#and I mean OLD this thing looks rusted and hand carved

[murdleandmarot]

Hello!!!! 🫶

🌟 mutual bingo? 👀

RAHHHHH IM SO SORRY THIS TOOK A BILLION YEARS!!!!!!!

Hi hello!!!!! I’m in a very giddy mood rn so if any of this is incoherent, I am apologizing with tears

I LIKE YOU A LOT YOU’RE REALLY COOL!!!!!!!!!!

Your art style is so so so so cute and I adore Koi she’s adorable and lovely and my original idea was to have her going fishing with pouncival and I might honestly still do that because it’s a rly rly cute idea to me but first I have to get my seventeen thousand other projects out of the way <3333333

ANYHOW I would help you hide a body, I trust you 100% 🫶🫶🫶

[luveline]

𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐭 𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡? | 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧

you finally work up the courage to kiss Eddie for the first time and he can’t cope (even if he claims he can). 2k words. requested here

cw fem!reserved/shy!reader, first kiss, heavy kissing, mutual pining, eddie being a hot dork

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

Some people (Steve) call Eddie your loser boyfriend, while other people (the girls at work) call him the rockstar. 

You see both sides of him now. 

“Sweetheart!” he calls, the passenger seat window rolled down, his voice strong where he shouts behind the wheel. The van bumps the curve, leaving a sanguine line of rust in its wake and a creak to make everybody on the sidewalk wince. 

“Hello,” you call back. 

The van hums. You wait for him to be at a definite stop before you approach, hands on the open window, leaning up so as to see him best. It’s not just a usual date night tonight, Eddie’s taking you to Indianapolis for a rock show, and he’s dressed the part. “Woah, you look cool,” you say, bravely, wondering if that’s the right thing to say. It’s undoubtedly true —he’s slicked his curls with mousse to define them and leave them pitch black in accordance with his eyeshadow, dark and tapped into his lash line. The top he wears is incredibly tight, carving the softer lines of his abs for anyone to see, and his black jacket is ripped in places to expose the ink of his tattoos. “Are they multiplying?” 

“What?” he asks, grinning at you. “Are you getting in? It’s freezing!” 

“Your tattoos,” you explain, opening the door and popping up into the van with one shoe on the step. 

“Shit, you wanna see?” 

You’re not scared of Eddie, you just like him. He doesn’t worry you, doesn’t pressure you, nothing nefarious about him. He’s pretty, he’s considerate, and he does stuff like this, peeling out of his jacket to flex his arm at you and show you the Saran wrapping around his bicep. “Like that one?” he asks.

He has nice arms, and they’re all the better for his painful obsession. His newest one is difficult to see well under the wrapping. He notices you squinting and moves it up, tape pulling his skin. 

“Another bat?” you ask. 

“Not cool?” 

“So cool,” you disagree. This bat is unlike the others on his arm, which are small and simple in comparison. This one is heavily detailed and very dark, fangs in small triangles bared. The eyes aglow. The skin around it is red. “Did you get that today?” 

“On a whim. Still wanna date me, or is it getting to be too much?” 

You can’t answer him, and he knows that. You’re not very good at navigating intimate conversation or circumstance, though you like him, and he must know that too. Or he must really like you. Your dates have been chaste. Only last time could you work up the courage to take his hand, but when you had, he rewarded your courage with a drove of tenderness, fingers rubbing your knuckles and squeezing soft patterns for hours at the back of the movie theatre. 

The drive to Indianapolis takes near enough an hour. Eddie puts you on map duty but doesn’t use it, ignoring your offer of directions on the insistence that he knows a shortcut and then rerouting when you get too lost. He tells you there are snacks for you in the centre console and laughs, endeared, when you pop the lid and smile at it all. You talk about the show, a band you’d never heard of but had wanted to see on the grounds of sharing his interests. That’s what couples do, right? They try to do things together. You have to put yourself out of your comfort zone, and you’re happy to try if it means you can do it with him. 

“You nervous?” he asks, pulling into the parking garage outside of the venue, a towering, multi-story fiasco crammed with cars and motorbikes. 

“No,” you say, not quite mumbling as you look down at your hands. 

“Good, don’t be. I’m gonna look after you, we’re gonna have a great time. And then we can get takeout after?” You look up. He stretches his arm out to glance at his watch. “I would’ve taken you before, but good old Indianapolis keeps getting further away.” He smiles apologetically. 

You laugh without meaning to. His smile ramps up a notch. 

“I love when you laugh. You have such a cute laugh,” he says. 

“I know you’re lying,” you say, still laughing anyways. 

“I’m not lying, I love the way you laugh!” He shakes his head, curls falling away from his face as he flicks on the light on the car roof. “We have half an hour till doors open.”

“You don’t wanna line up?” 

“It’s kind of overwhelming and I figured we’d stay near the back of the crowd for your first gig here, it gets pretty rowdy.” He says ‘pretty rowdy’ like a drag, nodding gently, eyes lit with mirth. You love it when he talks like that. 

“We can go now, get further in. I can handle it.” 

“It’s not about handling it, I want you to have a good time. Plus, they could ruin your nice dress.” 

You meet his gaze all smiles like he is, but heat flickers in your chest and in your stomach, and you have to look away. It’s an impulse you’ve always given into. You’re reserved in the feelings department but trying not to be, Eddie deserves reciprocation, but it’s hard. Either way, he seems to understand this about you, and he hasn’t complained. 

Still, a bedraggled silence falls. Nearly awkward, unsure of how to tread, you sit together in your separate seats listening to cars parking and doors opening, closing on either side of you, the headlights of the cars driving past glaringly bright, white flashing over your screwed palms. 

“You okay?” he asks. 

You’re sure Eddie wants to kiss you. Three nights ago at the movies, after an hour of languid hand holding, he’d looked at your lips no less than three times as he said good night. He told you he’d had an amazing time, and that he couldn’t wait to see you again. You’d said the same in earnest, and then he’d just walked away. All those stolen glances and he hadn’t made a move. 

“Eddie… why…” You poke your tongue into your bottom lip momentarily, chewing it over. “Why haven’t we kissed yet?” 

“Um–” He lets out a nervous giggle before roughly clearing his throat. You peek at him, watching intently as he takes his hair away from his face with two hands. “I’m just waiting on you, sweetheart. No pressure.” He laughs as he talks, a picture of panic, “You’re sort of shy about that stuff, you know? I didn’t wanna surprise you.” 

“But you do want to kiss me?” you ask unsurely.

He puts his hand on your knee, the space between you suddenly smaller and warmer, the light like white glaze on his pupils, illuminating his finer details. He has a mole nestled under his eyelashes too small to see until now; it catches your attention. You stare at him too long. 

“Of course I do,” he says, eyebrows pinching together in concern. “I’ve wanted to kiss you since I met you.” 

You nod and snap your head back to your lap. Why does he have to be so nice? You wish you’d listened to Steve, even if he was joking, you shouldn’t have ever said yes to Eddie, because now you’re terrified you can’t kiss him and you’ll ruin everything…

“Hey, it’s fine. I’m not waiting for anything. You can take your time or you could never kiss me, and I won’t care. I swear. I mean, I really want you to kiss me but I’ll find a way to cope, I’m sure.” He takes his hand from your leg softly. “Do you want my jacket? It’s cold out, n’ we should probably start walking.” 

You pull your head up slowly. 

He reads your hesitant expression. “I’m in no rush,” he promises, head ever so slightly ducked to yours. 

Okay, you think. Okay, I can do this. You hold your breath and start to lean in. He falters, a millisecond of misunderstanding, before he recognises what you’re doing and smiles. He reaches for your waist with enough care to give you a chance to change your mind, and when you’re close enough to feel his breath, his lashes shutter. 

You follow suit, blind, with nothing but your intuition as you press your lips to his. 

With a feeling like the hum of the engine under your hands, you bring your fingers to his soft cheek and hold him still. He breathes in harshly, touches you far from it, his palm slipping behind your back to pull you in. You lean into it; it feels natural to give in, to turn your head one way and part your lips, to have him kiss back with heat and surprising sweetness.

You feel unlike yourself in a good way, falling back to kiss forward again, a third time, trying to chase the lulling bliss of his lips. The stomach aching want. Your hand chases across his cheek and into the curls behind his ear, needing him closer but not expecting the sound it elicits. He sighs into your lips and you flinch back, startled by the sensation. 

Eddie rubs your back with his index finger, unjudging as you drop your head to catch your breath. 

“You okay?” he asks quietly. You can hear his affection. It’s palpable. 

You nod, a dizzy weight collected in your forehead, thankful when his free hand catches your cheek and he turns your face gently to the side. “I got too hot,” you confess, only half of the truth. 

“It was pretty hot.” He smiles at you like you’re the only person in the world, like you’ve a secret only he knows. “Want me to turn on the A/C?” 

“No, I–” want to kiss you again, you think. You might even tell him so, but he starts to blow on your face, disrupting any thoughts you’d had earlier. He purses his lips and blows cold breath on your cheek, a tenderness in his gaze and the tip of his thumb where it rests just under your eye. “Oh.” 

This might be the most romantic thing anyone’s ever done for you. Your face feels precious in his careful hand, pretty under his longing look. You’re not scared when he encourages you back to his lips, your eyes quick to close, your hands across the gap of your seats to gather his shirt between tight fingers. 

His kiss is a reflection of him. Loser, rockstar, he’s eager and his hands start to betray that, his kissing melty hot and addictive as the tip of his nose presses hard to yours. You turn your face to accommodate him better and that small action drives him crazy. He’s pulling you in, smiling into your mouth, making breathy sounds that’ll stick around in your head ten times as long as the tingles filling your chest as just kisses and kisses and doesn’t stop. 

“M’sorry,” he says, pulling away, and then stealing another heavy, soft kiss like he couldn’t wait. “Sorry,” he apologises again, stroking the skin beside your eye to encourage you into opening them. “I’m not trying to get carried away. Just can’t believe you just kissed me.” 

“No, it’s okay, I– I really wanted to.” 

He kisses your cheek. You aren’t expecting it and you don’t know how to deal with it. It’s like kissing him has invigorated him, you’re a shot he knocked back, his excitement catching as he begs, “Close your eyes again, sweetheart, just one more–”

You raise your chin and he practically gasps, immediately pressing a last chaste kiss to your burning lips. 

“I’m not always like this,” he promises, leaning away, his fingertips falling from your face to trace down your neck, your shoulder. “You’re just so fucking pretty I lost my mind. I’m on best behaviour from now on, swears.” 

He raises his hand up in a scout’s honour. 

You breathe out happily. “Thank you.” 

“Oh my god. Quick, we better get out of this van before I lose my mind.” He shakes his head. “You’re insane. I have such a crush on you, holy fuck,” —he turns away from you and gets out of the van— “Jesus.” 

You pull down the sun visor to check your reflection in the mirror. You look thoroughly kissed, eyes aglow with it. 

“Fuck!” Eddie swears. You beam at yourself as he wraps on the window. “Come on, sweetheart! I have a concert to pretend to pay attention to.” 

You slink out of your seat, brave enough to try for another kiss so long as it doesn’t kill him dead right here in the parking lot. 

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

please like/reblog or comment if you enjoyed! I love knowing what you think and it means so much to me/ inspires me to write even more!!! <3 but of course I hope you enjoyed reading regardless :D 

[jerzwriter]

Pumpkin Love

Thank you to @kyra75 for Halloween prompt #27, "Haha! This pumpkin looks just like you," for Tobias & Casey. I tweaked the line a tiny bit, but the meaning is the same! I wasn't sure where to go with this, so I pulled in some inspiration from their honeymoon, which was just about a year ago.

Book: Open Heart (Post-Series) Pairing: Tobias Carrick x F!MC (Casey Carrick) Rating: Teen Words: 1,250 Summary: Casey looks forward to celebrating a tradition with Tobias during a fall family weekend away. It leads to some interesting discoveries... and some creative measures as well. A/N: Participating in @choicesoctober Halloween | @choicesholidays Halloween

Casey opened the screen door and stepped onto the back porch. The old wood floorboards creaked underfoot with each step she took, as soon as her feet hit the grass, there was silence. She closed her eyes and lifted her face toward the sun to relish the peace and tranquility. Casey Carrick may have been a city girl at heart, but every so often, an escape like this was just what this doctor ordered. Her thick wool sweater kept her warm when the breeze picked up, rusting the leaves that were barely hanging on to the branches above.  When the fell to the earty, surrounding Casey in a kaleidoscope of yellows, reds, and burnt orange swirled around her. It was the perfect Autumn day, and few things in life could make her happier.

Two giant pumpkins sat waiting for her on a weathered picnic table at the far end of the yard.  Laying the carving tools out before her, she got as comforrbale as one can get on an old, wooden bench.  The air was nippier than expected and a chill ran through her. So the strong arm that quietly encircled her waist paired with warm lips settling against her cold cheek were ever more welcome today.

“For you,” her husband smiled, placing a cup of warm cider in front of her.

“How do you always know exactly what I need,” she smiled.

Tobias took a seat across from her, a devilish smirk on his lips. “Now, baby, take it easy. Can I really give you exactly what you need this weekend? It’s a family getaway, after all.”

“Isn’t that why you brought the white noise machine for your mother’s room?” she winked.

“And apparently, it worked like a charm,” Tobias acknowledged. “Not one sarcastic comment from her this morning.”

“Not one?” Casey gasped. “Did you take her temperature? Is she feeling OK?”

“Well, not one about any noise coming from our bedroom last night,” he chuckled. “She had plenty of other sarcastic comments.”

“Phew,” Casey grinned as she returned to carving her pumpkin. “I feel better now. Where is Vivian, anyway?”

“She just left... took Sammy into town to get some things for dinner tonight,” he reached across the table and gently took her hand just as she finished carving an eye. “Which means we’re alone.”

“I know,” she nodded. “Perfect time for us to carve our pumpkins.”

“Our pumpkins? But...”

“But nothing,” she playfully scolded. “The white noise machine can work overtime tonight... but we have to finish our carvings to take our picture later.”

Tobias groaned in disappointment. “I’m being turned down for pumpkin carving! Is this what happens when you get married?” he teased, groaning even louder when Casey’s foot crashed into his shin. “Hey!”

“Hey, nothing! Don’t act like you’re some poor, neglected husband, Dr. Carrick. I take very good care of you.”  

“Damn straight you do,” he agreed. “But I was hoping to get out of pumpkin carving.”

Casey turned to him, disappointment in her eyes. “Why? I thought you liked carving pumpkins with me. You know it’s a requirement to love all things fall if you’re going to be with me.”

“Oh, I know.  I believe it was in our vows,” he laughed. “Sometimes I’m convinced that just one more pumpkin muffin or spiced cider will turn me into Jack the Pumpkin King.”

“Worse things could happen,” she smiled, returning to create her masterpiece. “So why the opposition to carving with me?”

“It’s not the carving... it’s wearing the damn thing on my head after.”

Casey dropped her pumpkin and paring knife to the table. “Wait... what? You don’t want to take our pumpkin head picture? Tobias! That’s... tradition!”

“Tradition? We did it once... on our honeymoon last year. One time does not a tradition make.”

Wiping her hands, Casey nudged her chin toward Tobias’s phone. “Pull it up,” she demanded, circling the table to sit beside him. “Pull up the picture.”

“Fine,” he smiled as she nuzzled under his arm. 

“See,” she grinned.  They both looked at the picture of them standing in a field, Tobias reaching out to hold her as they tried to balance the giant pumpkins on their heads.  It wasn’t an easy thing to do with all their laughter. “That was so much fun!”

“It was,” he agreed.

“And we look so cute! Why wouldn’t you want to do it again?”

“It’s not the picture...” he stalled. “It’s the pumpkin guts.”

“Pumpkin guts?”

“Yeah, pumpkin guts. I guess I didn’t scoop well enough and had pumpkin goo all over my head.”

Casey snickered as she lifted an ice cream scoop from the table and handed it to her husband. “Sounds to me like you need to do a better job de-groping your pumpkin this year.”

“I suppose...,” he said, mulling over his pumpkin. “But I don’t even know if this is the right pumpkin...”

“Ha!” Casey laughed.  “It’s the perfect pumpkin! I picked it out because it looks just like you.”

“It looks just like me?”

“It sure does.  It’s much more you than last year’s.  Now, just make it your own.”

“But the goop!” he groaned, sounding more like a six year old than the grown father he was.

Casey knew what needed to be done.  Stradling his lap, she pulled him into a tender kiss.

“I’ll tell you what, Dr. Carrick.  I’ll help you de-goop your pumpkin and if, by some chance, I don’t do a good job, well, then I’ll just have to join you in the shower to aid in the de-gooping process,” she teased.  Reaching over she gave his earlobe little nibble before continuing. “Just be sure to put the white noise machine on extra loud before I join you.”

“Heh,” Tobias chuckled as he lifted her off his lap, then rushed to the other side of the table, ice cream scoop in hand.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“You are not touching my pumpkin!” Tobias insisted. “I’m going to to as shitty a job as I did last year... maybe worse. If my choices is de-gooping a pumpkin or you de-gooping me... well, you know what I’m picking, sweetheart.”  

“Fine,” she giggled. “But now, I’m going to leave mine extra goopy, too!”

“Nice,” he hissed, leaning over the table for a kiss.  “I can’t wait to de-goop you.”

Their flirtation came to a halt when a car door slammed in the driveway nearby.  They turned to find Vivian staring at them with baby Samantha on her hip, and a judgemental glare on her face.

“Do I even want to know?” she asked.

“Nope,” Tobias beamed.  “But ma, after Casey & I take our pumpkin photos... just turn that white noise machine up really loud... ok?”  

Vivian shook her head as she marched toward the cabin door.

“I don’t know how I let you convinced me to come,” she teased.

“Because you love us?” Casey grinned.

“Hmmm,” Vivian hemmed.

“Because you want another grandchild,” Tobias added.

“See, at least I know you’re good for something,” Vivian smirked.  “I’m taking Sammy inside, you two do your thing.”

