#Tilting Wet Grander

[duck-in-a-spaceship]

The Smoker and Ulixes sit by the shores of Martinaise, and sketch the coast, and talk about art and communism.

My @palestaticexchange gift for @freddiegoesmetal! They requested communism and Ulixes and Steban and the Smoker and Cindy, so I just kind of grabbed some of those characters I thought would make an interesting story and went with it! I had a really great time working with these themes and characters, so I hope you like it!

Full fic below the cut-

Waves hit the shores of Martinaise. They crash up against the rocks, eating away at them, taking away particles to carry across the sea. It’s low tide, but in a handful of hours the waves will rise, and rise, until they rush over the place where you are sitting, until they tug at the cloth of your jeans and wet the pages of your sketchbook warped and bloody.

Of course, you will be long gone by then, far away from the ocean’s reach.

You’ve found a fairly flat rock to sit on, warm and dry from the glow of the late-spring sun. It makes the cool sea air and occasional splash of mist that reaches your face refreshing, instead of the cold bite they held in the winter months. You didn’t come here often, then. Not quite dedicated enough to withstand the chill when you had another choice.

A frozen image of the scene, captured in messy streaks of charcoal, sits in your lap. The strokes bubble up where the waves crash, and smooth over the waters further out. Clouds gather in great swoops of negative space in the sky, larger and grander on the page than they ever were in real life. The piece is mostly done, and yet you sit, and stare, and occasionally add another stroke of charcoal among the masses.

The waves hide the sounds of footsteps until they are right upon you, until there is a man wandering towards you and a gaze over your shoulder.

You tilt your head back, looking up to meet his eyes.

A pair of round glasses stare back at you, slightly fogged in the day’s humidity and speckled with spots of water. He has a scratchy beard, the kind he clearly shouldn’t be growing out, but is desperately trying to anyway. His clothes speak to a similar kind of effort: they’re professional and academic, stained and secondhand.

You’ve seen him… around, you know that much. Lingering by the apartments, shadowing the incredibly communist man that lives on the first floor. Other than that, he’s a stranger to you.

The communist shadow clears his throat, and adjusts his glasses. “Sorry,” he apologizes. For what, you wonder. Looking over your shoulder? Interrupting your drawing? Daring to exist at all? He gestures towards the sketchbook in your hands. “I was just curious as to what you were working on. That’s very impressive.”

There’s a cigarette in his hand, and he’s smoking it deeply, like he wants it to fill the cracks in his lungs, fix something in his life that’s been broken. You would know. You’ve smoked a cigarette for every reason under the sun, some just to try out and see how you liked them.

You smile at him, and nod your head in response. “Well thank you, I appreciate it. Just experimenting though, really.”

He nods his approval, speaks around the cigarette in his mouth. “That’s good all the same, experimentation. Pushing the boundaries of what we’ve been trained to expect is the first step of revolution. There is a reason the moralists love their monotony.”

A laugh flutters out of the corner of your mouth in the millisecond before you gain the composure to stifle it. This man, the communist shadow, is much too earnest for your laughter.

Still, he doesn’t miss your reaction. His brow furrows at it, but he is not embarrassed and he is certainly not deterred. None of his judgement is reflected back on himself; it all goes to you.

It’s okay, there’s not much of it. Just thought you should know.

You lean forward slightly, resting your chin against the heel of your hand, and smile up at him. “Well, then, there’s a reason I’ve never claimed to be a moralist.” He has a response to that, but you cut him off before he can continue. “If you happen to have any extra cigarettes on you, by the way, I could go for a smoke.”

It’s an invitation, not *just* to offer you a cigarette, but to sit, stay a while. He’s patting his jacket pockets right away, until he finds the box, and slips a cigarette from it.

(The brand is familiar to you, but only barely. You stand next to a woman at the bar, leaning on her, really, her body taking your weight while your drunken knees fail you. You came here with her, kind of. She’s a friend of a friend, a woman you only met that night, yet she’s gripping your arm like she’s pulling you off some kind of edge. Maybe she is. She smells like smoke, and when she takes the drink out of your hand, you make her trade it for a cigarette.)

The communist shadow finds his hesitation, and pauses for a moment before he hands you the cigarette.

Then he accepts your invitation, and offers a lighter with it.

“I’m Ulixes, by the way.”

You take the cigarette, and simply hold it out for him to light. He huffs in annoyance, but complies. It’s a two handed job anyway: one to hold the lighter, and the other to cup the flame away from the sea breeze. Your drag is slow, careful, not really matching his desperate, deep inhales.

“Nice to meet you, Ulixes. I’m Martin Martinaise.”

The communist shadow tucks the lighter and box back into the folds of his jacket, in some inner pocket that hides them from the world. Then he sits down next to you, resting his feet flat on the jagged rocks below. He hums idly, acknowledging your comment.

“A man of the people, then,” is his dry response.

“Just a man of the city.” Of alleyways and dark sidewalks and underground bars. The places between buildings and streetlights and other, respectable establishments. Martin Martinaise is a good face to wear, because it isn’t a face at all.

“You live in the Capeside apartments, do you not?” he asks, not pushing the issue further.

“Mhm, on the second floor. Nice view up there.”

A nod. He’s looking out across the ocean now, attention away from you and your drawing. Your attention has wandered from the sketchbook in your lap as well, but instead of the horizon, you watch him. He’s chewing on the end of his cigarette instead of smoking it. “My friend lives over there too, moved in when we started attending university.”

“Oh yes, I’ve seen you two around.” You flash him a smile, sharp with knowing and gentle with understanding. “Scuttling around after dark with each other.” What is university for, you suppose, if not *experimenting?*

Now he looks at you, eyes narrowed, like he’s figuring you out. There’s not much about you to figure out, you don’t think. Everything about you is either right on your sleeve, or tucked away so deep no amount of searching will reveal it. Not even to yourself.

When Ulixes picks his words, you know he’s done so carefully.

“You make it sound like some kind of… deviancy.”

You take a drag of your cigarette, and sigh out the smoke. “Not at all.”

Whatever he was looking for in your face, he must find, because he breaks eye contact with a clearing of his throat. “We have a book club, if you’re interested in joining. Our entry requirements have… relaxed recently.”

A *book club*? That’s a new one. “Oh have they?” you prompt, out of curiosity or interest you really aren’t sure. You follow threads like this to a fault, until you’re sitting in another stranger's apartment and you think you might as well finish what you’ve started. Until you’ve formed some kind of habit where you don’t know how to stop. You think they call those an *addiction.*

“They have, truthfully. We’ve even let Cindy join some, although she’s terrible about doing the reading, comes and goes as she pleases…”

“The reading?” you echo.

“Yes. The reading.” He tilts his head forward, and then enunciates his next words with extra precision, like you’ve dropped the point somewhere along the way and need him to pick it up for you. “For the book club?”

Ah. He’s being serious. Well, you always assumed he was being *serious,* but no, he’s being *literal.* You don’t quite suppress the laughter this time, it comes bubbling out of you, sea foam on the waves.

“Oh.” Ulixes blinks, then turns his face away. It seems to be an effort to hide the red suddenly blooming across his face, and it’s failing spectacularly. “I see. Ah, no, it’s not– I mean we– well… It’s a book club. We read books.”

“Of course, shadow.” The epithet slips out without your permission, another habit you’ve formed. “Just books.”

He nods again, scrambling to correct you, to pick up the pieces he’s dropped at your feet. The picture you’ve assembled with them is not one he can stand to view. Then again, you’ve seen straight men run to their own defenses before. Usually there’s less blushing involved. Harsher words.

“Communist literature, specifically. There’s a lot of debate involved, that’s what Cindy stays around for, mostly. To paint and argue. Have you met Cindy?”

It’s such an obvious deflection that you have to chuckle at him again, but you nod along all the same. “I have. She makes herself a little hard to ignore, doesn’t she?”

“Oh most definitely.” He’s relaxing again, jaw loosening on the wrecked end of his cigarette. “Her methods are… flashier than the tactics Steban and I employ, but they certainly catch people’s attentions, which is a feat in and of itself.”

“You have to admire her boldness. Burning paint on the bloodied square…” Your voice trails off, unsure of what endpoint you’re searching for.

UN JOUR JE SERAI DE RETOUR PRÈS DE TOI.

Instead, you tap the corner of your sketchbook. “Not very well suited to my own style, unfortunately.”

“I don’t think it’s about style as much as it is, as you said, boldness. The will to make a statement.”

You shrug and rub your fingers together. Charcoal smears between them, and then off onto your pants. It’s black against grey, like new lines on an old tattoo. “Not much power to a statement if it’ll be washed away in the next rain. Or when someone spits on the sidewalk.”

Ulixes shakes his head, hurriedly doing away with your arguments. “You can’t value your work by what it means to others. In a capitalist society, art is beholden to the values it can be sold for at auction. The minds of the populace are shaped by that influence and then-” He waves a hand through the air dismissively. “It’s all tainted from there.”

“Still, I don’t think Cindy makes her art for it not to be viewed. My work just wouldn’t have the same effect. Dust in the wind.”

Ulixes tilts his head at you. There’s a bit of a gleam in his eyes, that or the sun is hitting the water droplets on his glasses at just the right angle. “Have you ever heard of infra-materialism?”

“Can’t say I have.”

He shifts his body in your direction, pulling one of his legs up onto the rock, leaning in slightly. “It is a theory developed originally by Ignus Nilsen, or at least extrapolated from his initial ideas. At its core, infra-materialism states that our thoughts are not merely intangible organizations of ideas in our minds, but that they radiate outwards, even potentially influencing the world around them, taking the form of an ideological plasm to do so.”

Ulixes pauses for a moment. He’s making sure you’re still with him, still following along. You suppose you are, so you nod your affirmation.

“Depending on how much plasm a society is producing, how strong their ideological beliefs are, these influences can have different effects. The most famous example, of course, is increased crop yields of turnips under communist rule.”

“And better art?” you prompt.

“Potentially, but that isn’t necessarily the point here. The point is that a message doesn’t need to be observed by others for it to have value. Simply thinking it, whether you realize it or not, is putting it out into the world. Writing it down is simply an exercise in cementing the concept physically.”

It’s a nice thought, in a way. That you could have an impact on the world simply by existing in it, simply by thinking the right things. That you could remain firmly Underground, as long as you poked a hole in the dirt for your thoughts to race through.

“Maybe if I sit here with you long enough, I really will be Martin Martinaise, hm?”

“You’d need a lot of plasm for that, very high level.” He turns away from you slightly, back to chewing on his cigarette. It’s not even lit anymore, he’s just gnawing on the fucking end of it. Like a dog on a stick, tearing off layers of bark.

“It’s a nice idea,” you admit. “That you could believe in the next world and watch it come true.”

“Isn’t that what you do, what art is?” he gestures to your notebook. “You look at the landscape, see something worth capturing there, and make it come true.”

Finally, your gaze and thoughts return to the sketchbook in your lap. You prop it back up on one knee, legs crossed in front of you. “Just drawing what I see.”

Ulixes spits out the butt of his cigarette, smears it against the rock with his shoe. It leaves a streak of black in its place. His own graffito to be consumed by the sea. “The waves are blue, not black.”

You smile at him good-naturedly. “I’m using charcoal.”

“Still. The scene changes.”

He has a point. The sky isn’t filled with black and grey clouds, and the waves don’t break in scribbled streaks. There’s chaos there, and mood, more than just staring out at the waters could convey.

You flip to a new page of your sketchbook, and tear it out. “Here.” A pencil of charcoal is held out with it, an old spare. “What do you see, then?”

“Oh no, I’m not- I’m no artist.”

“An infra-materialist though, right? Don’t feel the need anymore to ‘cement this concept physically’?” You parrot his own words back at him teasingly, and they’re enough to give him pause.

“Not… particularly. I philosophize, spend time on my thoughts and ideology to develop plasm. *Technically,* there’s no evidence that art-”

“Oh come on. Humor me.”

He takes the paper and charcoal.

His strokes are too dark, the pencil heavy in a beginner’s hands. Unwieldy and foreign. It reminds you of the first time you lifted a cigarette to your lips and breathed in too eagerly. Your lungs shook with the effort it took not to cough, red face betraying your inexperience anyway. Ulixes’ hands do not shake with determination, but the furrow of his brow betrays him in the same way.

You turn to yet another page, and begin tracing out the shape of his nose, his eyes. Without the cigarette in his mouth, he’s gnawing on the inside of his cheek, you realize. As you draw the lines of his back, it’s impossible to miss the tension there.

“What brought you out to the coast today?”

He shrugs, focused on scribbling out the waves on the shore. His ocean looks like it's reflecting the night sky. “Just wanted to go for a walk, clear my mind.”

Of course. Why else? “Did it work?”

“No.” There’s such an easy candor to him it makes you want to believe his every word. Another part of you wonders if he lives in the same extremes you do: everything on the surface, except what matters most. “But this discussion has given me plenty of new thoughts to fill my head with.”

“Glad to be of service.”

His focus has shielded you from him, has shielded him from the world, and he doesn’t even notice as you stare at the curve of his eyelashes, as you try to capture the right emotion in his eyes.

More time passes, filled only by the crashing of waves and scratching of pencils against paper, before it is broken again.

“In dark times, should the stars also go out?” The words are muttered, so soft you aren’t even sure you caught them right, at first.

“Hm?”

Ulixes clears his throat, straightening slightly. He takes his eyes off the sketchbook in front of him, but doesn’t look at you either. The horizon has, once again, captured his attention. “In dark times, should the stars also go out?” he repeats. “It’s a quote, something Steban always brings up. I’ve been thinking about it recently.” He takes off his glasses, finally wiping away the droplets and the mist. “Bringing it into question.”

The words sound like some great confession when he says them, but you struggle to see past the mundanity. His friend says a quote. He doesn’t quite agree with it, or understand it, or something along those lines. What a wildly normal thing.

Still, you make an inquisitive hum, and tilt your head for him to go on. It must really be bothering him, for it to be brought up now, nearly unprompted.

He points out to the island on the sea. It’s a smear of black charcoal on your page, and a similar streak of brown in real life. You remember learning of the old man that lived there, the revealed murderer of the mercenary that hung in the Whirling’s backyard, your backyard, practically. Somehow, that news was overshadowed for many by the pictures of a cryptid stalking through the reeds, of that somewhat charmingly oblivious RCM officer reaching up towards it.

An interesting place, certainly.

“That island was a communist holding during the revolution. It was supposed to be a valuable asset, a powerful stronghold. Then the air raids came, and their weapons failed them at the singular, most crucial moment. All of the destruction and aircraft, the fires… the skies would’ve been black with the smoke. Indistinguishable from the night. The stars would have gone out from the sky.”

You’ve never figured out exactly what it is about yourself that seems to make people want to open up in your presence, but it’s rarely a trait you resent. At this moment, certainly, it’s strangely appreciated.

Ulixes is grabbing the lighter from his jacket again, raising another cigarette to light as you turn his words over in your mind. How, you wonder, does one rationalize the loss of the revolution in the face of infra-materialism? Did the revolutionaries simply not believe enough? Did they not so clearly imagine the future? If guns and fortresses weren’t enough to change the world, you don’t know how he thinks he’s going to do it. Dei knows you won’t.

“The stars have come back though. Not now, of course, but they will still shine in the sky once the sun goes down.”

“Of course.” He’s lit his cigarette without extending the offer to you, and you don’t ask. “But it’s a frightening thought, isn’t it? To have something that should be a constant suddenly taken away. To watch hope smothered in the sky. Even the stars go out.”

You look out at the ocean, at the sun catching the sea spray, at the gulls flapping their wings through the air, at the island. It sits in stark contrast, hard and unmoving against the soft, ever-shifting pull of the waves. The tide is coming in. You can’t sit here much longer.

The portrait in your lap is as finished as it will ever be, and you tear it out to offer to Ulixes. “I guess we have to appreciate them while they’re here.”

He takes the paper, examining it for a moment. When he’s done, it’s tucked into that same inner pocket of his jacket. “Thank you. This is… you’re very good at this.”

“Just practice,” you assure him, smiling.

In return, he offers his own page. The same scenery you were working on earlier greets you. His lines are dark where he laid them confidently, but fade away around the island. There, they are many, they are faint. There are a multitude of attempts to correctly capture the slope of its edges, the angles of the old fortress. The care he gave to it is clear, highlighted by how it sticks out amidst everything else on the page.

Before you can offer any of this commentary, he’s standing, and cutting you off. “I need to get going, this has become much longer of a walk than I intended it to be. It was nice talking to you though…” He pauses in the space where your name should be, and then realizes you aren’t going to fill in the gap. “Mr. Martinaise,” he says instead.

“It was nice talking to you too, shadow.”

Ulixes waves at you as he departs, and then makes a half-there gesture to the paper in your hand. “Hopefully I’ll see you around again.”

You wave in return, watching him as he goes. The art in your hands remains, as does yours with him. Carefully, you fold it in half, protecting the charcoal as much as you can from the outside world. There’s something written on the back.

You turn the paper over, unfolding it to reveal the message there. It’s only a couple of lines. Ulixes has written his name on the top, followed by “BOOK club” (the word ‘book’ underlined several times). Underneath that is an address, a time, and then a pass-phrase for entry.

