#and even then I think it would disorient and disconcert him enough that it might have to happen a few times to stick

[sixpossumsinatrenchcoat]

Natural Satellite [ch 11]

An In Stars and Time AU. In ch 11, Sif & Isa talk to the rest of the party. Loop gets dragged into their mess. You can start from ch 1 here.

“Okay, so." Isabeau clears his throat. "We, uh. We… have something to tell you.” Sif turns to him, aghast. “You didn’t already tell them?” “W-Well!! I’m new to this!! So it didn’t really feel like my place? And, and—and isn’t that what Loop is for?” “Oh, is that what you thought?” Loop lets out a tinkling little laugh. “Oh, Fighter. That’s adorable. But I’m afraid you were mistaken. I’m here for my stardust. Exclusively. Angry mobs are way above my paygrade.” “I wouldn’t say that I'm angry,” Mira says uncertainly. “More… confused?” “I’m vexed, at worst,” M’dame Odile weighs in. “Though I wouldn’t take ‘angry’ off the table.”

Isa gets to Bonnie just a few minutes after you do.

You’d expected him to be noisier than you. Messier. It’s Isa, after all. He’s not an actor or a liar. But he watches you stammer excuses at (a very disoriented) Bonnie without saying a word. His face is pale, his eyes rimmed with red. He must have cried the whole way here. But now that he’s here, he’s gone utterly silent.

* * *

“Sif,” he says hoarsely, when you’re finally strong enough to walk away.

You look at him.

“We can’t keep this a secret anymore.”

“But—”

“Sif,” he says again. He’s pale as a corpse, but there's no hesitation in his voice. “If we couldn’t stop that, then we—we can’t be responsible for this. Not alone. Not if there’s any chance we could do better by telling the others.”

“But they’ll—”

Isa shakes his head. “I-I’m sorry, Sif, but I’m not asking.”

Huh. You’re not sure you’ve ever seen Isa put his foot down like this. It’s… disconcerting.

“Okay,” you mumble. Okay, okay, okay, this is—yeah. Yeah. Yes. You can definitely see where he’s coming from. If you can’t even protect Bonnie, then what are you good for? “Okay, I—”

You hesitate. You know it’s what you deserve, but… you don’t want them to hate you.

“…You really want to tell them everything?”

“I mean, yeah? Yes.”

Like it’s that simple.

For Isabeau, it probably is. He just got here. He’s not the one who’s been lying to his famil— to his allies for months and months and months of the same miserable day. Taking their trust and forging it into a blade to swing at them.

You clear your throat. “How?”

“We don’t really need a game-plan, do we? Surely we can just… talk? To our friends? Like normal people?”

Ha ha. Of course. Like normal people.

Isabeau’s head tilts. “How would you go about it?”

Well. You already know how you’d go about it, because it literally just happened, like, three loops ago. You’d just foist it off on Loop.

“Ohhh,” Isa realizes. “You’d make Loop do it.”

“...Maybe I wouldn’t.”

“You’re right, though,” he says seriously. “They’re part of this too.”

Ah. Well. The only problem with that is, if you show up at Loop’s tree with your entire party in tow, you’re pretty sure that they might actually kill you. To get out of the conversation, if not just to be petty. “Um. I think I maybe have to warn them first.”

“Okay! Yeah, that makes sense! So you’ll go warn Loop, and I’ll talk to the others.”

Hm. That doesn’t sound so bad. It gets you out of talking to the others. And there’s no one easier to talk to than Loop. “…Okay.”

“Okay?”

You nod. “Okay.”

“Okay!!!” Isa musters the briefest flicker of a smile. “Then I’ll— Or, I guess, we’ll see you at the Favor Tree.”

* * *

When you get to their Tree, Loop is nowhere to be found. But you traveled alone for years before you fell in with the best chef cooker in Vaugarde. You know how to track prey.

They didn’t have time to go far. Just a short stretch down the hillside, across a stream and behind a thicket of… blackberries, you think, though it’s hard to tell out of season.

You find Loop sitting on a tree stump, drumming their heels against the trunk.

“There you are.”

You’d expected a reaction. A flicker of surprise, at least. But when Loop looks up, their face is utterly resigned. They hold their stare for just long enough to spike your anxiety before turning away. “Haha. Yes, well. Here I am.”

“Um. We were… Or, I mean.” You scuff your feet in the dirt. “I… wanted to introduce you to my friends?”

“Oh, did you???” Loop asks brightly. “Fascinating!!! Because—and do forgive my ignorance—from where I’m sitting, it looks like you wanted to keep me to yourself until you had an ugly job you didn’t want to deal with.”

Ah. Well. Yes. That is technically also true. “But—”

“No!!!” Their face flares so bright that you can’t even see their glare. Then they let out their breath and the brilliance recedes, leaving you blinking the spots out of your eyes. “No. I don’t care. I’m not here to clean up your messes! I’m not interested and I’m not going, so don’t bother asking.”

You don’t bother asking. You’ll carry them the whole way if you have to. If you’re really going to tell your family about how you’ve been manipulating them this entire time, you are absolutely not going to do it alone.

“No,” they breathe, eyes widening, as you drop into a fighting stance. “No, come on, be reasonable—”

A half-second later, you collide with their chest like something launched out of a trebuchet.

“Excuse me!!!!” Loop sputters, clawing at your arms. “Are you a wild animal?? Did no one ever teach you how to argue like a normal blinding person??”

“You said not to ask.”

They try to twist free but you’ve got them backed against a tree, so there’s nowhere to go.

“We don’t have to fight about this,” you inform them. “Just come with me.” In your honest opinion, they’re being a little ridiculous. It’s not like it’s Loop that everyone’s going to hate. The only villain in this story is you.

You dig your elbow a little deeper into their throat, just to drive the point home.

Loop gives you a saccharine smile. “Aww. Did you really think I had to breathe?”

They hoist themself off the ground with both hands and slam their heels into your chest, knocking you back into the leaf litter. Before you can scramble out of reach, they’re already on you.

“You’re being sooooo~ stupid about this,” they purr. “You think dragging me into your mess will help you? No. No. You’re a joke to me. Your logic is a joke. And, stardust~~? If you bring those puppets here, I swear on all the Stars, I will kill them. Oh, they’ll come back!” they add, with a tinkling little giggle. “But you’ll remember. You’ll know what you did.”

“Why???”

“None of your business!!!”

When they shift their weight to get a better angle, you slip a foot around their ankle and hook your knee around their hip and flip them on their back. Loop takes the time to wink at you before spitting sparks in your eyes, taking advantage of your momentary blindness to slam their elbow into your nose. You hear something crr-rnch. The impact rings in your ears, floods your mouth with copper. When they twist around to gain the advantage, you're too dizzy to stop them.

You’re still tussling blind when you hear your name.

“Sif?” It’s Isa’s voice, muffled by the trees. “Loop? Are you guys there?”

You open your mouth to answer but before you can get a word out, Loop stuffs their whole hand in your mouth. You bite down, hard. Viscous fluid spills down your chin, fizzes on your tongue.

“Ow!!! Are you a rabid dog???”

You bare your teeth at them. “I don’t understand why you’re being so difficult!!”

“Aaaahhhahahahhhha! Of course you don’t!! How could you!?”

“You could tell me!!”

They lean in even closer, slamming their forehead against yours. “Learn to read between the lines!!!”

You try to flip them over but it’s like they know all the same tricks, only better. You’re still scrabbling for purchase when they slide your knife out of its sheath and press the blade to the side of your throat, right where you always make the cut. You take care of your tools. It barely takes any force at all to slice through cartilage and bone.

“Do it,” you taunt. “I'll be back in five minutes.” You could do this for days. Weeks. It’s a nice change of pace. And it’s exhilarating.

“You think I won't?” Tracing your jugular with the point of your blade.

“Then do it.”

Loop presses down harder, till you feel the characteristic sting of breaking skin. Warmth trickles down your neck. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you.”

“Would you?”

Loop digs the knife in deeper. “I can think of nothing I’d like more.”

Maybe you shouldn’t understand that, but you do. You don’t like getting killed by the King. You don’t like getting crushed by the rock-trap or carved open by a Sadness, but you don’t think you’d mind getting killed by Loop. Loop knows you. They’d know what it meant. It wouldn’t feel any different than dying by your own hand.

“Loop,” you breathe, as they lean in closer.

“Stardust~~?”

“Are we gonna kiss?”

Loop jerks back like they’ve been burned.

“What is wrong with you???” They give you a revolted glare before flitting to their feet and brushing themself off, still shuddering. “Stars above, you are such a little narcissist!!”

“Like you’re one to talk,” you snort, reaching up to pluck the last few leaves still lodged in the miasma of their surface.

Loop huffs a bitter laugh. “What do you need me for, anyway? They’re not going to trust a—” Their face tightens. “A total stranger. Not everyone’s as stupid as you, teehee!”

“But you’re better at explaining.”

“That’s why?” Loop tries and fails to hold back a startled little giggle. “There’s not even anything to explain!! ‘We’re stuck in a time loop.’ There, I wrote the whole script for you.”

“But you’re…” You don’t know how to say it. What did Isa say, again? “You’re… part of this? You’re here, too.”

Loop turns away. “Haha. Well. I guess I am.”

* * *

When you stagger back to your Tree, you’re both worse for the wear. Your surface is cracked and pockmarked, void-fluid and starlight seeping through the seams. Your stardust, of course, is leaking much more conventional blood. It’s drying in the corners of his mouth, in the creases of his eyes. You can see it dripping from a deep gash in their forehead. (You don’t feel sorry. You don’t.)

The Fighter takes one look and does a ridiculous, cartoonish double-take. “W-Woah!!! What the crab happened to you guys??”

“Just a friendly conversation,” you say sunnily.

To your surprise, your stardust nods. “That’s right.”

You can read the rest of ch 11 here: ao3.org/works/53412649/chapters/138439021 Or start from the beginning here: ao3.org/works/53412649/chapters/135189547

[vampiresuns]

Something Wicked This Way Comes | Prologue, Part 1

✴︎ SOMETHING WICKED THIS WAY COMES ✴︎

As Asra gets ready to leave again, Anatole handles two unexpected guests: one will alter his future plans, and the other will give him a headache. 2.7k words. For Anatole’s apprentice timeline, compliant with all the routes.

You can read the rest of Anatole’s apprentice timeline series here.

Asra was leaving. Again. 

Anatole wasn’t thrilled about it, but him and Asra had had this conversation several times and Anatole trusted his friend and teacher enough to not enquire any further — or to enquire behind his back. He said he had his reasons, and Anatole would respect that. Besides, it’s not as if he minded being alone. Maybe he had at the beginning of his recovery, when the City was still too unknown and disorienting, too much happening in it at all times, Anatole himself barely there.

He had read somewhere that all traumatic injuries which resulted in memory loss were different. Annoying as they were, he was better at handling the by-products of whatever the hell it was that had happened to him. Somewhat. He wanted to think he was, that even though the migraines still lingered, he could handle the shop, himself, his magic (magic that had begun advancing towards places and forms Asra could only guide him towards, not teach him). He just wanted to be good enough at it all, and he supposed he’d have no one he’d felt comfortable asking for help to if Asra wasn’t around.

He sighed. it didn’t matter, well, it did, but he’d be able to handle it. He was sure Antu would gladly help.

“I’ll miss you.”

“You better miss me, Asra Alnazar. Though, must you really leave tonight?

“In the dead of a moonless night. The right time for the beginning of a journey.”

Anatole frowned; Asra was full of shit. “Is that a ritual thing? Or is it a poetic licence thing?”

The magician didn’t reply, changing the topic instead like he always did when Anatole guessed too close to the truth about things Asra did not have the means to explain to his pupil. Instead he gave him his tarot deck.

Anatole can’t remember a time Asra’s separated from it. Normally, when Asra’s gone and Anatole had to a do a reading he used his own deck. It used to belong to his aunt, his connection to it jumping to his tongue before Asra could ask him if he knew, or remembered, whom it had previously belonged to. His cards were different from Asra’s — they were quiet, they gave him analytical and interpretational leeway. Asra’s were... too alive.

He took the Deck as Asra handed it to him, looking at the cards. “You trust me with your deck?”

“I do, Nana, I’d trust you with anything.”

Anatole decided to ignore the charged nature of his words. He had discovered within the last six months he was often able to call for the intention behind people’s words, how they were feeling in the moment, or if they were being dishonest. While most of the time it was useful, sometimes it was wildly disconcerting, others exhausting, or inconvenient. Like right now.

He was witness to the in-between-the-lines of communication whether he wanted or not, being too much information to handle at times. When it was too much, it could feel from invading someone's privacy to being overstimulated.

Instead of asking Asra if he had done that on purpose, he said: “You think I’m ready to use it?”

“You know I can’t answer that for you.” 

“I did it again, didn’t I?”

“It’s okay to need validation, Nana.”

Anatole knew that, in theory. Though he couldn’t deny Asra was right: he knew he still needed confirmation that he was doing things correctly, that he was doing a good job, that his efforts were meriting. Even when he had something completely figured out. Out of all the things Asra had thought Anatole would carry back from the dead, his tendency to overcompensate wasn’t one he’d accounted for.

Alright, that was a lie, he hadn’t accounted for Anatole’s entire personality to barrel through death to assert itself over the blank canvas of whom he had come back as. He should’ve foreseen Anatole to manage the impossible, twice. 

“Do you think you’re ready?” Now it wasn’t the time to allow his anxieties to govern over his capacities. Breathing steadily twice, he managed to give Asra the debonair smile with an inquiring, raised eyebrow the magician adored to see on his face. He hated not knowing, and the only way of knowing was to ask.

Asra found himself smiling too. “Why don’t we ask the cards?” 

✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ 

As Asra said his last goodbyes, a knock on the door interrupting them both, Anatole thought he ought to ask where had he gotten his feathered hat. Another time.

Anatole wasn’t surprised Asra had already left when he went to the front of the shop to get the door, having slipped he High Priestess and her foreboding messages back into the deck. She’d have to wait for whomever had decided ‘after-hours’ wasn’t a real shop-keeping concept. Customers, Anatole swore. He really couldn’t blame Asra for leaving now. He himself hated being delayed or interrupted when he was focusing on something, and while Asra wasn’t quite the same (or didn’t have the same reasons) it was the same outcome. 

After-hours was the time he spent on himself and tonight he wanted to tackle his Zadithi. He had only just began picking it up again.

Again? That couldn’t be right.

A second, more impatient knock pulled him out of his thoughts. Anatole lunged forward to open the door, only to be met with Countess Satrinava, out of all people. He didn’t even know their shop had reached the Palace’s radar. For some reason he couldn’t pinpoint right then, he didn’t know if he liked it.

“Countess. Welcome to Moonstone & Jasmine how may I help—”

“Please,” she said, paying him little mind, “you must read the cards for me.”

Like he had said before, customers.

However, Anatole didn’t need to pick up on her words to notice the Countess was genuinely troubled by something, her comment on sleepless nights confirming his suspicion. So he decided to give her the benefit of doubt, instead of pinpointing the hour she decided to come at as a display of nobility’s entitlement.

The talk about his reputation was what shocked him the most, however. The temptation to dismiss her words as hyperbole was strong, but she sounded  too honest — a by-product of her state of necessity, Anatole thought, people tended to be worse at lying under pressure (How did he know that?).

When the Countess mentioned Anatole looked different in a dream she had, he speaks as if something had possessed him, having no idea he would speak until he did. “Do you possess any sort of clairvoyance, your Highness? I have a cousin who—”

He stopped as a throb made its way through the back of his head. As far as he knew, he didn’t have any family, he didn’t have anyone but Asra and a dead Aunt, but saying he had a cousin felt right in a way he couldn’t ignore. He had never been very good at lying to himself. Once he knew something was true, it cemented itself in his head, unshakable. He preferred it that way: falsehoods, even if lasting, crumbled. When you built with what was true, you built steady.

This felt like the truth, but was it? Was it a wish, or was it a lost piece of whomever he had been before? In the before he couldn’t remember?

Pushing his thoughts away, he said: “Excuse me, Countess. I forgot myself.”

“No matter. I come with a proposal.”

“I’m all ears.”

“Come to the Palace, and be my guest for a short while. You will be afforded every luxury, of course. I ask only that you bring your skill… and the Arcana.”

His first thought was ‘no’. His second, ‘absolutely not’. He had things! Plans! The only luxury he wanted right now was to be allowed to fill his after work hours as he saw fit. But this was a customer. They could use the money for supplies, and something told him — something he couldn’t pay any attention to right now, something inside of him he could only trust — the Countess was indeed in trouble. The kind of toruble where if he refused to help right now, he’d end up in the Palace anyway.

Sometimes it is better to cooperate with the universe; he had heard that somewhere, or perhaps from someone he couldn’t remember. Perhaps he read it. One way or another, now was not the time to mourn his plans.

“It’ll be an honour.”

“I will alert the guards to expect you tomorrow, but before that...”

Of course, she had come with a tarot inquiry, so Anatole redirected her to the backroom where readings and private consultations were held, finding himself face to face with Asra’s cards again.

He’d have to get used to their liveliness, sooner or latter. Unlike his own card, these spoke to you completely at random, compelling you to deliver their message, so you never knew if you were doing the reading or if the cards themselves were. Anatole didn’t love it, if he was honest. Nothing to do with the cards, though. It had everything to do with having asked Asra why do his cards work like they do, and Asra not giving him an answer which had fully made sense to him. 

He didn’t know what to make of the Countess as she talked to him about other times she had had her fortune read. His headache had moved from the back of his head to his temples. Familiar wasn’t the word for it, but she felt trustworthy, in an inconsequential sense. Like a coworker with good intentions but not enough turn out for his liking. He saw her out, opening the door for her, after her reading was done, still having not the faintest idea where on earth did he get such an impression from the Countess. He must’ve been reading too much, that was certainly it — too much politics before bed made Anatole a very imaginative man. 

As Countess Satrinava left, Anatole wondered if he should’ve told her anything about fees, at least as a joke. He wasn’t sure she’d appreciate the joke. 

He decided to brew something for his headache, worrying it might grow too big to sleep. Potions and brews had never been his strongest fort. He always needed to spend extra attention on them and their instructions, coming less organically than other forms of magic. Like languages. Languages were easy, even if messy sometimes. He still remembered one day, years ago, when he could speak nothing but a gibberish mess of Balkovian, Vesuvian and a very distant variation of Nopali. 

Still, it would keep his mind away from all the reputation talk the Countess had brought with her. He wanted to be convinced she must’ve been thinking about his aunt — Paris, that’s all Asra had told him — but Paris had been dead for even before his accident, so maybe... He took a breath, he was overthinking his way into a migraine again so he went back to his brew. 

He was missing enough of one ingredient, which meant he had to go to the Shop’s storage quarter, accessible only from outside and through the backdoor. As if anticipating his need, Antupillán, his familiar, fetched the keys for him and climbed onto his shoulder as Anatole made his way outside, looking for the sweet relief of willow tree bark. A victory which came at the price of getting his storage key stuck, fumbling for five minutes to unstuck it so he could go back inside. 

With all ingredients in front of him he could finally make himself a headache remedy. 

“Strange hours for a shop to keep,” said a muffled voice coming from somewhere, interrupting him.

If he got mugged, in his own house, he swore to everything he thought mattered in this world he’d spend the rest of his life finding whomever had come into his shop and making their lives miserable. He was sure no one had been around when he went retrieve the willow bark, Antu would’ve told him if there was someone. He was sure he had locked that door the moment he came in.

The thought that someone could’ve been staying in his own house, waiting for the right moment to strike made him sick, but mostly, angry. He knew he had a dagger somewhere in one of the drawers, if magic was not enough.

“Whomever it is, come out of where you are, and tell me what you want.”

“Behind you.” Anatole jumped back, giving himself more distance between this person, levelling a look to the red glasses the mask had for eye-sockets.

“So this is the witch’s lair… and who might you be?”

“Who’s asking?” He tried to sound as surefooted as possible, but the eye sockets of the mask were so vividly red, like a halo of auburn hair under the noon sun. His headache threatened to get stronger.

“I’m asking. I’d rather not do it again.”

The person lifted their hand, Anatole’s brain springing into action as it remembered the dagger was in the third drawer to the left. He lunged forward, he was quick with his feet he could just grab the dagger and protect himself with a shield if he— 

Instead of grabbing him, the stranger threw the mask to the floor. 

The flash of pain between his eyes, right where his nose begins was so intense it burned, making him wince. He patted the front table of the shop to hold onto something, fearing he will lose his balance and fall. He’s— he’s— he swears there’s a name on the tip of his tongue.

“As I suspected, shock, horror—”

“What are you talking about?”

“It’s etched on your face! The gruesome reaction of facing the murderer himself. Fear not, I do not care about you, I only want information, so if you stop fooling around and tell me where is the witch.”

“The whomst?”

The man blinked, confused for a flash before he scowled again.

“Where is the witch?”

Something inside Anatole clicked. He was too tired to deal with any of this. If the intruder wanted to attack him, he would’ve done so already.

“Listen,” he said, barking back at this person who had interrupted his evening. “I have a migraine right now, so I will need you to be a little more specific. Secondly, you come into my shop, demanding things without exaplanation, manifesting behind me, and I do have to tell you, even with a migraine, I’m probably better with sharp things than you are so stand back and give me a bloody fucking second, alright?”