The couple were still grinning when Casey pushed a paring knife Tobias’s way.

“Get carving, sir,” she demanded.  She ran her fingers through some of the pumpkin pulp on her plate, then reached over and slatered it on Tobias’s face.

“What the heck is that for?” He wailed.

“Insurance,” she winked. “I have to make sure you’ll be meeting me in the shower.”

“Oh, just try and keep me away.”

@choicesficwriterscreations @openheartfanfics

Tagging others separately.

[phoenixflames12]

Monica/morse for 21 “on a piece of insecurity”? 🥰🥰💕

‘Dev? My darling?’

A shard of light slips under the bathroom door as Monica pushes it open. The children have all been put to bed, the strains of Taneyev’s Piano Quintet in G Major rising and falling through the radio that sits on the little bedside table. Morse sighs, staring back at his reflection in the shadowed light. An older man stares back at him, thin and worn with worry lines creasing his forehead, wrinkles carving into his cheeks. Grey curls catch at his temples, crowsfeet caught against his eyes.

The birthday things have been cleared away, the banner that the children had made still strung up in the kitchen.

The dark eyes that he loves so much shimmer with tears as she blinks back at him, reaching to stroke his cheek.

‘What’s the matter?’

Gently, she cups his face in her hands, stroking the line from cheek to jaw. Her hand closes over his fingers, tracing the line of his wedding band.

On instinct, he tugs at his cuffs, hoping that she hasn’t seen.

Monica sighs softly, her fingers catching against his shirt.

Memories seem to swirl between them then, caught in the soft bathroom light.

Memories of sitting with her in the maternity ward cradling Tansy and Joy, the softness of her smile telling him that everything would be all right.

He sighs, the span of the years stretching out before them.

‘Monica -Darling, are you- Are you sure that you wouldn’t want someone younger?’

For a moment, she is quiet, her hands resting over his heart. A quirk of a small, sad smile pulls at the corners of her lips.

‘Dev. Darling. You’ve given me four wonderful children. You’ve taught me so much. I wouldn’t change any of it for the world, my love. Any of it.’

He sighs softly, thinking back to being eighteen and lying on Cyril and Gwen’s kitchen floor, hoping that if the end came, it would come quickly. Remembers the agony of standing in the bathroom, watching the blood from his wrists swirl in a mess of rusted iron against the sink.

‘And you’re not old!’

She reaches up and strokes back a stray curl out of his eyes, kissing him gently.

‘You’re just short of forty five. There’s plenty of time left for us yet.’

He exhales slowly, wishing that he could share her hope.

Remembers Dorothea holding him, pressing the scarf that his Mam had given her before her deployment to Korea- against his wrists, willing him back to her.

Remembers waiting for her at Axminster Station, a moonlit walk down to the Cobb, listening to the crash of the waves against the sea wall. It had been a rare free evening out of the confines of rehab and the feeling of freedom had been both exhilarating and terrifying at the same time,

Remembers the sound of his name in her mouth- soft and sweet and hesitant.

‘Dev? My darling?’

‘It’s been so long since you- Since anyone called me that,’ he had murmured back.

‘I’ll call you Dev every day for as long as you like,’ she had replied. Had gently squeezed his hand. He had sighed, had looked out over the sea towards the headland, a speck of bobbling light signalling a fishing boat far out on the inky gleam of the horizon.

‘I don’t deserve you,’ he had replied, feeling the salt sharp slap of the sea against his skin. ‘You- You’ve been so strong through all of this whilst I’ve just fallen apart. I’m sorry, Mon. I’m so sorry.’

‘You gave so much of your strength away,’ she had replied just as quietly, a slight wobble caught in her voice as she had squeezed his hand. ‘There wasn’t any left for me or the children.’

‘I suppose I just- I never expected to get old.’

She is quiet, her hands shivering slightly as she chews her lip, considering him.

‘What- What do you mean?’

He swallows thickly, feeling the words catch in his throat.

‘I- I always assumed and- And maybe sometimes I intended- to be dead by forty. I never thought that I’d- I never thought that I could get this far.’

‘Oh, my love.’

Gently, Monica draws him close, her fingers catching under his cuffs, resting over his scars. The kiss is soft and full of memories. Of standing under the sparkle of fireworks on that Bonfire Night, of the births of each of their children, his tired, proud, beautiful wife resting in his arms.

Of her holding him through his darkest moments, his compass, leading him home.

‘I love every part of you, my darling,’ she murmurs now, breaking through his thoughts.

‘Even the parts that you think are too broken to show. I promise.’

Send me a Ship and a Number and I will Write a Kiss

[storiesbyrhi]

Mean Eddie????? Do tell.

Mean Eddie was this drabble.

Currently, it's 3k. But that was written in one sitting and hasn't been touched in months. Here's a small snippet just for you. Not proofread or anything. I think it has potential, but I'm just submerged in Burning Yarrow.

Love youuuuuu.

An Indianan summer was bearable compared to other places you’d spent time, but the wild grass was making your legs itch and you’d not found the stream your map of Hawkins promised. The sun was high in the sky, burning down on you as you stomped your way through paddocks and wooded areas. All you needed to be able to call it a day was one last plant sighting.

Blue monkshood was becoming rarer, soon to be endangered. If anyone could find it though, it was you.

Working for the Indiana Department of Natural Resources, you spent your time travelling the state to catalogue native and introduced flora. You’d been a bugs and flowers kind of kid growing up, so a semi-nomadic lifestyle where you could list more plant types than friends very much tracked.

A second away from changing direction, you spotted a small flash of blue behind the swinging branches of a black willow tree. “Oh!” you puffed happily. The willow grew along the bank of the promised stream, alongside a patch of monkshood.

Sitting down near them, you pulled your backpack off and fished out the composition book you’d been using for notes. Longitude and latitude. Patch count. A polaroid. It was tranquil as you worked. The wind moved through the trees gently. The stream trickled next to you.

It would be easy to think you had stumbled on a secret little fairyland oasis, if not for the obvious signs of a careless human population. Rusting empty beer cans stuck out from the stream’s mud. The backseat of a car had been ripped out and deposited a little further upriver. And, in an act you considered void of romance, supposed declarations of love were carved into the trunks of trees.  How cruel it was to scar a living thing just to prove a love infinite. No, the blue monkshood wasn’t alone.

Nor, as it were, were you.

He had watched you pop out from the woods on the other side of the field. You’d made your way through it, then down the embankment, only to plonk yourself in the dirt to scribble away in a notebook. He’d stayed silent and still, feeling annoyed to be disturbed, then guilty for being so possessive. All of Hawkins knew about the little make out spot by the willow tree. It was hot property, second only to Skull Rock. Still, he didn’t want to share.

There was a time early in your career you were startled easily, but all the skittish deer and surprise lizards and swooping birds made you tough. When the man stood from where he’d been sitting back to a tree, you glanced over with calm and curiosity. You looked at each other.

He wore ripped jeans tucked into old boots that looked like they’d seen a battle or two. His Metallica t-shirt was a couple of sizes too big for him, but the rings on his hands and chains around his neck drew your attention away from that. They caught the sunlight, glinting like jewels. The man’s hair was long and wavy, knotted curls peeking out from the bottom layer.

The second you opened your mouth to speak, he turned his back and started up a narrow but noticeable manmade path. He disappeared from sight as you frowned. “Rude,” you mumbled to yourself, turning back to your notebook and opening to a new page.

A quickly sketched drawing of the man was missing a lot of details, the few seconds not enough to commit many specifics to memory.  You wrote a line of question marks where the flora species name would normally go. Latitude and longitude: the same as the monkshood. Patch count: one. The sketch took the polaroid’s place. Finally, the notes: scarred, metalhead, rude, beautiful.

[puckpocketed]

The Summer I Fell For Hockey - Some journals I wrote while learning to love the Brave Cave.

1.

Phillip Swimming & Ice Skating Centre — at least, the rink portion of it — is affectionately referred to as the Brave Cave, nicknamed after our local ice hockey team, the CBR Brave.

This isn’t the first time I’ve been, just the first time since I began my summer fling with ice hockey.

‘Cave’ is appropriate. Enter into the maw after purchasing a ticket from the snippy white-haired booth attendant; to stained brown brick insides, a foiled insulation ceiling, and a Hits of the Decades tape blasting from speakers mounted precariously on thin shelves.

It smells of damp, artificial cool, and something vaguely dirty and sour; there are webs gummed up with dust and moisture that drape themselves from dark corners. Shoved to the far end of the rink are two red goal nets, awaiting game time. 

Two girls skate the afternoon session with me. We exchange smiles, politely avoidant. In the half-dozen times I’ve skated, I’ve yet to relinquish the safety of the boards. This time is no different.

Not that it helps — the Cave leaves its marks on me in the burn of my calves, the ache in my thighs, a new patch of purple-blue on my hip where I ate shit on my fifth lap. Overall: not the romance I envisioned when I set out to make this place special.

And yet, every few stumbling steps, I manage to glide. If I strain my ears, I hear the sibilance of my rental skates carving through the ice. Fleetingly, I think; is this what it’s like, even just a little, to play ice hockey?

2.

Aimee and I are late for evening lessons.

We are too late. White-haired Booth Attendant tells us, with little remorse as he counts notes to close the till, that we needed to be here at 6:30 for pre-registration.

He looks like he’s a part of this place. Decaying, with the skin around his eyes collapsing; his mouth a deformed, wrinkled moue; his unfriendly red face a warning sign that says KEEP OUT. His booth is all chipped paint and scratched plexiglass, scattered papers and a thin layer of grime. He is the Cave made flesh.

Words leap into my mouth: ‘White-haired Booth Attendant, last time I was here, when you implied I should come to these lessons because they were “diverse” and for “people like you” I wanted to shake you. White-haired Booth Attendant, I wanted to ask you what the hell that’s supposed to mean, because this city is more home to me than wherever you think I came from.’ Instead, I say nothing. I pull away.

Behind me, Aimee follows.

We sit in the car, parked while we figure out what to do. Around us the eyes of highrises stare on, boxing us in, and their half-built companions yawn a dark greeting through scaffolding. Phillip Swimming & Ice Skating Centre, old and strange and ugly as it is, is the only place that deigns to squat at our level, a white and blue dwarf.

3.

I hang around after my skating lesson, furtive, waiting to be kicked out before the closed sessions of ice hockey start.

The zamboni is an angel to me, coming through the rusted garage door and onto the ice to chase off lingering skaters. She rains her holy, healing fire down on that carved up plane of ice; she dresses its wounds with water and scrapes away its scars and makes it new again.

No one ever said that fresh ice smells different — something clean and petrol-laced and almost-not-quite sweet.

Later, I chat up a woman on one of the amateur hockey teams. She sneaks me into the stands, explains that we don’t have enough players in our city to have completely separated tiered leagues — the beginners play with the intermediate players and the semi-pros.

This place is falling apart and not built to host ice hockey matches, no team benches, no penalty boxes, and it barely seats 500. The interest is so low they can’t even fill out their leagues. Their referees are volunteers and do double duty as linesmen. Their gear, I learn, is often scraped together, many of them sporting hand-me-downs. What’s the thing below a beer league? This would be it.

But all of that seems immaterial once they come onto the ice for warmups. I forget about it once I hear it: my very first in-person clapper — a slapshot, a one-timer. It punctuates the end of my coherent thoughts, ringing loud and cutting through the warmup ambience.

Later, on the bus, giddy and sore and warm, I label today as the best day of my life.

4.

This part of town is an ugly, artless gash in the heart of the valley. The temporary bus station made to look like the cracked open shells of shipping containers; the construction vehicles and tradies scuttling about — all signs of perpetually unfinished gentrification — and the Cave amongst it all, just another rotted artery.

At first, I assume that people come here not because they like it, but because they have nowhere else to go. Characterless. Void.

I am wrong.

White-haired Booth Attendant cracks a weathered smile as he highlights my skating lesson punch card, notes that I’m on time for this one, and allows me entry after I’ve paid his toll. The tuckshop, which I took to be permanently shut, is as much of an anachronism as the rest of the Cave; right out of someone's 40-year-old memory with its nostalgic candy selection and hot pies. It isn’t closed. It is in fact manned by a gangly rink rat during public skate sessions. Gangly Rink Rat helps me size my rentals properly and wishes me luck.

More character: fellow skaters hang their blade guards on the netting, glittery transparent pink and neon green and a fire engine red. Even more: if you look to the left on your way in, there’s an easily missed cabinet full of dusty trophies and faded photos.

I’ll ask all their names next time. They are as much a part of the Cave as the mortar and steel that make up its foundations.

My instructor sets me to hobbling around on the ice with the correct form. I take it all in and think, on my second lap, yeah. There's something lovely in this decay. There is character here — I just had to look.

[general-illyrin]

For the character asks! Would you do 3, 44, and 49 for Mim?

Thank you so much for the ask, @dreamingthroughthenoise!

3. Obscure headcanon I have several Mîm headcanons that I enjoy (and almost all of them make his story more tragic), but this one has textual evidence, depending on how one reads Mîm's Klage. While re-reading it for a fic, I noticed that throughout Mîm's Klage, Mîm constantly refers to his sculptures and treasures as "memories". The line "So they robbed Mîm of all his memories and all the merry leaps and bounds of his mind" especially stood out to me, for how could one rob a person of his memories? ...Unless the person's memory was failing and he had created these treasures as more than just beautiful sculptures, but as representatives of important memories, a sort of physical journal, similar to how we use photos now. To make it even more tragic, he references failing eyesight: "All things my eyes saw when they were still clear," And if Mîm's memory and sight were failing him, then when these treasures were stolen, his memories would quite literally have been stolen from him.

44. Their happiest memory This is a hard one to answer, for we know that Mîm was once very happy. Mîm's Klage explicitly mentions this, but we can also infer that he was married because he had two sons. (Of course, he could have adopted them, but I headcanon that he was married.) And since Dwarf women only marry those they wish to marry, it is a safe bet that he was once happily in love, and had a joyful life before tragedy struck and turned him into the old, angry, bitter Dwarf we see in The Silmarillion. But which memory would have been the happiest? A nostalgic childhood memory? The day he realized he had fallen in love? The courtship? The day they agreed to get married? The wedding day? The days their sons were born? (If they weren't twins, that is.) Raising their sons as a happy family? How does one pick just one memory and call it one's happiest? That said, if I must pick only one memory, I think it would be the first time he held his sons in his arms (I headcanon they were twins), and realized how perfect they were and what a beautiful family he and his wife had.

49. Favorite toy as a child I honestly haven't thought about this before, but let's see. Actively resisting the impulse to give him a set of child-sized carving/forge tools because I want something with more personality But the Feanor parallels! Hmm, I think it would have been something passed down through the family, so something his parents played with when he was a child. That means that it is sturdy, so we're looking at something made from metal or stone or possibly wood. Dolls don't really strike me as Mîm's style, so - oh I know! It's a hand-held slingshot! Every Dwarf has a slingshot-stage in their childhood, and most are highly competitive about who can shoot the most accurately and farthest, the slingshots are highly prized possessions handed down from parent to child, carefully looked after for the next little one's time to fling stones and branches and lizards and toads and who knows what else through the air at targets that may or may not include their siblings. This also has the added benefit of introducing the children to crafting, because each child is expected to keep the hand-held slingshot in top condition, for example, keeping the handle from rusting or rotting (depending on whether the handle is metal or wood) and replacing the sinew when it frays. And of course if they break it, they have to make a new one!

These were so much fun to answer; thank you for the ask!

[asphaltvalkyrie]

Threnody

So, I've spent the last two months or soon-and-off writing an origin story for my Sorceror Tav, Ardea. I was going for a bit of a dark fairytale vibe and it could use more work, but its at that "If I look at this thing anymore my eyes are going to permanently cross" stage so I decided to just let 'er rip.

Also on Ao3 because holy shit I DO have one of those, don't I?

In the lower city of Baldur's Gate, tales of familial tragedy are more numerous than the cobblestones on the streets. Families torn apart in one way or another, sometimes quite literally, thanks to a bevy of warring gods, bargaining devils and capricious magic.

One such family began with a young husband and wife.  Both were human and talented artists - the husband highly skilled at carving wood, and the wife at painting. Oftentimes they would work with one another to create things of astonishing beauty.  While they were most famed for their beautiful and lifelike sculptures, everything they created seemed to be beautiful, down the the simplest kitchen tool or child's toy. And so, they were blessed with great success and wealth, with a greatly renowned workshop that they operated out of their home in the lower city.

The perfection of their work often drew covetous and jealous eyes from the city's many other artisans both noble and peasant, but the couple's kindness and humility were enough to cool even the most heated of rivalries. Indeed, it would take nothing short of divine malefaction and infernal machination to harm the prosperous pair.

The architect of their ruin would be the Stormlord Talos, who could destroy in a second anything which nature and mortal kind could build, no matter how ancient or beautiful. One need only look to a grand old tree uprooted by a windstorm or a millennia-old temple felled in a single streak of lightning to see the shadow of His hand at work. Though the artistic endeavors of a single well-meaning pair of mortals could hardly be construed as a threat by most gods, Talos was not most gods.  In fact, the more random and senseless the destruction, and the more beautiful the things destroyed, the greater his pleasure.

And so, Talos sent a mighty storm to ruin the couple - great winds that blew away paintbrushes, heavy rains that ruined paints and rusted saws and chisels, and, worst of all, lightning bolts that tore through sculpted wood and painted canvas with equal ease. The pair was thought to have perished in this storm as well.  However, they were discovered the next day completely unharmed, beneath a pile of the their ruined masterpieces, which had somehow fallen to create a shelter for them, as if the works had sacrificed themselves to save their creators. A true miracle. 

And so, the pair was able to rebuild their home and workshop with alacrity, aided by the hands of their many friends and neighbors. Talos, childishly satisfied with his work, turned to other destructive pursuits. However, the pair could not help but fear that they would once again catch the eye of The Raging One once their works again reached full glorious potential. And their fear only grew when the wife realized that she was with child. 

