

"All right, enough!" He yells out in defeat, his voice ringing througout the walls of his home studio. He gets up from his shackles in the disguise of a comforting chair and stomps on out of the room, any longer in there and he might just stress cry and once he gets to that point his label can forget about the song.

He decides to have a nice, relaxing walk through the city, breathe in some of that totally fresh air. The sun shines brightly and very unwelcomingly for people whose wardrobe consists of various shades of black like Chans, curse him for thinking that nature would be kind to him. After strolling about for some time it starts to get way to hot to function and Chan is nowhere near his home, in search for his precious a/c he spots an antique shop which he deems good enough for his safe spot.

ringing of a bell sounds throughout the small shop signaling whoever works here that a customer has entered. The place is cluttered with dusty trinkets that vary in sizes, some shiny, some rusty, some a bit cracked and broken, all of them worn out by time.

While it all looks so messy and the dust is starting to tickle chan's nose, in some strange way he finds it comforting. What stories do these objects hold? What were the people that owned them like? How did their things end up here and would they be happy with it?

As he wonders all of this, walking around the shop he locks eyes with a book and a key next to it. Coming closer he reads whats written on the covers, "Hwang Jin".

"That's who the journal belonged to."

Chan jumps at the frail voice coming from behind him, his eyes meet a pair of dark glassy ones. "Hello dear, I'm Jasmir. Me and my husband own this lovely shop, if you need any help or questions please do ask."

The woman smiling up at him is an older lady with wrinkled tan skin and greyed hair covered with a shawl. Chan returns the smile and asks about the journal, "it was given away alongside that key by who we assume is a relative of the author, It's not exactly an antique but we still decided to keep it."

Returning his eyes back at the book he takes it into his hands, draging his thumb along the leather binder and rereading the name of the previous owner before taking a look at the key.

He thinks for a moment before nodding and turning towards Jasmir. "I'd like to buy the journal and the key."

after that transaction he heads home, this might help him with his writers block and even if it doesn't it should still be interesting to read traces of another persons life.

Once inside his home he sits at the sofa secured in his living room, setting the key at the coffee table and opening up the journal.

The first page starts with a dedication: "to my dear little brother Jeongin, remember you're not alone and that the people I've written about in this book are watching over you."

Small doodles can be spotted in the right corner of the page bringing a smile onto Chans face as he continues, flipping onto the next and being met with a family tree spanning throughout the two pages.

"The Hwangs"

Small portraits expand along the branches together with names and years that they were all born and died at, all except the two at the very top.

Jin  1985 - 2007

Jeongin  1990 -

This intrigued Chan, what happened to those two? Jin seems to have a death date but why was it scribbled over? And Jeongin could still be alive and well, how interesting.

Chan was stuck on this page for a while thinking of all the possibilities while also taking in the other family members, some of them died quite young. All of those faces smiling at him, drawn or not started to creep him out a little bit so he went to the next page.

On the right page there was text and on the left a detailed drawing of a big house, it appears as if they just kept building up giving the house an unsafe looking tower. Under the drawing was an adress, prompting Chan to get his laptop and search it.

it came up on google with pictures of the actual house which greatly resembled the drawing found in the journal, with the photos along came news articles on the family that lived there. Yet again he was met with the same family name "Hwang" as if haunting him, his eyes still stuck on the photos of the house.

it's located on French Island and no one currently lives there, last person that did was an old man named Hyunjin in the year 2000. After him it was abandoned, some people want it to be taken down since it's scaring children and tourists and they deem it unsafe, just waiting for it to fall apart.

There are also some other people that want it to stay untouched, claiming that the family which once lived there and the house itself mean a lot to them. While eccentric they were friends, they were welcoming and a big part of the community, without the house it wouldn't be the same and the memories it holds would be teared down as well.

Now a sane person after learning everything he just did would think "neat" and move on, but chan is currently not feeling all too sane and is instead finding milions of excuses as to why is would be a good idea to go there.

Like how he works from home so he doesn't need to worry about missing his work, or how this could possibly ressurect him from his mind numbing writers block.

And so he decides that, yes. He should totaly go to that house and posibly commit breaking and entering… Chan shakes his head at that thought. "it's not breaking and entering, I have the key."

With his head spinning in thought, Chan packs his duffel bag as if he's going on a lovely little camping trip and not losing his mind. Which he's not! Chan is just fine and only doing research on a very unique Korean-Australian family, his parents would be proud of their child for taking interest in something like that if they knew what he was up to. Totally.

And once he's ready, Chan gets behind the wheel of his rustic car and mentally prepares himself for a two and a half hour drive... "This is fine, it's for research." he reasures the angels on his shoulder, before the little demons fully take over.

The end, for now

next chapter

That's it for the first chapter, a bit short I know but they should get longer as we get more into the story. All in all I'm happy with his it came out, I hope you've enjoyed it too.

Also fun fact Christopher is the name of Edith jr's son (Edith is the main character in the game)

[otterknits]

My local yarn store is closing next month - the downsides of living in a small college town with low wages, a city council hell-bent on eliminating growth if not reversing it outright, and multiple Big Box acrylic-dominated stores targeting/wooing away the general crafts audience

I am gonna go SO BROKE at the clearance sale this weekend >___<”

[lubdubsworld]

⋆⋆✵ Perfect Imperfections ✵⋆⋆

Chapter 1

Genre : Arranged Marriage AU! Angst! Explicit Sexual Content.

Rating : 21+

Warnings : Ableism , Chronic disability. OC has limited use of her left leg, Emotional infidelity? Mild Cheating ( nothing very physical.. a kiss or so )

Summary : Marrying Jungkook is a mistake. Falling in love with him? Definitely the worst exercise in masochism .

~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter 2

No one tells you how easy it is to imagine yourself in love with a beautiful man. Especially when you don’t have a clear understanding of what love actually is. 

When I met Jungkook, even knowing he was in love with my sister hadn’t done much to douse the flames of hope and attraction. He was a lot of things that other men in my life weren’t. Kind without being pitying. Concerned without being overbearing. He took care of me without making me feel helpless. And there was always such a thin line between these things that I found myself impressed by his ability to toe the line so well.

Jungkook took care of me without making me feel like a burden and I suppose, some part of me had assumed that this could, in due time turn into love. But I was clearly wrong.

Jungkook and Liza had been kissing in the hallway of their hotel room and someone had taken pictures. My father and his had managed to get them taken down but the news was already out, spreading like wildfire . My phone began ringing sometime around eight in the morning and hadn’t stopped. It was now a little past one in the afternoon and I felt queasy, despite the assurances that it was all being taken care of.

It was the pity in everyone’s face that I couldn’t bear.

I wasn’t hurt. Angry, yes? Upset? Of course. But I wasn’t hurt because there really was nothing to be hurt about. Jungkook didn’t love me. He was in love with my sister . He had made it clear, through his words and his actions, over and over again. At this point, I could see this debacle as nothing more than a possible way to get out of the marriage. Perhaps, my father would approve of a divorce?

I glanced at the article again.

The photo is just so annoyingly clear, I thought with a grimace. If it was a little blurry, I could convince myself it wasn’t him and her. But it was clear. That was my husband with his lips locked with my sister’s. Against my better judgment, I read the article again. It was a gossip column, of course there would be nothing good in there. But sometimes curiosity can be a persistent thing.

I felt my skin crawling as I realized that the phrases were all pretty true. There was no gossip here. Just plain facts.

And then my eyes reached the end of the article.

Of note is the fact that Jeon Jungkook’s wife is disabled and perhaps the virile young man is merely looking for pleasure he can’t find in his own marital bed.

I swallowed, quickly exiting the page and tossing the phone on the bed, away from me. I stared out of the window of our bedroom, the large doors left open to let air and sunlight in. There was a tall sycamore tree right outside out bedroom and the branches almost reached in and I stared at the rustling leaves, trying to scrub my mind clean of the words I’d just read.

But it was impossible.

It wasn’t something I hadn’t thought of. The stark difference between me and Jungkook, physically. He spent five days a week in the gym and they were right. He was a young man with healthy sexual appetites.

I’d never cheat on you. Jungkook’s voice from a week ago still echoed somewhere inside my skull.

I sighed, playing with my wedding ring.

I wasn’t a virgin when I married Jungkook. Hadn’t been one , when I got into the accident either. My then boyfriend, a tall strapping lit major had been a very sexual guy as well and our libidos had matched pretty well. But I’d been an athletic nineteen year old, able to bend like a pretzel at his whim and there was just endless time and endless stamina and just a whole lot of attraction . We had spent hours, exploring each other the way college kids do. Weekends in bed spent trying every possible permutation of sex positions and kinks and I’d discovered all the things I liked. All the things I didn’t.

But then the accident had happened and well, when you’re in crippling agony, sometimes sex takes the backseat. I’d been focused on my recovery, on making sure that I came out of this at least with the ability to walk and I’d succeeded. Burying the part of me that craved a man’s touch, it wasn’t easy but it was necessary.

And then Jungkook had happened.

Sex with Jungkook hadn’t been difficult. Not really. I wasn’t completely crippled after all but it was also nowhere near as exciting as it could be with someone who had full use of her legs. I knew that. It was kind of obvious. But I hadn’t dwelt too much on it because to be honest, Jungkook hadn’t looked like he’d minded. He had seemed to enjoy himself .

But then reading about how he probably hadn’t enjoyed it definitely stung.

Worse yet, probably half the country was reading it with me. I felt nauseous. Did no one think that they should have left the last part out of that article? It was terrible enough without adding that bit about me.

A faint buzzing made me turn to the bed.

I glanced at my phone as it rang, my father in law’s name prominent on the screen.

Showtime, I thought with a grimace.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“I suppose it was too much to hope for , expecting that boy  to keep his dignity. This is outrageous.” Mr. Jeon’s loud voice rang through the foyer of the house and I flinched, gripping the edge of the futon as Sana jumped a bit . She sat next to me, holding my hand carefully. Moral support I supposed but I was feeling entirely too blasé about the whole thing. None of this was unexpected, I thought miserably and I wasn’t feeling up to pretending otherwise.

“I still wish they’d talked to me about this.”

My brother in law’s voice broke me out of my thoughts. The man looked like he’d been dragged through hell and back and I felt a pang of genuine sympathy. He looked wrecked and it was obvious she was in love with my sister. Resentment coiled thick and deep inside me. Resentment and envy.

With no effort at all she had charmed both the Jeon brothers, I thought bitterly.

Jeon Jihyun looked absolutely stricken at the thought of losing his wife.  

“I’ve asked Lisa to take the first flight out. She called me this morning, hysterical. It was something done in the heat of the moment. She .. She’s very apologetic. I believe her and I’m willing to forgive her. We’re…. We’re thinking of starting a family together. ” He said softly and my stomach turned.

I felt my skin go ice cold as I wrapped my arms around myself. Shivering just a bit, I lightly squeezed Sana’s hand. She looked at me in askance and I had to swallow to get my voice out, throat dry. The words made me want to retch. I could imagine how Jungkook would take this news.

“Can you get me my shawl? It’s in the green room.” I said hoarsely.  She bowed before moving away from me and when I looked back up, Jihyun’s gaze caught mine.

“This must be hard on you.” He said softly and I flushed, staring down at my knees.

“Not like I can run from it. Literally or figuratively.” I smiled without mirth.

“Jungkook is …he’s just confused. He needs some time to sort himself out. I’ve asked him to take a break and come back to Seoul after a couple of weeks. The separation would do him some good.” Jihyun said quietly and I sighed before nodding. What else was I supposed to say to that anyway? There wasn’t much I could do, my influence on things almost nonexistent at this point.

“Are you going to give the boy a break, Jeon?” My father demanded, staring at Jungkook’s father who sighed.

“Yes. I’ve been trying to get these damned reporters off our back. They’re all over the place. And yes, I think Jungkook should stay in Japan for a while.  We’re starting a new distribution branch there and I wanted him to scout places and possible vendors. I’ll tell him to hash out all the details before coming back.”

His phone rang again and he excused himself . I watched him leave the room, trying to make sense of his words.

How long would it take to build a whole branch in Japan? I had no clue. But it could hardly be done in a few weeks, could it?

“That’s.. That’s a long time.” I said hesitantly and my father frowned.

“is that a problem?” he asked.

I sighed. There was no point keeping this to myself. I was supposed to go to the doctor’s tomorrow. And well, it would be better if they heard it from me first.

“I.. I’m pregnant.” I said quietly.

The silence that followed was deafening. I stared at the carpet, not able to bring myself to look up at them. I could guess, what I’d find there. It was what I always found in people’s faces.

“Oh, sweet child.” My father’s sigh made me look up and there it was. The pity. I felt sick to my stomach. Sana returned, settling the hand knit shawl over my shoulders and I wrapped it tight, before glancing at her in some desperation. She smiled reassuringly, settling next to me and gently taking my fingers in hers. The warmth grounded me for a second and when Jihyun growled, I stared at him.

“I… I didn’t know. Fuck, I’m going to kill Jungkook. This fucker…” Jihyung swore and my father sighed, clearly thinking hard.

“you can’t be staying alone now.” He said softly, sitting up and cracking his knuckles, and I swallowed. I wouldn’t bear it if they tried to take me back home. I had hated it there.

“ You must come back home with me.” He said softly but I quickly shook my head.

“ No.. No I won’t. I … Please.” I begged, the mere idea of going back to my childhood home a nightmare. My mother would kill me with just her sharp and vindictive words. I was in no shape to put up with her verbal and emotional abuse. It was one of the things that had made me agree to marry Jungkook in the first place.

“Well, you can’t stay here by yourself.” My father protested. I’ve been by myself my whole damn life, I wanted to scream.

“I’ll be fine. I have Sana and the others to help me.” I said tiredly. My father shook his head before turning to Jihyun again.

“Is Namjoon still working on his book?” My father asked him and Jihyun frowned. The name elicited a tug in my memory and I turned to stare at my father, confused.

“You remember him? He used to tutor you when you were hi High School.”

I had a brief flashback to dimples and almond shaped eyes. I remembered him vaguely. Very vaguely. But nowhere well enough to want him to live with me, alone or not.  

“Dad…” I protested but he held a hand up to silence me, nodding at Jihyun .

“Namjoon? Kim Namjoon? ” He shook his head. “ I’m not sure. Why?”

“I think it would be good if he moves in here. His father was telling me that he was looking for a place to stay, now that he’s moved back to Korea. ” My father said softly, staring at me and I stiffened.

“Father…” I began desperately and my father shook his head.

“Don’t argue. He was a dear friend of yours. I don’t think you should be alone at a time like this. And I think Jungkook would approve. Like Jihyun said, the kid needs some space to sort himself out. Let him finish whatever business is going on in Japan.” My father glanced at Mr. Jeon who looked at me with guilt.

“I owe you an apology , on behalf of my idiot son.”

I looked away, not sure what to say to that. I hated the man quite passionately. Jungkook wasn’t perfect… far from it. But this man had taken a sledgehammer to my husband’s mind and heart at every turn. The disdain, the condescension, the sick way he favored his brother over him, the way nothing Jungkook did was ever good enough. It had all taken a toll on my husband. I had watched it chip away at Jungkook’s self confidence, at his mental health.

“I think more than anything, you owe an apology to your son. You knew he was in love with Lisa and yet…. You forced him to marry me.” I said quietly and the room went eerily quiet. My father rounded on me , eyes blazing.

“Leah!!! Apologize, now!” He roared and I looked away.

“You’re all the same. Ungrateful and entitled.” Mr. Jeon said sharply, before turning to his son. “ I’m leaving Jihyun-ah. Tell me when that wife of yours get home. I want to talk to her.”

He shared a half hug with my father before stalking off and my father grabbed his jacket as well.

“I’ll leave as well. Your mother is being quite hysterical. Apparently, all her friends are hounding her about the article.” He sighed and I nodded , watching him shrug on the jacket before nodding at Jihyun and then following his friend out to the front doors.

Jihyun stayed standing , watching my father’s form disappear through the door before turning to me.

“ Are you alright?” He said quietly, moving to kneel in front of me. Sana stood up, bowing before leaving and I watched her disappear into the hallway leading to the kitchens. Jihyun’s fingers wrapped around mine, brushing my knees and I stared down at him.

“The question is, are you alright?” I brushed the hair off his face. He sighed.

“No. No I’m not. I’m angry and jealous and very much filled with resentment towards my brother.” He said honestly and I laughed, tugging on his hand and patting the seat next to me. He straightened before moving to settle next to me and I leaned on his shoulders, sighing as he wrapped on around me, the warmth of his body comforting .

“Are you going to give your marriage a chance?” I asked carefully.

“She told me she was going to break things off for good. We.. We’ve been talking about it. Starting a family, making this work.” He said quietly. I nodded. It was understandable. Unlike Jungkook and I , Jihyun had a responsibility. He would need a son and even though people liked to act like they didn’t care much about gender, like they didn’t care much about having children , it was sort of an unspoken rule. First son of the house ? You had to have a male heir to carry the family name.

I wondered how that conversation had gone between Jungkook and Lisa. It didn’t really match the photo I’d seen.

“I suppose Jungkook probably put up a fight. He genuinely wants to end up with her. He… He tells me often that he loves her and can’t love anyone else. ” I wondered if I ought to feel embarrassed or insulted.

But the truth was, I was numb to a lot of things that had once hurt quite a lot..

The conversation with Jungkook about my pregnancy had definitely cleared things up for me. There was nothing there worth salvaging. Chasing something that wasn’t real , that was foolishness. Especially when I had a very real baby to think about. A child that counted on me to make the right choices.

“I don’t think he did. She spoke to me last night and said that he agreed. Of course that was before the article came out. I’d like to think she didn’t lie to me but I’m not sure.”

I sighed, settling in closer to his chest. He was warm and firm, solid and reliable. I wondered if it would have been easier, if my father had just married me off to Jihyun instead. Jihyun and I …we were alike. We had been friends , even from childhood. Had watched with fond adoration as our younger siblings had fallen madly, wildly in love. Jungkook and Liza had been drawn to each other from the first. Inevitable.

Jihyun and I were more carefree. We didn’t feel things that intensely and perhaps that was why we could sit here in the calm of the afternoon air, quiet and introspective when we ought to be furious and raging.

“ Should we run off together? You and i?” He said suddenly making me laugh.

“Very much incapable of running.” I reminded him with a grin and he squeezed my shoulder .

“I’d carry you.” He said simply.

“Where would we go?” I asked curiously, indulging the fantasy for just a few minutes.

“Somewhere far away. Maybe India? There’s so many people there and we could get lost in the crowds.”

“That does sound appealing.” I smiled and turned to look up at him. His face inches from mine, not as handsome as Jungkook but strong featured and kind. “ But I’m not alone anymore. I have a child.”

His gaze dipped to my lap.

“Yes. Jungkook’s child.” He said thoughtfully.

“No. Mine. Nobody else’s . Just mine.” I said quietly. Jihyun’s gaze softened. He pressed a quick kiss to the top of my head.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered, echoing his father’s words.” On behalf of my idiot brother, I’m sorry.”

And where Mr. Jeon’s words hadn’t made any sort of impact, Jihyun’s made my heart clench and ache in the worst way. Self pity was something I loathed but sometimes, being handed the short end of the stick at every turn in life makes it impossible to not feel sorry for yourself.

Tears stung, welling up in my eyes and spilling over my lashes like water bubbling out of an aquifer.

I blinked slowly, not bothering to wipe them as they traced a path down my face, dripping into the fabric of my shawl. In a moment of clarity I wondered what Jungkook must be going through now. Nothing good for sure.

It definitely said something, that I still worried for him. Sighing, I let Jihyun hug me closer. I would take advantage of his kindness for a few more minutes. It had been a while since someone had held me like I mattered.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I called Jungkook that evening.

