#and ive never used alight motion before...

[matcha-gg]

Please be kind to me this is my first time tweening.

I don't know what Tumblr ppl think of videos but anyways, here's some tweening practice I did with my new princezam design (which I will post the reference one of these days) and an attempt at a derapchu design.

Sometimes it really shows that your teammate used to be the (gay) joker, but that's okay ^^

[slasherflicks999]

!!!MINOR FLASH WARNING MAYBE!!!

maybe not but i dont wanna risk it 😰

but uhh. tried out alight motion :3

i havent made an animation meme since like middle school i forgot how fun these are omggg

i havent animated at ALL since middle school i think…. or early high school

sooo yippee!!! look at BEN go!! i love him i need to post him more i love my design for him he’s my little fella i wanna squish him like a grape /pos …can you tell who my favorite crp is

edit: I FORGOT TO ADD HIS FRECKLES pretend he has freckles plz. i do this every time help😔

[spidernuggets]

I felt obligated to do this. Ignore how bad it is ive never used alight motion before.

[meek-shall-inherit]

gonna fuck around with alight motion (editing software ive never used before after years of only knowing capcut) if that affects your answer at all

[nancywheelxr]

Omg omg omg omg plz do a Uncle Peter and Uncle Aaron fic

“You did what?” Uncle Aaron rasps, hand still pressing tight to his chest and slightly out of breath, and his expression is somewhere between anger and disbelief. On the other side of the room, Peter throws his hands up, mouth stuffed with a bagel.

Yup. That’s about what Miles expected.

Okay, he should probably back up a little and explain.

*

So, look, there are the facts:

The body of Aaron Davis never reached the morgue. The vehicle containing his body was shot out of the road exactly eight minutes after it left the alleyway. No suspects were apprehended and Officer Jefferson Davis was ordered to close the case twelve days later after all leads had gone cold. 

That had been nearly a year ago.

Now, here are some more– mildly less believable, but hey, last year the multiverse kinda went bananas, so who’s Miles to call anything crazy, right? – facts: 

Three weeks ago a grumpy wizard dumped Peter in Miles��� backyard. He had a cool cape, though, that Miles thinks might have waved at him at some point? Anyway, there was this wizard, right, and he dumped Peter in his mom’s hydrangeas and then he told Miles to keep an eye on Peter because Peter had apparently been cursed and couldn’t stay in their universe for the time being? No, he did not know when he’d be back to collect him, and no, he would not be taking criticisms on his plan right now.

It had all been very strange.

So yeah, that was a thing that happened. Apparently, Peter’s universe had been attacked by a sorcerer and Spider-Man got the wrong end of a particularly nasty banishing spell. 

“It was not my fault,” Peter had said, head halfway into Miles’ refrigerator, “if the Avengers could keep their damn villains of the week out of my neighborhood, then none of this would happen– hey, is the chili still good? No, you know what, nevermind, it probably is, let me just check the milk–”

And that had been that. 

“ – and you know, Harry Potter over there, didn’t have to just dump me here,” except, Peter had seemed to want to explain thoroughly what happened first, “I bet he could have just waved his hand and be done with it. He fixed the whole molecular-universe-rejection thing, didn’t he? Sorcerer Supreme, my–”

Miles had kind of zoned out after a while.

*

Those were the facts, see, and all of them were out of Miles’ hands, that’s a very important thing to notice.

*

So, since, Doctor Wizard hadn’t bothered to stay to hash out the finer details before peacing out back to his dimension, that left to Peter and Miles to figure out where to stash Peter while this whole mess was sorted out.

It’s not like Peter has a functioning social security number or even the money to buy some real state or pay any sort of rent. Sure, they could go to Aunt May’s place, but whenever Miles tried to bring it up, Peter got that weird face on, that looked kinda guilty and like, infinitely sad, and Miles didn’t have the heart to suggest it again.

Besides, he doesn’t think it would be good for May, not if this took a while.

Somehow, that ended up equaling with Peter squatting at Uncle Aaron’s old place.

It had seemed the logical conclusion, at the time. No one was using it and Miles’ dad hadn’t wanted to let go of it, not yet. Privately, Miles thinks it’s ‘cause his dad still hopes Uncle Aaron is out there, alive. The lack of a body to bury does that, he thinks, and wholeheartedly agrees with his dad.

If there’s still a chance, Miles would take it.

Anyway. So, Peter had been staying at Uncle Aaron’s place and being an all-around sorta cool mentor while helping out Miles with the whole superhero gig. 

It had really been just a matter of time until his parents caught up with it.

*

Again, let the record show, that while yes, Miles had been the one to come up with Uncle Peter, it had been Peter that came up with the marriage thing.

*

Another couple of facts to keep in mind:

Fours hours ago, Miles and Peter had busted another of Kingpin’s research facilities. Inside it, handcuffed to one of the beds, they had found Uncle Aaron recovering from surgery.

According to his retelling of events, that had been his twelfth procedure. Kingpin had been the one to pay for the Prowler gear, therefore, Kingpin owned the Prowler. Kingpin does not throw away expensive resources– not even the ones who needed open-chest surgery, blood transfusions, illegal not-yet-tested drugs, and too many lung surgeries. No, Uncle Aaron does not know what he had been planning to do with him once he recovered enough, but he figures it would be nothing good, probably blackmail him into working for him again.

Bringing him back to his old place had also brought up the fact that someone else had been living there.

Which brings them back to:

*

“Why the hell would you tell them that?” Uncle Aaron twitches, glaring at Peter like he wants to bring out his gear to saw him up a bit, “of all the all the– are you an idiot?”

Miles cringes. This is spiraling out of control fast. “Look, I know this isn’t ideal–”

“You think I want to be married to a Supervillain?” Peter, having swallowed his bagel, screams back at Uncle Aaron, seething with righteous anger, “I’m not exactly having the time of my life here either, pal!”

“Okay, I wouldn’t say he’s a supervillain, exactly,” Miles tries to placate him, “more like a henchman, maybe? And he’s totally reformed! Right, Uncle Aaron? Right?”

It’s not a real question, exactly, Miles knows that moment on Aunt May’s roof had been a turning point for his uncle, knows the second he let go of Miles, the second that bullet his chest, he wasn’t a bad guy anymore. He couldn’t be, not when his nephew was Spider-Man. 

And Miles would be damned if he wasn’t going to give his own uncle a second chance.

Still, as soon as the words leave Miles’ mouth, Uncle Aaron seems to deflate. He sighs, running a hand across his face before motioning Miles over. “C’mere, kid,” he waits until Miles is sitting beside him in the dusty couch, the white sheet used to cover it still on the floor by their feet. “Yeah, of course I’m reformed,” his mouth still twitches in amusement at the term, then falls into a grimace again, “and I’m so fucking sorry for the things I’ve done, even more for what I did to you. If I had known–” he shakes his head, “not that it makes that much better– but point is, you bet I’m done being a bad guy. I’ll never hurt anyone again, alright, and I’ll never hurt you, Miles, I’m so sorry for all of that.”

“Hey, erm,” Miles swallows past a lump he hadn’t noticed growing in his throat, and looks around, panicking at the sight of Uncle Aaron– cool, laid-back, fun Uncle Aaron– close to tears and looking wrecked by guilt. His eyes meet Peter’s across the room and he looks about as uncomfortable to be there as humanly possible, but he still gives Miles a thumbs up, smiling kindly. “It’s okay, Uncle Aaron. I know– you can do better now,” he finishes awkwardly, not quite able to stop himself from hugging him.

After a long pause, Miles feels his uncle returning the hug fiercely, holding him like he’s not yet sure this is all real. “You really are something else, kid.”

*

It had taken Miles and Peter half an hour to unhook Uncle Aaron from all the machines and monitors in his cell, and Miles had cried silently at how sick his uncle had looked and pretended not to notice the blood trail they left from where the IV tube had been hooked at the crook of his arm– Uncle Aaron had looked about to keel over and any blood wasted on the tiled floor had seemed alarming.

Peter had taken most of his weight and told Miles to go ahead make sure the hallway was clear. 

Not for the first time, Miles had wished Gwen was there, if only to bully him into being less sad.

*

“Okay,” Uncle Aaron says, huffing a little after they both had regained some sort of composure– ha! Check that out, composure, his English teacher would be thrilled with him using fancy words. “We still gotta figure this thing out.”

“I want a divorce,” Peter demands, standing with his hands on his hips, “I’m sorry but this just isn’t working out, babe.”

“Call me that again,” he warns, glaring, “and I’ll whoop your ass, lung surgery or not.”

Miles tries to picture it– breaking the news of Uncle Aaron’s return to his parents then the subsequent divorce. That would mean Peter would be homeless again and no more excuses to be hanging around Miles. ‘Sides, Peter leaving Uncle Aaron now that he’s sick would not look good. That would definitely be a problem if they want Peter to be able to stick around.

Well, shit.

“You can’t,” he blurts out, shrinking a little when both adults whirl on him, “I mean, you totally can, but it would make it so much harder because how are we gonna explain why Peter is always around? And mom kinda already likes him? She sends him casseroles sometimes, even though dad still grumbles about it.”

Uncle Aaron groans. “Of course she does,” he drops his head on his hands, “this is a mess.”

“Rio’s casseroles are delicious,” Peter admits, tilting his head thoughtfully towards the kitchen like that’s enough to make him reconsider this whole scheme.

“And I know dad is like, still annoyed you allegedly didn’t tell them about this,” Miles adds, “but I swear he’s trying to be more chill–”

“Hang on,” Uncle Aaron looks up, for the first time since they rescued him from the lab, seeming less defeated. His eyes are almost as bright as they were before, alight with something gleeful. “This would annoy the hell out of your old man, wouldn’t it?”

Miles blinks, a sense of impending doom encroaching like an inevitable storm that has nothing to do with his spider senses. “I guess?”

“Say,” he turns to Peter, giving him an assessing look, “spider-hobo, how about we strike a deal?”

“Okay, first off, I was dumped in this universe without warning, alright, it’s not like they let me pack a bag first,” Peter scowls, crossing his arms, “second, what kind of deal?”

“You need a place to stay and an excuse for my brother not to arrest you,” Uncle Aaron smirks, and Miles thinks he knows where this is going but he’s not sure how he feels about it, “and I could use a hand to keep watch, I’m sure Kingpin’s not gonna give up so soon.”

And it would have the bonus of annoying Miles’ dad which is Uncle Aaron’s favorite past time.

This is so spiraling out of control.

Peter squints. “So you want a bodyguard?”

“So you want not to be homeless?”

“Fine,” he huffs, throwing his hands up and rolling his eyes, “we’re married now, I guess. Hurray.”

“Please, you should be happy,” Uncle Aaron sits back, stretching his legs under the coffee table, “you are married to me.”

That sends Peter into another inflamed rant. “Look, I’m a goddamn catch–”

Man, Miles groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. This is going to be a disaster and with his luck, it’s going to snowball into something huge before it bursts into flames. Again, he wishes fiercely Gwen was there, he bets at least she’d get a kick out of this.

Faintly, he hears Uncle Aaron ignoring Peter in favor to nudge his feet. “Hey, kid, do me a favor and don’t mention to your dad I cursed in front of you, yeah?”

Across the table, Peter snatches another bagel, biting into it with a vengeance.

[lookatthestarrynight]

Laughter is the Best Medicine - Chapter One

Poe Dameron/Doctor!OFC: Poe Dameron has joined the Resistance at the request of General Leia Organa, and he’s finally arrived on the Echo of Hope, the Resistance’s floating base of operations. While on board, he meets the Medical Director of the Resistance and... falls in love? We’ll see.

I’ve also posted this on AO3. Check my masterlist to see what I write for. Please only like, don’t reblog. Hope you enjoy, let me know what you think!

No warnings. :) 1629 words. 

I didn’t see the Commander again for a few months – as soon as he was cleared for duty, the General put him (and his fellow pilots) straight to work. A week ago, he’d returned from Operation Sabre Strike, and then not even a few days later he was back out – for a mission to some swamp planet that most of the officers couldn’t seem to pronounce. In fact, he was due back from that mission in less than a few standard hours, and I’d been informed to be ready for anything. If I knew what planet he’d gone to, I could’ve done some research to better my treatment of any fauna-inflicted wounds – as I’d been told there’d been a few worrisome run-ins – but alas, no one told me anything.

           As if I’d spoken his arrival into existence, a nurse stuck her head in my small office – “Dameron’s coming out of hyperspace now, the General wants you on deck.” I nodded, tossing my paperwork back on the desk – I’d do it later, surely – grabbed my med-bag and two nurses, and made quick time to the hangars.

           I arrived at the same time the Black One came screaming into the hangar bay, landing just a bit rougher than I’m sure his usual would be. The ship powered down as techs rushed to help the Commander out of the cockpit, and when I finally got a glimpse of him through the crowd, I could see why he’d come in so hot – he had a rather nasty abdominal wound blooming.

           I huffed, and rushed to the edge of the fray, my assistants behind me. “Medical coming through! Please step away!” The crowd parted just enough for us to squeeze through, and I got to the Commander just as he seemed to be losing touch with reality – and so, when he passed out all but a second later, he fell straight into my waiting arms as I called for a stretcher. I lowered him to the hangar floor, undoing his flight suit and cutting his undershirt away from the wound. It had been rather clumsily bandaged once already, but the action of getting out of the ship seemed to have undone anything good it might have done.

           The wound wasn’t deep, and it looked like all it would need were some heavy-duty stitches and bacta patches, but I’d need my med-bay to make that happen. A stretcher arrived as I was packing the wound to stop the bleeding, and the Commander was gently placed on it and taken to the med-bay, his droid – and half the Resistance – on our heels.

<> 

           An hour and a half later, I was pulling off my gloves and tossing them in the compactor bin, my job done. I sank into the visitor’s chair in Dameron’s med-bay room for a moment, as two nurses cleaned up my materials and disposed of anything remotely hazardous in the compactor bins.

           I glanced down at the small orange-and-white droid that sat on the floor next to me, nervously rolling backwards and forwards. I huffed. “He’ll be alright, BB. I’m not the Medical Director for no reason.”

           BB-8 beeped anxiously anyways.

           “He’ll be fine, BB,” I paused, standing up, “How about I move this chair closer to his bed, and you can sit yourself in it, yeah?”

           BB-8 paused his rolling and beeped at me once more.

           “Okay, I’ll put you in the chair and you can watch him, alright?” I carefully moved the chair closer to the Commander’s bedside before turning to the droid. “Make yourself light, alright buddy?”

           BB-8 beeped indignantly as I hefted him into the chair.

           “No need for unkind words, BB, I was just teasing,” I put my hands on my hips and took a step back towards the door, “I’ll have one of the nurses set up a charging situation for you, okay? The Commander will be up by morning, and I’ll swing by to check on him then.”

           BB-8 beeped once more as my hand reached the door handle.

           “Fine, Poe will be up by morning, and I’ll swing by to check on both of you then. Better?”

           The droid beeped a quiet affirmation and turned back to his master.

           I huffed a laugh and gently pushed the door open, stepping out into the med-bay hall – and right into the General.

           “General! I’m sorry, I didn’t, uh, see you there.”

           She laughed. “I wouldn’t have expected you to. How’s the Commander?”

           “He’s alright, a little worse for the wear, but he should be back to the daily grind in two or so weeks. He’s got a pretty, uh, dedicated little droid in there.”

           “That he does. Two weeks, though? I think that might kill him.”

           I laughed. “It shouldn’t. A little rest never hurt anybody.”

           “You’d think that with all the missions I’ve sent him on, he’d want some rest, but…” the General shrugged, “May I?” She gestured to the door.

           “Of course, just make sure you don’t mess with his little guardian spirit’s perch. Took some negotiating to make BB happy.”

           The General laughed once more. “I’ll keep that in mind.” And with that, she was through the door.

           I sighed. Back to paperwork and holofiles I go.

<> 

           The next morning, I arrived in the med-bay a little earlier than I usually would to check on my latest patient and his steadfast droid. I waved to the nurses still on their shifts, turning to the one closest to me, “Is the Commander up yet?”

           “Yes, ma’am. Woke up about an hour ago – his vitals are fine. He should be ready for his next painkiller dose and bandage change right now, if you’d like me to get everything ready for that.”

           “Yes, that would be very helpful. Thank you, Shana!” I said as I reached Dameron’s door and pushed on the handle. She huffed a laugh and disappeared into the supply room. I stuck my head in the door before I came in, waving to BB-8 as he trilled from his perch in the guest’s chair.

           “Hello, BB… did you have a good night?”

           The droid beeped happily, rolling slightly in his chair.

           I laughed, carefully closing the door and approaching the bed where the Commander laid, eyes closed.

           “You don’t have a resting heart-beat, Commander, so there’s no need to fake sleep on my account.”

           The Commander sighed, opening his eyes to look at me. “It was worth a try.”

           I smiled, “Well, I’ll praise the effort then.”

           It was then that Shana arrived in the room with the supplies I needed. “Will you need any help, Director?”

           “Nah, I think I will be alright, Shana. Thank you for asking though,” I paused, turning to her, “Why don’t you head back to your room early?”

           “Oh, no, I’ve only got an hour left, might as well stay.”

           “I insist,” I made a shooing motion with my hands, “Doctor’s orders.”

           She chuckled, nodding reluctantly and leaving the room, “I’ll just be going then, have a good day, Director.”

           “Likewise, Shana.” I turned back to my patient, noting his slightly bewildered look.

           “What’s the look for, Commander?”

           “Oh, it’s nothing… I guess I’m just surprised you let her off early.”

           I nodded, pulling on my gloves. “I do that sometimes… I consider everyone who works in medical to be a friend, so I treat them as such.”

           “Reminds me of the fleet, but we treat each other more like family.” The pilot responded.

           “Mm-hmm.” I reached over to the IV line, adjusting a few switches to give the Commander his next painkiller dose. I turned to him, “I’m going to need you to push your shirt up a bit so I can check your wound, is that alight?”