‘Remember Dobreva and Abadanaiz.’

The revolutionary lovers.

You carefully refold the paper, sliding it in between the pages of your sketchbook. Maybe you’ll have to go sometime, accept the invitation and meet up after dark. The stars will be out.

[kiatheinsomniac]

──── 𝐌𝐎𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐕𝐈: 𝐂𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍 𝐄𝐗𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐄 ˊˎ -

☾ ⋆ﾟ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 / 𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐄𝐒

𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒: sorry for the long wait! at last the chapter we've all been waiting for/ dreading hehe. Also I couldn't help an unnecessary smut scene lol

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: modern-ish! Thranduil x Readder

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 1.8k

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: NSFW content, smut, mirror sex, teasing, oral (f. receiving) creampie

Moans slipped past your lips through panted breaths, each one of your sounds high-pitched and frantic as you did your utmost to focus on keeping the strength in your legs. Your cheeks were squeezed between Thranduil’s fingers, your pursed lips grazing against his skin as he kept your head up and assured that you were still looking in the bathroom mirror. 

He was set on making a mess of you, you were sure of it. He had already sat you on the counter and knelt between your spread legs to use his skillful tongue to bring you to orgasm. Right after this, you had been turned around and bent over enough for him to bottom out inside of you while you were still so sensitive so that he could begin an onslaught of teasing in the form of grinding against your sweet spot until you came around him, oversensitive walls gripping his cock and leaking with your juices. 

It was only once your arms were too shaky to keep your upper half up with your palms pressed to the counter that Thranduil held you up to assure you had no choice but to look at yourself as he finally, finally began to drive his hips into you with enough force to make the jewels at your neck and ears swing back and forth. That’s what this was really about for him: getting you to stop being so panicky and fidgety about the combined price of your degree and old flat threefold hanging around your throat. The star-shaped jewels glittered across your flushed skin, letting off their little glow as tears spilled from your eyes. You dared to look away from your own reflection and to Thranduil’s: starlight blue eyes were fixed upon you and the movement of your expensive jewellery and it was bringing him much closer to orgasm than you knew. He delighted in providing everything for you, the roof over your head and all its bills, the deliveries of groceries to your house, your full wardrobe and racks of shoes, little luxuries and then grander ones that daunted you. 

He caught your eyes on his in the mirror and you cried out when his hand at your hip wrapped further around your body to your belly, going downwards until his palm was pushing against your abdomen and his fingers pointed down to rub at your clit. Your body felt boneless as you came on his cock once again and you could barely feel Thranduil’s strong arms wrapping around you over the sensation of what felt like hot electricity seeping through your veins. You could feel Thranduil’s breath on your neck as he held your body as close as possible to his while filling you with his cum. 

Hazily, you looked up at the state of yourself in the mirror as Thranduil unclipped the necklace from your neck and carefully removed the earrings, setting them down on the side before sweeping you up in his arms. You were placed on the floor in the shower, the cool tile making you shudder momentarily before it was soothed away by the heat of the water pouring against your back. Thranduil knelt down in front of you to tilt your head up, delighting in your tired smile before leaning in to press a sweet kiss to your forehead, your skin slightly salty with a sheen of sweat. 

You closed your eyes and hummed happily at the sensation of his fingers gently stroking through your hair to assure all of it was wet before lathering it in a bubbly shampoo that smelled of bergamot and violets. The fortune in the form of your most recent gift from him sat forgotten on the counter for a while as you simply delighted in having him take care of you like this, in such a simple and yet rawly intimate way. 

∴.·:*¨ ¨*:·. ☙.·:*¨ ¨*:·.♡ .·:*¨ ¨*:·. ❧.·:*¨ ¨*:·.∴

Thranduil had gone to work once more, a note on the bedside telling you that he would be back in time for dinner and to take things easy with your studies and make sure you gave yourself adequate breaks. He didn’t know that these notes make you wake with a smile on your lips and that there was a growing collection of these precious messages kept in your purse. 

That smile remained on your lips as you got up and showered away the filth that you had been covered in after your shower yesterday night. You found the tiles and screen still wet, telling you that Thranduil had done the same when he woke this morning. You slipped into some comfy clothes and slippers, your hair all wrapped up in a towel and ordered breakfast to be delivered to the house. Once you had eaten and you took out your laptop to study, your smile soured. 

‘I need more’ 

“Don’t ruin my morning…” You grumbled to the voice that had been haunting you as of late. You hated how it wouldn’t shut up until you went behind Thranduil’s back to snoop around his things. You loved Thranduil with all your heart, everyone else be damned, and you hated the guilt that came with making this voice leave you alone. 

‘Don’t you want to live forever with him?’ 

You took your pen out of your mouth, sure that your teeth would soon snap the lid clean in half if you kept on. Instead, you took in a deep breath that still felt as though it couldn’t fill your lungs and tapped your knuckles against the desk while your leg bounced in place. You’d give it a few more minutes to see if it would go away. In the meantime, you were scrolling through google scholar articles about gothic marxism in Dracula. 

‘You can die knowing that you missed your chance then. It would be such a shame for him to be widowed twice, would it not?’ 

“Fine!” You hissed through gritted teeth, “Only to shut you up and get what I want.” You briskly rose from your chair and marched your way down to Thranduil’s office where you retrieved the key from the statue bust and began skimming through the files that you hadn’t read in your previous visit here. Your throat dried up and tears welled in your eyes for a moment when you got to the last file and suddenly you couldn’t skim read. You had to take in every single word. 

This was a plan for a coup. 

He already had plans in place to take over the government and install this plan that you had already read about in the other files. But what was he waiting for if all of these preparations had already been made? What could– 

That dwarf lord he was always talking about, the dragon’s treasure. Hadn’t he mentioned an heirloom of his people once? It would be near impossible to get it back after this plan took action, let alone before. You decided that you would put everything away and take to the internet to look more into whatever this heirloom was. 

‘You’re not entirely stupid then, you do have your clever moments.’ The voice taunted once you voiced out your plan. 

“Shut up.” You retorted as you carefully put the first two files back in order and suddenly your heart fell from your chest in dread. Footsteps outside the door. You would have to put the files back and hide in the room, there was no opening to leave. Hurriedly and with your pulse blasting in your ears, you re-ordered the files and tore the drawer open to return them to their place but the door flung open and you froze like a deer in headlights, the key upon the desk and the files in your hand. 

“Y/n?” You had forgotten how to breathe as you gazed upon Legolas standing in the doorway, his hand still on the door handle. He stared back at you in silence before his eyes drifted to the folders in your hand, all of them stamped as confidential, “What are you doing in my father’s office? In his house?” 

“Legolas, I can explain, it’s…” 

“Where have you been?!” He exclaimed, “I’ve been worried sick trying to contact you! None of your flatmates have seen you in weeks! You haven’t been in classes or on campus at all!” 

“Please?” You interrupted before he could go on, your tone pleading him to just listen. 

“No! Now I find you here while my father’s out, going through his office!” He fell silent for a moment and his brows furrowed, hurt written across his face. “Were you using me to get to him? Has someone sent you to dig up stuff on him?” 

“No! Well-” You thought of the voice which seemed to go silent now, not offering up its wise, wise advice for once. “Look, I think it would be best if we called Thran- your father to… to straighten everything out.” 

“Yeah, I think that’s a great plan.” He replied with a tone of venom in his voice as he took his phone out from his back pocket, dialling up his father and marching out of the room. Panic overtook you as you replaced the files and the key with shaky hands. 

This was your worst case scenario. Legolas was about to find out you were dating his dad and Thranduil was about to find out you had been snooping through the most confidential documents in his office. You left the office, carefully closing the door behind yourself before heading to the living room where Legolas was pacing up and down the length of the room, biting out orders to his father to come home immediately while you slunk onto the sofa, pulling your knees up to your chest to hide your face as you tried to steady out your breathing, tears in your eyes. Everything was about to fall apart. Everything. 

‘Don’t you dare tell him about me. You admit to snooping, you find out about this heirloom and you encourage him to carry out this coup as soon as possible. If you tell him about me, you’ll never have the chance to live forever with him.’ The voice instructed. 

“Leave me alone.” You whispered to it before reaching for the remote to turn on the TV for some background noise, unable to stand the silence now that Legolas was sitting in an armchair and staring at the floor as he tried to piece together what was going on. You just stuck on the news channel and it was something about those murders everyone had been talking about. The guardians at RINGS were proposing a curfew to try and keep people safe as all the murders had taken place at night. 

You were surprised at the taste of blood in your mouth and you stopped gnawing at your lip when you realised that you had broken skin. Perhaps it would be better to chew on that poor pen right now. Your head spun towards the entrance to the foyer when you heard the front door open and close. 

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[welcomingdisaster]

statue of an elven woman

indis/nerdanel || light M rating || ao3

The air hangs heavy and humid around them; Indis’s braid sticks unpleasantly to the back of her neck. Beads of condensation form on the blue jewels she wears, accumulate as little tear-shaped spots and then burst suddenly downwards. 

She feels a twinge in her ankle, looks down to see a mosquito, flat black body nearly the size of her thumbnail. It leaves a smudge of brownish red when she swats it, one near-whole wing sticking from the mess. 

There had been no mosquitoes in Valinor before the darkening. They came from the water in those early days, just before the rising of the sun, and Indis can only guess that whatever force had been responsible for keeping them out was busy elsewhere. 

“At this rate,” she says, rubbing at the smudge until pieces of it flake off her skin and peel away, “you shall have to title this one statue of an elven woman eaten by insects.”

Nerdanel laughs. Her wide strong hands are covered in clay dust from the little sculpture in front of her; the preliminary sketch of a grander work. She dips her fingers in her water basin and wipes them on her slacks. She looks up at Indis, about to answer, then frowns, detecting some fine dissimilarity between her model and her work. 

“Tilt your head back a little,” she says, and Indis does, “mm, now forward. Keep looking at me.” 

As though Indis could stop. 

Nerdanel wears her hair scandalously short, just below her ears. She had cut it first when she had severed her bond with her husband — had let the thick red braid fall to the floor with the hair-jewels and golden chains he had given her. She had left the jagged cut for years, even as it had grown longer. Now she cuts it again and keeps it neat. Wears no jewels in it.

Wears no jewels at all. 

Wears nothing, in this heat, but her apron and slacks. 

Indis wants to trace the lines of her bare arms, lingering on the places where the sun kisses her shoulders and leaves freckles over her strong biceps. Wants to lean forward and slip her hands underneath the apron, push their bodies together until they can no longer stand the heat. To toss off the sheet she herself is wrapped in — in truth, after all of Nerdanel’s adjustments posing her, it covers now only her left calf and her groin— and to become something else entire. 

Statue of an elven woman nude. 

“Do you touch people,” she says.

Nerdanel looks up at her, sharp. “What?” 

“Do you touch people,” Indis repeats, “were it not for my daughter I would touch none.” 

Her husband gone, slain, spilling drop by drop into the land of the dead — but gone even before then, ever choosing Fëanáro before her. Her elder son gone beyond the sea (and before that, too, gone to the quiet cold anger, frozen solid and untouchable). Lalwen’s mouth quirked up as though half-laughing, a little shake of her head — you know I shall follow him, mother. Arafinwë so close, still, yet sealed away from her; untouchable as king and son alike. 

Only Findis remains, and Findis she holds to her chest as she cries. 

Nerdanel’s thumb sinks into the clay. Too much. Too hard. 

“I touch you,” she says, “you who welcomed me into your house despite it all.” 

Not how I wish you would touch me, Indis thinks, and says nothing. Her desire is a shameful thing; unsated hunger hollowing out her out from the inside. Is it her doom, she wonders, to ever want what she cannot have, to ever want what is not wise? 

Nerdanel smoothes out the clay. Her dark gray eyes stay on the little figure. She rolls a long, thin sheet of clay and begins to cover up the figure’s calf. Her groin, next — Indis watches as Nerdanel presses between the legs of the little sculpture with two wide, strong fingers. Her hands are slick with clay-stuff. Wet. 

“I touch my statues,” she says.

“They are stone,” Indis says, “marble.” 

For a moment she thinks Nerdanel is about to argue; to her the statues are, in some way, people. Thinks of seven unfinished blocks of stone, their features barely emerging before Nerdanel had abandoned the project. 

But Nerdanel speaks not of them. 

“You, then,” she says, “I touch you. Let us drape your hair a different way. This composition is top-heavy, now that I see it in clay.” 

Indis reaches for her hair, looking for guidance, but Nerdanel has turned from her. For some time she rinses at her hands in the wash basin, leaving the water faintly gray. She scrubs under her fingernails with one wash-towel, then lets them sink under the water again. Wets, scrubs. The third time her hands emerge from the water clean, and leave no residue on the white towel she uses to dry them. 

Then she closes the little distance between them and takes Indis’s hair. 

Her hands are strong, firm, her arms corded with muscle. A bead of sweat runs over her collarbone and down to her breast, beneath the apron. She picks up a hairpin from the bench and begins to arrange Indis’s hair, forming the crests of cascading waves. Indis feels the cool waves of her own hair tickle her nipple, and shuts her eyes, un-breathing, but Nerdanel’s artistic vision has no mercy; a moment, and her warm, calloused thumb comes to collect the hair. 

Indis feels the after-touch long after the hand has left her breast. It shoots sharp and hot to her belly, her groin; she sinks her teeth into her lip and prays for self control. Varda, she thinks, but Varda is no savior now — she brings to mind only the memory of Nerdanel’s statue of her, of Nerdanel’s hands chiseling away the form of star-dotted breasts. 

“I like this in you,” Nerdanel says, taking her by the shoulders, setting them slightly askew; minuscule adjustments. A sharp, hot thing pools in the pit of her stomach, threatening to spill. “The tension you hold now. It is dramatic. It is pretty. Keep it for me, and I shall commit it to stone.” 

And is that not a thought. 

“Uh-huh,” Indis barely dares to breathe enough to speak. To think of giving Nerdanel this image — to think of herself forever so, caught in this all-consuming, wanting thing, caught underneath Nerdanel’s hands and Nerdanel’s words and Nerdanel’s patient gray gaze — 

Nerdanel takes her hips and twists them back just slightly, and Indis feels her toes curl against the workshop floor. Wonders if she may blame her blush on the heat. 

“There,” Nerdanel says, “quite dynamic. We’ll make another mock-up. I like this more.” 

Indis opens her eyes and exhales, and tries to right her foot, straightening out her toes. But Nerdanel catches her by the ankle, bringing her foot to rest back against the floor. She takes the foot in hand and presses on Indis’s toes, curling them back in. “No, no,” she says, “just like that. And your eyes, Indis. Your lips.” 

So Indis shuts her eyes and bites down again on her lower lip, imagining what shall be wrought. Statue of an elven woman desperate. Statue of an elven woman aflame. Statue of an elven woman wanting, wanting, wanting. 

“Very good,” Nerdanel says, and Indis hums. 

[ronmanmob]

@tarnishedhalo (lovingly continued from here)

No more a man acquainted with saints than he was one versed in the hills and valleys of Riley's ancestral brogue, what his American exclaimed as he laid eyes on his newest amber confection was lost on Ron. The frisson of shock that went through him though? The one with glee on its tail, understated but there? The drop-offs between his words gave that away as loud as his talk of vaults and keeping what he'd been gifted for always, never drinking it, did. That observation nudged the beginnings of commentary from Ron-

"--Not f'-"

-what would'a been a lick of fondly smiled mimicry in pursuit of a grander point dying off as Riley rose and neared him; then forgotten completely when he was embraced. Not for the first time, the static shock between Ron's ears that once upon a time came on at even closeness's implication didn't when Riley came in on him - all soft cologne and tailored edges; Marlboro's ghost and this new...slowness, almost like he was...

No.

Unsure of much beyond the fact he liked it, Ron met his American like for like. He let his palms lay upon the man's mid-back, open and gentle as he embraced him. He stayed near as long as Riley did, let go when he did too and, much as the absence of their usual brisk back/shoulder-pats read as new to him, he gave to the moment something new in return. Instead of turning his face away as was his habit when his pal chose their normal brand of perfunctory nearness, this time Ron let his head tilt towards the other by a degree or so. It was a fractional shift, a fractional change, and while he didn't expect Riley to read it as the conferral of trust and affection it was, its nature remained.

And then--

The fucker was off talking about icing whiskey.

Up and after him in a flash, Ron moved through the room's sumptuousness with the confidence and lack of distraction of a man who'd been here and been stunned by here before. He realised Riley was joking maybe two steps along his journey, the man's tone registering a wisp late but not so late he couldn't marshal his outputs to match it. A rough-edged chuckle eased free as he neared the wet bar, Ron's broad palm coming down to cover the 'iced' glass as he eyed Riley with something like shock cut with playful askance.

"-Ow's it y'can look us in th'face-" he joked, "-talkin' gorgeous like tha' 'n then wiv th'same mouf even joke abaht icin' tha' whiskey!" It was the Gaelic words Riley'd said that Ron called gorgeous; lovely-sounding as the language was to him. "--Ow's this? We pour one iced-" A nod to the glass he was guarding the whiskey from with his palm. The fact that the polished stones within weren't actually ice was the only reason he was even approaching this notion by voice. "-N one not. 'N we see which makes th'taste bettah. See if th'cold changes th'esperience, hm?" A slight pause came and went, dark eyes minding Riley through his lashes. Then--

"Wha's it y'said t'me?" he asked. "Ah- wha's it?"