It wasn’t an easy choice but my heart ached and my mind raced with unanswered questions. I didn’t want to get lost in my own thoughts so I didn’t overthink it. We were still married. I was allowed to call him.

He picked up on the third ring.

“Where are you?” I asked quietly and Jungkook’s groan made my face heat up a little.

“I… Leah?” He sounded groggy. I glanced at the time. It wasn’t late.

“Are you sleeping?”

He didn’t reply for a few minutes.

“I’m sorry about what happened. We.. We didn’t do anything else. It was just.. it was a kiss. Just that.”

“Are you still in the hotel?” I asked quietly ignoring his words.

“ For tonight, yes. Dad wants me to stay with a friend of his. I’ll be going over to their place tomorrow morning.” He replied .

Silence followed for a few seconds.

“Namjoon is moving in tomorrow.” I said stiffly.

Jungkook didn’t respond for a minute or so.

“Yes. Father said it’s a good idea. And I agree. You shouldn’t be alone while I’m here. He’s right. Hyung’s a nice guy. He’ll help you out.” Jungkook said softly.

“Liza came home. She wanted to talk to me.” I said quietly.

Jungkook didn’t reply and I sighed.

“I told her I wasn’t going to talk to her before I talked to you. I don’t… I don’t want to say anything to her that I haven’t already said before. But I still want to know your thoughts on all this. Your plans, that is. I take it you weren’t happy with her ending things.” I said stiltedly.

Jungkook didn’t reply for a few seconds.

“Things between us ended a long time ago, Leah. It was over when we both agreed to marry other people. Maybe even before that, I don’t know… I … I guess I just didn’t want to acknowledge them.” He said quietly. “ She’s different, now. Even that kiss felt so wrong.  She’s moving on. I’m glad in a way. She deserves better than me. She deserves someone like hyung. He’s better than me in everyway and-”

God I wanted to strangle him.

“So why did you kiss her?” I snapped. “ If you’re so generously letting her go why would you…” I stopped.

“I didn’t kiss her. She kissed me. It was barely for a second.” He muttered. “ whoever it was must’ve been videoing us for a while.”

I had to remind myself that in the grand scheme of things, this little detail made no difference.

“Right.” I sighed. “ So, you won’t be home for a while?”

“Six weeks at least.” He said quietly.

I tried to keep the disappointment down. I still wanted to see him, just to make sure he was okay. But I knew that was just the pregnancy hormones talking.

“Okay.” I said simply.

“How are you? Did you go see the doctor?” He asked softly and the question surprised me. I was half sure he had forgotten.

“No, not yet. Maybe in a couple of days.” I scratched at a small stain on my skirt. Lime juice and baking soda, I thought absently. That should get the stain out.  

“Its pretty late. You should go see the doctor, Leah. I.. I looked stuff up. They say you have to be on pre natal vitamins, folic acid and iron supplements  and you have to have  a balanced diet. I called Sana earlier and told her to speak to our doctor and get a diet chart for you. She said she’ll do it soon. So , please take care of yourself.”

Jungkook sounded entirely serious and as always my brain felt muddled, unable to process why he did the things he did. He had looked things up about the pregnancy and that implied some sort of interest, didn’t it? But ….. he had also kissed my sister so what was I supposed to do with this?

“I’ll call you.” I said shakily, drained. I was done for the day.

“Right.” He said softly. “ Namjoon hyung will be there tomorrow right? Should I talk to him? He could take you to the doctor.”

“No.. That’s fine. I’ll manage.” I said quickly.

“You’re sure?” There was genuine worry there.

“Yes.” I sighed.

“Alright.”

Silence again. I exhaled shakily.

“Should I hang up?” I asked quietly.

“Yeah. Good night. ” He breathed.

“Good night, Jungkook.”

Click.

I stared at the wall, gently lowering the phone and placing it on the bed next to me.

She deserves better than me, his voice echoed in my head.

Well, so did I.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Namjoon looked nothing like the twenty one year old college student I’d seen a decade ago. I knew he was a successful novelist and I’d read all his books. They were mostly philosophical or commentaries on life and emotions. I enjoyed the way he wrote : melancholic and deep but also clear and easy to understand. It was like staring at a particularly deep pool, being able to see all the way down to the bottom because of how clean the waters were. But once you put your feet in, the depth  always surprised you.

“That’s a lot of books.” I laughed, gripping the edge of the door frame as I watched him stumble under the weight of a crate full of bound books. Namjoon’s messy brown hair peeked over the top, and when he adjusted the huge load to stare at me, I caught sight of his handsome face stretched in a dimpled grin, eyes glinting.

“Research.” He grunted, straightening himself up and I watched the flex of his muscles as he carefully moved to place the crate down in one corner of the large bedroom that I’d had cleaned for him. It was on the west wing of the house, parallel to my own bedroom that I shared with Jungkook . Namjoon had spent three years working as a professor somewhere in Indonesia. And I knew that he’d spent a year backpacking all over Scandinavia. I stared at his tall strapping figure, watching him set up his writing space carefully, sorting out boxes and electronics.

He had driven here in his Range Rover and I knew all his clothes were still there in the back of the car.

“Should I ask the footmen to get your clothes?” I asked and he glanced up at me, frowning.

“Footmen?” He looked confused and I rolled my eyes.

“Namjoon…” I said chidingly and he grinned again.

“I keep forgetting you’re filthy rich. Makes me wish I should have beaten Jungkook to the game and bagged myself a rich wife.” He winked. It was a joke but there was no mistaking the hint of interest in his eye. Or maybe it was just wishful thinking on my part. Being married to Jungkook had definitely made me question the attraction I held for men so it felt good, having someone as handsome and whole and successful as Namjoon look at me like that.

“I’ll ask them to get your clothes. You should shower and settle in. We’ll meet for dinner tonight.” I said quickly and he nodded.

“You’re going to be okay heading back to your room? Let me know if you need help.” He pointed at my feet and I nodded. It was sweet of him to offer.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dinner was surprisingly not awkward at all. Namjoon had a lot of interesting stories to share and I found myself clinging to ever word in rapt attention. He spoke about all the folklore he’d run into in different places, how he thought that no matter the culture, there were always some common things you could find in every one of them. He also talked a little about his next book, which he hadn’t named yet.

“It’s about second chances. Forgiving and moving on.” He said, taking another bite of his braised pork and moving to make another lettuce wrap.

“ Heavy stuff.” I said thoughtfully. “ Most of my writing is commercial. I just try to sell stuff to reluctant people. It’s not much but it keeps me occupied and it’s always nice to make money that you can call your own.”

“It’s because you don’t write for yourself. When you start writing for yourself, you can truly be who you are.” He said firmly and I nodded in agreement.

My writing in college had been vivid and bright and filled with life. But after the accident, it had turned grey and gloomy. The words seemed to drip with loss and longing and  I didn’t enjoy it, because it was a reminder that I was no longer the vibrant, attractive fulsome girl I once was.

“Maybe that’s what I’m afraid of.” I smiled. “ Being who I am. I would rather pretend I’m at least a little alright.”

Namjoon stared at me, thoughtful.

“You used to run track.” He said softly and I grinned.

“You remember.” I said, pleased.

“Of course I do and you were captain of the volleyball team as well. You used to organize all those hikes and treks and stuff.”

“Yes I did. I loved the outdoors.” I stared out of the window.

“Loved? Past tense?” He tilted his head. I stared at him, shaking my head.

“What kind of question is that.” I shook my head. “ Look at me. I’m not trekking anytime soon, considering how the last time ended.”

“You can still go out.” He frowned. “ When was the last time you went somewhere?”

I shook my head.

“Oppa…”

“Listen. You know me. You’ve known me for more than a decade. Do you honestly think I’m going to let you rattle around this old house like a ghost when you should be out there taking in all the sunshine you can get?” Namjoon placed his chopsticks down and linked his fingers together, staring at me.

I stared at him, and it was definitely there. The concern, the affection. Not that different from when I was sixteen and struggling to understand what pathos meant.

But now there was a definite undercurrent of attraction. Back then it had been childish, the wild crush of a teenager on her hot tutor but now, now I knew that he was so much more than just a hot guy.

“I’m pregnant.” I said softly, more a reminder to myself than anything else.

Namjoon grinned.

“We’ll steer clear of horse riding and alcohol. Anything else you can just let me know.”

“Are you serious?”

“As a heart attack.”

“I think I’m getting one now.” I deadpanned.

“Because you’re nervous.” He grinned.

“Because your dimples look too adorable.” I retorted.

He laughed.

“I’ll talk to Jihyun and we’ll go see your doctor first. Then we’ll go out and have  a nice picnic.”

“Namjoon, I can’t…”

“You don’t know that.” He said firmly.” You don’t know if you can or can’t because you’ve never tried. Listen I love picnics and I love going out and I want company. I’m agreeing to be stuck with you for a while and the least you can do is  give me company at a picnic. You know how big a loser I’d seem like if I went by myself?”

It was like I was sixteen again getting brow beaten into things by a tutor who just hated the idea of not getting his way. I shook my head fondly.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Fourteen weeks. Three and a half months.

I stared at the ultrasound, feeling a multitude of things, not all of them good. The baby was growing well and I had all my prescriptions filled. Namjoon had offered to come with me but I had refused. It was too intimate and he was still a stranger. I did take a photo of the ultrasound and sent it to Jungkook.

/Jungkook called me back almost at once.

“You went to the doctor?” He asked, sounding a little breathless.

“Were you running?” I asked, surprised.

“Not really. I’m supposed to be meeting one of the vendors for lunch and I thought I could walk to the restaurant but its farther than I thought.” He huffed.

“Everything’s fine. Baby’s due in July.” I said quietly.

“Summer. That’s good.” He replied. “Right?”

I hesitated. What did that mean? What did it matter when the baby would be born?

“Because winter would mean it being too cold . Summer we can take the baby out and stuff without worrying too much.” Jungkook said softly.

Oh.

“How’s work?” I asked awkwardly. The non conversation was getting tedious. There was just so much to talk about and it was obvious that both of us weren’t in the mood to actually ask or answer anything worthwhile.

“Did dad say something?” Jungkook asked quickly and I frowned.

“No. Why?”

“He wants me to join hyung in the corporate office. Leave the smelter units.” Jungkook sounded subdued and upset and I felt sympathy well inside me.

“Join him? As what?” I asked quietly.

“Head of the marketing department. I’ll be reporting to Seokjin hyung.” Jungkook had clearly started walking again, breath coming in little exhales.

“You don’t want it?” I asked confused, not sure if this was a good or bad thing.

“I mean… I have a degree in Business and Finance. Hyung’s the CEO , I was hoping I’d be the CFO.” Jungkook sighed, “ But I suppose I should be grateful he didn’t disown me altogether after what happened earlier.”

I stayed quiet and so did he.

“We need to talk . When you get back. You … I know you don’t like sharing about what you feel but you owe me an explanation.” I said firmly.

“I know. But I meant what I said when I left. I’m going to be there for you and the baby. You’re still my wife. That’s not going to change.”

I ran my fingers over the ultrasound.

“Did you also mean the part where you said you can’t stand me.” I said bitterly .

Jungkook didn’t reply.

“I… You know I didn’t. That was just something I said on impulse. I’m sorry. You’re… You’ve been nothing but good to me. And honestly, just the fact that you’re carrying my child is proof that I can definitely stand you.” He sounded just a little hoarse.

I bit my lips, staring up at the door when I heard a knock.

“Leah? I’m going to have some tea in the garden … You wanna come with?” Namjoon’s voice rang through the room and I froze.

“Oh.. Oh.. yes. I’ll be down.” I said quickly, nodding . Namjoon pointed at the phone and gave to thumbs up before moving back out.

“Was that Namjoon hyung?” Jungkook’s voice came over the line.

“Oh… yeah. Yeah, he’s… he wants me to have tea with him in the gardens.” I said awkwardly.

“That’s nice.  You should go. Get out of the house once in a while.” I didn’t know what to say to that so I stayed quiet.

After another minute or so of silence, Jungkook cleared his throat.

“ I got that form you sent in for me to fill, about my medical history. I’ll fill it up and mail it to the doctor’s office. Is that alright?” He asked hesitantly. “ If not I can fly back home. If they need me in person or something.”

I frowned a bit.

“They don’t need you in person, Jungkook of course not. Mail it, that’s fine.”

Another pause.

“This is really happening huh? A baby. We’re having a baby.” The exhaustion in his voice was palpable and I wondered.

“Yes. We are.” I said simply, not having anything else to elaborate on. It was happening. I was torn between pleasure at having something to look forward to and guilt at forcing Jungkook into a role he wasn’t ready for. But , for better or for worse we were married. The child was his. It would be a Jeon.

“ I’ll do better.” He said quietly. “ With the little one. I’ll be better.”

Tears these days, sprung up out of nowhere I thought miserably, furiously swiping at my face.

“Leah?” His voice came over the line. “ Leah are you there?”

“I need to go.”

“Alright.”

“Take care of yourself too, Jungkook.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Loneliness .

It’s such an odd sort of feeling. Sometimes you get used to it so much, that you forget all about it.

It stays , a part of you that doesn’t make much of an impression on you until one day, suddenly it becomes unbearable,

Until you get a glimpse of what it’s like to not be lonely.

And then suddenly it’s like a deep chasm of longing and desperation just opens up inside you, craving love and warmth and company with a hunger that feels like it can never ever be satisfied.

I’d never paid much mind to the fact that my life revolved around myself, my writing and the flowers in the garden. Not until Namjoon had come, demanding to be felt and seen and heard .

 Namjoon hadn’t joked about not letting me rattle around the house. Our days were spent sprawled on the lawns of the Jeon estate, each of us occupied with our own writing . Namjoon typed away on his laptop while I preferred my leather bound notebook. It was oddly soothing, lying there on the clean cut grass, the sharp blades rubbing against my bare legs, as I leaned back against a tree trunk, watching Namjoon’s furrowed brows as he wrote.

Namjoon had changed in a lot of ways and yet he was still somehow just as I remembered, focused and often lost in his own head. He was a contemplative man and seemed to spend as much time reading as he did writing.

“There’s a poetry club that meets every Tuesday in Gangnam. Would you like to come with me?” He asked casually, about a week after he’d moved in and I considered it. The paparazzi had finally stopped hanging about the estate and Jungkook had called the previous night with a ETA for when he would be back.

Four weeks at most, he had said firmly and I wasn’t sure if I was feeling all that excited for his return anymore. Days spent with Namjoon were more exciting. He included me in every little thing and I was addicted.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew this was probably wrong. Namjoon was sweet and kind but I was still married. But on the wake of that thought came the bitter reminder that there was nothing between Jungkook and I. He was in love with someone else. Why should I deny myself the joy of Namjoon’s company over a relationship that really wasn’t a relationship at all.

Namjoon treated me as an equal, teased and flirted like there was nothing wrong with the two of us living like this, together and away from the rest of the world and I liked it. It made me feel like perhaps happiness wasn’t such an abstract, unreachable thing after all. That perhaps I could find happiness like this. In friendship and mindless conversation with a man who didn’t see me as a burden.

“I’d love that.” I said with a smile, letting my fingers knit together with his.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Scorned wife getting even? We spotted the recently cheated on Mrs Jeon getting cozy with a strapping, buff hottie in a private restaurant last Friday and we can’t help but wonder if perhaps the reclusive lady is trying to get back at her husband by flashing her own boytoy.” Namjoon read cheerfully from his phone, looking way too entertained as he showed me the zoomed photo of us holding hands over the dinner table .

“That’s quite the description they’ve put for you.” I grimaced, sipping my chamomile tea slowly. My father and Mr. Jeon had reacted with their usual anger, threatening to sue the gossip rag for libel but it was pointless. They would keep being intrusive rats. There was nothing much to be done beyond enduring them.

“My agent’s losing his mind. He’s been at me trying to get me to agree to book signings and public appearances and he’s pissed that this is the way I get introduced to Seoul’s High society. Poor guy.” Namjoon chuckled and I felt guilt churn.

“I’m sorry, Namjoon. I really didn’t think they’d be following me. I mean… usually they’re only tailing Jungkook but I guess with the whole thing with Lisa , they’re just looking for ways to make things worse.” I said hesitantly.

Namjoon hesitated, staring at me for a few seconds.

“We never really talked about how things are.” He said quietly. “ Between you and Jungkook, that is.”

I ran the edge of my chopsticks on the brim of my soup bowl.

“ There’s not much to say. He’s…. He’s still sorting things out. With my sister.” I smiled a little. It ached a lot less, I realized with surprise.

“They loved each other deeply.” Namjoon said softly. “ that sort of thing doesn’t go away that quickly.”

I nodded.

“Of course. And I’ve been …understanding of that. I like to think.”

“But its unfair to you. You deserve to be loved too. Fully and well .”

I leaned back to stare at him.

“Are you offering?” I laughed, teasing.

Namjoon didn’t smile, leaning forward instead.

“Depends. Will you ever consider leaving him, for me?” He said seriously.

My heart turned over inside me.

“Namjoon…” I choked out and he reached out and lightly touched my palm.

“I know how marriages work with people like you, so I think I should draw boundaries now, if I want to keep myself safe.” He smiled a bit.

“I’m pregnant. With his child.” I swallowed and Namjoon’s brows went up.

“I thought it was your child. Yours and no one else’s.”

I felt torn, staring at him and wanting to say that I didn’t consider Jungkook as the child’s father, not in the way most people did. But I also remembered my husbands determined voice, the way he kept insisting that he wouldn’t neglect the child.

“Its not about Jungkook or the child, Leah. Its about you. You married Jungkook knowing he was in love with your sister and that tells me that you listen to your parents. You don’t want to stand up against the rules set by our parents and I don’t fault you for it. But I can’t let myself fall for you, knowing you’re going to be bound by your obligations to yurr family.”

I shook my head.

“Don’t fall in love with me.” I said easily. “ You’re right. My family comes first. And whether I want to be or not, I’m bound to Jungkook for life. So don’t fall in love with me.”

He smiled and nodded.

“Alright then.”

“Do you want to move out?” I asked bitterly and he looked genuinely surprised.

“What?”

“You clearly think I’m trying to seduce you or something when really, I-“

“Hey. Hey, Leah…no. No alright, that’s not what I meant. These two weeks, it was amazing. I love your mind and you’re easily one of my favorite people on this planet. We’re friends. And we’ll stay friends no matter what but you must know why I said what I said. You’re a beautiful woman and I’m a lonely guy.” He smiled a bit, “ I just don’t want to make it hard for myself when you want me to leave.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jungkook arrived back in Korea on a cold, rainy morning and against my better judgment I let Jihyun and Lisa drag me to the airport. It was some kind of publicity stunt, that much I could fathom but I didn’t know if Jungkook was in on it. I hadn’t spoken to him in a few days, he had been busy wrapping things up with the new branch in Japan.

It was another bad day for my leg and I found myself leaning heavily on my sister, her arm wrapped around my waist as we walked over to the waiting area. I could already identify a few men with cameras staring at us discreetly. Paparazzi . I saw them move their cameras down to the now obvious curve of my stomach and I swallowed. I could already imagine the articles wondering who the father was : Jungkook or Namjoon.

“You alright?” My sister asked worriedly and I nodded, not looking at her. Lisa hadn’t been discouraged by initial refusal to speak to her, keeping at it till I finally caved and let her visit me at the estate. She didn’t love Jungkook anymore, she insisted . It was over. They were over . She wanted to give her marriage a chance. Very sweet and nice, that. And it was obvious that she wasn’t lying, what with the way she and her husband kept

Jihyun and Lisa had made amends with each other and it annoyed me that they seemed to be madly in love with each other all of a sudden. Like the past couple months hadn’t even happened. I stared down at my wedding ring feeling stricken. Was it unfair that I resented them for this? Why hadn’t the two of them thought of this, of breaking things off and moving on before the damn wedding. And then maybe Jungkook and I would have had a real marriage too.