It was in their hour of greatest worry that one of the devils of Cania came to them in the form of a handsome elf. He offered them a contract stating that no storm born of the heavens would ever harm them, their work, or their family. What he asked in exchange seemed simple enough for them to risk the loss of their souls - all he asked was for them to create a perfect likeness of him in wood and paint in a tenday. Afraid but confident in their abilities, the couple signed the contract... It would not be the first time they had been asked to capture the visage of someone influential and dangerous. But as soon as their blood had dried upon the parchment, the devil laughed and shed his handsome face, revealing his true form; a body only vaguely humanoid. The whole of his being was a nightmare of impossible colors and intangible textures - a landscape as varied and horrid as the hells themselves. Grinning with a beak full of mismatched teeth, he bid the couple adieu, and said that he would return in three days time. And he wanted it perfect, down to every rough scale and curling claw.  Every patch of matted fur and scabrous skin.

Horrified but undaunted, the couple locked themselves in their workshop, and when the devil strutted cockily back once a tenday had passed, he was struck dumb by what he saw. There he was. In perfect likeness. His chaotic form captured in every tiny detail. The husband had rendered his body in exact anatomical perfection with hammer and chisel.  He had somehow coaxed from a block of wood the dry smoothness of scales and the gauzy lightness of feathers and fur.  And beneath, the contours of muscle and sinew. The wife had seen to it that the colors were perfect down to the smallest shade - from the leprous green mottling on his patches of humanoid skin to the oily black sheen of his iridescent horns. Colors dull and muted where they needed to be, and brightly lurid where they needed to be. Mixed and applied with flawless skill.

The devil was furious that the couple had gotten the better of him. But the sculpture was undeniably a perfect replica of him, and devils are creatures of their word.  And so, he placed a spell of protection on the couple's home and workshop and scuttled back to Cania, tails between his many legs, as agreed. But, a word is a flighty and ephemeral thing to stake one's life upon, as words can be twisted into all manner of shapes, for good or ill. 

A short time later, the wife bore their long-awaited child; a daughter.  And though she was strong and healthy, her tiny body bore the unmistakable signs of infernal meddling. Superficially her face resembled her father's, but her skin was the color of a winter sky and her eyes were black pits lit by two sickly yellow sparks. On her head one could clearly see the two swellings that would become horns as she grew, and if there was any further denial of her devilish heritage, one need have only looked at her long, fleshy tail.

A Tiefling. 

Once again horrified but undaunted, the couple vowed to raise the girl as they would any other child, and were true to their word. They named her Threnody, a choice they would later regret, for it seemed to mark her for tragedy just as blatantly as her devilish features.  True to her name, she was a rather unhappy child, prone to bouts of sullen silence punctuated with sudden outbursts of anger.  Though intelligent and observant with a sharp tongue, she was not motivated by the admiration of her peers or the praise of her elders, and thusly school seemed to only bore her. One would have expected her to be teased, given her unusual appearance and spontaneous birth into a human family, but there was something about the girl that made other children keep their distance.  She found few friends, even among other the other Tiefling children of Baldur's Gate. 

This did not seem to bother Threnody, as she preferred to spend her time in the workshop with her parents... Not for their companionship so much as to be in the presence of them as they worked. Even as a toddler, she would watch her parents work for hours, enrapt with the act of artistic creation.  It seemed, in fact, to be the only thing that could make her smile. Watching the marbled patterns that her father could coax from a piece of mahogany, or the sublime shades her mother could mix with the most disparate of colors brought forth the kinds of coos and giggles that a parent lives to hear.  Delighted, her parents did everything they could to encourage the girl, providing her with brushes and paints as well as sculptor's clay, and (when she was old enough,) carving and sewing tools as well.  

Their investments in their daughter's talent was rewarded again and again, as the girl seemed to have a great affinity with all things creative. By the age of 10, she was creating pieces nearly as exquisite as those of her parents, and the wealthiest citizens were offering greater and greater sums for works from the young prodigy. She had inherited from her father a fine grasp of texture, and from her mother, an eye for perfect color.  When she worked, the very air seemed to pulse with potential, and her grim and gray features brightened.  

If she had deigned to accept commissions for painted portraits or custom clothing or heraldic sculptures, she may very well have earned her family a place among the wealthiest patriars in the upper city. However, she followed only her own agenda, balking at the idea of following anyone's visions but her own. Most of her work was inspired by nature, and her favorite subjects were the marsh animals and plants that she often glimpsed on the banks of the Chionthar not far from her home. She rendered them in paint, embroidery, wood and clay with equal skill, often against exquisite backdrops of clouded skies and rivers that seemed to snake off into eternity.

Even without following any sorts of instructions but her own, Threnody's gifts could have made her beloved of anyone and everyone she chose.  However, she remained distant and cold to most anyone, and disliked the company of others while she worked. Though her judgmental gaze and sullen silence were her only weapons, those who braved being in her presence as she worked would sometimes find their flesh breaking out in goosebumps. Even her parents would only approach her long enough to offer a cup of tea or to retrieve a dropped brush or chisel. But that was usually long enough to glimpse an occasional happy smile or joyful gesture, and they took solace in that as one would from seeing a spring sun peek out from among a towering bank of winter clouds. Delighted by their daughter's abilities, if not by her off-putting tendencies, her parents began to describe her gift as something truly magical.  It fell them to entertain her many admirers, and accept their adoration on her behalf. They took great pride in her and her abilities, believing that their prodigious talent (and by extension, Threnody's) had defeated that scheming devil once again - overcoming the curse of the Tiefling child he had sent them through the beauty and power of art.  All the time, the devil had even stayed true to his word.  

Threnody was scarcely a woman grown when she set about producing something truly remarkable.  It would take her several years... And she would work in a manner that was quite unlike herself, patching it together piece by piece instead of as a harmonious whole. Her parents voiced their concerns about her methods, but all it took was a single look from her baleful yellow eyes to silence them. 

Though her work was slapdash and seemingly improvised, every element of it seemed to integrate perfectly. Every dab of paint and thread of fabric she placed seemed to weave itself into the exact state she needed it to be in.  Shades of paint mixed on different days matched perfectly, cut edges of fabric melded together with seamless grace, a chisel never chipped a speck of wood more than it needed to, drying clay never cracked. 

None save Threnody knew what the finished product was supposed to be, and though she often spent hours staring at it, she never spoke of her work on it. Eventually, it began to take shape, becoming some sort of long-limbed and graceful bird.  Her careless crafting process was evident in its construction - when it was finally recognizable as a bird, it was headless, one-winged and balanced on a single leg of impossibly thin wood.  Some parts were painted and varnished while others remained bare wood, hastily bent wire or stiffly starched fabric, or were absent entirely. Even so, it was resplendent as a phoenix in a thousandfold shades of deep blue, cloudy gray and wine red.  

As she worked, the climate around the family home seemed to change. The winters became longer, and the sky howled with wind and rain and thunder seemingly every night. But Threnody's parents only laughed.  They had the word of a devil, written in blood and sworn by the infernal sisters, that no storm would ever harm them or their work. Let Talos throw his tantrums... it must chafe him, they thought, as lightning forked through the sky above their home only to crackle away into nothing as the hells-touched girl wrought masterpieces just out of his reach.  How mad he must be when the wind howled and shook the rafters of their home, unable to even momentarily distract their girl from creating another work of electrifying beauty. She was to have been a curse, but she had proved herself among the greatest of blessings.

With every new detail, the bird became more lovely, as if it were flying in feather by feather from the highest peaks of Celestia. It was posed with an unearthly and impossible grace, with a delicacy that should not have been physically possible to coax from the materials she had used.  Its ungainly construction became invisible beneath the beauty of its many elements. A time came when it appeared finished, but it was missing something... The bird had no eyes, and it was obvious from the messy and unpainted pits in its head that it was intended to have them.

At this point, Threnody stopped her work for a long time, focusing on other projects, which she worked with her usual care and professionalism, employing none of the improvised and haphazard techniques she had been using with the bird. Still, every day she would stare at the nearly finished, nigh-paradisical creature as if weighing something very important in her head.  Her parents could never get an answer from her as to why, and chalked it up to apprehension about somehow botching the last element. After all, every artist worried now and then that a perfect piece could be ruined by something as small as a single careless brushstroke or errant stitch. Meanwhile, the winter storms seemed to grow stronger every year.

Eventually, she began work painting two small, perfectly round seed pods from a scraggly marsh tree outside of their home.  Her parents held their joy in check as they realized that they were to be the bird's eyes. She painted them in cool shades of yellow, dappled like an autumn moon with hints of purple, punctuated at the center by a pit of abyssal black, varnished to a viscous sheen. Even bereft of a skull to hold them, the eyes seemed to follow the viewer, conveying a secret intensity of some unknown emotion.  Her parents hadn't been there when she finally placed the eyes, but they knew that it had been done by the sudden change in the air that made the hairs on their necks stand on end.  Though both busy with chores on opposite sides of their home, the husband and wife nearly crashed into one another as they rushed to the family's workshop.

There Threnody stood before her finished masterwork, hands clasped like a supplicant at a holy idol. A beatific smile spread across her somber features as her closed eyes welled over with abundant tears.  It was so rare to see her smile so brightly, rarer still to see her cry tears of joy, and they treasured the sight. Proudly they interlaced their fingers and embraced, drinking in the sight of their dear daughter happy.  Their grip on one another tightened as Threnody seemed to grow taller, and they realized that her feet were no longer touching the ground. The air snapped and popped around her as she rose, and her tears began to swirl like raindrops about her head.  Her eyes snapped open as she beheled her creation again, looking in its fabricated face as if it were a living thing.  It was then that her parents noticed that the bird's eyes were the same color as their daughter's, and just as alive. Both sets of eyes began to glow as Threnody stretched her hand out, and the bird miraculously came alive, moving its head to rest it in her hand, as if she were a fairytale princess. Hair-thin threads of electricity arced between them.  It was impossible to tell in that moment whether the girl or the newly animated bird were their source, but in a thunderclap of an instant the wind began to howl and the workshop began to shake.  The husband and wife held one another tightly as the sound of crackling lightning and shattering timber filled the air, and a blinding light filled their eyes.

Her mother awakened to thunder ringing in her ears and the smell of burnt timber and singed flesh, with the body of her husband draped across her chest. Cold rain and hot tears stung her face as she cast her eyes on a scene of utter devastation all around.  And in the center of it all was Threnody, outlined against a patch of tempestuous and clouded sky where the wind had torn away the workshop roof.  Her magnificent bird was now nothing more than a smoking heap... but she still smiled.  She smiled.  Even as her dead father, her distraught mother and her ruined masterpiece lay before her.  Lightning arched from her horns and weaved through her hair like the ribbons she had once braided into her hair.  Her mother screamed her name, but the storm swallowed the sound whole. 

The memories of the first time she and her husband had huddled beneath the rubble of their shattered life flooded back to her, and the devil's promise echoed in her mind.  She raised her voice again, this time screaming the words of the devil's contract that had now been violated.

"No storm born of the heavens shall ever harm you, your home, or your family."

As she shouted the final word, a realization hit her like a bolt from the blue. 

Even in his cruelty, the devil had been true to his word. The storm that had ripped apart their little family had come not from the heavens, but from within their own home. A storm channeled from the hells themselves in the form of a cursed daughter. She could only watch in despair as her daughter raised the wind and rain and lightning like a conductor of some hellish orchestra.  And in that moment, the unholy sound of hail beating against the wreckage of her home and the body of her beloved sounded almost like strident laughter. 

The young woman who emerged from this ordeal was no longer a beloved daughter, but an orphan of a storm of her own making. Her artisan's heart still beats within her, but it may be broken beyond repair. And if it cannot create, it will destroy.

[numericalbridge]

Title: Mallow (part 1/3)

Fandom: The Owl House

Rating: G

Word count: 2922 (Full fic - 9340)

Main characters: Darius, that one little abomination (Mallow)

Other characters: the previous Golden Guard (Virgil); in the full story - Eber, Raine, Luz, various palismen

Summary:

An AU where the little abomination was the previous Golden Guard's palisman

x - [part 2] - [part 3] - [full story]

----

Darkness and the deep connections of the old nerves. Whispers. All of them. Fewer of them. Hands, molding. Then – a shape. The desire: a childhood that never was, days on a beach under the sky that is blue; new places to explore, new magic blends – out of the box, out of the confines; new magic shaped to move; wild curiosity, but anchored by deep, sentimental connections.

Two bright mauve eyes opening, the form unfolding from the wood.

The voice, rendered childlike with wonder: “Wow, you are so unique! Our eyes are almost the same!”

Mallow. The name was Mallow.

----

1. Mallow.

“Aren’t they cute?” There was a hint of an amused smile in the corner of Virgil’s mouth.

Darius stared at the round abomination-shaped creature on his mentor’s palm. They stared back at him with curious eyes. Their colour resembled Virgil’s.

Darius sighed. He was no fool and could see the real pride hiding behind the nonchalant amusement on his mentor’s face. Still…

“Isn’t it forbidden?” Forbidden means dangerous. Surely Virgil understood how risky this was. Nothing is safe.

“Well,” Virgil’s face darkened, “I know you can keep a secret. What’s done is done.”

He shoved the creature at Darius, and Darius took them. They walked up his arm, balancing like an acrobat and murmuring softly. They did look kinda cute, but Darius felt a little bitter that this was an abomination – his domain. And he didn’t talk to you when he decided to create them. Are you already falling behind?

“An abomination but made of wood?” Darius wondered aloud. He sat the palisman down on the only table in Virgil’s Latissa apartment, then created a small abomination of his own – made to resemble Mallow, but with bright green eyes. Mallow gasped and toddled towards it, babbling. They seemed enthralled. Darius snickered.

“I knew you’d like them!” Virgil laughed and roughly shook Darius by the shoulders – an almost brotherly gesture that meant he was extremely happy with himself. Yet he didn’t tell you how he got the palistrom wood.

“Ugh, it’s interesting,” Darius freed himself and adjusted his clothing. Great, now his scarf was all askew. “But why an abomination?”

Virgil shrugged. “You know that I find the magic fascinating. And…” he stared at the two abominations – the palisman and the real one – circling each other on the table, “and it felt like it would mean… But you are evading! Admit that you like cute things!”

“Oh, please!” Now, who was evading? Darius shook his head. He understood that the palisman business was a very personal matter. And a lot of things about Virgil were a mystery. He loves experimenting with magic and discovering new, borderline forbidden uses for it, that’s true… Strange how he trusted Darius with the secret palisman, but not with his deeper concerns and troubles. Darius supposed they were similar in that regard... yet Darius had opened up to him, no matter how hard it had been. At least he will be less lonely back in that place…

“It should be nice to have company in the Castle?” Darius guessed.

“I suppose,” Virgil followed the palisman with his eyes. “Do you ever want to have a palisman of your own?”

Oh. Darius poked at the abomination he had created. That. “No.”

“No? Never?”

“Maybe when I was very young. But I had a rust-toothed cat when I was in school, and she was… she seemed better than any palisman.”

Darius remembered Raine showing off their newly carved Foxglove. That terrible rat Alador had. Nissa was smart too. Darius’s free hand played with his scarf. Perhaps palismen lasted longer than pets, than family even…

“Besides, what’s the point? The whole connection with you, the hidden desire, is sort of creepy. And they would probably outlive me.” He could still picture his great grandmother’s palisman, suffering so. “Figure out your desire, connect with something, leave it behind, alone forever… That is, if they aren’t…”

Confiscated.

The word hung between them, heavy. Virgil’s jaw tightened. Mallow stopped playing with the abomination and stared up at them, their perpetual frown frozen.

“It would just be a bother to make one, anyway,” Darius concluded with a sigh and a mildly annoyed pout.

“Hmm...” Now Virgil looked… sad? Uncomfortable? Because of all the palismen he’d been confiscating while keeping a secret one for himself? Because of what Darius thought about palismen in general?

Darius patted Virgil's palisman on their round bald head. “I think you should’ve carved them some decorations. Their head looks empty,” he graciously suggested in an attempt to change the topic.

Virgil payed him no mind. “I think Mallow is worth it,” he muttered softly.

I hope you won’t get into trouble. Virgil was changing, and it perplexed and troubled Darius, even though he was glad that his mentor’s loyalty seemed to shift towards helping the common witches and demons rather than being just the Emperor’s loyal guard. But gone was the almost boyish, at times almost cruel recklessness. Virgil was now more thoughtful, more composed. Still ruthless. And he still never talked about his personal life, at least not directly. And part of Darius was afraid to prod, to push him towards wrong decisions. And the change... how would it affect their relationship? Wondering this was selfish, but Darius knew very well that friendships didn’t last.

“Have you thought about getting a new rust-toothed cat then?” Virgil asked.

Darius’s grip on the scarf tightened. “No.” He hated the look on Virgil’s face. “I don’t have time for pets.” He doubted that some random cat would be as smart as Nissa.

“Hmm…”

“Anyway, I have to go. I have a report to give at the Coven meeting this evening,” he very timely remembered.

“And you’ll be the best prepared, of course.”

“Obviously.”

“Just don’t get into trouble.”

Darius allowed himself a scoff. “With whom? All those old people?”

He readjusted his scarf one more time and headed towards the exit.

“I won’t let you get hurt, I promise,” a voice whispered, so softly that Darius thought he had imagined it. Yet he turned. Virgil was talking to the little abomination in his cupped hands, and it was cooing quietly back at him.

----

Hurt. Once safe and warm, now hurt, surrounded by cold stone walls. Hiding, hunted. The voices are beckoning – far away yet welcoming. But the secret passages are now as familiar as the old nerve-routes. He had used to send them into the passages – to help, to uncover. But now he is gone. And their head feels strange. Weak. There is a dent, an injury. He had send them away. Follow the voices or stay? What was his wish?

Mallow remembers.

They stay.

----

2. Secrets in the Castle.

Shuffling.

