#and now i’ve spiraled about that for days. was she saying i would be upstaging the bride.

[failfemme]

choosing a dress for a black tie wedding is so stressful i would like to be someone who would be comfortable in a tux now pls

[cinnonym]

glories stream from heaven afar (heavenly hosts sing 'alleluia)

Written for Day 6 - Carols/Music of 12 Days of Supercorp @supercorpbb

Read on AO3

***

Kara is running late.

It’s not her fault, at least not in the strictest sense. Like, she did exit her cab more or less around the time she was due to be on stage. Which is to say, a trifle late, maybe. Marginally. And yes, that part may or may not be blamed on her (because traffic really is crazy during Christmas season, but maybe she could have anticipated that).

But. City hall? A joke. The amount of time Kara’s spent scurrying (literally, courtesy of the heels Kara’s stupidly decided on wearing) through what feels like miles of endlessly monotonous corridors could and should have been put to better use. Like catching her breath for example. Could be useful if she’s supposed to sing.

Unfortunately, it looks like there won’t be much breath-catching happening. While the next corner Kara rounds does seem to be the last one (like, there is a door ahead, but is it the right door?), the corridor stretching out in front of her for the final sprint is void of people. Which either means that Kara’s managed to get lost completely – or the gala has already started.

But no, the door is still blissfully ajar, a faint triangle of light spilling through the crack. It’s golden, and Kara knows, just knows, that it originates from a boisterous array of chandeliers. (Because, like, it’s city hall. Tax money has to go somewhere.)

Anyway, it’s not like Kara’s complaining. In fact, she’s rather looking forward to being enveloped in that soft light instead of feeling like she’s being stripped bare naked under the unforgiving stare of a spotlight. It’s about the atmosphere. Also, it’s almost Christmas for heaven’s sake.

So she speeds up, one last time, heels tapping a rapid staccato against the planks of the floor. She’s late, but it doesn’t matter (who needs vocal warm-up anyway), because the door is right there, and she is going to make it. She’s going to slip in unnoticed and a little out of breath, and she’s going to make her way upstage as if she’d been mingling with the crowd all along. She’s going to –

The door closes.

Kara is so near, her fingers can practically feel the cool brass of the handle already, and the door closes, right into her face. Literally. Because Kara’s spent the entire length of that last corridor gaining speed, and there is no way she can grind to a halt on the five feet something between her and the damn closed door. And so she slams, hands first, full body second, against the solid wood.

The crash is deafening, and for a split second, all Kara can think about is how it will be impossible to sneak in now. Then she rebounds, and her focus is redirected to trying to keep her balance. It doesn’t go very well (the heels were a bad decision in all aspects), in fact, it doesn’t go at all. Luckily, she still doesn’t fall.

This is mainly due to the pair of hands suddenly wrapped around her shoulders. A pair of very pale and very slender hands, which connect to equally pale and slender arms and ultimately –

“Golly!” Kara exclaims on a whim. There really isn’t much else to exclaim, because the woman (yes, woman, and already Kara is swooning over her strong grip) staring back at her is about as beautiful as words do not exist to express how beautiful. And not in an all-words-got-knocked-out-of-Kara-in-the-crash way. But in a real way. Like. A literal-goddess-but-even-more-beautiful way.

A literal goddess whose brow is beginning to wrinkle into a frown, before she opens her mouth (lips, Kara thinks, lipslipslips) to speak.

“Are you alright?”

And the thing is, Kara is. She has never been more alright than in this moment, wrapped up in a life-saving grasp, basking in the glow of elysian eyes. And she would like to tell the woman as much, because said elysium is starting to look awfully clouded with concern that Kara doesn’t want to be the reason for. She would like to nod, and thank the woman (because she does have manners, Kara, if nothing else), and then maybe ask her to elope together. Or something.

But she can’t. Because she cannot move, and she cannot speak, and she believes she might be experiencing what Alex calls Gay Panic. But she can’t be sure because not even her brain is working as it should.

The woman (the angel, the queen, the woman) seems to be panicking too, although Kara doubts it’s in the same way. Her hands squeeze Kara’s arms, and she’s shaking her kind of gently, all the while staring intently into Kara’s eyes, searching, presumably, for some reaction.  

“Shit,” she mutters eventually, and somehow that’s what does the job.

Kara shivers right out of her trance. Something inside of her breaks like a dam, comes undone at the sacrilege of a swearing angel, and suddenly the words spill out of her in a flood.