[transskywardsword]

same anon! no problem if you dont, it was like literally yeeeears ago but i loved the devil character you wrote, so do you still have a copy of the time he tried 2 cut Beaver (thats his new name, its so much funnier than bovzek) teeth out? i think it was one of the first ones in the story??

This is bringing back soooo many memories, these boys were my heart and soul for so long. So, I went digging through my college google drive and was able to find it, since im fairly sure i deleted everything from this blog in a fit of despair (rip)

context for those of you who are new! this is one of the first drabbles i wrote for bovzek, one of my favorite ocs of all time. he's a gentle giant of a man and a poet, who through magical means was able to marry his beloved, alois-- only for alois' father to order him to fetch a dowry of the devil's hair if he ever wanted to see alois again. this takes place just after bovzek attacks and fails to overpower the devil, leading to him imprisonment. the devil is a sadistic, but lonely, bastard, and throughout the stories, bovzek saves his own life with his power of storytelling to keep the devil entertained enough to not dispose of him.

also this was written in like 2019, it does not reflect my current ability T^T

TW: broken bone, slight mouth injury [mostly just the threat of mouth injury], bovzek is dealing with a very fucked up individual as well as the aftermath of getting the snot beat out of him

The first thing Bovzek notices is that the room is warm, almost hot—a blessed relief from the terrible cold that still lingers in his lungs—and the second is that it smells metallic, like still wet, freshly sharpened sheers, thick and heavy. It’s not much longer than he is, and seems shallow, though Bovzek has little interest in standing and finding out; not with his head pulsing in time with his heart.

No windows, which is understandable, no door, which is alarming, and the ceiling looks to be the same smooth gray stone as that under his fingertips. Bovzek swallows. It hurts, but no worse than breathing. His throat seems too strained for both, and Bovzek doesn’t doubt it’s badly bruised. Which leads to the main problem; the Devil didn’t strike Bovzek as the kind of man—creature? —to take a break halfway through a fight. If his sister’s word was to be believed, Bovzek should be in sausage casing right now. Perhaps he needed to find a grinder first. Bovzek almost smiles at that. The Prince of Darkness hanging over a grinder like some common butcher.

“Excuse me, sir, would you prefer lamb or hog casing?” Bovzek asks the silent air, because without good humor men are but pigs. Even soon to be dead men.

“I take horse usually. Or human. Tastes the same, but men have a better snap with the bite.”

The Devil’s voice is just as smooth as it had been in the dining room, like oil slipping off his tongue, and when he walks to pitiful pile on the floor that Bovzek has become, his footsteps are near silent. He leans over into Bovzek’s field of vision, and Bovzek still gasps despite himself. He’s just so beautiful; it’s almost hard to look at. Blonde—not even blonde, too gold to be blonde, too white to be gold—hair curls loosely around his face, drifting in the air around his head, hanging delicately in his eyes. The hair is so close, so damn close, and if Bovzek had a door and a pair of sheers this whole damn ordeal could be done with.

“Forgive my rudeness, but your sister built you up much grander than you seem to be.” Bovzek says, tilting his head towards the Devil as he crouches beside Bovzek. The pounding in his skull regrets the movement. Bovzek doesn’t know how many times the Devil smashed his head back into that tiled wall, but the crunch lingers in his ears all the same.

“Did she now?” the Devil runs a hand down across Bovzek’s neck, sharp, manicured nails softly pressing on the purple, spotted flesh. “You know, the dead can be so boring. They all look the same, sound the same-- you can only grind on unfeeling fingers for so long. I’ve grown sick of skeletons and puss. It’s not the same without fresh flesh.” His fingers find their place on the bruises outlining his grip from last—night? Time seems strange here, sluggish and wrong—and applied the slightest pressure, not enough to cut off airflow, but enough to make the burst blood vessels ache.

“Hair—” He says, scrunching his perfect brows, “why hair? Why steal something so stupid?”

“I need it as a dowry for my beloved—just three locks, surly you wouldn’t miss--!” The Devil pushes harder, the dull pain under his fingers becoming something much more frightening.

“That’s adorable. You touch me, truly.” He shifts on top of Bovzek, straddling his hips, and pushes more of his weight down on his neck. Bovzek is determined not to gasp or gape like a fish, not like he had last night, gagging and wheezing and crying with his back stretched painfully over the edge of the dining table. Bovzek holds tightly to the little air he has in his lungs and the Devil’s hands shift, finding the best position, digging in the heel of his palms, his perfect nails drawing blood. Bovzek could feel his bruises darkening, and finally the need for new air and the growing ocean in his head outweighs his crumbling pride. He grabs the Devil’s hands and digs his fingers under them, twisting his hips underneath him, and sucks in on reflex when the stale, burning air in his chest becomes too much. With a contented sigh, the Devil lets go and leans back.

"I forgot how much fun this can be,” he says, flexing his hands, “the dead just sort of lay there. It gets boring.”

“I’m entertaining. Wonderful.” Bovzek croaks under him through wet wheezing. The Devil smiles. Not a hair is out of place, floating gracefully around him.

“I want my ring.” Bovzek said, glowering up at the creature straddling him.

“Excuse me?”

“If you’re going to sit there and say shit like that at least give me my ring back.”

The Devil blinks and Bovzek can’t tell if he’s fucking with him or just that dense. “Your what?”

“My ring,” Bovzek says, trying to keep down frustration as the Devil cracks his knuckles on top of him. “My wedding ring, you took it from me, I want it back.”

“You stole from me.”

“It was just hair!”

The slap seems to echo in the small room, certainly makes Bovzek’s already desperate head cry out, pain rattling in his skull. The Devil sighs, rolls his eyes as Bovzek swallows down a groan—his head, he can’t think, just knows his brain is pulsing, pressing behind his eyes—and shifts back to draw something from the leather slip purse on his hip

“It’s quite a nice knife.” The Devil says. It’s Bovzek’s devil blade, knife shining even in the dull light, and the maroon hilt seems even deeper against his pale skin. “Pretty. Did you steal it, too?”

‘It was a gift.’ Bovzek tries to say, but the Devil is already talking over him.

“Tell me, do you take off hands or fingers for stealing where you come from?”

“I don’t know, I—we never really—”

“You know what is always better? The teeth. They bleed beautifully.”

Bovzek’s eyes went wide. He ignores the aching stiffness of arms and shoves the Devil, tries to force himself from underneath the Devil’s thighs, but the creature just grabs hold of a hand and bends it back painfully far. Bovzek stills at the silent threat. Slowly, the Devil lets go and Bovzek lowers his hands.

“How many do you think? Three?” He taps the flat of the blade on Bovzek’s front teeth, and the soft clicks form a fist of panic in Bovzek’s throat. “Four, take out an extra as a reminder? Why don’t we just start and see what feels like a good stopping point?” He pushes back Bovzek’s upper lip with his thumb.

It only stings as the Devil first pushes the blade against his gums, then burning as he twists, and Bovzek can taste his blood dripping off his teeth onto his tongue.

“Phhwait—” Bovzek says, trying to keep his mouth still as possible. “You, you sthaid you’re bored, I can help! I’m a, a pfhoet!”

“A what?” the Devil said with a lazy smile, pushing deeper in, and the stinging became a searing pain down to the roots of his teeth.

“Pfhoet! Pfh—pfh—poet!” He manages to squeak out. “Don’t you want ssfhome one to talk to? I doubt the dead are good conffersation.”

The Devil sits up, devil blade slipping from his gums to rest on his lower lip, drawing up pinpricks of red. “You really think damn limericks makes up for anything, thief?”

“N-no, but aren’t you so, so bored? Wouldn’t it be nice?”

The Devil narrows his eyes, the pupils tilted and goat like.

“Which hand is your writing hand?

“Left.” The Devil leaves the dagger’s blade balancing on his mouth and takes hold of his left hand. It takes no effort from him to bend it too far back and jerk it down. The snap echoes, and when Bovzek curls away from him-- as if it could somehow help hold back a scream-- the knife slides forward and scrapes the roof of his mouth. The Devil snorts and jerks his hand back the other way; Bovzek swears he can hear the bones of his wrist grind.

“Should we do the other one too?”

“N-no, no— " Bovzek’s face burns at the words, and when the Devil moves the dagger and takes hold of his face, forcing him to meet his eyes, Bovzek imagines taking hold of his devil blade and sticking it right between his eyes.

“What kind of poetry?”

“All kinds—ballads, epics, hymns, whatever you want me to do.” The Devil stands.

“If you write one hymn praising anyone but me I’ll cut off every single one of your fingers, got it?” The blade and its delicate hilt disappear back into his slip purse and Bovzek’s muscles relax just a little. “Do you know how much you shine? Like the damn moon. It’s obnoxious.”

The Devil’s sister had said something similar. A sign of the fae’s good favor. Bovzek was certainly proving to be a shitty choice now, wasn’t he? Or maybe the fae weren’t pulling their full weight.

“Do you mind if I turn down the lights? It’s not like they’re all that important in the long run.”

“What—” Bovzek squints up at him’, and then he’s squinting up at nothing, just glowing goat like eyes in a sea of pitch black, and then the dark swallows everything up.

“Hello?” he calls out. Anything above a whisper hurts, and nothing answers. No oily voices, no echo, just heavy darkness. There is no difference between his shut eyes and the surrounding room. Bovzek carefully raises his right hand and gropes for his neck in the dark, setting on the bruises. At least it isn’t cold.

[anilv89-blog]

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[sweatandwoe]

Masked Ridings

Summary: The Commander and Malgus have an arrangement. And it’s clearly  a mutually beneficial one when-

you just ride Malgus’s face mask in this fic okay. April fools fic is that it’s star wars content with a funny concept. But it’s a real fic. 

Darth Malgus x Afab!Reader - NSFW, FaceMask-Sitting. Mention of those sith statues. You know the ones I’m talking about. Yeah those ones. 

-

This was probably the stupidest thing you had ever done. You stare down at the sith lord, your eyebrows raised. “This is not going to work.” 

The laugh below you is echoed from the mask your partner wears. Malgus’ orange eyes peer up at you, massive hands holding your thighs in a firm but not his usual bruising hold. “What has you so worried, Commander? You have never been one to fear passion.” Thick, black gloved fingers rub over your thighs in slow, circular motions. 

Nothing too much, if you were honest. The position just left you more exposed than you liked. And also you did worry about his breathing. As his fingers continue upwards, you give a small whine. “Malgus.” 

“You haven’t answered the question. Or were you wanting to end tonight’s arrangement earlier than planned? ” The sith’s glowing amber eyes flashing to a deeper red, fingers pressing into your skin as he parts your legs. Then he tuts, gazing up at you, completely bare and dripping. “Keeping secrets, Commander.” 

“It’s not a secret if you’re so easy at discovering it.”

There is a chuckle, one that echoes as he speaks. “Some are easily discovered. And some can develop into something far grander once you start looking.”

Your face is heating up, and Force, you hate him. You hate him so badly, even more so as he just holds you, staring up at you. Looking up into the wetness of your cunt, before his gaze flickers up to meet your own, tilting his head just ever so slightly to the side. “Well?”

A pointed state is your response, and then the slow movement of his fingers upwards, that stops right before they reach you. The whimper breaks from you then, hands fisting against the headboard. “I’m worried about your breathing.” 

“Don’t be. I doubt this will be the thing that ends me.” He answers it simply, as though he didn’t have any breathing issues. But his eyes return to a softer orange, than blood red. Hands rise further up, but past your cunt, digging into your hips. His voice is a touch more gentle. “I won’t die from this.” 

You might though. Just a little. But you go willing, with a small nod, before he’s helping you lower yourself down. 

The mask is cold, and has you jump at the first touch. Malgus’s laugh is like a bark, as his hands move from your hips to hook around your thighs. Keeping you in place. Because you’re only on top of the mask, it also means the sith can talk. “Now move.” There’s a squeeze to your thigh, and you swallow, before giving a ginger roll of your hips. 

The mask is cold, but the middle part of it is perfect for your pussy. The right width and angle, that when you roll your hips, it bumps against your clit almost perfectly. “Feels good, doesn’t it?” 

He really doesn’t have to sound so smug, but you supposed that was the sith way. This was just another battle to him, getting you to cum. Sith, at least in your experience, seemed to fuck like it was a fight for dominance each time. 

Maybe that’s why Sith temples and ruins were filled with all those… interesting statues. 

A tap to your thigh, and you roll your hips again. “It feels good.” You confirm in a low moan, the metal isn’t as cold anymore. Warming up with your movements and when you glance down, it’s glistening too. 

Maglus’s hands rub at your inner thighs, unable to do much more than to hold on, as you brace yourself against the headboard. “That’s it, Commander. Let your feelings guide you.” His tone is a little softer, and when you glance down, his eyes are almost brown. 

It’s enough to have you actually grind down against the mask, and the moan he gives seems to make it vibrate. You do it again, and this groan is even louder. 

Then he’s moving with you. Tilting his head, to follow the grind of your hips, so the perfect angle keeps bouncing against your clit. “Malgus.” His name is a hiss from your lips, fingers scraping against the poor metal that had become your holding ground. “Malgus.” It’s a cry now, as your hips practically bounce against the mask. You’re going to be sore tomorrow, but you’re pretty sure it’s going to be worth it. 

“You want to cum?” And his head is moving faster, hands weighing down on your thighs until you’re quite sure he can barely see. “Cum, Commander. Let me watch you. Let me feel you come undone.” 

And you do, with your hands scrambling against the metal, hips jerking against his mask. He’s not really talking, just groaning as you come undone on top of him, adding to the vibrations that only seem to make you cum harder. 

You can feel the sweat dripping down your back, and for a minute neither of you move. His fingers are still soft at your thighs, and he’s panting. You’ve got no doubt he’s hard now, not with the burning embers that are his eyes as he gazes up at you, but he doesn’t move first. 

Your hips move, thighs shaking as he releases you, and you see the mask fully now. It’s covered in your wetness, but Malgus makes no move to wipe it away. Instead he simply sits up once you’re off of him. 

Your legs part automatically as you lay next to him, and he’s quick enough to take residence there that you laugh. 

The bump of his clothed cock against your sensitive core, gets the laughter giving way to a far more tender moan. A large hand catches your cheek, holding it as he forces your gaze back on him. “Do not overestimate my kindness towards you as a weakness.” 

“Wasn’t planning to.” Your answer came easy, and you can see the slight smile in his eyes. It’s gone with another nudge of his cock against your entrance. 

A hum at your next gasp, and he keeps his hand on you, gripping at your face now. In a way that has you melting against the bed. There is an echoed chuckle from the mask, as he settles the wet metal to your un-held cheek. “Then let us see how long you can last, Commander.”

[echo-of-sounds]

shy pt.4

-Fatgum x f!reader-

smut drabble with a shy/inexperienced reader that got longer than I expected and my god, I want this man so badly

You should have gone with the pink lace. A simple, wireless bra wasn’t the sexiest thing in the world, even if it had matching panties and little lace decorations. It also gave your breasts a more natural look. Hopefully, Taishiro would like the burgundy color. 

You couldn’t bring yourself to venture into the lingerie aisle. There were prettier colors and designs, but it was packed with people- people who could actually pull off dainty chemises and sexy bustiers. And the panties weren’t anything special.

But now that you stared in the mirror long enough, the underwear wasn’t even cute. You should just take it off. He wouldn’t like it and he’d be home any minute. You told him you’d stop by his place to drop off some leftovers. You should stick to that instead. 

Tai said your name. You whipped around, holding your chest. “Oh, you’re changing. Sorry.”

“Wait.” You gripped his sleeve to stop him from leaving. A blush showed when he turned. It flooded heat under your skin. Flutters tickled your stomach, shaking your hand and wavering your voice, “This was- is- I was thinking I- I wanted to… Do you like it?” You lowered your other arm, so he could see the set fully.

“I like the color. It’s like velvet. Can I?” He held up his hand to feel it. At your nod, the back of his finger traced the side of the cup, close to your nipple, which was easy to see under the thin material. “It’s really soft… and pretty.”

“Really?”

“Really,” he smiled wide. 

“You don’t- It’s not too… plain?”

“It’s beautiful. You look beautiful.”

Still holding his sleeve, you stood on your tippy-toes, inviting a kiss. His tongue lightly sipped your lips while his hands flowed up and down your sides. You squished to his stomach, sensing exactly how ready you were. “I think…” Correcting yourself, you sighed into him, “I am ready.”

He pulled away. Eyes lit up. The blush grew. “Let me take a shower, then I’ll give you all my attention, okay?”

You nodded, matching his smile, “Yeah.”

“Give me five minutes.” He pecked your forehead before hurrying to the bathroom. 

You waited on the bed, rubbing, crossing, and uncrossing your legs. The water turning off sent excitement down your spine. Rummaging through drawers jittered your thighs. The door opening made you jump up. 