Darius paused and listened. He was on his way back to his rooms after yet another dreary, exhausting Coven Head meeting. He was tired and he needed a bath and his skincare routine to soothe the anxiety that was eating away at him.

Desperate shuffling behind the walls.

He could imagine all the dirt and mold behind the shiny new panels, golden and cold and always damp.

The kitchen staff had complained and complained about strange noises – can’t be just a usual hamsteroach infestation, they insisted – until Terra decided to get rid of the source herself. Not out of generosity, obviously. She just wanted to sic her freshly grown plant monstrosities on something small and defenseless.

The shuffling grew closer, more desperate now. Cornered.

“It’s something the old cook used to feed,” they’d theorized. “Now that she is gone, it is grown hungry.”

Darius hesitated for a brief moment. He could just picture Raine Whispers teasing him if they were there with him. But, of course, they weren’t there. Too damn pure and principled for the Castle. For him. Spoiling Terra’s game would be good, he thought. Only, nothing felt good anymore. These last years – just a hideous blur. The only thing he felt was being tired and being cold. Was it like this for Virgil too?

Sounds of movement farther away – Terra’s thorny snaps gaining on their prey. The thing in the wall thrashed and scratched. An abomination tendril shot towards the brass vent cover and pulled it open. Easy.

Something fell out, dirty and covered in webs. Dark purple like an abomination, but its eyes the colour of a delicate flower.

“Mallow?!” For a brief terrifying moment he almost felt relief… or hope… or... Because if the palisman is alive…

Almost.

He stared at the thing. They scrambled out into the corridor and tried to escape into the vent on the opposite side. Darius caught them with the abomination tendril, and they snarled at him almost like a real animal, like no abomination would have ever done.

“They don’t like you very much,” Virgil’s voice laughed, distorted by time. Never mind. With a snap of his fingers – so easy, so effortlessly perfect – he translocated the palisman to his rooms.

How many years have passed? Were they hiding the whole time? he wondered, horrified. And the thought that if the palisman was alive, then he could be… That thought would have destroyed Darius. What does Mallow know?

The plants, hungry for their prey, reached the vent, and he dispatched them – annoying eyesores – with another twist of his fingers. Perfect. And sometimes almost cruel. Perhaps it was a good thing that Raine wasn’t there with him.

Bile in his throat, he headed for his rooms. Act normal. Perfect, effortless. Practiced ad nauseum. Should be easy. Hand clutching at the cloak. Why now?

Couldn’t he be left alone? Just be left alone to – as his aunt had angrily spat – self-destruct in the cold indifference of the Castle.

Mallow was sitting on his bed, stuck in the abomination matter, once cute downturned squiggle of their mouth melted into an almost sinister grimace. The eyes were dimmer than he remembered… or was he misremembering?

How long had it been? Could they recognize him?

He almost laughed, imagining how he would introduce himself to this palisman. Or was all this part of some particularly cruel trap? Some of the other Coven Heads might know… He turned abruptly, checked the doors and the protection spells. One, two, three, four. And again. Again.

The mauve eyes followed his compulsive writhings until Darius practically fell to his knees in front of the bed, exhausted. He felt like his whole body was trembling, and he couldn’t stop it.

The abomination… the palisman stared and stared.

“Mallow?” There was a significantly sized dent on the side of their normally round head, under all the dirt. “What happened?” To you. To him.

No response.

He released them from the abomination trap. They sprang up and made several wobbly steps as if to escape. But they seemed sluggish, perhaps disoriented. Perhaps they were tired. Perhaps they have been hiding in the walls for too long…

Darius dimmed the lights in the room. The palisman sat down and blinked.

“Better? Now, come here. No need for this attitude, just let me clean you.”

Did they remember how they used to play? Darius’s hands were shaking, and there was an uncomfortable heaviness inside his head, so the little abomination he summoned turned out all wonky. Mallow didn’t react, just stared, but they allowed him to clean them up, and when Darius finally collapsed on the bed, they didn’t run away.

Perhaps they knew what happened to Virgil? He couldn’t bring himself to ask. And how would they even communicate? If only he had paid more attention to Virgil’s talk about the palismen… Was this why Virgil has been so insistent on introducing them?

What did Virgil want? Someone to keep his secret? A co-conspirator in a rebellion?

Mallow shook their head and tried to pat the dent with their stubby hands. Why an abomination?

Perhaps there could be a use for them...

Before Darius fell into an uneasy sleep or a half-dazed stupor, full of echoes of the familiar voices, Nissa’s purring, and Mallow’s eerie staring eyes, he thought: This can be a start of a working partnership.

----

3. The Change.

The new arrangement was strange, but he had wanted Mallow’s help – spying, sneaking, seeing what he couldn’t see. And so they would do it again, even if every memory was painful.

Everything was so different now. Distant. “Run,” the voices whispered. “You can be with us, safe.”

Something compelled Mallow to stay. Maybe the curiosity and readiness for novelty – that desire that had awoken them and gave them their form. But that special love, that longing for a family – that’s what was missing ever since he was gone.

Empty.

“No,” the strongest of the voices insisted, “I’ll give you a home if you come to my Forest. You can’t have that in the Castle anymore.”

Fear and pain and memories, again and again in circles.

Mallow stayed.

Darius said they had an arrangement. That Mallow could still help. At first Mallow didn’t believe him, but then they began to understand what Darius wanted to do. Darius – hollow and cold, frozen by the same moment that had taken him from Mallow. This wasn’t a true bond, oh no. But even Mallow could see that their goal was the same…

-

Fear, pain. Again. Just wanted to help. Almost caught. Almost…

Blindly running. Blindly falling, down and down... then a crack. Hurt. Blinded. Knew the hidden Castle passages so well, yet now down here, can’t see.

Something essential seeping away.

Mallow ran and ran. Hurt, more than before. Why? In the past: his voice ordering them to hide. In the present they ran, and then they stumbled along. No way to escape the blinding hurt…

“Mallow? What happened? Did you deliver my…” Darius rose from the table, eyes round.

Mallow keened in pain. Save me, help me!

What would he think? He’d never begged.

Now Mallow was being undone, and he wasn’t there with them.

Mallow, cracked and seeping green like all their broken brethren who screamed in terror in the Beating Heart Room.

Darius, stooping to pick them up.

Darius, frowning.

“Head hurts,” Mallow moaned, but Darius couldn’t understand them.

Darius, pacing, voice strange, “I can’t trust anyone… Eda, perhaps? No, no. No time.”

Then Darius’s face was set. “Can you… go to your staff form or whatever it’s called?” Impatient.

Mallow raised what remained of their head to look at him… It was so long ago… the old routes called… They could do it. The shell hardened, the consciousness dimmed, but the voices grew louder, soothing them.

Voices, far away and nearby. Even the stooped motionless one from the Castle.

“Just as I thought, that dent was a weak spot…” Then there was scraping, and cursing under the breath, and angry muttering.

Mallow, surrounded by the voices, dreamed of the moment they were given their form. But this was different, artificial – no connection, no calling… Their head hurt less.

“Now, I’ll try something.” Something cool and alien, covering their head, almost soothing, slipping through the wood, merging with it.

“Mallow? Can you hear me? You can, ugh, transform back?”

They sprang back, animated. The pain was almost gone, and Mallow blinked at the suddenly bright room with their one remaining eye. The fracture – where the dent used to be – it felt covered and mended. Artificial… They reached up with their hands, but their arms were too short…

“What are you doing? Ah, fine, look here.” Darius, holding up a mirror.

Mallow squeaked. The abomination cap blended perfectly, reinforcing the wood.

“I did what I could to close the wound. I tried working with the wood, as much as I dared, but there just wasn’t enough, so I reinforced it with abomination.” Darius sighed. “This was too close to a forbidden magic blend,” he muttered. He looked tired and weak, and there was a cruelly sharp vertical crease between his eyebrows.

“Yes, yes, I’m sorry. I didn’t have any spare palistrom wood, so I had to improvise. It should be flexible enough, and it won’t decay – a special formula used for… What?”

Something didn’t look right.

Mallow gestured and gestured. Darius pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed dramatically and shook his head. “I don’t understand… and don’t run around just yet!”

They climbed onto his drawing table and pointed at one of his sketches.

“What? Oh. Oh, really?” Darius looked surprised. Like he couldn’t believe them. “Well, I suppose it could help you to blend in, in a pinch... hide in plain sight and all that, yes? Hmm, and it might help you see.”

He scratched his chin, then drew a spell circle, expanding the abomination on the top of Mallow’s head. An eye opened, and the eye was green.

Changing, changing... shouldn’t be like this. What would he think?

“You all right?” Darius asked. Mallow crooned, admiring their new hair in the mirror. Their own eye – now also green. “Is it a yes?” Darius sighed again. “You surprise me, palisman.”

Mallow had discovered that they liked surprising Darius – he was different then, less cold. Almost like before, with him. They liked the little pals Darius made for them too. They weren’t like Mallow and their brethren, but instead gooey and hollow, yet the way Darius treated them was almost like they were special and dear to him.

“You know,” Darius muttered, setting them down on the sofa beside the table, “my old vice-principal back at school had a palisman that helped him see…”

Mallow settled down, listening.

[x-ceirios-x]

City of Fallen Angels, Chapter 6: Wake The Dead

please see the masterlist for notes about this series/collection of works

-

Something that glittered silver across the room caught her eye. It was the box Amatis had given Jace, with its delicate design of birds around the sides. She knew he had been working his way through it, reading the letters slowly, going through the notes and photos. His feelings about his biological father were something he was going to have to come to terms with on his own. 

She found herself drawn to the box now, though. She remembered him sitting on the front steps of the Accords Hall in Idris, holding the box in his lap. As if I could stop loving you, he’d said. She touched the lid of the box, and her fingers found the clasp, which sprung open easily. Inside were scattered papers, old photographs. She drew one out, and stared at it, fascinated. There were three people in the photograph, a young man and a young woman, with her holding an infant, with the bluest eyes she’d ever seen. Dark but shining like sapphires. The baby was swaddled in a gold blanket, dotted with birds trailing the trim; a single, golden curl poked out from the pink hat. She recognized the woman immediately as Luke’s sister, Amatis. She was gazing lovingly up at the young man with all the radiance of first love. He was handsome, tall, and blond, though his eyes were blue, just like the baby’s, not gold, and his features less angular than Jace’s…and yet still, knowing who he was—Jace’s father—was enough to make her stomach tighten. He looked down at the baby in Amatis’s arms with a love similar to what she wore on her face, but different at the same time. More intense, somehow; a love she figured only parents could feel for their children. She wondered if there were any surviving pictures of her own mother with her as a baby with that same look. 

She set the photo of Stephen Herondale down hastily, and nearly cut her finger on the blade of a slim hunting dagger lay crosswise in the box. Birds were carved along the handle. The blade of it was stained with rust, or what looked like rust. It must not have been cleaned properly. She picked it up slowly and noticed that the rust looked faded in some places, and the rest of the blade shined, save for a few fingerprints. 

“Hey, nosy.”

Clary jumped, dropping the blade in her hand on the floor, narrowly missing her own feet with it. She whirled around, red hair flying in her face, and was met with the grinning face of Andromeda Herondale, clearly amused that she’d startled her.

“Must you do that?” Clary asked, remembering all the times recently that Andy would suddenly appear behind her. It had to be a Shadowhunter thing, because Aric did it constantly while they were training. And Rowan did it when she saw them, though that had been a less frequent occurrence lately.  

She smirked. “Of course I do. It’s just so fun to ruffle your feathers, ginger.” She pushed herself off the wall and walked towards her, stiletto heels making no noise as she did so. She caught a glimpse of a fading silence rune on her arm and rolled her eyes. So for Andy, it was intentional. “What’s all…” she trailed off, her eyes falling on the box she’d just been looking through. “Oh,” she said, almost breathless. 

Clary bent down to pick up the hunting knife and set it back in the box carefully. She studied Andy’s face, though she couldn’t figure out what she was feeling in the moment. Her eyes hardened the longer she looked, but she seemed…sad. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to snoop.”

“It’s not my room,” she said, becoming as chipper as she usually was like she’d just flipped a switch inside herself. Clary wondered if she was that good at compartmentalizing, or lying. “Where’s your boy-toy, anyway?”

“I was hoping you could tell me that,” she said with a sigh. “He’s been flighty, lately, and he’s not answering his phone.”

She frowned. “So you noticed.”

“Wh–” she stuttered. “Of course I noticed. What’s going on with him lately? You’re his sister, wouldn’t he tell you?”

Something flashed across Andy’s face, and she turned quickly and sat on Jace’s bed. “Easy with the family words, Clary,” she said flatly. “The boy invites me to New York because he wants to get to know me, says he wants to get to know the only blood family he has left alive, then practically ignores me the past few weeks. He’s no more my brother than Luke is my uncle. Blood doesn’t mean much to me.”

Clary crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back on the dresser. “Why do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Every time I ask about your family, you clam up and get all dark and mysterious on me. Do you want to get to know Jace?”

“Maybe,” she said, a small, but entirely fake, smile pulling at the corner of her mouth. “Does he?”

“Will you stop it?”

Andy sighed, hanging her head for a moment, her blond curls hung in her face, looking as effortless as ever, and she flipped them back when she looked up at her again. “I’m not going to fight with you, Clary. It’s not worth getting into it with you.”

Exasperated with her, she snagged the box off the dresser and sat down next to her, forcing it into her lap. “I think you need to look at this as much as Jace does,” she said insistently. “I know you hate your dad. But I think you don’t know the whole story. And this—” she gestured to the box— “this is the whole story. Not your mom’s version. Not Luke’s version, not even Stephen Herondale’s version. This is just what actually happened.”

She stared for a long moment, expression unreadable, before picking up the photograph she’d just been looking at. She was quiet, studying it, before she carefully placed it in the box, and the box back on the dresser. Andy turned back to her, and said, “Not now. But maybe I will with Jace one of these days. I’ve gotta meet Maryse about something, anyway.”

She huffed, but she figured that was the best answer she was going to get out of her for the moment. “Yeah, I should probably head out if Jace isn’t here. Walk me out?” 

“I don’t see why not. I’m not looking forward to this, anyway.” She let out a breath she’d been holding and led her out of the room, down the hall, and towards the elevator. Clary reached for the elevator call button—only to realize it was already lit. someone was healing up from the ground floor to the Institute. 

Jace, she thought immediately, jer pulse jumping. But of course, it might not be him, she told herself. It could be Izzy, or Rowan, or—

“Luke?” she said in surprise as the elevator door opened. “What are you doing here?” 

“I might ask you the same thing.” He stepped out of the elevator, pulling the gate shut behind him. He was wearing a fleece-lined zip-up flannel jacket that Jocelyn had been trying to get him to throw away since they first started dating. It was rather nice, Clary thought, that just about nothing seemed to change Luke, no matter what happened in his life. He liked what he liked, and that was that. Even if it was a ratty-looking old coat. “Except I think I can guess.” His tone was light and unfazed, as she knew he wouldn’t tease her about her current predicament with Jace. He stiffened slightly as he saw Andy just behind her, and when she turned, she saw she mirrored his expression. The two hadn’t spoken, to her knowledge, since Idris, and even then their conversations were brief. “Andromeda.”

“Lucian,” she replied, saying his name like it was a poisoned knife. Internally, Clary rolled her eyes, as they’d just finished a conversation about opening up to family. “Mother says hello.”

“Just Luke is fine,” he said. “Have you talked to her recently?”

“About two weeks ago, if you want to call that recent.”

He hummed in response. There was a beat of tense, awkward silence that made Clary want to shrivel into a small shrimp and run into the ocean, but she denied the impulse. 

“Andromeda, play nice.” The cool voice that came from behind them was Maryse’s. “Lucian, thank you for coming on such short notice.”

Maryse Lightwood stood at the doorway, her hand lightly on the frame. She was wearing gloves, pale gray gloves that matched her tailored gray suit. Clary wondered if Maryse ever wore jeans. She had never seen Isabelle and Alec’s mother in anything but power suits of gear. “Clary,” she said. “I didn’t realize you were here.”

Andy brushed past her with a respectful, acknowledging nod and stalked into the library. Clary felt herself flush. Maryse didn’t seem to mind her coming and going, but then, Maryse had never really acknowledged Clary’s relationship with Jace at all. It was hard to blame her. Maryse was still coping with Max’s death, which had been only six weeks ago, and she was doing it alone, with Robert Lightwood in Idris. She had bigger things on her mind than Jace’s love life. She knew the only other adult in the building was Aric Ashfair, who seemed entirely too reserved to help with her grief, though she hoped having someone to share responsibilities with helped. 

“I was just leaving,” Clary said. 

“I’ll give you a ride back home when I’m done here,” Luke said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Maryse, is it a problem if Clary remains while we talk? Because I’d prefer to have her stay.”

Maryse shook her head. “No problem, I suppose.” She sighed, raking her hands through her hair, and led them into the library. 

She caught up with her quickly, wanting to ask something that had been weighing on her since she’d stopped seeing Rowan as frequently. “Maryse, I don’t mean to bother you, but…” she trailed off, falling into stride with her as she made her way to Hodge’s desk to sit down. Hesitancy laced her voice. “How is Jensen?”

Her expression hardened slightly, but she answered without any argument. “He’s struggling, but having his father here is helping. Helping all of us, actually.”

“Speak for yourself.” A small, hard voice came from the corner of the room, making Clary’s head turn. She didn’t even notice Rowan in the window seat, curled in their usual place. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Andy roll her eyes at them. Rowan let out a dramatic huff and slammed their book closed. They muttered something, but across the room, she couldn’t hear it.

“Alice—”

“Rowan,” they said bitterly. “ Jesus Christ, Maryse, is it that hard for you people just to use my middle name? It’s not that fucking hard.”

“Watch your language, young lady,” she said, sounding more tired than authoritative. 

“Fucking—” they threw their arms in the air and they crashed at their sides. Clary didn’t see them angry often, but this didn’t look angry—there was more to it. “By the Angel, I’m not dealing with this. I’m going out.”