           Dameron grinned, doing as I said, “Totally fine, Doc.”

           I reached forward, pulling up the bandages and bacta patches from the day before and tossing them in the compactor bin.

           “This might sting a bit, so apologies ahead of time, Commander.” I gently applied some ointment to the wound, grimacing as the Commander winced. Slowly, I applied the bacta patches and bandages, gently tapping above the wound when I finished, “All better.”

           The Commander chuckled, and then winced again, “Thanks.”

           “Yeah, I might avoid laughing for a bit, with your wound placement and all.”

           “So I’ve discovered.”

           I looked up at BB-8 as I pulled off my gloves and cleaned everything up, “Will you need help getting down from there?”

           He beeped a quiet affirmative, and I walked to the side of the bed the chair was on, picking him up and putting him on the ground with a grunt.

           “So, you’re the one who put him up there?” Dameron asked, intrigued.

           I laughed, “Yeah – he was worried about you, so I figured he’d want a nice place to spend the night watching you.”

           “Well, thank you, then.” Dameron said with a grin, and BB-8 chimed a little thank you as well.

           Turning to look at them from the door, I smiled, “Not a problem, Commander. BB-8, just –”

           “Call me Poe, please.”

           “What?”

           “Just call me Poe.” The Commander looked at me, slightly imploring.

           “Alright then, Poe. BB-8, just let one of the staff know if you need something – same goes for you, Comma– Poe.” They both nodded, Dameron with a satisfied smirk on his face, and I stepped out of the door and into the hall.

           “On second thought,” I stuck my head back in the room, “Call me Hera. Not any of that other stuff – and we’re even.”

           “Hera. Right, okay, I can do that.”

           I waved, and then stepped back into the hall, closing the door quietly behind me. I shouldn’t have liked how my name sounded when he said it – but I did.

[volganic]

Song of Communion

[part 1] [part 2] [part 3] [part 4] || [AO3]

sorry this one doesnt have as much volink but :^) ive written a good chunk of the next few chapters ahead of time 

Volga was right when he had predicted that Link would have to adapt to any situation and learn to harness the power of magic.  It took a few tries to point the flames that were bottled up within the fire rod in his hands, but in the heat of battle he learned to at least point it away from himself.  Their current mission in Faron Woods would end in failure if he had set the entire forest alight.

With word of a "small" horde of monsters headed to the castle and their previous squadron dwindling down to only a handful of men left to ward them off, Link and Impa joined in the fray alongside the last of their forces.  They learned quickly that they weren't the only ones fighting off the horde -- a blue-haired spell caster had taken charge before they had arrived, simultaneously taking out wave after wave of Bulbins here and there while tending to the injured.  The captain and general shared a doubtful glance between them; questions could wait.  

The morale improved among Hyrule's soldiers with their leaders now fighting alongside them, and soon the incomprehensible number of enemies had dwindled down close to nothing.  Link held the fire rod in his hands with a tight grip -- it wasn't as effective as his white sword, but it proved to be of some use.  He made a mental note to thank Volga for the earrings later for sparing him the brutal fire magic that could have burned him, but quashed the thought to point the red sphere of the rod at the smiling stranger approaching him.  Impa took her place behind him, staring at her through narrowed eyes.

"My name is Lana, and I'm here to help!"  Her coy smile wavered as she looked to Link for a split second, unable to meet his eyes.  "And to warn you about Cia."

--

"Cia?" 

Zelda tilted her head inquisitively.  She turned her gaze to her general and captain at her side for guidance, but they only offered a baffled shrug in response.  The Sheikah was hesitant to bring Lana back to the castle, but to deny any information could cost them the war that lingered outside of their borders.  Still, it didn't stop her from taking any necessary precautions as the silence among them broke with the rattling of Lana's bindings.  It made it difficult for her to properly curtsy before the princess, but it didn't seem to bother her.

"Yes, Cia!  She's a sorceress of tremendous power, but... she hasn't made it here yet?"  Purple eyes diverted from the trio's judgmental stares to look skyward at the ceiling.  She leaned her weight from one foot to the other, even going as far to do a little spin.  "I wonder why that is?"

"The witch was pushed back by the dragon that resides in Death Mountain," said Impa flatly.  Her stare turned cold; Lana moved around too much.

Their prisoner spun back around to match Impa's glare with a fearsome pout.  "Sorceress," she corrected through clenched teeth, but soon relaxed with another smile.  "It's surprising!  I thought he didn't choose sides," she mused out loud, eyes back up to the ceiling as she did another spin in her place.  The soldiers kept her chains taut as they could -- if she did another twirl, she surely would fall flat on her face.

"Volga still doesn't choose to align himself with anyone!" Proxi interjected.  The blue fairy flew away from Link's side to draw Lana's attention.  "We are lucky that Link has come to an agreement with him!"

"An agreement?"  The blue-haired girl blinked owlishly at the words -- even she knew that the dragon knight wasn't keen to take any sort of bribe, much less an agreement.  She finally turned to acknowledge the Hylian in question with a faint blush painting across her pale cheeks.  "Oh no, this is all wrong... So wrong!"

"What's wrong?  Hello?" Proxi moved to keep Lana's attention on her.  Lana was suddenly acting so frantic!  The fairy opted to keep her distance and returned to the Hylian's side, subtly noticing how Impa and Link's hands were reaching for their weapons.  Zelda, however, remained collected and tapped her manicured nails against the arm of her seat.

Lana sighed loudly, seemingly exhausted from the tension that hung in the air in the throne room.  Her posture went back upright, eyes shining bright as ever.  "Nevermind it!"  She laughed heartily and brought her bound fists up to her chest.  "Without my help, you guys are doomed!"  She opened her palms to reveal nothing, but by some force unknown to any of them, the chains that held her wrists together came loose and dropped to her ankles.

A collective gasp was all she heard as she paid them no mind, stepping out of the pile of chains and kneeled down to reach for her oversized book that was unceremoniously dropped to the ground.  She gave the soldier who had dropped it a small wink, even with the tip of his blade pointed between her eyes.  Link took his place to shield the princess while Impa took charge of the escalating situation.  

"You conniving witch!" she roared, raged laced with her words as she marched up to their prisoner.  The fury in her eyes would have sent a thousand of her soldiers running back to their homes, but Lana was unphased, holding a hand out to halt her in her place.  She paused as so ordered -- if it were up to her, Impa would have mounted her head on a stick by now.  However, the princess was still present.

"I don't want to correct you for a third time, so remember: it's sorceress.  We don't like being called --"

"We?"  Zelda spoke up suddenly.  She finally stood from her throne and motioned for Link to lower his guard.  It was now his turn to look to her for reassurance, but lowered his blade with the guards following suit as the princess descended down the stairs. Still leery of Lana's true intentions, her feet came to a stop behind Impa.  "Who is 'we'?"

"Oh-" Lana's defensive stance crumbled.  Flustered, she held the book to her chest tightly and dropped her gaze to the floor.  "I... I didn't want to have to say it so early, but Cia... Cia and I are from the same magical clan."  Zelda placed a gentle hand on Impa's forearm to keep the Sheikah calm, having grown rigid with the idea that she herself had let something malicious breach their defenses.  Lana's figure trembled, but she willed herself to meet Zelda's eyes, pleading for a chance.  "But I'm not like her!  I want to help save Hyrule!"

"Can you tell us what her intentions are as to start a war?"

"No, but--"

"Then why bother helping at all?" Impa seethed.  "If you cannot -- or will not -- offer any more information than we know already, what good will you do for the kingdom of Hyrule?"

"That's enough, General Impa."  The Sheikah turned behind to look at the princess, dumbfounded.  Her expression fell from cold to turmoil, nervous with this idea that she knew Zelda was hatching.  "Princess... Princess, you can't be serious!"

"I am," she nodded affirmatively, smile spreading across her lips.  "Though Cia's intentions have not yet come to light, I truly believe that Lana has come this far to assist our forces to spare our kingdom from suffering at the hands of a war."  The royal broke the distance between them and placed her hands over Lana's, giving them a reassuring squeeze.  "You do not have to reveal everything at once, but I speak for the kingdom of Hyrule and say that we would gladly stand on your side in these uncertain times."

Lana looked as if the weight of the world had fallen off her shoulders.  She nodded enthusiastically despite the few tears rolling down over the curve of her cheeks.  "Thank you, Princess Zelda!  I... I could never thank you enough!"  The two women then shared a laugh, bubbly and full of mirth.

The Hylian cautiously approached his commander who was still left in a state of shock over the princess's ultimate decision.  Impa refused to show that her pride had been hurt to anyone lesser, folding her arms across her chest to face Link.  "I suppose we'd better get used to seeing her around when it comes to our discussions and the like from here on out."  Her voice was back to its flat tone.  Link nodded in agreement, choosing to side with Impa's distrust toward their newest ally.  "Thank you, Link.  If there's nothing you'd wish you say, you and the other two men can join the rest of the troops for a moment's rest."

"I'm starting to learn I don't like politics either," he signed meekly.  The Sheikah scoffed.  "You'll settle in fast."  She patted him on the shoulder and waved him off.  Link finally allowed his posture to relax when given the green light for dismissal, completely unaware of Lana's fixed gaze on him as he exited the throne room.

--

"Fire rod?"

Link had taken another detour to the Eldin Caves on their next excursion outside of Hyrule's province -- needing time to clear his mind from the political side of war, he claimed -- to reunite with his self-proclaimed ‘mentor’.  Volga looked less than ecstatic at the sight of the bulky item.  The Hylian still seemed proud of it, finally learning to master at least one element of magic on his otherwise empty belt of experience.

"Used it against an army of monsters off in Faron Woods."

"In a forest of all places?" Volga scoffed.  The boy was either brave or just plain stupid.  "I'm appalled it still stands in its grandeur and not in a bed of ashes."

"I'm only doing as you had instructed," he retorted, pointing the end of the rod in the dragon knight's direction.  "Getting used to magic and adapting to situations, remember?  I made do with what I had!"

"I'm sure your general thoroughly enjoyed the idea of her army's pride and joy leaving his weapon in the barracks."  Now he was being insulted.  Link frowned and, despite how tempting it was to let the rod swallow Volga in a wall of flames, thrust the rod in a direction that wouldn't harm anyone.  The small burst of fire dissipated against the wall of rock.

The dragon clicked his tongue.  "Pity."  He pulled Link in and cast the sad excuse for a magical item aside.  Volga anchored him in place with his hands on the boy's shoulders, bringing his head close to the Hylian's ear.  Link's instincts told him to run but with Volga kept him in a vice grip.  It was too late to escape as the roaring sound of Volga's throat releasing a jet stream of flames in the cavern filled his ears and nearly setting his scarf on fire.  Reds and oranges and even blue caught his periphery, instantly running his blood cold despite the heat it radiated.  In reality it was a short display, flames no longer burning in his ears when the dragon knight shut his mouth, but it felt like an eternity.  

Link changed his mind on thanking him for the earrings -- he wouldn't dare feed the ego that bled into Volga's voice.

"Come back when you have something worth sharing."

[xadoheandterra]

Title: Bitter Night Fandom: Final Fantasy XV Chapters: I | II | III | IV | V | VI Characters: Noctis Lucis Caelum, Ardyn Izunia | Ardyn Lucis Caelum, Kings Guard, The Fulgurian | Ramuh, Celestia Ulric Tags: Time Travel, Fix-It Of Sorts, Angst, Hurt, Comfort Eventually, Ardyn and Noctis are both Assholes, Fuck the Gods Summary: He hadn’t known what he was doing. All he knew was that he felt bitter in this endless night–bitter that the story needed to end like this. It felt like the Bad Ending and–well, Noctis hated getting Bad Endings in his games. He refused to.

So Noctis refused.

Out of all Astrals only one never demanded anything of Noctis. Only one of the Six didn’t speak to him in riddles or set forth a challenge that he near couldn’t complete or tried to kill or devour him. Only one, aside from perhaps the Draconian, did not sleep and require Lunafreya to waken—and Noctis felt all the more grateful toward the end that Luna hadn’t needed to commune with Ramuh; needed to begin to forge a Covenant for Noctis with the Fulgurian. Noctis didn’t want to imagine what the lightning would’ve done to her if she had needed to—how it would’ve soaked into her bones and blood and left her with tremors. Noctis could remember the feel of it as it lit him alight, the buzz beneath his skin as the storm raged around them—a little like home, really.

Now—now that silence burned like a sickness in Noctis as he stared, and stared, and Ramuh stared back. The clouds hung in the sky, but no storm followed the Stormsender. The men of Lucis kept back and away from the God, and the crackle of lightning that formed a clear line between Noctis, Ardyn, and them out of reverence or respect or fear—Noctis didn’t care which. He cared for Ramuh to answer him. Angelgard had been a prison of Ramuh’s undertaking, or so the Cosmogeny would have Noctis believe. Angelgard was a place where Ramuh Judged, and all who were found wanting Perished and yet Ardyn alone remained chained, in the dark, and tortured with the light of the sun. Noctis wanted to know—viscerally and in a way he couldn’t explain—he wanted, no, needed—

Noctis needed to know—was Ramuh complicit? Did Ramuh know of what the line of Lucis had done to the First? Did Ramuh care that Ardyn—a healer chosen by the people, chosen by the Six, suffered for the crime of merely existing now? If Ramuh did how could he condone it—unless he ate up the same cock and bull story that the Draconian tried to feed Noctis in the Crystal, that the Glacian told to him with the touch of frost in her wake, so cold that one couldn’t even think. Ramuh kept his silence and it burned with Noctis.

“STORMSENDER!” Noctis roared. “ANSWER ME!”

The Glaives whispered, shocked, but Noctis ignored them. He kept bright, pink eyes upon the God even as his strength wavered and his hands shook. His legs were numb and he wanted to fall—to crumble to the ground and cry because this? This, here? This was not the Lucis he thought to inherit. He knew that Ardyn had been wiped from history—there was no record of Somnus Lucis Caelum ever having a brother except in the deepest, darkest pits and tombs long forgotten. History ignored Ardyn and remembered only the Accursed—remembered Adagium. It set wrong with Noctis, that bitter pill of truth that his family had essentially removed such a crucial part of their history—and why? Why had the Founder denied the First? It made no sense, to Noctis, to write a man out of history so completely.

Ramuh bowed his head, and then reached a hand down, gaze settled on Noctis first, and then alighted upon Ardyn’s downed form with a sluggishly bleeding headwound. Noctis tensed, ground his teeth together, and let out a sharp, “YOU WILL NOT TOUCH HIM!”

Ramuh paused. For a second there was blissful silence, and then the storm rumbled on the distance and the God settled back. He blinked lazily down at Noctis and Noctis felt only grateful that there were no words, like the Archeon, that trembled through his mind and left him with a blazing headache that sparked on the edge of seizing. He felt grateful that there was no cold to draw his mind into a sluggish haze, or water with which to drown him followed by the high, cackling nature of the Astrals’ first language—or even Ifrit’s fire as it burned around and through him. Ramuh’s words were as silent as the god himself—but they were there. Noctis could feel them, like impressions in the blood.

Ardyn was not guilty, Noctis realized, which alone was the reason why the man still stood and Ramuh did not reign down Judgement upon him. He could not interfere within the prison elsewise—it was for mortals to do, to take the innocent from this place once affirmed that they would not be Judged, and it was the mortals that failed. None stepped on the island now as Ramuh would find them wanting anyway—since they refused to treat upon a man as a man, and instead signaled him daemon. Noctis wondered if Ramuh alone could’ve wiped Ardyn away if he cast down his Judgement, if Ardyn were truly within the wrong, where the Glacian could freeze and shatter the man only for him to return healthy, hale, and otherwise unharmed.

Noctis glanced to Ardyn and then back to Ramuh. “Are you certain?” he asked, voice softer, hoarser. His palms were sweaty around his blade and slipped along the hilt for a second. It jerked Noctis downward and nearly undid his precarious balance. Ramuh leaned forward and Noctis looked to Ardyn again, and then back to the God of Storms. A second later Noctis closed his eyes and murmured, “Very well,” and the God reached out. Noctis did not fight the hand that grasped him, even as his strength left him. He did not fight as the God pulled him up and into the Storm that now began to pelt the ground below.

Sleep, whispered the winds, and Noctis found himself so very tired. He felt uncomforted to let his life rest in the hands of any of the Six—but Ramuh was the Storm and the Storm was in Noctis’ blood, even if he knew so very little of it. There was a reason why Ramuh deigned not to send a test after the King of Light beyond to seek out his sigils in the storm, the signs of his presence to awaken the lightning in his blood.

Noctis drifted, and then slept.

King of Light, Son of Storms, Chosen to Right the Wrongs Past—the words echoed like a lazy haze when Noctis woke up, surrounded by heat and warmth. He knew within a second that he was not upon Angelgard, or within Lucis, the minute he opened his eyes and gazed at the simple furnishings above him. There were suncatchers of the likes that Noctis could remember a scant few times in the poorer districts of Insomnia—and tangles of beaded twine that hung around them, near the window. Outside Noctis could see green and light—and he pushed himself upward to sit for a moment, the stared down at his legs when they refused to initially move.

“Right,” Noctis mumbled. He’d forgotten the sudden paralysis that came after his foolhardy decision to fuck Bahamut and his shitty destiny. Granted Noctis had never thought his ability to walk would last forever—whatever Lady Sylva had done to grant him return of his legs would not be permanent, not after a year of damage left to fester. There were times were Noctis found he couldn’t even use them, although often the pain and immobility were temporary.

With a tired sigh Noctis grabbed one leg, and then the other, and moved them over toward the edge of the bed. He tried to look around the room, to find a way more dignified than a crawl to get from the bed to the door, but nothing jumped out at him. Noctis bit his lip and scowled with the pent-up feeling of frustration that curdled in his gut. Just when he finally began to work himself past the sting to his pride at the thought that he must drag himself to the door, it swung open.