Tai returned to the bedroom, a baby pink towel wrapped his waist. It did nothing to shroud his arousal. The cloth plumped around him. Dark blond hair peeked out from the top, ebbing into a barely noticeable light yellow shade. Purple stretch marks curved upwards past his belly button. 

The rousing sight made you realize you’ve never seen him naked. Or even without his shirt. “You are- You’re, um… you- you’re very handsome,” you whispered, looking at the wall painting.

He approached and kissed the top of your head, thanking you. Something was placed in your hand then you were lifted onto the bed. Large, rough hands glided up your waist. Lips lined the side of your face, pressing smiling kisses all over. “You gonna keep staring at the wall?”

“No.” You glanced down. A condom and lube were in your hand.

“Are you nervous?”

“A little.”

Fingers gently tilted your chin for a proper kiss. Pink brightened his cheeks, reaching his ears. “Me too but I’m also excited.”

“Me too.” You reconnected it, feeling the items taken from you and tossed to the bed. Your hands blindly surveyed his body. His stomach moved in steady breaths. Soft marks waved under your fingertips. Scars cushioned your palm. All of him felt excellent. 

Fingers returned to your bra, fondling, pinching and squeezing and testing. A heavy moan left your mouth, directly into his. You hugged his neck and pressed snug to him. His tongue slunk over yours. Another moan came at the laden thickness. Your hips responded, humping piteously. Saliva shed. Sounds shared. Sparks shuddered.

The touch of his cold fingers slipping into your panties made you gasp. They gently slicked along you, venturing a roll or two on your clit. “You got this wet waiting for me?”

“Yes,” you whined among the many kisses. One finger eased in, searching. You grabbed his arm, quite breathless after the make out.

“I need to stretch you first, baby. I don’t want you getting hurt.”

“Where should I?”

“Hold on one sec.” His fingers left you. He licked them plenty, humming and smirking. They moved to your back and unhooked the bra. Straps slowly graced down your arms. He complimented your breasts, leaning in to suck a nipple.

It was nice but you just wanted him. “Tai, please…”

“Alright. Lay down. Just like when I ate you out.”

You did, legs spread plenty. He kneeled. Fingers followed the lace trimming, plucking and snapping it a few times. “This is so sexy.” They trailed the leg openings next, tickling your thighs, smoothing and pressing over you.

You reached for his fingers. He grinned, “You’re that excited?”

“Yes.”

He kissed your tummy and slid the underwear off. They landed beside your head. “Make sure you save those for another time. I want to play with them more later.”

Embarrassment fluttered up but your wants and needs overpowered it, letting you watch him take the first lick. Golden eyes stared back as he tongued deep. “You taste so good,” he groaned, letting his lips and tongue rumble against you. 

“Fingers… put your fingers in me.”

“You’ve gotten more vocal. I love it,” he praised and granted you what you wanted. One finger eased in, grooming. Another followed, skimming your front wall, curling for a reaction. 

You moaned and held his wrist, “A little more.” They extended and folded. A third finger was added. It was more than the last time. And the single addition made a huge difference. You whined, snagging the sheets. 

His hand ran over your stomach to relax you. “You’re doing great. I’m almost done, baby girl.” 

The fingers pressed up over and over. Wetness wallowed. Heat sucked your clit. The pressure spilled over. You clenched his hand, moaning, applauding, tensing your back, twisting your hips before all your muscles slumped.

“Damn, you really are excited,” he teased the swift orgasm.

“Stop,” you giggled. “But keep going.”

Copying your amusement, Tai dropped the towel, revealing his entire body. Dark blond hair clustered above his base. A couple of light stretch marks lined the outside of his thighs.

Your gawking was blocked when he worked the condom on and covered himself in lube. It glossed his palm and dripped to the bed. He stroked his fingers along you a few more times, pampering the lube deep, making sure you were wet enough. It sprouted a new itch. You sighed at his gaze and heed. You asked for something bigger, grander, powerful.

Deeming you prepared, he lined himself, poking you ever so slightly. “Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me if it’s uncomfortable at any point.”

You nodded and braced your hands against his stomach, feeling the invisible hairs. His head nudged in. It was his thickest part and it certainly felt like it. The stretch was fairly unpleasant. Nails pricked his skin.

His hand returned to your tummy, rubbing his thumb. “I’m almost in, baby girl. Does it hurt?”

“No, it’s just-” You gasped as his head popped in. “It’s just a little big.”

“You’re doing perfect.” He leaned down, kissing you. Groans and moans exchanged the farther he filled. Tongues and lips mindlessly explored. You scratched his sides at the overindulgence. Moans softened to whimpers.

“Are you okay?” he whispered between your fevered bodies. You confirmed with another long kiss, running your hands all over him. He was hot and thick and so, so heavy. You wriggled under him to get him to thrust. 

Saliva hung, connecting you when he straightened. It broke and dribbled to your breasts. Thumb moving to tenderly circle your clit, he commended, “You feel so warm, so tight.”

Fluster and flurry cut off your response. You could only pant and paw and hang on while he waited for your word. It eventually huffed out, “Keep… Start… please.”

“Of course.” He kissed your wrist and set it back on his stomach. He held your thighs as he slowly pulled out. The weight abandoned you, leaving you cold. But then he gently pushed in, bearing heat. He calmly repeated the action, sleeking in and out, gradually building his pace.

You moaned his name. It spurred a hard thrust. “Again.”

The clutch on your thighs tightened. The force tried to bump you up the bed, but his hold kept you to him.

“More.”

He came down for a kiss, talking messily with the saliva and breathlessness, “I really love hearing your voice. You’re such a good girl.”

Lust filled your next moan. His body, his care, his praise, his patience, his dick, all of it was just fucking perfect. “Please, Tai. I want you.”

He bottomed out. Thighs ground. You scratched his sides. His tongue swept into your mouth. “God, you taste so good, everywhere. You’re so good, baby.”

“Please, please… give me more,” you quietly begged.

He sat up. Your legs were straightened and laid on his stomach. Impassioned hands grabbed and lifted your ass, thrusting, rooting heavily. His head scuffed and stretched. His length tautened and bulged. You cried his name every sink, struggling to swallow your saliva with his body heaving against yours.

Legs and balls slapped louder the faster he went. He grunted, “Touch yourself.”

You didn’t have to. One rampant buck was plenty to send you over. Your head rolled back. Your mouth draped open. Air stuck in your throat as you silently, desperately humped with pleasured muscles and satisfied limbs.

Even when the bliss waned, Tai still held your waist, moving, handling, using you to find his end. His knee rose to the bed, lifting you more. He groaned and rumbled and dropped one last time. The weight shook a deep ache.

You rubbed his sides where you clawed and kissed his shoulder. His breath hushed. Lips smooched your cheek. You sighed as he pulled out and gulped as he lifted you onto his stomach, sticky and sore. 

Kisses flushed the top of your head. Hands knead your neck and back. “You alright?”

“I’m great,” you smiled, nuzzling into his chest. “You?”

He chuckled, “I’m great too.”

“Was it okay?”

“It was so much better, baby.” He kissed you. “So much better.”

[whirlybirdwhat]

crown the king with bloody flowers - chapter 33

Hanahaki au drabble series, in which Luffy is in love with the sea.

Ao3

chapter 33 - adonis flos - shanks 

Luffy - he’s so small in Shank’s arms, smaller than he was last night, partying with the Red-Haired pirates held upon their shoulders, and smaller than he was this morning, when he ran into Shanks’s knees and caused a ruckus as they were loading the ship. Shanks doesn’t know why he never noticed it before. 

Maybe it’s because now, Luffy is asleep, wrapped in blankets and held in Shanks’s arms, blood on his chin and red stains on the blanket. Maybe it’s because Luffy - vivacious and unstoppable, even with a stab wound to the face - has never been this quiet. This small. This unmoving

Shanks holds him in his arms, sitting in the quiet guest bedroom on the small bed Luffy calls his own above the bar. Knickknacks of child’s toys and treasures, shells Shanks had given to him and odd trinkets the Red Hair pirates had left behind litter the room. 

He’s a child - a child who loved the sea more than anything else. 

(When Shanks had first met him, Luffy had been sitting by the sea, watching the pirate ship come in. Water had lapped at his ankles, and later - when introductions were over and pirates were mumbling into a fifth round of drinks - Luff had simply stared off into the horizon with a smile.

Walking by tide pools, Luffy had said, The sea’s the best! She’s free! Picking up shells, Luffy had told him Isn’t the sea pretty? Living near the shore, the horizon reflected in his gaze, Luffy didn’t have to speak for Shanks to know that he loved the sea.)

A child, that was loved back by the sea. 

Until — 

Luffy coughs, and water and blood and dogwood flowers drip out of his small mouth. Shanks takes the blanket and holds him closer, his own arms trembling, terrified. 

— Until Luffy had eaten that damned fruit. 

It was only a few hours ago but - still - it stays in Shank’s mind.  The way Luffy had bitten in and started choking, not coughing out pieces of fruit but rather flowers. The way his eyes had gone wide and tears had welled up, the way Luffy had clawed at his throat and spit blood unto the floor - the way Luffy had said It hurts and had closed his eyes when Shanks whispered hanahaki.

Shanks watched his captain die in a flurry of petals. He’ll never forget it.

This moment is just the same - seared into his memory like a brand, like a warning, like a curse. 

Luffy, Shanks thinks and tilts his head back to the ceiling, feeling tears wanting too well. There is no shame in crying, every pirate knows that - but here, when Luffy is in his arms and may wake at every moment, Shanks must stay strong. He brought the fruit. He tore Luffy from the sea that he loved more than anything. He’s the one who cursed him. 

He has to stay strong for Luffy. 

(The sea hates Devil Fruit users, the legend states, but Shanks has only ever talked to Buggy and well - he never made it seem that way. Shanks hadn’t really believed it. But this - this is the truth isn’t it? The sea hates.)

There’s another cough from Luffy, but this time - this time he starts shifting. Groaning. Shanks tilts his arms and lets Luffy roll onto his bicep rather than his chest so Luffy is looking straight up at him. 

(His hands, bloody and red, still grip Shanks’s shirt. He almost never wants him to let go.)

“Hey Anchor,” Shanks says softly, quietly. “How you feeling?”

Luffy blinks blearily, brown eyes dazed and faintly pained. He adjusts his grip on Shanks’ shirt and looks around, minutely moving his head, absolutely exhausted, before responding. “‘M tired. Hurts.” 

Something breaks in Shanks’ chest at that, but he tries not to show it. Luffy is  strangely empathetic, even if he doesn’t care about others emotions that much and he’ll know Shanks’ sorrow - 

Luffy tilts his head further into Shanks’s chest and ah - he already knows. “‘M glad you’re here. You always come back. No one really else does.” 

His heart clenches. Oh, how he wants to steal this boy away - away from a bar with a woman who tries her best, away from a village that doesn’t understand, and a grandfather who cares but not enough. He wants to keep Luffy with him, wrap him up and let him see the world on the deck of ship, let him wonder, let him live but - 

He can’t. 

(A ship’s no place for a child who still has somewhere to call home on land.)

Shanks tilts down and presses a kiss onto Luffy’s head, soft and affectionate, his beard scratching at Luffy’s silky hair. The boy gives out a giggle at that, soft and melodious, before a coughing fit starts up again. Hacking and hacking away, flowers spilling out and sinking to the ground. Shanks rubs his back, gently, soothingly, as Luffy starts trembling before sagging in his arms. 

When he looks back up at Shanks, his eyes are pained.  

“Shanks?” He asks, quiet. Unnerving. “Am I going to die?”

And Shanks’ heart breaks.

Am I going to die?

Am I going to die?

Am I going to die? 

No child should have to ask that, should have to bear that burden, and oh - 

Shanks’ reaction is instantaneous and he crushes Luffy to his chest, finally unable to fight the tears that prick at his eyes. 

“No,” he lies, he lies so badly, choking out as much conviction as he can manage. “Anchor, Luffy, no. You - I won’t let you. It’s going to be okay, you won’t die, you won’t.” Luffy shakes in his arms, and he knows, doesn’t he?

That Shanks is lying?

He doesn’t let Luffy go, only listens to his mumbled sobs as he cries with him. 

“Oh, Luffy,” Shanks says, helpless. “I - we will find a way. We will - I’ll sail the entire world, I’ll find something.  I-‘“ His voice cracks. He can’t get another word out. He just holds Luffy tight, tighter than he’s ever held him, before, and sobs into his pitch black hair. ‘Anchor,” he gasps, and this boy is going to die and it’ll be the death of him.

Shanks knows it.

He knows it.

He wishes he didn’t.

His mind races, trying to come up with something, anything, mind always, always, hitching on the way his captains smile was bloody when he said goodbye to Shanks for the last time, bloody red petals stuck in his teeth.

Did you do it, Shanks had asked, sobbing, clinging to his captains coat on that last day, did you achieve your dream?

Not yet, Roger had said, and that had hurt the most. Roger was a pirate. Roger was the Pirate King.

And to a pirate, losing a dream was worse than death.

Shanks doesn’t want that to happen to Luffy. Luffy, who is small in his arms and dying the same way Roger did. Luffy, who is sobbing and terrified. Luffy, who looks out to sea and says he wants to be a pirate with more determination than anyone else in the world.

Luffy can’t die. He can’t.

Shanks can’t stop his tears. He can’t stop crying. 

But. 

He - 

(He’s got will, Rayleigh had said, when Crocus made exasperated noises about why Roger wasn’t bed-ridden in illness, He’ll stay standing as long as he’s got reason to, and adventure’s a good enough one as any.) 

-He won’t let Luffy die.

He takes off his hat with a careful arm, making sure not to move Luffy to roughly, and slowly pulls the hat off his head and place’s it on his Anchor’s. It startles him out of his sobbing for just a moment, his eyes big and red-rimmed with wetness still dripping down. 

“Luffy.” Shanks says, despite the tears that match Luffy’s on his face. “You - you wanna be a pirate, yeah?”

Quiet, quieter than he’s ever been, Luffy nods. “Ye-yeah.” He hiccups. 

“Then listen to me. Pirates are free.” Each word feels like a vow. Like a promise. Like defiance. Shanks keeps his eyes on Luffy’s, and lets the words carry him. “We do what we want, when we want. We sing, we dance, we sail, we laugh - but most of all Luffy, we chase. Our. Dreams.” Here, he holds Luffy tighter, tipping the too-big hat on his head back enough so he can see Luffy’s entire face. “That’s what a Jolly Roger is. It’s a symbol of our conviction in chasing our dreams. And Dreams - to a pirate - that’s our life. If you have a dream, Luffy, then you’ll live. You got that?”

Luffy is staring at him, eyes wide, tears forgotten. It’s just like when he heard Shanks sing Binks sake for the first time, or when he heard about the tales of the Grand Line. It’s awe. 

(Shanks thinks he’ll break if he can’t uphold the pedestal Luffy has placed him upon.)

“Do you?” Shanks prompts again, and Luffy nods.

“Yeah.”

“Then what’s your dream Luffy?” 

“To be a pirate!” Luffy says, voice filled with unsteady conviction. “To sail the seas and be free!”

It’s not enough. But it’s a start.

“Then you won’t die Luffy - as long as you’re chasing your dreams, you won’t die.” Shanks voice cracks again. “You can’t die without being a pirate, right?’

C’mon, Luffy - if anyone’s got the same Will as Roger, it’s you so - 

“Right!” Luffy says, rubbing at his eyes with a hand and blinking tears away even as that same hand comes to clutch at his chest. “I can’t die - not until… not until I-‘

And what he says next isn’t the dream to be a pirate, but something grander, something that spilled out of Roger’s mouth as he laughed with the entire world - something that makes Shanks burst out in glee and hold Luffy close as a few more desperate tears escape his eyes.

“That’s - that’s right. You can’t die till then. You can’t!”

(It’s not a promise. It can’t be. The Seas to much for that. But… Shanks can pretend.)

That night, Luffy sleeps with the hat on in the crook of Shanks’ arms, new found determination in his eyes even as he cries himself to sleep and sobs through the pain.

He gives the hat back, but the next week there are bandits who pick on pirates and little boys alike, missing arms and little anchors lost at sea.

The next week, Shanks has to leave.

But not before hearing Luffy make another promise.

“I’m the man who will be King of the Pirates!”

He won’t die before achieving his dream. 

(Roger did.)

He won’t die before seeing Shanks again.

(Roger did.)

Shanks just has to have faith that this boy - who can smile like the sun, who loves the sea with his whole heart, who has flowers on his lips and in his chest - will live.

King or Dead.

It’s the only choice Luffy has left.

-

adonis flos: a red flower that is also called "blood drops" adonis flos mean 'painful, sorrowful recollections." its named for Adonis, the youth that Aphrodite loved who died in her arms, and who's blood and pain formed flowers where they dripped.

[mybiasisexo]

Gray 🌃

anon asks: Hey can I request Jongin with 37 and 60?

a/n: I didn't know what to write for this one, ngl it was rough. But the other day I was like ‘ok lets do this’ not knowing what was going to come of it, and before I knew it, this was out. I’m really considering making this an actual story cause uhhh the world building???? mmkur!!!

DRABBLE GAME | MASTERLIST

gif credit

“Oooh, and what is this?”