Her expression hardened. “Not at this hour. It’s dark.”

“Oh, right, because Jace is the golden boy and he gets to do whatever he pleases, but I’m grounded for having feelings, is that it?”

“Alice!” A voice called from the door, and Clary recognized it as Aric. He always spoke gently when the two of them worked together, especially if she was struggling, and he seemed calm and collected. She didn’t get the reputation Andy said he had, but at that moment, she understood. “Hallway. Now.”

Rowan made a frustrated noise and stormed past her, Luke, and eventually their father. The door clicked closed behind Aric and the two were no longer in earshot. She turned back to Maryse, who was pinching the bridge of her nose, leaning her head in her hands. “I apologize for all that,” she said. “It’s been a rough few weeks. I didn’t call you to deal with my family drama.”

“It’s all right,” Luke said, pulling up a chair across from Maryse. Andy walked over, and Clary noticed a different air about her, like she’d suddenly taken a part of Maryse’s personality with her own. Her face was stony, but not angry, just…professional. She’d put glasses on that Clary didn’t know where she got them from. tied her hair into a semi-neat bun, and even pulled on the crewneck sweater that had previously been wrapped around her waist. If she didn’t know her, she would think she was a studious, charming college girl going to NYU. She stood beside Maryse, just off to her right, as she began flipping through files on the table. 

“I assume you’ve heard about the dead bodies we’ve been finding for the past week or so?” Maryse asked, paying no attention to Andy. 

Luke nodded. “The dead Shadowhunters, yes.”

“We found another one tonight. Stuffed in a dumpster near Columbus Park. Your pack’s territory.”

Andy’s eyes flashed to Luke’s face, like she was studying him. It made her uneasy, how Maryse was treating this like a normal conversation but Andy seemed to think it was an interrogation. 

Luke’s eyebrows went up. “Yes, but the others—”

Andy placed a folder in front of Luke and he opened it hesitantly. Looking over his shoulder, she noticed it was pictures of the dead bodies, stapled to clippings of a map with a bright red X on them, with certain areas outlined in pencil. “The first was found in Greenpoint, which is warlock territory,” she said. “The second was floating in a pond near Central Park. I hear that’s fae area. And now we’re in the wolves’ land. It’s strange.”

“I think someone isn’t very pleased about the new Accords and is trying to set Downworlder against Downworlder,” he said, pointedly looking up at Andy. She shrugged and leaned back. “I can assure you both, my pack didn’t have anything to do with this. I don’t know who’s behind it, but it’s a very clumsy attempt, if you ask me. I hope the Clave can see through it.”

“There’s more,” Maryse said, taking the folder back from him as he finished flipping through it. “Andromeda was able to pull enough together of the first two bodies to get identifying information.”

“The first was burned beyond basic recognition, and the second was mostly decomposed by the time I was called in, but I have my ways.” She smiled slightly at this, and to Clary, she looked distinctly like the Cheshire Cat. Maybe it was the pink and purple earrings. “Any guesses?”

“This isn’t a game, Andromeda,” Maryse said rather sternly. To her surprise, Andy stopped talking and straightened up. “Anson Pangborn and Charles Freeman. Neither of whom, I might note, had been heard from since Valentine’s death—”

“But that’s not possible,” Clary interrupted. “Luke killed Pangborn back in August—at Renwick’s.”

Andy raised an eyebrow at this, though stayed silent. “He killed Emil Pangborn,” said Maryse. “Anson was Emil’s younger brother. They were both in the Circle together.”

“As was Freeman,” said Luke. “So someone is killing not just Shadowhunters, but former Circle members? And leaving their bodies in Downworlder territory?” He shook his head. “It sounds like someone’s trying to shake up some of the more…recalcitrant members of the Clave. Get them to rethink the new Accords, perhaps. We should have expected this.”

“I suppose,” Maryse said. “I’ve met with the Seelie Queen already, and I have a message out to Magnus. Wherever he is.” She rolled her eyes; Maryse and Robert seemed to have accepted Alec’s relationship with Magnus with surprisingly good grace, but Clary could tell that Maryse, at least, didn’t take it seriously. “I just thought, perhaps—” She sighed. “I’ve been so exhausted lately. I feel like I can hardly think straight, and I’m not throwing more on the resources I’m already expending past what I usually allow.” She glanced at Andy, who shrugged. She acted like this was fun for her, which knowing what she did, it might as well be. “I hoped you might have some idea about who might be doing this, some idea that hadn’t occurred to us.”

Luke shook his head. “Someone with a grudge against the new system. But that could be anyone. I suppose there’s no evidence on the bodies?”

“You’d be surprised how many times I redid that autopsy,” Andy said. “And I found nothing.”

“If only the dead could talk, hm?” Maryse asked.

It was as if Maryse had lifted a hand and yanked a curtain across Clary’s vision; everything went dark, except for a single symbol, hanging like a glowing sign against a blank night sky. 

It seemed her power had not vanished, after all. 

“What if…” she said slowly, raising her eyes to look at Maryse. “What if they could?”

[abominationvault]

Session 34: Sat 4 May 2024

Being ill is rubbish, the DM and I do not recommend it. Hartvig has to paint a lizard on a moped. BWJ1 has missed his nap and is furious, BWJ2 is making lots of nappies and is very healthy and happy. :)

Magiloy is a lady Tengu, it turns out. (No wonder Jorg’ath had trouble talking to her.) If we need to improve her disposition towards us for the purposes of selling her our old shi- I mean, our hard-won treasures, Sprocket can do an adorable little dance at her. In a Danny Glover voice. (“I can dance, motherfucker!”) I am told that it’s canon that Sprocket has no inside voice, also.

Jorg’ath makes five Fortitude saves for the samples he is testing for Magiloy: 22, 27, 24, 24, 26 and an accidental 12 that doesn’t count because it was only five rolls. He is hammered, but otherwise okay. He gets 5 gold pieces for his troubles. Nadia sells some violet venom and a scroll and has a rearrange of her belongings, and helps Jorg’ath sort a backpack for Sprocket.

We trek back down, Nadia with her new crossbow in hand. Secret doors! Bird fancying! Secret doors first, we follow Jorg’ath to the one on the right. He kicks it open. “Bosh!” He finds carved sarcophagi, and some ledges that drop down into a cavern. There are blue lights, one of which is bright and constant and the other flickers softly. Jorg’ath backs up and boshes the other door open instead. 3 iron cages hang from chains, a wooden table and manacles and a red whip with a silver handle. In one corner, staring listlessly into space, is this:

She is regular person-sized. Skabb clears her throat. “Friend?” Jorg’ath closes the door.

We push Hartvig to the front. Jorg’ath has his back, he can do this. “Okay. I raise my shield,” Hartvig says, earning himself a Hero point. As he enters, it smells like iron. It might be rust. (“It’s blood. It’s definitely blood.”) Sounding disinterested, she says “Welcome to my torture chamber. Would you like to stay here forever?” Hartvig looks behind himself to make sure Jorg’ath hasn’t closed the door behind him.

She sighs. “You can either stay here and never return, or leave.”

Hartvig senses that her heart isn’t in this. He introduces himself. He makes a Perception check, in spite of Jorg’ath encouraging a Romance check. He rolls a red 7. “This game hates me.” Jorg’ath winces, sucking in air through his teeth.

She is waiting for Hartvig's response. He is going to not commit to a forever stay, also he is sort of generally opposed to torture although he admits there is a conversation to be had here. Vaulgrist sighs.

“Fine. Die.”

“These are some of those boundaries I was talking about,” Hartvig says as we roll Initiative and Perception checks.

Luna, Nadia and Sprocket can all join in with the initiative, but the others are distracted for a round.

Hartvig sees her - she is some sort of demon (I miss the description…). Jorg’ath: “She sounds like Hartvig’s kind of girl!” They have Pain Sight, once they’ve hurt you, you can’t hide from them. Cool.

Sprocket is first! (Radio silence for a bit. Hartvig: “He’s already asleep.”) “Our friends are in danger, follow me!” (Danny Glover Danny Glover Danny Glover.) He marches up the pathway to find Hartvig. “What’s this doodad on the wall?” Ah, it’s Grabbins. Sprocket uses all his actions on movement and still doesn’t really know what’s going on. Next!

Hartvig. “If you’d led with the whole pain thing, we could have had a different conversation…Would you vibe with this?” He casts Torturous Trauma, but 12 misses. “Shit.” He raises his shield.

Nadia runs in - we all have to do a Will save. (Because the DM forgot to make us do it before, not because Nadia arrived suddenly.) Jorg’ath and Nadia are fine, but Hartvig sees the demon’s face morph into the face of someone he’s loved and lost, and is Frightened 2. “Stop scaring my friend!” Nadia shouts and shoots her new crossbow, which misses. “… You. Knock it off. Or else.”

Luna does some measuring and runs up to join the group. “Is that a bad guy or a good guy? I can only see half of him.” It’s Hartvig. DM: “It’s a bad guy, but it’s your bad guy.” She hides, confident that she’s hidden.

Jorg’ath runs at the demon and strikes with his longsword, offended on Hartvig’s behalf that she seems to have turned him down. 27 just hits. Everyone at once: “Just hits?!”

Chains in the room sprout stuff and whip it at us:

38 hits Jorg’ath (groaning all around), 25 hits Hartvig, 29 hits Nadia. Owie.

Skabb rolls Initiative and joins in, and then we’re back to Sprocketses.

Sprocket will do Evolution Surge and make Augustus a lot quicker:

Augustus comes in and does a Fist Slam, but 21 misses. “… Th-that’s us.”

Hartvig. “Me again? Ohhhh…” He tries a Ray of Enfeeblement, but she says no. He casts Guidance on Jorg’ath.

Skabb is next, and spends her actions to move up the pathway.

Nadia, very much uncertain that we can win this, shoots twice because she might as well and then gets the fuck out of dodge.

Luna shoots Vaulgrist in the face. “Zing.” She hits, misses, and follows Nadia out of the room.

Jorg’ath takes a couple of swings and then will leg it also. 22 misses, 13 misses, and he’s outtie. “Run!”

“Stay there,” the DM tells him, as she gets an attack of opportunity with her bloody chains. “Have a little parting gift,” the DM says. “I appreciate it,” says Jorg’ath, bleeding gently.

Vaulgrist does Focus Gaze at Hartvig:

He rolls a 19 Will save and fails, so she is hidden from him. She hits him with her chain for 13 more damage. No wait - that’s 10 above his AC, so that’s a crit and he’s out… Also pinned to the floor:

Vaulgrist then does another chain attack on Augustus - 28 hits for 23 damage.

(Hartvig, idly: “I suppose the good thing is, I’m not afraid any more now that I’m dead.”)

Sprocket is up, and he has a question about attacks of opportunity in Pathfinder - in 5e you only get one Reaction per round. Can you use AOO’s just whenever in Pathfinder? The DM consults his book of nightmares and comes back with “… Oh, that is nasty.” It turns out that yes, she can just attack of opportunity as long as the trigger condition is met (a creature in melee range moves away from her. Or stands up from being prone while having the audacity to be on the floor at her feet).

Sprocket and Augustus have a hurried, telepathic, conversation. Augustus will make a grapple attempt on Vaulgrist, but the DM offers to tell him her Fortitude DC before he rolls. He decides to roll blind, and goes Athletics: an 8. “Ah.” He Hero Points for a 15, not good. He will keep her busy while the rest of us rescue Hartvig. Augustus Fist Slams and misses, twice. “Done. Sorry, that was very underwhelming.”

Hartvig does a Death Save: 3. “Ohh! Nope. It’s looking bleak.” He is now Dying Two.

Skabb has a question about the chains. Are they moving magically or mechanically? Grabbins thinks there might be magic involved. Dispel Magic likely won’t work here, however. Skabb will run in with Nadia and together they pull the chain from Hartvig’s body. Can we drag him out of the room with the rest of our turns? The DM will allow it! We drag him out! As a free action, Skabb wants to flick a bogey at the blue woman. Hartvig, impressed: “Badass.”

Luna’s turn. She leans in to the room, takes a shot, and ducks back out. 22 misses. “Poor Augustus,” she says, and shuts the door, leaving him in there with the torture demon. (The DM, highly amused, awards her a Hero Point.)

Does Jorg’ath want to go running back in? No, he wants to barricade the door.

Vaulgrist looks at Augustus, seeing that she’s damaged him but that there’s no blood. She pokes a finger in the bit where she hit him, and sits down, dejected. “Get out.”

Augustus pats her on the shoulder with his nail hands, shrugs, and walks away from her.

(Just so we know, if we hadn’t rescued Hartvig, she would have put him in a cage, revive him with potions, and proceed to torture him forever. Hartvig, sounding slightly shocked: “You put yourself out there, get yourself impaled-slash-disembowelled…”)

Jorg’ath shakes Hartvig back to consciousness and does some medicine at him. He is now no longer Dying 2, but Wounded 1. He comes to with a sigh. “Oh! Did she say yes…?” He turns a slightly rosier shade of grey, like liver.

Sprocket climbs onto Hartvig’s chest. “Better luck next time. Maybe the next lady will be more appreciative of your gifts.” Danny Glover Danny Glover.

Blue lights then? Yeah, let’s put our heads in. Jorg’ath boots the door back open again. “Oooh there’s a glowing rock!”

The ceiling rises to 25 ft, stone sarcophagi, carved with emaciated figures. The wall drops into a cavern. Lights to north and south, north lights flicker softly and south lights are stronger. Jorg’ath thinks the carved figures look like Hartvig.

“I’m going,” Jorg’ath announces, still wounded and before any of us can say anything or have a discussion about this. “Jesus Christ,” says Skabb, and sits down for a flask of tea.

The DM tells Jorg’ath, and Jorg’ath alone, to roll initiative. (Short pause, then giggling. Oh, that's bad.)

The sarcophagi burst open and something comes out. (Skabb to Jorg'ath, exasperated: “It’s like you’ve never played Skyrim!”)

(Hartvig, sarcastically: “Oh, Jorg’ath, have you asked her if she’s single?” Jorg’ath immediately uses an action to ask the Wight if she’s single.)

Jorg’ath attacks, and the Wight attacks back. 33 to hit. (Skabb: “You know we’re not going to come and get your corpse, right?”) He makes a Fortitude save, fails, and is Drained 1, giving his HP to the Wight. It hits him again. Jorg’ath: “Ohhhhh, no…” It hits him a third time, but it misses.

Another comes out and hits him as well. “Mmmm. I’ve… Mmmm. I’ve fallen down.”

Do the rest of us hear the sound of Jorg’ath bleeding to death? Nadia heard the sound of something dropping like a sack of shit. She sighs. “Come on then.” She enters the room to see the sarcophagus in front of her become see-through, and she sees a desiccating corpse. (Jorg’ath: “That’s me.”) She pulls out her Healing potion, pours it on her gun and fires it at Jorg’ath. 6HP back!

Another corpse animates. Nadia shoots, misses, shouts over her shoulder at the rest of the gang, and rolls initiative.

(Skabb, grumpy: “I’m only doing this for Nadia.”)

The rest join in, and Nadia is up first. She comes in, shoots a glue bullet and misses, and presses against a wall.

Jorg’ath Rages, as he’s furious, and hits the one behind him with his sword. “How does he feel about that.” 23 hits, then 19 misses.

El Goblino. She uses all three actions to move in and stands in the middle of the room, waiting for something to hit her.

We attack, they attack, Jorg’ath has another lie down. He makes a Fortitude save and is only Dying 2.

Hartvig does a 2-er for Jorg’ath (“My guy!”), giving him back 26 hp!

Nadia pulls out a Tanglefoot bag and slams it into the face of the wight in front of her, and runs the fuck away with all 9 of her hit points:

Jorg’ath misses an attack and does some Battle Medicine at himself. It fails. “Well, that’s me. Thanks guys.��

Skabb starts her turn with a Perception check: a 20. She hears a familiar voice coming from the east. “I smell you, goblin! I won’t warn you again!” Uh oh. It’s that werewolf. She warns the rest of us that he’s close by. She worries that he’s given her an ASBO.

Would it take an action to shout back at him? If she’s just mugging him off, then no. She yells something insulting, and turns her attention to the matter at hand. She has a scroll of Healing, so she pulls it out and can hopefully hit everyone including the wights with a 3-er. She Hero Points her 2hp back, transforming it to an 8. Yay!

Luna’s turn. “Eine minuten on the cat.” She takes out a vial of holy water and attaches it to an arrow. (Could we soak Sprocket in holy water and attach him to an arrow…? No? Okay.) 29 hits for 5 damage, plus the holy water (1d6) - and, one splash damage to the other one as well. She has an action left, so she hides. She is not, however, confident that she is hidden.

Augustus, with Sprocket in hand, moves into the room, rapidly evaluates the situation, and holds Sprocket up. Sprocket goes limp, and Augustus throws him over the heads of his chums toward the wights and Jorg’ath. Strength check: 10. Sprocket slides the rest of the way, fetching up at the feet of one of the wights. Augustus then casts Shield, and Sprocket remains prone like a fallen rag doll. “Step one of our multi-step plan.”

(Technical difficulties, Skabb, Jorg’ath and the DM all are kicked from Discord. We won the fight while the DM was out, we tell him when they come back. Sprocket cast Wish. DM: “I would tell him to wish in one hand and shit in the other and see which fills up first, but sadly neither would fill up at all. Poor Sprocket.” Sprocket tells us that he imagines that if he could shit, it would look like Skittles.)

The wights do some more attacks on Jorg’ath. “Well, I guess next week we’re getting our cat back,” Jorg’ath says, dejectedly. They also swoosh up and attack Luna… She’s still up, but 32 is a lot. Does 25 hit Augustus Clementine? Yes. Ow.

Hartvig casts Heal at level 3 - 9hp back for everyone. The wights take some damage - well, one does.

Wait - the one that moved was Tanglefooted! It can’t move, so Luna and Augustus didn’t take the damage. (Nadia wins a Hero point for pointing that out.)