Bitter and hormonal was definitely not a good combination I thought with a wince, fingers splaying on the curve of my lower belly. It was so odd, being pregnant. The extra weight somehow foreign but also …so soothing. The last scan had shown that I had an anterior placenta and that meant that I may not feel movements for a while. I didn’t mind, having found comfort in just tracing my palm over the bare skin of my stomach.

“There he is.” Jihyun’s voice made me look up and ure enough there he was.

It wasn’t the longest we’d been away from each other and yet, I felt my heart leap at the sight of him. He truly was a very handsome man, I thought miserably. And no matter what people said, it was infinitely more difficult to hate your husband when he looked that good.

Jungkook’s eyes caught mine first and I saw the way his gaze dipped straight to the curve of my bump. Even from the ten feet between us , I saw hi lips part in surprise , eyes going wide. It probably hadn’t felt real to him till now, I thought biting my lips as he carefully handed his bags over to the two chauffeurs who had rushed to help him.

Jihyun wasted no time in bounding over and hugging his little brother tight.

I glanced at the man who had been taking photos, pleased to see the surprise in his face. Was he hoping that the CEO would punch his little brother in the face ? Idiots. Lisa stayed by my side and I exhaled shakily.

“ Dad told me something and I want to know if its true.” I said quietly.

She didn’t reply.

I took a deep breath, still watching the two brothers embrace each other, Jungkook’s face buried in Jihyun’s shoulders. I could see him shaking just a little and I felt my gut clench.

“He told me that …that you never told him that you wanted to marry Jungkook. That when he suggested Jihyun you agreed at once.”

She looked away.

“Lets talk about this later.” She said quietly.

“Does Jungkook know?” I demanded. “ Because he spent that first month of our marriage cursing our father out for forcing you to marry Jihyun. Forcing. And dad says that he did no such thing. So what is the truth.”

Lisa didn’t respond.

“Jungkook  knows.” She said finally, “ I told him… the truth. When we were in Japan.” and I laughed in disbelief.

“Was that before or after you kissed him?” I snapped and she looked genuinely pained.

“Leah, I never meant to hurt you or Jungkook.” She said shakily.

“My God.” I shook my head. “ I always knew you were a selfish, greedy person but I didn’t take you for being a liar and a deceitful coward. ”

She stared down at her feet.

“Yes. I’m greedy..”  She whispered “ And you may not understand it now but I did it for you and for Jungkook.”

She moved away and I watched as Jihyun pulled away from Jungkook, still holding his arm as he held a hand out to Lisa. The smile on her face seemed genuine as she took her husband’s hand and I shifted my gaze to mine. Jihyun and Lisa walked away to their car and Jungkook stepped closer to me, his face stoic and impossible to read.  

“Leah.” He said quietly, dark hair falling into even darker eyes.

I didn’t reply, merely stepping up to gently press my palms on either side of his face.

“Welcome back.” I said softly, before reaching up and kissing him full on the lips. Jungkook’s entire body went stiff as a board at the gesture but he didn’t pull away , thankfully. It felt cold and impersonal and barely lasted a few seconds but hopefully the man had gotten a few good shots. I closed my eyes for effect, running my thumb over the clean shaven curve of his jaw, before pulling away slowly.

I peered over Jungkook’s shoulder, just to make sure and sure enough, the man was moving closer to get better angles. I smiled a little. Good. That should hold these vultures off for a while. I turned back to Jungkook and his eyes followed my gaze catching sight of the man with the camera and his entire body seemed to go stiff with anger.

“Why did you do that?” He growled and I bit my lips.

“You know why.” I made to turn away but he gripped my arm, hard. So hard that I winced.

“What are you doing?” I asked panicking, glancing at the man who was still watching.

“Since when did you start pandering to those pigs?” He whispered angrily and I flinched.

“Your father wants to introduce you to the Board of directors this weekend.” I whispered quietly, “Most of them read the news Jungkook. The last news about us can’t be about you cheating on me.”

“That’s my business. And I’ll deal with it. We’re not doing this, Leah. I’m not putting on some kind of act just to please my fucking father.” He looked furious and the taut line of his jaw made me flinch.

“I’m sorry.” I said quickly, guilt churning inside me. He was right. I shouldn’t have done that without talking to him about it but I knew that the scandal with him and Lisa wouldn’t go down well with the Board. And the Board generally had a direct say on who got hired to top managerial positions.

“I just want you to get that job.” I said softly and he stared at me, stiff body relaxing marginally.

“Let’s just go home. Yeah?” Jungkook said tiredly and I bit my lips.

Less than fifteen minutes since he came home and we were already at odds with each other.

The most ill suited couple in the universe, I thought with a grimace as he stepped right next to me and wrapped a hand around my waist.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I had a very terrible tendency to forget taking my pills. So I generally left them by the bedside table. Stepping out of the shower, I found Jungkook sitting on my side of the bed, examining the bottle carefully. I tugged on the white t shirt I had on, suddenly embarrassed because it was Jungkook’s

I’d asked to borrow a couple over the phone,  simply because I no longer fit into my own and the ones I’d ordered weren’t here yet. Jungkook had agreed but still, it felt awkward when he was wearing the exact same t shirt himself.

He turned around when I moved to the vanity to put on moisturizer for the night and through the reflection I saw his gaze linger on my attire.

“Aspirin? Didn’t know that was part of pre natal vitamins?” He said seriously and I blinked., surprised. I turned around to stare at him, licking my lips nervously.

“How much research did you do?” I asked, genuinely curious and he flushed.

“I had a lot of free time. “ He said defensively. “ These six weeks.”

I frowned, before turning back to grab the small pot of night cream from the draw.

“My blood pressure is a little elevated. My mother had pre eclampsia with my sister and they just want to be careful.”

“Pre eclampsia?” Jungkook’s voice was fraught with nervousness and I turned back to see him almost white as a sheet.

“Jungkook…I.. its nothing serious.” I said hastily and his jaw went even more taut.

“What do you mean its not serious? Do you even know what it is?” He demanded.

“Do you?” I snapped back, annoyed at being treated like I was an errant child.

“I know that it’s the leading cause of maternal death during birth.” He all but shouted and I flinched.

“Okay…that’s only in extreme cases.” I held both my hands up. “ it’s a bit too premature to be panicking over that.”

Jungkook opened his mouth, as though to argue but then seemed to calm himself down.

“When’s your next check up?” He asked casually.

“This weekend. But its okay, Namjoon is-“

“I’ll come with you. I.. I want to come with you.” He said quietly.

I stared at him, feeling too awkward to outright refuse.

“You have the meeting with the Board. This weekend.” I said softly.

“So?” Jungkook shrugged. “ I’ll just tell them your appointment and health is more important to me. Besides isn’t that what you wanted? The reason you kissed me at the airport? You want the board to think we’re happily in love. I think that would be an excellent way to show them that. ”

Jungkook stared at me , head tilted curiously, daring me to deny what I had old him myself.

Sighing, I nodded.

“Alright.” I managed a weak smile. “ You can come with me.”

“Namjoon hyung left today, you said?” He asked casually.

I nodded.

“I should send him a bottle of his favorite wine for taking care of you so well. You look good.”

“He did it because he wanted to. Because he enjoyed it.” I retorted, his words rubbing me just a little wrong.

Jungkook smiled although it was more of a smirk.

“I’m sure he did. But I’m here now. And I did promise you that I’ll be there for you.”

“For the baby.” I said sharply, not liking the way he looked. The things he seemed to b implying.” You promised me you’d be there for the baby.”

“And right now, said baby is inside you.” He grinned now and I felt my pulse quicken at the sight. Jungkook didn’t smile with me. It wasn’t something that happened. At all. “ So I’ll have to take care of you.”

I stared at him, biting my lips.

“What are you doing?” I demanded. “My sister told you she never wanted you so now you want to start fucking me again?”

It was cruel. A terrible thing to say and I regretted it at once.

The smile faded.

“What?”

“ I…fuck Jungkook.” I groaned.

“is that what you think of me? Need I remind you that you were the one who came to me all those months ago? I never…. I would never force myself on you, Leah.” He looked like he’d been stabbed and I heart clenched.

“Jungkook , I…”

“I’ve been honest. Through all of this I’ve been honest to you. I lied to your sister, I lied to my father and fuck I even lied to myself. But I’ve been honest with you , Leah.”

“And that’s supposed to make me feel better?!” I cried out, despairing. “ You were in love with my sister and –“

“And she wanted to marry my brother.” Jungkook yelled, standing up and turning to me, eyes blazing. “  All along. Know what she told me Leah? That it was never supposed to be me. That five years of us being together…it was because she was in love with my brother and she couldn’t bear the thought of being alone. She started dating me to make him jealous and when she saw that I spent so much time with Jihyun she stuck around . So she could spend time with him.” He shook his head.

I stared at him, horrified.

“Jungkook….”

“I thought I could never feel more pathetic than when I stood there listening her tel me how she never felt a single thing for me. But wow…. Thank you for proving me wrong. Because right now, standing here begging you to let me a part of the child we both made knowing you only see me as some kind of pervert just looking to get into your bed….” he shook his head,” I feel worse. I feel dirty.”

My throat went dry.

“You know what?” He moved to the closet and to my horror he grabbed a bunch of his clothes and a small suitcase. “ I’m going to go get a Hotel room.”

“What? No… Jungkook, wait!” I rushed to his side, grabbing his arm but he threw my hand off quickly.

“Ask Namjoon hyung to move back in. Better yet, tell dad the truth. That you think I’m disgusting. That the thought of me being in your life makes you sick. Tell him you want a divorce and-“

“It’s a girl.” I exhaled sharply.

Jungkook went completely still.

I swallowed, my heart racing so fast I couldn’t catch my breath.

I took a deep breath and moved to lightly touch his back, fingers splaying on the broad expanse of his shoulder blade .

He turned around at that and my heart lurched at the tear tracks down his cheeks. He looked wrecked.

“ A girl?” He whispered.

I bit my lips, nodding.

“We’re having a little girl.” He looked a little shell shocked.

“Yes. And hopefully, she isn’t as dramatic as her father.” I said softly, grabbing the dozen or so t shirts he’d pulled out of the closet and pushing them back into the shelves.

Jungkook didn’t protest, still staring into space, probably just taking the news in. I felt awful for one second because I hadn’t even cared all that much when the technician had told me.

I closed the closet door and moved back to the vanity trying to process all that had been said in the last five minutes, only to feel a headache come on. I would think about it tomorrow.

I finished braiding my hair when Jungkook’s voice came from the bed.

“If you don’t want me to intrude into your space you can tell me. I’m okay with only getting information about the baby.” He said quietly.

I stared at myself in the mirror.

I turned to him slowly. i took a deep breath, considered that what i was going to say would likely change everything between us. But i had to. 

I’ve always been honest with you Leah, He had said and I decided that perhaps he deserved some honesty in return.

“I think I’m in love with Namjoon.” 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Author’s Note : these two are such a mess istg. 

ooh i don’t have a taglist for this so please comment if you wanna be on it. 

[beyondspaceandstars]

Renegade

Relationship: Din Djarin x Reader Warnings: N/A Summary: [based off the song Renegade by Big Red Machine feat. Taylor Swift] You're a shopkeeper in a remote corner of the galaxy just trying to get by. For some reason, every now and then a certain Mandalorian pops into town. He comes and goes as he pleases until one day you finally get the courage to confront him on his drifter habits. Unexpected confessions spill out. A/N: I haven’t written something for The Mandalorian in a long time but i just had this idea for a while and i wanted to actually try to execute it. Idk if this came out good but i think it’s still sweet. I hope someone enjoys it :)

Masterlist

You never knew when he was coming into town.

It would happen pretty much in the blink of an eye. You’d shut down your store for the day, retire to your home, then he’d be there, in the middle of the village, bright and early. The Mandalorian kept no schedule it seemed but his surprise visits were always welcomed by you. 

He’d make it a point to stop at your store first. He never really bought anything, just browsed the fabric and clothing you had to offer. The Mandalorian seemed to appreciate your craftsmanship, always taking time on his stay to ask about your newer items or what your plans were for your next collection. Your shop was modest but it helped bring in some kind of income which was very valuable as the fate of the galaxy hung in limbo.

You built up some kind of rapport with the masked man but feelings have been shifting within you for a while. You didn’t really understand how it was possible. You had begun falling for a man that never even gave you the courtesy of saying goodbye. But at the same time, the hours you would spend chatting meant everything to you. It felt so good to confide in someone as a life as a solo storekeeper could be quite a lonely one. He also seemed to be no stranger to loneliness as a man roaming the galaxy, taking odd bounty jobs. Nowhere to really call his own. 

A deep, deep part of you wished he would call this village his home. He seemed to enjoy it here, evident by his numerous stops. When he’d come and go from your shop, he was always bringing back new treasures. The woman down the road would be testing a new stew recipe or the jewelry maker at the end of the block had talked him into buying something. Most of the time, he’d just give the items to you, claiming he couldn’t resist the shopkeeper but had no use for the trinkets. The pseudo-gift giving was a little ridiculous to you but it couldn’t help but fuel your burning crush. You always accepted and wore whatever the Mandalorian presented. 

Yes, you two definitely had formed a relationship over time. You didn’t know really what to call it and you two never seemed to want to speak about it but it was no secret that it was there, and you were a bit thankful for it. No matter where he had gone or how long he had left for, you were always there to welcome him back to the village with open arms.

As many times before, the Mandalorian arrived unexpectedly one beautiful, clear morning. He was hovering around your shop, seemingly waiting. His armor shined so loudly in the daylight, it was nearly blinding, but you appreciated how powerful he was. He may show you his soft side in the village but you’d heard plenty about his hunts. If the truth was even half as alarming as the gossip, you were impressed he could have such a gentle side. 

“You’re early,” you called out, pulling your shawl tighter around you as you walked towards the passing bounty hunter. He stopped dead in his tracks upon hearing your voice. 

“It would appear I am,” he said, letting out a breathy laugh. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize the time.”

You came to stop right in front of him. You peered up at his helmeted face. You certainly couldn’t see anything through that insane gear but some part of you still felt him staring into your eyes, deeply. Instinctively, you fiddled with the necklace resting on your lower neck. The charm was a piece of some dark crystal. You didn’t know what it was and you were slightly too nervous to inquire the jewelry maker about it but the Mandalorian standing before you had given it to you the last time he was here. He simply said he thought it would look nicer on you. You didn’t ask anymore.

“It’s alright,” you smiled. “I’m just glad to see you back here in one piece.”

He seemed a bit taken back by that. You worried you had overstepped the boundary between flirting and kindness but then he tilted his head, curiously. “Yeah?”

Oh, you felt yourself blushing a bit. You ducked your head and stepped around him, beginning to work on the lock of your shop. 

“Yeah,” you shrugged and opened the door. The Mandalorian followed closely behind. “I’ve heard your work can be demanding. Lots of opportunities for you to get hurt.”

“Does that worry you?”

You stopped in front of the pile of new fabrics you had just woven. You sighed. “I’ve come to think of us as a little bit more than acquaintances. It’s normal to worry about others.”

You swore you heard him let out a low chuckle at that but he didn’t acknowledge it. Or your statement. You chose to do the same. You walked around to the counter and began prepping the logbooks for the day. The Mandalorian continued to hang around, gaze and hands roaming the new pieces you had set up last night. You were hoping this new collection you were previewing was going to bring in some hefty credits. Maybe allow you to take a holiday.

The Mandalorian broke the tense silence with the most unexpected comment. “I worry about you too, you know.” 

Your finger stopped abruptly as it scanned your list of sales for the week. When you had offered your care, you had never expected it back. You two technically weren’t on that level, at least not verbally. In other formats of gift-giving and worried looks, it was a different story. 

“You worry about me?” You inquired, brows raised in surprise. 

He gave a very Mandalorian-like shrug, his gaze still fixated on your for-sale items. Something in you was crushed when it looked like you weren’t getting any more from him. Maybe he’d disappear tonight, embarrassed by this exchange. But then by some miracle, he spoke again.

“Of course,” he said it like it was so obvious. “You’re a very kind shopowner living out in this village alone. This galaxy, no matter what corner you hide in, can be dangerous.”

You smiled to yourself. “I’ve done this for many years, Mandalorian. I think I will be alright.”

He hummed in acknwoeldgement. “I’m sure,” he mumbled. “But can you blame me for having concerns?”

This conversation sure was going to a funny place, you thought, but you were along for the ride. If he was going to talk about concerns, you could for sure rattle off yours. He was worried about your safety in this little village while you worried for his health. It cannot be good for a human, assuming he was human under all that gear, to be wandering the galaxy with no rhyme or reason besides the bounties strung about this galaxy. You never thought you’d express these things to him but the Mandalorian appeared to be a talkative one today. And you felt you two were beyond strangers. 

“Well, I’m flattered you think of me,” you admitted. “But I fear it’s you who faces more dangers than me.”

The helmeted man gave a little scoff at that comment. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

Sure, you didn’t doubt that, but that wasn’t what was on your mind. “I’m not talking about bounty hunting. I’m talking about your habit of being a drifter.”

The words didn’t feel very impactful in your brain but when they hit the open shop it was like you had dropped a bomb. The Mandalorian stilled, his gloved hand letting go of one of the scarves you had laying on a table. He began making his way suddenly towards where you still stood behind the counter. You frowned.

“A drifter?”

His eye gaze wasn’t seen but it was sure felt. You shrugged. “I’m not a fool. I know you bounce around from planet to planet throughout this galaxy. Maker knows why you keep coming back here but... I just worry you don’t have a home-,”

“I don’t,” he confirmed. Your heart all about stopped. Well, you didn’t exactly want to be right.

“Oh,” you said, averting your eyes to the wood counter. “And that doesn’t bother you? You must want someone waiting for you. Someone to just spend...moments with.”

“Don’t I have you?”

The question hung in the air between you two like a heavy pendulum. You couldn’t believe what you were hearing. He… He thought of you like that? Of this village? But why would he… Oh, but didn’t it make some kind of sense? The reappearing? The coming and going… He waltzed in and tried to get to know everyone. Got to know you.

Your head was a jumbled mess, so much so the only thing you could get out was a soft, “Me?”

The Mandalorian nodded. He wasn’t looking anywhere near you, finding such interest in the wall of your shop. But you noted his stiff stance. Maybe he hadn’t meant to say that… Except he had. And now it was out there. Something in the mysterious bounty hunter made him let out such a grand confession.

“Yes,” he eventually confirmed. “You. This village. I have that. I have this to come back to.”

With thoughts swimming violently, you had to ask, “But why don’t you stay?”

“I have jobs to do.” He almost sounded offended you had asked that. You shook your head.

“N-No, I mean… Get a place for yourself. You’re always sleeping on that ship. Maybe accept the invites to dinners the sweet lady down the path invites you to. Or you and I could…” Your words faded fast, slightly scared of what was going to slip out. But the Mandalorian wasn’t letting it go.

He turned his gaze back to you. “We could what?”

“S-Spend time together or something,” you mumbled. Real smooth, you thought. Just the perfect way to flirt. You expected him to now be so offended, maybe even storm out such a suggestion, but the armored man didn’t move. Instead, he cocked his head, curious.

“You’d want to do that?”

You sighed. “I want you to start a life somewhere. Really start it. Drifting around this galaxy cannot be very promising. You deserve this. You deserve a home, Mando.”

“Din.”

Your brows furrowed. Now it was your turn to be curious. “What?”

“My name is Din,” he explained. “You don’t have to call me Mando.”

If a heart could sing, yours would be a full chorus. He finally told you his name. After collecting jewelry and stories, he had finally opened somewhat to you. That was a good sign, a great sign. 

“Din,” you said, testing the name. It rolled off your lips easily. “We’d love to have you around.” A beat. “I’d love it, especially.” It was a bold declaration but he had given you something, the least you could do was make your intentions more obvious.