The woman on the other side of the door had a dark head of thick hair wrapped into a loose singular braid over her shoulder. Noctis could count within three flat coins that were attached to the tie at the end of the braid. Her eyes were wide in surprise, faint age lines drawn thin as everything about her seemed to stretch—and then she huffed and set the basket down.

For a second Noctis hadn’t even realized the woman had spoken, until she repeated her words in clear and concise Lucian, “How are you feeling?”

Noctis eyed her, let his lip go from between his teeth, and then breathed out heavily. The woman took this as a response, hummed lightly, and looked him over shrewdly. She bent over and began to rummage through the basket until she pulled out a cloth and a jar—sweetwater, Noctis realized when the faint lavender and berry scent hit his nose—and carefully dipped the cloth before she reached out with her hand.

“May I?”

Noctis cautiously inclined his head. With a smile the woman shifted closer and began to drag the cloth down his arm from his elbow. Noctis watched the motion and felt the faintly magical touch of the water like little pinpricks of energy. After a second Noctis dragged his gaze back toward her face. He waited until she moved onto his other arm before Noctis asked, “Which island?”

It didn’t take much for Noctis to place where he was; the little charms, beads, and coins coupled with the sweetwater told him everything he needed to know really. The fact that he had drawn upon Ramuh when he was dangerously close to stasis���after already pulling on his connection with the Glacian to frost over Ardyn’s chains—left Noctis with little worry about where he found himself. Instead what really worried him now was where Ardyn was. Obviously not in this room—obviously—

“The Stormsender brought you to the mainland,” the woman said lightly. “It has been three days. Your brother still yet sleeps.”

Noctis blinked. Brother? She meant Ardyn; she had to have meant Ardyn. Thinking about it they did look a bit like brothers—although Ardyn wore the stain of the Scourge on his skin. If Noctis ignored that, imagined the man with dark hair and pale blue eyes, he could see the resemblance that two-thousand years and a hundred generations couldn’t quite erase. Beyond even that weren’t they brothers, in a way? Chosen tools of Bladekeeper and his vaunted Prophecy and all of that utter nonsense that made Noctis want to curl his lips into a sneer.

Instead the King of Light looked over the woman and let none of his festered thoughts show on his face. “He’s alright?” Noctis asked, voice faint, and he tilted his head to the side as the woman moved to rub the cloth along his neck. It brought the faintest curl of an uncomfortable grimace to his face, and he debated the merit of telling her to just stop—but the water felt nice against his skin and he could see the stubborn look in the faint lines on her face.

“He rests,” she said, dipped the cloth back into the sweetwater, and rubbed at the other side of Noctis’ neck. “Although not peacefully.”

Noctis sighed and tilted his head the other direction. He said a short, “Thank you,” aware that it edged just toward the side of being rude. The woman clucked her tongue and Noctis continued, “Madam…?” and he left the sentence leading as she pulled back and looked him up and down.

“Ulric,” Madam Ulric said, faintly approving. “Celestia Ulric.” Carefully Madam Ulric packed away the sweetwater and cloth and got back to her feet. “My husband will be back from his Hunt shortly. I will come and collect you then.”

Noctis ducked his head down, then frowned as he tightened his grip on his legs. He still couldn’t feel it aside from maybe a faint pressure, and even then Noctis couldn’t tell if that was his legs or his hands really that he felt the pressure from. A second later Noctis sighed heavily.

“I…can’t walk.”

Madam Ulric eyed him, then nodded. “I will have a chair for you.”

“Thanks,” Noctis mumbled as the door closed.

[bubblepunk99s]

Amara

Dust motes danced in the airy light of Anis’ study as he shifted through a storm of essences.

He had called his desk an ‘aromatic apothecary’. Amara had dubbed it a ‘scent bench’. Racks of essence bottles curved around him as he furiously scribbled formulas on to wafers of paper. Occasionally he would un-cork one, releasing a burst of scent that filled the room before dissipating just as quickly- rose oil, hyacinth, slowly burning sandalwood, even that metal stench Amara had always associated with the Void gates back home. Anis would take stock of it then return to his scribbling.

Another uncorking. A fierce note of burning pepper-bush flooded Amara’s nostrils. Then it was gone. More scribbling.

“That was a good one.”  

“Hmm.” Anis sounded unconvinced. “Bit too overpowering, might need a modifier, maybe a citrus ester or a floral one. But that’s in my rayiha so I’ve been told and I don’t think it’s very becoming of me to aim for a signature just yet...”

He continued on in this manner. Amara really didn’t mind. She’d learned a lot over the past week thanks to Anis’ ramblings- his role as a student in the school of extracting (itself part of the house of sciences) the nature of his craft, the Soljin’s nature as part of a greater whole- one of four peoples that had split apart from days spent as Void-wandering nomads, different in many ways but bound by the faith that had united them so long ago- the faith of midãd, the pursuit of the divine substance. Anis considered his work to be the greatest expression of that history, crafting multi-layered scents from countless differing essences.

“So, how’s your work coming along?”

“Oh.” Rising herself from her stupor, Amara glanced back at her sketches. Though Anis had provided a desk to study at right next to a disused alembic, her mind had been elsewhere. It was with Tia and the others now searching for ingredients in the shops and markets. Ingredients for Met’s...treatment.

“Something is in you.” She had said to her, sitting her down in the lovers’ small home. “Call it a baran, call it kaba, call it whatever you like. Just know it isn’t getting out unless we force it out.”

“A...” Amara remembered. “The bolt.”

“Yes, the bolt. The one you were struck by. It came from the god-grounds.”

“You knew about that?!” Tia had been aghast

“I sensed something in her when we shook hands. You telling me about the storm destroying your district confirmed my suspicions. Why do you think I chose to let you stay after your friend’s treatment?”

“So, you were keeping things from us.” Udana said. “Why should we trust you now?”

“It’s not about trust. It’s about necessity. You think the wights you met in the desert were bad? Whatever’s in you now is far older, far darker. I don’t know how it got into you but I know I’m the only one in this city that can get it out. You need more than a doctor, you need someone who understands the dead.”

Silence. Then Khedes had spoken up.

“We can help you.”

“Amara?”

Amara blinked. “Sorry... just thinking about-”

“About your condition?”

She nodded. Setting his work aside, Anis came up and laid a hand on her shoulder. Thankfully he wasn’t shocked back 10 meters.

“I’m sorry I can’t help you more. That way you wouldn’t have to rely on that frightful pair.” He rubbed his neck. “If only I could be more like En-Kindi.”

“Who?”

“En-Kindi, the founder of the school of extracting, part of the house of sciences first master’s council. He could do everything: perfume, metallurgy, astronomy, cryptography. A true polymath! He once said that “time exists only with motion.  Body with motion, motion with body. If there is motion there is necessarily body, if there is body there is necessarily motion.”

“How does that relate to all my problems?”

“It means if you keep moving forward then things will definitely work out in the end!”

They both chuckled at that. Then awkward silence resumed.

“You know” Anis continued. “He also said we should devote ourselves to the truth. Always keep looking for it, even if it came from peoples distant and nations different from us. I think he approve of you coming all the way out here...and that he would want me to help you.”

Amara gave a gentle, tired smile. “Thank you. That means a lot.”

Anis smiled back. He was about to say something more when suddenly there was a wrapping at the door. Perplexed, he went and opened it. He returned with a small wooden box. Lifting its lid revealed 4 small perfume bottles and a note with 4 words in the Soljinn script written on it. Amara recognised them as street names.

Anis’ smile faded.

“Come on. Time I showed you the other part of my job.”

Kuru’s house of sciences was an alternating mix of interior and exterior spaces. Shadowed hallways would lead to fragrant courtyards bordered by rounded pillars of Aban-Sad stone. Its student body a mix of promising young scholars swelled by the patronage of established academics and those who had been sent by less established families to rise through scholarship and intellectual endeavour. Anis was one such student.

“Wish you could have seen things when everyone was here. Boys would wear off-world jeans under their work robes. We dared each other to flip them up when to get a glimpse of what style they were trying out.”

“Did you really?”

Anis blinked. “Please don’t assume every strapping young Soljinn man is as socially awkward as me.”

That of course had changed with the Corvus’ arrival. The school was backed by public funding, along with that of the social elite- bankers, merchants and military officers. When the Corvus assumed command that wellspring quickly dried up. Students and teachers alike dropped out, some seeking to get jobs as translators and scientists, others hurling themselves against the walls of the Nest in protest.

So now the school Amara walked through was a ghost of its former self. A time when the sound of scratching pens on paper and all manner of scientific, philosophical and theological discourse that fell under the banner of falsafa- Natural studies- filled the air. A time when so many Rayihas joined together it was hard to tell when one person’s soul ended and another’s began.

“That’s one sad story.” Amara said sympathetically, as they head out through the school’s main embossed arch.

“Not half as sad as where we’re going, I’m afraid.”

Where they were headed was a street in the city’s old quarter. En-Yaqut it was called, the birthplace of some of the city’s finest biographers and renowned for its scroll-stores, literary cafes and abundant collections of ornate manuscripts. After all, was it not said that the ink of the quill was holier than the blood of the martyr?

Amara couldn’t see that beauty now. As they followed the street downhill, the air began to smell of smoke. Shutters covered the front of shops, emblazoned with graffiti of a bird spreading its wings between two trees. A young boy flicked rocks at these shutters, which quickly burst into flames, alighted by security lasers.

“Oh no...”

Amara turned to see what Anis was looking at. Standing at a bend in the road was a charred husk of a building. It looked like it had come from Amara’s ruined district, though it stood alone instead of being surrounded by others like it. A crowd had gathered, some dousing the charred walls with water jets.

“Not Shaba...”

“You!” An old woman cried, in black robes with embroiled cuffs. “You from the house?”

“I am... I am.” Anis confirmed. “Please Shaba...the owner of this place...he isn’t...”

The lady shook her head. “Some of his clients were translators for the Corvus. A fight broke out over it and then the fire started. He didn’t survive.”

Anis fell to his knees, his breathing ragged. Amara knelt with him.

“A friend?”

He nodded shakily.

Amara didn’t need to know any more. But she needed to snap Anis out of this.

“Anis, we came here to do something. Do you remember?

Another nod. With trembling hands, he took out one of the vials and poured its contents on to the ground, murmuring what sounded like a prayer under his breath.

Slowly a rayiha surrounded them. It smelled like drying paint and fresh parchment. Amara almost thought she saw it, as a hazy silhouette of a man standing before them.

Anis seemed to glimpse it to.

“You always were so accepting, Shaba.” He turned to the woman. “Make sure the Clerics find his body and give it the rites. We have others to see to.”

He then swerved back up the way they had come. Amara nearly had to run to keep up with him.

“Perfumes are an accompaniment to someone’s soul. Naturally they can be used to guide and heal lost ones. When a body is prepared for the rites, we provide perfumes to guide the rayiha back to it.”

He gave Amara a gentle, tired smile.

“The house of sciences may be fading, but that line of work keeps me occupied a lot nowadays.”

Why had they come?

To dethrone tyrants of course! The rulers of Kuru had become depraved and needed removing. Had they not rounded up dissident scholars, removed them from public office? Had they not charged exorbitant fees for the stone of Kuru, exploiting them over the years? Had they not acted to the detriment of every non-Soljinn in the city and punished those who practiced tolerance? Men like Shaba?

“Well that was a fucking lie.” Anis growled.

The Corvus’ defeat of these men- the feared mihna lawgivers- had been like something of out of a legend. The air had suddenly filled with white light. Spears of it leapt down to strike the lawgivers palace. Then ship after ship had floated down to continue the assault.

Such talk there had been! Anti-regime cells had gathered in the coffee shops whispering of plans that would never see fulfillment. Some wrote and translated advisory letters to the Corvus, others hoped that translation schools would be built to speed negotiations between the people and the invaders.

Such dreams- of translation, of communication- had died swiftly when the Corvus demonstrated how they translated with their first routine survey.

So, the days went on. Anti-Corvus groups making a scene, the Corvus themselves appearing out of nowhere to make a bigger mess of it. Men like Shaba- known for his tolerance of all peoples and the generosity of his spirit- killed in the crossfire, while others like Anis trailed after the violence, hoping to help in whatever way they could.

“So, you still don’t know why they are here?” Amara asked. By the time they reached the House of Science’s entrance the sun was setting. A day spent attending similar sites to the one on En-Yaqut street had left her drained. She would need to talk to Tia tonight.

“Don’t know don’t care.” Anis’ voice had seemed to age over the day, becoming as rough as Met’s at times “I’m just trying to survive.”

Just trying to survive. Made her little treasure hunt seem silly by comparison. Then Amara reminded herself she was doing it to help her own people survive as well.

Turning to the path to Met’s house, Amara thought about the violence she had seen here- how it could spread so easily to her own home, how many homes it had already taken. She thought about the artefacts lying discarded in the God-grounds and the wreckage of Shaba’s slowly burning shop.

As she did, the taste of electricity filled her mouth and goosebumps spread across her skin.

[rosesisupposes]

Love Language, pt 2

aka Phase I: Roman

Character Tags: Virgil/Anixety ; Patton/Creativity ; Patton/Morality ; Logan/Logic ;

Chapter Pairings: Established LAMP/CALM, Logince

Warnings: none

Reader tags: @residentanchor​ @royally-anxious​ @fellowthomassandersfander @bewarethegrammarpolice @jemthebookworm @arandompasserby

Summary: Logan loves his boyfriends, truly he does. But finding the right way to show it has presented a challenge.

<< Part 1 | Part 3>>

[read on ao3]

Roman was the first to investigate the clatter that had been Logan’s crashing revelation. “Dearest Lo, has someone harmed you?” He rushed in to help pick up his boyfriend from where he still lay, staring at the ceiling. Instead of depositing him on his feet, Roman held the logical side bridal style, grinning now that it was clear that he was unhurt.

“Roman, you can put me down, you know. I’m quite alright.”

“But why would I want to, my dear Sherlock? You’ve crashed to the ground once today, and of the three things in the world you should be falling for, none of them are a desk chair,” the prince replied with a grin, kissing Logan’s nose.

Logan blushed. Being treated like a delicate creature was the most confusingly enjoyable thing about dating Roman. Logan was the solid, staid one, the adult in the room. But with this passionate man, he was handled as lightly as if he was one of the petite princesses from Roman’s beloved Disney movies or plays. Which reminded him - it was time to put his plan in motion.

“Roman, I actually fell because I, uh. Need your help. With my studies.”

Roman deposited Logan gently on his bed, looking equal parts shocked and delighted. “You… need my help? With studying? My dearest Logan, I would be delighted to aid you in your academic quest. How may I assist you?”

Logan cleared his throat, then grabbed a huge tome from his bookshelf. “It’s to do with Shakespeare, actually. I am able to read the words and follow the play, but, well. I’ve read that they weren’t meant to be just words - they were supposed to be performed. I’d like to truly understand them as they were meant to be heard and seen. Would you be able to help in this?”

Logan suddenly looked up as Roman held him by both shoulders, eyes intense as he stared directly into the other’s bespectacled eyes. “Logan, there is nothing I want to do more than perform the works of the Bard for you. Where shall I begin?”

“You should pick the play, Roman. I am sure I would learn the most from your most passionate performance.”

Logan had thought watching Roman perform would just be a good way to connect with the dramatic man. He hadn’t been prepared by how enraptured he himself would become watching the man perform. Despite playing every role, Roman was able to evoke so much passion even as he switched back and forth. Logan found himself breathless, only speaking when Roman encountered a word he wasn’t quite sure of. On this, Logan was able to help, offering definitions and period-specific context. Roman’s eyes were alight as he listened to his boyfriend’s explanations, before diving back into his one-man show.

Logan was absolutely entranced as Roman spoke with regret and sorrow, holding the text.

“For it so falls out that what we have we prize not to the worth whiles we enjoy it, but being lack'd and lost, why, then we rack the value, then we find the virtue that possession would not show us whiles it was ours. So will it fare with Claudio: when he shall hear she died upon his words, the idea of her life shall sweetly creep into his study of imagination, and every lovely organ of her life shall come apparell'd in more precious habit, more moving-delicate and full of life, into the eye and prospect of his soul, than when she lived indeed; then shall he mourn, if ever love had interest in his liver, and wish he had not so accused her, no, though he thought his accusation true.”

He paused. “Lo, why would Claudio have love in his liver? Why not the heart?”

Logan blinked, recovering from the near-trance that Roman’s performance had put him into. “I, uh. Oh, yes, in Elizabethan England, they held the idea of the four humours governing physiological and mental health. Blood was the humor associated with spring, youth, and passion, and at the time it was thought that the liver produced blood, and thus was the root of all passionate feelings.”

Roman leaned over to kiss a blushing Logan on the cheek before transforming back into the grave Friar, offering counsel to a desperate and bewildered family.

Roman finished the play with a flourish. Logan gave him a standing ovation. It had been nothing short of a delight to watch and listen to. Roman bowed elegantly, flush with success and pride in his performance. That confident smile was too much. Logan slid arms around the prince’s waist and kissed his grin. “Thank you, Ro. That was... beautiful. I really did learn a lot from you.”

“Thank you, Logan, for giving me the opportunity, and for being my dramaturg. We made an excellent team.”

“We did, didn’t we,” Logan smiled, bringing up a hand to cup Roman’s neck. He kissed him long and slow, slick tongues sliding gently against each other in perfect partnership.

When they finally broke apart for air, Roman smirked as he leaned his forehead against Logan’s. “Please, do tell if you ever need another private performance.”

Logan laughed, breathless and content. “Don’t make such tempting offers, dear Prince. I might take you up on it until we run out of plays.”

author’s note: wish fulfillment? i don’t know what you’re talking about, i would never want to flirt via shakespearean performance/dramaturgy, nope, doesn’t sound like me at all. shh.