Nadia uses her last Ghost charge on one (dealing splash damage to the other in the process), then crits with her new crossbow for 17 more damage! Then Jorg’ath crits and gets the howdydoodis! “Very… Woundedly.” He painfully lifts his sword in one injured arm, and drops it on the wight’s head.

Skabber next, and she flips through her spell cards to find one that is roll-to-hit and doesn’t force a saving throw. “I think I can do slashing gust…?” She can use the wand of missiles, as we’ve rested since last time she used it. (Character sheet weirdness causes her some problems. Jorg’ath: “I guess that’s why they call them can’t trips. Heh heh. Heh heh.” Skabb, cross: “It’s not me who’s always falling on my ass.”) The DM rolls for her, and lets her roll her damage - 7 total. Good enough!

Luna is AFK, selfishly taking care of her week-old baby, so Sprocket takes over and fires her shortbow for her. She Hero points the 16 for a 14. (This Goddess of Death thing only works when she rolls for herself, it seems.) (It’s Todd Howard’s fault.) She scooches into an alcove to hide.

Sprocket’s plan is not coming together as he has to be in their space, but instead he yells “Surprise motherfucker!” He crits, and gets a Hero Point for Phase Bolt. 14 damage! Second attack misses, but no-one will remember that. Can Augustus run and belly-bump the last wight? He makes a Strength check, taking the rusty nails into account. 17, enough to get him up there.

Grabbins appears! She drops a healing potion onto Jorg’ath and a holy water onto the wight. Wait, it’s not Grabbins, it’s Skabb’s buddy… Belches!

“Skabbo! And uglies! Come to town!”

It’s the wight’s turn. It attacks Jorg’ath, and crits. He goes down again, and is now Dying 4… “Don’t worry, I got one more.” It hits Augustus and crits again, then goes for Sprocket and crits a third time. Sprocket: “… I was calculating what my hit points are, but they’re none.” All of our books and 30 gold pieces fall out of Augustus as he vanishes. Let’s hope the cat doesn’t spot the gold.

Hartvig does another level 2 Heal - no, he will do Needle Darts and then raise his shield. “Bam. I raise my shield.”

Nadia shoots a bunch and misses everything. “That was rubbish, sorry guys.”

Jorg’ath is Dying 4, so he has to roll a 14 or higher: 17! Yeah! He is stable, but still down.

(Sprocket: “Someone needs to heal me, I have a brilliant plan.”)

Skabb shoots her magic missiles again, for a green 5 Force damage per missile. She goes for Hydraulic Push, 22 hits for 8 bludgeoning. She has one action left, so she sling shots it. 25! Howdydoodis! She doesn’t care about killing the wight as she’s just realised she can go and cuddle Belches! She stretches on her tippy toes, grabbing at the air for him. He descends to just beyond her reach and lets her brush his belly; it’s the softest fur she’s ever felt.

“Where’s Grabbo?” he demands, and she remembers that she left her in the corridor, “because I respect her!”

“Come quick, the hippy ritual is going down!” He drops healing potions on Jorg’ath and Sprocket, bringing them back up. “Lazy uglies! Come on!”

We will leave Jorg’ath on a warm rock while we see to this. Wait - Flashbang will heal him up. We will start next week back in town. Skabb rummages in the wight remains to see if they have anything good. Swords, and studded leather armour. Anyone want that? Sprocket doesn’t think it’ll fit him.

“I didn’t think you were going to win that, guys, well done,” the DM tells us.

[dycefic]

In The Interim

I must have read at least a dozen variations on the 'ancient and forgotten order of something or other is revived by the Chosen One and some ancient mentor or something' story, in which ancient relics or fortresses or holy places usually play a significant part. I've often wondered what happens to them in the interim, while their orders are scattered and their existence forgotten. I'm always fascinated by the generally elided parts of a story - what happens after the evil empire collapses, or while the dystopia is setting in, or the time between the fall and rise of the order of something or other.

Also, you know, I play Dragon Age. Skyhold is... inspiring.

---

There is an ancient fortress that waits in the mountains for the day when its people will return. Dust covers the floors, and many of the ancient statues have fallen.

I do not know what the fortress waits for. Was it an order of scholars? There was a library, with shelves full of scrolls and books. They are ancient and fragile now, so I never enter the room except to light a fire to dry the air, now and then.

It could have been an order of warriors. There are rooms full of ancient weapons. I know what a sword is, though I have never seen swords shaped like this. There are blades on long poles, like some strange mating of an axe and a spear, and other things I cannot name. What is not too rusted, I oil and tend.

Perhaps it was a religious order. There are many statues, and one motif that repeats often, a woman holding a lamp in one hand and a flower or leafy plant in the other. There are statues of her, and paintings on the walls, and even a mosaic of stones in one of the courtyards. I dust the statues and the paintings, and sweep the mosaic. In the room that seems to be a shrine, I keep a light burning on the altar, as the signs tell me others have done before me.

I don’t know what most of what I find signifies. There are chests full of faded and rotted fabric that was clothing once, but I do not know what the sigils mean. There are devices on shelves whose use I cannot begin to guess. There are letters or symbols carved into the stone in several places, but they are not in the language I know.

But there is a garden. Even after years of neglect, the soil is rich. I do not know the language the people here spoke, or why they lived here, but I know the herbs they used. I know the vegetables they ate. I recognised the bones of chickens and goats, when I dug in their midden for fertiliser.  I found the bird cotes, and replaced rotted perches and lured the pigeons which had gone wild back with seeds and insects from the garden.

Some of the perches were large, too large for any pigeon. I don’t know what birds roosted there. But sometimes I see a large bird circling high up, a crow or a raven, and I wonder if it’s a descendant of those birds.

The kitchen has been used more recently than the other rooms. In a small room off the kitchen I found an old straw bed, and clothing that is not too unlike my own. And on the wall of that room, scratched on the stone, I found a series of crude drawings.

A figure in long skirts walking up a slope between trees. A crude representation of the fortress. The same figure, standing in the garden, with crude plants around her feet and what are probably meant to be birds in the air over her head.

These I read easily. “I climbed the mountains and found this place. I lived here.”

The next row was different.  The same figure, repeated several times. Then a crude outline of a skull. Then a door with a symbol on it. It took me a while to figure that out.

Then I found the door with that symbol, deep below the fortress. When I opened it – cautiously, remembering the skull – I smelled the faint memory of decay.

When I went down, I found an ancient crypt. There were niches in the walls, like narrow beds one above the other, and ancient bones within them. Some had the rusted remains of armour, some the dusty shreds of what might have been robes.

And I found other bones. They were not in niches, but laid on the floor at one end of the room. Twelve complete skeletons were there, and I could see, looking at them, that they were not all the same age. One, at the far right, looked almost as ancient as the bones in the niches. The one on the left still had shreds of flesh here and there, and hair spread around its head. When I examined that one, I found that one of the legs was broken, and had not healed.

They are all women, I think. The newest is still wearing skirts, and I can see the decayed remains on some of the others. What hair remains is long, though it is not certain that either man or woman living in this isolation would cut their hair, and some bones are still encircled by bracelets or necklaces.

They were called here, I think, as I was.

There is a long history of hermitage, among my people. It is more common among men than women, but now and then one will be moved to retreat from the world into solitude and contemplation. Usually they are moved by a god, or go to tend some sacred relic or shrine.

I was alone in the world, when I felt the calling. I packed up my belongings, bade farewell to those few who might miss me, and set out to walk into the mountains. I did not know where I was going, but I knew I was going somewhere. And then…

Then I found this place, and I knew. It is empty, but it is not abandoned. It is only waiting. Waiting until its people come back, until some great need calls them, or destiny, or the turning of the wheel. And while it waits, it is… lonely, perhaps. So it calls out, to those who are right, who will be content in this quiet solitude, who will feed the pigeons and tend the garden and light fires in the library and oil the weapons.

The woman before me broke her leg. Perhaps it bled too much, or wound-rot set in. She must have known she was dying and dragged herself down to lie beside the others. When I know my time is coming, I will go too. If I do not have warning, if death comes quickly, I conjure you who come after me to carry my bones down to that crypt, to lie beside my sisters in peace, until the fortress lives once more.

I leave this record in hope that it will help the next hermit who comes, when I am only bones. And if you who read are no hermit, but coming in some dire need or peril, if you come to awaken again what sleeps here, to give the lady with her flower and her lamp a name, or perhaps to earn your own, then welcome, for we have kept this fortress against your coming.

It has been waiting for you.

(This short account, written on parchment, is preserved by the Order as one of its most precious relics. During the Interim, the period of almost eight hundred years in which the Order was largely forgotten and the fortress was left empty, sixteen women are believed to have been ‘called’ to preserve and tend it. Aside from the bodily remains in the crypt, and a few images scratched into a wall, this is the only evidence they chose to leave of their existence. None have ever been identified, and the parchment is unsigned. Nevertheless, the sixteen Guardians are venerated by the Order for their faithful, solitary service to powers whose name they never knew, and their bones are entombed together, side by side in death as was their wish. Without their care, we believe, there would have been little left for the revived Order to return to.)

[sabraeal]

Nomans an Island

[Read on AO3]

Written for the delightful @another-miracle for her birthday! Last year Yixin asked for a very specific prompt: the WFB version of the Tanbarun Tree Scene...and then I tempted her with something else entirely. But today she is finally getting what she asked for 🤣

Whatever Shirayuki expected to be at the end of this four hour tour of the New England coastline, it’s certainly not this: a derelict marina in the middle of the water, big enough to make the yacht look less like a mountain and more like some molehill. And yet it’s empty; both the pilings and the island itself, a wasteland of rusted out sheds and overgrown shrubs.

“Here it is.” Dad claps a hand over her shoulder, grip just a hair too tight. “Home sweet home.”

She blinks, watching his men scurry down the ship’s side, yelling out to each other as they set about mooring them to the dock. “This is where you live?”

Her father’s reticent right hand finally grunts. “No.”

“Ah.” A meaty hand rubs at his neck, right where it’s gone ruddy. Shirayuki recognizes that bashful smile, even if it’s just from pictures. “More of a home away from home.”

There’s a part of her that wants to ask where home is, or at least where home has been. It’s the same part that wants him to account for every moment he wasn’t with her being the dad he should have been, spooling out the conversation he’d been so willing to have up in that cozy crow’s nest of his and she...hadn’t. Not when she still had so much else to say.

“Can’t really stay at the Seiran,” Dad says, managing half a shrug. “Uncle Sam takes that whole desertion thing pretty serious. Gotta get creative.”

The government isn’t so fond of treason either the last time Shirayuki checked, but mentioning it felt like might be belaboring a point she isn’t even interested in making. “Where are we?”

“Nomans Land,” Kazuki chirps, appearing suddenly beside her elbow. She’s only known him a few days-- and most of them spent in some leaky cabin while the waves lapped menacingly against their porthole-- but she doesn’t startle. No, it feels natural to have him beside her, an extension to her own presence, the way Oma and Opa had. “Navy used to use it as testing ground. Whole place is filled with cool stuff, ‘long as you’re careful about it.”

“As long as you stick to the marked safe areas, you mean,” Dad says, every word clipped to a point.

Kazuki loses a few inches to his slouch. “Yeah, yeah, I hear ya, Old Man.”

Dad’s breath catches, the way Opa’s always did before he took her to task, but Shirayuki’s quick to head him off. “So you decided to avoid the US government by...squatting on their island?”

“Well...” He coughs, boots shuffling on the deck. “You know what they say, hiding under noses and such. Besides, it’s not like they come out here to check more than a few times a week.”

“And all Pops has to do is slip the coastguard a few Cubans and they forget all about us!” Kazuki chimes in, so helpful.

“Man.” Her father’s pale shadow unfurls from his side, shaking his head. “You really don’t know when to quit.”

“Whaddya mean by--?”

“Gangway’s down.” Dad looms over Kazuki, pointed. “Looks like you boys better make yourselves scarce.”

Kazuki deflates. “Aw, but I didn’t even do--”

“Dinner isn’t going to cook itself.” It wasn’t Dad who raised her, but shadows of her childhood cling to the way he folds his arms and in the angle he tilts his head. Oma used to look at her like that, that phrase worn down to that exact same pitch. “Get a mosey on.”

Maybe he’s as good as a stranger to her, but they’d been raised by the same parents. It’d been his initials she’d stared at every night in her cozy attic room, carved into a rafter she’d never been able to reach; his stash of Hardy Boys novels she’d found behind a panel in the wall and read beneath the blankets that summer. He’s her father, but her childhood shares as much with his as a sibling’s.

Weirdly, that makes this all...easier.

“I’m going down too.” She leans over the rail to watch his men swarm down the gangway like ants on a trail. “I’d like to look around.”

Dad grunts, every furrow on his brow reluctant. These past few hours have taught her he’s a slow speaker, a careful one, but he hesitates a bit too long. Long enough that she’s tempted to remind him she’s not asking for permission, but before she can suck in a breath, he says, “Be careful.”

A smile parts her mouth before she can think twice about it, and once she does, she lets it widen. “Are you going to tell me not to do anything you wouldn’t, too?”

He huffs, mouth twitching. “That one’s no good. Dad may have never done a stupid thing in his life, but, kiddo, I’m made of ‘em.” Softer, he adds. “You lookin’ for someone?”

It’s not until he says it that she realizes she’s been searching the gangway since it dropped, looking for a smudge against the deck.

“Yeah.” The wind picks up, too cold, spraying her hair against her mouth. Still, she smiles. “After all, the Orphan Club never eats alone.”

Intellectually, Shirayuki knows that the yacht is, well, big. She hadn’t gotten a good count on the number of men he kept on it-- however much it is, Kiki assures her it wasn’t anywhere near the actual count of soldiers on the Mountain Lion payroll-- but it’s more than could fit on some millionaire’s pleasure cruise. Three decks and then some, with storage enough to fit the houseboat plus a few more speedy option. It’s huge.

She just didn’t think there’s be so many stairs. And of course they can’t be right next to each other either; oh no, she goes down one to sprint across the deck to another, on and on until Shirayuki isn’t certain of any direction besides up and down, and she was proving pretty terrible at doing the latter.

Her hand grips the rail, steadying her as she leans over. There’s only one deck below now, the gangway jutting out from its side to lean on the dock. And of course, there’s no stairs in sight. She might even need to go back inside to find them.

Shirayuki sighs, settling her hip against the rail. If she were Obi, she could swing herself down from here; he’d done it often enough from one of the balconies at the frat, using a bit of roof to hop off to the ground. It made her stomach seize every time she watched him, but standing here, out of breath and sweat freezing against her neck, she gets it.

With a weary huff, she makes for the stairwell-- or at least, its most likely location-- only to realize the shadow peeling away from the ship is a person, a large one, and he--

He stops, just in front of her. “You’re looking for that friend of yours?”

Her mouth works, soundless until she manages, “I have a lot of friends.”

Ah, well. That wasn’t exactly what she meant.

“Saw a stray cat stroll down the gangway while we were talking. Headed for the forest over there.” Itoya nods toward a stand of trees not far inland. A sad excuse for a forest in her opinion, but maybe after a few months at sea, every copse looked like a canopy. “Probably could catch him if he wanted you to.”

That would be the problem, wouldn’t it? He’d barely said a word to her after the coast guard took Umihebi’s boat, just a fumbled, “Doc,” before Zen had rushed in, arms wide. It’d been chaotic after that, getting passed between boats like a game of hot potato, but still, she’d been sure Obi would find her when it all died down. It’s been hours, and--

She shakes herself. Things she can worry about later. “Thank you. I’ll do that.”

“If he lets you.”

There’s nothing to say to that, nor to the heavy look her father’s right hand lays on her, so she just turns back to the stairwell. One foot’s poised to go through the door when he calls out, “Careful out there. Stick to the paths.”

A laugh huffs out of her. “I know my sense of direction isn’t the best, but I’m pretty sure I won’t get lost.”

“Not about getting lost.” He leans back against the deck, shadows swallowing him whole. “Gotta watch out for live ordnance.”

Her head swings over her shoulder. “W-what?”

“Like the kid said.” His teeth flash in the dying light. “Navy testing grounds. Whole bunch of bombs that haven’t gone boom. Make sure you don’t get a front row seat.”

Shirayuki hasn’t precisely lived a safe life. Farmlands might seem idyllic to cityfolk, but there’s animals to contend with-- not just foxes stealing chickens, but wild cats, wolves, even coyotes when the winters got lean enough. Oma swatted one of them on the behind thinking it was Ms Kino’s too friendly husky out for a ramble, and Animal Control said it was only the surprise that kept her from losing that hand. Bears came around too, though Shirayuki had only seen one once, digging through the garbage after they’d had a particularly full house.

Even barring all her recent excitement, Shirayuki’s no stranger to sticking her head into the lion’s mouth. She didn’t much truck with the kids who would jump trains and play chicken with combines, but she’d sure put fingers where they didn’t belong and was lucky to keep them. The machines had all been off, of course, but just thinking about it now made her shiver with what could have been.

But she has to admit, there’s something a little different about walking through a forest in the dying December light, knowing there’s bombs out there. “O-obi?”

The wind whips through the trees, buffeting her hair all around her. Most of it end up in her mouth. With delicate fingers, she picks it out, untangling a few hairs from her tongue before she calls out again, “Obi!”

Her nerves nearly get to her-- it’s going to be full dark soon, on an island with a population best termed as temporary, and one step off this path could run her into a warhead older than she is. An ‘exercise in stupidity’ has never felt so literal as it does now.

Still, she waits. Longer than someone sensible would, she suspects, but she can’t leave, not when she’s so sure he’s here, that if she waits just one more minute he’ll come sauntering around a tree trunk the way he always does. Really know how to ruin a party, he might tell her, but he’d be there at least, safe.

But she can’t stay out here forever. A cold wind rushes right through the jacket Dad tossed on her, no matter how tight she wraps her arms around herself and--

And there it is. The softest rustle above her. A breath, maybe, and a sigh, and suddenly Obi drops down. It must be eight feet from the nearest branch, but he does it casually, like he’s hopping down the science building’s steps.