It wasn’t a lie. Anatole had always been good with blades. It worried Asra, for a reason he had never explained, but Anatole didn’t think it was a problem.

“You know, if you’re really feeling ill, I’m a medically trained professional—”

“Did you seriously just offer me medical help after you tried to intimidate me for information.”

“I—I, look you don’t look well… wait, did it work? Are you telling me where he is?”

“What? No, no it didn’t. There’s a lot of people who go by ‘he’ this City.”

“Not even the murderer part worked?”

Anatole shot him a death glare that made his uninvited guest look away. After finally retrieving that damn dagger, which he did just in case, he set himself to prepare his migraine remedy.

“You’re the guy who’s wanted for murdering the former Count, right?” He asked as he worked.

“Yes?”

“Wasn’t the guy a bit of an incompetent despot? Created a sanitary emergency and ran the city’s coffers dry? I’m neither of those things, nor I plan to rat you out before you try that line of intimidation, because I’m not a snitch. So please, if you could be specific.”

The intruder did not reply, instead he looked at Anatole like he was the weirdest person he had ever met. He shook himself from it. “The witch, I’m looking for him and I know he lives here...”

“Since you have no clue who I am, I will reckon you’re talking about Asra. He left. Don’t know when he’s coming back, don’t know where he went.”

“But if you don’t know, and I don’t know… why don’t you ask your magic cards?”

God, this man didn’t give up. Normally, Anatole would appreciate that, give him at least some credit as an interesting enemy to run into in the night, but right now? Right now he wanted him to go away. “Because the shop is closed.”

“That’s what the backroom there is for, right? Look, I’m already inside.”

Despite himself, Anatole couldn’t find it in himself to say no, so with a hesitant nod, he left his conoction on the counter and showed his night-time guest to the backroom, but he insisted on Anatole going first. He did, as he didn’t have time for plesantries, though he had to admit, for someone who just broke into his home, he was being very polite.

As he dropped himself into the reading chair, Antu climbed onto Anatole’s lap, sitting there, a comforting presence amid his very annoying evening. He had been his constant companion for almost two years. Antu came in one day unannounced and hadn’t left Anatole’s side since.

“Is that a Raccoon?” The stranger asked, with eyes wide open as he tried to pet him. Antu bit the air in front of him before he could come too close. 

Not forgiven yet, Antu said at the stranger, though only Anatole could listen. 

Anatole smiled to himself, making a mental note to give him extra grapes later. “His name is Antupillán.”

To Anatole’s surprise, the stranger pronounced the name perfectly. “What does it mean?”

“Not many people pronounce that correctly, look at you. People accent it wrong,” he paused, in all honesty Anatole didn’t know what it meant. Yet, once more, he found himself speaking without knowing what he was about to say. “A ‘pillán’ is a spirit, an embodiment. Antu means sun in Mapudungún, so Antupillán is the spirit of the sun.”

Anatole felt his stomach drop as he awaited for the migraine that would inevitably blotch his vision with black spots. However, it never came, the misplaced information settling into him like a homecoming he was not yet able to process.

As Anatole shuffled the deck, the stranger looked friendly, almost awkward in an endearing way. 

“Go on. No need to be shy.”

“Says the man who refuses to give out his name. I need to know it for the ‘magic card reading’, you know?”

“Julian, you can call me Julian,” he said after some stammering and a scarlet blush on his cheeks. His eyes followed his movements as closely as they could, a nervous anticipation to them.

Anatole pulled Death. It was, in Asra’s deck, a particularly quiet card. The horse skull was quiet like someone who opened their mouth to speak, but couldn’t articulate any sound. He wondered if the card in his own Deck — Anatole’s Death major arcana was a moth person holding a mask and a scythe — could hold any answers, other than white noise. It was cheating, technically, but Julian called them ‘magic cards’, Anatole didn’t think he’d mind.

Before he could do anything, Julian laughed. “Death? That means nothing to me. Death cast her gaze upon this wretch and turned away! She has no interest in an abomination like me.”

"What? Julian this isn’t how—”

He stood up abruptly, his mouth seeming to run on automatic pilotwith fatalistic statements and Julian’s hunch that Asra would come back. Which he would, Anatole knew he would. Asra always came back.

Instead of Julian’s advice about seeking him out when Asra did come back, for ‘Anatole’s own good’, whatever that could mean from a fucking stranger, he thought he ought to have accepted the medical help. Perhaps that way, Julian would’ve left earlier and his headache would’ve been dealt with.

Later, as he laid in bed drifting to sleep, he thought Asra left that day not because it was best for a journey, but because he somehowknew all of this would happen and he didn’t want to deal with any of it. 

[ibijau]

chap 3 of the modern xisangyao, also on AO3

Lan Xichen deals with emotions and regrets that aren't quite his own while trying to make sense of what's happening around him

Something about the young man in that chair strikes Lan Xichen, making his heart race in his chest the instant he sees him. He can’t explain it, that man is hardly older than Lan Xichen’s little brother, and looks like the sort of people said brother usually hangs out with, but there’s something about the stranger that speaks to Lan Xichen’s soul, making him ache with a sorrow that he isn’t sure is his own.

Puzzled by this alien pain, Lan Xichen is startled when his own shock becomes mirrored on the face of that young man.

"You!" the stranger gasps. "What are you doing here?" 

Fear is not an emotion Lan Xichen usually evokes. Even his students aren't afraid of him, unless they have anxieties of their own, and his insolent brother has never been so much as impressed by him a day in his life. And yet, there’s no mistake possible.

That young man is terrified to see him.

Meng Yao isn’t doing great either. He’s been nervous for a while, since they got into the car actually, but only now is Lan Xichen realising that perhaps Meng Yao lied and took him to that house without the permission of mister Shanzi, never expecting to be discovered. But if this intern denounces him…

He has to be an intern of some sort, or an assistant, or…

Meng Yao is shaking like a leave, he’s so pale, but that doesn’t mean this young man is… he can’t be, everyone knows mister Shanzi has been in the art business for decades, he can’t, not unless…

Not unless he, of all people, manages to reach immortality.

The thought, already odd on its own, feels like it doesn’t come from Lan Xichen’s own mind, and more from the memory of a mind that used to be his. It is a disconcerting feeling and Lan Xichen finds himself fighting against the intrusion until his vision sways. He takes a step forward, more to support himself against the wall than to enter the room, but the young man inside misreads his intentions and cries out. He motions toward the door which closes on its own, as if pushed by a gust of wind. 

There has to be a hidden mechanism, Lan Xichen tells himself, his disoriented mind clinging to this odd detail. Doors don’t move without being touched. He cannot question it or investigate it though, because Meng Yao grabs him by the elbow with unexpected strength. Lan Xichen is dragged away from the basement, back toward the kitchen. He stumbles onto a chair and falls onto it while Meng Yao, still trembling, starts pacing in front of him.

“I can’t believe I fell for your act!” Meng Yao hisses. “Oh, you’re good, you’re really good!” He spits, pointing an accusatory finger at Lan Xichen. “With your airs of innocence, your clumsy flirting… and how did you manage to insert yourself into so many publications? Or is that part real? Are you really a researcher?”

“Of course I am,” Lan Xichen says. He closes his eyes, overcome by an outrage that isn’t his, no more than the other emotions he seems to be feeling since entering this house. Last time, it was him making accusations, he thinks, and A-Yao wasn’t innocent in the least so what right does he have to treat Lan Xichen this way?

A wave of nausea hits Lan Xichen.

He’s never called Meng Yao A-Yao before. Never even thought of calling him that way. So why does this nickname come to him so easily now?

“What do you want from him?” Meng Yao insists, his earlier pallor disappearing as anger turns his face red. “Where did you meet mister Shanzi before?”

“I’ve never met mister Shanzi in my life,” Lan Xichen says.

“Well he’s met you!” Meng Yao retorts.

Lan Xichen feels another wave of nausea hit him. That man, that boy in the basement, that can’t have been mister Shanzi. Not only is the age wrong, his name isn’t… that’s not his name.

His name is…

His name…

But that can’t be his name.

“I’ve never met him,” Lan Xichen repeats. Not in this life, he’s certain of that. In another though…

A picture flickers through his mind. A young man in green and grey, crying and throwing himself at someone Lan Xichen held dear. He remembers affection for both people. Pity as well, and perhaps longing. Regret too, so much regret, though the regret, he thinks, isn’t something he felt when that scene happened, it is only something that came later to taint that memory, long after both these people had left.

He only caught a brief glimpse of mister Shanzi, and the memory of the man in green is fleeting at best, but there might be a family resemblance between them.

“You have to leave,” Meng Yao orders. “I’m taking you back to your place, and then I swear if you ever try to come in contact with me, I’ll…”

“I’m not leaving,” Lan Xichen snaps.

Meng Yao stops pacing to instead look at him as if he’s lost his mind. Perhaps he has.

“I don’t know what you want with mister Shanzi, but I’m not letting you hurt him,” Meng Yao threatens, darting toward the kitchen counter and opening a drawer in search of a weapon. All he finds is a silver knife, but he still waves it toward Lan Xichen. “I’m not betraying him?”

“Why not? You have already,” Lan Xichen hears himself say, which makes Meng Yao flinch.

He means that taking Lan Xichen here was a betrayal.

He means also something else, something older, so old neither of them can remember it.

This is when it hits Lan Xichen. Mister Shanzi isn’t the only one he’s met before. It’s harder to be sure because Meng Yao looks too different, because Lan Xichen’s mind is a mess right now and he probably wouldn’t recognise his own brother for sure, but he can feel something familiar about the soul waving that knife at him and…

And a part of him, ancient and broken, wants to laugh at the idea of Meng Yao so protective toward mister Shanzi. If he knew…

If he knew…

It ended in blood last time.

It might end in blood again, if they’re not careful.

“What’s so funny?” Meng Yao snaps, gripping his pathetic knife tighter.

Lan Xichen realises he’s laughing. Or something that is part of him does, anyway. A hysterical laugh that turns into heavy sobs he can’t control either.

“What’s wrong with you?” Meng Yao asks, just a hint of worry to his voice.

He always used to be so worried, something tells Lan Xichen.

Smiling but worried.

He doesn’t smile as much as he used to, does he? But neither does Lan Xichen.

“You can’t stay here,” Meng Yao repeats.

“I’m not leaving,” Lan Xichen retorts. “This is my home.”

It is, or it was. Past and present feel like odd concepts right now. But Lan Xichen knows he spent too long inside these walls. The place has been changed and redecorated, but it’s still the same, still his Hanshi, his home, the place he lived, the place he died, when old age crept on him in spite of his efforts.

Not that he really was trying anymore toward the end, was he?

Eternal life would only have brought eternal guilt. He remembered being relieved, every time he died, because his choices never seemed to be the right ones.

“I’m calling you a taxi,” Meng Yao insists, dashing out of the kitchen, knife still in hand. “Don’t try anything funny or you’ll regret it!”

Lan Xichen doesn’t try anything funny. He doesn’t try anything at all. Without Meng Yao’s presence, away from mister Shanzi, Lan Xichen’s agitated mind starts calming down somewhat. The ghostly feelings harassing him mellow out, enough for him to wonder what might have caused them. Unlike his uncle and some of his older relatives, he’s never had any strong religious feelings, and the idea of reincarnation isn’t one he’s ever been convinced by. It apparently doesn’t matter what he believes though, because aside from having met mister Shanzi and Meng Yao in another life, he can’t explain what just happened to him.

It should bother him more than it does. A day ago, he would have laughed at this sort of thing. Having lived through it, he just accepts it. His soul has lived other lives before, it is just a fact he cannot deny.

After a long while, Meng Yao returns. He still holds that knife in his hand, still looks agitated. Less than he did in that other life they shared, Lan Xichen distantly thinks. But then again, at that time, Meng Yao knew he had lost everything he had to lose, everything except his life… and even that he hadn’t kept for very long, had he?

“I’ve managed to find a taxi company that will come here,” Meng Yao announces, pointing his knife again at Lan Xichen. “I swear if you try anything…”

“I just want to speak with him,” Lan Xichen says. Or at least, some part of him says. He has nothing to say to mister Shanzi, but the man he once was, the one who died old and alone in this house, has plenty to talk about.

“About Nie Huaisang?” Meng Yao asks with a mocking grimace.

Lan Xichen startles, then nods. This will, indeed, concern Nie Huaisang. It cannot be a coincidence that mister Shanzi has such an interest in that obscure painter, much like Lan Xichen himself does. 

“I just want to speak with him,” Lan Xichen repeats, more firmly. “I think I’m here for a reason.”

“You’re here because I’m an idiot,” Meng Yao snaps. “If I’d been thinking with my brain instead of my…” He sighs. “Nevermind. It’s a lesson I won’t forget. I’ll be more careful on my next job… Fuck, but I’m so fired. Do you have any idea how good this job was? Why did you have to ruin this? You’re just…”

Meng Yao stops speaking and turns to look out the window, as does Lan Xichen. There is a noise coming from outside, like the rumbling of an engine going at great speed.

It’s too early to be the taxi, since the house is so isolated. A taxi wouldn’t be going at that sort of speed anyway. Pushed by curiosity, Lan Xichen rises from his chair and walks to the window. Meng Yao glares at him and points the knife at him, but for him too curiosity is too strong and he joins Lan Xichen at the window.

A sleek white car speeds toward the house. For a moment it looks as though it will crash into the Hanshi, but the driver slows down abruptly at the last possible moment in what Lan Xichen finds to be both a demonstration of great skill and complete recklessness. From where they are, Lan Xichen cannot see the driver, but he hears two car doors open and close.

“Did you call someone?” Meng Yao hisses, pointing the knife at Lan Xichen's throat.

“No. Do you think mister Shanzi was expecting someone?”

“He would have been dressed better than that,” Meng Yao says, lowering the knife already, which Lan Xichen finds oddly comforting. Their past life was a mess, he thinks, but he really does like Meng Yao as he is now. “Do you think we were followed?”

Lan Xichen considers the idea, but before he can answer, there’s a knock on the door, startling both of them. The knock is only for show though, because immediately the front door opens. The two of them exchange a look. Lan Xichen quickly grabs a knife of his own which he hides behind his arm as well as he can. Meng Yao and him nod at each other before exiting the kitchen for the main room where they find two men.

Lan Xichen drops his knife.

Although both men are familiar, although the man in red and black is probably the most striking of the two with his bold makeup and elaborate outfit, it is the other one who catches Lan Xichen’s attention. That tall man with cold eyes and long dark hair has, for some reason, a ribbon tied around his forehead. On anyone else, it would look somewhat ridiculous, Lan Xichen thinks, but on this man it looks elegant, dignified even.

“Well, that’s a surprise!” The man in red and black exclaims. “Hey Lan Zhan, look who it is!”

The man wearing a ribbon sports a shocked expression which mirrors Lan Xichen’s, and cannot seem to take his eyes away from him.

“Xiongzhang,” he says with emotion, stepping closer.

Lan Xichen, breathless, falls to his knees.

His brother.

Not the one he knows, not the one he grew up with, but his brother still, one he has missed more dearly than he could ever say. And now, after several lifetimes apart, his brother is returned to him.

Lan Xichen breaks into tears for the second time today, while next to him Meng Yao screams in terror and points his knife at the newcomers.

[knifeshoeoreofight]

Part 5/?

(part 1 here) (part 2 here) (part 3 here) (part 4 here)

tw: emetophobia

Note: I wrote the storm bit before Tropical Storm Isaias happened, I intend no connection to or disrespect towards a serious real world event. 

A month really is a long time. Sid sets up an office of sorts, where he can throw the shutters open to let in the sun and the sea air. He spends some time setting up his laptop securely as best he can. He hopes the VPN helps. He’s not a computer guy, that was always Flower’s department. 

Flower. He misses his friends, and his family. He has some time before anyone will start to wonder why they haven’t heard from him, so he can try and decide what the safest course of action would be once people start to worry about his radio silence. Maybe letters, so nothing can be tracked electronically? 

He keeps as low a profile as possible. He goes to the supermarket late at night, when the only other people around are tired and also hoping to avoid interaction. 

His favorite thing about the area is the roadside fruit stand he finds the one time he wanders further than the grocery store. It’s run by a little old Cuban lady, who seems perpetually inclined to not want to talk to anyone, which suits him just fine. He returns home with a old plastic bag stretched thin with a fragrant burden of ripe guavas and papayas. 

The papaya’s floral, salmon-pink flesh is the best thing he’s ever eaten and he vows to have some on hand for Zhenya to try when he emerges. 

He does a little half-hearted poking at his research, but there’s not a lot he can do without lab equipment. He works out using YouTube videos. He lays out in the sun and discovers, to his annoyance, that his shoulders have a tendency to freckle as they tan. 

He walks along the beach and goes snorkeling with an old mask and fins he finds in a closet. He sees clouds of silver fish and even a stingray. He wishes Zhenya were here to see it too. 

Every night, before he heads to bed, he checks on the pod. Nothing looks different from day to day.

He has strange dreams at night, colors and sensations so disconcerting and, well, alien, that he often wakes up in a sweat. In many, he sees himself but distorted and strange, cast in shades of ultraviolet and blue. 

It’s comforting. Zhenya is alive, and dreaming. 

***

It might be his imagination, but the air feels charged when he wakes up on the morning of the thirtieth day. Zhenya had told him the time span was approximate, but he still rolls out of bed and heads out to the ship as soon as he throws on some clothes. 

The air is muggy and the sky is overcast. A storm brewing, maybe. The pod, when he reaches it, is intact and unchanged. 

The day drags, the hours creeping by bloated and slow. He goes for a run, he rinses off in the sea. The salt water dries tacky on his skin so he showers it off. Switches on the local news. Registers nothing. Makes himself eat. Makes himself wait another two hours before he checks the ship again in the early afternoon. Nothing. 

As he suspected it might, thunder rumbles through the low-hanging clouds around 3 pm. He watches the wind pick up and toss the fronds of the palms outside the living room window. He checks the weather on his phone, and decides to close the storm shutters on the house. 

The house is stifling and claustrophobic after that. He listens to the pitch of the wind increase and the first bit of drizzle begin to pat against the shutters. 

The news had called it a tropical depression, but as the rainsong outside builds to a roar, though, Sid reasons that a storm is a fucking storm. 

He can’t stop thinking about Zhenya--  about what might happen if he emerges to this chaos alone, disoriented by human senses. Sid makes the decision in an instant. He grabs a flashlight and his phone, and yanks the door open into the driving wind. 

The rain is strangely temperate as it soaks through his clothes. He stands there in the yard for a minute, taking in the dissonant feeling of wind and rain that don’t carry the icy winter teeth he’s used to. 

When a palm frond tears loose and whips him across the face, he hurries to the ship. The noise of the storm is abruptly silenced as soon as the airlock door closes behind him with a sucking hiss. 

Surprise, surprise, nothing has changed. Sid sighs, and goes to try and find something cloth-like to dry off with. Poking around the ship’s bedroom for a bit results in finding a compartment with an assortment of soft, folded textiles. The texture of them is impossibly strange, but they’re clearly woven material of some kind and they absorb water well enough. 

There are a few items that look different, set off to one side of the storage compartment. They’re too small for Zhenya’s original form, and they look recognizably like human clothing, in loose, forgiving shapes. Clothes intended for Zhenya post-reconfiguration, he thinks. He sets them carefully aside, and takes one of the more blanket-y things back into the room containing the pod. With a sigh, he sits against the wall and wraps himself in the blanket. 

The white noise hum of the ship’s machinery pulls him into a trance, then a fitful doze that sends him in and out of awareness like a slow motion stone, skipping on the surface of a pond.

***

He isn’t sure what eventually wakes him. A sound, a sudden fountain of garbled words and images that he only senses in his mind, the coppery tang of blood. 

He jerks to consciousness with a start. The pod is open. Curled up on the floor in front of it, in a spreading pool of viscous liquid, is Zhenya. 

“Zhenya! Oh my god--” 

As Sid staggers to his feet, he registers that the link is there, but all he’s getting is a flood of panic and can’tbreathecan’tbreathecan’t-

He falls to his knees at Zhenya’s side, heedless of the mess. He can’t fully remember what you do for someone choking. Zhenya is an unwieldy deadweight as Sid wraps his arms around his torso and hauls him up. One, two, three blows between the shoulder blades to no avail. He clenches his hands together at Zhenya’s waist and jabs up and in, sharply. Once, twice. He’s had first aid training in the Heimlich but he’s never had to use it before. 

Zhenya’s body convulses, and then he’s leaning forward, vomiting. His sides heave and he draws in a harsh, gasping breath. 

Zhenya Sid thinks frantically. Can you hear me? Can you breathe? 

Zhenya groans, and coughs. The mad throb of panic is fading from their link.  His breaths are coming more evenly now, and Sid rubs his hand over Zhenya’s back in slow, soothing circles. 

“That’s it,” he finds himself crooning. “That’s it, there you go.” 

For the first time, what Zhenya actually looks like now registers. Sid can’t see his face, curled over as he is, but he’s. 

He’s human. Or, he looks it. 

Winter-pale skin, limbs that still seem miles long, broad shoulders and a strong back. Dark hair plastered to his bent head. 