Text: Much Ado About Nothing, Act IV, scene i

[laudsimogen]

End of the Day

Summary: One of Jake’s undercover missions goes seriously awry, and he and his friends have to deal with the aftermath.  Tags: Angst, happy ending Pairing: Jake x Amy Length: 4,390 words 

The first and only thing Jake Peralta thought in the moment the gunshot rang out was I’ll never get to see Amy again.

And then he was down. There wasn’t any pain, unlike when he was shot in the foot, but there was some feeling of simultaneous numbness and heat blooming through him like ink in water. It felt like he could get back up, like he could push through it and defend himself the way he was trained, but he couldn’t muster the strength to stand.

 A finishing shot should come soon, he thought, now that he couldn’t fight back. He shuddered to think about what an easy target he was in that moment.

But the shot never came, at least not that he could tell. He could have sworn he heard one, or even two, but it was all background noise to the uncomfortable sound of his pulse in his ears and the swaths of black clouding his vision.

It didn’t matter. One bullet or three didn’t make a difference; all Jake knew was that it was getting harder to breathe, and his heart was skipping, and he wished Amy could have been there to hold him one last time.

 “Briefing room. Now.”

Amy immediately stood from her desk at Captain Holt’s words and rolled her shoulders and neck to relieve the tension that had been building there all morning. It was harder doing deskwork without Jake around to liven it up, and she often found herself stuck tight in one position for hours on end. She was grateful for any real opportunity to get out of her chair and stretch.

Of course, it was only to settle down at one of the briefing room desks, but motion was motion. She let her mind wander as the rest of the squad filed into the room, wondering whether someone was in trouble for doing something stupid, which seemed to be half the reason meetings were ever called, or whether there was an interesting new case to solve.

Holt closed the door and made his way to the front of the room. He cradled a leaf of letterhead paper on a manila envelope in his hands, and Amy hoped it actually was the beginning of a new case file.

“I have word from Marshal Johnson,” Holt began, and the room erupted with sound.

“Jake’s captured O’Bannon, hasn’t he!” Charles said, his face alight with joy. “I knew our boy could do it,” he added to Amy. “In and out, just like that. Nobody in the 99 has ever caught such a fugitive in less than a month before!”

Amy felt her insides constrict with nerves, just like they always do when there’s news from an undercover investigation. Jake had been on so many she felt she should be used to it by now—he’s a perfectly capable detective and he’s always been fine before—but her gut didn’t agree.

This particular case he was working alone. Michael O’Bannon was wanted for just about every crime under the sun, from drug dealing to murder. Jake was chosen for the job for reasons that couldn’t be disclosed no matter how much Charles had begged and pleaded, and while Amy hadn’t voiced her desire to know more about the case her fiancé would be working, the thought of him being undercover for so long without anyone else on the squad terrified her.

But here, through all the chatter, was news. Holt had actually tolerated the noise longer than Amy expected, but it didn’t take long for him to quiet them down. He cleared his throat and looked down to skim the paper in front of him before laying it down on the lectern.

“I have been searching for the words to tell you all about this since the letter arrived this morning,” Holt said, and Amy’s heart all but fell through the bottom of the floor. The briefing room was quieter than she had ever heard it. There was a long pause, as if Holt were still searching for those words, and it was suddenly glaringly obvious that something was terribly wrong.

“Detective Peralta was compromised in his mission,” he said eventually, his eyes trained on a back corner of the room to avoid eye contact. “He was killed three days ago in the line of duty.”

The room burst to life again, this time filled with pain and rage and indignation and denial. Amy could only sit still as her world shattered around her and Holt brought the clamoring back down.

“Jake was a fine detective, and a fine man,” Holt said, his voice wavering. “He will be sorely missed. I will let you all know when the service will be as soon as possible, and I urge you to support each other in this tragedy.”

Holt left the room before anyone could ask any questions, and the silence and stillness persisted long after the door swung shut. Amy’s face was wet with tears, and she could hear Charles sniffling beside her. She couldn’t tear herself away from the shock until Rosa appeared on her other side and pulled her into a hug. Her crying finally became audible as she sobbed into Rosa’s shoulder, gripping the back of her jacket like her life depended on it.

 When Jake came to in his hospital bed, he could barely see through the pain enough to know he was even in a hospital bed. His whole torso was on fire and he had a splitting headache the likes of which he’d only experienced before in terrible hangovers.

It took another few minutes before he realized he wasn’t in an actual hospital. The floral wallpaper was old and cracked, and a pile of dusty toys and a plush chair sat in the opposite corner. The blinds were drawn tight in the window and there were two doors, one that must lead out of the room and another that could be a bathroom or closet door. It looked like a regular old bedroom.

Jake wasn’t sure whether he should call for somebody. He was hooked up to an IV and an ECG machine, and he was alive, so odds were good that whoever had done this was on his side. He couldn’t be sure, though, and while he didn’t have any means of defense in such a state, he didn’t want to plunge into deeper shit than he was already in.

Before he could fight through his pain- and probably drug-induced haze, the door opened and an older woman walked in. Jake had never seen her before, and she started when she saw Jake awake.

“Oh! Detective Peralta,” the woman said, “I’m glad you’re awake.”

“Where am I?” Jake asked. He wished he could think well enough to ask more specific questions.

“This is my house,” the woman said. “I’m Doctor Acosta. Marshal Johnson sent you into hiding with me as soon as I was able to get you out of the operating room. You’re not allowed to leave here no matter what,” she said. “Marshal’s orders.”

Jake groaned. “Can I speak to him?” he said. “I need to be briefed on…” he gestured vaguely around the room, “all of this.”

“Of course,” Acosta said. “I was instructed to call him as soon you were lucid.” She took a phone and a slip of paper from her pocket and dialed the number on the paper before handing the phone to Jake.

“US Marshal Johnson,” the marshal said when he picked up the phone.

“Sir,” Jake said, “It’s Peralta. What happened? How am I alive?”

“Slow down,” Johnson said. “I’ll explain everything. We found out at the last minute that your cover had been blown. I led a team to your location and we didn’t make it before you were shot, but we managed to chase O’Bannon and his men off before they finished the job.” He paused. “Most of them escaped, including O’Bannon. Doctor Acosta is keeping you hidden until you’re well enough to be on duty.”

Jake sighed. Normally he’d argue, and he probably will once he feels well enough to at least stand and walk, but for now it hurt just to breathe and he couldn’t imagine facing off against a genius criminal again anytime soon.

“Fine,” he said. “Can I at least have contact with my precinct if I’m not working the case anymore?”

There was a silence at the other end of the line, which Jake hoped meant Johnson was considering it. Superiors never seem to sway in his favor, though, and he could tell the answer wouldn’t be a positive one when Johnson finally heaved a sigh and replied.

“Unfortunately, you cannot,” Johnson said. “Even this phone call is the only one we’ll have between each other. This is a unique case, Detective, and certain measures need to be taken for your safety.”

“Okay, well…how long before I can go back on duty?” Jake asked. Johnson’s voice had betrayed some emotion Jake couldn’t quite put his finger on, but it wasn’t good. Something was off, but he hoped if he ignored it he wouldn’t have to deal with it.

“Doctor Acosta will tell you everything you need to know medically,” Johnson said. “There’s just one other thing you should be aware of.”

Jake frowned. “What is it?”

“Those measures for your safety go beyond contact,” Johnson said. “O’Bannon has eyes everywhere, and he needed to think you were dead or he would find a way to kill you. You understand why that poses a concern.”

“Okay…” Of course he understood; it was common sense. Not only did he not want to be killed, but being laid up in a hospital bed, even in a place less full of civilians than a hospital, put innocent lives in danger.

“I had to notify your captain of your death,” Johnson said. “He will inform your precinct and organize a funeral so as not to rouse suspicion. News of your death will be broadcast publicly.”

Jake paused. “You mean you notified him of my fake death,” he said.

“I notified him that you fell at the hands of O’Bannon,” Johnson said. “You are officially dead until further notice. You will not show your face, you will not use social media, and you will have no contact with anyone outside Acosta’s apartment.”

“What?” Jake cried. “No, no, no, you can’t do that,” he said. “My squad knows how to fake mourning; they’ve done it before for former Detective Pimento. You can’t tell them I’m actually dead.”

“I can do whatever I deem necessary,” Johnson said, “and I have. I understand your misgivings, Peralta, but as soon as you’re well, or as soon as O’Bannon is captured, you can go home. This situation isn’t indefinite.”

“But sir—”

“But nothing,” Johnson said. “You will be informed when you can reemerge. Until then, Doctor Acosta will take care of you.”

The phone hung up before he could protest and he reluctantly handed it back to Acosta. There was nothing he could do; his friends, his family, will think he’s dead for who knows how long. Months, maybe. As much as he’d always thought faking his death would be the coolest thing he could accomplish as a cop, imagining the rest of the squad mourning him and thinking he would never come back broke his heart.

It seemed cruel. What about Amy? She was so uncertain for so long about dating another cop, and this could solidify those uncertainties into regrets. He wanted more than anything in the world to tell her he was okay, that he loved her, and that he would be back as soon as he could. He briefly wondered if he could bribe the doctor into letting him write a letter, but tried to push the temptation out of his mind. As much as he hated to admit it, O’Bannon was too dangerous for him to try anything, and if something happened to Amy or anyone else at the Nine-Nine because of him he’d never be able to forgive himself.

So the waiting game began.

 Captain Holt tried to insist Amy take time off of work, but she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t sit at home and cry despite feeling like she had enough tears to last months. Being at work was the best distraction she had, and if she gave that up, she would totally break. It seemed the same was true of most of the squad, save Charles, who hadn’t shown his face in the week since they were notified of Jake’s death.

The funeral was tonight, and Amy wasn’t prepared. She’d been grappling with her eulogy for days, knowing words didn’t exist to describe how she felt about Jake and his passing. In the end, she’d crumbled up the sixth paper she’d attempted and curled into a ball herself, wishing she could disappear.

So, instead of doing work, she only sat at her desk and stared at her computer, her mind running through how the service might go. She wasn’t sure she’d even be able to make it into the room with the coffin on stage and Jake’s portrait standing next to it. She almost considered staying home, but she couldn’t just not show up no matter how sick she felt at the prospect.

“Amy.”

Amy snapped out of her daze; she hadn’t noticed Gina walking up to her. She sighed and rubbed her temples to try to ease her headache as Gina slid her papers away to sit on the desk.

“Hey, Gina,” she said. “What is it?”

“You’re stressing about tonight, aren’t you?” Gina said, and continued before Amy had a chance to reply. “Of course you are. What say you and me ditch this depression rodeo and go pregame?”

Amy scowled. “Pregame what?” she said. “Jake’s funeral?”

“It’s what he would have wanted and you know it,” Gina said. She sighed, then added, “I’m stressing too, okay? I just think the night will be a little easier if, you know, I had some tequila and five-drink-Amy made an appearance.”

“I suppose a little confidence wouldn’t hurt…”

“That’s the spirit!” Gina slapped Amy’s back hard enough that she nearly face planted into the desk. “Oops,” she said with a chuckle. “I may have already had a drink or two.”

“Okay,” Amy said, standing up. “All right. I just need to tell Captain Holt we’re clocking out.”

And two hours later, Amy was sobbing face-first into the bar. It was the first time the number of drinks she’d had didn’t correspond to any of her drunken quirks. The crying had started after drink number two, and she couldn’t stop herself from letting out intermittent bursts of tears.

“I miss him,” she cried. “I miss him so much and I loved him so much and…and what if he didn’t know that?” She lifted her head and looked wide-eyed at Gina. “What if I didn’t say it enough?”

Gina groaned. “Your relationship was so pure it made me want to vomit,” she said. “He knew you loved him. Trust me. You were all he ever talked about.”

Amy nodded and wiped her cheeks with her sleeve. “I don’t know what I’m going to do without him,” she murmured.

“Yeah,” Gina said. “You only get one best friend. Of course, I am many people’s best friend, but I only have enough room in my life for one…and…”

Amy tilted her head. “Gina?”

“And he’s gone,” Gina said flatly. She slid out of the bar stool and pasted a smile onto her face before holding her hand out to Amy. “We should get ready for the service. Contrary to popular belief, I can’t just flip my hair and become a perfect twelve.”

Amy took Gina’s hand and slipped off the stool, stumbling into her. “I think I had too many drinks,” she said. “Oh, God, I’m going to ruin the funeral.”

“Don’t think about it and it’ll be over before you know it,” Gina drawled as she practically pushed Amy out of the bar.

When they got to the church, Amy took a seat on one of the front pews while Gina went to the bathroom, and it wasn’t long before she was flanked by Rosa and Terry.

“How you holding up, Santiago?” Terry said. “I know today must be hard for you, but I’m here if you need anything.”

Amy sighed and rested her head on his shoulder. “Thank you, Terry.” She paused, then admitted, “I don’t have a speech.”

“You don’t?” Terry frowned. “That’s so unlike you.”

Amy nodded. “If I go up there and say anything you’re gonna have to escort me out because I won’t be able to make it off the stage myself because I couldn’t even do this for him; I couldn’t write him a nice eulogy, and I couldn’t hold myself together at his funeral, and he’d be teasing me for being a mess right now, and…”

“Are you drunk?”

Amy nodded again. “Gina’s idea.” She sighed. “It didn’t work.”

“Look,” Rosa said, “if you can’t make it up there to give a dumb speech, it’s okay. Nobody is going to force you and everyone already knows how much you loved him.”

“I’m sorry,” Amy said. “Jake was your friend, too. I don’t want you to have to take care of me. This is hard on all of us.”

“Yeah,” Terry said, “it is. We all just have to be there for each other and we’ll be okay.”

Amy nodded and straightened up as much as she could as the service began. It felt longer than it actually was, and her eyes never dried through the entire evening, but she made it to the end without vomiting so she deemed it a success. That is, until it was time for eulogies.

She stiffly made her way to the microphone and stood staring blankly at the mourners, wringing one hand with the other as she tried to figure out what to say. Giving up on writing it in advance was a mistake, she thought.

“Jake…” Amy took a deep breath. “Jake Peralta was the best person I have ever known,” she said. “I was lucky to have him in so much of my life. He inspired me through my fears and anxieties, and he helped teach me how to relax and enjoy life for what it is.” She stopped to wipe her tears away again. “I wish more than anything he could come back,” she said. Her chest tightened and she was crying to the point that wiping them away did nothing, but she kept speaking.

“Jake was so full of love,” she said. “He loved so much and so hard and he deserved to be here longer than he was. I’ll carry him with me in everything I do at the Nine-Nine, and I know the rest of his friends will, too.”

 It was four months before Jake heard back from Marshal Johnson. They were the longest months of his life, even longer than the time he’d spent in Florida. At least then he’d had Captain Holt around, and he could go outside, and he could get a letter from the squad every so often.

So when the doorbell rang and Doctor Acosta brought Johnson into the house, Jake felt like he’d ascended into someplace higher than Heaven. The briefing was quick and simple: the FBI had detained O’Bannon and subdued all of his men, and Captain Holt would be told the truth about Jake before he went back to Brooklyn. His life should be back to normal in just days, but the prospect of seeing his friends months after they were told he was dead was more nerve-wracking than any case he’d been on. What if they were angry? He knew he would be angry if his role had been reversed with any of them—not that he would blame them, but he would be angry nonetheless.

Jake’s plane came first thing in the morning, and he was back in New York by noon to meet Holt at the airport. His stomach churned as he left the gate and scanned the crowd for Holt, who he found with no problem. He grinned despite his nerves as he approached the captain.

“Sir,” Jake said, offering his hand.

“Peralta.” Holt nodded and shook Jake’s hand before pausing and drawing him into a hug. “It’s good to see you again, Jake,” he said. “I am glad you’re well.”

“It’s good to see you, too, Captain,” Jake said. “Really good.”

“I’ve not told the others about you yet,” Holt said once they’d caught a cab. “I only got word late last night, and I figured you would want to stop by the precinct to see them as soon as you got back, anyway.”

“Yeah,” Jake said, “I need to see them. But, uh…shouldn’t they have some warning? I mean, I think ghosts are badass, but they might not think so.”

“I will go in before you and tell them,” Holt said. “They will all be thrilled to see you, Peralta. You should know your funeral was the most emotional thing I have ever experienced.”

There it was again, that pang of guilt for things he couldn’t control. He forced a laugh and said, “Man, I was hoping it would have been a rager.”

“Some people were enraged, yes,” Holt said. “Particularly Boyle.”

“No, I meant ‘rager’ as in a wild party with drinks and fun,” Jake said.

“I’m not familiar with the slang,” Holt replied, “but Santiago did appear to be inebriated, and I know Gina was—”

“Okay, not helping,” Jake said. “Never mind. We’re almost there; I just need to take a few deep breaths…calm down…”

“Why are you so nervous?” Holt said. “You don’t have any reason to be.”

“I don’t know,” Jake said. “I’ve just never been in a situation like this before. I’m used to being prepared for anything, but I wasn’t trained for dealing with these emotions and Yahoo Answers doesn’t have many people who have faked their deaths giving advice.”

“Come on, Peralta,” Holt said as the cab pulled up in front of the precinct, “you’ll be fine. Now, stay out here and I will come get you after I have given everybody the news.”

Jake nodded and leaned against the wall to wait while Holt went inside.

 “Everybody in the briefing room,” Captain Holt said as he strode out of the elevator. “I have big news.”

Amy perked up. She’d never heard the captain use the words big news before, but she couldn’t imagine it meant anything bad. Had the precinct won an award? Were crimes at a record low? She scanned her internal database for anything interesting that might be happening this time of year, but she couldn’t come up with anything big news-worthy.

Once everyone was seated, Holt took his usual place at the front of the room and immediately began speaking.

“Four months ago,” he said, “we held a funeral for Detective Jake Peralta.”

Amy felt like the wind had been knocked out of her. Thinking about Jake’s death still hurt, and the precinct found it was best for all of them not to bring it up. Why was Holt mentioning it now?