Kai’s face, already contorted in pain, pinched further. That familiar voice that rang mockingly was the last thing Kai wanted to hear.

“Please,” he spit the word out, blood flew from his mouth as he pried his eyes open, cutting to where you hovered above him. He was never one for begging, but he couldn’t help but ask you to follow his orders for once. “Go away.”

You tilted your head to the side curiously and pouted. “And miss this? Never.”

You started cackling, and Kai sighed, coming to terms with the fact life was really just one big joke.

You squatted in front of where he sat leaning against the face of a cool, wet, cement building, taking in the bullet lodged into the side of his stomach. He had a hand pressed against the puncture in an attempt to hold it together, and you pursed your lips at all the red staining his fingers. “I thought gods couldn’t bleed?”

“And I thought you couldn’t be more obnoxious,” he hissed back.

You merely tisked. “The last words of a dying man.”

He locked eyes with you, yours ablaze with power, joy, desire.

He gulped.

As much as he resented to admit it, he was dying. An enemy—and he had a lot of them—used a special metal or… something, he wasn’t quite sure, but it was a mortal wound. It was refusing to rapidly heal, an ability he possessed.

“You know….” You smiled wickedly and he knew he was going to hate whatever was going to leave your mouth next. Kai had no idea when you were sent down to ‘protect’ him, or whatever it was you mentioned his mighty father ordered you to do. What he did know was that you were self-employed, and worked for the benefit of yourself alone, refusing to pick sides. You claimed that there was no such thing as ‘good’ and ‘evil’. ‘We live in a gray world’ you had insisted one day to him. ‘But if I have to align with anyone, it will be with the victors.’

Gods, he despised you.

Especially now, as you watched the life slowly drain out of his shell of a body with indifference, as though the outcome didn’t matter in the slightest.

“I can save you. All you have to do is ask.”

And there it was.

In a past life, Kai was considered a mighty god. Born the only son to the creator, he was gifted many things: strength, looks, and eternal life. But that all changed once he disobeyed his father millennia ago. Now, he was cursed, trapped onto this realm until he could find the one thing his father knew he would never be able to possess—love.

He thought he found it a few times, but in the end, he was still being punished. He had just been coming to terms with the fact he would never fall in love when you came into the picture, presence an omen in itself.

His end was near.

Not just his, but Gods and Goddesses altogether. Humans were fickle creatures, and as time went on, they grew smarter and skeptical. Like children rebelling against their parents, they felt as though they didn’t have to listen to what the higher powers told them. Felt they could live without the guidance of the divine.

So, they became hunters.

He threw you a look, shoving away the thoughts of how beautiful your hair looked framed against the silver hue of the moon. Although, he felt you were grander in fire tones, such as gold. You instead leant towards the cold shade of black. If it weren’t for your sick obsession with death, he would have probably already fallen into the abyss of your shimmering eyes.

“Come on,” you charmed, voice a warm blanket on a cold winter’s night. The gentle cantor just another clue to your deceptive nature. “Let me in, Kai.”

When that didn’t work, you changed tactics, leaning forward until your breaths mingled and his dimming warmth colored your cheeks, hitching your breath. Whether he believed it or not, you wanted the bastard to live. You had given too much into his life to have it taken from you just yet. Not to mention, what punishment his father would have in store for you if you failed to keep his son alive. You could do it, but he had to be willing.

“How pathetic would you be if you died?” You pressed on. “Gods don’t do that.”

“Many have already,” he pointed out, referencing the family he had already lost from the impending war.

“None as strong as you,” you countered. His jaw jumped. He was aware of this fact.

“You don’t have enough time left, Kai,” you warned in a sing-song voice. “And you haven’t even seen me naked yet. We could break that little curse of yours, if you weren’t so damn stubbor—”

“Don’t you dare say another word,” he warned through clenched teeth. Rage darkened his gaze, showing you a glimpse of the warrior god he truly was.

Ignoring his simmering fury, you crawled onto his lap and caressed his soft bronze cheek. He grunted under your weight, head falling into your palm, eyes fluttering.

You were losing him.

“It must drive you absolutely insane,” you whispered as you watched him fondly. “How badly you want me.”

His eyes were sealed shut, but that didn’t stop him from letting out a drily laugh, flashing his red coated teeth. “You wish.”

“I do,” you answered simply, honestly.

“Fine.” He mustered enough strength to take you in, tilting his head back against the building he rested upon. “I want you… to save me. Please.”

You smirked in victory and purred, “I thought you’d never ask.”

Leaning in, you kissed him. He was unresponsive for a breath before he hungrily returned it. Despite his nearness to death, his arms wrapped around you in a vice, dragging you as close as bodies allowed.

His strength left just as quickly as it came, leaving him falling back limply against the face of the building.

You took in his side, checking to make sure the skin had properly sealed, and was pleased to see only a fading white scar underneath all the blood. On his hip sat a shiny bullet.

He was safe for now.

You let out a relieved sigh before standing. Tilting your head all the way back so that you were squinting against the rain, you spoke to the sky. “On to phase two.”

You rolled your shoulders back and grabbed Kai by his armpits, dragging him to your apartment.

[askweisswolf]

The Last Enemy That Shall Be Destroyed (Clexa, The 100 AU)

I have no justification for this.

Major thanks @kokkoro who let me scream on Discord about this idea and @moczothe1st who lent his wonderful Batverse expertise because what I know of the lore is so small it could fit into a thimble.

AO3 link

It was moments like these where Clarke realized it’d be so much easier to let go.

There was darkness dancing around the corners of her vision and she tasted blood on her tongue, and everything hurt. She’d fallen, she thought--fallen too far, broken something. Another fight, another misjudged jump, another gadget malfunction. She couldn’t remember; her brain had gone fuzzy alarmingly fast. All she knew was she was on the ground when she wasn’t before, and everything hurt.

God. It’d be so easy.

She could just close her eyes, she thought. It wouldn’t be hard; the darkness was already there on the edge, waiting for her like an old friend. She could just close her eyes, and the pain would stop. Raven was shouting somewhere in her ear and well, okay, that was rude, but she was so tired and everything hurt so it was easy to ignore it.

It’d be so easy. All she had to do was close her eyes.

(This was what Clarke remembered, always:

She remembered Jake lunging for the gun the moment it was aimed at his wife and child.

She remembered Abby shoving her behind her body even as her husband fell and died in front of her.)

She groaned, bringing her hand to her earpiece. “Jesus, Raven, I’m right here.”

It came out wrong--slurred and ragged and she coughed up something wet and warm with it--but Raven laughed and it almost sounded like crying. “Holy fuck, Clarke--”

“Please tell me we got something from that. I don’t think I can do it a second time.” She couldn’t remember what it was right now and that was a little alarming, but she absolutely knew whatever it was she couldn’t do it again.

“I’ll look at the data in a second, okay, I’ll look at it all when you get back, I promise. Just stay awake, Wells is on his way right now.”

“Mkay.” Clarke’s hand fell away and she sighed, gingerly rolling over onto her back and gripping her ribs as she turned her gaze to the stars overhead.

She didn’t close her eyes.

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Clarke was counting the stars in the sky when Wells arrived. His car was silent--it always was--so she tilted her head slightly to watch him pull up and park as close to her as he dared. She managed a weak smile, gave a small salute, and tried to ignore how wet his responding chuckle was.

He knelt down next to her, but he didn’t touch yet. “You look like shit.”

“I feel like shit.” It should have been funny, she wanted it to be funny, but the sigh those words came out on hurt too much for her to try. “I think… brain’s still a little fuzzy, but my chest took the worst of it. Landed on my side. Might have banged my head, since I can’t think clearly.”

Wells took her words for what they are; he finally reached out, gingerly urging her to sit up and slinging her arm over his shoulders. “I’ll take a look when we get you home,” he promised. “Just gotta get through the next few minutes, okay? One, two—“

Clarke lurched up before three, but Wells braced himself and went up with her, tightening his grip on her wrist and resting a tentative, steadying hand on her hip, mindful of her side. Her legs held for a single, hopeful second before ultimately betraying her, and she leaned on her best friend like he was the only thing keeping her steady, felt the way he leaned back into her to support her.

Wells Jaha, her rock.

If only he knew.

“Sorry,” she managed, once she could catch her breath.

Wells shook his head. “I’ve got you. Just relax.”

“My bike—“

“I’ll pick it up later. Let’s go home, Clarke.”

Clarke nodded tiredly, nuzzling into the space where Wells’ neck met his shoulder, and she finally closed her eyes.

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Clarke’s sleep was dark and dreamless, and when she finally managed to open her eyes again she was back home, true to Wells’ word.

Or, well--she was under home, if she wanted to be technical about it. As she blinked blearily, she could tell that from the sound alone; the faint roar of the distant waterfall and the steady, soothing drip of water on rock, the low hum of the underground stream. For all intents and purposes the cave was basically a part of home at this point, so she more or less considered it the same thing.

As her gaze finally cleared and sharpened, she became aware of the fact someone was beside her. She didn’t have to even tilt her head to figure out who it was; the pure aura of anger she could feel prickling next to her gave away who it was immediately. “If you want to say I look like shit, Wells already beat you to it,” she said, figuring the words couldn’t make anything worse .

“It’s almost like you look like shit because you didn’t wait for me,” Octavia snapped, and Clarke finally accepted the inevitable and tilted her head slightly to look at the other woman seated next to her. The brunette had taken off her mask and had tucked away her crossbow, but it didn’t do anything to help the fury blazing in her eyes.

Clarke grimaced and shifted on the cot Wells had settled her on, holding up both hands carefully. “You were dealing with a raid,” she began. “Even if I had called for you, by the time you would have made it to me--”

“Bullshit, I know the city like the back of my hand and you know it. I could have been there in a few minutes, tops. You just couldn’t be assed to wait.”

“This was a huge tip, okay? I had to move on it while it was still fresh. And it worked out, didn’t it? I still got the information.” Clarke paused, pressed her lips together. “Plus, considering the welcome I got in that warehouse, I don’t know how much having you with me would have helped.”

“I’m going to kill her,” Octavia told Wells as he came back from the massive computer Raven was hunched over, furiously working and ignoring her three old friends. “I’m sorry you went through so much trouble to bring her back here.”

Wells paused, looking between them for a moment. “Can I at least check her over before you kill her?”

Clarke groaned. “Wells.”

Octavia leaned back in her chair, wordlessly giving the man permission. Wells stepped up to Clarke’s side, and the blonde instinctively straightened up as he flicked on a flashlight and skimmed it over her eyes, lingering for a moment before he tucked it away. “She isn’t wrong,” he finally said. “You should have waited.”

“Wells--”

“Now you have a minor concussion and a few broken ribs for your trouble. You’re not dead, so there’s that, and maybe you’re right and her presence wouldn’t have helped, but you know what? It couldn’t have hurt.”

There was nothing Clarke could think to say in response to any of that; nothing she could say to that, so instead she huffed quietly and slumped back into her pillow. Beside her, Octavia let out a low whistle. “Damn, Jaha,” she said. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”

“You’re acting like I’ve never gotten hurt before,” Clarke finally sighed.

“You’ve gotten hurt before, you’ve never been reckless before,” Wells snapped back. “The information was good, but you wouldn’t have lost anything by waiting five or ten minutes for Octavia to back you up.”

Clarke chewed her bottom lip, before she finally shifted carefully and nodded. “You’re right,” she conceded. “I got… excited, and I rushed into this without thinking. I’m sorry.”

Octavia let out another whistle. “Damn, Jaha. Can you tell me what your secret is? Every time I try to get her to admit she’s wrong it’s like pulling teeth.”

“Fuck off, Octavia.”

Octavia grinned, getting to her feet. “You love me. You’ll be taking it easy for at least a day or two with those injuries?”

Clarke’s immediate response was to open her mouth and say no, she wasn’t about to do any such damn thing because the city’s underbelly was hardly going to stop running just because she’d gone and gotten herself hurt, but a look from Wells made the words turn to ash on her tongue. “A couple hours,” she said. “Maybe a day. I can still do some light patrolling, right?”

Wells sighed. “Let’s see how that concussion clears up first.”

The blonde smirked, unable to resist. “And you always said you never wanted to be a doctor.”

He chuckled. “We do what we have to.”

“Damn right we do.” Clarke shifted her head slightly, peering at where Raven still was by the computer--Octavia had lovingly dubbed it the Bat-Computer, but the other woman absolutely refused to let the name stick. “We get anything worthwhile from that information, Rae?”

“Si, jefa. As usual, I’m a genius. You’re welcome.” Raven stood up from the chair and pulled the drive out, making her way over to her friends. “Took a little bit of cleaning up to get a decent look at it, but here you go. All the proof you need that Carl Emerson has been selling those modified weapons circulating through the black market recently.”

It was really just confirmation of what they all already knew, and in the grand scheme of things Emerson was ultimately a bit player, but it was a small thread weaved into a much grander whole, and Clarke would take what she could tonight. Hurting like this, she needed a win. “You’re the best.”

“I always am, babe, keep up.” Raven took a moment to look Clarke over, subtly shifting her weight off of her bad leg; it always started to ache if she spent too long working, but she could ignore it for a little longer. “We can probably run this to someone and still get an official arrest. You up for that, or…”

Clarke wanted to say she was, because she knew exactly who was waiting for this information and she wasn’t sure Octavia would play nice with her; the brunette was blunt at the best of times with people who weren’t involved in her inner circle, and Commissioner Kane had developed a thick skin for it over her years of activity in the city, but an outsider would definitely be present at the drop off tonight. Besides that, the information had been given to Clarke, not to Octavia, and her pride demanded she be the one to finish what she’d started.

Clarke wanted to say she was up for it, but she felt the burn as she breathed and could only imagine the kind of headache she’d get from trying to move that much so soon after hitting her head, and beyond all of that she was pretty sure that if she did say it Wells and Octavia would team up and finally kill her.

What Clarke said instead, with a deep sigh that almost made her ribs ache, was “Octavia, don’t make me regret this.”

“Hey now.” Octavia plucked the drive from Raven’s hand. “I can play nice when I have to. It’s just Kane, right? I’ve worked with him a million times now. I’m actually starting to like him.”

“It won’t just be Kane tonight. So please actually be nice? At least try to be?”

Green eyes slowly narrowed, looking the blonde over. “Who else will be there?”

“Well, the person who passed that information to me, for one. She might help us out more in the future, so again, be nice. Please.”

“You’re being oddly tight lipped about this.” Octavia glanced between Raven and Wells. “Either of you know anything about this?”

Raven held up both hands, backing off. “No, nope, I’m not getting involved. I already told Clarke this was potentially a bad idea, I’m not having that argument again. I’m going home now that my work is done, because unlike you losers I actually have a stable romantic partner who enjoys my company.”

Wells sighed. “No one you’d know,” he told Octavia. “I can vouch that she’s clear, though. Even if Clarke got reckless tonight to have some results for her.”

“Traitor,” Clarke groaned.

“That tells me a whole lot of nothing, but fine. I’ll go and I’ll play nice, whatever that even means because neither of you are telling me anything about this supposed new contact.” Octavia paused. “And I’m going as I am. I’m not playing dress up again to be you.”

Clarke chuckled, closing her eyes. “Oh, man. We haven’t done that in awhile.”

“We’re never doing it again if I have any control over it.”

“You two are idiots,” Raven cut in, but her voice was affectionate as Clarke opened her eyes again--she wasn’t going to risk keeping them closed for too long at the moment. “If that’s all settled, I’m going to head out. I think I’ve done all I can for tonight.”

The blonde tilted her head, smiling tiredly at the Latina. “Good work tonight, Raven. You really came through.”

“Yeah, yeah, you say that every time.” The words were softened by the kiss the other woman pressed to her forehead. “Try and get some sleep, jefa. I’ll see you later?”

“Always.”

“Good. See you later too, Wells. Don’t kill anyone, Octavia.”

Wells gave Raven a small wave at the same time as Octavia flipped her off. Raven responded to both of these gestures with a blown kiss, and then she was gone. Octavia studied where she’d been for a moment, then dropped her hand to Clarke’s shoulder and squeezed. “I agree with what she said,” she murmured. “Try and get some sleep, Clarke. You look like you really need it.”

“That hurts. That’s hurtful.”

“It’s supposed to hurt, I’m trying to shame you into sleeping.”

“You’re such an ass.” But Clarke’s hand came up and found Octavia’s, squeezed reassuringly.

“You’ve known that about me for years.” Octavia lingered a moment, then pulled away. “I’ll head out then for this meeting with Kane and your mystery informant. Usual place, right?”

“Mm, yeah. Top of the precinct near the signal. They’ll be expecting me, so you won’t have to wait for them.”

The brunette grinned. “The Bat Signal?”

Clarke groaned. “Go. I’ll--try to get some sleep.”

Octavia left--finally--with a promise to send Clarke a message in the morning letting her know how the meeting had gone. The blonde took a quiet breath, tilting her head slightly to look at the man who was left sitting beside her. “Hey,” she said, finally giving in and letting exhaustion seep into her tone. Letting pain seep into her tone because God, she hurt.

“Hey,” Wells answered, his eyes soft.

“Do I still look like shit?”