“Thank you,” Din said. 

“Of course,” you shrugged. “We all need to find the place where we belong.”

Din let out a bit of a chuckle. You frowned at that.

“You think I belong here?” He asked, amused. 

You didn’t like that he wasn’t taking you seriously but it would be okay. Just gave you more of a reason to show him everything this place had to offer. From the nice shopkeepers to the lovely food. This would be some kind of home for him or at least a place where he’d always be welcomed. Your heart fluttered at the idea of him leaving less, maybe even never leaving. He could train people on fighting or - or… 

You had to stop yourself as your brain was getting beyond reality. You shot the Mandalorian a smile.

“I think you’ve always belonged.”

[benevolentbirdgal]

“Thirteen″ Tips for Writing About Synagogues / Jewish Writing Advice / Advice for Visiting Synagogues

So your story includes a Jew (or two) and you’ve a got a scene in a synagogue. Maybe there’s a bar mitzvah, maybe your gentile protagonist is visiting their partner’s synagogue. Maybe there’s a wedding or a community meeting being held there. For whatever reason, you want a scene in a shul. I’m here as your friendly (virtual) neighborhood Jewish professional to help you not sound like a gentile who thinks a synagogue is just a church with a Star of David instead of a cross. 

Quick note: The are lots of synagogues around the world, with different specific cultural, local, and denominational practices. The Jewish community is made up of roughly 14 million people worldwide with all sorts of backgrounds, practices, life circumstances, and beliefs. I’m just one American Jew, but I’ve had exposure to Jewishness in many forms after living in 3.5 states (at several different population densities/layouts), attending Jewish day school and youth groups, doing Jewish college stuff, and landing a job at a Jewish non-profit. I’m speaking specifically in an American or Americanish context, though some of this will apply elsewhere as well. I’m also writing from the view of Before Times when gatherings and food and human contact was okay.

Bear in mind as well, in this discussion, the sliding scale of traditional observance to secular/liberal observance in modern denominations: Ultraorthodox (strict tradition), Modern Orthodox (Jewish law matters but we live in a modern world), Conservative (no relation to conservative politics, brands itself middle ground Judaism), Reconstructionist (start with Jewish law and then drop/add bits to choose your own adventure), and Reform (true build your own adventure, start at basically zero and incorporate only as you actively choose).

Synagogue = shul = temple. Mikvah (ritual bath) is its own thing and usually not attached to the shul. Jewish cemeteries are also typically nowhere near the shul, because dead bodies are considered impure.   

A Bar/Bat/Bnai Mitzvah is the Jewish coming of age ceremony. Bar (“son”) for boys at 13+, Bat (“daughter”) at 12+, and Bnai (“children”) for multiples (i.e. twins/triplets/siblings) or non-binary kids (although the use of the phrase “Bnai Mitzvah” this way is pretty new). 12/13 is the minimum, 12-14 the norm but very Reform will sometimes allow 11 and anybody above 12/13 can have theirs. Probably a dedicated post for another time. Generally, however, the following will happen: the kid will lead some parts of services, read from and/or carry the Torah, and make a couple of speeches. 

Attire: think Sunday Best (in this case Saturday), not come as you are. Even at very liberal reconstructionist/reform synagogues you wouldn’t show up in jeans and a t-shirt or work overalls. Unless they are seriously disconnected from their culture, your Jewish character is not coming to Saturday morning services in sneakers and jeans (their gentile guest, however, might come too casual and that’d be awkward).  1a. The more traditional the denomination, the more modest the attire. Outside of orthodoxy woman may wear pants, but dresses/skirts are more common. Tights for anything above knee common for Conservative/Reform/Recon, common for even below knee for orthodox shuls. Men will typically be wearing suits or close to it, except in very Reform spaces.  1b. Really, think business casual or nice dinner is the level of dressiness here for regular services. Some minor holidays or smaller events more casual is fine. Social events and classes casual is fine too.  1c. Even in reform synagogues, modesty is a thing. Get to the knee or close to it. No shoulders (this an obsession in many Jewish religious spaces for whatever reason), midriffs, or excessive cleavage (as I imagine to be the norm in most houses of worship). 

Gendered clothing:  3a. Men and boys wear kippahs (alt kippot, yarmulkes) in synagogues, regardless of whether they’re Jewish or not out of respect to the space. Outside of Jewish spaces it’s saying “I’m a Jew” but inside of Jewish spaces it’s saying “I’m a Jew or a gentile dude who respects the Jewish space.”  Outside of very Reform shuls, it’s a major faux pass to be a dude not wearing one.  3b. There are little buckets of loaner kippahs if you don’t bring your own and commemorative kippahs are given away at events (bar mitzvah, weddings). Your Jewish dude character not bringing or grabbing one is basically shouting “I’m new here.”  3c. Women are permitted to wear kippahs, but the adoption of a the traditionally masculine accessory will likely be interpreted by other Jews as LGBTQ+ presentation, intense feminism, and/or intense but nontraditional devoutness. Nobody will clutch their pearls (outside of ultraorthodoxy) but your character is sending a message.  3d. Tefillin are leather boxes and wrappings with prayers inside them that some Jewish men wrap around their arms (no under bar mitzvah or gentiles). Like with the kippah, a woman doing this is sending a message of feminism and/or nontraditional religious fervor.  3e. Additionally, prayer shawls, known as tallit, are encouraged/lightly expected of Jewish males (over 13) but not as much as Kippahs are. It is more common to have a personal set of tallit than tefillin. Blue and white is traditional, but they come in all sorts of fun colors and patterns now. Mine is purple and pink. It is much more common for women to have tallit and carries much fewer implications about their relationship to Judaism than wearing a kippah does.  3f. Married woman usually cover their hair in synagogues. Orthodox women will have wigs or full hair covers, but most Jewish woman will put a token scarf or doily on their head in the synagogue that doesn’t actually cover their hair. The shul will also have a doily loaner bucket. 

Jewish services are long (like 3-4 hours on a Saturday morning), but most people don’t get there until about the 1-1.5 hour mark. Your disconnected Jewish character or their gentile partner might not know that though. 

Although an active and traditional synagogue will have brief prayers three times every day, Torah services thrice a week, holiday programming, and weekly Friday night and Saturday morning services, the latter is the thing your Jewish character is most likely attending on the reg. A typical Saturday morning service will start with Shacharit (morning prayers) at 8:30-9, your genre savvy not-rabbi not-Bnai mitzvah kid Jewish character will get there around 9:30-10:15. 10:15-10:30 is the Torah service, which is followed by additional prayers. Depending on the day of the Jewish year (holidays, first day of new month, special shabbats), they’ll be done by 12:30 or 1 p.m. Usually.  After that is the oneg, a communal meal. Onegs start with wine and challah, and commence with a full meal. No waiting 4-8 hours to have a covered-dish supper after services. The oneg, outside of very, very, very Reform spaces will be kosher meat or kosher dairy. 

To conduct certain prayers (including the mourner’s prayers and the Torah service) you need a Minyan, which at least 10 Jewish “adults” must be present, defined as post Bar/Bat/Bnai Mitzvah. In Conservative/Reform/Recon, men and women are counted equally. In Ultraorthodox women are not counted. In Modern Orthodox it depends on the congregation, and some congregations will hold women’s-only services as well with at least ten “adult” Jewish women present.

In Conservative and Orthodox shuls, very little English is used outside of speeches and sermons. Prayers are in Hebrew, which many Jews can read the script of but not understand. Transliterations are also a thing.  In Reform synagogues, there’s heavy reliance on the lingua franca (usually English in American congregations). Reconstructionist really varies, but is generally more Hebrew-based than Reform. 

We’re a very inquisitive people. If your character is new to the synagogue, there will be lots of questions at the post-services oneg (meal, typically brunch/lunch). Are you new in town? Have you been here before? Where did you come from? Are you related to my friend from there? How was parking? Do you know my cousin? Are you single? What is your mother’s name? What do you think of the oneg - was there enough cream cheese? What summer camp did you go to? Can you read Hebrew? Have you joined?  A disconnected Jew or gentile might find it overwhelming, but many connected Jews who are used to it would be like “home sweet chaos” because it’s OUR chaos. 

In Orthodox synagogues, men and women have separate seating sections. There may be a balcony or back section, or there may be a divider known as a mechitzah in the middle. Children under 12/13 are permitted on either side, but over 12/13 folks have to stay one section or the other. Yes, this is a problem/challenge for trans and nonbinary Jews.  Mechitzahs are not a thing outside of orthodoxy. Some older Conservative synagogues will have women’s sections, but no longer expect or enforce this arrangement.   

Money. Is. Not. Handled. On. Shabbat. Or. Holidays. Especially. Not. In. The. Synagogue. Seriously, nothing says “goy writing Jews” more than a collection plate in shul. No money plate, no checks being passed around, even over calls for money (as opposed to just talking about all the great stuff they do and upcoming projects) are tacky and forbidden on Shabbat. Synagogues rely on donations and dues, and will solicit from members, but don’t outright request money on holidays and Shabbat. 

Outside of Reform and very nontraditional Conservative spaces, no instruments on Shabbat or holidays. No clapping either. Same goes for phones, cameras, and other electronics outside of microphones (which aren’t permitted in Orthodox services either).  11a. In the now-times an increasing number of shuls have set up cameras ahead of time pre-programmed to record, so they don’t have to actively “make fire” which is “work” (this is the relevant commandment/mitzvah) on Shabbat, so services can be live-streamed. 11b. After someone has completed an honor (reading from the Torah, carrying the Torah, opening the ark, etc), the appropriate response is a handshake after and the words “Yasher Koach” (again, Before-Times).

Jewish services involve a lot of movement. Get up, sit down. Look behind you, look in front of you. Twist left, twist right. A disconnected Jew or gentile visitor would be best off just trying to follow along with what an exchange student we had once termed “Jewish choreography.” Some prayers are standing prayers (if able), some are sitting prayers. It’s just how it is, although a handful of prayers have variations on who stands. 

[reveriequill-rai]

Shroud: Withered Soul

A/N: Sorry it’s been a while. As of right now I’ve just been uploading stories I’ve written in my newspaper club, and now that I’ve graduated I hope that can now expand to short stories generally. I’m not gonna promise that posts from now on will be more consistent, but I would like to at least speed up my uploads a bit before they actually wind down, as I imagine I will be working on more stories in the future. Everything being uploaded right now is previous work, but nothing too old--probably like, from last year tops. This was completed sometime in May, I believe. 

This is an introduction to a character I created called ‘Shroud,’ an amateur self-proclaimed ‘detective’ who exclusively investigates occult-based crimes and malefic.

Content Warning: death, descriptions of corpses, graphic descriptions of violence and pain, cults 

[My blog will usually contain PG-13 stories, and as of right now I am writing some darker content, but I will tag anything that may be especially disturbing or uncomfortable. I’ll include this warning in my bio, too.]

----------

The corpse in front of me wasn’t all that disturbing by itself. I had seen dead people before–comes with the territory. I had been dead before. Murder rates in Twilight were, naturally, much higher than any other district in New Fable–especially further south of the district where I was–considering how much wild magic was around, and not even the police force sent here from the northern district of Bastion could do anything about it. So the corpse itself didn’t bother me, all things considered.

What did disturb me, though, was a number of other things.

For one, the corpse just being there was a problem. They weren’t stopping, and they were getting far too close to home.

Its eyes were still open, for another thing, and nearly colorless, and looking at me specifically, and I can swear to you that had not happened when I first laid eyes on it. Even worse, like me, the man lying dead in front of me appeared to be wearing a few bandages like I was, perhaps just recovering from an injury.

And for yet another thing, and perhaps the worst part of this, was the connection I felt with this dead man. Something about the state he was in struck a familiar chord that only I and a select unlucky others knew. As if we were kindred spirits–undergoing the same fate, yet with (probably) different outcomes.

I had been at this–whatever you would call tracking down cults as someone with zero prior detective experience with the help of almost no one–for…a few months now? And I’ve made a bit less progress than would be expected from someone who has seen just about everything the darker sides of magic had to offer. I did have one solid lead, though, and hopefully one that would lead me to exactly who I was looking for.

“Everyone move,” I ordered, pushing my way through the crowd.

Ignoring their complaints, I made my way over toward the body and began to examine it, hoping for any hint of who had done this, and more importantly, if it was exactly who I had suspected. There didn’t appear to be much damage, but what first caught my attention was the note tucked into the man’s pocket. I took it out and unfolded it, and immediately flinched.

Demon tongue.

Hellish whispers ran through my head, and I wasn’t sure if they were just in my head or not. It was hard to tell these days.

I honed in on the note, written on some old paper as if torn from an ancient book. The more I stared, the louder the whispers got. I ignored the throbbing in my head as best as I could–humans were not mentally equipped to engage with the infernal language at all, and I much less so. My hands shook as I read the brief message, which I must have read dozens and dozens of times already; I wasn’t counting and didn’t care to.

Some people studied demon tongue despite…well…everything, even the illegality. It probably didn’t matter to them. It didn’t matter to me, either, but someone had spoken to me in demon tongue before–though, in their defense, likely not out of their own volition–and the trembling and rapid heart rate was not worth the ability to communicate with infernals. (Nothing was, honestly.)

For these reasons–and also not wanting to be arrested or have my mage license revoked–I personally didn’t speak or write demon tongue, but I at least knew a little bit and could recognize some of the infernal runes. And those runes were enough for me to know that this was the exact same message that the abyss had been trying to send me in my last moments.

—

Can’t run home, I thought. They’ll follow me.

Just gotta run until I find a phone booth.

I ran until I finally spotted one on the street corner near a bridge. I let out a sigh of relief, taking a quick moment to catch my breath. Then, I quickly crossed the street and ran toward the phone booth, quickly dialing the police station.

“Hello?” I said into the phone as quietly as I could manage. “My name is [……………………………] I’m at the corner of Coral Avenue by the Armada IV Memorial Bridge. I’m being pursued by a group of kids in demon-charmed cloaks and shawls, please I need your help they have knives and they’re trying to kill me-“

The tears stinging at the edge of my eyes began to overflow as a human voice at the end of the line responded in perfect, uncharacteristically calm demon tongue. It was a short sentence, repeated over and over again, but with the little knowledge I *did* have, I could translate it by about the sixth loop:

“You are going to hell.”

I hung up the phone immediately, resisting the urge to yell, “I KNOW” directly into the phone.

Humans can’t speak demon tongue here. It’s illegal.

So how did an officer know demon tongue?

—

Unsurprisingly, the body was still in semi-good condition. After all, little damage was done to the body—only the soul. The only physical marks I could make out were marks around the wrist and neck, likely to restrain the victim. Couple of bruises here and there, too, but nothing was broken.

This…disturbed me, to say the least.

Cults around here were usually known to be violent. After all, a lot of them stood for violent causes–executing the ‘impure,’ plunging everyone into the dreams of a volatile eldritch creature, usurping the throne and forcing everyone to convert, rallying the youth to their bloody cause with claims that they alone possessed special powers…I had heard it all, all of them violent to some degree. But the ones that had gotten me…they seemed to worship oblivion itself. Or maybe whatever was in it. That was beyond even my knowledge.

But…even then, they still had arguably the least violent cause. The deadliest, yes–they seemed to just be destroying souls–but strangely not as bloody. Yet their means of carrying out this objective has historically been, well, bloody.

Or maybe that was just me.

Either way, this victim had certainly not gotten the worst of it. There were no twisted limbs, no bloodied nose, no wounds from blade or bullet, basically no magic-driven attacks aside from the terminating consumption of the soul…only marks of the initial restraint, bruises from the subduing, and the abyss claiming and destroying the soul.

I could almost picture it in my head: they likely jumped him in the middle of the street, kicking him around a bit to possibly weaken him, throw him off balance, but not too much as to rouse resistance, then restraining him–to the floor? A wall? I couldn’t tell, but there were no rope burns so they must have done this by hand–and calling, somehow, for their god, for lack of a better word, to devour its newest victim’s soul.

What did he see as he died? Did their eyes turn as colorless as his would become? Had they shown any sign of enjoying his torment? I doubt it; it didn’t seem like a very ‘fun’ kill. And likely not as personal as it was for me.

They were getting much better at their kills. It probably wasn’t as fun, but more precise.

And a lot less violent than I had gotten.

—

I caught a glimpse of the charm from earlier out of the corner of my eye, but just as I looked it vanished. Just then a cold breeze hit me as the door behind me opened, and I was yanked out onto the street, leaving the phone dangling by the cord. The book dropped from my hands.

The four delinquents appeared in front of me from nowhere, likely having turned off their Moonlight Shroud charms.

“Gotcha,” Ransley said, smiling as he picked up the book.

“Give it BACK!” I roared, lunging for him. Ransley hit me hard across the face with the book, sending me flying a few feet back onto the brick road. Quickly I realized that my safety was not worth keeping that book. I didn’t know where or how Ransley learned to hit that hard but I wasn’t going to stick around to find out. As he and the others examined the book, I began to scurry away as Ransley gave an order to the others:

“Get him.”

An instant later, I heard something click far behind me, and a sharp pain ripped through my knee. I collapsed to the floor, letting out an agonized cry. I examined my knee, and saw a hole much bigger than a bullet hole should be. I looked up at my attackers.

A gun?!

“What the HELL?!” I shouted. “You’ve already got what you want! LEAVE ME ALO-“

Ardent appeared behind me and punched me square in the face. I held my probably-broken nose as a muffled shriek of pain escaped me. Each of them vanished and took turns raining blows and slashes on me as I tried to step back and run. They gave me almost no chance to react. My body ached everywhere; the knife wounds, though shallow, stung just as bad, if not worse, as any bee. I could barely stand. I used my remaining strength to try and push them off of me whenever I felt them, but I stumbled each time I did, giving them room to knock me around further. Finally I collapsed, and Ardent grabbed my shirt and dragged me to the bridge.

“W-wait-“ I cried, still wincing and crying from my bruises and decayed knee. “STOP IT!-”

—

I examined the bandages on my hand and knee. The ones from that night must’ve been amateurs, or at least new to the cult’s way of doing things.

Focus, Shroud.

The victim’s eyes were still open, and almost completely empty.

Almost.

The body must not be entirely empty, then. This wasn’t exactly a kill—whoever this person was, they would not be dead for much longer, or at least depending on your definition of ‘dead.’

How long ago had this attack been, then? I touched the skin—still warm-ish. This had to be recent.

By that logic, if this was meant not as a lethal attack, but as one of induction into their group…

I wasn’t sure how long I had been out, but I at least knew it wasn’t for very long.

So…I didn’t have much longer, then.

I instinctively jerked away from the body. Would he come back? He wouldn’t be under anyone’s control, at least for the first few minutes–how long does it take to kill someone? Would it be long enough for him to kill me?–no, he probably wouldn’t go after me; I had barely any soul left for him to long for…unless he’s just that desperate enough to take scraps from a near-husk.

What would he do when he came back? Would he wander around, lost, confused, until they welcomed him with false promises of salvation and freedom from the ‘burden’ of having a judgement-tied soul? Would he be violent, as they had been to him?

Then again…I came back after one of their attacks, but with a will of my own. Did they want me to come back? Why would they want me of all people to come back?

—

“You know how much trouble you caused us, […….…]?!” Ransley shouted as he kicked me in my injured leg. “Don’t act like you didn’t have this coming, you little weasel.”

“I didn’t-“ I tried to say.

Ransley propped me up on the sidewalk, just by the edge of the bridge, right above the river. He placed his hand on my bruised shoulder, looking at me with a bone-chilling grin.

Again, I got a good look at his eyes. This time, everything except the pupils was entirely white. As I looked I almost felt like I was staring at something beyond; further, even. But the harder I looked the more I could see how much nothing there was. And yet, in spite of that, this nothing seemed to be staring back at me.