The vulnerable nape of his neck makes something go tight and painful in Sid’s chest. 

“Zhenya,” he says, out loud. 

Zhenya takes a deep, shuddering breath and raises his head. And turns to look at him. 

His eyes are glowing bright, bright blue, but as Sid watches, they fade, going dark and fathomless: human. Long lashes, spiky and wet against his skin as he blinks, slow. Strong, harsh features that he can see Natalia in, even cast in such a masculine mould. 

He’s staring at Sid, and Sid can almost read the emotion that flits like scudding clouds across his new face. Incredulity? Surprise? Not quite those, but close. 

“Hi,” Sid says, and smiles, because he’s so relieved and he can’t help it. 

Zhenya makes a soft, helpless noise and his hands grip Sid’s arms, as if he wants to rise.

Sid stands, and anchors Zhenya as he slowly, laboriously, gets one knee up, and lurches to his feet. 

“Oh, damn,” Sid says. Zhenya is a good couple feet shorter than he used to be, but he still towers over Sid. 

“Can you breathe okay now?” he asks Zhenya, and Zhenya coughs again, clearing his throat. He nods, and Sid’s shoulders slump. “Thank fuck.” 

Crisis over.

Sid lets himself keep looking at him. Stubborn jaw, long, lean torso, narrow hips. His hands are big enough to encircle Sid’s not insubstantial forearms.  

He meets Zhenya’s gaze again. He still feels like he’s looking at a stranger’s face, not at the being who he’d grown so fond of. He’d felt something from the link earlier, but can they still-- 

Sid, Zhenya says into his mind, and relief knifes sweetly through him. It’s still Zhenya. If he closes his eyes, it’s like nothing has changed.

Sid- Sid open them, open your eyes-- 

Sid does, and Zhenya is right there, leaning in closer, staring down at him. His eyes have gone wide and his mouth is slack with surprise. Clumsily, but incredibly gently, he lets go with one hand to tilt Sid’s chin up. And keeps staring.

I didn’t know Zhenya thinks, finally. 

Sid lets out a nervous, airless laugh. “Know...what?” 

I didn’t know that your eyes were that color. 

Sid swallows. The look in Zhenya’s eyes is terrifyingly close to wonder. 

“They’re just hazel,” he says, face going hot, but Zhenya shakes his head. 

I saw in a different spectrum, before, and I had no idea. They’re beautiful. 

Sid feels like the bottom has dropped out of his stomach. “I, uh. Thank you?” 

Zhenya tilts his head to the side, and, slowly, his lips curve up into a smile. 

Or that you sounded like that. To other human eardrums, at least.

Sid thought he was flushing before but apparently his face can get even warmer. 

“I have a stupid voice. I even, like, try to pitch it lower, and stuff.” He’s babbling. “Flower always teases me about having the vocal fry of a Kardashian, but--” 

Your voice is lovely, Zhenya thinks indignantly. All of you, is lovely. 

It’s not something Sid has really ever heard another man tell him, before. He knows what he looks like, a lot of men have had a lot to say about his lips, his ass, et cetera, et cetera. He’s been called good-looking, or even pretty, especially when he was younger. Not lovely. 

“Yeah, well.” His voice cracks a little. “You don’t look too bad, yourself. “

All of Zhenya’s emotions seem to flit across his face as unconsciously and freely as a child’s. He smiles now, wide and bright. 

Really? Good. 

The grin morphs into a smirk that, oh no. Nope. Uh-uh. 

How is my height? And my-- 

“We are not talking about your dick!” Sid squawks, and Zhenya laughs out loud, startling them both. He raises a hand to his mouth, looking so indignant at the noise his body made without his express permission that Sid has to laugh too.

Oh, fine. I see. I was merely going to ask about my eye color, and now you’re laughing at me? 

Zhenya’s eyes dance, and he’s still smiling, so Sid just shakes his head. 

“They’re nice. Really, uh, dark brown.” 

Sleepy, gentle. Soulful. 

Bedroom eyes, a traitorous part of his brain insists, and Sid wills it to shut the fuck up. 

“Let’s, um” His voice cracks. “”Let’s get you cleaned up.” 

***

[imagine-loki]

Soulbonds and Fairy Dust

TITLE: Soulbonds and Fairy Dust (rewrite) CHAPTER NO./ONE SHOT: 22/?

AUTHOR: nekoamamori ORIGINAL IMAGINE: Imagine one of the fae has been helping the Avengers, jumping in to help them on missions and vanishing before Shield can bring her in.  Loki joins the team and convinces her to come talk to the team and consider joining before Shield takes more drastic measures. RATING: M NOTES/WARNINGS:  This is a rewrite of the original work of the same name.  Also on AO3 here

“Who, or what, is Underhill, Sig?” Loki asked her, trying to get more information on the threat they were facing.

Sig frowned up at him, she was clearly dazed and unsteady on her feet.  “The whole realm is made of magic and… sentient for lack of a better word,” she explained. “She sometimes takes a human form, but she keeps her power when she does,”

Loki was intrigued by that, but didn’t ask any more question right then.  Sig needed to rest and he knew it.  “Sigyn, you need to rest before we deal with the next doorway. You’re in no condition to close anymore.  That took a lot more power than the last one,”

Sig nodded, still unsteady on her feet.  The warrior boys were talking happily amongst themselves about the easy mission. “Brother, I’m sure there is somewhere in the village that won’t mind feeding our party,” Thor suggested.  Their group was right outside the village and it would give Sig a chance to rest.

Loki nodded. “That might be best. We all need to eat and Sigyn needs some time to recover,”

“Sorry, wasn’t expecting her to catch on so fast,” she told Loki and stood from where she’d been leaning on him.

Loki nodded and gave her a reassuring smile. “Don’t fret darling, come on, let’s get you some food. It might help,”

She nodded and gave him an appreciative smile as she headed back to the horses with the warriors, Sif, and Thor. She mounted again with Loki’s help.  He didn’t trust her to do it safely on her own.  The group headed into the village at a leisurely pace and everyone caught Loki keeping a close eye on Sig in case something happened.  She was droopy and exhausted, but not so much that she couldn’t manage to keep her seat on her horse.  Thor led the way straight to an eating-house that he and the warriors had frequented before.

As soon as they stopped, Loki dismounted and was instantly at Sig’s side to hand her down from the saddle.  He let her lean on him as he led her into the eating house.  She gave him a warm smile and seemed to recover once she was sitting and had food in her.  Loki looked relieved as she enjoyed her leisurely lunch.  The mood was jovial as the morons thought this was an easy mission for the throne.

“How are you feeling, darling?” Loki asked her softly enough that the others wouldn’t hear.  He was still concerned.  She’d been awfully disoriented and more drained than expected after the last doorway.

“As well as can be expected,” she replied, knowing it didn’t really answer the question, but was truthful.  “We can get the second doorway before nightfall,” she told him, changing the subject some.

His eyebrows furrowed in concern and displeasure. “Are she sure that’s wise?”

“It’s wise to get as many of the doorways closed as we can before she tells the fae what we’re up to and they go to lengths to stop us,” she replied, still truthful and still not answering his question.  She was extremely well practiced at this game.  The fae didn’t lie.

“Darling, stop skirting around my questions. This is not healthy for you. Blood magic is extremely dangerous.  Tell me honestly, do you think it is wise for you to close another gate today?”

Sig sighed. “Probably not,” she admitted softly, hating that she was cornered into a direct answer.  “But we can at least get to that town and close the gate first thing in the morning…” she suggested instead.

Loki nodded, looking relieved that she was being reasonable.  “I would prefer that. It will give you a chance to recharge,”

“The longer the fae have to prepare to rally against us, the harder closing the remaining gates is going to be,” she warned him again.  She wanted to make sure he knew that point well.

Loki sighed. “I do not wish for it to be harder for you to close the gates, but I’d rather you be strong enough to close them and not cause serious injury to yourself.  You can die of blood magic, darling.  There are plenty of reasons Mother does not allow it to be taught or practiced on Asgard,”

“I know. We never claimed this was going to be an easy task,” she reminded him softly.  She would be careful, but she had a duty to do too.

“I know. I just hate seeing you so weak. It’s disconcerting,”

“Blood magic is hard,” she reminded him. She knew he knew that already, but he seemed in need of the reminder. 

“I know. Mother warned me of the dangers of its use,”

“And told him never to use it and she’d skin his hide and bind his powers for a decade if she caught him at it,” Thor added unhelpfully, which made Sig giggle at the threat to poor child Loki.

“Thank you for that reminder, brother,” Loki replied with sarcasm and venom in his voice as he rolled his eyes in annoyance.

“My point,” Thor went on, ignoring Loki’s sarcasm and venom.  “Is why is she allowing Lady Sigyn to do it when she does not allow you?”

“There is no other way to close the gates. Mother is aware of what she has to do. In order to protect the children, she made an exception.”

“That and only my blood will work, so there’s no chance that I’d be tempted to do the unethical thing and use someone else’s,” Sig added to reassure them all.  They didn’t know her anymore.  She wasn’t the child they remembered, so of course they didn’t know that she could be trusted not to abuse blood magic.  They should have known that, but she didn’t blame them if they wouldn’t believe in her any longer.

Loki nodded in agreement. “Satisfied, brother?”

Thor nodded.  Before the warriors could order more ale, they headed back out to the horses to travel to the town by the next gate. Sig summoned a book to read as she rode.  She was tired of attempting to be social, so she read one of the books Frigga had given her on the soulbonds.  Loki did the same, bored of the ride and curious about the soulbonds too.

They made it to the next town by dinner and Thor let them directly to the inn to see about rooms for the night.  They all dismounted and let the hostlers take the horses. Sig looked over at Loki “Are you going to spend the night as Lady Loki so you don’t have to share a room with the oaf or the morons?” she teased him.  Loki had used that trick before to room with her and Sif on expeditions as children instead of with the boys.

Loki chuckled and shifted forms in a shimmer of magic.  Lady Loki was just as attractive as her male form and Sig appreciated the view.  Loki wanted absolutely nothing to do with the idea of rooming with the boys.

“Sister,” Thor said the simple word as greeting, but more as a display of acceptance of Loki’s change in form. Sif nodded, used to Loki’s antics. They’d shared rooms on missions before like this so she was used to it. The warrior boys knew better than to comment.

Sig wrapped an arm around Loki’s waist, ducking under Loki’s arm, forcing it around her shoulders as they walked into the inn.  It was a comfortable familiarity and Loki was surprised at how natural it felt. Loki smiled brightly at how accepting Sig was of her gender fluidity.

Sigyn had a quick dinner with the group and stood as soon as she’d finished eating to head to bed. She was exhausted and didn’t feel like attempting to socialize when the next day was going to be difficult.  Loki stood with her.  “Would you like some company, darling?”

“I wouldn’t mind, but I’m going to be boring. I really am just going to sleep,” she told Loki, but wrapped her arms back around Loki’s waist.  She didn’t tell her with actual words, but she was pleased that Loki was coming with her.

“That’s fine. I could use some rest myself,” Loki wrapped her arm around Sig’s shoulders, cuddling her to her side contentedly.

The pair walked to their rooms and found that the group had a suite with a common room and two bedrooms.  She and Loki went into one of them and looked at the sleeping arrangements.  That was going to be troublesome. “There’s only two beds and Sif doesn’t share,” she reminded Loki, remembering that Sif in fact did not share her sleeping space. Ever.

Loki pondered that and then asked with a hint of hesitation at being rejected.  “Would you be up to sharing with me? Like old times?” she asked softly.  They had as children, since Sif really didn’t share, ever since she was small.

Sig considered for a moment before she nodded.  “That’s fine,” she replied warmly as she summoned pajamas and climbed into bed.  She picked the bed, and the side of the bed furthest from the door.  She remembered the overprotective nature of Loki.  Loki would insist on being closest to the danger, or perceived danger.  She saw the look in Loki’s eyes that she appreciated Sig considering her feelings.  Loki’s clothes shimmered to sleepwear as well and she climbed into the bed after Sig.

Sig gave her a warm smile and cuddled among the blankets.  “Goodnight Lokes,” she told her warmly and closed her eyes to get some sleep.  “Yes, you can read. It won’t bother me,” she added automatically.  She knew Loki too well.

Loki giggled and summoned a book to do just that, sitting against the pillows propped against the headboard. “Goodnight, Sig,”

She smiled at the nickname and settled quickly into sleep.  She really was exhausted.  Somehow she ended up cuddling Lady Loki while she slept.  She didn’t know how it happened and Loki didn’t complain.  Loki thought it was adorable.  It ended up even more adorable when Loki dozed off too and they were both wrapped in each other’s arms. 

Sif eventually came into the room much later and after way more alcohol.  She was careful not to wake the pair, but she did make a quiet sarcastic comment about how adorable the pair was.   “Lovebirds,” she added with a fond sort of sarcasm as she slipped into her own bed.

[melindacoulson4]

The lovers

"It appears that Agent Johnson and Agent Sousa are in the midst of a lover's quarrel," Enoch chimed in with his familiar monotone voice.// Coulson has come back, but he's missed a certain development pertaining to Daisy & Sousa. Enoch steps in to inform him. May does damage control afterwards. Mainly philinda with sprinkles of daisy/sousa

"We'll drop him where he belongs...the first chance we get," Mack said of the man from 1989 in holding. "That's our top priority." "Next to getting Agent Sousa back home to the 50's," Phil chimed in.

Melinda's stomach clenched. Phil was going to push the issue. Everyone except for him knew the real reason why Sousa wanted to stay.

"For all they know Sousa died back in 1955...and it'll stay that way," Mack said, attempting to shut down the line of questioning. "But we can still jump back. We can help him set up an alias...give him back some semblance of a life. Shouldn't be that hard with this technology," Phil argued.

With the addition of Fitz, the rest of the science team had been able to modify the jump drive so they could control how and when the zephyr traveled through time. Phil turned to Sousa. "You deserve to go home just like the rest of us." It was good natured, agent to agent camaraderie. "Leave no man behind, right?" All eyes went to Sousa. He looked disconcerted by the prospect of going anywhere at the moment. But Phil had paused, waiting for him to agree. "Uh...right," Sousa agreed, nodding awkwardly. Daisy scoffed. "1955 should be our next stop then. I wouldn't want you to feel so out of place, Agent Sousa," she finished, setting him with a chilling glare. "I should really go check on our prisoner." Daisy turned on her heal and set off in a brisk pace.

There was a loaded silence that settled over the rest of the team. Sousa took no precaution in hiding the way he followed Daisy's every move. For an agent, he was terribly poor at deception. Every emotion was plainly written on his face. "If you'll all excuse me," he said, then walked the same path that Daisy had. Eyebrows furrowed, Phil tracked Sousa’s trail. "What just happened? Kinda feels like I'm missing something,” he stated, not grasping what had unfolded right before his eyes. "Yea...I'm lost," Fitz said, face screwed up like he was staring at a complex math formula. Simmons elbowed him not so subtly. "What the bloody hell was that for?" He whispered dramatically and full of outrage. "It appears that Agent Johnson and Agent Sousa are in the midst of a lover's quarrel," Enoch chimed in with his familiar monotone voice.  Melinda's nostrils flared. If looks could kill she would've flattened him. A chuckle filled the room. One she was familiar with. Her eyes snapped to Phil. His attention was focused on Enoch. Clearly amused by the comment, a good-natured smile had formed on Phil's face. "I think you've got some wires crossed," Phil said, dismissing the insinuation almost immediately. That would've been the end of it, if not for the sentient chronicom lacking any social cues. Inquisitive, Enoch tilted his head. "I have not taken any significant blows to my mainframe. It is intact. And I am quite certain about Agents Johnson and Sousa. It was a disagreement spurred on by the status quo of their relationship which is sexual by nature." Deke just about choked on his own tongue. "Alright that's enough," Mack briskly cut in. "Simmons don't you have something that needs Enoch's attention?" He asked pointedly. "Right." Simmons swallowed, trying to come up with something on the fly. "Yes. I-" Enoch turned to Phil. "I have seen one of these trysts with my own eyes, Agent Coulson. By accident might I add. And unlike humans my ocular spheres do not deceive me," he stated proudly. Melinda growled and took a threatening step forward. "Stop talking before I turn you into a pile of spare parts." Hurriedly, Simmons interfered. "Okay. Into the other room. Now." Simmons and Deke started corralling Enoch towards the door. At a loss for what to do, Fitz trailed behind. It was too late to backtrack. The robot had ruined their cover-up. Wanting no part of the reveal, Yo-Yo and Mack made themselves scarce. "We've got that..." Yo-Yo nodded her head towards the exit, itching to bolt. "Yea," Mack agreed. He shot Melinda a sympathetic glance as he passed.  By the end of it, she and Phil were the only ones left in the room. When she turned to him, he was still smiling. "I go away for a little while and the chronicom learns to tell a joke." He shook his head fondly. "Needs work on the content," he paused, thinking for a moment, "and delivery but still, that's pretty impressive." With the knowledge that she was about to crush him, she couldn't even muster up a small smile. "It wasn't a joke," she confessed. His hands fell to her hips and he went on ignoring the reality of the situation. "So this is my payback? A new running gag you came up with and had them all agree to...seems awfully academy of you." He was under the impression that this was one of her elaborate academy era pranks. She pulled his hands away from her body, but held onto them. Things could not turn into anything more. Having just recently reunited, he had a way of making her forget about everything except him, but they had to talk. "Phil," she stated solemnly. "You should sit down." He followed willingly as she tugged him towards the loading bay. They took two of the seats that were built into the wall. Still firmly believing her actions to be part of the gag, he smirked. She grabbed his hand, lacing their fingers together to help soften the blow. Then settled him with a look. "This thing with Daisy and Sousa is real." As he studied her, the smile slipped off his face. He sat back abruptly. "No way. Come on. No," he denied.  She sighed. "We could sit here all day...the truth won't change." "This isn't funny anymore, May," he said, reverting back to their old way of addressing each other. The grip he had on her hand loosened. She stared at him and came to the conclusion that he wasn't going to accept the truth until it was slapping him in the face. "Just remember you're forcing my hand." She dropped her hold on his hand. There was a workstation next to their seats. She went to it and booted up the screen. Melinda knew the day she needed to show Phil. Daisy and Sousa had been separated out in the field. They feared he wasn't going to make it back to the zephyr before the next jump. But he had.

She scanned through the footage and found what she needed. The video began playing. It was the last thing she wanted to do. But Phil would never come to terms with it otherwise. On the screen, a shadow appeared through the small gap between the ramp and the top of the zephyr. A body rolled down the ramp. Daisy could be seen running to it. The two figures rose to their knees, joined in a tight embrace. The man pulled back and it became clear that it was Sousa. Their heads moved together again and they began to kiss – passionately.

Melinda turned and found that Phil’s face was a picture of complete horror. They were nearby the very same spot that was in the video. He seemed to realize it too. "No. No. No. No. This isn't happening." His eyes snapped shut. "Wake up. Wake up," he demanded of himself. Sighing, she clicked out of the surveillance footage and went back to her seat. In an attempt to soothe him, her hand rubbed over his thigh. "You need to take a breath," she told him calmly. "You...you..." He shook his head, so disoriented that he couldn't even form words. After several deep breaths, he continued. "You let me spend all day with him."  The roll of her eyes was instinctual at this point. "What difference would it have made if I'd told you?" "I don't know. I wouldn't have been so nice to him for starters! Acting like some giddy idiot instead of.... interrogating him for one…asking his intentions…figuring out who the hell he thinks he is." His hands flew out in front of him with nervous energy. The two of them always had similar thoughts when it came to protecting Daisy. After getting over the initial shock, Melinda had paid Sousa a visit and put the fear of God in him. For days afterward he wouldn't even meet her eye. "I already did that," she told Phil. "Yea, well thanks for telling me. I appreciate it." He scowled. A pang of regret hit her then, but it was fleeting. Her motivations outweighed his wounded feelings. "I didn't know if your heart would be able to take the shock," she confessed. "I guess we know the answer now. News like this is not even on the scale of regular shock. It's on the ‘hey my head is exploding’ level of shock," he stated dramatically. Her eyes narrowed. "I'm being serious," she said. "So am I. Ugh...this is a nightmare." Both his hands came up to scrub over his face. Melinda had become all too familiar with nightmares. This wasn't one of them. The news was hard to swallow, for sure, but not anywhere near nightmare level status. Sousa treated Daisy with respect and made her laugh. It made Melinda happy to catch them in moments like that. It was everything she and Phil could hope for: Daisy's happiness. Phil just couldn't see it yet, but she knew he would come around to the idea of it soon enough. Suddenly Phil sat up a sheepish look on his face. "I think what happened back there is my fault," he said slowly. "What do you mean?" "In the car earlier Sousa and I talked...." "And?" She prompted. "We talked about relationships. What they mean to us. What's important.” Phil seemed to zone out, staring at a point on the zephyr’s ramp. She watched him, still not understanding what he was getting at. He shook his head. "The whole time I thought he was talking about Peggy Carter…not. Not..." Tongue tied, he was unable to make himself say her name. "Daisy," she supplied. His eyes jumped up. "Really?" He asked unamused. She thought better of saying anything. Talking was his forte. He would work out whatever he was trying to communicate to her by verbalizing it. He'd always been that way.