That got a laugh out of him, even if it sounded as exhausted as she felt. “A little, yeah. It’s not as bad as when I found you, but…”

“That’s fair.” Clarke sighed. “Help me up? I think the world’s going to spin if I try to do it myself.”

Wells was already getting to his feet before she even finished speaking; when she held out her hand, he took it without any hesitation. They’d done this now a thousand times, and there was no doubt in either of them they’d be doing it a thousand times more as he pulled her up, easily slinging her arm over his shoulders and bracing his hand against her back to help steady her as she staggered on her feet for the second time that night.

“Thanks,” the blonde managed, when the pain from moving faded enough for her to be able to manage words. “Wells?”

“Yeah, Clarke?”

“You can pick up my bike tomorrow. Can you just… stay with me tonight? Please?”

Clarke knew she didn’t need to ask, not really. Wells had been by her side when her parents had been buried on a cloudy, rainy day, and he hadn’t complained when she’d held his hand so tightly she was sure it had to hurt. He’d had his chance to leave when she’d been seventeen and struggling to breathe, and yet he’d chosen to stay. She didn’t need to ask him every time.

Yet, a part of her still needed the confirmation. The reminder that after everything, he was still beside her and ready to keep going with it.

“Of course.” His voice was steady, like always. “Come on, lean on me. We’ll deal with everything in the morning.”

It may not have been the ending to her night Clarke had wanted, but it wasn’t the ending it could have been. She was willing to take it.

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“She’s late.”

From most people, that would have been an accusation; when Anya said it, it was simply a statement of fact. Lexa watched her breath mist in the late night--early morning? She didn’t know what time it was, she hadn’t brought her phone with her--air, and didn’t reply. The words weren’t meant for her.

Marcus Kane’s eyes were still trained on the signal he’d lit, patient. “She’ll come,” he said.

“And if she doesn’t?”

“She will. If she doesn’t, Huntress will instead.” Marcus shrugged, finally shifting his eyes to look at the women. “One of them will come.”

Lexa’s eyes narrowed. “I didn’t give that information to Huntress,” she said. “I gave it to Batwoman, and I expect Batwoman to be the one coming to us with the results.”

“You’ll have to learn to live with disappointment, then.”

Anya’s entire body stiffened at the same time Lexa’s heart jumped at the unfamiliar voice. She wasn’t even sure where the new person had come from; she seemed to have simply materialized from the shadows, and the only thing that gave her away was the gleam of her eyes and the splashes of purple and white against the black of her suit.

Marcus smiled slightly; in comparison to his companions, he actually seemed to relax at the sight of their visitor. “Huntress.”

Huntress--not Batwoman--glanced at him, dipping her head slightly in greeting. “Commissioner.” Her eyes slid past him, focusing on the man standing quietly near the door so they wouldn’t be disturbed. It might have been a trick of the dark, but Lexa swore her gaze actually softened when she looked at him. “Officer.”

Keeping watch by the door, Lincoln lifted his hand in response to her acknowledgement, and now Lexa knew the night was playing tricks on her because she could have sworn the large, usually quiet and reserved man actually smiled slightly. She and Anya shared a glance, communicating without a single word.

“Anyway.” Huntress reached into her belt, flipping open a pouch. “I’ve got the flash drive right here. Batwoman got the information and it’s all been cleaned up for your use. I think you’re going to like what it says.”

Lexa looked the other woman over. Of the two vigilantes that called Arkadia home, she’d ultimately chosen to reach out to Batwoman for a reason; by all accounts Huntress was steady enough and trusted by the people of the city, but she had a ruthless streak that her companion didn’t share. Lexa had wanted to get her information, preferably without any blood on her hands if she could manage it, and she’d known Batwoman was the best chance she had of accomplishing that.

Instead of Batwoman, though, it was Huntress who had returned with the information.

Before Lexa could let her train of thought reach its logical conclusion, her eyes met the other brunette’s. Huntress looked at her for a moment, then at Anya, then back at Lexa again before she snorted. “Ah,” she said. “I see. You’re the informant she was being so tight lipped about, I assume?”

Lexa’s eyebrows went up, but she stepped forward and accepted the flash drive when Huntress held it out to her. “I didn’t know she mentioned me.”

“She didn’t mention you at all besides saying you’d be here, that was half the problem.” She rolled her eyes when Anya’s gaze hardened, her mouth beginning to open; the vigilante held up a hand before she could speak. “Relax,” she said. “Like I said, I don’t know anything about either of you besides the fact that you’re new, and frankly I don’t care to know who you are. Bats is the one who plays nice with you types.”

Anya didn’t relax an inch. “You seemed perfectly fine with the Commissioner and Forest.”

Huntress shrugged. “I’m used to them, so I tolerate them now. It’s not personal. If that’s all, can I go? I was just supposed to drop this thing off, not have tea and a friendly chat.”

What a charming woman.

Anya rolled her eyes at the same time Kane gave an amused, almost tired shake of his head, and Lexa could have sworn Lincoln was actually trying to muffle a laugh back by the door into the building as Huntress turned away to head back out. After that exchange it was terribly tempting to keep quiet and let the other woman go on her way, but…

“Is Batwoman okay?”

That made Huntress pause, and she turned back around to give Lexa a quiet look. The other brunette met her gaze evenly, even as she could feel her temper beginning to fray along the edges. She’d given the information to Batwoman assuming that it would be an easy enough task that would end with nobody dead, and now there was a very real possibility that she had been wrong. Lexa hadn’t been in Arkadia for long, and her partnership with the other vigilante was recent, but the thought still sat poorly with her.

Eventually Huntress decided she must have liked what she saw as Lexa continued to hold her gaze, because she finally sighed. “She’s fine,” she said. “If you’re out and about tomorrow night I’m sure you’ll see her again.”

That was all Lexa was going to get out of her, it seemed, because right after she said those words she just--stepped off the building like it was nothing. Lexa’s heart briefly flew into her throat before she heard the whistle of a grappling hook, and then Huntress was gone almost as silently as she’d come.

There was a beat of silence.

“She seems nice,” Anya said at last as Kane made his way over to her and Lexa, taking the flash drive from her when she offered it.

“She’s kept us safe for years,” Kane replied, his tone even but firm; Anya got the hint and kept her mouth shut, though Lexa could see the way she briefly clenched her jaw. “We should go inside and take a look at this. Knowing Batwoman it’s been cleaned up, but it could still be a lot of information to work through. The sooner we get through it the better.”

Lexa wordlessly agreed. She’d come this far to get what she had in her hands now; hopefully, she only needed a little bit more to see things through to the end. She didn’t know what came for her after this was all done--she’d never let herself think that far ahead--but she knew she was getting closer to it, step by step. It would do her well to go inside as quickly as Anya had followed after Kane and Lincoln, blowing into her hands to try and bring some warmth back into her body after almost an hour of the night chill.

Instead she lingered by the door, letting her eyes gaze out over the city that was either tucked away peacefully in sleep or just starting to stir in the early morning. She waited, hoping against all hope that maybe, just maybe Huntress would be wrong and Batwoman would somehow magically materialize in front of her. The other woman’s words had been less than helpful, and Lexa had always had an awfully vivid imagination.

(Nia had been counting on that.)

Lexa waited, but Batwoman didn’t appear, and with one final look out over the city the brunette stepped inside and closed the door behind her, taking a moment to rub her eyes before she checked the lock and headed downstairs to see what information they now had

Sleep could wait. There was still work to be done.

[bellatrixobsessed1]

Protea (Part 7)

Mai hasn’t stopped by yet, Snapdragon supposes that it is just as well, she hasn’t finished her gift yet. It is quite simple but she is still proud of it. She hopes that Mai will enjoy it as much as she is thrilled to be making it.

So far the necklace has six charms, a very vividly colored paradise-peacock feather, a small elephant-rat paw bone, a naturally polished and very shiny stone with a hole in it, an aged fork, a clam shell, and one of several old coins that she had found buried in the jungles of Hira’a.

She thinks that the cord can hole at least one more trinket and a few beads. She scampers through her piles sorting through ribbons, thimbles, and empty bobbins. She inspects shards of glass before ultimately deciding that those are all too pointy to wear around the neck. She picks up a crab claw and puts it on its own pile, a candidate for being the final trinket. She finds her collection of beads and plucks out a few black and dark red ones, Mai seems to enjoy the gloomier shades.

She scrambles over to her plant specimens. Mostly they consist of interestingly shaped twigs but there are several dried leaves, petals, and roots. She thinks that the leaves and petals are too frail to be threaded onto the cord. But the roots, those might very well work. And they would make sense too. Mai works with flowers and plants so the necklace should have at least something to represent that. Snapdragon’s current necklace represents her.

She feels it against her chest. It has at least eight charms, a few of them don’t mean anything in particular to her. But she has recently added snapdragon roots between the tiger-monkey claw and her a dusty, broken geode. A tiger-monkey claw for her fierceness and her love of climbing and a rusty cog for her love of old factories and abandoned places. There is a coconut chip to remind her of her days in the jungle and a blunt tip of a broken dagger. She isn’t entirely sure about the geode but it speaks to her on some level. The coins, beads, and the piece of tattered red cloth are more for show than anything else.

She twirls the root in her hand before ultimately deciding that they will be the perfect final addition to her necklace. She ties it onto the cord with a satisfied smile and holds it up. It is perfect, an asymmetrical cluster of things that don’t seem like they should go together. But they are harmonized in their chaos.

Her smile fades, she isn’t sure that Mai would like to wear something so odd. Especially in a palace full of watching, judging eyes. She supposes that it’s okay if she only wears it around her and then takes it off when she gets to the palace.

.oOo.

It is raining quite heavily but Mai doesn’t particularly care. The pounding of the drops drowns out the angry beating in her mind. Zuko is being unbearable. Everything is an argument, everything is taken so personally. And she doesn’t care for that Jin girl that he has been bringing around.

She can’t quite place it at first but she thinks that it might be a twinge of jealousy one that she wishes she could permanently purge. She isn’t sure why she is jealous, she has made it clear that things were over between the two of them. And yet she can’t shake that nagging sense that it should be she who is going to be attending Ember Island Players shows with him. That was their thing and now their thing is being shared with some ditzy, doe-eyed, air headed…

Mai tightens her fists in her pockets. Small puddles are gathering uncomfortably in the folds of her robes and she has no one to blame but herself. Why does Snapdragon’s factory have to be at the very other side of the city? Why did she neglect getting herself a palanquin ride?  Zuko probably wouldn’t have let her borrow one anyhow. Not mid-squabble.

Her feet slosh through puddle after puddle, soaking through to her socks. She shudders, there is no greater discomfort. No greater suffering. But at least she isn’t bored.

She finds Snapdragon, also soaked thoroughly, leaping from puddle to puddle. She, unlike Mai herself, seems absolutely delighted to be dripping wet. She hasn’t yet noticed mai. Even in the misty gloom, Snapdragon is a splash of color. The necklace she wears today is particularly flashy as it clanks against her chest. Mai is inclined to believe that she has chosen it specifically to stand out in the drabness.

“I’m glad that you’re having fun.”

Snapdragon comes to an abrupt halt, kicking up a splash of oily mud. “I like rainy days sometimes.”

“You would enjoy playing around in the mud.”

“It’s too slick for climbing ‘n jumping on roofs today.” Snapdragon shrugs. “So I’m pretending that the puddles are roofs ‘stead.”

“Interesting.” Mai remarks stoically.

“I ain’t realize you liked walks in the rain.”

“I don’t.”

Snapdragon tilts her head, “then why are you walking in the rain?”

She shakes her head, “just...don’t worry about it. Can we go inside, I need to wring my clothes and hair out.”

Snapdragon flounces over to the door and holds it open, “after you, hotwoman.”

Mai rolls her eyes. Normally it would be enduring, today she just finds herself annoyed by the woman’s uppity antics. She sighs and gives her hair an overly forceful twist and squeeze. She can’t let herself take her frustrations out on Snapdragon. The girl has been nothing but pleasant.

“Hey, stay right there! I gotta go get something!”

She doesn’t give Mai a chance to answer before darting off and scrambling up her rickety ladder. It is probably a good thing, she very well might have muttered a harsh, ‘where else am I going to go, Snapdragon?’ Mai rubs her hands over her face. Maybe she should try to lighten the mood. Maybe she should try to drink in some of the delight that Snapdragon radiates.

The girl comes back down with another one of her gaudy necklaces. She is beaming from ear to ear. “What do you think?”

Mai inspects the jewelry. “It’s...uh...it’s unique. Very you.”

“I was trying to make it more you.” She holds it out. “See, the roots are supposed to represent your flower shop.”

Mai tries to muster up a smile but it probably looks more like a grimace.

“It’s for you.” She retracts her hand slightly and thrusts it out again.

Mai takes a deep breath and tries for a joke, “I don’t know if I can pull off a trash necklace.”

Maybe it is her deadpan delivery, or maybe she has simply uncovered and hit some hidden raw spot, but Snapdragon’s face falls. Mai could slap herself. “No, no. I mean it’s a cool necklace, I like it. I just wanted to make a joke.”

Snapdragon forces a laugh. She doesn’t try to hand the necklace to her again.

“You’re not going to offer it again?”

“It’s alright, Mai, you don’t have to take it if you don’t want to.” She forces a smile.

“I do want to.” She holds her hand out. Snapdragon sets the necklace in her palm. Mai tries to make small talk with her but she mostly answers with simple yes or no’s while toying with the charms on her own necklace.

And Mai considers that maybe Zuko isn’t the problem at all. Maybe it is her. She does have this amazing ability to drag everyone down instead of allowing them to lift her up. It always happens eventually. She wishes that she weren’t so unremarkable.

.oOo.

By dusk the rain comes to a slow. After an hour or so of getting nowhere in conversation, Mai had declared that it would probably be best to make her way back home before it gets dark and the second round of storm clouds roll in.

She can see them lingeringly darkly on the horizon as she scuttles her way over a heap of wooden beams and crates and shimmies up the husk of an old war tank. She squeezes herself into the hatch and slips behind the wheel. She imagines the war machine roaring to life in a cough of black smoke. Imagines the raw power of it. Imagines being something more than just some downtrodden alley dweller. Maybe then Mai wouldn’t be embarrassed by her. Maybe then, she’d have a chance with the woman.

Her gift was accepted out of pity and nothing more, she knows that Mai is just going to chuck the necklace aside when she gets back to the palace and pretend like she has no idea where it had come from.

Snapdragon gives the rusty metal wheel a turn. Maybe if she spent less time lurking in abandoned places, people wouldn’t abandon affections for her. She supposes that it is hard to love someone who is constantly covered in dust and grime. All the same, she loves her hobby, she can’t really see herself without it.

She finds a little corner of the tank to curl herself up in and wait out the storm. It comes suddenly and with a surprising fury. From the sound of it, the drops are thick as they pelt the side of the tank. And the thunder shakes the ground. It is probably a horrid idea to hole up in a metal tank so she hustles out of it and into the rain.

The puddles are no fun anymore and the rain throws itself violently into her face. She thinks of going into the factory but it is entirely metal too. The lightning strikes it over and over again with a terrifying fury. And yet it manages to stand on, powerful and admirable. She thinks that it is what keeps her safe from getting struck; the lightning is so enticed by it that it doesn’t bother with her as she heads towards Mohi’s home.

The wind lashes at her with a fury and she wonders if and hopes that Mai has made it home.

Maybe if she were a shaper, smarter, noblewoman she would have thought to offer letting Mai stay with her at Mohi’s. Would have walked there with her a while ago.

But she isn’t smarter. She isn’t a noble woman. But she isn’t anything grander than what she is now. Isn’t anyone impressive. She’s just Snapdragon, a girl who doesn’t even have a real name.

[mysteriisnull]

The most effective dreams are the calm ones. No overtones of horror, not just overwhelming him into submission with past trauma, usually just a sit down discussion. This time it’s a chat with, Nick? It’s hard to tell but he’s not a frightening figure. 

Theres a wavering tone stuck ringing in his ears, its absolutely nauseating but he’s dealt with worse. Sometimes it sounds almost like words, like a tv being left on a few rooms away. Looking around there doesn’t seem to be any other rooms though, or walls? Outside of this warm area it seems to just dissolve into this shifting darkness. The lighting is really bizarre here, the fixtures are well hidden too. The ceiling itself is obscured. He just isn’t wearing his glasses, just the frames today. Though he only has the one pair, and the lenses can’t be popped out. Why’s it so hard to or where is in this-

“Still with me Quint?” Oh, that’s right. He was talking to Nick, when isn’t he really? 

“Yeah, yeah I ah, yeah we are Or I just got, caught up in. Am I wearing my glasses? I do or have to be, right?”

“Of course, why wouldn’t you be?” He does an odd head tilt, to emphasize his confusion here. It’s appreciated when these things are overemphasized, when did he ask him to do that? It was probably a few days ago. Time gets muddled now, after all of that.

“I just wanted to, or its you know. With a its this is all disorienting.” Is this place disorienting? Is speaking disorienting? Is speaking to Nick disorienting? Probably all of the above really. But he’s not quite sure what he means. Nick goes back to talking, and it's difficult to focus back in.