“Last night, I received a call from US Marshal Johnson, the marshal Detective Peralta had been working under. I was told he was alive.”

Amy’s breath caught, and she shook her head. “Sir, I think I must have misheard you…”

“You did not,” Holt said. Amy’s pulse raced as murmurs spread through the room. “Peralta was ordered to lie low in Maine after being compromised and subsequently shot. He survived, but Johnson faked his death for his safety while he recovered, and now that O’Bannon has been captured, he is free to return to New York.”

“Hey, guys.”

Amy whipped around in her seat at the sound of Jake’s voice and found him standing in the doorway with a sheepish grin on his face. Warmth washed over her and she felt rigid and weak all at the same time. Is this real? she thought. It is. It is real. It has to be real.

“Sorry, Captain, I couldn’t wait—”

Jake staggered under Amy’s weight as she all but threw herself out of her chair and into his arms. Her arms wrapped so tightly around his neck he almost couldn’t breathe, but he lifted his hands to hold her back and closed his eyes, breathing in her perfume and burying his face in her hair. When she finally drew back, one hand tangled in his hair and the other still wrapped around his neck, the look in her eyes sparkling with tears made his heart melt.

She pulled him back into a hug, crooning “I thought I’d never see you again” and “I missed you so much” and “I love you, Jake. Don’t you ever do that to me again” and yes, she sounded angry like he was afraid she would, but he didn’t care anymore. He just gathered her tighter into his arms and kissed the top of her head and felt her warmth and her heartbeat and her love.

And then more weight was added as Charles did his best to bear-hug the both of them, and he could feel Rosa slapping him on the back, and Terry ruffled his hair through joyous sniffles, and Gina managed to worm her way into the hug, too—something Jake would have to remember to tease her about later.

Later, there were drinks (a celebratory rager, as Holt had called it), and the ninety-ninth precinct became whole again as they recounted tales from the last four months and openly shared their love for one another.

“To Jake’s immortality!” Charles drunkenly toasted, and Jake laughed and shook his head as Charles attempted to clink glasses with everyone in the bar.

“No,” Jake said. “To my family.” He looked to Amy and wrapped his arm around her before glancing around at the rest of his squad. “You’re all incredible, and I missed you so much,” he said. “Nine-Nine!”

The chorus of Nine-Nine!s answered back as smoothly as they ever had, and at the end of the day with the sun setting on the horizon, they felt full and at peace with the world again.

[accio-firewhiskey]

The Maid (10/13)

Summary: AU, Belle is Rumpelstiltskin and Baelfire’s maid from The Return.

Note: Oh god, here we go.

-

I - II - III - IV - V - VI - VII - VIII - IX - X - XI

-

Belle’s never fainted before. She feels so now.

She feels as though she’s free and untethered—liable to fall at any moment. She sways with the slightest breeze, so high up above the ground. She’s only been this far above the ground once before, atop the great tower, where Gaston dragged her one, lazing summer, long ago. Looking out, away from Gaston’s grasp, the air hitting her face so sharp it draws tears from her eyes, she feels the world below and beyond to be great and wide—full of adventure—and for her, only for her. Her future stretches forever, past the bright horizon. She feels she could do anything, even fly.

 But that was long ago, when her mother was alive and Belle wasn’t the wager for death machines.  

 And now, though she feels free and without hold, liable to fall at any moment, higher than she’s ever been on this seer’s tower, Belle feels her stomach drop, not with the slight sway of the wood planks in the breeze, but with bile and dread. She feels the world not to be great and wide, full of adventure, but close and tight. The world presses on her from all around, the humidity and wet of summer too much to take. The world consists of only this moment, of the coming death at the hand of leisurely ogres—she can her them, the crunch pounding in her ears across the empty plain of the valley. A slow death, she hears, of teeth and nails.

 The screams, every now and then she jumps at a scream from the soon-to-be dead.

 Belle climbs down, afraid, and she must surely be ash white, for the doctor looks at her with all the concern of one who makes his bread by reading faces and limbs (but for just a moment, she imagines she might glimpse the tiniest touch of care, in the claustrophobic camp). He might care, she wonders, as he touches her forehead with asking.

 Taking her wrist and feeling for the pulse there, he says, “Water.” The word, cold and remote gives Belle pause—concern, interest even, but no, not care. “Follow me,” he states, heading toward his own area of camp.

 “But my work,” Belle croaks, her throat dryer than she’d thought.

 That causes the doctor to turn, his lip lifting only slightly, “Yes, because everyone seems a-hurry today.” He motions around, and true enough, the camp moves at snail’s pace, if at all. The wet day making it hard to breathe, hard to think. No, Belle understands, little war-play will occur today.

 His tent stands in the rear of the camp, along with the tents of the commanders. He walks in, holding the flap for her from the inside—a belated invitation. He’s no gentleman, Belle thinks to herself, and with a breath, she steps inside.

 As her eyes adjust to the light, the blue of the tent linen coloring the interior. His tent is larger than her own, larger than the tents of the foot soldiers. There are two cots, one for patients, she presumes, as well as chests and tables. His things are fine, as fine as the tokens her mother brought to her marriage. Scattered about her childhood home, Belle remembers the fine things and knows the doctor comes from the highest level in the gilds. He may not be a physician to nobility, but only just. Wonderful enough to serve the great commanders of the war, lowly enough to be sacrificed. Belle understands the smirking smile—he’s forfeit to this war, same as she.

 “Water?” he offers, drawing a ladle from the great, waist-high jar beside his bed. He pulls out the singular chair in the tent, handing her the ceramic cup.

 She sits and accepts the drink. It’s smooth and cold in her hands, despite the heat of the day. She takes a deep drink. Belle looks up at him, shocked, “It’s—the taste.”

 The smirk returns, “Ah, that. The water.” He shifts slowly toward her, resting a hand on the back of her chair. “I get the clean water.”

 “Clean?” she asks, confused. Of course, she had noticed the foul tint to the water in the camp, but then she had grown accustomed to the different taste to water in the city, but this water, this water tasted sweet, pure—it tasted like the water from the well back home.

 “Oh yes, didn’t you know?” he asks with sincerity that Belle believes to be thin. “The commanders lace the water with brimstone.”

 “Brimstone?” she says, “but why?”

 He chuckles lightly, “Brimstone better fills the soldiers’ stomachs. Food is scarce, but the war drags on.”

 “Why do you get clean water?”

 “Simple,” the doctor explains, “the additive can infect wounds.” His smile returns, “A few cups at meals are hardly missed.”

 Nodding, Belle feels beads of sweat rolling down her neck, to gather at the small of her back. Suddenly, the air of the tent tightens, heavier than before. Finishing her cup, she sets it down, “Well, thank you for…” she stands, “sharing, but I should return to my work.”

 “Now, just a moment,” the doctor steps forward, and with nowhere else to go, Belle sits back down, with a thud. “I’ve something else to discuss.”

 “Something outside the war effort?” she tries to keep her voice light, but her unease is growing. She needs to be outside, where even the tepid air would be better than the stifling tent.

 “Not exactly.” He picks up her cup, turning it over.

 “Then what?”

 “Tell me, how do you think this war is going to end?”

 Belle straightens up in her chair, “We’re going to defeat them. With the war machines—“

 “You know that’s not true,” The doctor laughs. “You saw the truth from atop that tour, didn’t you?” He takes his finger, slowly, to barely brush her cheek. Belle gasps, so lightly, she makes no sound at all, but then, as suddenly as it began, he turns away. “You know as well as I do, that there’s only one end to this war, and when it happens, you can bet I’m not going to die, dissected on an ogre’s table.”

 Belle scoffs, for once this afternoon, finding her feet, “What can you do? Run? They execute all deserters.”

 “That’s not what I meant,” He opens a chest, pulling out a vial, “the benefit to knowledge of medicine—I know both life and death.”

 Her face twists, “What?”

 “It’s quite simple,” He shakes the little bottle. “Death, painless death, at the time of my choosing. I’m not going to be torn to bits by ogres, limb by limb. I’ll die my way.” He smiles, and it’s so sure, that it unsettles her. His next works are light as a whisper: “and you could too.”

 Belle looks down in her lap. She finds that her hands won’t still, so she clutches her dress instead, “So you want to die?”

 “No, of course not, but I don’t want to suffer more.” He steps closer, holding the vial in front of her. It is a deep green glass, filled three quarters and corked. “You know as well as I, that we’ve no chance before those monsters.”

 He’s right. She heard the screams on the wind; she knows they won’t end. Suddenly, painless sounds more like a flicker of hope. “You would share that with me?”

 “Possibly,” the doctor smiles then, a wide grin, “for a price.”

 Belle frowns, the air of the tent giving her a headache. She knows now her wariness had not been misplaced. “What do you want?”

 He kneels down before her. She tenses, as he unwraps her hands from their tight grip on her skirts. “Shaking hands make for poor war machines.”

 She extracts her hands, ”What do you want?” 

 “Let’s call it an offer. I would like to be your, how to say it, chaperone—“ Snapping his fingers, he fingers a the term he’d been searching for, “—benefactor, if you will. This camp is full of men—hardened soldiers—hardly the place for a young woman. I could offer you protection, my care.”

 She’s not fooled, “But that’s not all.”

 Another smile, “No, I’ve not the captain’s taste for little errand boys, I would seek your companionship, your intimate companionship.” He toys with the edge of her skirt, “Do you take my meaning?”

 Belle pulls it from his fingers. “Yes, you mean companionship in bed.”

 He winks, “I do.”

 “And you would trade your vial for that.” 

 “Aye, the chance to decide your own fate.” He stands, “I risk much with this. If I were to be found out, I would face the same end as any deserter, but I trust you’ll keep this offer between the two of us, hm?” He crosses his tent, back to the chest, “Think it over. It’s not like we are leaving any time soon.” 

  “Wait,” her words still his hand from returning the vial, “how do I know it would work?”

 “Wise question,” the doctor says, “I can show you.” He moves to the entrance of the tent, “There’s a soldier bound for death. It would be a mercy at this point to relieve his suffering. Would that be proof enough?”

 Belle’s mouth drops, “But that is barbaric.”

 He sighs, “’Tis a kindness, and what is more I was going to release him from this world in any case.”

 She nods and follows him to the larger medical tent. Immediately, the smell strikes her, putrid and steaming, along with the sound of the flies, alighting on the many bodies on the cots throughout the tent. The doctor comes to stop before a body—a man—his face mangled, in gashes, and what’s more, his legs are little more than stumps. The lines jagged, from bites, she realizes. 

 The doctor turns to Belle, amid the moans from the dying soldier (from all the dying soldiers), “Do you see?” He whispers, “this is the end of our war.”

 The thought, at first, strange and alarming, suddenly seems far more kind. “I understand.”

 The doctor nods, and turns to his work. Subtly, he slips a few drops into a waterskin beside the cot, and brings it to the lips of what was left to the soldier. It takes only seconds.

 Belle has no idea why, but tears collect in the corner of her eyes.

 Listening for breath and perfunctorily checking for a pulse, the doctor brings the scrap of a blanket over the man’s face, before taking her by the wrist and leading her back out into the hot day. When he moves to drop her wrist, Belle grabs his own, “Wait, I want it, the—.”

 “Quiet,” he moves his hand in front of her mouth, “discretion, if you would be so kind.” He looks to the hand on his wrist. “A ring I think, small and discrete.” He moves closer, taking her hand into his, “with a latch.” Slipping the ring on her finger off, he adds, “This should work well enough.”

 She nods, “When?”

 “Tonight, after dark.”

 She nods, the deal struck.

 -

  Rumpelstiltskin sleeps overlong. Belle had stayed with him until the candles burned quite low, but he had continued reading—attempting to read—after she had left until the fire burned low as well. He had drifted off, his head, lolling, the tome in his hands slipping to his lap.

 “Papa,” Rumpelstiltskin jolts, as Bae calls to him.

 “Gods, Bae,” he groans, “’Tis early yet, give your poor papa time to awaken.”

 “Early?” Baelfire scratches his head. “It’s not early.” He looks around, “Where’s Belle?”

 Indeed, Rumpelstiltskin looks at the bright sun. The day was later than he had thought. Rolling his sore neck, rubbing his hands down his face. “Share my thanks with the maid for awaking me,” he quips.

 Baelfire races outside, neglecting to even change his nightclothes or put on his boots, yelling out for their maid. His father chuckles, stretching his tired bones, “That boy.” He stands, closes and stacks his book, regretting their late night.

 Water—he’d feel better with a wash. Then perhaps he could try to spin more straw into gold. He crosses their home, the floorboards creaking. He liked the sound, he liked knowing the wood of their home was fine and smooth. Feeling an unexpected bit of pride, the spinner smiles to himself, reaching his hand into the smooth water jug.

 Stunned, he freezes, his hands coming up dry. He leans over it and finds the water standing low, low as it had been evening last. He looks at the hearth—the coals gone long since cold. For the first time, he feels uneasy.

 Bae bursts back into their home, “I can’t find her. Maybe she went to town?”

 Rumpelstiltskin frowns, “I very much doubt that.” Grumbling, he goes to the door, taking up his cloak.

 The boy tilts his head, “Then she must be at Saorla’s—I can go and see—“

 He grabs Baelfire by the back of his shirt, “Now, now, not so fast, Bae.” His son gives him a strange look, and the spinner has no idea how to explain that he has the strangest feeling that she may be keeping a corpse for company. He improvises, “I’m faster, son.”

 The boy nods, appeased.

 Rumpelstiltskin swallows, holding his son by the shoulder. “Stay here, Bae.” With a puff of smoke, he disappears to see what has happened to their maid.

 -

 As a child, Belle dreamt of adventure, of daring knights and magical solutions, of riddles of wit and societies of secret wisdom. She dreamt that women—very, very special women—could be heroes, could be brave and daring as those handsome knights whose faces were obscured and distant  (for though they featured in her dreams, they did not narrate). She dared to dream that her thread of fate be tangled down the spool with the stuff of greatness.

Then she grew and learnt that dreams and threads and greatness were all tangles, all messes and those knights did great and terrible things and that women—even very, very special women (oft them especially)—were not meant for stories filled with the stuff of greatness, not in a land such as hers.

Women were not heroes, (no one was) and in any case, Belle did not desire greatness, nor glory, nor adventure. She desired sleep and rest. Calm and repose. Of course, those were not the stuff with which her thread be tangled neither. Her threads dripped blood and dust; embroidered through with bitterness and age and scars.

She does not hear the footsteps approaching, nor the door opening, but finally, she hears the voice of resignation, “So, he’s dead.”

The voice is distant. Belle does not move, from where she kneels on the group, as if thousands of threads tie her wrists to her knees and both to the ground. She can hear though, the steps on the dirt floor of the hovel. The grinding of the gritty earth echoes in her ears—it hurts. She wishes it would stop.

“I am sorry—I thought,” the words are slow, incredibly slow, as Rumpelstilskin looks at the body, “I thought there was more time.”

This at last, shakes her. “There was more time,” she croaks, “but he did not want it.” Belle reaches a hand forward, toward Maurice’s body on the ground, but it’s too far to touch, and she’s too heavy to push any further forward. She runs her fingers across the dirt, crushing it, as it slips back down.

 “Lass, we have to move him.”

 She feels the warmth then, of the day, too close to noon. “Rumpelstiltskin?” she asks.

 “Aye, dearie.” He moves toward her, slipping a hand under her arm.

 “No—no,” she pulls back against him. “I won’t leave him!” Stronger than she looks—stronger than her meager food and rest should allow. She scrambles along the ground, away from him—and into Maurice. Turning her head, Belle screams.

 “Enough,” sighing, he hauls her up and out of the poor excuse for a house. Amidst her kicks and screams and cries for the father, he shakes her, “The man is gone. He’s gone, Belle.”

 That rouses her, wide eyed and panting heavily, “He’s gone.” Her eyes are wide, wide and glassy, “I’ll never see him again.”

 “Aye, dearie.” When her breath evens and she has gone quiet, the Dark One thinks over what is to be done.  He waits, but her calm appears to have returned, taking with it her wild outburst. Her head moves not, not to the house, nor to the chirps of summer birds nor rustle of green leaves.

 They breathe together there, in the clearing about the hovel. He feels quite damp inside his dark cloak. The heat of summer beads along her forehead, but she lets it roll and drop, caressing her face. She is a world away, and Rumpelstiltskin needs do what he must.

 With little flourish, a heavy hand barely raised, they are inside his cottage.

 As the smoke slips away, he grasps her arms should she return to histrionics, but she focuses on something far away, something he cannot see.

 Gently he walks her backward, seating her upon his bed. Kneeling before her, he unwraps a fisted hand from her skirts, turning it palm-side up, and checks her pulse (steady, surprisingly so). Frowning, he waves a hand before her face—her gaze remains fixed. Sighing he stands, a little surprised at his own dexterity (even the Dark One forgets himself from time to time).

 He steps outside, darting his eyes from the house to the grounds—he hopes he won’t have to call, but luck’s not been on their side this day (nor ever, really).

 “Bae?” the words spoken barely above his normal tone, bring the boy with his pig’s bladder ball from ‘round the corner.

 “Papa! Is everything—“

 “Quiet, son,” he stops him from running up, with a lifted hand. “Hush now.”

 Baelfire offers a confused glance, with slow and steady steps, “Papa?”

 “My boy, I needs off to town, but,” he falters, unsure what to speak and what to hold, “but I need your help.” The child gives him a strange—and eager—look. “Belle is feeling ill—“

 “Is she—“

 “She is—she will be fine, but right now, she needs rest. I need you to stay and watch over her while I’m gone.” Lifting a hand to his son’s cheek, Rumpelstiltskin asks, “Can you do that for me, Bae?”

 “Aye, of course, papa.”

 “Good, now, do not speak with her, she’s… unwell. Just sit here, by the door. She mustn’t run off.”