“There you are,” she breathes, and oh, her worry hit her all at once, nearly taking her knees out beneath her. But she keeps herself standing, even if it takes every ounce of self-control not to faint from relief. “I hadn’t seen you since we got on the boat. You didn’t really--” look like yourself-- “ah, feel good. It seemed. Is everything--?”

“I’m sorry.”

Every muscle is braced where he stands, and at first that seems normal. A drop like that would make anyone’s knees remind them of their own mortality, no matter how well prepared. But--

But his head is wrenched to the side, eyes clenched in anticipation, and all of it is so foreign a reaction that it takes a full minute for the thought to coalesce in her head: he expects her to hit him. Or well, yell maybe. Something besides just being happy that he’s safe.

“I...” She blinks. “It didn’t take that long. To find you, I mean.”

It’s too dark to see more detail than his eyes opening, neck swiveling until she’s right in his sights. “Not for that. For...”

It’s hard to watch him struggle, his mouth pressed tight even as the muscles of his throat strain to vocalize something, anything. In the end, he settles for a shrug.

“Ah,” she hums, the sound nearly lost in the howl of the wind. “So you’re not okay.”

“Me? Are you?” he snaps, the way he never does at her, breath misting as he carefully doesn’t move. “I was supposed to have your back. I told Zen that I would--” his teeth grit down, and she’s seen this before, with animals back into a corner, wounded and half feral-- “I was supposed to take care of you. And I fucked up.”

“Obi.” She inches closer, just a shuffle of feet across the path, but his flinch stops her cold. “Zen never would have thought that something like this would...”

Happen. It would be easy to say. But even as she tests it on her own tongue, it feels sour, wrong. It’s not like this is the first time someone’s tried to take her off the street.

“You were here for moral support,” she says instead, a truer thing. “Not muscle. No one expected you to throw any punches.”

Really? he’s supposed to say, mouth pulling into one of those Cheshire Cat grins. You think bossman didn’t want me to give that Shenezard prick a good what for?

Instead he’s silent, a statue against the darkening night.

“Obi,” she breathes, wishing she could do something, anything, to get close to him. “Itoya and Kazuki are trained soldiers. No one could expect you to deal with them. No normal person could--”

“That’s the thing though,” he grits out, teeth stark in the dim. “I’m not some normal guy. You don’t even know--” his teeth bite down with a clack-- “just...never mind. I should have been able to handle it.”

“I think you’re being way too hard on--”

It’s impossible to finish that thought, not when he’s standing right here, hand clapped over her mouth. “It doesn’t matter what you think.”

There’s a sick seed a fear that’s planted in her belly for moments like this, for those few seconds in any encounter where she remembers that even though the physical superiority of the male form is a faulty understanding of statistics and body science, she is still small and they are still big and she could very easily be in over her head.

And yet, that’s not what shivers in her stomach as she stands there, shoulders squared as she stares over his hand. No, that’s a flicker of frustration, ready to kindle. Her breath huffs out of her, skittering over his knuckles, and she’s just...aware of him.

There’s calluses on his palm, a few at the knuckles and even more settled on the mounts. His skin smells like sap and salt and nothing like the sandalwood he’d been wearing at the river. Despite the kitten grip he has on her jaw, he’s standing far enough away Ryuu and a friend could probably stand between them with room to spare.

Something shifts; the sun in the sky, maybe, or just the wind, and the hard glint of gold peeks through his eyelashes, meeting her stare. And for a single moment, she’s filled with the perverse impulse to lick his hand.

He saves her the trouble. His breath hitches, and quick as a blink, he’s stepped back, cold air rushing over her lips.

“Oh shit.” His hand flexes at his side. “I didn’t mean-- I’m sorry. That’s not what I wanted to...”

“It’s fine--”

“It’s not fine!” He shakes his head, making a visible effort to lower his voice when he says, “Doc, I appreciate that you wanna let me off the hook, I do, but that’s because to you I’m just, I don’t know, some guy.”

“Obi, you’re not just-- just some guy,” she says, “you’re my friend, and--”

“That’s the problem.” He spits out the words, like they’re sour in his mouth. “You’re cool with me fucking up because you think that’s all I can do, not because it’s actually what I can do, and those are-- they’re two different things, Doc. They are.”

“I don’t think you’re a-- a--”

“Doc, please,” he sighs, scrubbing at the back of his neck. “Believe when I say I could have hosed that guy. Easy. Hell, I did hose that guy.”

Shirayuki stares. “What was that?”

“Er...” Obi grimaces. “Long story. Suffice to say, if I’d been actually doing my job, and not--” he shakes his head-- “never mind. Just...none of this would have happened if it weren’t for me, so...”

His shoulders twitch, the barest suggestion of a shrug. Not his usual lazy lift, designed to drive Zen up a wall, criticism rolling off him like water off a duck’s back. No, this time he cares too much; too afraid of getting hurt to let down his guard even an inch.

“So what you’re saying,” she begins, slowly. “Is that you want to be mad at yourself.”

He hunches, hanging low, all the fight gone out of him. “No, I want you to be mad at me. Because you would be, if you knew.”

“Well, that’s not going to happen.” Her mouth curves. “Unless you want to tell me that what I think doesn’t matter again.:

Obi grimaces. “Ah, I swear, that wasn’t supposed to come out like that...”

“I hope not. I’m no soldier, but my Oma did teach me how to throw a mean right hook.” At least, so Mihaya said, though she has a feeling if she trots that name out here, he’ll be on the first boat back to Connecticut to give him a piece of his mind. “If you really feel you need to make it up to me...”

Obi glances up at her with such hope in his eyes, she can’t bear to add, which you don’t. As he said, her opinion on the matter doesn’t count. He might not have meant it, not the way it came out, but it’s clear-- it’s Obi who can’t forgive himself, not her.

Her shoulders tighten as she admits, “There is something I could use your help with.”

“Really?” He squints, like her forgiveness comes with fine print and he’s trying to read between the lines. “You still...you still want me to...?”

“I already told you, I’m not mad.” A wind blows through, and she tugs her jacket tighter. “You never lost my trust, Obi. Not for a second.”

There’s no spark of belief in his eyes, no hopeful glimmer of relief. Only a shuddering breath as he pulls himself together, piecing together his jester’s mask one shard at a time.

“Well, then I’m your guy, Doc.” He grins, and oh, it would be so easy to believe it was real if she hasn’t just watched him forge it from scraps in front of her. “What do you need done? Got something on a high shelf? Need a guy to get his shit kicked in--?”

“Please, don’t get ahead of yourself.” She waves a hand, as if that might help lower his expectations. “It’s not anything, er, fun.”

“Well,” he hums, brows furrowing. “Color me intrigued. What is it?”

“It’s...” It would be easy to warn him, to tell him just what terrible thing she needs him for but no matter which words she tries, none of them come close. “I have a storage unit that needs cleaning out. From when my grandparents died. It’s got...stuff.”

“Ah.” He nods, solemn, stepping up beside her. “Stuff. Well, lucky for you, Doc, it just so happens I’m great at getting rid of shit.”

[thekillingjoke-haha]

Angel With A Shotgun

Summary: The Novak family was big talk,but not nearly as famous as the L/n’s. Togther they can be unstoppable,so what say family ties like guns,drugs,money,and murder?

Paring: Michael!Dean x Male!Reader

1900's Mafia/Gangsters AU

A/N: this is a Micheal fic,but its him in Dean's body so like...idk its the same snake different skin. Also Chuck is referred as Charles

Warning:Blood,guns,knives,gore,torture,swearing. Homophobic comments like just a few. No proof reading

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The Novak's that a family that was one of the most feared yet respected. The way people talk about them down south you'd think they were inspiration for the Bible itself. A man by Charles or Chuck Novak is the head honcho with five sons to help him run is kingdom.

The youngest is Castiel he was probably the nicest of all his siblings,but also the most protected with three other brothers, Gabriel is the definition of trouble and if he slipped up head could easily get lynched good thing he puts that silver tongue to work. Raphael was one of the more head strong,but sadly he was shot when several rivals attacked at on of their bars. Lucifer is the second oldest and the most hot headed with a temper to match the black sheep in his family if you will, then last,but not least Michael he was something else entirely the play boy,a demon is a flat cap and tailored suit.Now that the Novak's have been introduced the world's most feared gang the L/n's is one family not to be fucked with.

(Father's name) leading his kingdom no...empire with his wife (Mother's name) and togther they had only two sons. The second born William and the oldest M/n. William wasn't much involved with the criminal side of the business,but his big brother was the prime example of a gangster. No one besides the L/n gang has seen him he stays out of newspaper coverage and that only allows his terror to run ramped. A man with no face and a title of Satan himself made the oldest Novak just a little timid when he found out. "WHAT THE HELL!!!" Michael threw the newspaper on his fathers desk in anger the older man looked up after glancing at the paper. "I'm due to be wed to a L/n and none the less a man! I can be hanged for so much as saying I do and it IN THE FUCKING BULLETIN!!!" He was seething with hatred in every word. Michael will admit it hurt a lot finding out he was to be wed by the slight disgust look he got while grabbing the paper before getting coffee. "I wanted to tell you sooner,but you were handling something. There's no way out of this a deal was made before you were born me and (Father's name) have been waiting for his wife to bare a girl or your mother to do the same,but your mother's untimely passing and (Mother's name) having gone unfertial our oldest are due to wed." Chuck sighed taking off his thin wired glasses.

"You two were once friends,but I guess time got rid of those memories." Chuck sat down his spectacles down looking at his son. Michael turned to father with shock evident in his eyes. He was friends with M/n L/n the man with no face. Everything was too foggy. The shorter male stood up to a shelf in the office and grabbed a small match box opening it looking around before pulling out a picture. Handing it over to his son he sat back down. "He was one of the only people you'd go to when you were a baby. Heavens he was probably the only person you liked,but when he was five and you were three the fact that our business was centered around blood and there's on bonds it became a fight,mafia versus a gang, and you guys saw eachother less and less till around the time Luci was born not at all." Chuck sighed. The young man was in shock a little boy maybe two or three was cuddled up to a baby in a pale blanket that he remembered was blue fully awake and if the picture could come to life he's sure the boy was humming all while rubbing the infants back.

"No ones seen a picture of him in twenty six years and he was on his fathers hip with a match box car. He's in town and should be coming for dinner here by himself in three days time. So til then keep your brothers in check we don't need them to shoot the young man with a stray bullet." With that Charles dismissed his eldest son as the green eyed boy stormed off in a huff. Michael started to do digging. M/n L/n was in headlines weekly in every post known to man from shootings,assassination,and gangbanding to rumors of his love-life,what he wears,and people claiming to have met him. One thing caught his eye that made him falter. "Gangsters M/n L/n Captures Murderer" that when he started reading the full paper that crumbled a bit due to age. Maybe he's not so bad the guy he caught never saw a courtroom,but met a far worse end all because he caused problems with his people. It was admirable the brunette knew he'd do the same,but not just for anybody. Marriage wasn't settling well with him that didn't mean it felt completely wrong.

One day later

Looking in the mirror Michael watched as his maid adjusted his tie while another smoothed the wrinking in his white button up and vest of his three piece suit. As the oldest he had business to handle people to keep in line. When their hands left his body they scurried out of the room rushing to be down stairs before him. His dress shoes met the floor as he grew closer to the door his youngest sibling ran up next to him. "Can I come,please!" His raven head of hair and doe blue eyes almost made him cave,but with a firm look he gazed down at him. "Sorry little raven,but I have things to handle another time." The pout on Castiel lip didn't move as he held up his hand his pinky out. "Promise?" Interlocking with the ten year olds pinky. "Promise." With that he happily skipped away to play in the garden.

Out the door he went. His flat came on his head and coat thrown over his shoulder his effects tucked in his waistband. Screams caused him to smile as he stood before the butcher on payroll. He wore the man's leather apron having abandoned his tailored suit jacket in the front of the deil. "Were is my money?" He cut the man some more as he continued to scream in pain the white fire from the rusted meat hook in his shoulder flaring with each jerked motion. "Help please!" He yelled all of a sudden in the past hour he hasn't called for assistance. "No can do." A deep voice said behind the oldest Novak turning around sharply his green eyes clashed with e/c. The man looked like anyone off the street his shoes tattered and clothing dirty form labor no bet. "I came for my five notes." The didn't seem fazed at the torture. "Fuck you gypsy scum!!" The pig of a man responded as the tall s/c man crept closer gripping a knife Michael was using. "I just unloaded a load of meat in the summer heat that would give the devil a sweat and all I asked for my effort was five notes nothing more nor less so cough of the money that you clearly owe both of us or I'll carve it out of you and make you squeal like the piggy bank you are." His tone dropped further the blade under the man's fat chin and the Novak felt aroused at the threat. This guy meant every word when the hanging man spat in his face the off color of snuff and blood made the normally clear liquid seen and thick. Let's just say Michael sat back crossing his legs in a attempt to compose himself as the man hit pitches not even the girls in the church choir could master. The heavy weight man forked over the money then some I got my full and he ended up giving the mystery man a hundred notes if he made the pain stop after pocketing the money he shot the man.

He turned around and began to leave when the brunette stopped him. "Wait! I give you my thanks friend he was stubborn for a hour almost" The h/c man turned looking at him giving a smile tilting his head for the Novak to follow as he stepped out the deli. Scrambling he walked down the street next to the man their attire clashing a well tailored suit next to rags that looked more like a potato sack then cloth. "Glad I could help a fine looking fella like yourself." His flirtatious grin caused butterflies to run ramped in Michael's guts. As they walked down the street they slowly moved from the good side of the town to the slums. No cars drove on the gravel a fire hydrine spat out water for all the children playing around it,women hung up clothes on wire between tenements and men looked more like the mysterious gypsy next to the Novak. Speaking of the mystery man he went to each crowded tenements door and knocked the women or young men of the families came to the door and he handed over twenty notes each. The women cried and clung to his tall figure and the boys almost men looked at him in wonder like a hero before running off to tell the adults of the place. "Why did you do that?" Michael asked as they walked out of the town. "You worked for that money and gave it all away." He was confused he's never seen a man work for a family that wasn't his own.

"They need it more. Schools out the children don't get meals and the men work hard to feed them at least a meal a day. I'm alone here no lover or children with the energy and muscle to work." Novak wasn't sure before,but he was sure now this was love and it felt better then any harlot he could spend the night with. "Thats very admirable of you." Michael complmented which was not a normal accuracy. "It was truly nothing to admire,handsome. I'm not saying I'm amazing,but sometimes I'm decently above average. That's what people need someone decent enough go care."

Before he knew it they were back on his side of town and getting closer to the business. "It's been a pleasure,Mr. Novak." The man dripped his head as he turned to leave somewhere. "You know who I am and I don't even get a name." He turned back around and got closer to him his chest pushed up against his till he was pinned to the wall he leaned down his lips so close to his face just out of reach. "I'm N/n,but you can call me the man of your dreams." Michael almost leaned up to peak his lips when the warm body pulled away taking with it the lust filled tension. N/n turned and left out of sight that night was full of the man tossing and turning dreaming of the e/c man that made him feel high as the clouds above. N/n smiled as his men drank around him he finally saw his baby boy all grown up and he's taking what's his this time.

Two days later=Six Hours Before Family Dinner

The buzz of the New Yorker coming to Kansas was the rage. Any man that was new in town was watched like a hawk by commoners and the Novak's. Michael was no longer looking forward to this marriage he didn't want this man no matter who he was. N/n stole his heart like a petty thief and ran away from him. No one in Kansas knew who he was a s/c skinned,h/c haired,e/c eyed gypsy was all he had to go on no last name just a image that burned bright in his mind. Michael sighed as he left his office and went down to the bank he needed enough cash on hand to throw away on booze and maybe angel dust. People parted for him like the red sea and he easily got money when gun shots went off. The teller in front of him fell to the ground wounds ridding his body and Novak turned to see men...no boys with guns.

"Everyone get down on the ground. We've come only for the money we won't hesitate for blood as well." The group chuckled as the leader smirked people shook as they easied to the ground all except Michael who stood tall. "Ah! If it isn't Michael Novak no men to protect you now." A man he didn't realize came behind him hit him over the head with his gun causing him to fall to his knees. "Pathetic." The band of thugs leader grabbed the Mafia bosses chin looking and the blood coming from his brow. Someone stood from on their knees a flat cap covering their hair and a long trench coat that was only slightly open. "It would be in your best interest to leave,boys." They all train their guns at the man. "Why's that,you motherless bastered?" The man turned his gaze upward deadly sharp e/c orbs looked at him and Michael was in shock it was N/n. "Cause I have twelve guns ready to blow holes in you and your men." After his words ten men stood up all wearing the same clothing flat caps,overcoats,and suspenders with a Tommy on every man except the leader. The cowardly man looked frightened looking around keeping his gun on the s/c man. "I only count ten I still have the upper hand." N/n gave a devilish smile that made Michelle gaze on love struck and excited for what's to come. His gray trench coat hit the floor and two sawed-off shotguns in each hand. "Upper hand you say?" He pulled both triggers the left one killing the man sending himself flying back and the right killing the man behind Michael blowing his brains painting the tan walls this made the others fire as well. The bodies of the criminals and one civilian litter the floor.

N/n sent the men off to get the people out as he walked up to the bleeding Novak. "Thank you." His green eyes gleamed making the standing man give a grin as he held his hand out to help him up. "Consider it a gift from M/n L/n." The gleam disappeared from his eyes his soon to be husband was in town has been in town and set his men up to keep him safe. "Now if I'm not mistaken you have a dinner to get ready for,pretty boy." He takes the handkerchief out of his waist coat dabbing the blood away. "Will you be there?" Michael voice sounded weak so full of hope. "You can count on it. We'll be seeing eachother alot more." The man stood up and quickly left and not a moment later Mafia men came in running tending to the boss. Looking longingly at the piece of cloth (Your Initials) were sowed into the reddend white square of fabric.