"He talked about where he felt at home. I told him home wasn't a place, it was a feeling,” Phil recalled. Sceneries changed but their team stayed the same. They could be in the future or the past. In an airplane or on a base. As long as Phil was with her it didn't matter where or when they were. "She kept it from me. Did she not want me to know?" The hurt was written plainly on his crumbling features. Melinda jumped in to squash that idea before it took hold of him. "It was me. Not Daisy. I was serious about your heart. I just got you back." She didn't need to lie about her fears for his health. It was the truth and she wouldn't shy away from it.  His features softened. "I'm fine, Melinda. Simmons said as much," he said, attempting to quell her fears. "I know." It was difficult to accept that when everything she'd seen was the exact opposite. The amount of times she'd lost him had reached a number too great to keep track of. She wasn't interested in doing it ever again. But this conversation wasn't about them. Right now, they had to focus on Daisy and her relationship with Sousa. "Why are you okay with this instead of tracking Sousa down to punch him or something?" He asked. That earned him a smile. He knew her all too well. She had tested Sousa over and over again with the threat of harm, but he came out on top every time. It made her sad for all that Phil had missed, but he was here now and that's all that mattered. "Who says I haven't already done that?" She tossed back cryptically. Half the fun was keeping him guessing. A genuine smile formed then. He leaned forward and kissed her. It was a gentle press of their lips. A simple reassurance that they were okay. When they parted, her right hand went to work straightening the collar of his shirt. "He's a good man," she told Phil, needing to reassure him that Daisy had chosen well. Still not acclimated to the idea, his face screwed up. But it was minor discomfort compared to the shock he'd exhibited before. "Kind of emasculating the way you talk about another man after I kiss you," he quipped. "Funny," she replied, sarcastically, fighting a smile. He took hold of the hand she had at his collar, pulling it down and rubbing it nervously between two of his own. Clearly preoccupied, she granted him a quiet moment to process everything. "I implied that Sousa didn't want to be here, but now that I think of it…that's not what he meant at all," Phil said regretfully. The last thing he would ever want was to hurt Daisy. "So go fix it," she told him. And he did.

[bitchloveskcbaseball]

Rifts Apart

Pairing: Edward x MC

Tides of Fate Part 2

Part 1: Losing Resolve

Trigger Warnings: Violence/torture, death mention, language

A/N #1: So initially, I thought this was going to just be a two-part piece, but as a began writing it, it sort of took on a life of it’s own and is now a four-part piece. Just thought I’d give you all a head’s up!

A/N #2: Also, I apologize in advance if there for any errors there might be in here. I struggled a bit with this one and now I’ve read through it and reworked it so much, I’m not sure I’d notice if I’d spelled my own name wrong lol Also if I think about this too much longer I might be tempted to delete the whole damn series, so here we go lol

“Have I given you reason to think I’ll not?”

“Well, no. But…” Peyton trailed off, wishing that she could see Edward’s face. She did not want to be having this conversation with his back.

His grip on the door knob tightened to the point that his knuckles were turning white. “I am not going to pry the words from you, Miss Bellamy.” There was a cold emphasis to the way he said her last name that made her physically flinch. He’d never been so upset with her in all the time she’d known him.

Defeat washing over her, Peyton tried to shift her body to where she’d be able to stand, wanting to retreat back to her own bed to tend her wounds – both physical and emotional. However, when she slightly twisted her torso, the pain from what she could only assume were at least a couple of broken ribs intensified so sharply that it stole her breath and her vision began to swim. Her eyes slammed shut and she collapsed back against the pillows as she fought desperately to not pass out. It was several minutes later before she even realized that Edward had returned to her side, kneeling on the floor next to the bed while he ran his fingers comfortingly through her hair.

When she was finally able to peel her eyes open again, she found him staring back at her with concern and something else she was too afraid to let herself hope for. “Just what do you think you’re doin’?” Edward asked, the bite that had been present in his tone having vanished.

“Going…back…to my…own…bed…”

“Why?”

“To…leave you…in…peace…”

He let out a hearty chuckle before telling her, with a smile playing at his lips, “I’ve not had a moment’s peace since we met. Your sleeping arrangements have no bearing upon that particular situation.”

Peyton leaned into his touch and his hand stilled so that her cheek was resting against his palm. With her eyes still locked on his, she turned a little further and let her lips brush against his skin as she whispered, “Is that so?”

His eyes seemed to darken and he leaned almost imperceptibly closer, as if there were a string drawing him in. She searched his gaze, looking for any remnants of his anger and finding none. It left her feeling a different kind of breathless, with her heart hammering in her chest. Despite her mind warning against it, hope that he would finally give into this pull between them and place his lips upon hers flared within her. But as quickly as the desire flared in his eyes, it was gone and he was visibly putting his walls back up around him. He stood, pulling his hand back to his side with a shake of his head. He had to clear his throat before he could speak, but the distance in his expression and his voice wiped away the intimacy of just seconds before. “Miss Bellamy – “

“Sit down with me?” Peyton cut off whatever excuses he was likely about to make before presumably taking his leave of her. It had hit her suddenly that she needed to tell him what had happened during the time rift. She had to warn him. And, if she were being completely honest with herself, she wanted to tell him because she desperately wanted him to comfort her.

When Edward didn’t move, instead just staring at her apprehensively, she muttered, “I…I wanna tell you what happened. How I got hurt.”

He hesitated for just a few seconds more, but then lowered himself back to the spot he’d occupied after getting her settled in his bed. She longed for his touch, to let it give her the strength and comfort she was going to need if she was going to find a way to put what she’d experienced into words, but she didn’t dare reach out to him. With his walls back up, she was terrified that she would scare him away by pressing too hard, so she looked everywhere but him trying to distract herself. Even still, as her gaze settled on the waves crashing outside his window, the only thing she could focus on was how he was so close that his warmth was radiating over her, making her feel safer than she ever had before.

“Miss Bell…” Peyton’s eyes narrowed as they flashed up to Edward’s, causing him to trail off with a shake of the head. “Peyton. I believe you had something you wished to tell me?”

“Right! Sorry, I uh – “ she shook her head to focus her attention and give herself a moment to organize her thoughts. She let out a deep sigh before diving into her tale, “So, I’d been feeling restless all night and I’d finally given up hope of getting any sleep, so I decided to go out on deck. Thought maybe the sounds of the ocean and the fresh air would soothe me. And it was working until I started feeling that damned familiar sensation. It’s weird as hell, but I’ve come to realize it means I’m in a time rift, so I wasn’t altogether too concerned.”

She paused to let herself catch her breath, but also to gauge Edward’s reaction. While he was right when he’d said earlier that he’d never given her a reason to doubt that he believed her, he’d also never actually said that he believed she was from the future. And even if he did actually believe that, it wasn’t like it was an easy concept to understand. Hell, she was the actual time traveler and she still had no idea how or why it happened, let alone when one of these damned rifts was going to occur. When she decided he didn’t look too confused, she continued on, “Problem was, this time when I opened my eyes, Robert was standing in front of me, talking as if we were in the middle of a conversation. Having his face be the one I saw in that moment was more than a little disconcerting.”

Concern grew in Edward’s eyes, but they never left hers and it gave her a sense of comfort. She let it wash over her, giving her the confidence to continue on, despite how afraid she was that he’d be disappointed in her once she admitted what a spectacular failure she was. Not wanting to see that disappointment reflected on his face, she let her gaze drop to where her fingers were fiddling with a loose thread in the blanket across her lap. “He took advantage of how disoriented I was and got the jump on me.”

“Got the jump on you?”

“Yeah… He, uh…he charged at me, slamming me into the railing. My side caught the brunt of the impact.”

Edward took her hand in his own, then, and her breath hitched.  “Tis the reason you were screaming when I found you?”

“Um… Not exactly. That…that, uh, comes a bit later.”

“Then what – “

Peyton lifted her face to give him a pleading look as she cut him off. “I’ll get there. Just…please let me get through this, okay?” He simply nodded his head once and gave her hand a quick squeeze. Drawing strength from his touch, she continued, “He then delivered several swift kicks to the same spot for good measure, until both he and I felt my ribs crack. It…it was so excruciating I was afraid I was gonna pass out.”

“Christ.”

This time it was her squeezing his hand in an attempt to comfort him. Truth be told, she still hadn’t gotten to the worst part yet. The pain she could handle, would take any and every day over what came next. “Anyway, as he was tying me up, the rest of his merry band of misfits brought you and the rest of the crew out on deck. Lined you all up in front of me.”

There was a lump growing in her throat and she slammed her eyes shut in hopes of keeping the tears building there at bay. She desperately didn’t want to relive this part, but she reminded herself that he needed to know. Edward’s free hand came up to cup her cheek again, this time brushing away tears she hadn’t realized were falling. Leaning into his touch, she let out a sigh of relief when he didn’t pull away. The reassuring warmth of his hand on her skin was giving her the strength to relive the horror she'd had to endure.

After clearing her throat, she whispered, “Apparently I was the one he was most angry with. And since he had realized how important you all have become to me, he decided that the best way to get back at me would be through you guys. Especially you. He started with you, delivering a cut so deep that you would eventually bleed out, but not so deep that it would be quick. He wanted to make sure I would have to watch you suffer.” Her voice, which had been cracking, finally gave out with a sob.

Clearly trying to be careful of her injury, Edward slid forward on the bed and gently gathered her in his arms. He let her bury her face against his chest, while he rubbed circles against her back, but it did very little to soothe her. Peyton’s sobs tore through her body and she soaked his shirt with her tears, but even the pain in her side wasn’t enough to stop the onslaught. Seeing this man – the one she’d realized, with such clarity as she watched the life drain from his eyes, that she loved – suffer so brutally, die so brutally, was more than she could bear. And now that she was thinking and talking about it, it seemed to be playing on an inescapable loop through her mind.

“Peyton, I’m right here. Tis naught but a dream.”

Pulling back from him, Peyton practically shouted, “Did that” – she gestured angrily towards her right side – “look like it was a fucking dream, Edward?!”

“No. I suppose it didn’t,” Edward sputtered.

“I had to watch you literally be tortured to death! Had to watch everyone else be executed mercilessly. And then… Then they left me there, just tied up to the deck. Because Robert wanted to make it as excruciating as possible. And he was smart enough to realize that me having to wait for dehydration or exposure to take me could leave me there staring at your bodies for days.”

“I –”

“That is what I was screaming about! That is what you brought me back from!” Another sob choked her voice before she whispered, “That is our future!”

Edward pulled her against him again, wrapping his arms tightly around her and she bit back a whimper at the way it sent a searing pain through her. She needed to be in that spot more than she needed the ability to breathe. Burying his nose against her temple, he murmured, “I have no intention of letting such a fate befall us.”

Peyton sucked in a breath, and immediately regretted it. Her vision was swimming once again as her broken ribs wailed in protest. Edward eased her back so she was more fully stretched out and she forced her eyes open to gaze into his. Between desperate pants for oxygen, she asked, “How do you plan to stop it?”

His eyes hardened as he stared at a spot over her head, “You’ll not be here to find out.”

“What?!” Pressing her hand to her ribs in a vain attempt to counter her movements, she forced herself back up into a more upright position. Her voice was frantic as she asked, “What do you mean I won’t be here?”

“I’m sending you home. Immediately.”

Part 3: Becalmed

Tag List: @anotherbeingsworld @burnsoslow @mvalentine @rebel-alpaca @crazynutella @princess-geek @edgiestwinter

[misskinaiya]

Draco Malfoy and Healing

Okay okay think this:

(Hogwarts sixth year)

Draco Malfoy entered the Room of Hidden Things fully intent on working on the broken Vanishing Cabinet like usual but found an “intruder” in the Room. On a settee near a stack of books just a few feet away from the Cabinet sat a raven-haired witch with her face buried in a book. 

She snapped to attention when the door closed noisily behind Draco. Despite standing with her back rod-straight, she still looked tiny to him. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

“Reading.” She waved the book she was holding, looking sheepish at being caught and by a prefect at that. “Is the Room off-limits?”

“How did you find this Room?” Draco asked a question of his own instead, because he didn’t really know what the answer to her question was. He supposed it wasn’t, since he’s been going there for months and no one bothered to stop him.

“I, uh, found it one time while exploring the castle. The books here aren’t available in the library so I go every now and then to read. What about you?”

He forced himself not to react to that. Of course she was only there for the books. She was a Ravenclaw witch in his year, and they shared Arithmancy, Charms, and Herbology classes before N.E.W.T level. They never really talked before but she was familiar enough to him. She never caused trouble in the past and he hoped she wasn’t in the mood to start doing so now.

Draco ignored the churning in his stomach and said, “Here to read as well.” It wasn’t technically a lie. He read there sometimes, referring to old tomes for mending charms when he felt stuck at his assignment, which he often did.

He approached her slowly, plucking a random book he had already scanned through before from the stack with the intent to wait until she left before doing what he really was there for. 

She scooted over to make space for him to sit on. Draco flipped to a page on mending furniture and made himself comfortable before pretending to be absorbed in what he was reading. He was considering using the Imperius Curse to make her leave and wiping her memories of the Room when she suddenly leaned towards him to check on what he was reading.

Draco’s entire body tensed and he fought every instinct to move away and turn his wand on her. “Hey! Mending charms. What do you need those for?”

He waited for the witch to sit back before answering. “Vince keeps on accidentally breaking stuff in our room.” He said and she laughed at the ridiculous image of Vincent Crabbe knocking things over anywhere he went.

“I read about Healing, mostly. They have a lot of books here about it! You might find some handy. Did you know you could use Healing spells to mend objects as well? Apparently, Magic views our bodies just like everyday objects.”

His head snapped towards her, mouth gaping unconsciously. His mind raced with the possibilities. “I know right? It’s incredible. Unfortunately, people would only have access to Healing spells if they took formal training to become a Healer. But who knew this Room would have a stack of Healing books?” She gushed, unbeknownst to what she just did. Draco almost felt bad for her. Almost.

When the witch finally moved to leave the Room, Draco stood to fake leaving as well. Once she was gone, he immediately went back inside and put wards around the Vanishing Cabinet, making sure to keep her away from its vicinity. He sought out the books she was talking about and duplicated them before storing them near the Cabinet for his future reference.

-

Draco’s first breakthrough since he started working on the assignment happened in late January. It worked! All the Healing spells were effective in some ways and they held permanently, unlike the charms he used to cast. He had to use a bunch of them together at a time to improve the Cabinet’s condition and it would still take time to perfect its functions but there would be sure progress from then on.

He mostly stayed in the Room, skipping his classes entirely as he obsessed over the Cabinet and ignored the Ravenclaw witch who visited the Room every two weeks and stayed for a few hours before leaving again. Draco would never acknowledge it out loud but the times she was there with him were comforting. Greg and Vince guarded the Room outside for Draco but having someone in the Room with him, even when the witch was oblivious to her company thanks to the wards he put in place to hide his presence, ebbed the loneliness he was constantly feeling.

It was a Friday morning sometime in February when the Ravenclaw witch next met Draco in the Room of Hidden Things. As Draco entered the Room, she immediately looked up and beamed at him. “Draco! I thought you’d be here.”

He felt disconcerted. Why was she here at this time? She only visited on Wednesday afternoons. He sighed to himself, resolving to spend a few hours unproductively with her in the Room. He supposed he could take a rest, he’s been working relentlessly for weeks after all.

It took no more than a few minutes for Draco to fall asleep against one arm of the settee. The witch beside him smiled adoringly at his sleeping figure. Why isn’t he attending classes? Why isn’t he taking meals in the Great Hall? Why does he look so exhausted? She wanted to ask but instead, she let him sleep. He looked like he really needed it. She’d ask him some other time.

Draco woke up to someone gently prodding his arm. “Hey, it’s time for lunch. And we have double Potions right after. Come on!” He couldn't believe he fell asleep! He was too disoriented to stop her from pulling him down to the Great Hall. He ignored the two Polyjuiced girls outside the Room and relished in the feeling of someone holding his arm without the intent to hurt him.

It was the first time in weeks that the student body saw Draco Malfoy in the Great Hall. It was also the first time in weeks that Theodore Nott had a partner in Potions.

-

“You weren’t at Charms and Arithmancy this morning.” The raven-haired witch said as a greeting. She found Draco holed up in the Room again that Monday afternoon.

Draco ignored her. He went to class for two straight weeks before disappearing again. It was now a few weeks into spring and he had been avoiding her. This was more important, he thought. He couldn’t slack off when his mother was trapped in their own home with that monster. No one was there to protect her from harm and Draco could only go home once he was done with this.

“What’s going on with you?” His skin had gone ever paler, how that was possible was beyond her. He lost a significant amount of weight and he really looked like he could use some sleep. Maybe a ton.

She tried not to let the sting of being ignored get to her. Instead, she sat beside Draco in her usual spot and picked a random book from the stack. It was a book on Magical genealogy. When she sneaked a glance in Draco’s direction, she found him fast asleep. This time, her smile was sad. She wondered which ones of all the rumors going around were true, if there were even any. She wondered if her questions would ever get the answers from him. She wondered if they were at least friends now.

-

One Wednesday afternoon, she brought sandwiches from lunch with her. She did so because she had no plans of going down to dinner later and not because they were for Draco because she didn’t see him at lunch. She would wait in the Room until Draco showed up. She didn’t know why she wanted to see him, only that it was imperative that she did.

She fell asleep an hour into the book she had chosen to read and when she woke up, Draco was there munching on a sandwich she brought. She definitely did not feel delighted at the sight of him. Most definitely not.

“Those are mine.” She said, in exchange for greeting (for the nth time) because she didn’t know whether a hi or hello would do for them.

“Not anymore.” He took a big bite and chewed with exaggeration. She playfully rolled her eyes at him and forced herself to read instead of watching him eat.

She wondered when he got there and why she didn’t wake up because she was a light sleeper and the door would surely rouse her if anybody came into the Room. She wondered if Draco was submitting his requirements through his friends from Slytherin because there was no way he was not getting in trouble with all the skipping he’s been doing. She wondered if he missed flying and training and playing Quidditch because she never saw him out in the field anymore. She voiced none of these because she had learned not to ask questions and just enjoyed his company.

-

Draco never acknowledged her outside of the Room of Hidden Things before so it was a surprise for her when he smiled at her as they both entered the Quidditch field to watch the Gryffindor vs Ravenclaw match. It had been brief and small so she wondered if she hallucinated the moment, barely paying attention to the game as she stared across the field to where the Slytherin prefect stood from one of the Slytherin stands.

The previous days were anxiety-ridden with rumors of Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter having a duel in a bathroom, with Draco Malfoy being seriously injured, with Harry Potter being covered in blood. The small witch never really bothered with the rumors before because most of them were far from the truth but she couldn’t stop herself from worrying anyway.

She never saw Draco in the Room anymore. He stopped attending classes for months now. The few times he ate at the Great Hall, he was always surrounded by his own friends that she found no window to approach him. So she was grateful for whatever spirits were out there for this opportunity to see him. She couldn’t even be bothered with the great loss their House suffered that day.

-

At the end of June, Albus Dumbledore died and before she even fully comprehended the news, her parents were already at Hogwarts fetching her. They stayed in Switzerland the entire summer to get away from the War.

It wasn’t until seventh year started and they were mandated to go back to school that she heard the full story from Padma Patil.

Draco Malfoy was recruited as a Death Eater before their sixth year.

Draco Malfoy attempted to assassinate Albus Dumbledore.

Draco Malfoy let Death Eaters into Hogwarts through a Vanishing Cabinet in the castle.

Severus Snape was actually a Death Eater and he killed Dumbledore in cold blood.

Draco Malfoy was now Head Boy alongside Pansy Parkinson, who was appointed Head Girl. Theodore Nott and Daphne Greengrass were appointed as Prefects as well. It was like the Inquisitorial Squad all over again.

As the Welcoming Feast went on, she thought back to all the times she spent with Draco Malfoy in the Room of Hidden Things. She thought about the broken cabinet near the stack of books where she always stayed. She thought about Draco’s interest in mending charms and the glint in his eyes when she talked about Healing magic. She thought about the times Draco fell shortly asleep as he lounged on his side of the settee. She thought about the missed meals and the skipped classes.

She found herself staring straight at Draco Malfoy from across their tables and her eyes stung with unshed tears as questions flooded her mind.

She voiced none of those either.

(Draco was ready to answer her questions now.)

She never went to the Room of Hidden Things anymore.

(Draco waited for her for months before finally giving up.)

She spent all of her free time locked up in her dormitory room until Padma Patil told her about Dumbledore’s Army. She joined them to spite him. She didn’t even know if he would care. She joined them anyway.

(Draco Malfoy wanted to talk to her but he never saw an opening. She was always with her friends when he saw her. He threw the worst fit in recorded history in the privacy of the Slytherin common room when he found out about her involvement with the D.A. 

CRAZY WITCH! WHAT WAS SHE THINKING!? JOINING THE RESISTANCE!

He gave no explanation to his friends.)

Now, she went to the Room of Requirements to train with the rest of the DA. She used her knowledge on Healing to tend to their wounds acquired from training or beatings from the Carrows.

(Draco knew each and every student affiliated with the DA. He tried to keep them out of trouble as much as his position as Head Boy allowed.