The others had the same white eyes too, looking on with a horrible satisfaction.

“What…” I barely managed to say, “…what are y-you…?”

“Free,” Ransley answered, without his usual cruelty and instead with an uncharacteristically sanctimonious tone. “And with our help, so too will you be free.”

With a hard shove, I was pushed off the bridge.

I grabbed onto the edge with my hand, barely having the strength to pull myself up.

“T-this is insane-!” I cried. “Ransley! Please! Y-you can keep the book; I won’t call the police, just help me up-“

Ransley frowned and put his boot on my hand. He leaned in as he brought his foot down harder, crushing my hand. Bone splintered and crumbled under the weight of the shoe, and I let out a shriek as a cold look crossed his face.

“You really should stop holding on so much,” he said. “That’s your problem. That’s why you’re here. Just let go, and face oblivion.”

Ransley took his foot off finally, but my hand had run out of strength. I slipped, and fell into the river.

—

Either way, I had to work fast.

“Hey, kid!” Someone from the crowd called. “What’re you doing? Leave this to the professionals.”

I turned around, and maybe it was the speed at which I had whirled around to face them, or he did just flinch.

Was it my eyes?

“The police won’t find them,” I explained. “I know what I’m doing. I’ve studied demonology for a few years.”

I went back to the body.

“You mean you know who did this?” he asked.

“Maybe,” I answered. “I just wanna be sure…”

I pressed down on the bruises on their shoulder and arms. Hollow. I felt no bone or extra layer of skin or muscle underneath.

Just as I suspected, I thought. Soul devouring.

My only question now was, how much of the soul was left?

—-

The bridge wasn’t particularly tall; just enough for any small cargo ships to run under. But the fall felt much longer than it had any right to.

I never hit the water. I was swallowed by something but it certainly wasn’t the river. It was as cold and sharp but nothing wet ever touched my skin or clothes.

I did not fall into water. I fell into something foreign, something dark, something alive, something evil.

Its eyes were beady and attentive, focused, eager, and it had long rows of sharp fangs. It appeared to smile at me, expecting me, welcoming me. Whispers in demon-tongue surrounded me, and I overwhelmed myself trying to find a single word I could understand. The only thing I could catch was “going to hell” again…was this it? Was this hell? What circle was this?

I was immobile, unable to look away from the creature in front of me, unable to scream as it opened its fang-filled mouth. I couldn’t even let out a scream of protest; no, not against this, as it brought down its jaws and took a large bite out of a deep part of me even I could never access. The pain from my bruises and wounds no longer burned; only ached, as if the pain had been there forever.

I was hollow. If there was anything left, I barely even felt it. My wounds glowed a hot white color and became shallow. I felt nothing but an aching nigh-emptiness that seemed to have no origin I could place; no past; only a present and a long future.

I didn’t know how long I was in that void. But as much as I despised that thing for robbing me of my life, I was grateful that it chose to let me go.

—-


I took out my pen from my pocket and a couple of mini-candles from my satchel. I flicked a lighter and lit the candles, surrounding them at different points around the body. I began to draw an evocation circle around the body. I’m not sure what had stopped this cult from performing forced evocations as opposed to beating everyone into submission until they blacked out enough to face the abyss and have their soul devoured, but I wasn’t about to find any sense in a group of people who literally worship the abyss.

I took my time with the intricate webs of the circle, carefully connecting whatever remained of the soul to the points where I would draw in the runes, and connected those to the candles.

I then drew in symbols in the language of the spirits at the different sub-points that would draw up souls from the afterlife, adding a desperate prayer in each pen stroke that I evoke the right thing and not something unwelcome. I had to steady my hand as I did this, reminding myself that this was merely a human soul who was recently killed, so the chances of him having ended up in hell – was he that kind of person? – were slim; they had to be, of course they were; there was no need to panic so stop panicking. Yet knowing I was drawing the same symbols, the same webs, lighting the same candles as the deadly evokers around town who would break into people’s houses and draw evocation circles under their beds to call up who-knows-what from the pits of hell to torment the living…to think I was drawing the same circle that I checked for every night when I went to sleep…

The pen snapped in my shaking hand against the concrete, getting ink all over my hand. I swore, and rubbed some on my finger tip so I could start to finish the circle.

“What the hell are you doing, kid?!” someone cried, making me jump. “You’re tampering with evidence! That’s illegal!”

“You’re gonna screw up the investigation!” someone else shouted.

I steadied myself from being startled.

“This…this is the investigation,” I replied bluntly.

“Wh–okay…? Are you a detective or something?” the first guy asked.

I shrugged.

“I think so,” I said.

“You think-”

I could hear further shouts from the crowd as I turned the body over to draw the rest of the circle underneath, but I held up my hand to stop them from getting closer.

“Just let me work!” I cried without looking back.

That’s when I noticed some of the rapidly-decaying skin near the shoulder and side of the ankles. The skin had withered and given way to bone, the effect cutting through flesh and muscle. Even the bone had begun to decay.

Well, so much for minimal damage.  

I unzipped the victim’s jacket and pulled back the shirt just slightly to get a better look at the damage. The withering had spread further—the entire shoulder seemed about ready to decay. I took a camera out of my bag and took a picture of the decaying wounds.

With the remaining ink, I drew another sigil on the bandage of my injured hand, a heart-shaped eye-like symbol with two lines running up my index and middle finger. It was a painful process and I was just careful enough to have the pen not tear through the bandage, and I placed my shaking hand on the decaying shoulder and closed my eyes. I saw all of the injuries on the man’s body, including where he had been injured–he had a broken arm that had almost finished recovering, and a fractured foot that was also healing, but wasn’t as near completion as his arms. Either way, both of these had stopped healing, and had actually gotten worse, with the bones beginning to decay in both areas.

What was the point of beating people up, breaking them, letting them decay, and then expecting them to join you after you had broken them? My attackers probably went through the same thing as this man had–as I had, if this cult was larger than them. So why do the same thing to others?

But that was just it, though, wasn’t it?

They knew what it was like to be soulless, and only they knew not only how to recover from the injuries suffered, but how to disguise themselves as living to avoid trouble with the law.

I looked again at the bandages on my hand, and unraveled it slightly, careful not to let the crowd see. There, too, did my flesh begin to decay. This was the primary issue with not having a soul: without the very essence that gives us life, our bodies aren’t capable of self-healing anymore. Any injuries are permanent unless fixed by a doctor, or if we tend our own wounds.

Fortunately my bones—at least in my hand—hadn’t completely withered away. I managed to revive just in time, fortunately.

Just in time.

——

I don’t remember much about the day I woke up. Just the excruciating, aching pain.

What I did know was I had washed up on the shore of the city, and I couldn’t stand up for a very long time. A burning sensation enveloped my entire hand and knee, and I felt a throbbing sensation in both areas. The bruises from the beatdown stuck on me like a leech, but most vividly, my chest felt hollow. And it hurt. The emptiness gnawed at the inside of my chest, and it, too, burned and ached. Like a stomach ache in the wrong place.

With my good hand I crawled my way off of the shore until I found a lamppost. I grabbed onto it, and propped up my good knee. I swung my arm toward the lamppost, grabbing onto it with my bad hand, shocks of pain running through my body. I tried to haul myself up, but the weight of my body caved my knee in, and I collapsed. That’s when I got a good look at my hand.

Bits of skin had completely come off, seeming to have withered away. Pieces of bone underneath had chipped off.

I grew nauseous and I felt the blood drain from my face. I let out some inhuman noise that I reckoned was some attempt at a scream but came out as a cross between that and a moan of agony.

How had this happened?

It was a horrible sound, but at least I had been found. Otherwise, who knows what would’ve happened?

Or who else would’ve found me?

——

Finishing the circle grew tricky as my hand trembled, though I was unsure if it was from the injury or from the reality of the process itself.

“Kid, we don’t even know who you are,” the guy from earlier said. “Are you even a licensed detective?”

I ignored him and wiped some of the ink from my pen on my hand, pressing my hands together to activate the circle. As the soul fire candles flared, what little color was left in their eyes drained slowly, and a small, glowing, deteriorated wisp of a soul rose out of the victim’s body.

This was all that was left…

Somehow this dead man was just the same as I, who could still breath, still walk, still talk, still live—but only just.

What had this man’s soul seen before it was decimated? If, in fact, the same people who killed me are responsible for this, did he, too, see the same grinning face in the abyss that I had? Was he as afraid as I was? Or did he accept this as death?

I took my mage’s license out of my pocket and showed it to the crowd.

“I’m a licensed magic user,” I said, “is that enough?”

“…that’s not a detective license,” the same guy said. “I’m calling the police.”

“Great!” I said. “Tell them the Brotherhood of Abyss Walkers did this.” At this point it was all but confirmed.

“The…what?”

“The cult that keeps tormenting this forsaken town,” I explained. “The one behind all the unexplained murders.”

The guy—along with the rest of the crowd—stifled a laugh. Some of them couldn’t hold it in.

“There’s no cult in New Lumanore,” someone else said. “Our security’s airtight; no way they would’ve been able to form a guild without a license.”

“Just call the authorities, Aaron,” a lady in the crowd said. “This kid isn’t worth persuading.”

“W-wait-“ I said before letting out a resigned sigh. I packed up the candles and pocketed my pen, and took off. I knew who the culprit was. What the police had to say didn’t bother me.

They’ll believe me when I put the culprit behind bars.

—————

In previous investigations I managed to pin down the general area where the Abyss Walkers operate. Prior murders took place at least within a mile’s range of Eclipse Avenue, an area further south of New Lumanore. It was a relatively quiet and empty area; there were quite a bit of shops and buildings of unknown function that no one ever seemed to go into, not even during the day.

The entire place screamed occult activity.

Sure enough, just as I hit the corner of the avenue I caught a glimpse of a Moonlight Shroud charm, pinned to the outwear of a hooded figure. They were walking along the other side of the street, hanging close to the bare wall of a wide building.

Once they were some distance along I crossed the street quickly and began tailing them.

Confrontation wasn’t new to me, just…unfavorable. Is that why I trembled? Either way I knew the procedure: Walk with the same beat. Same path, same pattern of step. Stop when he stops. Walk like this until the shadow is close enough for contact.

Once I did I took out a capsule from my coat. It contained shadow ink, allowing me to either create my own shadow, or to hide within someone else’s. I didn’t have enough of a soul to perform any magical feats on my own–whatever I could do would probably just come out as sparks–so this was the best I could work with. Unfortunately the capsule was nearly empty, and I made a mental note to contact my supplier after I was finished. In the meantime, I used what was left to lather my hand in ink as I silently crept behind the lone cultist, and pressed my hand against his shadow. I latched on and eventually got pulled in. Inside the shadow realm, I had a black-and-white view of the street from inside the wall. I couldn’t breathe, though, and I couldn’t hold my breath for very long so I knew I had to jump him sooner rather than later.

I took a coin out of my pocket and tossed it outside behind the cultist. He stopped and turned around, as expected, and I took the moment to lunge out and grab him by the throat.

—————

The cultist narrowed his eyes, and an amused smirk came on his face.

“Hey…” he said. “I know you.”

I flinched. How?

He kicked me off and stood up.

“You…you’re the kid we got that book from!” He chuckled. “You don’t quit, do you? This is really what you chose to do after death? Vigilante work?”

I felt the blood drained from my face.

“…what are you talking about?” I lied. “What book?”

“The demonology book, stupid,” he said. “The thing damning you to begin with. You forgot already? Or did you lose your memories alongside almost all your soul somehow?”

I clenched my fist, resisting the urge to charge at him again. I couldn’t take him in a head-on fight. I was too weak for that.

“Tell me,” he said. “How’s it feel? Being so close to freedom, so close to ridding yourself of that moral creed weighing you down…no fear of rapture…just your life and your…well, I suppose now broken…body, and your heart and mind.”

“Shut up,” I snapped.

“Good thing you came back, though. We’ve been slacking on our initiations recently…Ardent went a little too hard on too many people. We’re behind on our quota.”

“Wait a sec…” I took a step back. “What do you mean ‘too hard?’ Aren’t they supposed to come back?”

“The idiot decided to use magic to slow the initiates down,” the cultist explained. “As if that wouldn’t damage the soul at all. I’m sure you of all people know. You’ve taken enough beatings form him, right, D–“

I punched him in the face. The second I made contact I realized I had used my bad hand without thinking. Bone snapped, collapsed, and even shifted through the hole in my hand. I let out a far-too-loud shriek of agony as I recoiled and caressed my hand, trying to relocate the bone.

The cultist looked at me and laughed, and I raised a finger on my good hand and threatened him:

“Don’t try that again,” I said. “I’ve still got one—ahh…—perfectly functioning hand.”

“Fine by me,” he replied. “You hit hard for a dead person…”

My hand still ached from the punch. I imagine it probably hurt me way more than it hurt him.

“Do you mean to turn me in, Shroud?” the cultist hissed. “Just try it. I know who you are. They’ll find out you’re undead and investigate you to hell and back. Whatever decimal of a soul you have left won’t save you. Not even close.”

“I can’t trust you with that information even if I let you go,” I said. “But even if you do…I’ll know sooner or later if you’ve said something. You best not try it if you don’t wanna die twice.”

The cultist grinned.

“I’m shaking,” he said, deadpan. “I’ll just come back again.”

“What, are there no revival limits in your little group?”

“Nope. He’ll bring us back again and again as long as he needs us.”

“That sounds terrible.”

“Oh, you’ve only been resurrected once, you big baby,” the cultist said. “You’ll get used to it.”

“I’m not joining you.”

“You have no reason not to,” the cultist said. “We can fix your broken body; make you look and seem as alive as the next person. Those remnants of a soul may not matter to the police, who’ll mark you as soulless anyway, but you know who it does matter to?” He pointed at the sky and at the group. “Them. Someone like you, who’s spent hours learning about heaven’s enemies…you think you have any chance of reaching heaven? HA!”

I fell silent. Just when I thought being registered as ‘dead’ to everyone you know meant they wouldn’t bother you about being a (rookie) demonologist anymore. That reminder worked my last nerve, yet every time it was brought up I could never muster up a proper defense.

“…I’m aware,” I mumbled.

“Besides, I’m sure you’re just livid at the police, who never caught who got you. I’m sure you’d like your vengeance against them for failing you…we can help you out with that, if you’d like. After all, why should we fear death, or judgement, from this life or the next? Like I’ve said, we’ve got no soul to weigh us down to heaven or hell. No death, no judgment. Just you, whatever you wanna do, and a welcoming oblivion who’ll spit you back out as many times as needed. As long as you keep it fed, that is.”

“It doesn’t matter if the police know or if they don’t know,” I said. “I know. And I’ll know more than they ever will. Besides, why the hell would I trust you to give me closure about my death–the death YOU caused?!”

The cultist frowned.

“And that’s just the trouble, isn’t it…you’re just about soulless, and the only soulless person New Lumanore who isn’t with us and…for what? You lose nothing by joining us!”

“First of all,” I shouted. “I am not soulless. Your stupid demon didn’t take all of it.”

“Yeah. Still not sure why that happened,” the cultist replied, “but who am I to question the great abyss–”

“Oh, shut up. And second of all–just in case you forgot–YOU KILLED ME! I don’t owe you loyalty, or gratitude, or mercy…I owe you nothing.”

“You may be upset now,” the cultist said, “but you’ll learn to thank us later.”

“I will not.”

His frown turned into a scowl. He took out a small cylinder from his pocket.

“I was gonna use this the day of the attack,” he said, “but I didn’t see any point. Seemed like the others were doing just fine without the staff.”

Sure enough, the cylinder popped open into a metal bo-staff. He walked towards me, twirling it through his fingers.

“You’ve been chasing the wrong thing, Shroud,” he said. “You think you need vengeance, but what you really need is security. We all know what being soulless is like. You’re weaker, you can’t heal your wounds, you can’t do magic, and it’s pretty obvious when you’ve just come back from the dead. I don’t care what three-percent of a soul you do have; it’s nowhere near enough for you to enjoy all the privileges of being fully human. Face it. You’re basically the same as us.”

As I stepped back, he stopped spinning the staff and instead gripped it with both hands.

“So you can either let go of those remnants you have the audacity to still call a soul, then come with us and let us give you the safety you so desperately need,” he said, rearing the staff back, “…or we’ll just break you further and let oblivion do what it wishes with your remains.”

He started to bring the staff down.

“WAIT!” I yelled, bringing my hands to my face.

Surprisingly enough, he actually froze, the staff a couple inches from my face.

“Okay…I get it…” I said. “You’re right. I won’t turn you in. Just…promise me you won’t tell anyone who I am.”

“What’s stopping me?” the cultist asked, cocking his head slightly and raising an eyebrow.

“Look. I didn’t turn you in,” I said. “You owe me.”

“No I don’t. I’m not tied to anything but oblivion.”

I let out an annoyed huff.

“Like I said. I’ll know if you exposed me,” I reminded him. “I don’t care if that scares you or not, just…let me go.”

“Let YOU go?! You jumped ME!”

“And I had—I…thought…I had the right to. Look…I’m backing down. You go about your night. I go about mine. We don’t speak of this.”

The cultist hesitated, then put the staff away.

“Fine,” he said. “But we’ll still come back for you. Whether or not your initiation goes smoothly is entirely on you.”

With that, he pulled out the same charm he had on the day of the attack, and vanished.

“See you around,” he said.

That was the last I heard of him that night.

Once I thought I was safe, I let out a loud groan of annoyance.

I had him. He was literally a few feet away. If I *just* had more shadow ink that would’ve been it for him.

But…he was right. I was at every possible disadvantage. And I couldn’t work like that. I shouldn’t have jumped him. I should’ve just taken note of his appearance and went from there. That was foolish on my part.

But…I did have his appearance now.

But he had my identity.

I still wasn’t at a complete advantage. And I couldn’t work like that. I had to lay low, and rebuild. My hand was wounded and I was lucky I didn’t get my skull bashed in. There was no way I could have recovered from that. But I wouldn’t give up. I had a lead and I wasn’t letting go of it.

I didn’t care about their ‘freedom’ or ‘not being tied down’ or anything like that. Fact of the matter is, they were hurting people, and their demon lord had more control over them than they’d realize.

They were beyond redemption. The demon didn’t bind them through any soul manipulation or contract–it was some weird combination of free will, gratitude, and the threat of permanent death.

These cultists had to go, and quickly. They had to pay, and dearly.

I know I’m weak, but once I’m back up and running I would do as much damage from the shadows as humanly possible.

They weren’t bound by any rules, so why should I have to be?

I didn’t care how many times I would get hurt. They ruined my life, and I was going to pay them back tenfold.

[justletmeplayminecraft]

so @martuzzio‘s space outlaws au gave me another idea for a fic. this is the result. zedaph’s sheep part being afraid of ren which somehow turned into a wider exploration of zed being new to the ship & a not-quite human disaster! is it wider au compliant? who knows! but i had fun writing it. hope you have fun reading. 

featuring: it’s harder than expected adapting to being on the same ship as a werewolf when you are, in fact, part sheep. also with copious team zit bullying friendship, stress being stress, and self discovery.

It's only been two weeks on the Hermit Craft when Zedaph realises he has a problem. He meets Ren in the corridor by complete accident. One of the few times he leaves Tango or Impulse's side, and he gets lost. The ship is bigger than anything he's been on before but he doesn't want the embarrassment of asking for help over the communicators. He probably wanders for around an hour before Ren finds him. Ren with his ears and his teeth- oh they're pretty sharp aren't they?

"Hey, Zedaph, right?" Ren holds a hand out. His smile is friendly, but the dark eyes make Zedaph swallow. He puts on a similar smile, reaching out to shake Ren's hand.

"Um, yeah," he replies, "And you're Ren?" He says like he isn't innately aware of the werewolf on the ship.