Family Dinner was about to start the Novak's sat at the table Charles sitting at the end his three eldest sons to his right while his youngest sat to the left two spots were available one across from Michael and the other on the opposite end of Charles. A maid came in the dinning hall and cleared her throat. "The L/n's are here." Two young men came through the door one taller then the other the shorter of the two sat across from Michael while the other sat at the other end of the table closest to Michael and the other man. Charles smiled at them both and Michael was in a state of shock. "M/n been a long while hasn't it?" The oldest Novak looked at the man infront of him waiting for a response when the man he thought to be just a gangster working under the L/n's answered. "That it has Chuck. Sorry father couldn't come he had some other business to handle." N/n or M/n now to Michael's knowledge said before placing a hand on the man beside him. "This is Benjamin or Benny my right hand man don't mind him." The man gave a nod of acknowledgment his blue eyes piercing. "Heard about the blood bath at the bank quite impressive from what Michael has told me." A side smile and a teasing look was turned the mentioned Novak's way. "Saw low life scum trying to rob the place and touching what's mine,their little toys they call guns were child's play compared to my men." M/n sent a wink addressing the men hitting Michael from behind.

"Are you a knight that saves people?" The youngest asked his blue eyes wide in wonder. The s/c males eyes turned to the child a warm smile gracing his lips. "Sometimes when I want to be." A bubbly giggle rang out. "You saved Mikey making him your prince." Those words caused different reactions from all the men. Gabe covered his mouth trying not to laugh at his older brother,Lucifer grinned leaning over to his brother. "Did he have to kiss you sleeping beauty?" He chuckled lowly making kissing noises in his ear,Micheal was beet red as he couldn't bear to face any of them,Chuck smiled looking at his son and son-in-law,Benny nudged his boss sliding something to him while everyone was distracted. "Yeah and I'm gonna make him my king and take him to my castle." M/n leaned towards the boy and whispered in his ear. "We'll ride off into the sunset and live happily ever after." Castiel was gobsmacked as he gazed at his brother all giddy he was gonna live a fairy tale like in all the books their mother use to read. "Um if you'll excess me. I need some air." Micheal stood up and not long after M/n followed when given a reassuring nod from Charles.

The garden of the estate was beautiful in the moonlight and it wasn't hard to spot the oldest Novak on a bench on looking the pond that reflected the night sky. "You knew the whole time who I was." Micheal didn't look up at the man as he sighed. "Yes I knew who you were...we were once closer then the stars and the skies itself." The L/n sat next to him on the bench looking forward. "Chuck knew as well." Michelle turned in shock at that statement a goose chase for nothing. "He didn't know what I looked like now,but letters everyday asking about you seemed to do the trick." Those e/c eyes turned to look into those apple green ones. "Learning from a young age that in you grasp was the person you were due to wed was shocking I almost hated you,but the moment you grabbed my finger as if I'd slip away made me realize it can't be so bad." M/n held out his hand palm up so the younger male rested his hand in his grasp. "I was afraid at first you'd hate me. So I swore to protect you always. Some of my men live here with their families and they keep me posted. Just last year a rat was found on you door step admitting his faults."

Micheal remembered that the maids came rushing to get the family and a man bloody and beaten spilled his guts about planning to cross the family having been hired by a rival Mafia to get information to attack them at a weak state. "I know this won't mean munch to you know,but maybe at some point you'll be happy to carry my last name and call yourself my husband." In M/n hand that wasn't interlocked with Micheal's he opened a box revealing two wedding bands both were silver while one had a gold trim and the other had a f/c trim. "No matter what,Novak,I'll be there when yiu need me through it all most of the times guns blazing." M/n chuckled lightly taking in a deep breath. "Just ponder on it,pretty boy,I'llbe here waiting." as he slipped the ring on the silent man's finger before doing the same with himself he gently kissed the top of his head as he stood up and left wanting to give him space. Micheal smiled at the ring that perfectly fit his finger. The one man he felt attracted to was his guardian angel always there no matter what.

Lifting his hand up he kissed the metal band as a laugh left his lips. "My angel with a shotgun."

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A/n: Second Male reader and I had to spell check for almost 50 she/her in her so I think I got them all lol.

@spnquotebingo

Quote: "I'm not saying I'm amazing,but I'm decently above average."-Blacklist @spnquotebingo

[a-d-curtis]

Artifacts

“Uh…” Aang looked down at the dilapidated wooden bucket that was placed reverently into his hands. The man bestowing it sank deferentially into a low bow; his head ducked so deeply that all Aang could see was the back of the man’s thin topknot tied far back on his balding head. “Uh… thanks?”

Aang looked down at the bucket in his hands. The bucket was old; that much was obvious. Aang held it up to get a closer look. The metal braid that held the darkened, dried wooden planks together was rusted until it was nearly black. When Aang looked into the bucket, he noted that the plank at the bottom didn’t fit snuggly like it should.

“Do you want me to… um, to help you fix your bucket? If you soak this wood, the planks will expand tightening the planks, and I can straiten out that bottom piece for you… this isn’t very useful if we can’t get it watertight again. But I can always make you a new one, if you, you know… need a water bucket… or something…?” Aang trailed off as the gentleman rose slowly out of his bow, looking at Aang with a look of utter disbelief, as though Aang’s words filling him with dismay.

“What?!” the man sputtered. “Make a new one?! No, no! You must not understand! This is an authentic, an original, air nomad water bucket!” He enunciated each word as though only someone truly obtuse would not see this for the prize that it was.

“Oh, right…” Aang hedged, looking at the beat-up old bucket. “I see.”

Of course Aang knew what this was. He and his friends had carried buckets just like this to and from the stream near the Southern Air Temple everyday. Each monk child would carry one in each hand as they bounded back from the stream, anxious to deliver the water to the cook. It was a mundane thing, something that just needed to get done. The sooner they got through with that chore, the more likely they might be able to squeeze in a quick game of airball before breakfast!

Out of habit, Aang looked behind him, searching for Katara to swoop in and help him navigate this awkward interaction. But of course she wasn’t there, Aang remembered with a slight drop in his stomach that he had come on this trip solo. Katara was still back in Ba Sing Se, busy working on a new project for the museum. Aang didn’t plan to be here in this small village more than a day, so instead of pulling Katara away from her work to come with him as he wanted to, he simply opted to handle this little task alone.

Aang held up the bucket with an importance he certainly didn’t feel and declared, “Why so it is! This is… um, very… special.” He looked at the bucket again, biting on his lip at his choice of words. To him, this bucket looked anything but special.

But the man beamed with delight at Aang’s praise!

“Yes, yes, it is!”

The man in his enthusiasm took the bucket from Aang’s hands and turned it over excitedly. “See!” The man pointed out. “Right here! An Air Nomad symbol!” Again he spoke the words like they were wondrous. “Carved right here on the bottom!”

Aang bent over to look. Sure enough. There it was. Three Air swirls carved (rather poorly, Aang noted) in the bottom wood piece.

“Well,” Aang said, brightening up a little as he took the bucket back from the man. “that would explain why the bottom doesn’t fit!” Aang shifted his staff into the crook of his elbow and turned the bucket upside down under his arm and gave the bottom a firm pound with his fist, knocking the bottom panel right out. The man gave an audible squawk, his hands jumping over his mouth aghast as the piece of wood fell into the dirt.

But Aang kept talking as he picked up the bucket’s base and flipped it over, fitting it back into the bottom of the water bucket. “See we always put the symbol on the inside of the bucket.” After making sure the base was fit in more securely, Aang handed the bucket back to the man. “There! That ought to hold water a lot better now! I still suggest you soak the whole thing, but now it ought to do it’s job just fine!”

The man looked at the bucket shoved so casually into his hands with a gaping mouth for a moment. Then his words began to tumble out of his mouth. “Oh, thank you, thank you, Avatar Aang! Now I know: the symbol goes on the inside! Oh I wish my father was here to see! You see my father acquired this treasure on one of his travels along the Granite Trading Route when he was a young man, bought it off a peddler near Dong Shaan City. This has sat in a place of prominence in my house ever since! My father had a great appreciation of antiques; and he had quite a collection. But this was his most prized – his only genuine Air Nomad artifact!”

The man’s face sobered, his voice taking on a formal tone as he once again fell into a deep bow, holding the bucket out towards Aang reverently. “But I would like you to have it now, Avatar Aang. A way to return it to its rightful place, among its rightful people. It wouldn’t be right for me to keep it, when an Air Nomad still exists to return it to.”

Aang hesitated before taking the old bucket apprehensively. The bucket suddenly felt heavier, and he felt heavier too. Sure he had run into situations like this before, where people felt inclined to present him with gifts. But it was always the most awkward for him when-- like now-- they were gifts recovered from the Air Nomads: a set of long cooking chopsticks, a half-broken glider, a rare item of fragile old saffron clothing. But these items didn’t belong to Aang, and they held no significance to him personally. Like this bucket. It is true that it appeared to be a genuine Air Nomad bucket. But to him, it was just a bucket. Something they had used a dime a dozen when he was a child. A tool. Nothing sacred or important and certainly not something revered. What would he do now with a leaky old bucket?

Wish for a new one, probably. Aang answered his own question ruefully. One that held water better, I’m sure.

He knew Katara would probably be thrilled if she were here. She was always getting excited over every little Air Nomad trinket or knickknack they found. In fact, a new Air Nomad exhibit at the Museum of Natural History is what Katara was working on right now in Ba Sing Se. In addition to working as a consultant for the project, Katara was also donating a great many of the things she had collected to the exhibit, things she had gathered over the past couple of years since she and Aang had begun traveling together.

Aang never objected when Katara would accumulate Air Nomad objects, and he appreciated her enthusiasm. Really. He was touched by how important his heritage was to her. However, there was something about it that more recently had begun to bother him. He wasn’t quite sure what it was, but Katara’s tendency to “collect” his people’s leftover things didn’t always sit right with Aang.

Maybe it was something about how collecting these “antiques” made him feel even more distant from his people; each item proof of how long they had been gone, how far removed he was from them. Proof that his family was little more than memories and artifacts now. These items served as a concrete reminder that his people were extinct, gone forever. It made it harder to just forget and pretend he was just on a journey right now. That the others were still out there, just not right here with him.

Aang imagined taking this man’s bucket back to the museum. He imagined it being put behind glass on a display pedestal. What would people gain from observing this bucket? How would a bucket like this make them feel? It certainly wouldn’t make them laugh remembering the time that Dhun got his head stuck in one of these buckets when he’d been showing off for the girls from the western air temple and fell head first into the custodial closet after tumbling off his glider. They wouldn’t imagine the taste of sweet exhilaration from that water fight Aang had started that time when all the kids had decided to dump their buckets on each other instead of delivering them to the cook (they also wouldn’t recall the feeling of raw hands after lugging one of these buckets up the northern chanting tower to scrub every, single, stair as punishment for their water fight.)

What would this bucket teach a common museum patron about Aang’s people? About who they were and how they lived and what they valued?

Nothing. It would mean nothing at all.

And seeing it on display would only solidify the cold, concrete feeling in Aang’s gut that he was also an artifact now. A remnant of a nation dead. And long since, at that. Should he be on display? Did he now fit better in a museum among his people’s remaining relics than anywhere else?

Maybe it was these unspoken apprehensions that spurred Aang to find excuses to leave the museum as often as possible. Aang knew that the Museum Curator would gladly have Aang take up a permanent residence at the museum if he could finagle it, just so the dry little man could pepper him with questions about his people’s agricultural practices, yearly migration habits, and gross national trade products. Katara’s project was a good one, but one that Aang found himself finding more and more excuses not to be a part of.

Aang hadn’t told Katara any of these feelings, so he knew he couldn’t expect her to just know. And sometimes he found himself falling into the same trap, getting excited or possessive of every scrap of his culture they came across. But lately he had been working extra hard, actively trying not to. This was exactly the kind of attachment his people had tried to avoid; placing value on something that was inherently temporary and unimportant.

Aang knew he couldn’t let go of his attachments to the people in his life – a spiritual flaw that he had long since come to accept about himself – but attachment to things was still something he still tried valiantly to avoid.

Aang looked up from the bucket in his hands at the man before him, his head still bowed, although he glanced up apprehensively, evaluating Aang’s reaction to his gift. Aang could see the sincerity in the man’s eyes, his wish to honor the Last Airbender with this gift. But there was pity there too. And maybe even a little guilt? A glimpse of the world’s collective shame at allowing an entire nation to be massacred.

Aang was used to these kinds of looks: looks of pity, shame, guilt. He had lost more than anyone would truly understand, but that didn’t mean he wanted to be pitied all the time for it.

Aang took a fortifying breath, and as he exhaled, he let go of the flare of resentment he’d felt. It was his choice how he would respond. Would he pity himself too? Or would he choose to live in the moment, accepting without clinging to the loss?

Aang smiled and moved the bucket handle onto his arm, and his glider into the crook of his shoulder so he could bow respectfully to the man. “What did you say your name was?” Aang asked warmly.

“Um, I didn’t say, but it’s Shao, sir,” the man replied as he looked self-consciously to the side, his shoulders still hunched in a bow.

“Well, Shao!” Aang said cheerfully as he wrapped his arm around Shao’s shoulder, lifting him from his bow and compelling the man to walk with him. “This is a really nice bucket—I mean a really nice genuine Air Nomad artifact. And I am honored by your generosity and your gift.” Which was true. Aang was honored that Shao would offer something that clearly meant so much to him. “Please consider your gift accepted and appreciated. However,” Aang stopped walking and turned toward Shao, placing the bucket back in his hands, “it would make me happiest if you would keep it. Remember your father when you look at it. The Air Nomads, we gift this back to you.”

Shao looked at the bucket in his hands, stunned before a glow began to lighten his expression leaving a large smile radiating brightly on his face. “Thank you, Avatar Aang! I, and my children, will treasure this forever!”

Aang clapped Shao’s back heartily before walking backwards several jaunty steps.

“Or maybe just get yourself a drink of water with it,” Aang winked before opening his glider and lifting lightly into the sky, flying light and free, unburdened. Remembering his people by being one.

Just a Nomad on the wind.

………………

Other works in this series:

Chant

Incense

[vaguekiwi]

the masculine urge to get on my knees and beg you for chapter 1 of captain peter

I can't post it yet cause I can't think of a title but here's an excerpt for you 😘

--

“This is one of your men?”

“Not for much longer.”

Parker shoved Tony so hard that the door behind him cracked back on its hinges. Tony lurched into the hallway, hands spiralling wildly to keep himself balanced.

Parker scowled as he pulled his pants back up, hurriedly fixed the laces, and then turned on Tony again. His eyes were murderous, and he reached for the pistol strapped to his thigh.

“Wait, Park— Captain, wait!” Tony gasped, backpedaling into the great room with the vain hope that the presence of other people might save him. “I didn’t mean to—“

“Yeah, didn’t mean to,” Parker snarled, pointing the barrel into Tony’s face.

Tony tripped and fell backward, his palms scraping along the splintered wooden floor.

Behind him, one of the crew members sighed, “Told him not to go back there.”

Someone else said, “This is kind of your fault.”

“Well I’m not mopping up the blood.”

A few other people in the bar actually laughed.

Parker’s expression didn’t so much as twitch; his eyes were illuminated with the same fire as the torches and lanterns all around them, Tony could see the silver glint of the pistol gleaming with the intent in his irises.

“You’re slow. You’re old. You don’t listen. You’re expendable, Stark. So you’d better give me a damn good reason not to shoot you between the eyes right now.”

Tony’s throat closed up on the fear building in his throat. He looked at the brass buttons on Parker’s tunic, he wondered if he imagined the rusted colour of dried blood there.

Tony opened his mouth, tried to choke out something — anything — to barter with. But he couldn’t get the image of the Captain at the desk and the girl spread beneath him and the obscene moaning and —

Tony could feel his cheeks heating up. Parker scoffed at the sight, and he cocked the pistol.

“Oh for god’s sake, he’s not worth it Pete!”

Tony hiccuped to choke back a cry of alarm, because Parker didn’t shoot.

The Captain’s eyes went to the table where they’d been sitting just minutes ago.

“Bullets are expensive. Gunpowders expensive. You keep telling him not to waste your time? Then don’t let him. He made a mistake. He’ll think twice next time. Just leave him be.”

Michelle’s voice was flippant, casual, like she didn’t care one way or another whether Tony left the bar alive tonight. But maybe it was for that very reason — that apparent callousness — that Parker appeared to listen to her.

“Not worth a bullet,” Parker agreed with a growl, stuffing the gun back into it’s holster, “I’ll cut his heart out instead.”

It probably wasn’t the right thing to focus on in the moment, but Tony still felt his breath catch at the dagger that Parker revealed. It was straight, polished, the blade carved with ornate swirls and etchings dotted with what might have been stars. Was it steel? It seemed brighter than that somehow, beautiful with the dark stone set into the pommel.

“Pete, come on.” Michelle huffed, “That knife wasn’t made for hissy fits. If you really wanna see him gone, then fire him.”

A silence so heavy fell that it seemed to dampen Tony’s hearing, like he was watching Parker from underwater. There was even an accompanying sting of saltwater in his eyes, and Tony’s hand trembled as he moved to wipe the back of his hand on his nose.

Parker was going to fire him. That much he was sure of. He was going to be left here in Moratsia and would be back at square one, alone and empty-handed and desperate.

But at least he wouldn’t be dead.

From the front door, someone called, “Problems with your crew, Parker? Or is this just the foreplay you’re so famous for?”

Snickering laughter flew through one side of the room. The boys from Parker’s crew sighed a little, as if exhausted. But something else flickered in Parker’s eyes at the voice, Tony thought it might be apprehension.

Or something close to fear.

Parker’s jaw clenched and he turned away from Tony, slipping the beautiful metal dagger back into its sheath. He lifted his chin high to address the man at the entrance to the bar.

“Quentin,”