His friends have started to notice something was going on. They didn’t ask about it though. They have learned not to ask from last year.)

She stepped up when Luna disappeared and taught them to use ordinary spells as offensive or defensive spells, however they wanted to see it. Severing spell, reductor spell, exploding spell, fire-making spell. Spells with short incantations that could be used in battle to protect one’s self.

(Draco asked his personal elf, Daffy, to take care of Luna Lovegood and Garrick Ollivander while they stayed prisoner at Malfoy Manor.

His friends have caught on and started to use their positions as well to keep students out of trouble, especially those who were part of the D.A. They still didn’t ask questions, though.)

(Gregory Goyle and Vincent Crabbe pretended to enjoy the Cruciatus Curse to get the assignments of performing them on students in detention. They did so because it was better that they did it than the Carrows.)

(Blaise Zabini and Millicent Bulstrode asked the rest of the Slytherin Quidditch team to behave around other players and to not start fights with them.)

(Daphne Greengrass, Theodore Nott, and Pansy Parkinson sometimes turned a blind-eye on students breaking minor rules and only docked points when the situation was more serious, never giving them detention.)

She wondered if there will come a day that she’ll have to fight him herself.

(Draco Malfoy wondered if he could still fix things with his Ravenclaw witch.)

-

The day she dreaded most came when Harry Potter returned to Hogwarts one evening in May.

She lost count of how many she had fought, never stopping to think of who could be the people behind those masks. Her strategy was to injure her opponent’s wand hand so they couldn’t use spells against her anymore. Most of the time, she sliced their arms open. A few times, she ended up blasting their hands. And when she saw a flash of green light and Oliver Rivers, a fellow Ravenclaw, went down, she set the Death Eater responsible for it on fire.

She felt numb. She wondered if she’d survive the night.

-

When the Battle paused, she helped get the fallen bodies inside the Great Hall. 

She wondered where Draco Malfoy was, whether he was safely away from the Battle or was he fighting for the other side.

(Draco hid in the Dungeons. He had no wand so he couldn’t fight. He hoped his witch was safe as he waited for the Battle to be finally over. Saint Potter better not fuck up.)

-

When she saw Lucius Malfoy and Narcissa Malfoy screaming for their son in the midst of battle without wands in their hands, she couldn’t help but send protective shields their way. That was it. She had actually lost her mind. Protecting the Malfoys? Death Eaters? She wanted to laugh.

And when it was all finally over, she let herself drink a cold glass of water and heal the wounds she got from everything that happened that night. She was about to find a flat surface to sleep on when her eyes landed on him. He was standing between his parents, and they all looked out of place.

As she walked towards them, she wondered if she was doing the right thing. 

She stopped in front of him and took her time in checking his condition. His clothes were full of dust and rubble and were torn in some places. Fortunately, he sustained no other injury aside from the mild abrasions on his face and his split lip.

(Draco waited in bated breath. She looked alright, exhausted, but alright. He wanted to cry because the three most important people to him were all in one place.)

He was already staring at her when she met his eyes. Swallowing thickly, she said, “I can heal your wounds.” She raised her wand and gestured towards his face. At his nod of assent, she set to work.

(He wondered if this was her way of showing forgiveness. Should he even consider that? Was he worthy? He thought not, but his witch stayed with him last year despite all the rumors going around, and maybe if he did one thing right, she might give him a chance?)

All was going well. She was entirely focused on his injuries. All was well. Until he placed a (warm) hand on the small of her back and said, “I’m sorry.”

(Father once told him that if he ever made his Mother upset, just hug her and apologize. His Mother, despite her outward demeanor, loved receiving hugs. He hoped his witch did too.)

She had just finished tending to the last of his wounds when he pulled her against him and caged her in his arms. She wanted to feel angry. She wanted to lash out for all the times he never answered her questions. But he was here now, here in Hogwarts, and they weren’t running, so that had to mean something, right?

Her eyes darted nervously to his parents. They stood to the side and watched on silently. Lucius Malfoy tried and failed to keep a straight face and Narcissa Malfoy’s eyebrows were twitching.

Her face flushed an angry red in mortification. She was about to pull away when Draco stepped back himself but kept an arm around her as he faced towards his parents, steering her in the same direction.

“Father, Mother, this is Sue Li.” A voice was screaming in her head to run, flee, escape from there because she had no idea what was happening right now. She didn’t know what to feel right now! There was a lump in her throat and her chest felt like it was seconds away from exploding. “I wouldn’t be here right now if not for her.”

Susanna Li was officially losing her mind. (And Draco was enjoying every second of it.)

She wondered if she could get away with it if she hexed his balls off right now. (Draco wondered if he was going too fast.)

“A pleasure to meet you, miss Li.” Lucius Malfoy greeted.

“Mister Malfoy, Missus Malfoy,” she croaked, “I’m glad the both of you are okay.”

“Of course we would be, you made sure of that, did you not?” Sue suddenly felt woozy, praying for the ground to swallow her whole.

Narcissa Malfoy had not just said that. There was no way they could have known it was her. “Draco, darling, we wouldn’t be here now as you are if not for your friend.”

“I—” She tried, she really did, to think of anything to refute her claim, but Sue was more exhausted than she thought she was (or really, she was just distracted by the arm still wrapped around her) because words failed her.

“Perhaps it’s best that we sit.” Draco pulled her towards a bench, taking a seat before pulling her on his lap.

Narcissa and Lucius paid them no heed and instead, helped themselves with food from the table nearby. As she tried to fight against Draco, squirming and glaring at him, Sue wondered if this was all a dream.

But Draco was here, with her, and he was smiling, and Sue thought nothing else mattered in that moment. So she finally stopped fighting, because this was what she had always been waiting for, for the War to be over, and for them to finally be allowed to enjoy this, whatever this is, and leaned against Draco, burying her face in the crook of his neck before wrapping her arms around him, because finally, finally, she could do this and not have to worry about the consequences anymore.

(Draco wondered if this was a dream, and if it was, he hoped he never had to wake up.)

[end.]

-

Hey hey hey I don’t know where this came from either! AHAHAHA

(Fic Masterlist)

[dalleyan]

Diplomacy (5th chapter of new LoTR story posted, 12-12-20)

While in Rohan for Theoden’s funeral, Imrahil makes an unusual request of Eomer that has far-reaching consequences.

 Complete in 14 chapters.

 Chapter 5    (early Oct)

Lothiriel paused outside the king’s door, listening for the sounds of disurbance she had heard a moment ago.  They came again, and she recognized the jumbled sound of someone dreaming. Reluctantly she lifted the latch on the door and entered the room.  A full moon streamed through the window, easily lighting the chamber, and she turned toward the bed where Eomer was thrashing and moaning, calling out periodically.  Most of the words were mumbled and incomprehensible, but a few slipped through and it was enough for her to know the dream involved battle...and Eowyn.

She moved to the foot of the bed, safely out of his reach, knowing how dangerous it could be to approach a sleeping soldier.  She firmly called his name a few times and, when that got no results, she reached forward and caught his foot, shaking it hard.  Abruptly he launched up in the bed, and she hastily released him and sidestepped, still calling his name.  She could tell by the confused, rapid blinking he was doing that he was not yet full awake and cognizant of her presence, but at length his face cleared and he noticed her standing before him.

“Lothiriel?”  He rubbed his face with both hands.  “Is something the matter?  Why are you here?”

She moved slowly around to the side of the bed.  “You were dreaming, Eomer, and in distress.  I came to wake you.”  She sat down, turned to face him, and he was a bit disconcerted by her actions.  Some part of his mind kept insisting it was inappropriate for her to be here, but he was too disoriented to fully comprehend the situation.

“I am sorry if I disturbed you.  Please, go back to bed.  I will be fine now.  If you like, tomorrow we can move you to a room farther away so it will not happen again.” The words tumbled out rotely, and he was almost unaware of what he was saying, but she took no notice.

“I did not come to complain of the disturbance, Eomer.  I came to help ease your torment.”  He turned to look at her curiously in the moonlight, and she continued, “What were you dreaming?  I heard you mention Eowyn and it obviously dealt with battle.”

Eomer was not sure he wanted to talk about this, but perhaps it would help him get back to sleep, and it didn’t appear she intended to leave until he did.  Slowly, he told her, “It is the same dream all the time.  I dream of the Pelennor fields.  Of finding Theoden and being named his heir before he died.  Of finding Eowyn, seemingly dead.  I thought I had lost everything...everyone.  I went mad with grief and hopelessness.  I went on a rampage of killing, hacking and slashing at every orc and uruk and other enemy I could get my sword into.  I felt nothing but anger and despair, and was convinced I was to die.  I fought so blindly that I got myself and my men into a situation where we were outnumbered.  Imrahil and Gondor’s army came to our aid, but if Aragorn had not arrived to help, I might have caused many needless deaths.”  His voice trailed off into silence, as he leaned forward onto his raised knees with tears flowing down his face.

“Lie down,” Lothiriel instructed softly.

He looked at her, cautiously and surprised.  “Lie down,” she repeated, “on your side.”

With a sigh, he did as she told him and looked up at her questioningly.  Her hand reached over and began to stroke his head, and it struck him that it reminded him strongly of the way his mother used to soothe him when he had a bad dream as a boy.  She began humming a low tune, but interspersed with it, she began speaking in a gentle voice.  The effect was almost as if she was singing to him, and to his amazement, he felt his muscles starting to unbunch and relax.  “Many men, most men, would have despaired in such a situation, and likely done something just as reckless in their anguish.  You believed you were to die and you determined to take as many of them with you as possible before that happened.  You did not know if it would make a difference to the outcome of the battle, but with your last breath you fought to defend friend and family and home. There is no dishonor in that.”

She fell quiet a few moments, still stroking his head and humming, then directed, “Think of one of your happiest memories, Eomer.”

He was becoming so relaxed, he felt almost on the edge of sleep again, but after a moment he responded, “My happiest memories are when I was a child, before my parents died. Once, at harvest season, many workers had gone to pick the apples from the trees.  The children who were old enough either helped, or watched the younger children in the orchard.  I was eight and Eowyn was four.  I remember we played hide and seek for a while and then, even at that young age, she wanted me to teach her to use a sword.”  His mouth curled up at the memory.

“Describe it to me. Was it a warm day or cool?  Was the sun shining?  Birds singing?  What did you hear, smell?” Lothiriel questioned softly.

Sleepily Eomer murmured, “It was a cool day, but the sun was bright.  The darkness of Mordor had not yet overshadowed us.  I remember the sound of childish laughter, mingling with twittering birds.  I remember scolding mothers when a child did something foolish or dangerous.  I remember...Eowyn.  With her braids and her freckles and her...smile.  After our parents died, I did not see that smile very often ever again.”

Drawing him back to the happy memory, Lothiriel asked, “Did you sneak any apples to eat?”

He chuckled, “We snuck so many we did not want to eat the meal our mothers brought for us.  And when we were finished, the baskets were loaded into wagons and the children got to ride on the back end, with our legs dangling out.  Father came and met us on our way back home, and I got to ride behind him while Eowyn rode in front of him on his horse.”  Eomer’s voice had drifted so far into sleep that his words were almost unintelligble now. 

And still Lothiriel hummed and stroked his head, until the deepness of his breathing told her he was finally asleep.  Stiffly, she rose and moved slowly to the door, glancing back once before she stepped into the hall, and closed it behind her.  She pinched the bridge of her nose with weariness and sorrow.  The war might be over and Sauron’s evil defeated, but its effects would linger for a very long time – in the fatherless homes, in the maimed bodies of men, and in the tortured memories of the soldiers who fought. She had sat up nights like this with her brothers, since the fall of Sauron, and always it tore at her heart to see those dear to her so wounded.  She knew they were not alone in it.  How many other wives and sisters and mothers spent long hours consoling and comforting the men in their lives?

Wearily she returned to her room and fell into a tearful slumber.

 continue reading on AO3:

              https://archiveofourown.org/works/27848730/chapters/68671785

[coloursflyaway]

Fall On Me

Pairing: Crowley/Aziraphale

Rating: T

Word Count: 4.200

Tags: Fluff, mutual pining, love confessions, getting together, first kiss

Link to AO3

Occasionally, Crowley still thinks of Alpha Centauri. Although, no, it’s hardly enough to be classified a thought, more the hint of one, the notional equivalent of picking up just a little bit of another radio station while listening to music. Not because there isn’t enough to think about, not even because he doesn’t want to, but because he absolutely forbids himself to do anything more. He’d forbid himself from thinking about it entirely, but unfortunately his brain is not like his house plants and cannot be frightened into submission. Crowley knows this because he has tried. Several times.

So, he still occasionally thinks of Alpha Centauri. They’re not the clearest thoughts he has ever had, because all of those had come from a healthy mix of not sleeping and three hundred quid’s worth of cocaine pumping through his bloodstream, they’re more of the fuzzy and shapeless kind that leaves you a bit disoriented afterwards. Their topics include, but are not limited to:

the vast nothingness of space

the lack of gravity

Aziraphale

the problem of deciding on which of the twin stars to settle on

the possibility of solar flares feeling ticklish

Aziraphale

the new and exciting possibilities of inhabiting a new solar system

Aziraphale

Some of them, like wondering if he would be able to taste the magnetic activity of his new home, are relatively comforting thoughts, while others are quite the opposite. Anything, that is, that has to do with a certain angel. And of course, it is those thoughts which take up the vast majority of the time he spends thinking about Alpha Centauri; it’s all light blonde hair and soft wrinkles that make gentle eyes look gentler, cream-coloured suits and smiles so bright that Crowley thinks he might remember Heaven for a moment. What makes it more difficult is that it is so easy, impossibly easy, one might say, to go from there to, well. Alpha Centauri. And how it could have been if they had let the Earth implode, run away together and made a new life there. Maybe without books, without wine and without his Bentley, but with each other and with an eternity to spend.

The thought, even if is just fleeting, a minor ripple in the dark, menacing sea that is Crowley’s mind, is enough to make something bloom in his chest that is decidedly undemonic, something warm and soft and bright, something that is as old as it is new, and as beautiful as it is torturous. He knows what it is, has known it for at least four thousand years, which is the precise reason why the Feeling has remained nameless, even if it is stubbornly clinging to the door in Crowley’s mind through which he is continuously trying to push it.

It’s the Feeling which is making Crowley think of Alpha Centauri now too, because he can feel the first tendrils of it spreading in his chest, just waiting for a crack in his vigilance to strangle him. He won’t let it, he decides, while he watches Aziraphale pop another biscuit into his mouth, humming like it’s the best thing he has ever tasted when Crowley knows for a fact that he got them for ninety-nine pence at Tesco half an hour ago. But there is something endearing about it, the way Aziraphale’s eyes flutter shut for a moment, the corners of his lips turn up ever so slightly, how he throws another biscuit at a duck, hitting it square in the face, and how he looks at it with slight regret, because he won’t get to eat it. The biscuit, that is.

“So?”, Crowley prompts, before he can think of something stupid, like wonder if Aziraphale’s eyes would look differently in another sun’s light. “Hm?” Aziraphale looks over to him, his face such a perfect picture of innocence that Crowley can’t be anything but suspicious. “The thing. The thing that you wanted to talk about. That you didn’t want to discuss on the phone.” It could be literally anything, from a new cat that the angel had spotted hanging around the book shop to another bout of the Apocalypse, the this-time-actual end of the world, time, and everything Crowley has ever held dear, so he had decided very early on that he would not worry about it. Only that deciding something and actually doing it seems to be mutually exclusive. “Oh. Right. Yes.”

Aziraphale straightens almost imperceptibly, going weirdly still, and the danger scale in Crowley’s mind is suddenly tipped violently towards BAD.   “It is hardly anything, really”, Aziraphale says softly, looking stubbornly down at his biscuits, and the scale tips further. “A trifle, really. Just something that we, well, not discussed, but something that was mentioned.” Crowley waits for a few seconds if the angel intends to say anything else, but when nothing comes, he prompts, “Yes?” Not really because he wants to know that badly, but because he doesn’t want to give the building anxiety any more room in his mind than it has annexed already.

“Yes. Well. If you perchance remember, I think it was in the seventies, or maybe the late sixties, now that I think of it, I had brought you the holy water, and you…” Again, Aziraphale doesn’t finish the sentence, instead his voice goes softer, softer, until it’s gone; Crowley remembers the evening more than clearly, the heist and the hope and the heartbreak. “What I am trying to say, back then we talked about having ourselves a little picknick at some point. And since the world doesn’t appear to be ending anytime soon I figured, why not do that now? As long as we still have time.”

Crowley, just a few weeks ago, has stopped time himself, and yet Aziraphale seems to be able to do the same thing, because the Earth most definitely stops, everyone around them stops, and Crowley’s relatively useless heart? Oh, it stops the hardest of all.

Because he knows what that moment meant to him, that one second in which he thought that maybe they were on the same page after all, because he knows what he wants this to mean, because… because he knows it can’t be that. He takes a deep breath, and squashes what could be hope blossoming in his chest like he has done with a dozen ants on the way here.

“…yeah”, he answers Aziraphale what would have been several seconds too late, had time not stopped in between to give his heart the chance to break.  Another deep breath, since it almost feels like he needs twice as much air to speak even a single word right now. “Sure. Anywhere special you want to go to?” “No.” Finally Aziraphale looks up, smiling so brightly it hurts Crawley’s eyes even with his sunglasses on; as much as he hates it, he can feel his heart mending in his chest. “Wherever you want to go, dear boy.”

 They agree on meeting on Tuesday, because Tuesday seems like the right day to choose, and as always Crowley picks Aziraphale up at his book store. He looks… different. Crowley cannot pinpoint why, or how, because Aziraphale is wearing the same too proper clothes, his hair tousled, a picknick basket in one of his hands, but there is something just off about him, like something has changed without Crowley noticing. The thought is vaguely disconcerting.

Crowley doesn’t bother getting out, just waits until Aziraphale gets into the car; like always the world seems a little bit brighter as soon as he’s near. “Mornin’, angel”, he greets, and Aziraphale gives him a smile that also isn’t quite right, but too close to it for Crowley to say anything. “Does this really still count as morning?”, Aziraphale asks instead of answers, “It’s a bit late for that, isn’t it? I suppose it could count as a very late morning, if you insist, even if I would definitely say it’s closer to midday.” “I don’t insist on anything.”

It’s impossible to keep the amusement from his voice, and Aziraphale must notice it, because he flashes Crowley another smile; this time it feels real. “In that case, good midday to you to. Have you decided where we’ll go by now?” “Absolutely not.” He flashes Aziraphale a toothy grin and starts the car to go wherever it wants to take them. “Just as well.” The angel looks away from Crowley, out of the window to watch London’s streets pass them by, every molecule of his earthly body radiating contentment, and there is something about this too, Crowley thinks as he almost runs over a very small woman and her even smaller dog. It’s almost like something clicked in place, some part of Aziraphale’s brain that used to tick, or click or move in another rather infuriating way, and which now has found the one place it fits in and made it its home.

“Maybe somewhere green would be nice”, Aziraphale says slowly, every word crisp and clear in the warm air, “Proper green, I mean. Not the way a park is, more like the countryside. Green and… peaceful. Yes. I think that would do nicely. What do you say?”

What Crowley wants to say is something close to the lines of this: I have absolutely no preference when it comes to this, because I haven’t cared less about anything in the last century than I care about picknicks, but I would willingly walk through the Pearly Gates of Heaven with you if it meant we spent more time with each other.

What Crowley says, however, is this: “Sounds good enough to me.” Which doesn’t quite hold the same emotional gravity.

“Splendid”, Aziraphale answers nonetheless, absolutely oblivious and lets one of his hands drop down from the wicker basket he is balancing on his lap, despite Crowley, like always, driving at a speed that would make some tornados dreadfully jealous. The hand lands in the most inopportune places it could, at least from Crowley’s perspective, which is between them, palm turned towards the sky and fingers stretched out just enough that the tips brush against Crowley’s thighs every so often. It’s the perfect position for someone to take it, hold it tightly, maybe even wave their fingers together to feel the thrum of blood beneath Aziraphale’s skin.

Even taking in account the one time his entire car was on fire, it’s still the worst drive of Crowley’s life.

 They arrive… well, they arrive somewhere. Not that the where part matters much to Crowley, he just stops the car when Aziraphale next to him mutters something like, “Don’t you think that this looks nice?” In Crowley’s opinion it really doesn’t. It’s essentially a field, very green and kind of soggy, complete with a few stubborn bushes that have yet to get the memo about agriculture and an unenthusiastic crow picking at an invisible object that might, or might not, be food. It’s as boring as the English countryside can get, but Aziraphale smiles at the crow like it’s the most magical of God’s creations and transforms the entire scene into something worthwhile.

So they get out of the car, Aziraphale still holding tightly onto his basket, Crowley’s thigh burning with the residual angelic touch; when the angel has found a slightly less soggy spot, they spread the chequered blanket on the ground and when they sit, Aziraphale is just a little too close. He must not notice how their knees touch, but Crowley does.

Deft fingers pull plate after box after platter from the basket, fresh strawberries and little sandwiches, scones and clotted cream and a tiny jar of jam, slices of cold meat and three different kinds of bread rolls, and as a triumphant finale an entire chocolate covered cake. Crowley can’t do anything but watch, both surprised at the amount of food and surprised that he’s even surprised. “Angel, how long do you intend to stay here? A fortnight?”, he asks, the surprise firmly refusing to leave his voice just yet. Aziraphale’s ears turn slightly pink.