"That's me!" Ren's ears twitch. "Tango sent me to find you. Thought you might've gotten lost." Zedaph laughs, reaching to rub the back of his neck. He looks down the corridor that looks the same as every other one he's been down today.

"Um, a bit," he admits. He keeps Ren in his vision, shifting his weight from foot to foot. If Ren notices his anxiety (Zedaph's not sure how he couldn't), he doesn't comment on it.

"Good job I've got the super senses to find you!" Ren stands up straight, looking proud of himself as if he didn't just deliver one of the most terrifying things Zed's heard. "I'll take you back to Tango."

Zedaph nods, "I'd appreciate that." As he follows behind Ren, he decides he's going to rip Tango a new one. Well and truly.

-

See, the thing is: Zedaph isn't human. Not completely. Maybe 85% human if he threw an estimate out there. He doesn't hide this on purpose. In fact, he announces it right there when he introduces himself. Hi, my name's Zedaph, and I'm part sheep! But he doesn't make an effort to correct people when they assume it's a joke. That part is a little more on him. Compared to the other non-humans on board, he's pretty tame. The hair is easy to pass off with a bit of effort. His face is... his face. It's no surprise that the other Hermits assume he's human, nothing more.

It's not a problem, except for Ren.

It's not Ren's fault, of course. Ren's a perfectly nice guy! Probably! He's got a friendly demeanour, often bouncing around the Hermits with bright enthusiasm. Zed even has a list of evidence why Ren is perfectly nice, including: Xisuma lets him on the ship, Tango and Impulse like him, Jellie likes him too! None of these things change the undeniable problem, however, that Ren is a werewolf. Ren is a werewolf and Zedaph is very much part sheep! It is everything Zedaph has been taught to avoid. Now he's living on a ship with it. He's not prepared.

-

"You sent Ren to get me!" Zedaph whines, pacing the edges of the engine room. Tango twists to look at him.

"Well, he was going to find you fastest. Unless you wanted me to bother Xisuma." Zedaph groans, throwing his arms out.

"I felt like I was going to faint!" He protests, flinging his hand in Tango's direction like it in any way proves his point. Tango turns to face him, crossing his arms.

"Ren's perfectly fine. He's probably one of the least intimidating Hermits." Zedaph shuts his eyes, breathing in deeply.

"I get that. I very much get that. But look at me, Tango."

Tango tilts his head, "I'm looking." Zedaph gives him an unimpressed glare.

"I'm part sheep! He's a werewolf!"

"Ah." Tango's face softens, his tone turning genuine. "This is really bothering you, isn't it?"

"Yes!" Zedaph gathers the strands of hair that have fallen into his face. He twists them back into the rest. "I can't just avoid him forever!" Tango hums, tapping his foot.

"I'm sure we can figure something out," he says, sounding far calmer than Zed feels.

"We're going to have to." He needs to get over himself. He only just got here, he can't go disrupting things and getting kicked out. No, he's not losing Tango and Impulse again so soon. No way. "When does he next transform, anyway?" Tango squints his eyes to think.

"I'm not sure," he admits, "a week or two? He had one a few days before you arrived." Thankfully, Zedaph's world ending sigh remains internal. How is he supposed to cope with a transformed werewolf on the ship? He drags his hands down his face.

"Tango, I'm going to die." Tango rolls his eyes. Zedaph ducks the wrench that is thrown at him.

"We only just got you back! We're not losing you again because you're afraid of a lovable, fluffy were-Ren."

Zed feels some of the pressure leave his chest as the tone lightens. "Now you're bullying me. Impulse wouldn't bully me."

"Once you get over this fear," Tango tells him, "We're both going to bully you."

"Oh! You come here where I can fight you!"

"What, you can't handle this heat?"

"Get over here!"

-

The topic comes back up again in the evening. Impulse is in the middle of complaining that Zedaph needs his own clothes. He's started doing that this last week. Zedaph agrees. He does want his own wardrobe - two somewhat tattered robes and his precious shawl are nowhere near enough - but he wants to annoy Impulse even more. It's only Impulse's clothes he steals. Tango's are all too well fitted, hold too much heat, or are literally on fire. Never mind how hot his room is.

"I don't mind it," Impulse amends, despite the evidence contrary, "But those are literally singed. I can't wear them." Okay, maybe he should’ve been more careful in the engine room.

"It's Tango's fault!" He interjects. "He provoked me!"

"We'll find a way to repair them-" Tango waves him off, "-Get Zed some clothes whilst we do." Zedaph rolls onto his back, sticking his feet on Impulse's lap.

"I want to look cute," he decides. Impulse pats his feet, rolling his eyes.

"We still need to get you a proper suit." Zedaph looks at Tango, dressed in his. He smiles to himself, settling down again and getting comfortable. His own suit, with all the labels. He'd be a proper Hermit then. They want him to be one.

"We'll get there," Tango drops into the armchair, kicking his legs over the arm. "But, you want to know what tasty news I learnt today?" Zedaph pokes his head up to glare at him.

"Don't you-"

"Zedaph here is afraid of Ren!" Zedaph groans. Impulse frowns, allowing Tango to steal the bowl of popcorn from his lap.

"Ren? Why's that?" Zedaph sighs, closing his eyes.

"He's a werewolf and I'm like, part sheep. Very distantly, yes, but I just- it's hard! I know he's probably a nice person-"

"He is. He's a nice person."

"He is a nice person, but I feel nervous around him. He's got those eyes and the ears and the teeth."

"Okay. And that makes you nervous?" Impulse sounds genuinely concerned. Zedaph opens his eyes to see his sympathetic expression.

"I guess? I feel kind of stupid about it. I mean, I'm okay with Tango and he's literally on fire."

"Hell yeah I am," Tango murmurs, shoving popcorn into his mouth.

"We can figure things out," Impulse reassures him. "Explain the situation, give you some space whilst you get used to him." Zedaph hums, his eyes slipping shut again.

"I don't want to be afraid of him," he admits. He pulls the pillow behind him into his arms, pressing it against his chest. "I don't wanna upset him and get kicked out." He hears a sharp inhale.

"You're not going to be kicked anywhere," Impulse tells him, voice confident. "We won't let you."

"Besides, you think we get along all the time?" Tango adds. "We have fights and whatever. But we're adults. We figure that out."

"You'll be fine, Zed. We've gotten over bigger hurdles." Zedaph rolls onto his side, letting the words wash over him like a blanket.

"Yeah-" He yawns "-I don't think I'm gonna stay awake for movie night." Impulse rubs his leg.

"You get some sleep, buddy. We'll be right here."

"Yep. Can't get rid of us that easily."

"I'd hope not," Zedaph replies. This can wait until the morning.

-

Just because it can wait doesn't mean anything changes. Zedaph finds himself growing more anxious when he learns about Ren's calendar marked Transformation Day. He stops looking at the calendars altogether. He's sworn Tango and Impulse to secrecy for now. Out of embarrassment, more than anything. This is a uniquely him problem, after all. The other two can't solve it for him.

They do help, though. He thinks they're having fun with it, telling him where Ren is in the ship, eating meals with him, acting as a buffer when needed. It can't last forever, though. Zedaph thinks the others are noticing them always skirting out of rooms if Ren is there. Or sitting all the way on the other side. Just... It's going to raise questions eventually.

And, eventually, he's going to get caught out.

As much as the three stick together (they have a lot of time to make up for) Zedaph ends up on his own occasionally. He's trying to reach out to the other Hermits. He can't live on this ship and not know anyone. So it's only natural, that whilst he's on his own, Ren approaches him. It's a near thing, but Zedaph's relieved he doesn't faint after turning to him.

"Hey, um, Zedaph?" Ren's shoulders are dipped, his hands twisting together in front of him. Zedaph stumbles back a step, waving before slamming his hand by his side.

"Ren! Hello!" He shuffles his hands before clutching them together to hide any shaking. "Can I help you?" Ren shakes his head, his ears strangely flat.

"No, I just- Have I done anything to upset you, man?" Zedaph presses his lips together, trying to put together his phrasing.

"No, no, you're absolutely fine. Nothing's wrong with you." He digs his fingers into his hand, resisting the urge to wave them around like an absolute fool. "I'm the problem. Oh now it sounds like we're breaking up. No- just- I'm the problem. Not you. You're fine. Lovely, even."

"Oh." Ren smiles, a hint of canines showing behind his lips. Zed feels his stomach drop.

"That being said I, uh, really need to be somewhere I'm really sorry I need to go-" Ren's eyes widen and he steps back.

"Oh, that's fine, yeah-" Zedaph glances down the hallway, backing away from Ren.

"That's great, I'll, um, see you around some time!" He continues quickly down the corridor, not turning away from Ren until he rounds the corner.

So, yeah. That could've gone better.

-

"You've been upsetting Ren." Zedaph startles at the appearance of Stress in front of him. Her arms are crossed tight across her chest and hair shadows her eyes. He winces.

"I have?" His voice squeaks and he can feel heat rising to his cheeks.

"Yes." Her expression betrays nothing. "You've been avoiding him and I want to know why." Zedaph's mouth hangs open, searching for words.

"I'm part sheep."

She blinks, "You what?" The confusion is far preferable to that glare.

"Well, like, not technically a sheep? It's a species that's distantly related to a sheep. It's kind of complicated and involves a history of gene splicing and experimentation. But I'm not entirely human and being around Ren makes me nervous."

"Okay." Stress puts her hand on Zedaph's arm, pulling him into the med-bay.

"Wha- Stress?" She sits him on one of the beds, pulling up a chair and opening a file. Zedaph tries to peer around and read the reversed text. "Is that my record?" She gives no suggestion she heard him.

"Alright." She looks up at him, hand poised to type. "You're going to explain all that to me properly."

"All what?"

"Your species, dummy!" She rolls her eyes with a flair of dramatic. "I'm pretty much your doctor! I gotta know what I'm treating."

"Oh." That makes more sense.

"Yeah, oh! Medically negligent you are. We'll come back to the Ren issue, this is more important."

"I'm not planning to get injured anytime soon." She laughs, high and carefree, shaking her head.

"You've been on this ship for like a month!" She replies. Her entire demeanour has changed with her smile. Her shoulders have dropped, legs kicking as she types. Her accent is stronger too. "Everyone's a danger magnet. So come on. Give me the deets."

It's easy to talk to Stress once he gets past the Ren issue. He's not talked to any of the Hermits about his family yet. Stress listens, noting things down and saying she'll do more research on any differences she needs to know. When she asks to touch his hair, he agrees and enjoys the delighted look on her face as she plays with it. It leaves them in a much better place to talk about Ren when she next brings it up.

"So," she says, in that tone where you know something bad will follow it. "Ren being a werewolf makes you nervous."

"Yeah." He leans back on the bed. "It's not his fault. It's just my prey instinct. I don't know how to get over it." Stress hums, drumming her hands against her thighs.

"What about exposure therapy?"

"Exposure therapy?"

"You know, where you like, do stuff with the thing that scares you-"

Zedaph holds his hands up, "No, no, no. I know what it is." He shoves his hands between his legs. "Last time I spoke to Ren I saw his teeth and had to flee."

Stress frowns, "Yeah, he may've mentioned that." Zedaph feels all his dignity draining away. "We can figure this out though. I know he transforms in-" She holds the word as she checks her calendar, "Four days now. He wouldn't want to spook you accidentally. Not more than he already has. He thinks he's done something awful to you without realising."

"No! Of course not."

"Exactly. I mean, look." She slides her phone into her hand. "Maybe I can show you pictures of him? That might help." Zedaph sighs, offering a tired nod.

"We've not got any better ideas." He leans across as Stress adjusts herself so he can see the pictures. She shuffles as she flicks through them faster than Zedaph can take them in. She backtracks a few.

"Okay, here we go!" Zedaph looks at the picture, of the ball of fluff taking up half of the picture. For a werewolf he is... Remarkably fluffy looking. He can just about make out a face in the darkness, eyes shut and a tongue sticking out.

"That's Ren?" Zedaph asks, glancing to her. She nods and flicks through a couple.

"He's a bit loud, but he's a right softie, really." She plays a video of Ren chasing after a ball, tail wagging. Zedaph raises a hand to hide his smile. "He doesn't know I have these, don't tell him."

"Is he always this... Dog like?" Zedaph asks, leaning onto his hands.

Stress nods, "He is! A proper cutie." She flicks to the next one, Ren smiling wide. Zedaph cringes away, pulling his arms up for protection. She looks at him, rubbing his arm encouragingly. "It's okay! It's only a picture." Zedaph bounces, breathing slowly until he gets the courage to look again. Ren's not in a scary pose. Still a massive fluffball, lying on his back. Zedaph still finds it hard to breathe if he focuses on those teeth.

"He's... He's cute looking?" Zedaph can't even force himself to sound sure. Stress laughs, bumping his shoulder.

"We can work on it! We'll get you warmed up to him."

"Yeah. Yeah, I think that would be nice."

-

"You managed to eat with him in the same room." Impulse sounds so proud for such a simple statement. Both him and Tango have been busy today, so Zedaph ended up spending it with Stress, acting as an assistant when Hermits came through the med-bay. It was interesting. He still needs to find a role on this ship. Somewhere where he fits. He can't be Impulse and Tango's shadow forever.

"Yeah," he replies, feeling a bit proud of himself too. Sure Ren was on the other side of the room, but he still sat there! He only got a little nervous when Ren laughed!

"See, we told you it would get better." Tango is leaning on the wall outside his room. It's nice having this moment before they part ways for the night. Or at least, when they’ve decided to sleep.

"It's a start," Zedaph corrects. He has work to do until he's completely comfortable with Ren. He doesn't want to cause problems with the already stressful transformation.

"Look at you." Impulse rubs Zedaph's hair, pressing it against his head. "Being grown up and stuff."

"I've been grown up for awhile," Zedaph reminds him. "And I still act older than Tango."

"Hey."

"That's not hard."

"Hey." Zedaph laughs, resting his hands on his hips. Tango scoffs at both of them. "I get no respect."

"Well," Impulse smiles pleasantly, "Maybe if you did something for us to respect you."

"Oh I am so going to burn the rest of your clothes."

"No you are not!" Zedaph snorts, standing out of the way. He's missed this. He's really missed this.

-

"Hey, Zedaph?" He doesn't jump this time when Ren calls to him. He turns and smiles, offering a wave.

"Hi, Ren! It's nice to see you." Ren offers a small smile in return, keeping his lips together. Zedaph focuses on his eyes instead. He's figuring this out. He's doing it.

"I just wanted to let you know I'm transforming tomorrow. You gonna be okay? Know what part of the ship to stay away from?" Zedaph nods, a soft feeling in his chest.

"Yeah, Stress gave me the brief." A very thorough brief. He had to take notes. "I'll be fine. You've got to take care of yourself!" Ren laughs, hiding his mouth with his hand.

"I've got Stress to look after me, don't you worry. We're practised."

"Good! I'm sorry for making all this awkward for you. I'm figuring it out, promise."

Ren shakes his head, "No, I get it. It's not fun having instincts you can't turn off. We'll muddle through this, yeah?"

"Yeah! You seem like a cool guy."

"So do you. See you on the other side?" Zedaph nods in agreement.

"See you on the other side."

-

"Remember when Zed was afraid of Ren?" Zedaph blinks his eyes open, poking his head up from Ren's fur. He can see Ren's eyes glinting in the darkness as he stretches out beneath him.

"Remember when you two didn't bully me?" Zedaph whines, yawning as he stretches into an upright position.

"Nope, definitely not." Tango is stood in the doorway, Impulse poking his head around. Zedaph moves to pet through Ren's fur. It's always so soft and silky.

"We came to check if you two wanted anything, ignore him." Impulse pulls Tango back as he speaks. Zedaph smiles, looking down to Ren.

"You need anything?" Ren blinks, shaking his head. He sets it back down again, obviously stifling a yawn. Zedaph just makes sure to avoid looking at the teeth. "We're good."

"Okay. Don't be afraid to contact us if you do, alright?"

"Will do," Zed assures them. He's not afraid of reaching out anymore. The Hermits are like a family. He doesn't know where he'd be without them.

"We'll see you in the morning!" Tango calls.

"Have a good night."

"You too," Zedaph replies. He settles back onto Ren as the door closes, resting his cheek against the warm fur. "I missed them, you know?" He whispers, running his fingers through Ren's fur. He can see Ren's eyes watching him, deep and focused. He smiles. "They're like my brothers. It was hard with them gone." He laughs, throwing his other arm across Ren. "But now I've got all of you. I think that's an improvement, right?"

Ren makes a tiny bark, something he apparently practised just for Zed.

"Yeah. I agree," he smiles, before breaking into a giggle. "Thanks for tonight. You're a comfy pillow." Ren's tail beats gently against the ground. "I'm glad we've figured things out." He lets his eyes slip closed, breathing out. "Right-" he yawns, "-I'm going back to sleep." Ren exhales beneath him, leaving Zedaph to sink into his fur.

Yeah, he could get used to this.

[melanoradrood]

fic prompt Simon and Daphne: “Need some help?” One of them walks in on the other touching themselves.

Two Part Situation Prompts

Idk what you were expecting. It was likely not this. It is what it is. Heads up it’s hella nsfw and I regret nothing this is 1000% fact this would fucking happen lbr.

Simon groaned, his hand sliding over his cock, feeling it harden within his grasp. It had been some months since he had last done such a thing, given the pretty little wife he had, and how desperate they always felt for one another, but his blood was pumping after the hunt, and his wife had not yet returned from the village. He could wait for her, of course, and had bathed in the meantime, but now he was naked, fresh from the water, and his heart was still racing.

For a moment, he paused, imagining what his wife would say, to find him touching himself. They had never discussed such things, nor had it ever come up in conversation even after he had encouraged her to touch herself. He was always with her when she did such, and he doubted she would do it without him. Besides, they shared a bed, shared all their time together. He had never denied her, would never deny her.

He ached for her, even now as his thumb rolled over the head of his prick. Her hands, her tiny little hands sliding down his chest, over his stomach, lower… she had never touched him here, had never touched his cock, had never let it harden in her hand, had never explored him like that. He had never asked, and could not imagine having her take him in her mouth, that beautiful little mouth that he devoured every chance he could, but now that the thought was in his head, he could not get past it.

Gods above, he wanted her even when he was not with her, could see her face looking up at him, big eyes wide as her lips pouted…

No. He would never ask his wife such a thing, and she would never offer. It felt nearly dishonorable, to have his wife do something for him that only whores had ever performed before. He groaned, still, at the thought of her breasts spilling from the top of her dress as he tugged it down, wanting to see them while she sucked on his prick. He even imagined her touching herself as she did so, imagined the pair of them getting off together-

“Daphne,” he groaned, his eyes rolling back in his head as he tugged himself in another long stroke.

“Need some help?”

Her voice came from nowhere, and he nearly fell over, the bath sheet that had fallen to the floor around him tangling up his feet as he whirled around, seeing his wife standing there with her shawl in one hand, a smirk on her lips.

He had taught her that pleased little smirk, had flashed it at her every time he had her screaming while they were both still fully dressed, and to see it now, when he was naked before her, touching himself-

“Wh-What?” he asked, not even certain this was real. Certainly, his wife was not truly here, looking like a vision.

“I offered to help you with that,” she said primly, entering the room. The door fell shut behind her, and she dropped her shawl to the ground, kicked off her slippers as she approached him. “You are always so willing to please me… I should like to do the same.”

This was not real, of that, Simon could be certain. There was no way his wife was standing before him, her lips parted and her eyes on his cock, still hard in his hand. She reached out a hand towards it, and he sucked in a breath, his stomach tensing as she nearly brushed her fingers over it.

“I know that we have been… we have been trying,” she finally said, her lips pressing together. They were still not with child, and he knew that that worried her, but he had no fears. A child would come in time. Or it would not. He would worship her either way. “But… I enjoy pleasing you. Hearing that groan when you… release yourself into me.”