 “Alright,” the boy speaks hesitantly, confused as to the task.

 “That’s my brave son. I’ll be back before you know it.”

 Naturally, he does not bother with walking, appearing on the edge of town. The quiet village was as lively as it ever becomes, the hour only a touch past noon. He walks with purpose to his mark, a singular shop, with no customers. The structure itself spoke of better days, with a fine roof and strong, oaken beams. There was a time when this shop did best of any in the village. Frowning, Rumpelstiltskin walks inside, “Hello?” When none answer, he calls, impatient, “Anyone care for coin today?” 

 Farther back, wood clatters, and a dark-haired man wearing an apron emerges. The man starts when he realizes the would-be customer is the Dark One, “Spin—sir?” Wiping his hands, looking side-to-side at his wares, “what need have you for a coffin?”

 Rumpelstiltskin sighs again, “Ennis, ‘twasn’t it?”

 “Aye,” the coffinmaker nods, looking him in the eye.

 “Well then, Ennis, what would I be doing here, if I had no need?”

 “Well—yes, that is—what kind are you looking to purchase?” The walls are covered with caskets, every shape and size, all types of shapes and woods. Some are stacked atop others.

 Little business burying the dead when a war’s finally come to an end.

 “Something stout. Wide and light, I think.”

 Ennis sighs, “the lunatic father?”

 Frowning, Rumpelstiltskin agrees, “Aye, the girl’s father.”

 The carpenter walks past him to a simple coffin in the back corner of the shop. “This should do, ‘bout the right size, I think. Briar wood and a fair color.”

 Moving forward to inspect the coffin, he runs a glittering hand over the fine carving, “Lacquered too,” turning to Ennis, the Dark One cannot resist the temptation, “more time on your hands these days, eh, casketmaker?”

 His jaw clenches, “Do not imagine I wish for the days when I could barely build them fast enough to bury children inside of them. Unfinished, with little holding them together.”

 Surprised, he tilts his head, “So your table has not felt the loss?”

 “I didn’t say that, but I would burn all these coffins ‘afore I wished any more children to die.” Turning back to the piece, he asks, “Do you want it or not?”

 Blinking, Rumpelstiltskin hands him a pouch of coin, without asking the price. He does not care—he suddenly wants to be out of this shop and away from this man.

 “But this is too—“

 Before Ennis can finish, he and the coffin are gone.

 -

 Baelfire is hot.

 He bounces his ball, sitting on his haunches in front of the door to his home, but the ball keeps rolling out from under him, and what’s more, he’s not heard a sound from inside the house for all the time his papa has been gone.

 Strange that.

 His chin tilts toward the house, and the ball rolls away from his hands again. Perhaps, he ought to check on Belle. He’s not heard a sound after all. Perhaps she’s sicker than his papa knew. Perhaps Baelfire needed to save her.

 Yes, standing, he knows he must go inside. Papa would understand.

 (And if she’s asleep, papa need not know he poked his head inside, only for a quick check).

 The door creaks as it always does. Bae can see Belle sitting on his father’s bed—but she should be resting. “Belle?” he whispers. She doesn’t move. Crossing the room, the little boy takes her hand, “Belle?”

 She moves not. She speaks not.

 The strangeness to the moment only frightens the boy a little. Slowly he walks over beside his friend and gently sits beside her. “’Tis alright, Belle. I’ll—I’ll keep you safe.” Leaning against her, holding her hand, her listens to her slow breathing and waits for his father.

 -

 Rumpelstiltskin makes quick work of the messy business, and with a few flicks of the wrist, the inventor lay in his lacquered coffin, in a hole in the ground behind Old Saorla’s place. He waves his hand, adding the lid and spreading the dirt. He feels little—death was inevitable, even without war, but clasping his hands in front of himself, he lowers his head, commending the corpse to the ground, “I will keep my vow. I’ll do no wrong to your girl.” Briefly Rumpelstiltskin regrets burying the man without his daughter. Perhaps he’s muddling the traditions of where they are from to the south?

 Shaking the thoughts, he turns to go—the day is sweltering, he could not leave the body to rot and she had hardly been in a state to attend to the task. With nothing else to be done, he magics himself back to the house, but seeing the open door and no Baelfire to be seen, he growls and hurries inside, “Bae?”

 Entering the house, he finds them sitting together, his son’s eyes full and fearful but the girl stiff as stone. The fear that she had lost her mind, possibly hurting his son was too much for the old spinner—but his boy was safe, and the father’s heart pound from the misplaced fear, “Oh, Bae.” He walks to them, running a hand through his son’s hair. “I told you to stay outside.”

 “What happened to Belle?”

 Kneeling down, Rumpelstiltskin takes the boy’s hand into his own, “Son—“

 Belle speaks instead, her voice unlike her voice, a flat line of tone, “Maurice is dead.”

 Her master cringes, wishing the boy spared from such a way to find out, but his son’s sweet heart feels not for the occasional friend and teacher that the mad inventor had been, but for the maid he had come to love as family. Baelfire wraps his arms around Belle, crying, “Belle I’m so sorry.”

 She does not move.

 Frowning, the father extracts his son from the girl, “Bae, why don’t you go and fetch Belle some fresh water. We’ve hardly any in the house”

 The boy latches onto the task, running to the hearth to grab the water buckets. Racing out the door, Rumpelstiltskin knows he has bought them some time to speak frankly. Without knowing any better way to speak of the dead, he simply tells her, “I took care of it.”

 Surprisingly focused, she looks at him, “It’s good she’s dead.”

 His brow wrinkles—the lass had lost her wits after all, “Who?”

 “My mother. It would have killed her to see him like that.”

 “Ah, the madness.” Indeed, much of what he remembered of his father he would have been better off not seeing (but that was love—seeing your loves at their worst).

 “And me,” she adds simply.

 “What of you?” he asks, not convinced she knew of what she spoke.

 “Me?” she laughs a little, “Yes, I should be dead too I suppose.”

 “No, that’s not what I meant.” He sighs, impatient, “Did it, did it hurt to see the—Maurice?”

 She laughs in earnest then, “Oh, no—takes tougher stuff to kill me.” Her laugh is bitter and sharp and old (and Rumpelstiltskin wonders at her war scars). Looking down at her hand, where a ring sits, Belle adds, “but it killed him straight away.”

 “What are you talking about, girl?” he asks, annoyed and put out.

 “I killed him.”

 “You what?”

 “My father—crazy, old Maurice—he asked for my poison and I gave it to him.”

 Rumpelstiltskin runs a hand over his face—truly, she was mad. “You’re confused.”

 “I’m not,” she shouts. Taking the ring off her hand, she stands, putting it before his face. “This was gift, during the war, the chance to die at the time of my deciding, and my father knew—he knew all along what I’d done and what I paid for.”

 Grabbing her wrist, he takes the ring. “Where did you get this?” He had heard of such things—high treason, of course. He had only believed them to be rumor (and had searched them out on the front anyway).

 She offers no answer, smiling sweetly, tears in her eyes, “What monster kills her own father?”

 Then, Belle of the Southlands faints.

 The dead weight of her, held only by the wrist in his hand—Rumpelstiltskin nearly drops her, but gathering her into his arms, he picks her up, a light thing, and puts her back in his bed (too shocked to do anything else).

 He steps away, gathering the ring from the ground where it had fallen from her limp fingers. He snaps open the latch and turns it upside down, finding the hidden compartment empty.

 She had not lied; looking over, Rumpelstiltskin stared at this final casualty of the Ogre Wars and his murderous maid.

  -

 Belle sleeps. She wakes when needs forced her from slumber, but father and son moved about the house quietly, living on edge, as the days passed and Belle refused to rise for more than a few moments.

 Her refusal was silence. She could not be roused. Waiting had proved fruitless, so when days began to pass, the spinner shook her shoulder, but even to this, she offered no resistance nor acknowledgement.

 She slept in full light and while Baelfire played outside. Curiosity shifted to concern. They knew not what to do—how to reach her.

 Loath to think on her sins, Rumpelstiltskin instead thought to her tasks. ‘Twas strange how quickly he had forgotten how many items he had given over to the maid. Cooking, cleaning, the shopping and animal care. The weeds heard tell of her despair and spread like wildfire in her precious garden. Baelfire grew quiet and strange.

 He would give it two more days before he forced the issue, the father decided, late one night, five days from the inventor’s death. Sitting beside his bed and his maid, enough time had passed that he was irritated with her constant presence in his home (taking up his bed), but despite this, once again, he crawled up the ladder to sleep next to his son for another night.

 -

 When Rumpelstiltskin tells him, Baelfire, for the first, feels rather scared, “But papa, why do you have to go now?”

 “I don’t want to son, but I must.” Indeed, he had gathered another possible lead on the pirate ship, and he could hardly let another chance slip past him as he had in Padirac—not that he could tell that to Bae. “’Tis only a quick trip, son.”

 “But Belle…” the boy’s words slip off, as he chances a look to the bed in the corner. She had nary moved over the past week. She barely drank and hardly ate. She slept, and they waited. She slept, and they worried.

 “Oh, son, she’s not going nowhere. Sit with her, watch over her, give her water and what food she accepts. I will return quickly.” Taking Baelfire’s chin into his hand, he adds, “I know you can do it, my boy.”

 The son nods and slips upstairs for bed, as Rumpelstiltskin continues to prepare to leave (knowing that he could sense any harm that might come to his son). He wishes his confidence stood as sure as his words had been. Like Bae, he was worried. The maid seemed quite lost, cursed even.

 He had been little better when his own father had left him.

 Time, Rumpelstiltskin told himself. In time, she would rise and return to normal. She had to. That was the only possibility he let himself entertain. Dropping his bag by the door, he sits beside her in the chair he dragged to the bed from his desk days ago.

 In his thoughtlessness, he’d put Belle on his own bed. He had never imagined she would continue to occupy it past that afternoon while he buried her father. He stared at her, only her shoulders and smart, white cap visible with her back to him.

 His annoying little maid.

 She frustrated him and smarted under his orders. She defied and disagreed with him, but true enough, he liked her. If there was anything that these past days had made Rumpelstiltskin admit to even himself, it was that fact that he liked her. The house was different when she bustled about to and fro, but the heavy air that had fallen upon them after the death of Maurice had him on edge.

 He very much wished her better, and yet, try as he might, a return of her energies and life, was like to also bring her imminent departure.

 Rumpelstiltskin just knew it. Without the old man tying her down, she was free to run from her past—run from them. They could hardly keep her, and Rumpelstiltskin knew that (much as he did not desire to think on it). 

 The sooner she awoke, the sooner she left, taking the happy running of their house with her. There was nothing to keep her there, where every day was like the one before, where her pay was meager and his manners even less.

 Bae would be heartbroken.

 He may leave too, Zoso spat.

 Rumpelstiltskin dropped his head to his hands, tugging on his hair. No, his boy wouldn’t—couldn’t—leave him.

 You could make her stay, the Dark One suggested.

 Rumpelstiltskin had not the faintest idea as to how. Shaking his head, he stands. He had a journey to make (and Belle slept on).

 -

 Belle, surprisingly, is awake when the children slip inside. She has done her best to ignore the boy, Baelfire choosing to sit at her bedside in the intervals between wakefulness and sleep. Sometimes he speaks to her, sometimes he reads to her. Sometimes it is day. Sometimes it is night.

 Belle sleeps on.

 However, today, they are a little louder than usual. What’s more Bae is not alone.

 “She sleeps all the time now.”

 “Can I see?”

 “I shouldn’t—“

 “Please, Baelfire?” It’s Morraine, Belle realizes.

 “Well, I guess—just for a minute.” She can hear the children opening the door; she doesn’t roll over.

 “Your papa can’t heal her?”

 “She’s not sick,” Baelfire whispers, “at least, I don’t think she’s sick. I think she’s sad for her father.”

 “Oh,” the girl says, “the inventor.” Quiet a moment, she adds, “Baelfire, I can sit with her. You should see to the sheep.”

 “Thank you, Morraine, I hate to leave Belle alone.”

 Please do, Belle thinks.

 “’Tis no matter, Bae.”

 The boy hurries outside, shutting the door. Belle wills herself to sleep, but she can hear the girl, tall and slight, settling in the chair beside the bed. Minutes pass, and despite how much she wills it, the maid cannot fall back asleep.

 “I know you’re awake.” Morraine says, ““I slept too, after the war. I couldn’t sleep at night. Do you have them too—the nightmares?”

 Surprised, for the first in so long, Belle feels surprise. Turning over, she stares at the pretty girl, frowning. She does not speak—she’s no idea how.

 Yes, I do.

 “I have them too.” Morraine waits, but the maid stays silent. “I will wait ‘till you’re asleep to go. That always helps me, having someone nearby.”

 The words, though she hears them, feel so far away to Belle, but true enough, she closes her eyes and manages, at last, to go back to sleep.

 -

 Belle sleeps. She sleeps, but this time she dreams.

 She dreams of the war. She dreams of the doctor and Gaston. She dreams of Baelfire and Maurice. She dreams of her mother even, but most of all, she dreams of Rumpelstiltskin. The confusion of mottled skin gone, he looks like the spinner she met on the road, all those months ago.

 He is less cruel in her dreams: “You must tell me what ails you, lest how am I to mend it?”

 When she wakes up in the middle of the night, she cries.

 -

 It’s early light when Belle wakes up, and for the first time, when she steps outside to relieve herself, she finally feels awake. Instead of turning back to the house, she looks to the stream. Truly, she could use a bath, for she’s no idea how long she’s stayed abed.

 Rumpelstiltskin’s bed.

 That thought gives her pause as she strips off her clothes. She had worn her maid’s dress late, the night she had returned to her employer, so angry at his prognosis. She had worn it late into the night, building plans and hopes together with him for healing. She had worn it back to Saorla’s place, back to her father’s side. She had worn it when he died.

 Belle stops herself, wading into the water—she can’t think about that. If she thinks on that she’ll return to bed, and she does not know if she could ever get out of it ever again.

 Without soap, she runs her hands over her body, and holding her breath, wets her face and hair. She beats her clothes between two stones to wash out the grime. It feels good to move, though her arms cry out at the tiny movements—she’s grown weak, lazy even. Sighing, she rings out the clothes and her hair, walking to the clothesline. She pins up her drenched things to dry beside Baelfire and Rumpelstiltskin’s belongings. Grabbing a pair of pants, cut to the knee and a tunic, Belle dresses herself.

 The clothing is only a little large for her, clearly her master’s. She smells them, the scent of the forest and dust coating them—the laundering has stopped with her convalescence, the line full since she’s been asleep. Shaking her head at the father and his boy—true enough, they had cooked and cared for the animals, in her absence, (and cared for her, what’s more) however, there had been little cleaning, clearly—it was time for her to get up.

 They needed her.

 “Now, is as good a time as any,” she shrugs and unpins the clothing from the line. Feeling her way, as much as seeing in the dark. She drapes it over her arms, slipping the wooden pins into the pocket of Rumpelstiltskin’s tunic, and returns to the house.

 The palest gray of the pre-dawn had only just begun to shake the world awake, but it is quiet yet, Baelfire most certainly still asleep (and his father still gone—she had slept, but she knew that her employer was gone. She could feel it). Belle decides to sit on the front step to do her folding. It takes longer than expect, for there had been much on the line when she had forsaken her duties, and what’s more, she’s little energy to be spent.

 When her stack is finished, she slips inside, setting it on Rumpelstiltskin’s work desk. Stretching, her back and neck, she feels spent again. It’s shameful, how little she’s done and how exhausted she feels. Looking between the clothes and her master’s bed, she decides to sleep. Just once more, Belle promises herself.

 Lying down, she slips back into slumber immediately, and surely ‘tis hours, but feels like an instant, when she awakens. Blinking, she sits up, her eyes adjusting to the bright morning. Bright day.

 Instantly, she feels him. Rumpelstiltskin stands near, staring at the pile of clothes atop his desk.

 “You look like hell,” the words slip out of her mouth before she can stop them.

 Startled, he turns to her, “You’re awake.”

 Blood colors her cheeks—she had neglected her work for days upon days. Perhaps she had even gone mad. “Aye, I’m awake.”

 “And did you…” he points to the clothes.

 “Yes.”

 “Well, you at least, are looking better—“ he stops, stepping closer, “is that my shirt?”

 “Oh, yes,” she grabs at the low neck, “I—I had nothing else, and well, needed to wash my dress. I’m sorry, it’s probably close to dry by now—“

 Holding up his hands, he stops her, “I don’t care about that.”

 Frowning, she asks him (because she cannot begin to understand what to make of the look in his strange eyes), “But why? I’ve been worthless for who knows how long—”

 “Stop. Stop worrying about that. I’m just glad you’re awake again.”

 She nods, and he rubs his hands down his worn and ugly face—she’d meant what she’d said: he looked terrible. She said as much, “You look tired.”

 “You don’t look that well yourself,” his sharp expression softens when he looks at her, “I’ve not slept in days, I expect I do look worse—well, worse for me.” Sighing he walks over to his corner, pulling a blanket from the shelf beside the bed, "I’ll sleep on the hearth.”

 He turns to go, but Belle catches his wrist. Her eyes move from his face to his wrist, “You need not sleep on the stones.”

 Rumpelstiltskin starts to pull back, but she holds him fast, “What are you asking me?”

 Her words are simple, hardly bawdy, hardly even hopeful, “To sleep.” She does not have him, this strange man and coward, frozen in his steps by a stupid girl—a poor fool and murder—she shan’t push any harder, or he could shatter.

 They both could. “Come to bed. I’m tired, aren’t you tired?”

 Mouth agape, eyes wide, a scoff leaves him and he nods, “Aye, I’m tired.” He truly was so very tired. 

 Scooting back, she lifts the blankets, “There’s room enough. Sleep comes easier in a big bed.”

 Swallowing, he slips off his boots and cloak, draping them on the end of the bed. He slips in beside her, slowly. Hesitant, she sidles up to him, and with nowhere else to put his arms, he wraps them about her. Holding his breath, he listens to hers even out, her head on his chest.