He goes back to trying to figure out this space. He’d love to stand up, and see the physical barriers here but it doesn't work. Theres just a disconnect, and now a door. Or well, the door was always there, just not visible yet. Or more likely he hadn’t noticed it, that's probably it. More of the space is built, or he finally takes it in. It’s like a caricature of a jazzy speakeasy, ripped right out of a book he doesn't remember the title of. But it was a book, or maybe a movie. Probably some kind of show. The walls are a deep red, and look almost velveteen in the relaxed yellow light of the fixtures he still can’t see. The floor is carpeted oddly like his own bedroom, though this is a true cream and lacks all of the balding chunks and melted patches from misguided cleaning attempts, or thaumaturgic self-study gone wrong. The only furniture here is the two armchairs him and, whoever he’s talking to, the voice is all muddled and he’s too preoccupied to look at their face, are currently occupying. They're a dark leather, studded with gold rivets like all imposing furniture seems to be.

“I’m proud of you, neonate. I know it was a hard goodbye.” Of course it wasn’t Nick. He had chosen, or it had been decided for him? That night is a blur of rot and flame and screaming and blood and its better to focus on the present.

“I’m still, or I do still apologize, to you about or for. I know it was hard on your, or difficult in or for you as well. It’s hard to build I think here or on this from scratch.”

“It’s not all bad. I’m working with a stronger foundation this time around, we’ll build something grander than before.” Nick offers a genuine, if still exaggerated. Wasn’t he talking to, Strauss was the dead one. He had, burned? No that was. But Nick isn’t dead either? One of them has to be gone but both are here. The carpet is a pale pink now, the rivets in the chairs an odd. When did his mom get here? She’s here, but theres only one person, including himself. Theres no longer a door but how are they getting in? Where is she standing? Theres broken glass on the floor now, red frames to match. But he only has one pair of glasses. The glasses on the ground were never his. He feels badly for having broken Strauss’s. Really they aren’t prescription so it’s fine, but still. He’s working on this gift for him as an apology, thats why he’s speaking to Nick.

“So the idea I’m having or is, what I’m thinking of is like a firework but it Would be quiet or Just the colors? I want it to be or To have shape and motion in a Like figures?”

“Do you think this is a good use of your time, Bee?” She sits there, clipboard in hand.

“I don’t Want to talk to you About this, you aren’t or. Thats not right. You aren’t supposed to be-”

“Sorry Quint.” He offers an apologetic smile, “Things just get mixed up, you know all about that.”

“No its, your. Which one are you?” 

“Who do you want to talk to?”

“That’s not how this sort of or this thing works.”

“Who were you talking to before then?”

“It was or. I don’t really, It was someone Not Dr.Macleod.”

“Why are you so preoccupied with rules?” It, no. It’s still he. He tilts his head in that same manner. It’s a joke for Him not for his benefit at this point. Was it ever for his benefit? It’s harder to tell here.

“It’s how you do or its Making sense of things. Why wouldn’t I care about or For that. Why are they or Is it. This isn’t real?”

“Well. We hit a new record. A day and almost a full night of you being preoccupied in here.” He, Strauss? It is Strauss but its not the same one. He’s ragged, soaking wet and unsteady. He’s looked worse but he doesn’t know how he knows this. “You’ll re-emerge in a few minutes. I did nothing drastic this time around, just stretched my legs. You’re welcome for that.”

After, hopefully just a few seconds, though its probably been atleast a full minute, he realizes he’s sitting on his bed. His shirt is blood encrusted, and theres locks of, whats probably his own hair, scattered around. The walls of graphs and their related images have been torn down, leaving blank, tack ridden, expanses in their place. He just turns the overhead lights on, bright white here, climbs under the blankets, and just lays there.

[diddlesanddoodles]

Dumpling ch. 17

(author’s notes: I’M NOT DEAD!)

Keral sent along his message to Hev the blacksmith informing him of Nenani’s need for a new marker with a servant who came to replenish the wine decanter and deliver a few papers and notes to Maevis. Once a fresh post of tea had been brewed and Keral’s wine glass filled, they got to work.

In no time at all, the number of books being taken down from the shelves were taking over the table and along with them came seemingly endless rolls of parchment upon which Maevis furiously scribbled as many notes and citations as his quill and ink could produce. Keral, for his role, thumbed through various books and whenever he came upon something, he slipped a small piece of parchment in the page and sat it before the magician. The library had taken on an air of solemnity.  

However, as was his nature, Jae did not much care for the weight of the room and did his best to keep the mood from sinking any further.  

“So a smoke mage,” he wondered aloud to to one in particular, lounging against a stack of books. “What makes a smoke mage so dangerous? Because by the name alone, I think the fellow may have drawn the short end of the magic stick.”

“No mage is inherently dangerous,” Barnaby said. “But we do not know this mage’s intentions and what we do know is that they are violent and not above meaningless killing.”  

He was on his second cup of tea and comfortably seated on a cushion close to where Maevis was working. After trying to aide in the research himself and suffering a slight dizzy spell, Maevis all but demanded that the old archivist sit and rest.  

“It won’t do to tire yourself, my friend,” the magician had told the human gently in an attempt to mask his worry. “Best rest a while.”

“I am fine,” Barnaby replied with a disregarding wave, but he still lowered himself onto the cushion nonetheless. “Just a bit over excited, mind you. I’ll be right as rain in a bit.”

“Not very nice t’be worryin’ old Meeves now,” Keral added. “He already frets over ya like a hen. Won’t be helpin’ ‘im much to be actin’ fragile, eh? Let us do the heavy liftin’ and if ya remember anything, we’ll write it down.”

Barnaby huffed mildly at being accused of acting fragile, but stayed put and did not refuse Jae when he handed him his tea. Nenani watched with confusion as the two giants worked and fussed and Jae fidgeted. She knew very little of magic and prior to meeting Maevis, she had never seen it used.  

“What’s a mage?” she asked.  

All at once, she became the focus of the room and she felt her face flush. Perhaps it had been a silly question.  

“Well,” Maevis began thoughtfully. “A mage is a person who uses magic.”

“Like the kind of magic you do?” she asked.  

“Not exactly,” he replied patiently. “I learned magic from studying it in books and from other magicians. A mage does not learn magic, they are born with it. Sometimes they are called Elementals, because a mage’s magic often times coincides with a particular element.”

“Like fire?” she asked. “Fire mages?”  

“Correct,” Maevis replied. “Though it is also important to note that while all Elementals are considered mages, not all mages are Elementals.”

Nenani made a face. “I...I don’t...huh?”

Keral laughed at her as he sat a book down. “Elementals are human, but one of us big folk could be a mage. We just wouldn’t be called an Elemental. Like that Bertol fellow.”

Now it was Maevis’s turn to make a face and Keral released a loud bark of a laugh.

“Oh, come now,” Keral replied. “Don’t y’know Bertol is the greatest prophet who ever lived?”

“Bertol the bumbling buffoon,” Maevis replied dryly, “Is as much a prophet as that tea pot over there and not nearly so useful. And only by the skin of his teeth does he have any right to claim himself a mage.”

Keral grinned, laughing. “Don’t care fer his ramblings either then? Hm. Neither does the King.”

“I would not blame King Warren if he should one day decide to place that idiot in the stockades and conveniently forget him.”  

“Who is Bertol?” Nenani asked, glancing between the two giants, feeling more confused than ever. Mages, Elementals, and now prophets?  

“Bertol is a Vhasshallan mage,” Maevis replied sourly. “He is thought by many in Vhasshal to hold the gift of foresight. That he can see the future and make predictions based upon his visions. He was the one responsible for the Gold prophecy.”

“Gold…?” she asked, trailing off.

“It’s why Warren’s called the Gold King,” Jae added before biting into a biscuit.  

Seeing her confusion, Keral reached for a book sitting on the edge of the table, a smallish black volume with gold lettering, and he flipped it open and began to read. His voice was even and mellow, but the words that sprouted from his lips brought with them a sickening sensation of her guts being pulled and ice dripping down her spine.

“The river runs uphill to the dying songs of the fall of fools and Kings that tear flesh from bone and the crown from the mountain. Water runs red with fire and shall rise when the old blood runs new. The flesh taken will be paid in blood and the dead walls will rise with gold.”

He closed the book with a snap and tilted his head down to regard Nenani with an open expression, but froze, brows drawing together, and he bent down. “Ya alright there lass? Yer a bit pale.”

In depths of her memory, she could feel the cool stone of the catacomb and see the empty hollows that once held eyes of those that had once been a person. Those voices chanting. Her dreams that played out in her mind every night. The smell of smoke, the screams of men dying as the fishing boats burned. A man in black, his face obscured by the skull of a stag. Her Uncle calling to her as he died.

And those words…

“...shall rise when the old blood runs new.”

She felt thick fingers wrap around her shoulders and Kerals voice broke through the fog of her mind. Abruptly she broke free and she was no longer within herself but back at the library. The scent of smoke and ash replaced by that of parchment and ink and tea. And Keral’s body odor.  

She met his eyes and was surprised to find her cheeks wet. “I...I don’t know...”

“Oi now, don’t go lettin’ them words scare ya. Yer alright,” he told her quietly. “Nothin’ to be upset about. They’re just words, remember. Besides, it already came to pass. Nothin’ to fear, eh?”

Barnaby and Jae were both studying her with a mixture of expressions from worried to bewildered. Now aware that everyone was intently focusing in on her, Nenani flushed and scrubbed at her cheeks in slight embankment. “Sorry. I’m fine.”

“You’ve had quite a day,” Maevis said, an air of suggestion in his tone. With a gloved hand, he waved behind towards the door just beyond the curtain. “Would you like to have a rest?”

“Best thing t’do would get ya back to th’ kitchens,” Keral added as he rubbed his chin in contemplation. “But if ya showed up without a marker, Farris would have a right apoplexy.”

“Yeah, Hev’s work is good,” said Jae. “But metal working takes time. And it’ll take most of the afternoon for Connor to do the detail work.”  

Nenani shook her head. “I’m fine. I don’t need to rest. That poem, er – prophecy. I’ve heard it before, but I didn’t know it was a prophecy.”  

Maevis expression of concern shifted into mild disdain. “Yes, well. I wouldn’t put much weight nor worry to those words. The one responsible for that dribble has as much foresight as a week old turnip.”

“First a tea pot and now he’s a turnip,” Jae sniggered. “So which one is he?”

“What has that poor old buggar done to earn your ire, Meeves,” Keral asked. “Didn’t think you had it in ya t’hold a grudge. Even against someone deserving of it.”  

Maevis took a moment to take a long and slow breath, placing his folded hands atop the table, and seemed to collect himself.

“Anyone can string together phrases with grandiose words so vague as to be perfectly useless,” Maevis replied, his irritation smoothed over, but still there. “There are many who take themselves for grand prophets and mostly their predictions fall to deaf ears. Bertol has managed to convince people his words are true and by the God’s graces, I haven’t the foggiest inclination as to why they would listen to him, of all people.”

“He had good timing,” Keral offered in response. “Folks were looking for something to cling to. They'll cling to hope if they smell it. Makes ‘em desperate.”

“My meaning, precisely, Keral! Words have power when people make it so. Bertol’s words were hallow and meaningless. Just enough vague enough for opportunistic fiends to take advantage. They see themselves in his words and are convinced that they’re meant to grander things. Bertol’s words are reckless. And therefore, dangerous.”

…………………………………………….

“Tell me master Barnabas,” Keral said with surprise formality. He sat in the same chair, but his glass of wine had been replaced by a cup of tea by Maevis after the ranger had all but drained the pitcher all on his own. Beside him stood a small stack of books. Maevis held his own cup and nursed it. Beside him sat a much more impressive amass of books and tomes.

They had paused their research for a break and Barnaby was looking over the slate he had given to Nenani to draw on, showing her how to hold the chalk and how to use the lines to create an image. Keral had been watching them with an enigmatic expression, though Nenani tried not to let it bother her. Keral had managed to subvert her expectations of what kind of a person he was, but there were occasions she had caught glimpses of something else.

Something that she could not help but feel nervous about. But no one else seemed at all concerned, so Nenani decided she was just being silly.

At hearing his name, Barnaby looked to Keral inquisitively and the ranger continued. “How common was red hair in Silvaara?”

The question was odd. Odd enough to catch the room by surprise and then as a consequence, all eyes turned to Nenani. The only one of them with red hair.  

Feeling the weight of their curious eyes, she shrank away from their peering gazes. “What?”

Barnaby turned back to Keral, perplexed. “Not too common. Black or brown is more common, such as young master Jae. I myself had brown hair. When I was young. And had hair. Why?”

“What about the highborns?” Keral asked. “Nobles and the like?”  

Barnaby’s eyed widened as understanding struck him. “Oh. Well, red was much more common. A genetic consequence of the blood purity obsession that took over the last decades. Though it was wildly held as truth that those with red hair were born of fire and were more likely to hold the Flower’s blessing.”

Jae watched with mild curiosity and then laughed, eyeing Keral skeptically. “What? You think Nenani’ might be a long lost highborn?”

Keral shrugged. “I get curious. The Hill tribes are all brown and black haired save for the last one Farris picked up from Dornbey. Poor sod had quite the reception when I delivered ‘im to Gregis. It was all m’lord this and m’lord that. Practically swarmed th’fellow. He was already outta his head. Poor bastard.”

“Well,” Barnaby continued, glancing at Nenani. “That was one subject I had hoped to broach with you dear. As Jae may have explained, I am an archivist and I write histories. Whenever a human comes to live here on castle grounds I write down their histories. To persevere what little of Silvaara remains. And after your first visit and all that transpired, I had quite forgotten to ask you about who your parents were as I did not want to upset you any further. And Keral has made a fine point. Your hair color tells me I may be able to find your family history if you can tell me your family name.”

“Family name?” Nenani asked, thinking back. “I don’t think we have one...”

“Oh, nonsense,” Barnaby replied. “Everyone has a family name. We’ll start with your father, then. What was his name? Many families passed down names to the first born sons. I might be able to trace you to a particular family.”

“That’s how I got my name.” Jae added in.

“Hayron,” Nenani said. “Papa’s name was Hayron.”  

Barnaby, who had taken up a quill and spare parchment to take notes, paused and he peeked over the top of the parchment with raised eyebrows. “Hayron, you said?”

Nenani nodded. “Yes. My Uncle’s name was Halden.”  

He placed the the quill and parchment on his lap and seemed to consider her for a moment as though seeking something in her face. After a long moment, he asked “And you’re mother?”

His tone was quiet and almost...seeking?

“Oira.”  

The longing look in his eyes dissipated and he nodded. Almost sadly, as though he was disappointed in her answer. “Oira. Hm. I do not know that name. But I do remember Haryon.”  

Nenani blinked. “Huh? You knew Papa?”

“And Halden in some respects, though I cannot recall ever speaking to him very much. He took his duties quite seriously, if I’m remembering correctly. They were junior members of the Thorn Guard.”

“Yes!” Nenani exclaimed excitedly. “He told he once that he was in the Thorn Guard. But I don’t know what that is.”

“Oh, whoa. Thorn guards?” She heard Jae whistle and glanced back at him to find her fellow human grinning. Behind him, Keral was expressionless, but his eyes were sharp and focused and she knew his interest had been peaked.  

“Hayron is an old name that is fairly common among the Thorn Guard families. However, I only knew one Hayron with a brother named Halden. They were the sons of Captain Hayier.”

Nenani was quiet a moment. “I remember his sword. It had thrones on it. The one they think killed him.”

Barnaby’s eyes turned sad and empathetic and he sighed. “Your father was a good man. Dedicated to his duty and family. All sons of Thorn Guards were under immense pressure to perform and live up to expectations. Competition for high ranks was fierce and even being the son of the captain was not a guarantee of a rank. He earned his mark. As did his brother. I am sorry to know that fate was not so kind to him in the end.”  

“So would that make her a Daelg?” Keral asked suddenly. “Or was it Daeleg? I was never much for studying all them Silvaaran Houses.”  

“You had it correct, sir. It is Daelg. Unless there was another pair of brothers named Hayron and Halden in the Thorn Guard,” the archivist replied with a grin. “I would be most confident that you’re family name is Daelg.”  

The name did not stir any memories and it felt foreign and odd. However, she was not nearly as curious in regards to the name as the revelation that Barnaby had known her father. She had questions now. So many questions. But mostly, she just wanted to know him more. It seemed forever ago that he died. A whole world away in another time. Another life even.  

“So, she is highborn?” Jae asked, glancing between Barnaby and Nenani. “I don’t have to start calling her m’lady do I?”

Keral snorted into his drink and turned away to cough into his elbow.  

“No, the Thorn Guards were not nobility,” Barnaby replied, amused. “They were in a caste all their own. Above merchants and below Nobles. Once upon a time, marriage between them and highborns was permitted, but it was almost always for a financial gain or the belief that the two would produce exceptional progeny. However it fell out of favor decades prior to the war and in someways expressly forbidden in the name of blood purity. The King and therefore his court were all obsessed with the idea of pure blood. The more pure the line, the higher chance that they would produce a mage of fire.”

“Fire Mages.” Keral added with a final and disdainful cough to clear the tea from his lungs. “Crazy bunch of inbreds.”  