Her cheeks had turned red at her words, still feeling embarrassed when she discussed their coupling, but he adored it, how sweet she was when she spoke of their time together. At some moments, it was filth, the way they clung to one another and fucked one another, but without fail, she always made it sound like poetry when they became one.

She was perfect, his darling Duchess.

“I would never dare to ask-”

“You are not asking,” she says, interrupting as she looks up at him. “I’m offering. Or, well, asking if I might… if I might touch you.”

Her lips pouted at him slightly, a perfect little picture, with her eyes staring into his soul. He was unable to deny her when she looked at him like this, and the idea it was because she wanted to please him…

“Will you allow me to touch you, Simon? Will you show me how to please you?”

He nearly groaned at hearing her ask those words, so explicit, asking permission for her to explore him with her hands, at the very least… no, he would not even consider the idea of her mouth. But, to have her touch him? He was a fortunate man indeed.

“I am yours, your Grace,” he said with a groan, releasing himself so that he might reach out towards her. His hand caught her chin, forcing her attention up to him, wanting her to see the truth as he spoke. “But you need not do this, Daphne. I crave being between your thighs above all things.”

She smiled at him prettily, and took his hand, leading him towards the chaise. He fell onto it, his legs sprawled, and he watched as his wife delicately sat between his legs, her gaze entirely on his cock.

“Perhaps I simply want to know what it is like,” she said, her voice sounding near enough to cracking. It meant she was nervous, but he knew, then, not to push it again. If his wife wanted something, he would give it to her, every time.

“Then I shall show you,” he says, and he watches her face as he reaches down, grabbing himself. His grip is firm as he strokes himself, once, twice, and then lets it fall again, the heavy weight of it making a noise as it struck his stomach. “Just like that… only without stopping.”

She nodded up at him, then reached out towards him, touching it gently, fingers trailing upwards. He tried to remain still, but a groan escaped him, his head falling back. Gods, her touch was so dainty, it felt like a tease, and he had already been close. It might not take much to push him over, but he wanted to know what it felt like to have her hand wrapped around it, as best she could.

“It is so soft,” she said, her voice sounding as though it was in wonder, and he forced his head up to look at her, watching as she tried to wrap her fingers around it. “And it pulses. How strange.”

His cock twitched in her hand as she pumped it, and he tried to not cry out, but already, he thought he might lose it.

“Daph-” he begged, his hand reaching down to cover hers. “Another time, my darling, but I am already so close, let me have you, let me-”

“I could use my mouth?” she offered, their hands still pumping together.

And then he was coming, coming at the very thought of her mouth around him. His body bowed up, rising off the chaise as he breathed hard, feeling his body lose all control. He could feel his cum spraying onto his stomach, her hand, his hand, even the fabric he lay upon, and his head fell back as he tried to catch his breath, not believing he had just cum like a school boy at his first whore house.

Their hands released, and he opened his eyes just in time to see Daphne lifting her hand to her lips, tasting some of the liquid on her fingers. He groaned again, choking out a laugh as she hummed around her finger, and he felt his eyes close again, unable to believe what had just occurred.

“Have mercy on me, Daphne. A man can only handle so many surprises at once.”

He could hear and feel her shifting where she sat, removing herself from the sofa. He turned his head to see her sinking to her knees beside him, her face coming into his face. Her cheeks were flush, her eyes bright, and there was a smile on her face. She looked radiant, as though she were the one to have received unbelievable pleasure.

“When can we do that again?” she asked, giggling as she spoke.

His head fell back onto the chaise, eyes closing. God help him, nothing could have ever prepared him for a wife like Daphne Bridgerton.

[ashintheairlikesnow]

The Third: Killan

CW: Literally nothing beyond some vague visual references to past torture, plus some unpleasant/negative generalizations about a fictional species. Killan is truly living the comf dream.

TIMELINE: ... later

As always, Killan’s universe and details of fae meta/biology/magic all belong to @wildfaewhump!

Even though the young woman knew the way, it still took three hours to walk from the barn, where she always stopped first to give a final scritch behind the ears to her favorite barn cat, to her aunt's tiny wooden cabin. 

It wasn’t even an easy three hours of walking. Instead, it was three hours of hard hiking in her loose pants and shirt with a shawl thrown over for warmth, her thick black hair with its rough curls sticking to her neck with sweat even as she shivered from the chill breeze. Sometimes the walk felt like it was all straight up, placing each step with care as the rocks scattered back down below and her heavy boots dug into the earth to keep her hold. 

At least her skin had held its color from summer and she felt the warmth of the sun settle in as she walked up to see her aunt.

The old woman lived up high on a ridge, hugging the side of the great mountains where the fae stayed hidden, with a view in the winter of the village far below and in the summer of acres upon acres of bright green trees and fields.

No one lived closer to the fae than her aunt did without coming to harm - the young woman even saw them circling overhead sometimes, out on the hunt. She’d even seen a mother, or she thought it was a mother anyway, with three littler fae flying behind her. 

Might’ve been cute, if the fae didn’t teach their fledglings to hunt by siccing them on lambs and other defenseless things in the spring. The young woman had made a note of the fledglings, that year, and they’d kept an eye out. No lambs went missing, though, so maybe the fae mam had decided to teach her babes to hunt somewhere else.

Living this close to the fae was dangerous. Anyone else would’ve been terrified to live that way, but her aunt had kept the same home since she built it herself as a young woman and swore she would live nowhere else.

I have honest dealings with Sidhe, love, said the old woman - who wasn't really her aunt, not by blood, but who was connected to her instead through a complex web of distant relations and friendships that her family simply called kin. Honest as can be. There had been a twinkle in milky green eyes that the young woman never quite understood, when she said those words. You might say, if you were so inclined, that I have had the most honest sort of dealings one can have.

Her aunt’s laughter had near lifted the roof off with its volume, and the young woman had smiled uncertainly along, even though she didn’t quite get the joke. 

Her aunt’s sense of humor always puzzled her. Fae weren’t to be joked about, not with such a jovial, even affectionate, tone. They were dangerous. They hurt people, slaughtered those who tried to find the pass through the mountains. They spoiled milk and made people sick. Everyone in the village kept iron along every window and doorway to keep the fae out. 

Everyone except her aunt, whose windows were always open, like she wanted them to crawl in with their wiry limbs and claw her face off. It had never happened, but… still. It wasn’t safe to live alone, to live so close to the fae. Her aunt did it anyway.

The young woman didn’t even know her real first name. She was Aunt Llyrie, but everyone knew Llyrie was just a name she’d taken, said she’d been given by someone and thought she’d keep.

By who, Auntie?

Mmmn, someone else, from long ago, when I was prettier than I had any right to be and he took a liking to walking on the ground for a while. That’s all you’ll ever need to know, love.

The young woman and her sisters and cousins had all asked her aunt, and the answer was always the same. Someone else. What could that even mean? 

She was called Aunt Llyrie because all women above an age were Aunt So-and-So or Auntie Whoever. It was simply how you did things, and the young woman had never thought twice about it. Her mother's sister was her aunt, and so was the old woman up on the ridge who grew herbs and made potions and salves. She came down only to check on pregnant women and new babies, and otherwise people who needed help went to her.

Not that very many people did. The old woman was spoken of in hushed tones. People made a sign against evil, they called her touched. 

But they asked her to be there when their babies were born, anyway. No woman had died in childbirth in forty-three years, not since the old woman had taken up midwifery and started bringing her medicines with her. She had been there for the births of babies, and those babies’ babies. She might be there to meet the first babies’ grandbabies, too.

Who knew?

She was odd, though. Ask her about the fae and her aunt's face would settle into a hundred wrinkles like lines on an ancient browned map as she smiled.

Her voice creaked a little as age wore down its firm strength in sound but not in the iron-tough foundation of her spirit, and she would only shake her head. I do not fear the Sidhe. Will they carry an old woman away when they did not take the young one? Paugh, maybe he will one day. I would thank him for the final journey into the sky. 

The young woman didn’t understand that, either. 

Still, she had gone to see her aunt a hundred times or more, in her life. She was always welcomed with open arms by a woman who had seen her coming long before she actually arrived. 

Today, though, she wound her way up the small path only to find her aunt’s cabin closed up tight. Even the shutters to those open windows were closed, despite the mild mountain air. A thin curl of smoke wound up from the chimney, the only sign of life beyond the solid black cat who slept along the low stone wall that encircled the garden. She gave it a quick run of fingers along the top of its head and down its back as she passed, feeling it arch up gratefully into her touch. It meowed, stretching, and leapt gracefully down to the path to trot along beside her.

Swallowing, she knocked on her aunt’s door, feeling trepidation curl cold and heavy in the bottom of her stomach. “Auntie? Are you at home?”

Where else would she be? In the young woman’s twenty years on earth, she had never once seen her aunt be anywhere else but home or seeing to the birthing of a baby. And since there were no new babies in the village…

The door popped open with a creak of ancient hinges, and the young woman swallowed as her aunt’s eyes peered through, with an expression she had never seen before - suspicion. “What are you doing here?”

“Um, I-” The young woman blinked, startled. She felt suddenly guilty, even though she had committed no crime. Did I do something wrong and I just don’t remember? “I came to ask for a tincture, there’s an ague has hit the blacksmith and his family. My mam sent me up-”

Her aunt cleared her throat, cracked the door just a little bit wider. “Today’s not the day for it, love,” She said, her voice slightly sharp, snappish in a way that made the young woman take a step back, unsettled and uncertain. 

“Well, I… it’s just, the ague is quite-... Aunt, are you well?” The young woman’s head tilted, trying to take a closer look, only to have the old woman close the door slightly, showing just one blue eye through the crack. Her heart began to race. She had clearly done something, said something on her last visit, angered the old woman in some way. But she had no idea what she could possibly have done. “If you’re sick, Auntie, I could nurse you?”

“I’m not sick, dear.” There was a pause, the old woman taking time to think, and then she said, “Can you keep a secret, love? From everyone but me?”

“A… a secret?” Despite her nervousness, and how ominous everything seemed when put together, the young woman had to admit she felt no small thrill at the idea of something secret. In a village like hers, there was no such thing as a secret. Even a quick kiss with the blacksmith’s son was reported to her mam within minutes, and she a grown woman whose kisses should be her own business by now. “I could, Auntie, of course I could. But what is the secret?”

Her aunt hesitated a moment more, and then the door swung open. Inside smelled like a mix of smoke and something savory, and the young woman’s eyes lit on the meat pies cooling out on the table as she stepped into the open cabin’s kitchen-side. “You must swear on your life you won’t tell a soul, love.”

“I won’t, Auntie, swear on my heart.” Her eyes scanned the walls, finding all the cooking pans hung on their hooks, bundles of herbs drying above the fireplace, a kettle hung for water to boil for tea. It was all the same, and yet there was a change in the air in here, something different indeed. Something smelled sharp and cold, like the way the night smelled in autumn when the sky was clear and the stars gave off nearly as much light as the moon. “What is the secret?”

There was a rustling from the bed-corner, and the young woman turned that way to stare, wide-eyed, at what she thought at first must be the largest bird she had ever seen. 

Her aunt’s hand, warm, dry, with softly wrinkled brown skin like thin creased paper folded a thousand times until it is nearly cloth, came to rest lightly on her shoulder. “It’s not a ‘what’,” She said, her voice gentle. “It’s a ‘who’.”

“Wh-what-”

The wings moved, parting to reveal-

“Gods almighty, a fae!” The young woman scrambled backwards, tripped over a broom, fell flat on her arse on the flat wooden slats of the floor. She let out a breathy scream, backing up until her back hit the wall, grabbing the handle of a cast-iron cookpan as tightly as she could - let the bastard fae try to hurt her, she’d whack it with iron until its face was nothing but boils, she would, she’d not go quietly into some fae’s stomach - and holding it in front of her as a weapon.

The thing on the bed flinched back when she did, curling itself up tightly, staring at her with wide, terrified bright blue eyes with razor-thin slit pupils, perfectly inhuman. Its face, though… well, its face and hair looked nothing like she’d been told fae should look. It wasn’t angular or pointy-chinned, had no pointed ear that folded back or forwards, it just looked like… like a person. Like some man her own age, really. 

It looked… well, it looked frightened, is what. Of her.

It made a high keening sound of fear, not a human sound at all.

“Calm, the both of you,” Her aunt snapped, stepping between them. The young woman didn’t move, kept the iron pan out ahead of her like a knight brandishing a sword. The fae-but-not-fae stayed pressed up against the wall in the bed, his wings shivering, trilling low in its throat. She could hear the feathers rustling with its fear. “He won’t hurt you, love. He’s just looking for a place to heal.”

“H-Heal? From what?” Her voice shook, but her hands didn’t. She was proud of that. 

Her aunt began to laugh, and the young woman simply stared blankly, wondering if the old woman had perhaps lost her mind. “The ague, dear. Same as the blacksmith. This young man has taken quite ill.”

The young woman turned narrowed eyes back to the thing on the bed. Had it bewitched her aunt, somehow? Used their wicked dark magics on her? “Fae don’t catch our sicknesses, Auntie.”

“Hm, that’s true.” Her aunt’s smile was shining, beatific. “Fae don’t. But this young man isn’t fae. He came in delirious overnight. I’ve given him a tincture has brought his fever down some, though not all. Come, love. It’s rude to threaten a young man without even learning his name.”

“But-... but he-...” She frowned, and took a step closer, and then another. The thing on the bed did look like a young man, that was true. He wore tattered old clothes, worn to holes where his knobby knees poked through. But for his wings and his eyes… “He’s not… fae? But the wings-”

“Mmmn, yes. I did ask about that. He says they came later.” Her aunt shrugged, as if to say, pay it no mind. “He’ll not give me a name but said I could call him Del. That’s fae for boy, that is.”

“How d’you know that?” She took a closer look at the old woman, then, and wondered how much about the woman’s life she had kept secret from the village, too.

“Just do. Isn’t important. So anyway, he clearly knows a fae, even if he isn’t one.”

“I-I’m not,” The young man spoke for the first time. His voice was low and hoarse, but sort of… lovely, too. The young woman took another step closer, slowly lowering the cookpan. “I’m not fae.”

“Are you… half-breed, then?” The young woman asked.

The boy looked away from her, and it was that more than anything that made her think he wasn’t fae at all. Everyone knew fae would never look away from you, never let a threat or a meal pass their sight. Everyone knew that.

“No,” He said, softly. “I’m not. Half-made, maybe. Are you-... her niece?” His eyes went, puzzled, from the young woman to the elderly one.

The young woman’s aunt threw her head back and laughed, shining laughter that filled the room all the way to the roof, and even the young woman felt an answering smile on her lips. “Oh, my, no, sweet boy. I’m just an old crone in the woods. Now, your tea’s just about ready, and here I am with a new guest to serve the extra to. Let’s make introductions, and you’ll stay for dinner, love,” She said, turning her eyes back to the young woman.

“But the blacksmith-”

“Will be right as rain by morning. First, though, you’ll stay for tea. My name is Llyrie, this is Del, and… Del, let me introduce this woman who would hit you with a pan if she could.” 

“She could,” The young man - Del - said. He smiled. It was faint, but there, and if it weren’t for his eyes she might have said it was a handsome smile indeed. “I wouldn’t, um, wouldn’t stop her.”

Despite herself, the young woman smiled at Del, and watched the tension in his wings relax, just a little. The kettle began to whistle as the water boiled within, and the old woman moved it to rest to the side, pouring in a generous palmful of dried herbs, leaves, and flowers to steep. Then she moved over to the bed, reaching out, and the young woman’s muscles tensed, her hand jerking forwards and then stopping itself, as she watched the old woman grip onto the not-fae’s taloned right hand as though he were perfectly normal, perfectly human. 

“You’re safe,” The old woman said, softly. “Nothing with wings has ever come to harm in my home, Del.”

The not-fae - the young man, wasn’t he, really? Just a young man, and yet all wrong and not a young man at all - nodded, slowly. “Please,” He whispered. “I’ve never wanted to hurt anyone.”

He sounded so… genuine. It didn’t seem like a trick at all.

The young woman did not lighten her grip on the pan.

“Del,” Her aunt said, patting the back of his hand while holding it, and his talons never touched her, “this young lady is one I have known her whole life. Come here, love, say hello.”

The young woman moved carefully, cautiously closer. She could see, now, the bright red blotches along Del’s cheeks that gave away his lingering fever, the shadows under the bright blue eyes that spoke of restless sleep or little sleep at all. This close, she could see that he was still trembling, just a little, even relaxed. 

“Hello,” She said, softly.

“Hello,” The young man said in return. “I’m-... I’m Del.”

“She said that.” He looked down, and a bit of wavy light brown hair fell over his eyes, hiding them from view. She leaned slightly forward, until he looked up again. It was… strange, to see inhuman eyes in a very human face, but if she really thought about it, they were… pretty, weren’t they? “Del, are you-... sure you’re not fae?”

“Pretty sure.” He had a hint of wry humor in his voice at that. He glanced over at one wing, then back at her. “Last anyone checked, anyway.”

She realized, all at once, that there were rings pierced through his wings in two places, just above his shoulders and again at the topmost join. Small brass rings ran through the piercing, and they clinked a little when his wings shifted. 

Who had done that? She’d never heard of fae piercing their own wings before. But if he wasn’t fae, maybe… maybe whatever he was did it. Maybe there was more than fae in the world with wings. 

“Will you… show me your teeth, Del?” She asked, voice low and quiet. Her auntie hissed at her about rudeness, but the boy obeyed immediately, baring his blunt, human teeth. She breathed out in relief at the same time her stomach twisted at the thoughtless, instant obedience. 

“Auntie, you said you… you found him sick?”

The old woman nodded, checking on the scent of the tea steeping in the kettle. “He was wandering the woods talking to no one. He’s lucky I found him first.”

“He sure is. My da and the others’d sooner shoot him than speak to him.” Del’s wings bristled, nervously, and she glanced back over at him, flushing slightly. “Sorry. I shouldn’t talk about you like you’re not right here, should I?”

“It’s all right,” He offered. “I’m used to it.”

“Still. Just ‘cause you’re used to rudeness doesn’t make it any less rude. And I haven’t told you what I’m called, either.” She held out her right hand, watched him hesitate and look down at his talons, and then she laughed and held out her left. He slowly reached his left hand - simply human, nothing else - out to shake hers. 

“I don’t know what you are,” She said, voice firm, “But you don’t seem like you’ll hurt me, and my auntie likes you. You’re Del?”

He nodded, slowly, eyes on her face in a way that made her feel strange, like her skin was stretched too tightly over her body, like her nerves were too close to the surface. “You can call me that, yes.”

“All right, I will. Nice to meet you, Del. I’m Laekna.”

---

Tagging Killan’s crew:  @astrobly​​ @burtlederp , @finder-of-rings , @slaintetowhump , @quirkykayleetam , @whumpallday , @whumppsychology, @doveotions, @broken-horn, @moose-teeth, @whumpfigure, @spiffythespook, @oceanthesarcasamfox,  @whump-only, @just-strawberry-jam(if you would like to be added to an OC’s tag list, please send your request via an ask! Those are easier for me to keep track of and I tend to lose requests in comments, reblogs, tags, or PMs!)

[smilemoreimagines]

something tragic about you (Geralt x reader)

Chapter 7

length: 2,521

tw: smut

author’s note: fuck me this took forever, so sorry about that.  but it’s finally done.  it’s got smut and it’s the last chapter and i hope y’all enjoy it!  i sure did, i haven’t finished a multi-chapter fic since i was like 14 so i’m pretty proud lol.  it may be a bit out of character at the end, but it made me happy to write so i’m leaving it as is.  once again I hope you enjoy this final part!