“I, er, I couldn’t decide. You see, you never told me what you wanted to eat, so I just. Brought everything.” His voice is smaller than usual, but his eyes are still bright when he looks up at Crowley through his lashes, who promptly forgets how to be snarky for the first time since his creation. “That’s – “, he starts, then chokes on the words he couldn’t think of anyway, because Aziraphale gently lays his hand on Crowley’s knee. It’s the smallest of touches, and yet Crowley can feel the warmth he hasn’t possessed for centuries burn through the fabric of his jeans, heating up his skin. “Nice”, he finishes lamely, at least several moments too late, hoping that his glasses are dark enough to conceal the fact that his eyes are glued on Aziraphale’s perfectly manicured fingers on his knee, stretching out to touch his thigh.

“That’s because I am an angel, dear, it’s what we’re meant to do”, Aziraphale says easily, no change in his tone of voice. His other hand is picking up one of the tiny sandwiches like he isn’t aware that he has just launched Crowley’s mind into space, more accurately 4,37 light years away to Alpha Centauri, where it is plucking the fantasy of the life they could possibly have had right from the gaseous surface and transporting it here. To this field, this moment, this eternity. It’s impossible, and yet this time, Crowley doesn’t manage to squash the hope completely before it can bloom in his chest.

It’ll hurt like a bitch when Aziraphale eventually breaks his heart again.

Fingers tightening around his thigh bring Crowley back to Earth entirely, to Aziraphale smiling at him with eyes that should not be allowed to look so kind. “You should try one of the scones”, he tells Crowley brightly, “I picked them up at this charming little store in Edinburgh in the morning, they’re absolutely scrumptious.”

The scone is halfway to his mouth when Crowley really, truly realises what Aziraphale has said, isn’t just taking an order. It makes him pause, hand raised and mouth hanging open before forming the first string of passably sensible words since they sat down. “You went to Edinburgh for scones?”

This time, it’s not just Aziraphale’s ears that turn pink, it’s the tip of his nose and the apples of his cheeks too, leaving Crowley with the very demonic urge to just eat him whole. “I might have”, Aziraphale admits, sounding bashful. “But I was there anyway to pick up the jam, so it really wasn’t much of a bother.” “…the jam.” A moment passes with Crowley just trying to understand what is being said, but then again, this is the angel he had to break out of prison because of crepes. The thought passes, quicker than expected, because another pushes and pulls until it can take its place. “Where are the strawberries from?”

The blush dusted across Aziraphale’s face grows deeper in shade, and Crowley cannot be absolutely certain of the answer, because it is mumbled into the rest of the sandwich the angel is stuffing into his mouth. “Trondheim.” “The cake?” “This lovely café in Vienna, really charming, you’d love the décor-“ “What about the sandwiches?” “Oh.” For the first time, no colour changes on Aziraphale’s face, instead he looks vaguely pleased, which only makes Crowley more suspicious. “Those I made myself. I even cut off the crusts, see?”

Aziraphale holds up one of the little crust-less triangles for Crowley to see, a grave mistake. “That salmon is not from Sainsbury’s though, is it?” “It could be”, Aziraphale answers, telling Crowley that it absolutely isn’t. “There is absolutely no reason to think it isn’t from a local supermarket and instead from… from a small shop in Cordova, Alaska.” His voice grows more strained with every word he’s saying, and Crowley can’t help but chuckle.

“Really, angel”, he says without any malice, but a lot of amusement. “I always knew you were crazy about food, but –“ He doesn’t get to finish, because Aziraphale interrupts him, words flying from his mouth in a way that reminds Crowley of the eruption of Mount Vesuvius. “I’m not. Crazy about food I mean. I mean, I am, but that’s not – it isn’t what this is all about, it’s not – “Aziraphale pauses, and something changes in his posture, or maybe the slant of his mouth, or maybe the intensity of his gaze. Whatever it is, it steadies the angel’s voice when he finally finishes his sentence. “None of this was for me.”

It doesn’t make much sense. “Who’s it for, then?”, Crowley asks, stealing the sandwich from between the angel’s fingers and stuffing the whole thing into his mouth. Over the past millennia, Crowley thought he had seen every possible facial expression on Aziraphale, but he’s proven wrong right here, in the English country side, because never before in all of creation has a creature looked upon another with such utter incredulity painted across his face. “Crowley”, Aziraphale says, sounding as stunned as he looks, almost desperate. Crowley chokes on his sandwich.

“What?”, he gasps out once he can speak again, having miracled the sandwich from his tracheae to Alpha Centauri, the first place he could think of. His voice is hoarse nonetheless, but it doesn’t matter, since he can hardly form more than one word. “What?” “I thought it was obvious!” Aziraphale is flailing, hands flapping through the warm summer air. “It’s what we discussed! A picknick, or a dinner at the Ritz, and since you didn’t do anything when we were at the Ritz, I thought – “ “I didn’t do anything?” Crowley interrupts him, sounding at least as scandalised as he feels. “I did everything! All the time! I asked you to run away with me to Alpha Centauri!” “Well. Yes.” Aziraphale huffs slightly, crossing his arms in front of his body. “I guess we both can agree that wasn’t your best idea.”

They can, but Crowley cannot admit that right now, especially not when his heart is finally starting to realise what exactly they are bickering about. It’s not a sudden thing, realising, it’s more like making a good cup of tea in the morning, letting the tea bag steep just the perfect amount of time, adding milk or sugar or in Crowley’s case, nothing at all. Realising takes time, time which he, after 6000 years, more than deserves. At first, it doesn’t feel like much at all, maybe like a small fit of cardiac arrest, but the sensation grows stronger, his heart seemingly sucking in blood without pumping it back into his system, growing wider, fuller, heavier. Warmer, too. It seizes up, like it wishes it could explode, and Crowley thinks, for the first time without panic clinging to the words, Oh shit, he knows.

He must know, maybe not quite the extent, or the amount of time, or the sheer mind-numbing pain of it, but Aziraphale knows, and not only that, he doesn’t mind. In fact, it seems that – and Crowley’s heart suddenly releases the blood it has been hoarding all at once, filling every vein, every vessel with warm, tingling knowledge – Aziraphale might reciprocate. An impossible thought, and yet there is a hand on Crowley’s knee still, there are the angel’s eyes on him, unwaveringly kind, unfailingly loving.

His heart beats another time, and the warmth is almost unbearable, the intensity, the brilliance of the feeling enough to make Crowley forget how to breathe for a solid minute, if not longer. After such a long time, he can’t quite recall what it was like to gaze at God, but he thinks it must have felt something close to this.

Crowley is almost done with realising, the tea close to finish steeping, but there is still something missing, there is still the need to hear Aziraphale say it out-loud and make it real. “You mean…?”, he croaks out, because he has quite forgotten how to speak, but it’s enough for the angel to understand. “I suppose you could say that I finally caught up to your speed.”

Up until now, Crowley would have said he knew every single of Aziraphale’s smiles by heart, but this moment proves him wrong; the corners of the angel’s mouth pull up in a way he has never seen before, a curve of lips that makes Crowley’s heart shine brighter than all stars of Alpha Centauri combined. It’s a small smile, a kind one, but most importantly one that tells its audience that the person wearing it harbours not a single trace of doubt in their mind. And it’s directed at him.

A small part of Crowley still wants to ask Are you sure? but he doesn’t, because he knows. He knows with an intensity that makes it feel like he has never known anything in his life before, like all dogmatic principles of Heaven and Hell could only pale in comparison to the certainty of Aziraphale’s hand squeezing his knee, his eyes filled with an amount of love that should have to be enough for the entire Earth, not just one single entity on it.

“Alright”, Crowley says instead, mostly because he isn’t quite sure what to say, can’t think about it with Aziraphale looking at him like that. In all his life, Crowley never really understood the concept of physical beauty, at least not until now. Because now he can’t even think of tearing his eyes from the angel’s face, committing every groove, every slope and curve of it to memory once more, can’t imagine anything he’d rather look at for the rest of eternity. Aziraphale is beautiful, maybe not for human standards, maybe not even angelic ones, but he’s the most beautiful thing in all of existence in Crowley’s eyes.

Something starts to grow next, maybe inside, the Feeling inside his chest, something that feels more longing, maybe a little bit hotter still, a yearning, a hunger, something that is inextricably connected to this human body he is inhabiting. It isn’t lust, but at the same time not terribly far removed from it, a craving which informs Crowley in no uncertain terms that it will not go anywhere unless it is satisfied.

A moment passes until Crowley realises what it is his mortal body wants; when he does, he’s, well. Surprised. He’s seen humans do it before, but never has been terribly impressed with the concept. All in all, it seems relatively pointless, wet and possibly unsanitary, and yet his gaze flickers down to Aziraphale’s lips, which look plush and soft and impossibly inviting. Like they would feel perfect pressed against any patch of Crowley’s skin, most of all against his own mouth.

Maybe it’s because he never expected to be in this position that Crowley never considered how it would be to kiss Aziraphale, but the second the thought appears in his mind it overtakes it completely, leaves Crowley breathless with want. He looks down on Aziraphale’s hand on his leg, then slowly, ever so slowly, covers it with his own. Aziraphale’s skin is warm, soft, doesn’t feel angelic but human, and suddenly, it’s the simplest thing in the world to lean in.

Their lips meet in the middle, since apparently Crowley wasn’t the only one thinking about it, and it’s with the first touch that his eyes flutter shut, almost an involuntary response. It’s a soft kiss, a chaste one, a perfect kiss to be the first of a million.

Beneath Crowley’s hand Aziraphale turns his own around, weaves their fingers together and holds onto Crowley’s hand like it’s the only thing that is keeping him from sinking. And Crowley, lips parting easily to deepen the kiss, eager to take every little ounce of love Aziraphale is willing to give, seconds the sentiment.

They break apart at some point, and it’s only because their surroundings haven’t changed significantly that Crowley knows that they haven’t spent a century kissing. Still, it feels like it could have been that long, because everything has changed. Not the world, but then again, the world was never that significant; the sun isn’t brighter, but he is, and looking at Aziraphale, the angel is, too.

“So”, Crowley says after another moment-slash-eternity, “This is happening now, right? I mean, for a longer amount of time. I mean, for-“ He stops, cannot say it, cannot even think it. Even if it seems like a lifetime away since he thought it impossible altogether, it still hasn’t been long enough to truly wrap his head around the concept. Aziraphale seems to know, for once takes the plunge so Crowley won’t have to. His eyes are glittering with the sunshine of an early autumn day and his own celestial light as he takes their intertwined hands and raises them up to his lips, presses a kiss to each of Crowley’s knuckles, just as sweet as their first one was. And his voice is almost as soft when he, lips still grazing Crowley’s skin, says, "Yes, dear, I think forever would be quite the right word for it."

[detectivejigsawpines]

A Pinesmas Carol-part 7 (Decking in the halls)

*If you want, you can imagine the Trans-Siberian Orchestra's version of "Carol of the Bells" playing during parts of this. It feels kind of appropriate.

Clink.

It was a tiny sound, barely audible in the stillness of the night; just a small, muffled noise that was barely recognizable as glass breaking.

But it had Stan opening his eyes almost immediately... and sliding the brass knuckles he’d kept under his pillow onto one hand, while opening his knife with the other.

Slowly he slid out from under the covers, straining his ears as he got to his feet.  Was there a creak of hinges that came after, or was he just imagining it because of how wound up he was?

Sounds like that came from the back door.  Do I go there to investigate, or stay here and make sure nobody ambushes my family while they’re sleeping?

If it had been just him, then it would have been easier, he wouldn’t have needed to worry about having to protect-

Wait a minute.  Where’s Ford?!

The makeshift bed contained a distinct absence of long-limbed nerd (unless you counted Shermie, but he didn’t fit the description well enough as far as Stan was concerned).

Horrifying possibilities flitted into his head: Archer or one of his goons could’ve already broken in and seen Ford first, and thought he was Stan so they grabbed him and somehow took him without waking anyone else up; he could have gotten up to investigate on his own and got captured, and maybe even now they were-

Chill out!  You literally cannot afford to panic right now if you want your family to get out of this alive.

Then, to his relief, Shermie was awake, sitting up and rubbing his eyes.

“What is it?” he whispered, looking up at Stan.

“I think I heard something,” Stan whispered back.  Then, decision made, he handed him the switchblade.  “Just in case anyone tries comin’ through the front.”

And before Shermie could answer he crept into the hallway.

****

Stan moved into the kitchen, glad that the windows were letting in a few squares of light so he could see that...the room was empty.

On the one hand, if there were intruders, they hadn’t come in here: good.

On the other hand, there was still a significant absence of Ford: bad.

Maybe he’s upstairs.

Was it worth checking?  Shermie was awake and armed now, and if they’d decided to go upstairs and found his twin-not that Ford couldn’t handle himself if push came to shove, but old instincts died hard-

A dark form was suddenly looming in the kitchen doorway, and lunging towards him; something long and metallic-looking flashed in its hand.

Stan didn’t think twice before snatching one of the chairs away from the table and bringing it down on the figure’s head.

So much for tryna be stealthy.

...Oh crap, I really hope that wasn’t Ford.

But to his relief, when he pulled the now prone figure into one of the pools of light, he saw that it was a totally different man: bulkier than Ford or Shermie, wearing a thick black turtleneck.  With a large wrench in his hand, just the right size for smashing onto someone’s head.

Stan glared, and snatched it up.

Finders keepers, loser.

And then, just as he was straightening up again, he felt something cold and metal press into the side of his skull.

****

It was only made worse by the fact that this new guy-another of Archer’s thugs, Stan was guessing-didn’t start monologuing like any self-respecting comic book villain would have done when they had someone at gunpoint, or even say something along the lines of “Archer’s been looking for you for a long time, Pinowski.”  He just stood there quietly and waited for Stan to straighten and turn to face him.

Once that was done he moved his hand, gesturing towards the hallway.

Of course.  Archer doesn’t want me dead just yet.  He’s probably either gonna try ta take me somewhere else now and finish the job like he tried to last time...or he wants ta threaten my family first, make me beg for their lives before he kills them anyway.

...Screw that.

Stan, in a move that would have had police officers (and his mother) tearing their hair out and lecturing him for a good half-hour on his recklessness, suddenly jerked to the side and grabbed the goon’s wrist, pushing it down and twisting the gun.  Something in the other man’s trigger finger cracked, and he screamed as Stan yanked the gun out of his hand, before landing a blow to his jaw that collapsed him right next to his buddy.

Once he was sure he was out for the count, Stan stepped out into the hallway, his new gun drawn-

And there was Archer.

He had a few new scars along his nose and forehead, and his hair had grown out a little; other than that he hadn’t changed much.

There was yet another generic thug standing behind him, also with a gun in hand.

Sheesh, you’d think I was the first guy ever ta stop him from selling kids.  Unless he gives this kinda treatment ta everyone who p_sses him off.

For a moment they just stood there, staring at each other...before Stan smiled crookedly and waved with his free hand.

“How’s it hangin’?”

Archer’s own smile was pretty thin and mirthless.  “I was sure you were here.”

Stan aimed at the jerk’s chest.  “Well, you found me. And now you’re gonna leave.”

Archer raised a skeptical eyebrow.  “I don’t think so.”

The generic thug lifted his gun, pointing it...over Stan’s shoulder.

He glanced behind him (even though he knew how dangerous it was to take his eyes off his target), and let out a small curse of frustration.  Because there was Shermie, standing behind him in plain sight like an idiot when he should have been hiding in the living room where he’d be safe with his family for a little longer, why had he thought this was a good idea-

He was probably coming to see if you needed help, a voice in Stan’s head whispered, and he groaned, lowering the gun in defeat and then dropping it to the ground.

Archer nodded his approval.  “Good boy. Now come here.”

Stan only had time to take one step forward-before a voice sounded from the top of the stairs.

“Don’t touch him.”

****

As you might have guessed, it was Ford.  Standing there, with a lit candle (where did he even get that?) placed on the banister next to him, a small bell in one hand, and his journal open in the other.

“What the [ CENSORED ]-” Archer began to say.

Ford just talked over him.  Or, more specifically, he began to chant, while ringing the bell.

“Mutare, mutare,

Lusus naturae,

Facti quod tu es,

Facti quod tu es,

FACTI QUOD TU ES!”

Then he slammed the journal shut, and some incredibly crazy crap happened.

****

Specifically, Archer and the thug, and, judging by the flash in the kitchen, the two other jerks, were all suddenly surrounded by an angry-looking red light.  It enveloped them entirely, and then...they began to disappear.

Or maybe shrink, since their clothes were still in place, and they just seemed to be disappearing into them, kind of like the Wicked Witch of the West.

There was some screaming, but it didn’t last very long.  Until finally, all that was left were two lumpy piles of clothes.

Ford slowly descended the stairs, carrying the candle now, and looked over at Stan.

“You all right?”

Stan nodded slowly, eyes feeling a little wide.  “Um, Poindexter...what did you just do?”

“Let’s see.”

And on that cryptic note he went over to the pile of clothes that used to be Archer, and began digging through it-until at last he lifted out...a baby.

A somewhat chubby, disoriented-looking baby, not exactly newborn but probably not more than a few weeks old, who on being exposed to the air began to kick and scream.

“...You turned them into babies?” Stan asked over the noise, staring in disbelief at what he was realizing had to be Archer regressed into an infant or whatever the term was.

“Not precisely.  The spell was to turn them into whatever they are at their basic essence.  I suppose this can be interpreted as saying that at heart, Archer-” Ford’s lip curled at the name- “was a spoiled child used to getting whatever he wanted, perhaps.”  He finally registered that he was holding a naked infant in his arms, and set him down in the pile of clothes, blushing.

Curious, Stan went to the other pile of clothes-which had begun moving on its own, and shaking, until a dark-furred puppy stuck its head out.  It looked up at him and whined.

Stan gave Ford a disbelieving stare; he looked equally nonplussed, but finally said, “A loyal dog, I guess?”

Stan snorted...but decided not to argue the point.  He guessed it made a kind of sense, at least to magic.

“Wonder what the other two mooks were.”  Stan gestured to the kitchen.

Ford peered in-and a second later pulled his head back out in a disgusted grimace.

“...They turned into a weasel and a rat, respectively.”

“That makes sense.”  Stan was disconcerted to realize that the puppy had wandered over to him and was now attempting to climb into his lap.  He made a few futile attempts to shove it off, until he admitted defeat and started petting it, deciding not to think too much about the fact that a few minutes ago this had been a person who was attempting to shoot his brother.

“And weasels are known to be occasional predators of rats.”

“Oh, eugh.”  Stan made a face similar to his twin’s as he realized what he was saying.  “How bad’s the mess?”

“The weasel’s about halfway finished with his meal.”  There was a chewing, tearing sound from inside. Stan decided he was happier not seeing it.

Then he half-turned, still with the puppy in his lap...and saw the expressions on the faces of Shermie and Rebecca and Xander, who were all standing in the living room doorway and gaping at them.

Stan gulped.

“...Um...I guess we should probably explain.”

********

...Okay, technically most of the decking took place in the kitchen. But it was close enough, okay?

This explanation should be fun for everyone.

[avengerscompound]

Switch

Switch: A Hawkeye Fanfic

Buy me a ☕ Character Pairing:  Clint Barton x F!Reader

Rating:  E

Word Count:  2691

Warnings:  smut (M|F, Virginity loss, oral and vaginal sex, it’s pretty vanilla but also the weirdest sex scene I’ve ever written)

Synopsis:   Touching people means you swap bodies with them.  It has meant that since your powers kicked in as a child you have avoided all body contact. Clint offers to give you the touch you have been craving for so long.

A/N:  For the @clintbartonbingo fill:  Body Swap

Switch

You twisted your gloved hands together, looking down at them without raising your eyes.  You knew Clint was waiting for an answer.  You could see him in your peripheral shifting nervously in his seat.

The thing was, your initial reaction was to say yes.  Truthfully, you were touch starved.  You hadn’t been held properly by anyone since your powers had come in as a child and you had body swapped with your mom who was giving you a birthday hug.  After that, it was just tentative pats on the shoulder where people were extremely careful not to make skin contact.  Which was just as well really.  Swapping bodies with people was horrible.

It always felt like you had fallen rapidly and then jerked to a stop, leaving you disoriented.  Then you were left facing yourself wearing an even more disoriented and slightly nauseated expression on your face.  It wasn't like looking in a mirror either. It was somehow worse because now you saw yourself how others saw you.  Something no person was ever supposed to experience.  It always made your head spin - even if it had happened several times before.

Then all the weird little differences would kick in.  Body shape, weight, sex, the hormone differences from person to person.  People perceived color differently thanks to the numbers of cones and rods their eyes.  They tasted things differently too.

A personality is formed from a lot of things.  Experience.  Your brain function.  Nutrition.  Hormone levels.  Body swapping just left you with experience and being in the body of a person with depression, anxiety, bipolar, or even things like schizophrenia, dissociative identity disorder or antisocial personality disorders affected you.  It made it hard to think clearly or rationally.  If they heard voices so did you.  It wasn't like you didn't have your own set of medical conditions both physical and mental to deal with, you didn't really need anyone else's.