I will never fall asleep like this, Rumpelstiltskin thinks, just before he slips away.

[tink-bell]

Write a crack!ship au for one of your characters. Definition of a crackship: seriously this shit can’t happen but in an alternate universe

let me just say this disturbs me on SO MANY LEVELS i feel dirty and this isn’t even that dirty of a thing !! 

AKA

Four times Tinker most definitely did not hook up and one time that they did.

I.

The party was loud and there was so many sweaty bodies. Tink was in the midst of them, loud bass thrumming through her body and only enhancing the high she currently felt. Nights like these were her favorite. Everything blurred together blending into one colorful evening accentuated with loud music and the feel of skin pressed together.

How many people had she enticed? How many had enticed her? There was no real way to tell. All she knew was that at some point a sensory overload had occurred and she had to get away. The newly dyed green haired pixie knew that if she didn’t she’d end up near fucking someone on what they called the dance floor. Really it was nothing more than a large living room with all the furniture pushed out of the way to create ample space for everyone to congregate and gyrate.

It was on this short breather that Tink first caught sight of the tall gangly boy. He was surrounded by a group of four, maybe five; the way Tink’s vision kept swimming certainly wasn’t helping her keep count but that didn’t matter. They were faces that she recognized from Pixie’s and from her classes at Uni. One boy she’d hooked up with multiple times, a girl she’d seen giving furtive glances. But it wasn’t any of those that mattered. It was the tall one, a barely there smirk on his lips as he smoked, that had drawn her attention. She moved quickly, with purpose, to stand in front of him. “Mind if I bum one?” She motioned to the cigarette that dangled between his lips with a raised eyebrow before grinning as he offered her one. 

She lit it easily with the offered lighter and then moved to lean against the low wall they were perched near. Discreetly she eyed him, taking him in further now that she was closer and he wasn’t wishy washy the way he had been. Spotting his shirt, she smirked fuller, even going so far as to huff a laugh. At the raised eyebrow she shook her head before speaking. “Bigmouth Strikes Again,” she said simply, nodding to the boy and his shirt.

II.

The second time they meet they’re both scavenging the racks of Scat Cat’s music shoppe. It was Tink’s day off from Pixie and she’d decided that it was high time to update her music collection. Not that it wasn’t banging anyways. Her taste in music was magnificent, even if she did say so herself. If it was recorded during the seventies or eighties, Tink had it. That was her niche.

There had been a rumor that Scat Cat had gotten something in that was precious and something she’d been looking for. It was the ‘67 London LP of Their Satanic Majesties Request and God was it beautiful. It would round out her collection and she was certainly ready to dish out the money for it. Even if it meant being a mite late on her rent that month. It’d be alright because the sweet, sweet voice of Mick Jagger could lull her into a false sense of security any day.

Course fate or whatever other bullshit you believed in would have it’s say as she neared the designated section for such a beauty. Lo’ and behold tall and gangly from a few weeks before was there, long spindly fingers traipsing over covers like they were piano keys. Tink immediately wondered what else those fingers were good at before inwardly chiding herself. Wouldn’t do to get all worked up inside of a record store with no one to help take care of her sudden need. There wasn’t even a dingy bathroom to retreat to with a stranger for a quickie.

Never the one to shy away from a cute boy or girl, Tink soldiered on. She wanted the vinyl, after all. And if she came away with a phone number there was nothing wrong with that.

“I’ll have to fight you if you take the Stones album. I’ve been waiting for Scat to get that in for ages,” she whispered, leaning close to him before taking a quick step back. Her face was alight with mirth and she waited for him to respond, grinning when he muttered about music elitists and hipsters, to which Tink took mock offense. “I may be a music elitist but I am no hipster, I assure you... I never did catch you’r name, you know.” She moved to stand next to him, her own fingers moving through the vinyls until she found what she was looking. For a moment she lingered, thinking he wasn’t going to answer her, before turning to head towards the register. “Berlioz. It’s, uh, it’s Berlioz.” He finally gave away, causing Tink to flash him a wide grin over her shoulder. “Tink. Catch you around, Berlioz.”

III.

It’s some months before Tink and Berlioz cross paths again. So much so that Tink begins to think he was just an illusion. A beautiful illusion that her mind made up to combat the fact she’s felt rather lonely the past couple of months. Not that there hadn’t been many that had graced her bed but other than that she felt she was missing something. A something she didn’t like to ever really examine because she was determined to be the free spirit she’d always been. There was no time for any sort of commitment. The biggest commitment in her life was Pixie’s and she had intended for it to stay that way.

Now when things became too much, when Tink felt that her thoughts would swallow her whole, she repeated the same pattern. Wallow for a bit the get high then grab a bottle of her favorite tequila then make her way to the park. Nothing stopped her in her quest. Not rain or snow or really windy days. The day it all eclipsed inside of her it was a wonderfully sunny day, odd for fall but Tink would take it, with billowy clouds that took shape. Blissed out of her mind, Tink had decided it’d be the perfect day to lay outside on the grass, head propped up by her tattered jean jacket.

Unlike the other times their paths had crossed, Berlioz approached Tink. There was no mistaking the bright hair of the faerie nor the absolutely tattered clothes she wore. The small faerie was so out of her mind that didn’t even really notice another had joined her until that deep voice broke through the haze of her thoughts. “Finding any cool shapes?” He’d asked. At the question Tink had laughed, instinctively curling towards the presence. “Found a crab with a top hat earlier. He looked right posh,” she hummed, resting her head against his shoulder as he laid out beside her.

They laid like that for what felt like only minutes, each one pointing out ridiculous cloud shapes and giggling, before the sun began to set. It made Tink sigh out softly as she stirred, blinking heavy eyes in the process. Really, she had felt comfortable with Berlioz, content to just lay there as her high worked it’s way through her. As it faded, though, she felt a sense of dread at having to walk away from this rather nice afternoon with him. “Feel like comin’ back to mine? Got some MJ and really good music. Unless you’re too cool to hang out with a music elitist,” she smirked. That smirk turned to a grin as Berlioz stood and nodded, motioning for her to lead the way.

IV.

Tink and Ber were nearly inseparable. Where one went the other could soon be found. Their now mutual friends called them disgusting, swore that sooner or later they’d get together. What they didn’t know though. Spoilers, darlings. Regardless, the pair spent more time together than they did apart. Tink wouldn’t have had it any other way. That place inside of her that had felt empty for so long, no longer felt that way. Slowly it had been filling, making instead a home for a certain tall and gangly boy.

It didn’t matter that there was an almost considerable age difference. Tink being twenty-four and Berlioz being just barely eighteen. What mattered was that they were comfortable around each other. Didn’t feel the need to pretend. They spent hours curled together, high as fuck, listening to music; new and old. It was all pretty G rated but TInk didn’t mind. This one relationship was fine without sex. It didn’t need to be defined by that because it just felt-- right.

But around the fifth month of their ‘hanging’ out dating Tink got her first inkling that things might actually progress to that level.

They’d gone to the Next Town Over for a proper night out. One that they didn’t have to be interrupted by any of their friends. God knew they’d crashed many a date in the past and really, Tink just wanted Berlioz to herself; just as much as Berlioz wanted Tink to himself. There wasn’t much of the movie that they could remember, most of it had been spent with eyes closed and lips pressed together, but from what they had seen it looked pretty boring. Something they could report to their friends when they eventually made their way back to Swynlake.

Phones shut off and retired to Tink’s flat for the evening, everything was going rather well. Tink had turned on the heater because it was cold as hell but they had still forgone most of their clothes as they laid buried under a fort of covers on her bed. Again, eyes had been closed and lips pressed together as hands roamed and explored, each set mapping out their partner with immense concentration.

Course that was when their friends most definitely used the key under the mat and came barging in, interrupting said explorations with very little dignity. Pouting while trying to cover her more exposed bits, she looked towards Berlioz with exasperation on her features as the gang all crowded around. “We need new friends.”

V.

While Tink had proven that most things come about from spontaneity, sometimes she liked to plan things. Those things included birthday celebrations, graduation celebrations, and other such things. Her favorite, of course, being birthdays. Luck had it that hers and Berlioz’s were mere days apart. Which meant that there were three days in which they could celebrate. An entire glorious weekend to be spent celebrating between their friends, themselves, and their family.

Two of those groups were quite tiring. So tiring. Especially family. Berlioz’s family definitely didn’t like her and Tink’s family was very partial to him. Best to say they’d be avoiding familial engagements altogether. 

It was their friends that proved to be the most tiring. The gang had all come together for a massive night out. There was booze, there was drugs, there were so many body pressed together until they all became one. It was an epic celebration. Something fit for the two of them. Only they would have preferred to be have celebrated by themselves. Something small rather than large and raucous. It was nice, though, and they thoroughly enjoyed the time spent with friends and each other; the two of them pressed tight together in an attempt to shut out the world.

The last of the celebrations were their favorite. It was just them, hidden from the world in Berlioz’s studio. He’d wanted to show Tink something and she readily agreed. In her opinion Berlioz would be the next Bowie or Prince. He had an ear she wished she’d had. An ear and an ability to put different components together into something... incredible. Plus she loved being able to say that she was dating a musician. Something only made better by the way Ber looked whenever he had an instrument in hand. Just pure bliss, nirvana right there in front of her.

But just as she could get side tracked in his music, she could also get side tracked in him. In the way his lips felt against hers or the steady and sure way his hands moved along her body. Tink was not a firm believer in delayed gratification, she preferred her gratification instant thank you very much, but this... Putting this off with Berlioz, all those interruptions and delays, it had been worth it. Every single nerve ending was on fire, bringing her nothing but complete pleasure as they went along slowly. 

Clothes were discarded slowly, not carefully, thrown over chairs and equipment. There was laughter and teasing quips as they both chased something that was always just out of their reach. It was built up passion, desire, want. Everything Tink had been chasing all those months ago built into this one boy who had somehow made a place for himself inside of her, moving constantly within her. It was a push and pull, give and take, both reaching and reaching for release. And when it finally came they collapsed into a heap together, curling around one another until they couldn’t tell where one began and the other ended. 

[hazohazahazbro]

It’s Not Personal Pt. V // 4:38

Pairing: Read x Bucky

Featuring: Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanova, Clint Barton, Sam Wilson, Wanda Maximoff, Vision

Warning: Swearing, fighting, fluff, angst ??

Prompt: Bucky and Steve are assigned to track down and attack an alleged threat. But what happens when that alleged threat is you, and your intentions are more mysterious than they thought?

P.S ~ this will be separated into multiple *parts*. If you’re liking this and want to make sure you don’t miss the next parts that follow, then turn on post notifications or send me a DM.

Was listening to this song while writing: (x)

Previous Parts:

Part I

Part II

Part III

Part IV

It was dark by the time you arrived. The moon was the only lighting as you stumbled down the street. Cars flew past you, your hair blowing up by the wind. It didn’t bother you, though. Your thoughts were elsewhere as you reached the building your heart was aching for. It stood, looming over, in front of you. Lights were on, closer to the top floor. The bold letters already made you anxious, and your palms sweaty.

You walked up to the large front doors, smiling at the camera. The door made a click as it unlocked, you hesitated for a moment before pushing them open. The lobby was empty as you headed over to the elevator, pressing the top floor. Different thoughts swarmed your brain as you stared at yourself in the elevator mirror.

Did you look OK? Was your hair brushed enough? You brushed your teeth, you checked. You didn’t know why you were so nervous. You’d known about this day for a couple of months, you planned it over and over in your head. But as the day grew closer, you got more and more nervous. You’d become irrational and kept walking into things.

Your father, Loki, had finally been done with your behaviour and told you to go. He didn’t mind letting you leave for a few months, as long as you’d come back and see him. Your heart was overwhelmed with love for your father. He’d done everything he could by you. He taught you how to fight, properly. Loki said he’d never leave you, ever. And he tried so hard to make up for all those years you two were apart. He was everything you wished he would be.

And he finally let you escape. You’d been itching to come back to earth for awhile. Ever since you left it, actually. And you were finally here. Standing in the Avengers compound, in the elevator, on the way to see the one person you’d been aching to see for months.

You couldn’t wait any longer. The anticipation in you was consuming. Waiting in the slowest elevator, it felt. Suddenly, it came to a stop, letting out a ding as it did so. Your breathing stopped, your hands were shaking. The elevator doors opened, revealing the entrance way. You stepped out of the elevator, breathing in something very delicious. You hadn’t even realized that the Avengers were most likely eating dinner. You walked silently through the compound, until you came around the final corner, hearing chatter and soft laughter on the other side.

You stopped for a moment, leaning against the wall. You just listened to the chatter for a moment. Reveling in the feeling. It was a warm feeling. It was something you’d tried to become accustom to over the past few months. Everyone had tried to make you feel so at home in Asgard, though a part of you felt missing, still. You knew that part was here. Somehow. Around that corner, gathered together, they laughed. And that laughter made you feel so.. happy.

It was a weird feeling, especially coming from a place that tried to keep you from your family. But you missed them. The good them. The good Steve, who apologized for something he couldn’t control. The Natasha who tried to hide the fact that she felt bad for you. And Bucky. The good Bucky. The one who held you so firmly, and softly, in his arms. The one who made you realise that it isn’t always pain when it comes to caring. You brought that back in him, too. You knew that.

They all stood behind that corner.

Taking a deep, shaky breath, you came out from behind the corner. Natasha noticed you first, her mouth slightly agape at the sight of you. She stopped whatever she had been doing, causing Clint to stop what he was doing and look at whatever she had been looking at. This caused a chain of Avengers to stop whatever they had been doing and stare at you. You smiled, awkwardly, yet kindly at them.

“Holy shit.” Natasha breathed, breaking the echoing silence. Your eyes didn’t stay on her for very long as they scanned over everyone’s shocked faces, until the landed on the ice-blue eyes you’d been searching for.

No words could be said as he ran to you. You barely had time to open your arms as his wrapped you up. Sweeping you off your feet, his arms around you, perfectly engulfing you in a hug that you’d been craving since the moment you left. Your own arms were tightly strewn around his shoulders, his around your waist. His head tucked into your neck, taking in the scent of you that he had missed.

Tears fell down your cheeks, landing softly on his shoulder. But you couldn’t care to tell him as you felt his own body shutter under you. Never in your life time would you have believed some one if they told you, you’d be the one to ever make the Winter Soldier cry. Everyone around you became a blur as all your focus was on Bucky. His dark brown hair was all that you could see as you took in the feeling of him. The scent. The warmth. All of it.

“I’ve missed you,” you could just hear him say in the crook of your neck. His voice was quiet, muffled by your hot skin.

“I know, Buck.” You said to him, whispering it lightly into his ear, feeling him shudder under your hot breath touching his skin. “I’ve missed you.”

The two of you continued to hold each other. Not wanting to let go. His body was warming you up on every angel. Making you feel more at home than you ever had in a very long time. Reluctantly, his arms slowly let you slip down to your feet. Gathering your strength, you pulled away from him slightly to look at his face. He looked tried, you observed. His eyes were scanning your own face, taking in all of you as you took in all of him.

“God look at you, doll.” His hot breath fanning your face. Heat flared to your cheeks as you looked down at your feet. Though, Bucky was quick to place his flesh hand against your face, bringing your eyes back up to his. “You’re so stunning.” Bucky said. You didn’t say anything, still not used to his flirty comments. You only stood on your toes, reaching up to him and you gave him a kiss. Something you’d missed extravagantly.

“P.D.A!” You heard Steve call from behind you. Bucky smiled against your lips before pulling away. His own cheeks a new shade of red.

“Alight, alright.” Bucky sighed, his arm still touching you. Only now, it slid down to your waist, guiding you over to the table where everyone was gathered.

“Nice to see you again, (F/N).” Steve nodded at you, giving you a warm smile.

“You too,” your breath had escaped you and you could barely find your voice. Your eyes looked over everyone that were in the kitchen, a few of them you hadn’t been introduced to before.

“Are you hungry?” Bucky asked, making you turn to look up at him.

“Starved, actually.” You answered, just realizing how hungry you actually were. Bucky was about to take a step away to go get you food, but as his arm left, you felt a rush of cold air. Involuntarily letting out a whimper. Luckily no one had heard it as the chatter had built back up, only Bucky turned back around to face you.

“I’ll be right back, baby.” Bucky leant over and kissed you on the forehead, sending butterflies to erupt in your stomach.

“Thank you.” Your heart accelerated at his every touch. He smiled down at you. His adorable, lopsided smile.

Awkwardly sitting down at the large table, achingly wishing that Bucky hadn’t walked over to the fridge. After being apart for so long, you only wanted to be feel his touch. You watched his backside as he went, subconsciously bringing your lip in between your teeth. His back was very broad, you noticed.

He had very broad shoulders Something you very much liked about his physique. He had kind of a strut, as well. You hadn’t noticed that before, do to the fact that when you were with him all that time ago, you were more concentrated on which way his fist was going. His strut was cute, though. It was those small things about him that you began to observe, that made you fall in love with him more and more.

“(F/N)?” You turned your head as Steve tried to grab your attention. Everyone had been staring at you, making you feel very uncomfortable.

“Y-yes?” You asked, making Steve smirk at you.

“I was trying to introduce you to everyone.” Steve said, making you look around at the people you hadn’t talked to before.

“Oh okay,” you smiled, giving him a nod.

“Alright.” Steve clapped his hands together. “This is Clint, aka Hawkeye. Over there is Wanda, the Scarlet Witch. Right here is Vision, this guy is Sam, also known as Bird Guy-”

“Hey!” Sam objected, swinging his arms around in an ecstatic way. Your eyebrows raised. “I’m actually Falcon. Y’know? The coolest one on the team.” He added, earning a snort from Bucky as he appeared at your side.

“You have a jetpack.” Bucky said, taking a seat beside you. Handing you a small plate of noodles. Chinese food, you figured.