“So,” Jae asked. “Speaking of Mages and all that. What exactly is a smoke mage, then? If that’s what you think might be skulking around the countryside killing Vhasshalans.”  

“It is an ancient variety of deviant magic. So rare, there does not seem to be any contemporary sources ever describing the existence of one,” Barnaby replied. “But when I was a lad, I was told that a smoke mage is a fire mage that sinned so greatly that the Gods stripped them of their blessing and their fire and leaving only the smoldering ruin of a person. Cursed to wander the world, creating chaos, and suffering in their wake.”

“Well,” Keral said, standing and stretching out his back. “Smoke mage or not, I’ll be needin’ more to work with than an old folk tale. I appreciate your help lads, but until we know more, the only thing to be done is to be out there scoutin’ and reportin’.”  

“You’re going back out?” Jae asked. “You just got back.”

“Not tonight. I’ll be with the boys organizing the routes first. First light tomorrow, perhaps,” Keral regarded the boy with a lopsided grin. “Why? D’ya miss me when I ain’t here to hold yer hand, lad?”

Jae glared at the giant. “No.”

“Yer welcome t’use my room when I’m out if ya be needin’ a place to hold up,” Keral said. “Beats sleepin’ in them moldy tunnels.”

Jae glowered, his cheeks flushed. “No thanks. Your room smells like armpits. Besides, I like the tunnels. You bastards can’t go in after me.”

“Young master Jae,” Barnaby snapped indignantly. “I cannot condone such language. Least of all when a young lady is present.”

“It always amazed me how that for a King’s ward,” Maevis observed with a suppressed grin. “Your decorum lessons never have seemed to find proper purchase.”  

“Warren does not keep me around to lick his boot,” Jae quipped with a shrug. “He’s got advisers and the court for that.”

Keral laughed. “Ah, well if ya changed yer mind about the room, the offer stands. Y’know the way in.”

The ranger gave his made his excuses and an apology to Maevis’s for leaving him with all the books to put away, but the magician wave him off.  

“Nonsense. You never put them back in their proper place when you do feel inclined to return them, so it matters not. I know you have your duties to perform and would hate to keep you from them. I will let you know if I find anything that might be of use.”  

With a grin and a wave, the ranger was gone.  

[razieltwelve]

Dog Park (RWBY AU Snippet)

This is set in the same AU as Hero.

X     X     X

Ever since Jaune had picked up Scruffy, he’d been making regular trips to the dog park near his house. His dog wasn’t much to look at - hence his name - but he was a friendly little guy with plenty of fight in him and a big heart. He hadn’t really been looking for a dog, but he’d known, as soon as he’d seen him, that Scruffy was the dog for him.

There weren’t always a lot of people at the dog park when he went, especially since he often had to go at awkward hours due to his job as a policeman. But Scruffy didn’t mind. The little guy just liked having a chance to run around without a leash, and he actually got along pretty well with all of the other dogs.

However, there was one person who was usually around when he was there. It was hard to describe her. She was kind of, well, about as ordinary and average as it was possible to be. Even so, she seemed like a kind person although they hadn’t really said more than a few words to each other. All of the dogs seemed to like her, and Scruffy got along really well with the tricoloured corgi she had.

Since it was his day off and the spring weather was perfect for a walk, Jaune decided to head down to the dog park with Scruffy. The dog was a mix of different breeds, but if Jaune had to guess, he’d bet he was mostly corgi although it was tough to be sure.

“Come on, boy.” Jaune waved Scruffy over. “Let’s go for a walk.”

The walk down to the dog park went quickly enough. He was on good terms with everyone in the neighbourhood, and he made a few stops at some of the local businesses just to be sure that everything was okay. He was glad to hear there wasn't much going on except for the occasional rowdy teenager, but the school year was coming to a close, so it wasn’t exactly a surprise to hear that some of them were being a bit rambunctious.

When he got to the dog park, he took off Scruffy’s leash. “Looks like we’re the only ones here today, boy. Well, it is a bit early. I’m sure more people will turn up in an hour or so.”

As Jaune followed Scruffy around the park - the dog was always happiest running around and sniffing at things - he thought back to how much his life had changed over the past several months. He hadn’t exactly been promoted, but he was doing a bit more as a policeman than he had been. He’d even pulled over a drunk driver the other night, and he’d caught a couple of thieves too. It was exciting, and it felt good to be doing his part to keep the community safe.

Oh, and he’d started dating a goddess.

He couldn’t leave that bit out.

Pyrrha was… amazing, and he wasn’t saying that just because she was a goddess. Oh, sure, she was beautiful, but that wasn’t it. She was just… she was so kind and compassionate, but she was fierce and brave and determined too. The better he got to know her, the more sense it made that she was the goddess of emergency services personnel like firemen, ambulance officers, and police. She embodied both the unshakeable desire and conviction to protect, as well as care and compassion.

It had been so overwhelming to realise that Pyrrha, a goddess, was interested in him. It didn’t make a lot of sense. He was just some rookie policeman, but it had helped a little when he’d gotten to know some of the other Chosen of the gods. Apparently, they had a club, and after talking to some of them, he’d come to realise that for all of their awesome might and power, the gods were perhaps not as different for mortals as he’d thought.

Oh, and the stories… the stories were hilarious. His favourite so far had been the one Ren had told about Nora hurling her hammer down from the heavens to smite a rambunctious tuna that Ren had caught which was attempting to escape. Apparently, Nora had been convinced it was trying to assassinate him.

As they circled back around to the entrance of the dog park, Jaune smiled. It was the woman again, the one who was always there.

“Hey!” he waved. “Walking Zwei again?”

The woman smiled. “Well, Zwei does enjoy the great outdoors.” She had dark hair and grey eyes, and there was something about her that was at once soothing and attention-grabbing. “Scruffy looks like he’s having fun.”

“Yeah, he loves coming here.” Jaune laughed as Scruffy headed over to greet Zwei. The corgi the woman had bore a fairly strong resemblance to the legendary dog that belonged to Death. She’d probably named him after the real Zwei since it was well known that the divine dog enjoyed having things named after him. “How are you doing today?”

“Oh, busy, but I’m used to it. You?” She fell into step beside him. 

“It’s my day off, actually.” Jaune grinned. “So I got to wake up late, do nothing all morning, and then come here. It’s been a pretty much perfect day. The only thing I’m missing is a burger, and I’m supposed to be getting one with my, uh, girlfriend later.”

“A girlfriend?” The woman smiled. “What’s she like?”

“Well…” Jaune didn’t want to boast about dating a goddess, so he settled for an accurate but not complete description. “She’s great. She’s really smart and kind and compassionate, and we do the same sort of work.” Admittedly, Pyrrha’s job involved saving people on a far grander scale, but it was kind of the same, right? “And we make each other laugh, so it’s going quite well, I think.”

“That’s nice.” The woman’s smile was very warm indeed. “You know, this is the first time we’ve really talked.” 

“Yeah… I guess it is. It’s nice though.”

“So… where’d you get Scruffy?” the woman asked. “I mean, he’s a friendly, little guy, but he looks a little…”

“Scruffy?” Jaune chuckled. “To be honest, I found him. You know that big storm a few months back?” The woman nodded. “I found him huddled in an alley near my apartment. Poor guy was soaking wet and thin as a reed. I couldn’t just leave him out there, so I took him in. I was going to give him to an animal shelter or something, but I guess he grew on me. I can’t really imagine not having him around now.”

“He was quite lucky you found him.” The woman’s eyes twinkled. “Or maybe it just wasn’t his time to die.”

“I’m hoping he’s got plenty of years left,” Jaune confessed. “It’s amazing how much he’s become part of my life.”

“Oh, I think he’ll be around for a while.” The woman paused as Jaune’s phone began to beep. “Do you have an appointment?”

Jaune’s eyes widened. “Oh, crap. I lost track of time. I’m supposed to meet my girlfriend in an hour.” He scratched the back of his head. “I better head back and get ready.” He extended one hand. “It was really nice meeting you. I’m Jaune.”

“Ruby,” the woman said. “And it was nice to meet you too.”

It took Jaune a few minutes to get Scruffy, and he was in such a hurry that he never noticed the pickup truck that ran a red light as he was about to cross the road…

“Jaune!” Ruby shouted.

Jaune paused mid-stride and looked back. “Yeah?”

Ruby smiled. “You might want to pay more attention when you cross the road.”

“What do you…” Jaune trailed off as the speeding pickup rushed past. If he’d crossed the road just then…

“Pyrrha would be really upset if something happened to you, so be more careful.” Ruby’s eyes were no longer grey. They were a radiant silver, and her hair was no longer merely dark. It was blacker than the dead of night. Her simple sweater was replaced by a cloak the colour of freshly spilt blood. “And don’t worry about Scruffy. Zwei likes him, and that means a lot, you know.”

“…” Jaune could only stare as Ruby vanished, along with her dog. It took a few moments for it to sink in. “That… that was Death and her dog.” Scruffy tilted his head to one side. It was like the dog had known all along. Then again… Zwei was the Lord of Corgis… “I just talked to Death… and she saved me.” Jaune shook himself. “Okay. Focus. I can worry about Death later. Right now I need to focus on my date with Pyrrha.”

X     X     X

Death smiled as she noticed the box of cookies that had been left at one of her temples. It had all of her favourites. It was from Pyrrha.

“Well,” Death murmured. “After the way things went last time, I thought I’d help her out.” At her side, Zwei wagged his tail. “And, hey, if I get cookies out of it, I’m not going to complain.”

X     X     X

Author’s Notes

A bit more about Jaune here. He’s a good guy in this AU, and it’s nice of Death to give him and Pyrrha a helping hand. And, hey, if Zwei likes Scruffy, it’s not like he can just let Jaune get run over by a pickup truck. Incidentally, Scruffy knew exactly who Zwei was right from the start. Animals are generally much better at sensing divine beings, and Zwei is the Lord of Corgis. Any dog that is even part corgi would recognise him on sight.

Maybe next time I’ll cover Jaune and Pyrrha’s date. Naturally, it won’t go exactly to plan.

You can find me on fanfiction.net, AO3, and Amazon. Please check out my newest story on Amazon. It’s called Monster Whisperer.

[aiupenn]

Exist With You

Doppo is shot. Chuuya is shot, too.

[a/n: written for day 2 of @bsd-rarepairweek​. the theme was carrying home.] tw: for blood and injury, specifically gunshot related injuries.

Chuuya's fingers hovered inches above the gunshot wound, his eyes darting back and forth from the injury to Doppo's face. "Doppo," Chuuya said as calmly as he could while he put pressure on the wound, "Are you alright?"

"Fine," Doppo ground out.

Chuuya looked at the blood spilling through his fingers and had trouble believing that. There was far more blood than there should be for a gunshot in the area. What the Hell sort of vein had that sniper hit? The blood flow simply wouldn't stop, so Chuuya scowled and pulled off his belt. Doppo let a groan slip out as Chuuya secured it around his leg as best he could. It only did so much. "Shit, Doppo. We need to get you to Yosano. Where is—"

"Chuuya!"

The warning came too late. A pain split through Chuuya's back, then tore through the rest of his body in record time. He jerked forward, catching himself just before he fell on top of Doppo's injury. Chuuya gave a wet cough and pointedly ignored the red specks that came flying from his mouth. "Where's Yosano?" he croaked.

Doppo stared at him, wide-eyed and horrified. "You just got shot—"

"So did you. I'm not any weaker."

"But—"

"We're losing time."

Doppo took a breath, clearly wanting to argue more, but he stopped himself. "At the office. There weren't supposed to be any injuries."

A bullet missed its mark inches from Doppo's head as if mocking them. Chuuya scowled and scooped Doppo into his arms. The effort to try and right himself was too much. His back just wouldn't straighten properly, but he wasn't about to stop. With great effort, he limped into a run. "We're not too far from the Agency. Promise to hang on until then."

"Chuuya, this isn't—"

Chuuya hushed him. It was hard enough to find his way while his vision swam, he didn't need Doppo talking to him too otherwise, he might never make it. The streets passed by in a blur as every step felt heavier and heavier. Chuuya couldn't properly pick up his feet by the time he made it to the Agency's building. As soon as they were inside the elevator, Chuuya collapsed, propping himself up only slightly on the wall. Even to his own ears, his breathing was ragged and bloody. Not a great sign.

"Chuuya. Chuuya!" Doppo repeated his name like a prayer as he pulled himself closer. His hand came to rest on Chuuya's chest, tracing the outline of the exit wound. "Shit. Don't you die on me."

"I'm fine," Chuuya lied. The feeling in his fingers was starting to go, but that wouldn't be a problem if they made it to the right floor soon. He had no doubt Yosano could heal even this.

"I told you not to carry me, dammit!"

The elevator gave a terrible shudder, then stopped completely. Chuuya stared blankly at the number above the door, just one floor off from their destination. Doppo's eyes widened and his head snapped around, staring holes into the doors. They wouldn't open. He dragged himself over, banging on the metal with the flat of his palms. "Yosano!"

Chuuya tried to sit up a little straighter and reassure Doppo that it would be fine. The moment he took a breath to speak, however, his body was racked with another cough. When he pulled his hand away from his mouth, stringy clumps of dark blood clung to his fingers.

He hurried to hide his hand, but it was too late. Doppo was staring at the blood in horror. Chuuya forced his mouth into a lopsided smile. "Perhaps it's a little worse than I'd thought." After saying that, he fell to his side. Not a great sign, considering he hadn't even felt light-headed the moment before.

Doppo seemed incapable of words, but he rushed to his boyfriend's side anyway. His hand fell softly on Chuuya's arm while his eyes darted around, likely looking for something he could do. But there was nothing to do. Chuuya knew he was dying.

Out of all the violent outcomes of his life he'd imagined, this had not been one of them. He'd imagined he'd go down guns-a-blazing with fifty other dead bodies surrounding him while he fought to save Yokohama or even the world. The thought of dying in a rather rudimentary battle because he'd made the decision to stop and worry about his boyfriend's health...

Well, it was honestly a grander death.

"Hey, what am I supposed to say right now?" Chuuya asked as Doppo's fingers slipped in between his own, "Something like 'move on'? 'I'm happy to die this way'?"

"You said yourself you're going to be fine," Doppo said with grim determination. He brushed a lock of sweaty hair from Chuuya's forehead. "There's no need to say any of that."

Chuuya had to smile at that optimism.

"Chuuya?"

His mind has gone blank. Although he was acutely aware that Doppo was talking to him, his brain didn't seem capable of absorbing the information. There was a quiet thought that he should attempt one last bit of reassurance, but his mouth wouldn't move. Neither would his eyes, and the world was getting progressively darker.

Doppo's hand cradled his boyfriend's cheek and he bent down for a kiss so soft that it would normally have made Chuuya blush. Instead, he stared blankly ahead. Doppo peppered him with kisses over and over, desperate pleas for Chuuya to stay awake escaping his lips. Unfortunately, Chuuya had no control over that. In the end, death seemed to come very slowly, blanketing him like a fog. It wasn't quite like falling asleep, but far from the violent feeling of being knocked unconscious. The last thing he felt was a small tug at his soul that told him he didn't want to leave this world behind.

Waking up was violent. One second, Chuuya was blissfully unaware, the next light pierced its way directly into his skull, making a headache form behind his eyes. Every inch of him ached and nausea hit him hard. There were so many feelings and sights and smells that he rather wished he could fall back asleep. He tugged on his arm, wanting to shield his eyes, but something held it in place.

Chuuya looked down to see Doppo's resting on the bed, fast asleep and holding Chuuya's hand tight in his own. Chuuya smiled a little at the sight, the previous pain whisked away. He flexed his fingers a bit.

Doppo made a sound a little like a heart-broken moan, then his eyelashes fluttered open in a way that took Chuuya's breath away.

"Good morning," Chuuya said.

For several long seconds, Doppo just stared. Then, he burst into tears. He didn't sit up, instead turning his face into Chuuya's hand as he sobbed. Chuuya was half certain that he would be able to grow moss on his skin by the time Doppo stopped crying. Ah, what the Hell was he saying? With the amount of tears covering his own cheeks, he was going to grow moss anyways.

"I'm here," he whispered, reaching over slowly to rub Doppo's head. The action made Doppo give another choked sob and his grip on Chuuya's hand grew tighter.

They cried together for a long while, Chuuya feeling safer and safer by the second. He'd made it. He was alive.

Doppo eventually pulled his head up. His gaze stayed on Chuuya's hand. "I thought you'd died, you idiot."

Chuuya smiled, letting his hand fall out of Doppo's hair. He could probably sit up thanks to Yosano's healing, so he took advantage of that and leaned over to plant a kiss on his boyfriend's head. "If it's any consolation, I thought I did, too."

Doppo frowned, and then he suddenly moved, tilting his head up to kiss Chuuya on the lips. The kiss was rough and greedy, not terribly typical for Doppo, but Chuuya couldn't care less what kind of kiss it was. He felt desperate for Doppo, too, and he met him with equal enthusiasm.

Every part of the kiss—the warmth as Doppo's fingers took a clump Chuuya's shirt in his hand, the vivid taste of salt on Doppo's lips, the tickle of Doppo's breath on his cheek... Every feeling of Doppo made Chuuya happy he was alive. Happy he could exist with him.