So you always covered up, head to toe.  All the time.  Never wanting to risk an accidental touch.  Even around people that you liked.  Shit, even around your pets.  It really, really sucked getting swapped with an animal.  They panicked hard and would bolt scrambling away on all fours in your hijacked body and you would have to chase after them so you could switch back.

But you did miss it touch.  You wanted to be held by someone and not worry about being jerked into their body.  You wanted to know what it was like to have someone's lips against yours.  To feel what sex was actually like and not just what it felt like to masturbate.

So now Clint had offered to just do it anyway.  To switch and just keep going.  You were tempted.  Maybe even if it was his body. It might still feel good.

Plus, you did love him.  You hated that his loving you meant he missed out.  This had definitely never been in the plans.  You had planned to spend your life alone.

But Clint was annoying.  That good kind of annoying where he was always there to make sure you were okay because he was very not okay and if he could make sure other people were that at least was something.  He hadn't planned to fall in love either.  He just didn't want you to isolate yourself.  So anytime you pushed people away he pushed back with pizza and a movie.  Or some story about the circus.  Or taking you out to teach you archery.

Then, because you kept pushing and he kept pushing back you just fell into a rhythm of being side by side and not touching.

Then he began to touch.

It was never skin contact and it started simple.  A hand on your back, a pat on the shoulder.  Then it was more.  His hand on your leg.  Wrapping his arms around your waist.  A kiss on the top of your head while your hood was pulled up. Giving your ass a smack as he passed you.

Those weren't enough though.  You had both needed more.

You experimented.  Masturbating while sitting watching the other.  Letting him palm at your pussy or breasts through your clothes.  Once you had put on three pairs of latex gloves, lubed up your palm and jerked him off to completion.  It has felt oddly sterile though, given you didn't want to risk his hands on you and you definitely didn't want to kiss.

God, how you wanted to kiss him.  You wanted to be able to have his arms around you and not worry that your shirt might ride up and then you were suddenly the one doing the holding.  You wanted to lie naked and have his skin against yours.  To have his cock buried to the hilt inside your cunt.

You could say yes, but would you even get to feel that if you tried?

“It doesn't feel good when it happens and there's a pretty high chance we’ll keep flipping back and forth while it's happening.  Might not lend itself to lovemaking,” You said, not looking at him.

“We can stop if we don’t like it.  This is just a ‘try it and see’,” Clint said.

“Don’t you think it would be weird to look at yourself while you're having sex.  Like… having sex with yourself?”

He shrugged.  “Everything I do is weird.  I’ll close my eyes if I have to.  It’s still going to be you I’m with.”

You fidgeted with the fingers of your gloves wanting to say yes but not having the courage to do it.  He reached over the table and put his hand on yours.  Even that small gesture of his hand on your gloved skin was enough to reassure you and send a tingle through you.  “If you really don’t want to, it’s okay.  I just… I want to try to give a little of what you keep saying you want.”

You raised your eyes to his.  He smiled, making his eyes crinkle at the corners.  “Okay.  We can try it.”

“Okay.  Great.  Great.  Right,” Clint said pulling his chair up and standing up.  “Okay.  So how do you want to do this?”

You stood up and started to take off your gloves and the hoodie you wore.   “Let’s start with a kiss. Then see how you feel.”

Clint nodded and stepped closer to you.  He held his hands out awkwardly and slowly placed them on your hips.  You moved a little closer and he started to lean into you.  “Clint,” you said quietly.

“Mmm?”  He hummed leaning in a little more.

“I’ve never kissed anyone before,” you replied.

“Then we’ll make it count.”

You bridged the difference and when your lips touched you feel the tug deep in you, followed by the feeling of vertigo, and suddenly you were inside Clint.  Clint jerked back suddenly and you opened your eyes.  He was a different body shape and more muscular.  His vision much, much better.  The height was off too.  There was a disconcerting feeling of occupying space differently, but it was nowhere near as disconcerting as looking at your own body standing opposite you looking down at itself.  “Is this really how you see blue?”  He asked.

You started laughing and the sound was off, muffled and a little and too deep.  “It’s weird, right?  You can back out.”

He shook his head - your head - and took a few steps forward.  “No, no I’m still up for it.  You wanna give it a go?”

You nodded your head and his hands went to your hips again.  Or your hands went to his.  It was hard to keep track of these things.  You kissed again.  There was the tug and the feeling of falling and you were you again kissing Clint Barton.  With your own lips moving against his.  Like you had dreamed about and wished for.  Only better.  His tongue slipped out and coaxed your lips apart as his hands slid up under your shirt.  A first.  No one in your memory had ever touched your stomach.  Nor had they moved their hand so gently up to your breast and cupped it.

Tug and rush and you were inside Clint again and it was you cupping his breast and your tongue running over his teeth.  He groaned softly and you pulled back breaking the kiss but leaving your hands on his skin.

“Bedroom?”  You asked.

He nodded, his eyes blown out and slightly dazed.  “Yes,” he said, his voice cracking slightly.  It was always weird hearing yourself talk.  “Yeah.  Let’s do this.”

You let him go and went to the bedroom.  When you got there, you froze not sure what to do or how this was possibly going to work.  Clint came up behind you.  “I say we get naked,” he said.

“Can I look in the mirror while I do?”  You asked.

He grinned.  “That sounds like a great idea.”

You both stood in front of the mirrors on the closet door and stripped off your close.  You kept your eyes trained on yourself taking in Clint’s athletically, toned body with his various, cuts, bruises and scars.  When you got to the underwear you paused.  You could already feel how his cock was hardening.   You had seen him naked before.  More than once.  You’d even seen him hard.  But now you were nervous. Like it was invasive to see him naked and hard when it was you controlling his body.

You took a breath and lowered his boxers.  His cock sprung up and you started giggling at how ridiculous this was.

“Hey don’t laugh at my dick,” Clint teased as he stood looking at himself in the mirror.  He cupped your breasts and turned around.

“Well stop perving on me,” you teased back.

“I like perving on you.”

You sighed and turned to look at him as he stood there in your body.  “Okay, so now what?”

“Alright.  Because it’s your first time you’re gonna need to be super ready.  I’ll go down on you, which will start with me actually going down on you but then probably will switch.  You think you can handle that?”  He said.

“I - I don’t know,” you answered, thinking about how weird it would be to eat yourself out.  “I guess we can try.”

“Yeah, we can,” Clint teased.  “Alright, I’ll lie back on the bed, you get between my legs and then touch me.”

You nodded and the two of you moved into position.  Him laying back on the bed and you between his legs.  You looked down at your naked body stretched out and legs spread before you. It was odd to say the least.  You put your hands on your thighs and…

Switch.  Clint dropped his head between your legs before that feeling of vertigo had even passed.   It was like he placed a large open mouth kiss on your pussy, and his tongue swirled around.  It was like nothing you had ever felt.  Intimate and sensitive.  It sent a current running through you and you bucked up under his mouth.

Whether it was because you were so touched starved or because this was what sex was like, or just that Clint was really, really good at what he did, you weren’t sure, but it was good.  Too good.  You went from being nervous and overthinking it to being unable to focus on anything except the pleasure that was surging through you.  When he pushed a finger inside you…

Switch.  The vertigo was enhanced by the smell and taste of your own pussy and there was a moment of severe cognitive dissonance when your own feeling of how weird and wrong this was mixed with how much Clint had liked doing it.  You pulled back and Clint let out a loud moan.  “Use your hands.  Gotta keep going so it doesn’t hurt,” he babbled.

You nodded and curled your fingers more and began to rub your clit like you knew you liked.  Clint moaned and arched his back.  “Fuck, that’s… that’s… fuck.”

You knew how to get yourself off, so you kept going, fucking your pussy with your finger and working your clit.  You added a second finger and were just teasing with a third when…

Switch.  You moaned loudly and you hips bucked up violently.  You had brought your own body so close to the edge that when you suddenly crashed back down into it, it knocked you over, and you cried out loudly as you came over Clint’s hand.

He smirked down at you and keeping his hand on your thigh he removed his hand.  “God, look at you,” he hummed as he climbed up over you.

He leaned down and kissed you deeply.  You could taste the faint traces of yourself on his lips as they moved with yours.  He pressed his cock against your cunt and began to slide it back and forth between your folds.

“Tell me if I hurt you,” he said.

“You’ll probably feel that for yourself,” you teased.

He chuckled and slowly began to sink his cock into you.  There was a pinch as your cunt stretched to fit him.  You let out a sound that was half moan half whimper and dug your fingers into his back.

“You okay,” he asked.

“Yes.  Just go slow.”

He kissed you again and keep slowly easing in, letting your body naturally stretch to take him.

Switch.  Along with the dizziness, you could felt the tight, wet heat of your cunt squeezing his cock.  It felt so good.  Intense.  It sent a heat out through you that seemed to form like a pit in your just.   “Fuck, Clint,” you groaned.

He moaned and grabbed your ass.  You bit at his lips, not wanting to open your eyes and have this pleasure you were feeling dampened by seeing yourself.  You pushed forward and Clint pushed your hips and groaned.

“Go slow, honey.”

“Sorry, sorry,” you mumbled, burying your face in his neck.  “Feels so good.”

“Yeah, it does. But it won’t when you switch back if you don’t ease up.”

You slowed down, focusing on the way your cunt clenched and released until you were up to the hilt.

Switch.  You moaned loudly and you eyes flew open.  “Fuck.  Clint.  Please fuck me.”

He grinned down at you and started to thrust.  You writhed under him.  Letting yourself go and just enjoy it.  A second orgasm started to build and you bunched your hands in the sheets as Clint thrust slowly and deeply into you.

Switch.  Now it was you that was doing the doing the thrusting.  It was both more sensitive and more controlled.  You could feel the throb of his dick as you cunt squeezed and fluttered around it.  You bunched your hand in his hair.  His hand in your hair.  It was too hard to keep track.  He moaned when you did and arched up, pushing your breasts against his chest.

“Hold on.  Hold on, babe.  I want you to feel yours,” he groaned.

You gritted your teeth and began to pant through them. Waiting for that tug as you continued to thrust.  Not being sure you could make it.

You fell and when you landed back in your body you came.  Hard.  Your whole body seized up and you arched up violently, your body twisting.  “Fuck!”  You cried.

Clint grabbed the headboard and his hips snapped into you as he released inside you with a deep groan.

“Holy shit.”  You panted as he rolled off you.  You quickly wrapped yourself in the blanket to stop any accidental skin contact as soon as he let you go.  “That’s what I was missing out on.”

Clint began to laugh.  An exhausted breathless laugh.  “I don’t think it’s ever been like that for me before, honey.  But yeah.”  He turned to face you and wrapped his hand in a sheet before tracing his finger down your cheek.  “We can do it again as much as you like.”

“Really?”  You asked.

“Really.”

You smiled, and in the very first act of pure impulse you’d made since your powers kicked in, you leaned over and kissed him.  There was a tug, and you fell.

[somuchbetterthanthat]

Ohhhh I haven't seen the extended kiss prompt list before. 67 for jonelias?

67. When One Stops The Kiss To Whisper “I’m Sorry, Are You Sure You-” And They Answer By Kissing Them More ||

There’s no particular reason as to why Jon follows Elias to his office once Elias is done with his little group briefing, but he does so anyway, avoiding the icy, piercing stare of Daisy, the light, curious frown of Basira and, most of all, the disappointed curl of Martin’s lips. They walk in silence through the corridors of the Institute, Jon filled with nervous energy he cannot seem to shake off, Elias unsufferably calm next to him. 

“Rosie,” he says when they pass through the reception. “Would you be kind enough to make sure I’m not bothered for the rest of the morning?”

“You do have an appointment with er, Mr Lu -”

“Ah, yes, well,” Elias cuts her off with a pleasant smile that makes Jon frown slightly. “I’m sure he won’t mind me cancelling this time; if he does, please tell him he’s more than welcome to pass by any other time of the week, that ought to satisfy him.”

Rosie’s eyes are bright like she knows there’s something more implied in Elias’ words; Jon tells himself it’s not infuriating, but she merely says “Of course, will do then.”  and Elias glances back at him, amused like he knows exactly what he’s thinking. Which he probably is. Jon scowls at him, for the principle of it.

“Come along then,” Elias tells him. “I’m sure we’ve got a lot of things to - oversee before your next business trip.” 

Jon waits until they’re back in the corridors to ask: “Have you just been making eye puns all this time, waiting for someone to catch on?” 

He doesn’t exactly mean to let out a bit of compulsion; but he has to admit it’s not exactly unpleasant to see Elias having to lick his lips to stop himself from answering too fast. 

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” he says.

“Perhaps you should watch out for a better way to communicate with your employees, then,” Jon retorts, and Elias snorts. 

He looks surprisingly, genuinely amused too, the shadow of a smile tugging at his lips, and Jon feels something warm spreading in his chest that he choses to ignore completely. One day he might stop to choose denial as his first line of defense but surely he can’t be blamed now of all times; the world might end in three days. He might die. Trying to analyse why it’s so much easier, these days, to feel comfortable around Elias of all people - when they’re not busy being at each other’s throats - is clearly not the priority.

“Mmh,” says Elias and Jon presses his lips together, feeling the back of his neck flushing. “Don’t -” he begins.

“You are thinking quite loudly,” Elias points out. “And my mind is naturally drawn to yours to begin with - you can hardly fault me for hearing your thoughts about myself.”

“Oh, I can,” says Jon. “I am.” there’s a beat of silence, and then Jon can’t resist. “What do you mean, naturally drawn to mine?”

Elias’ eyes flicker to him once more, almost fond; Jon’s stomach does something definitely unpleasant. 

“We both serve the same Patron, Jon. My mind recognizes a - kindred spirit, if you will.”

“Is it the same for every Beholding avatars?” 

“There aren’t many of us,” Elias answers. “But I’m sure there were people you found instinctively - easier to speak with, in China and the States.”

“I -” Jon tries to think through it. “Perhaps?” it’s unsettling, to think he might have spoken with people living through the same situation as him, people who might have helped or - or understood -

“Don’t fret about it. You were certainly busy with much more pressing matters at the time. When everything’s over with the Circus, perhaps we could arrange for an official meeting.” Elias licks his lips again, opening the door to his office. “Everybody were, ah, very pleased by what they’ve learnt about you so far.”

Jon stares at him, baffled. “What does that even mean -”

“Come in, Jon.”

Jon steps inside; Elias closes the door, and then calmly takes his jacket off, hanging it off to the hook behind it, his arm brushing against Jon’s shoulder.

“It means,” he says, matter-of-factly. “That you’ve been doing good, and that I’m not the only one who’s noticed.”

“All I’ve done is chasing statements around the world and getting kidnapped in the process -” 

It’s a familiar enough argument that Jon is more than willing to fall back into, but his words are cut off by Elias’ fingers trailing over his chin; 

“You do have a tendency to sell yourself short,” he tells him. “I don’t think I’ve seen anyone progress as fast as you have before.”

“I, ah - I don’t -”

“Right. Of course. Let’s just go back to business -” Elias nods and then, without any other kind of warning, he leans in and presses his lips against Jon’s.

Jon gasps, baffled beyond words, and Elias hums pleasantly, his hand curling up at the nap of Jon’s neck, his tongue teasing Jon’s bottom lip. Jon jerks back abruptly, flushed and wide-eyed, and bumps his head against the door.

“What -” he begins weakly.

Elias’ eyes are shining; Jon feels a shiver running down his spine and instinctively wants to move back towards Elias, but he merely stands frozen and repeats: “I, er - what -”

Elias’ other hand brush against Jon’s eyebrow, Jon’s highcheek, grazes upon Jon’s mouth; Jon’s heart is beating wildly at his temples. “I - understand that the situation hasn’t been ideal for you, Jonathan.” he says, his voice slow and almost gentle. “If I had had more time - but no matter; the point is, It would be highly bothersome at this point to have to find another Archivist, and I’d be lucky if I found someone even half as competent as you.” This time, it’s less of a surprise, when he kisses Jon again. “I have no desire to watch you die, Jon. There are - so many other things left for us.”

“Like - what?” Jon asks; he can’t help it, and he knows Elias knows, because his eyes flutter and he smiles indulgently. 

“All in good times. Come back alive, first.”

“Right, well - I don’t, I mean I’m planning to, already - I don’t - see how the, erm - the kissing -”

“Good luck kiss,” Elias says, and doesn’t let Jon retort this time, just kisses him once more. Jon stiffens and then relaxes despite himself; Elias is patient with him, doesn’t push too much, and it’s it’s - disconcerting, and warm, and pleasant and Jon has no idea when he starts to - as best as he can - try to kiss him back, but he realizes his hand is pressed against Elias’ heart, his fingers curled against Elias’ shirt, when his head meets the door again, and he turns away again, breathing hard, dazzled and disoriented: 

“I’m sorry do you really think - are you sure you -” 

Elias chuckles against his chin, presses another kiss there, light and chaste, and then makes Jon face him again; there’s something almost tender, in the next kiss, something - something that Jon can feel, beyond their mouths, something that buzzes at the back of his head, tenderness and - burning, delicious adoration -

“Elias,” he says, a bit helplessly, and feels his knees buckle when Elias’ thoughts rushes through his mind, his hand grasping blindly at Elias’ hair, Elias’ letting out a low moan against his lips - Elias, Elias Elias -

yes, Elias thinks, there it is. Take what you can, Archivist. I’m all yours. 

All mine, thinks Jon, and it feels right in a way he doesn’t even think to question this time. 

[troublesomeknight]

Child of Light

Fandom: Fire Emblem Heroes

Characters: Kiran, Anna, Alfonse and Sharena

Pairing: Kiralfonse (kind of, if you squint. If I try to make a longer story for this it’ll be slow burn)

Rating: G

Summary: The beginnings of an AU where the Summoner still comes from “another world” but that world isn’t our modern one. 

Warnings: Not a whole lot accept parental neglect and the fact that this is unbeta’d.

Edit: I’ve edited and expanded this from yesterday. 

The world that Kiran had come from had been beautiful, but cold. Not in temperature. The springs and summers had been warm enough. But Kiran had spent his life in gold and white marble halls with a few servants and tutors and the occasional visit from his Elder Sister and Aunt for company. They had never allowed him to leave those halls, except to visit the garden. Not until he was summoned to Askr. 

"That sounds so lonely!" Sharena had exclaimed the first time she asked about it, and Alfonse couldn't help but silently agree. 

"What about your parents?" Alfonse asked.

The Summoner blinked at them with confused golden eyes. He frowned. "Father sometimes comes to check on me, I don't believe I've seen mother more than once…" 

"But it's okay!" He added quickly in response to the looks the three Askr natives gave him. "I had the gardens to play in whenever I wanted and Aunty and Elder Sister would teach me all kinds of things whenever they come over." 

This didn't do much to reassure anyone, but Sharena was quick to break the tension. "And now you have us!" She said brightly, taking Kiran by the shoulders. "Once we get back to our headquarters, I'll show you all kinds of fun things we can do there. I'm sure we'll be great friends Kiran!"

"Friends?" The Summoner repeated, with wonder and an almost painful amount of hope filling that word.

Sharena nods, smiling. "Yep! Now come on! We're almost there already."

As his sister began to lead the Summoner away, chattering merrily about Askr, the Order and the Heroes already waiting for them back home, Alfonse trailed behind them, lost in thought. He couldn't help wondering why Kiran's family had locked him away like that. Did it have anything to do with why it seemed he’d taken to his new role almost as if he were born to it? He already wielded Breidablik as if it were an extension of himself. As easily as Alfonse wielded his sword, despite what an odd device it was. That he was already well learned in tactics and strategy wasn’t quite so odd if he were noble born but-

"Alfonse! Hey, brother, you'd better hurry or you'll get left behind." Sharena called, breaking the prince from his thoughts. 

"Ah, sorry. I'm coming." Alfonse picked up the pace. He'd worry about it later. Perhaps he would try asking Kiran more questions once they were safely back at the castle.

He was soon distracted from that line of thought by the war against Embla and Veronica’s continued attempts at conquering the worlds that the Heroes hailed from. Still, he learned a few more things aside from that. One was that Kiran was amazingly ignorant of the world beyond the castle he’d grown up in. This shouldn’t have been too surprising, but having to explain what a festival was to someone not that much older than him was still disconcerting. 

Still, there was something rather endearing about the amount of enthusiasm and excitement he greeted every new sight and experience with. He bombarded the trio with questions and Alfonse soon found he was the one who answered most of them. Kiran didn't even mind when the prince would launch into impromptu history lessons, a habit that often bored and annoyed his other companions, Sharena especially.

"You know so much about these things your highness." The Summoner gushed, beaming at him. 

Alfonse felt his face grow warm and turned his gaze to stare ahead. "Ah, I just like to read a lot." 

"So do I. I do not believe the library in my home is as extensive, however."

The prince turned his attention back to his companion with a slight frown. "If you'd like, we can visit the library back the castle some time."

Kiran's smile grew brighter. "I'd love that. Thank you Lord Alfonse!"

Sharena giggled behind them. "Awww, look at you two. You're both getting along so well already!" There was a slight mischievous edge to her grin that made Alfonse wary. 

"Sharena," He sighed, "I'm only helping the Summoner learn more about our world. There's no need to look at me that way."