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6

You and the Witcher make quite a pair walking back into Solma, drenched in mud and gore.  His eyes, at least, have returned to their usual gold, so no one runs away screaming--he had warned you that might happen, the casual way he said it weighing on your heart.  On that mostly-silent walk, you resolved that you would stoke the burning warmth that resides in you, chase away the coldness of other people that lingers in the set of his jaw, his hard and guarded face.  

You left that other village because you knew that feelings were creeping up on you; you could have waited for him to return outside of town, but you were too scared of your own emotions.  But you can’t run from them, you don’t want to run from them, not anymore.  

He is clearly headed for an inn, the one he told you Roach is stabled at, but you redirect him.

“We should collect your payment now,” you say, “And I know just where Konrad will be.”

You ignore the question in his eyes, lead him to the bar that those asses entered just a few hours ago.  They are still there, in the crowd that all end up with eyes on the Witcher.  He approaches Konrad, the man who hired him.

“I’ll take my payment,” Geralt says. 

The man, coward that he is, fumbles for his coin purse and hands it over silently, watching Geralt weigh it in his hand, open the bag to check the coin.

“You will find it is all there, Witcher,” he finally says.  “All 250 ducat.”  

Geralt gives a clipped nod, but you aren’t satisfied.  

You step up to the man, tell him, “That’s not nearly the amount he is owed.  You lied about how many Drowners he would find in that swamp, sent him there expecting him to die.  500 ducat.”

He barks out a laugh.  “500?  Who do you think you are, girl?  I do not have that kind of money.”

“Then you will find it.  You hired him saying you’d pay anything knowing that he’d give you a fair price,” you say with a dangerous glint in your eye. “I met your friends earlier, did they tell you about me?  They are alive because the Witcher is.  You are not out of the woods yet; not until he is paid a fair price for the work he’s done.  For saving more of your people from dying.”

It is all an act, one that you are not sure you play well, but he gestures to the men around him and they pass him their coin, most shooting him dirty looks.  He will not be well liked in this town after tonight.

When all of the money is rounded up and counted out, you turn to Geralt.  You cannot tell by his expression what he thinks of any of this, but when you ask him for a bag to fit the coin in, he conjures one.  

On your way out the door, Konrad says, “I am a father in mourning.  You should be ashamed to be taking my coin.”

You pause, remember when he first enlisted Geralt that he said his daughter was one of the people killed.  You feel sorry for her, maybe a little for him as well.  You answer in a softer voice.  “Half of it was not your coin anyway.  I am sorry for your loss, but you should not have lied when the stakes were so high.”  

Outside, you sigh, say, “I need a bath.  I stink like rotting fish.” 

Geralt says nothing and you face him, not sure what to expect, but it certainly isn’t the hint of a lopsided smile that he hides just as you see it.

“What?” You ask.

He hums, considers his words before saying, “You’re more fierce than when we met.”

“Is fierceness a bad look on me?  It feels a little silly,” you admit.

“I have a feeling you’ll grow into it.”

You are not sure what he means by that exactly, but he’s already turned his back on you, conversation ended.  He is walking to the inn; to a bath, you think excitedly, and trot after him.

But as soon as you walk in the door you are shooed back out.

“I’ll not have that mess in here, get out, the two of ya.”  The woman barring entry holds no malice in her voice, at least.  

“We wish to pay for baths and board,” Geralt tries to explain, “We’ll pay well.”

“You need more than a bath!  Filthy, you are…  Save your money, there is a water pump and pail around the building.”  She turns and meanders to a closet, putters around for a moment before finding what she’s looking for.  She returns to the front door and presses soap into Geralt’s hand.  “Get yourselves clean out there.  The brisk air will do you good.  I’ll start the fire in your room so you can warm up inside.”

She slams the door in your faces, but that’s fair enough, you think.  Not that you relish the thought of being drenched with cold water.  Geralt scowls but walks around the building as she said, finding the pump nestled between the inn and the stables.  

You peek in and greet Roach and when you turn around Geralt is in the process of stepping out of his clothes.  You flush and turn back to the stable; of course you’ll need to take off your clothes, they need washed as well, but you hadn’t thought about it.  You listen to him filling the pail and tipping it over his head, fidget in the silence as he cleans.  You busy your hands with your bag, which you’ve been wearing the whole time and is as muddy as the rest of you.  Luckily the things inside of it are clean, if not wet.  You finger the embroidery of your mother’s shawl, tucked safely away.  

“Your turn,” Geralt rumbles, walking past you to get clean clothes from Roach’s saddlebags.  Is nowhere safe for you to look?  He may be confident in his nudity, but you are not, and you ask him to please stay in the stable while you wash.  

You do not hear him step any nearer while you strip or in the time it takes you to upend bucket after freezing bucket over your head--he is lucky he was not half-drowned in mud, you think--but you feel eyes on you at one point or another.  You are not annoyed at him for looking.  

Once clean you call over your shoulder, “Do you have a shirt I might wear for the night?” 

He brings it to you where you stand, shivering, passes it to you and when you turn to take it he is looking away obligingly.  The black fabric is worn soft from time and use, and you relish the slight warmth it brings you; you think he was holding it while he waited.  

Even though you’re clothed now you feel naked under his gaze and hastily suggest, “We should go inside now, to the fire the innkeeper promised us.”

He nods his assent and follows you inside, silent as a cat but you trust that he is there.  The innkeeper insists that she take your bag and clean it and the clothes inside for you.  You take out your mother’s shawl before handing over the bag.  She gives Geralt the key to your room.

The fire is burning merrily, crackling and sparking and heating the cold from you.  You kneel at the hearth and stretch your hands out close to the blaze, groaning at the toasty feeling.  The sleeves of Geralt’s shirt slip and bunch at your elbows, past your healing wounds, and you finger the raised flesh lightly.  

“It’s almost healed,” he remarks, that voice of his rumbling behind you.  “I’m sorry I couldn’t keep it from scarring.”

“What a silly thing to be sorry for,” you retort, glancing at him over your shoulder.  He is standing near the door still, and you roll your eyes at him as you say, “Come here, Geralt.  Sit by the fire; you must be freezing.”

He obeys wordlessly and it startles you when his thigh brushes yours before settling firmly beside you.

“Like a mouse you are,  Geralt,” you say a little breathlessly, “So quiet.  I never know what you’ll do next.”

“I could say the same of you,” he says.

You glance at him only to find that he is already looking at you, the fire’s light playing with his hard features, but his eyes are soft, liquid gold.  You open your mouth with nothing to say and so instead of saying anything you turn toward him fully and close the distance between your lips and his.  He responds immediately, his hand coming up to cup your cheek, his movements almost tentative. Almost, but not quite.  

But still not enough; you want him to hold you like something cherished, something forged in fire, strong and lovely and stable.  You whine your displeasure against his lips and tug lightly on his hair.  

This does something to him, he slows and pulls back the distance of a breath, rumbles out, “Do that again, little elf.”  

He presses himself to you firmly then, teeth nipping at your bottom lip when you tug again, harder, groans when you shift closer, both of you readjusting until you are seated on his lap, legs bracketing one of his thick thighs.  You feel the fabric of his trousers on your nakedness, press down without meaning to, and he pulls back for a moment, pupils blown wide, before trailing his hands up your thighs, bunching up the hem of the shirt he gave you so that he may hold your bare hips and guide your movements.

You have never felt like this before; by your own hand it was good, but with another person you’ve not felt pleasure.  You throw your head back when he grinds you down harder, baring your neck to him, and as he kisses your throat one hand comes up, tucks your hair behind your ear and you look at him, more than a little fear creeping up in your chest, the way he is touching you so like that boy, so many years ago…

He meets your eyes steadily, his movements not slowing, his calloused finger tracing over the scarred shell of your ear and the tenderness of that tiny gesture is what tips you over.  You are coming and he is kissing you through it, slowing the press of your hips until you are still.  You come down from that high to find yourself still wanting, and you shove his shoulders down.  He complies, plays as if you could actually push him to the ground, his lips quirking up into an expression you can only describe as soft, maybe even affectionate.

Looking down at him, you command in a husky voice you barely recognize as your own, “Make me feel that way again, Geralt.”  

As soon as you’ve said the words you regret them; who are you to be ordering around anyone, let alone Geralt of Rivia, and what if he’s displeased by you telling him what to do?  

But then he is sitting up from under you to tug the hem of your shirt over your head, looking at you like he wants to devour you, and all worry leaves your mind.  All there is is the feeling of his thumb brushing over one nipple, his tongue laving over the other, stubble rough on your skin.  

You are torn between wanting to tip your head back to focus on the feeling of what he’s doing to you and wanting to watch his mouth work on you, but then he is moving, lifting you with him to stand, your legs wrapping around his hips and his face brushing against your neck.  He walks you to the bed, shifts you to hold you with one arm so he can pull the blankets back and lay you down.  

You look up at him, slightly breathless and thoroughly debauched.  He looks back, eyes so dark with lust but his face is open, strong jaw relaxed and for a moment you let yourself think he almost appears worshipful.  

I will die a happy sinner, you muse, and then he is tugging off his trousers and settling himself between your thighs and there’s no more time for thoughts because he is doing something with his fingers that feels absolutely delicious.  He works his fingers in you, stretching, gentle, watching your expression all the while for any signs of discomfort but there are none.

“More, Geralt, please,” you sigh, “I need you.”

“You’re sure?”

You nod too enthusiastically and he hides a laugh by kissing you, stealing your gasp when he enters you.  You discover the sweet pleasured sound he makes when he is seated to the hilt, pausing to let you adjust before setting a slow pace.  This tenderness is what you need, the steady rock of his hips against yours quickly building inside of you until you are on the edge and then coming over it, around him; he follows soon after.

For a moment you lay there together, sleepiness starting to cloud your mind until he is standing up and walking away and your heart jumps to your throat.  

You sit up in a panic and he glances over his shoulder with an eyebrow raised cheekily, simply saying, “I’m just getting a cloth. Stay right there, lay back down.”  

Once again you are flushed when he returns, gaze averted until he is under the blankets and resting on one elbow to carefully clean you up.  When done he drops onto his back beside you; you don’t want to presume anything so you stay where you are, just barely touching, before he curls an arm around you and tugs you closer.  It is his warmth and his slow heartbeat that lull you to sleep and soon you are both snoring softly, more relaxed than you have been in a long time.

You wake feeling pleasantly sore, and unlike the last time you shared a bed with Geralt, he is still lying next to you, even though the sun is already decidedly risen.  You turn to face him, eyeing how low on his hips he’s let the blanket get, his hands folded on his belly just above that tantalizing trail down…  And you notice how he’s tipped his face to you, watching you watching him, his lips quirking up as you flush from your cheeks to the tips of your ears.  

“How did you do that?” He eventually asks, voice pitched low.

“Do what?”

“Make me enjoy your company so damned quickly.  Make me like you.  I don’t just do that.”

You shrug, smile giving you away before you can even get the words out.  “I guess I’m just a people person.”

He laughs that laugh again, so rusty with disuse, and you promise to yourself and to the universe that you will get him to make that sound often and openly.  The way he is looking at you makes you think that you can.

[the-melting-world]

Firecat

Khleo x Balam

I’m not sure what I or @atypicalacademic have gotten ourselves into, but here we go 😭😭😭 Simply treat yourself to another 0 to 100 whirlwind oc x oc ship. Thank you Kannan for letting me borrow Balam! She’s absolutely delightful!

cw: some biting

~ 1.6k words

***

The tavern saw a new handful of regulars during the week. The only reason Khleo remembered their faces was because of one in particular. There was something vibrant about her, and it wasn’t just because of her bold, shifting shawls and chirping adornments. 

Her friends called her Balam. 

On days she wore magenta bracelets, her companions referred to her as she. On days the bracelets were silver, Balam was he. 

Today, the bracelets were magenta. Yesterday they were magenta. And the day before that.

Khleo spent most of the week hanging back to wait tables and clean booths rather than working the bar. In order to watch. Try and figure out where this patron’s magnetism came from. Maybe they were partial to the features they shared with Balam – tight, bouncy curls, youthful expressions, strong cuts of the jaws that helped to undermine that innocence.

Or maybe Balam was just very good at communicating from afar. With each visit, the patron would glance more often in Khleo’s direction. One time while Khleo was mopping a corner, they tested their theory with a very subtle flex of their arms as they slid the mop forward. Khleo looked over at Balam just before curling their biceps towards them. They flicked the mop and did it again, training their gaze to be coincidental, bland.

Balam had already been looking. But then she looked away. Not completely. Only briefly, to collect herself. She came back with a more confident gaze, working those dark lashes and her decorative brown skin to practically beam a lump into Khleo’s throat. 

This Balam, whoever she was, knew exactly what she was doing despite how subtle she went about it. And it made Khleo itching to pounce.

But it was late and the tavern was full of dinner patrons that night. So Khleo filed all that pouncy, gimme nonsense away for some other time. Then they put their assessment of Balam to rest, and got back to work.

Luckily, it wasn’t long before Khleo’s coworkers required their pouncing services. A fight had broken out and neither side was backing down. Khleo didn’t bother to see who was involved, they just jumped in. They didn’t waste their breath shouting at people to calm down like the other barhands. Their method of de-escalation was to remove the biggest threat. 

Tonight that happened to be the fiery, vibrant Balam. Khleo ignored the small hiccup between their thighs as they made an attempt to unhinge a glass that Balam was about to chuck at a nearby patron.

But Balam was slippery and still charged even though the rest were starting to calm down. She snatched her arm back from Khleo before they could get a good grip and danced backwards like a reanimated puppet. 

“Don’t make me chase you,” Khleo warned, their voice bored and unhurried despite the persistent thorniness they were dealing with elsewhere.

Balam ran. Khleo cursed under their breath and pursued. 

It was a wonder Balam was so fast with all those shawls and patchwork prints that clung to her lithe form. Khleo snarled when they saw where Balam was trying to run off to – the basement.

< Do you need some help? >

~ No, Hefe. I got this. ~

Khleo booked it faster than ever now, leaping over chairs, scrambling across countertops, ruining family dinners. Their boss was going to kill them.

They hoped it was all worth it when they finally caught up to Balam, slamming into her and pinning her down easily. The angry patron roared and thrashed like her whole body was on fire. But Khleo was ready to shut it down.

“You think you’re real cute, don’t you?”

Balam’s eyes were still unfocused and brimming wet rage. “Let go of me, you...”

Khleo jostled her. “Go ahead. Tell me what you think of me.”

By the time their gazes connected, Balam was blushing.

“Thought so. You can’t even say it.”

Balam exploded. “Overgrown housecat!” 

Khleo laughed. “Excuse me? If I’m a housecat, then what the hell are you?”

Balam’s eyes were dead serious. “A tiger.”

Khleo was enjoying themself, tracking the way Balam’s extremes entered and left her body so quickly. They felt the shift in the tension of Balam’s limbs too. It didn’t help to dampen their fire, but felt good all the same.

“A tiger cub maybe,” Khleo mused. “So tell me, cub. Why’d you have to go start shit in my bar? Day’s been hard enough as it is.”

Balam apparently had it in her to throw another tantrum.

“They started it! You’re telling me you’d back down if–” 

“It’s always someone else’s fault, isn’t it?” Khleo said quietly. “How about you demonstrate a little self control next time?”

 Balam hopelessly thrashed under Khleo’s weight. “I do have self control!”

“Oh yeah? Then show me now.”

Khleo made sure Balam’s wrists were secured above her head before dropping very close.

“Let’s see how long you last.”

Khleo coasted over Balam’s features, her nose ring, wide black eyes, her mouth – everything was magnified. Khleo took it all in, climbing that familiar high that moments like these always catapulted her to. That edge of giving in and holding still. That silence before a true strike. They could tell by the way Balam followed them that the cub knew nothing of that place. Never tasted that warm, hidden middle ground. Insanity’s hidden trapdoor. Tight and snug. Nowhere near cozy, but safe. Antidotal. 

“My name is Balam.”

Khleo ignored the distraction. 

“I know.”

Balam tried to snatch a kiss, but the barhand ducked their head over and down, latching onto the exposed shoulder peeking out from the shawls. Balam’s harsh cry echoed through the cavernous space.

“Quiet,” Khleo licked their lips and raised their head. “I didn’t even bite you that hard.”

They sat up straighter, deepening their seat, still holding Balam’s wrists.

“You want to be so bad... but you don’t come close. I’ve been exactly where you are.”

Balam’s eyes burned like black fire. “And look how much you’ve improved and moved up in the world. Congratulations, bartender of the year.”

Khleo kept their tone flat, but their grin wicked.

“A major improvement from where I came from, believe me. Look Tiger, you’re not going to find any low-hanging fruit,” Khleo made sure to gently grind against Balam’s leg for emphasis. They were satisfied to see her eyes threaten to roll back. “So I suggest that you quit trying to go for low blows while you’re ahead.”

The fire had finally gone out. Now it was replaced by water. Khleo let go of Balam’s wrists. 

“You need to cry, then cry.”

They started to get up, but Balam’s hands captured her thighs. “Wait.”

Khleo arched an eyebrow. 

“Can you… just stay right there for a bit?”

Khleo didn’t laugh or mock the patron in any way. The barhand anchored their weight against Balam’s abdomen and allowed her to process her emotions with dignity. When she was done, Khleo helped her to her feet and said, “Go out through the back door. Don’t come back here for a few days. It’ll give my boss some time to forget tonight. That way he’ll be less likely to ban you from the tavern.”

Balam hadn’t stopped staring at Khleo since she got to her feet. “What should I call you when I return?”

Khleo folded her arms over her chest. “Call me Khlee, Khleo, whatever you want.”

The patron sniffed one last time, and glanced toward the door. She moved as if she might go to it.

Khleo wasn’t gentle this time. They used their strength to their advantage as they snatched Balam back until she crashed right where Khleo wanted her. Then they engaged both their arms, locking her in and kissing her the way they wanted to when they had her pinned down earlier. As if Khleo desired nothing else than to see how much they could take, and take, and take some more.

What Khleo didn’t expect, however, was how eager Balam was to give. She fed Khleo her lips, her tongue, her moans like they were such an untimely burden that she was, by the gods, absolutely compelled to share– 

“Enough.” Khleo growled softly. The command was more meant for themself than Balam, but they were careful not to give anything away. When they opened their eyes and looked into Balam’s, they found that her expression was a rare breed of tame. It was the sort of docility that tugged at a different set of strings in Khleo, unlocking a new singularity of primal intention within them.

The way Balam quietly looked at the barhand, in reverence and easy obedience…. Khleo felt the need to flex a set of claws that they didn’t have. Dig them into Balam where it was too shallow for their own blunted teeth to pierce. To keep her somehow? From what, Khleo wasn’t sure.

“Mm.” Khleo’s throat rumbled, “You’ve got a lot of fire in you. I had to see what that tasted like…” they looked pointedly at the spot where they bit Balam. “Again.” Then they let the patron go. “Now get out of here.”

Khleo gave Balam a gentle push. Once again, she surprised the barhand by skipping away on light feet towards the exit. It seemed Balam couldn’t leave without the last word. Halfway out the door, she captured Khleo’s gaze one last time. “You taste of fire too.”

Khleo shrugged. “So?”

Balam smiled as she nodded sagely. “And of flowers. Wild ones. Daisies.”

Khleo was thankful for the dim light. Her face burned from Balam’s unexpected saccharine tongue. 

“You better get going, Tiger.”

Balam wasn’t finished. She leaned her head against the doorframe and batted those damn eyelashes again. “I’ll bring some for you, Firecat. Next time.” Her anklets chirped as she finally slipped out of the cave of brick and mortar and onto the street. 

Khleo stared at the door long after she had gone. She thought about Balam’s journey from the wrathful to the rational and back again.

Hefe emerged from out of the hearth. Illuminating the underground lair with her sheer size and pale, creamy coat, she became a lighthouse to call back Khleo’s drifting thoughts. 

< Firecat. That’s a new one. >