“It’s more than a jetpack. It’s this really awesome suit with these giant-” Sam’s eyes were wide, his hands waving around in different motions as he tried to describe to you what his suit was about.

“Jetpack.” Bucky cut him off, with a final look. You smirked, glancing sideways at Bucky. His eyes met yours, making you feel caught staring.

“Ice cube.” Sam muttered under his breath, crossing his arms over his built chest.

“You’re Loki’s daughter, right?” Clint asked, shoving his mouth full of his own Chinese food.

“Yeah,” your voice was quiet. You felt uncomfortable under every ones stare. Bucky sensed the discomfort in your posture and wrapped an arm around your shoulders, giving them a reassuring squeeze.

“Does that mean you have powers like Loki and Thor?” Clint continued to ask you questions, his food no longer interesting to him.

“I guess.” You shrugged, “but I can’t lift Mjolnir if that’s what you’re asking.” Everyone laughed at that as Clint gave you a pout.

“Does that mean you use Astral Projection?” Vision asked calmly, though sounding very interested. You turned to him in surprise.

“What’s that?” Clint squinted his eyes between Vision and you, looking completely baffled.

“It’s a type of teleportation.” You said to Clint before focusing back on Vision. “And yes, I do use it.”

“That’s quite astounding.” Vision mused, “is that the only power you inherited from your kin?” He asked, peering at you skeptically.

“Well, I mean-” you were stumbling over your own words. Vision’s eyes were watching you very intently, and it made you nervous for some reason.

“I think that’s enough.” Bucky said to him, cutting you off. You felt relief wash over you. Bucky then turned to you. “Are you full?” He asked, staring at your half-empty plate.

“Yes.” You said. Even though you could eat more, you wanted to be alone with Bucky.

“Okay, we can go.” Bucky said to you, getting up from the table. He grabbed your hand in his, shooting sparks up your arm.

“Leaving so soon!” Sam called from behind the two of you. “They about to do something nasty.” You heard him say to the rest of the group, making you shake your head in embarrassment. Even though you couldn’t see their faces, you could still hear them laugh.

Bucky led you down the hall, passing different rooms as you two went. Coming up suddenly to a shut door, Bucky briefly glanced at you before opening the door. He let you step in before him. The room opened up into a wide bedroom. It was grey, mostly. A few old art pieces were hung on the walls, a single window shown the lights from the city into the room. It was somehow vast, but it was also somehow completely Bucky.

“It’s a lot cleaner than I thought it would be.” You said, doing a small twirl around before sitting down in his bed, which was situated in the middle of the room. A large grey duvet covered the bed, only a few pillows were aimlessly strewn across the headboard.

“Thank you?” Bucky said, with a confused look around the room. He shut the door before coming to stand in front of you.

“It’s a compliment, don’t worry.” You said, looking up at him. His hands placed gently on your cheeks, cupping your face. You felt the metal compared to the flesh, it was an oddly comforting feeling.

“I've really missed you.” He mumbled, looking down t you with those piercing eyes of his. “And when I say really, I mean really really.” Bucky said. Your heart had started to accelerate with every word, your breath faltering for a moment.

“I’m sorry I ever left.” The sound of your voice was faint, raspy almost. He watched you for a moment, his body getting ever so closer to yours. His knees touched yours finally, meaning he was close enough for you to pull him down completely.

Your arms came to his sides, grasping a hold on hi shirt, you fell backwards onto the bed, bringing him down with you. A laugh escaped you as Bucky moved his hands down to your hips, lightly brushing your sides, making it tickle. His body was on top of yours, evaporating all the breath from you. His legs were on either side of you, his arms holding his upper body propped above you, his face inches from yours. His hair had fell into his eyes, making you lightly brush it behind his ears.

The two of you didn’t need to say anything as you were both just enjoying the feeling of each other. Knowing that one another is there. His eyes fluttered shut, as your fingers then lightly traced his face. They followed his stubbled jaw-line, then to his mouth. Tracing the outline of his perfect lips. His mouth was slightly agape as it breathing became heavier and heavier. You revelled in the thought that you made him this way. That only you had that effect on him.

Your hands found their way to his hair, your fingers lacing themselves in it. Pulling him closer to you. His lips then connected with yours. It gave you a tingling feeling everywhere, on every edge and tip of your body. You moaned involuntarily as he leaned down into you more, putting more of him into the kiss. Now only realizing how much you missed the feeling, the taste of him. He was everything you needed, and you loved it.

Bucky pressed his body against you more. His arms no longer holding him up as he deepened the kiss. You heard him groan as he pressed against you, feeling all of you against himself. It made you even more ecstatic than you already were. Everything about what was happening made you feel so alive. So alive, yet so vulnerable. Underneath him, under his touch. It made you weak in all the right places. His hands roamed your body, feeling every single part of you. Leaving a trail of tingles as they went.

The cold metal of his arm made you shiver, but it was a good kind of shiver. Something that made you wake up as his flesh hand flooded your body with warmth.

His lips continued to devour yours. Making you beg for more. You needed more. It honestly couldn’t have gotten more intense, you felt. Bucky suddenly pulled away, his blue eyes searching yours. It was quiet for moment, only the sound of your uneven breathing filled the room. Everything in his eyes said what you wanted to hear. He wanted you. Not just half, not just a quarter. He wanted all of you, for the same reason you wanted all of him.

“I love you, (F/N).” Bucky said, his gruff voice ringing in your ears. Your breathing became shallow as you tried to register what he said. His eyes were sincere as he looked down at you, watching your reaction. Hot tears rolled down the sides of your face as your hands moved from his hair back to his face, holding him.

“You don’t know how long I’ve waited to hear you say that.” You finally breathed. His eyes squinted as a smile enlightened his features. His forehead came to rest against yours in the comforting way you enjoyed.

“Oh, trust me doll.” He hummed. “I do.”

He tilted his head back down to connect your lips once more. You savoured the flavour of him, the feeling of him. He was all you ever wanted, and more. And you had him. On top of you. His hands feeling all of you. And you couldn't be happier.

~

Tag List Below:

@calilycal​ @theloveablesociopath @buckyappreciationsociety​ @marvel-fanfiction @skeletoresinthebasement​ @superwholockmarkiplier @chipilerendi @universal-glitch

‘Elloo everyone! I want to write a Part VI to this, I just want to make sure I still have fans for this series. Please let me know if you’d like to see more of It’s Not Personal!

[dikiyvter]

CW:// It’s.. I mean, it’s a post centered on Dottore. Gore, medical horror, referenced animal abuse/death, and references to child experimentation because it’s.... it’s dottore....

       BANGS POTS AND PANS TOGETHER alright kids gather around for Cala needs to add Dottore as a side muse/NPC for some plots so here’s a collection of some of my weird fucking HCs on him. I’ll probably just... edit this whenever I get new ideas instead of making whole new posts, idk, we’ll see.

       0. BASIC INFO.

       Dottore is 5′10″. He’s athletic, but not particularly muscular. He is a cis male ( he/him ) who is grey-asexual and homoromantic ( though in truth he probably falls closer to being on the aromantic scale as well ). Dottore is somewhere between 27 and 33. Though he was born and raised in Fontaine, he is a direct descendent of the Lawrence clan from Mondstadt. He is a polyglot who is fluent in a majority of the spoken languages on Teyvat. This Bitch Has Mental Problems. 

       I. ORIGIN. LAMBERT PIERRE LAWRENCE is the descendent of Mondstadt’s Lawrence clan, though he himself was born and raised in a small village in Fontaine. Well-off is hardly the term to describe his family’s financial state; to describe what they had as WEALTH would be an understatement. Large was the chateau that was owned by the family, surrounded by the rolling fields of the Fontainian countryside. 

       It was a peaceful place, before Lambert was born. The boy had always been.... peculiar. Things had always been difficult with him; Lambert had a hard time keeping pace with emotions, often being cruel and brash in conversation, forgoing all manners in his interruptions and rants. Bonding was something he did not find particularly possible, never growing close to neither his parents nor his younger siblings. Fights with other children in the village broke out often when Lambert was around; And when the boy became bored these issues were ramped to the extremes. He would do anything to seek some relief from the boredom that plagued him; Anything for a scrap of entertainment.

       He found some relief in reading; Fascinated with the medical textbooks that lined the shelves of his fathers study, moving on to anatomy, to biology, to animals. It was around the age of 14 that Lambert became truly fascinated by animals. Something he had once been utterly ambivalent towards was now a hyperfixation. He’d stop for every spotted dog, he’d beg endlessly for a pet cat of his own. The farmers adjacent to the Lawrence’s property would drag the boy by his collar back to his parents after he’d gone breaking into fields and barns. The intensity of the interest was a bit odd-- but a welcome relief from his otherwise distance and cold behavior Lambert had always expressed. Thinking that perhaps the boy had finally developed an interest far more normal for his age, gently did his parents encourage him to properly ask to see the farmers animals; Even gifting the boy a cat for his 16th birthday.

       Ever one for isolation, even going on two years into his animal fixation, Lambert had always been fond of nightly walks along the outskirts of the property; Something that had always been encouraged by his parents. But as the walks became longer and longer, and as farmers began to complain of missing sheep and cattle, and even the boys beloved pet cat disappeared-- As Dottore’s behavior became more and more erratic, an eerie wariness grew within the house. 

       Just beyond the property line, nestled in a wooded area between the farmers fields, was a barn that had long since been abandoned. One night, worried that his son was the cause of these disappearances, Lambert’s father followed him on his nightly walk. The barn had been changed over the years; It’s insides refitted for the boys purposes. EERIE WARINESS GREW TO FEAR. It became the family’s secret; The monster they now housed in their home and the monstrosities he left in the night to create. Efforts were taken to curb the behavior, to stamp it out now before it spread; BEFORE IT GOT WORSE.

              NEEDLESS TO SAY, IT GOT WORSE.

       The town became aware of the barn when one of the neighbors young daughters went for a walk and discovered it and all it contained; The abominations of metal and meat that Lambert had forged and sewn, the chemicals he had mixed and the plans he had laid for something far darker, and set in motion was the series of events that would cost him EVERYTHING HE KNEW.

        The barn was investigated that day; Lambert far too busy with his studies to hear the fresh news. His nightly walks were well known by now, and who the barn and its contents belonged to was without doubt; And so that night, as the boy ventured out to the barn and began his work-               THE DOORS WERE CLOSED SHUT AND BLOCKED.               AND TORCHES SET THE WOODEN BARN ALIGHT.               AND HE FESTERED THERE AMONG HIS CREATIONS.

       ... But that was a long time ago. He doesn’t think of it much anymore.

       II. BENEATH THE MASK Lies scars from the incident that chased a young Dottore from his hometown. The scars are present all over his body, but are most prominent across his legs, back, and arms. The left side of his face and neck faced the brunt of the burns- And are, perhaps, the subject of some insecurity. He has taken a number of measures to try and reduce the appearance of these scars, all to very little avail. 

       III. THE SNEZHNAYA CAMPAIGN. Many are familiar with the campaign the Fatui held in Mondstadt to find new recruits; Few are familiar with the results of this campaign. And few outside of Snezhnaya are aware that something very similar is happening within the countries borders, as well. With the majority of it’s citizens suffering in poverty under a massive class gap, Dottore has run a campaign in Snezhnaya to encourage families to sign their young ones up for a specialized training program with the Fatui. The specifics of the program are not clarified, but the most enticing details are; Qualified families will receive a monthly paycheck, and their child will be safe, housed and warmed and fed. With so many families desperate for a lessened load of their already fragile resources, the promise of money, of safety for their struggling children... few people can deny that it’s an enticing deal. IF ONLY THEY KNEW WHAT WAS TRULY HAPPENING. 

       IV. MORALS.... this bitch has none, but I want you all to be as aware of this as possible. Children and animals are not off limits in his experiments. He can and will commit all varities of crime because his personal desires are more important than any laws or reason. All ends justify the means. He doesn’t care much for anyone who isn’t himself. He will hurt, maim, and kill literally anyone, it does not matter to him. All that matters to Dottore is relieving his boredom, feeding his curiosity, and keeping his current place in the world. He would literally rip you open and start sewing animal parts to you if someone offered him a single corn chip to do so. 

       V. PHYSICAL HEALTH... is admittedly a bit of a rollercoaster. Dottore has been performing experiments on himself for a long time- Some successful, some very far from it. Majority of days he can more than keep pace with his fellow harbingers in a fight, and yet there are others where he cannot feasibly accomplish such a task. Having long since adjusted to this, Dottore primarily relies on using drones for ranged attacks, finding this is what works best on both his best and worst days- but he does carry a knife or two on him for emergencies... or for when a bitch just rly needs to be shanked. 

[rosenwrites]

Between Despair and Hatred

Character(s): Trieu

Suggested Music: On the Precipice of Defeat

               The beeping of the monitors echoed through the hospital room on a hot summer day. Trieu was on the hospital bed, comatose and dormant. His right eye remained bandaged and an IV drip was hooked into his arm. It was a sight that remained constant over the past several days. But today something changed. The beeping of the monitors grew faster and more erratic. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary to warrant such an alarm. Trieu remained asleep. At least, that’s how it looked on the outside.

               Trieu saw a light. A single, faint ray of light shone down on him as he felt himself sink into the abyss. He tried to move. His body would not listen. He tried to speak. No words came out. He wanted to cry. No tears flowed. He could do nothing but sink further and further down. Suddenly, a dark figure entered Trieu’s field of vision, centered in the ray of light he was staring up at.

               “Your life is coming to an end, boy.” Its voice echoed. “You’re going to die without accomplishing a damned thing in your life!”

               Trieu only recently learned what “dying” meant. He knew it meant that what happened to his mother would now happen to him. He struggled in vain, but his body still wouldn’t move.

               “Poor thing. You struggled so hard and did your best for people to accept you, and what did you get in return? Nothing but scorn, rejection, and undeserved hate! And to top it all off, you had your beloved mother taken away from you! You were nothing but a weak and pathetic child who could do nothing as everything dear to him was taken away, including his life!”

               The shadow’s scathing words cut through Trieu’s heart. He wanted to so badly to scream out against it, but no words left his mouth. Despair pushed him further into the darkness.

               “Worst of all, those that hurt you have now turned their sights to the last two remaining people who ever loved you. Even in death, the world continues to take everything away from you!”

               That final remark ignited something inside of Trieu. He felt something hot coursing through his body, threatening to set his entire being ablaze. But it was that very threat that kept him from sinking further.

               “Can you truly accept that? Are you fine with dying like this? Can you really leave such a cruel and malicious world as is?”

               Trieu’s body was no longer weighed down by despair. Instead, it was set alight with hatred. The burning rage spurred his body into motion. He could finally move his arms and legs again. Trieu kicked his legs with all his might to propel himself upwards. He stretched his arms out against the crushing darkness and towards the light, towards the shadow.

               “That’s right. Channel that hatred. Hone it into a fine-tuned tool. Use it to break your chains of despair!”

               The shadow’s words were like a fire igniting underneath Trieu, spurring him to fight against the crushing weight of the darkness. It felt like his body was being crushed like an empty can, but even so, he kept swimming upward. Two words kept repeating in his head over and over.

               Keep going.

               Keep going.

               Keep going!

               Against all odds, Trieu swam up closer and closer to the shadow. He reached his hand out as far as he could. It felt like the darkness was ripping his arm to shreds, but he still pushed through anyway.

               “That’s it, kid! Despair will rob you of every reason to live. But hatred? Hatred will you give a reason to live! It will give you the willpower to fight through Hell to take down your enemies. But be warned kid: while hatred will keep your body warm now, if you can’t control it, it’ll leave you dead in the ground. With that said, are you willing to take my hand and accept me? Are you willing to open the door to hatred and risk it destroying your soul, all for the sake of what’s most important to you?”

               Trieu hesitated for a moment. He couldn’t understand a lot of what the shadow was saying, but he understood that saying no would mean dying. He waved away all doubts and reached his hand to the shadow. He mustered what little strength he had left from his throat to shout his answer:

               “Yes!”

               The moment Trieu took the shadow’s hand, the darkness of the shadow peeled away, revealing a man with black hair and red eyes. Trieu had never met the man before, but he felt familiar for a reason.

               “Thanks, kid. I need that ‘yes’. Now hang on tight. I’ll be hijacking the driver’s seat, but only for a bit. What happens afterwards is all up to you.”

               Trieu’s one good eye shot wide open as he stared up at the hospital ceiling, it now a deep red colour and his hand stretched upward. The frantic hospital staff stared at Trieu in disbelief as their prior panicking seemed to be for naught. The rapid beeping of all the hospital equipment stabilized in a short amount of time. The red in Trieu’s eye turned back to its normal brown.

               “Are you alright, Trieu?” One nurse asked. “We received in alert that your vitals were failing. What happened to you?”

               “I don’t know.” Trieu answered in a daze. “I felt myself sinking, but someone pulled me back up.”

               “Whatever it was, it was a miracle.” Another nurse chimed in. “Maybe your guardian angel finally showed up.”

               Trieu shook his head. He had his doubts of the nature of what he saw. But now was not the time.

               “Where’s my aunt? And my sister?”

               “They’re at the courtroom as we speak.” The doctor answered. “You were supposed to be called in as a witness, but you were in no condition to do so. But now that you’re awake, we need to run you through some tests before we can discharge you and let the police escort you downtown.”

               Trieu nodded in agreement. All he had to do was let the nurses do their tests and he could reunite with his family. The nurses began unhooking all of the equipment from him and removed the IV drip from his arm. They checked his temperature, his pulse, and everything else if significance. The doctor left the hospital room to notify the proper authorities that Trieu awakened. The only thing going through Trieu’s mind was reuniting with his aunt and sister. But if the shadow was speaking the truth, they were in danger now. But just how were they in danger? Trieu concluded that he needed to breeze through these tests as fast as possible and get downtown.