His sister exchanged a speaking glance with Anna, who joined her as she laughed again. "Yeah sure. Whatever you say, brother."

Kiran was now looking between the three of them with growing confusion. Before he could ask what they were talking about, Alfonse spoke again. 

"Perhaps we should focus on the mission," the prince gave an awkward cough. "Veronica's troops might be anywhere in this area and we should be ready just in case."

Having distracted everyone by reminding them of the mission, Alfonse sighed inwardly. He needed to be more careful. He'd promised himself he wouldn't get close to anymore Heroes after Zacharias, but the Summoner's warm and friendly demeanor and endless curiosity had caused him to lower his guard a moment. Kiran would have to return to his own world, eventually. He couldn't afford to get attached.

That thought brought to mind the Summoner's description of his home again and Alfonse paused. Did anyone deserve to return to such a lonely place?

Another thing that they soon learned, was that their Summoner was a gifted and somewhat unusual healer. 

It was unusual because he didn't require a stave the way other healers did, as they found out when Sharena received an injury during the next battle. 

It was a careless mistake. Kiran had been doing well directing the battle, but had accidentally sent the Princess in a direction that brought her in range of an ax wielding emblian soldier. Fortunately Alfonse was close enough to come to his sister's aid, but not before she received a nasty gash on her arm for her trouble. 

"Princess Sharena!" Kiran rushed over to her, "I'm so sorry! I should have paid more attention!"

"Ah hah, it's okay Kiran. I'm the one who should've been more careful. Ow…" Sharena threw a reassuring smile to the anxious Summoner, but couldn't quite help wincing as she put pressure on her own arm. "I-It's not too deep, so I should be fine for now." 

Anna ran over to join them, already fishing bandages from her bag. "I guess we'd better prioritize summoning a healer when we get back to the castle…"

"No, please. Let me see your arm Princess." The Summoner interrupted, holding a hand out to her.

"I already told to just call me Sharena." The Princess replied, but she did as instructed, taking her hand away from her arm for a moment. 

Kiran held his hand over the wound which began to glow with soft, white light. The gash started to mend as quickly as any healing spell they'd ever seen, just as Alfonse joined them. 

Sharena stared in awe, testing her newly healed arm once he was finished. "Wow! That's amazing Kiran!" 

Anna whistled, stashing her bandages back into her bag. "I'll say. I don't think I've ever seen anyone who healed without a stave before."

"Neither have I." Alfonse added, watching with curiosity as the Summoner drew his hand back.

Kiran scratched his cheek sheepishly. "Ah, it's not that useful. I can't heal like this from range at all like a normal healer." 

"With our current lack of a healer of any kind, it should still be plenty useful for the time being." Alfonse assured him, placing a hand on his shoulder.

Anna nodded. "Right. And a bit of extra healing magic should still come in handy even once we do have a cleric or two." The Order Commander turned her attention to the road ahead. "Now come on everyone. We're almost back to safer territory, but there still might be enemies nearby." 

"Yeah, let's go!" Sharena cheered, racing off. "Boy, I can't wait until we're finally home."

"Sharena! Don't wander too far ahead." Alfonse called after his sister. Then he sighed. "I guess we'd better get moving ourselves, shouldn't we?"

Kiran nodded before the pair started off after their companions, walking side by side. 

"Princess Sharena sure has a lot of energy." Kiran observed with a laugh.

"That she does. I don't entirely blame her in this case. You're the first good thing to happen to us for a while, and she's always excited to meet new Heroes."

"Ah," Kiran looked a little embarrassed at that. "I'm not certain I would call myself a hero." 

The prince chuckled at that. "Of course you are. You're the Summoner. With your help we'll easily be able to gather enough Heroes of our own to fight back against the Embla empire and free the world's they've conquered."

After a moment, the Summoner nodded and smiled back at him. "I see. Then I will do everything that I can to help you, Lord Alfonse."

"I thank you, but to be honest I'm a little surprised that you're taking this so well. We dragged you away from your home into a war you had nothing to do with, after all." That was one thing that still bothered him. As grateful as he was to have the Summoner now. It still felt wrong to force a stranger who had never even seen a real battlefield before and had no combat capabilities to help them in a war in a different world than the one he'd come from while giving him no choice in the matter.

Kiran shook his head. "There's no need to worry about that, Lord Alfonse. I guess I was a bit disoriented at first, but I don't mind being here at all, even if it means getting involved in a war. Everything is so new here, and I've had no one my age to talk to before. I could never regret getting to see the world and make friends."

Alfonse fell silent at that. What could he say in the face of such a speech? He still remembered the hope in the other boy's voice when Sharena offered to be his friend. It seemed likely he wouldn't listen if he cautioned him against getting too attached to any of the Heroes. 

Perhaps he should try anyway. The young Summoner was likely to get his heart broken easier than Sharena. "… I think you should be careful about that. Neither you nor the Heroes you summon will stay here forever. Eventually, you'll have to return to your own worlds. If you get too attached to anyone, it may make things more… difficult when you eventually part ways."

Kiran seemed momentarily surprised at this speech before he wilted slightly. "Oh, I see… I understand." 

The look caused the prince to feel a sudden stab of guilt. Maybe he shouldn't have said it like that. Before he could speak again, however, Kiran looked up again with a bright smile.

"It's alright. I'll just be sure to make a lot of fond memories while I'm here. Even if I don't get to stay, I'm sure I'll never forget anyone I meet here once I go… home." The Summoner explained. The cheerful tone only faltering slightly at the end.

Alfonse fell silent again at that speech. Before he could think to say anything else, Sharena called for them again from up ahead.

"Alfonse! Kiran! Hurry up! We're almost home!"

The prince returned his attention to the road in front of them to see that Sharena and Anna were further ahead than he'd thought they'd be.

"Ah, we're lagging behind. We'd better catch up." Alfonse said, picking up the pace.

Kiran followed suit, easily keeping pace with the taller boy as the castle came into view.

As Kiran and Alfonse caught up with the girls, Sharena looked over at the Summoner and grinned before gesturing ahead at the castle before them. "We're here~! Welcome to the castle of the Order of Heroes, Summoner."

[squidpro-quo]

AN: For Soukoku week’s Day 1 prompt: Trial and Error! Mostly an alternate universe where there really is something beneath Dazai’s eye bandages when he’s younger

“Do you really think I would wear a cast for no reason?”

Dazai had already pulled that trick once and Chuuya had never really learned to expect it, even after a year of joint missions and mishaps. Maybe it was the way Dazai racked up wounds like he was going for a world record of most bandages on a single person, or maybe it was the way he smiled at every slice and every blow that cut into him or split him open, but Chuuya wasn’t used to it and he wondered if he ever would. 

And he was watching it happen yet again. Or perhaps watching was no the right term, since from his vantage point the entire room they’d previously been in was as black as sin and impenetrable even to the bright lights of the abandoned storefront they’d started out in. From outside their target’s bubble, it had been like looking into a void, a flat black circle that had no shadow or depth to it. From the inside, the blindingly black space seemed to press in on him like a tangible weight against his mind, the darkness forming spots across his vision from the lack of any stimulus. 

They’d rushed in, foolhardy on his part but Dazai hadn’t suggested any form of a plan beforehand and Chuuya didn’t need many directions on taking someone down anyway. As soon as he’d stepped in, however, he’d lost all sense of distance, how far he’d gone inside and how wide the blackness might still be. Holding out his hands, he pressed down on the area he could cover until the concrete under his shoes buckled with each step as he moved forward, searching for what he could keep pinned down. 

“Dazai!” he called out, after a few minutes of slow progress, the black unyielding before him. He could suck in light like any blackhole but he could do nothing against what was already darkness. 

“Chuu—” Dazai’s voice cut off, the sound of something heavy hitting flesh interrupting him. A pained groan, the scraping of shoes against the ground that Chuuya pictured as Dazai getting to his feet and another dull whack emanated from the darkness. 

“Damn idiot, what’s he waiting for?” Chuuya took off running, approximating the right direction from the rough noises coming from ahead, trying to ignore the way the darkness made him feel off balance from running without a visible floor. This was what running in a dream was like, reaching nothing and no discernible distance being crossed, but all the worse for the concern he didn’t want to acknowledge lodging itself in his chest. Dazai should have dealt with her by now, if he was close enough to be attacked, he had to have been within reach. The gravity warped underneath him, sinking into the ground and pulling up chunks of the floor in his wake but he didn’t care about getting the drop on her anymore, now it was a matter of making it before Dazai fell silent. 

It happened in a flash, one second complete darkness and the next he tripped and the world resolved into a single bright silhouette even as his feet lost their weight. Dazai looked up at him with a rueful smile, hand around Chuuya’s ankle with his left hand while his right was held against his side. 

Dazai flicked his one visible eye forward and gave a short, sharp whistle, right before a bat swung out of the darkness and clipped him on the head, dropping him to the floor like a rock. 

As Dazai’s hand went limp around his leg, Chuuya grabbed for the bat even as it flickered out of sight and called the gravity toward him. Their target came flying like an iron filing to a magnet, her arms outstretched to grapple him while he rolled with her tackle. It was disorienting to be fighting what he couldn’t see, as if he were wrestling with the darkness itself but as long as he had a hold and he could Dazai’s prone form beside him then he had a chance. The moment he had a firm grasp, he poured weight into her, slamming her to the floor and missing Dazai by inches. The darkness dissolved around them, disappearing just as the woman’s consciousness did and she lay limp on the dirty tiles with deep red hair spilling around her. 

“Dazai,” Chuuya said, loathe to let the concern that squeezed at his heart into his voice but knowing some of it seeped through anyway. That last blow had caught him in the head and even as Dazai opened his one eye, Chuuya could see the unfocused way it zigzagged across the room before finally settling on him in a shaky look. 

“Good dog.” Dazai grinned, blood coating his teeth and the satisfaction still evident in his dazed face. 

Chuuya reached out, hesitant but unable to ignore the way the bandages over Dazai’s right eye were starting to stain a dark umber. He’d never seen what was underneath, ever since he’d met him Dazai had kept it covered as if determined to never look the world full on. The surprise was enough to block out what Dazai had actually said until a full minute later. 

“You bastard, that’s what that whistle was for?” he asked, grabbing Dazai by the collar and catching the loose end of the wrapping under his fingers. It pulled, tugged from Dazai’s skin with less force than he’d thought it would need. It all but unraveled underneath his momentary grip, as he let go of Dazai in shock at what was revealed. 

As opposed to Dazai’s light amber one, this one was bleached and pale as if any color had leaked away. With the muted cloudiness of the blind, Dazai stared up at him with mismatched eyes, raising one shoulder in a pained shrug.

“Tadaa… Don’t look so worried, you stunted hatstand. Used to be in both of them, now it’s confined to just one.” Dazai spat a glob of blood onto the floor with a strained grimace. “Mystery solved.”

“The hell it is! What’s wrong with you?”

“According to the good doctor, suicidal ideation, grandiose narcissism and perhaps a superiority complex in the making. And an ability that can never be turned off, so gotta guess how much havoc that wreaks in the offtime.” 

“You…” Chuuya sat back on his heels with a start, forced to admit that he’d never considered that particular aspect of Dazai’s ability before. His own Tainted Sorrow took something out of him even without using Corruption, to think of how draining it would be to never take a rest from it was exhausting to even think of, much less the effects it could have on his bones and body. 

“Can’t exactly nullify someone who nullifies,” Dazai laughed quietly, “Would need someone else for that, after all. This is just the price I get to pay.”

“You said it was worse before,” Chuuya said, wondering at the fact that this conversation may have been the most truth and the least amount of biting remarks they’d ever traded so far. 

“Just hazy shapes, for the longest time. Mori’s job isn’t just being the boss, you know.” 

It was a little disconcerting, to have his own gaze met with Dazai’s two eyes after so long dealing with the derision and manipulation of only one, but it raised a question in his mind nonetheless. Why had it taken so long for him to question what reason Dazai had to cover it when he’d told him from the start that there was always one? It had been staring him in the face this whole time and he’d never thought to pry. 

Chuuya said nothing more, but silently grabbed Dazai by the hand and hoisted him to his feet until he stood braced beside him with his arm across Chuuya’s shoulder. Maybe he’d still been blindsided by what Dazai hid beneath his bandages, but it was one step closer to understanding.

[nemossubmarine]

Warhammer 40k: Wrath & Glory RP #37

So after everyone got their interrogations done, our heroes get to spend the night in separate rooms. In the morning Saef and Gorm are picked up to go see their hospitalized relatives. They are met outside the infirmary by a tech-priest by the name of Trixanox, or Trixa for short. She tells Saef everything is alright with Ahram and motions him to go meet him. She then tells Gorm that Uffe is currently under, and she hasn’t yet woken him up, as she heard from the Custodes that Uffe is not a morning person, so she suggests Gorm be there when she wakes him up. Uffe is alright, but needs some organs replaced (kidney and stomach) due to Haemonculus meddling. He’ll be good to go next morning.

Gorm and Trixa go into the infirmary, where there are four rooms, three of which are occupied. The third patient is remains of a Space Marine (like, 1/3rd of a person). Gorm asks about him, and Trixa tells that the man is Brother Leviticus, an Ultramarine who’s body became badly injured in a fight against demons. So now Trixa is making him into a dreadnought. Gorm is very interested in the process and asks if he could watch in on Trixa working. Trixa says sure.

Gorm goes to Uffe’s bedside and gives Trixa the OK to put the waking hormones into him. Gorm notices a camera at the corner of the room, and covers it. Uffe wakes up slowly, making pained noises. Gorm has a steady hand on him, talking to him constantly, and Uffe wakes up not-wolfed out. He’s a bit feeble and disoriented, but still struggles upright enough to bonk his head against Gorm’s. Uffe has some recollections of his torture, and Gorm being there, and Gorm fills him in on the rest, including the fact that they’re on Terra. Gorm tells Uffe not to sleep, which he says he won’t, and Uffe thanks Gorm for getting him. 

Meanwhile Saef has gone to talk with Ahram, who doesn’t recognize him, quite understandably, as he has been gone for like 10+ years. Saef introduces himself as a friend of Ahram’s son. They talk a bit, but Saef doesn’t want to talk about everything while on Terra. Ahram asks after a crystal, and Saef says he has one, but again, not on Terra. Saef asks if Ahram knows of any people who might be mistaken for him, Ahram replies that yes indeed, few of those are around. Ahram asks Saef not tell Demir about finding him, since he’s not the one who was around when Demir was a kid, if Saef catches his trift, which he does.

When Saef and Gorm meet up again, Saef asks if Uffe is alright, and Gorm informs him of Uffe’s missing organs. Gorm asks how Saef’s interview was, and Saef says it was fine. They start pondering whatever happened to Gimlet?

They see some custodes coming in to talk with Ahram and Uffe, including Brother Bertran who interviewed Gorm. They ask where Gimlet might be, and he tells that he was taken to talk with the Inquisition, same as Gimlet’s da was taken to talk with the Navigators. Gorm asks if he could perhaps watch or even join the Custodes’ training. Brother Bertran says he is welcome to join them in the evening.

Brother Bertran tells the duo where they may find the Inquisition building Gimlet is at, so the two make their way there, just in time for Gimlet to walk out. Gimlet looks awfully shaken by his interview with the Inquisition. Apparently they confiscated his journal, which Gorm finds rather distressing indeed. He offers to go get it back, but Gimlet very, very forcefully tells him he should not.

The trio shares some text messages they’ve received. Well, mostly Gorm shares, showing everyone a picture that Layla had sent of herself on a mountain, and also text messages that Vivek had sent “something something data disk”, and also Gorm and Uffe need to head to Elucia Vhane’s ship to meet up with Vivek’s brother who can locate Rolf. Saef brings up some disconcerting points about that, namely the last message he got from Vivek was about Inpax following him to Elucia Vhane’s ship. Both of them send “u ok?” texts to Vivek, but neither of them reach Vivek’s phone.

Quite suddenly a woman in psyker clothing approaches our heroes and lets Saef know that since he is a psyker and on Terra, he is going to be sanctioned, tonight. Saef is not thrilled. Gorm is. (two guesses on who told on Saef) Saef asks if it could be postponed, since he is currently studying under this person working with the Inquisition. The woman, named Laverna Lomicka, says that there’s an issue regarding the particular Inquisitor Saef has been overseen by, so it’s easier for the Terran Scholastia Psykana to take over here. Saef still tries to back off, saying he’s not ready, and the woman cheerfully informs him that though usually they take in students younger, Saef is of course free to stay on Terra to study for five years. Looks like there’s no course out of this one. Gimlet inquires about the specifics of the sanctioning, but Laverna says that’s not for outsiders to hear. Saef asks if he can still finish his stuff after being sanctioned and Laverna shrugs and says that it depends on what they’ll think he’s good as. Gorm asks about career options, and Laverna can’t say for sure until they’ve checked Saef, but if he’s good enough he might even become a battle-psyker or even an Inquisitor. Laverna lets Saef know he’ll be picked up in the evening, so better do some praying.

Well, since that is happening only later, Gimlet would like to see his dad, and Gorm and Saef know to tell that the Custodes have taken him to the Navigator’s quarters, so that’s where our heroes head next. In the already luxurious Terra, the quarters of the Navis Nobilitie is even more well-kept and stinks of money to high heavens. Except when our heroes get there, it is surprisingly quiet, and the reason to that becomes soon apparent, as our heroes become witness to a public flocking of a man in the clothes of the Navigators. The flocking is brought to an end by the arrival of none other than the Lord Commander of the Imperium, Roboute Guilliman. Everyone kneels, including our heroes (and Gorm catches Guilliman’s eye while he scans the crowd). Guilliman makes a speech about the Navis Nobilitie’s greed and reminds them of their duties and then leaves. The man is taken away and the crowd disperses. Gorm is having heart palpations over seeing an actual Primarch.

They locate Gimlet’s dad some way away, talking with a younger man in Navigator clothes. This is Espern Locarno, son of Paternova Locarno, who has challenged Valence to a traditional Navigator duel. Our heroes ask what was up with the man being flocked, and Espern tells that the man was attempting to withhold navigators from Guilliman in exchange for money. A very bad move. Gorm says that since Espern has clearly taken Guilliman’s speech against greed to heart, perhaps he would sponsor a good soldier of the Imperium such as Gorm. Espern says sure and tosses him quite a lot of money. Hot damn. Espern leaves the scene, though not before giving Gorm’s arm a slightly lingering pat. 

Gimlet pulls his dad aside and asks about the duel. Valence says that is the traditional Navigator way, and he’s hoping Espern won’t kill him, because he hasn’t fought in a while and will surely lose. Gimlet asks for his dad not to die and Valence says he’ll go and see if he could enlist with the Ultramarines. With Guilliman’s speech in mind, perhaps the Locarnos wouldn’t want to anger the Primarch. Gimlet gives his dad a gift, the little brass ring in his beard. He tells him that he has some stuff to do, but he’ll get his dad a phone so they can keep contact. Valence says he’ll attempt to look for other members of the family still out there, so they could maybe get a home somewhere. But who knows.

Gimlet asks Gorm to train Valence before the duel, and Gorm says sure. Gimlet also brings up the fact that Espern maybe had some… intentions about Gorm. Gorm says he takes it as a compliment, to which Gimlet clarifies that he thinks Espern might want to sleep with Gorm. Gorm says that he’s free to want that, but Gorm’s not interested.

They return back to the infirmary to watch Trixa work over Leviticus.While they are visiting Saef drops Uffe his stuff as well. Uffe checks on his phone and Gorm asks if he has gotten any messages from Vivek. Uffe replies that it’s mostly the same stuff, but there is a part which makes him think Vivek might be in trouble. Upon being pressed about it, he says that Vivek reminded Uffe of his promise. Gorm asks, in Fenrisian, what the promise is all about, and Uffe says that in the event of Vivek being turned into a servitor again, he had asked Uffe to kill him. Uffe isn’t too keen on letting Saef and Gimlet know of the fact, but says that if Gorm wants to do so, he can, just maybe not with Uffe in the room? Gorm does tell the duo when they are leaving the infirmary. He wants Saef and Gimlet to agree that since this is apparently Vivek’s will, they would not step in between if it comes to that. Gimlet asks what if Uffe can’t keep his promise, and Gorm says that he’ll keep it for Uffe then. They all agree that since, obviously Vivek is aware that being a servitor can be fixed, so there must be something more to this request. Gimlet points out that there was three Inquisitors on Elucia Vhane’s ship, so any of them (though most likely Inpax) could have gotten to Vivek, and wonders what Gorm would do in case of them being responsible. Gorm says he’s always down to wringing some Inquisitor necks. Gimlet says he has also lost touch with Alex who was with Inquisitor Corrida, so something serious must have gone down on Elucia Vhane’s ship… But they don’t know what’s up, and just have to hope everything’s alright.

And once that is all over with, our heroes go shopping! Mood whiplash, yaay? Gimlet picks out a new journal (from a store his dad recommended), Saef gets clothes, Gorm gets himself, Uffe and Layla matching “I <3 Terra” t-shirts. Saef takes a picture of Gorm on Terra that Gorm sends to Layla’s teacher and Carl the Sable Sword. There’ll be more shopping in the next session, but other stuff too. Until then!