“This might come as a shock,” she tells her saviour, who actually jumps at the sudden change, “but I am fine. Ish. Fine-ish. I mean, I did crash into that door pretty bad, but it’s nothing. Or, not nothing, I mean, will I have the biggest bump tomorrow? Probably. But I’ve had it worse. Like, one time I walked into a car, like, a moving one? It was in a play street though, so it wasn’t that bad, but I mean, it’s still a car, right? Anyway, I survived that too. As you can see. Didn’t even have a concussion. So, uh, who knows, right, maybe I’m indestructible. Maybe that’s my secret superpower or something.”

At this she grins widely at the woman. The woman doesn’t smile back. In fact, she’s sporting a stare that is a little to blank for Kara’s liking. She bites down on her tongue, hard, willing the words to stop before she’s sent to the closest asylum. She did come to sing, after all. Even though that’s decidedly not going well so far.

“Anyway,” she says cautiously, resisting the urge to wave her hand before the woman’s eyes. “I am good. And I actually came here for the gala? I’m supposed to sing…”

She is stared at for a beat longer, before the woman blinks. And blinks again. Then she shakes her head, quickly and forcefully, like she’s trying to dissipate unwelcome thoughts.

“You are not singing.”

It’s stated so matter-of-factly that Kara’s almost inclined to nod just because the tone indicates it. She catches herself at the last moment.

“Uh, yeah I am, that’s what I’m here for.” But then she falters suddenly. “Unless this is not the annual Christmas Charity Gala? Cause if it’s not, then I’m so sorry, I may have slammed into this door for nothing.”

There is a beat of stunned silence and then – heaven. The woman starts laughing, loud and prolonged, with her head tipped back and her neck on full display (and goodness, what a neck it is). When she stops at last, gasping for air as if Kara weren’t the one slowly suffocating on the spot, her cheeks are flushed and her eyes glowing.

“You’re right,” she says, faint traces of laughter still enriching her voice, “this is the gala.”

“Thank goodness.” Kara doesn’t trust herself to say more, lest she add an accidental love confession. It could happen. Kara is that clumsy. As has been proven.

The clipped answer earns her a curious look (maybe Kara’s superpower is making a fool of herself in front of beautiful women after all), before the woman blinks and her whole expression changes. The lopsided smile slides into a smirk. The amused glint in her eyes turns allusive. And the slow bat of her lashes is downright predatory.

“You still shouldn’t perform tonight.” Her voice drops an entire octave. “For safety reasons.”

Kara swallows. Hard. Her mouth feels like a bucket of sand has been emptied into it. She isn’t sure if her heart rate will ever go back to normal. She swallows again.

“Oh?”

The woman smiles as if she’s all to aware of Kara’s struggles (not that Kara is doing a very good job at hiding them, probably). She nods slowly.

“Yes, see, I would never forgive myself if something were to happen to you – “ her eyes drag over Kara’s body, which promptly starts tingling “ – during or after the event.”

“Huh,” Kara makes. Her cheeks are probably on fire, but the woman doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, she appears to be absolutely delighted with Kara. Somehow, that gives Kara the courage to say her next words.

“I think I deserve to be given a try.”

She immediately buries her face in her hands after that, not daring to look at the woman as she waits with bated breath for a reaction. She is not disappointed.

A throaty chuckle vibrates through the air, a murmur of “very well,” and suddenly a new scent reaches Kara’s nose. It’s heady and laced with spice, and it infiltrates her brain like heavy liquor. And then there is the faintest touch at Kara’s ear, and a low voice wading through the haze.

“Sing for me, stranger.”

And oh, Kara does.

(She only learns later, during the gala, that her saviour is actually Lena Luthor. Like, the Lena Luthor. Her mind shatters a bit at the information, and she wonders if she’s managed to misread the mood completely, or what. Because there’s no way National City’s most influential woman sort of maybe hit on Kara a little. So Kara’s attempt at flirting back must have been totally out of line.

But before she even has the chance to spiral, Lena catches her eye. And she tilts her head and winks sort of teasingly at Kara, and yeah, no woman crosses her legs like that without any ulterior motives. Kara hopes.

She promptly misses the first line of Silent Night.)

[clio-just-clio]

The Riverdale 102(?)-Day Sprint, Day 6: “Chapter Ninety-Two: Band of Brothers”

War!

This is it, the farthest afield I’ve been yet, very close to the mythical uncharted lands of Season 6. I’ve heard so much about that – Archie maybe dying, joining the Army, and other insanity. But before we get to today’s episode I want to clear the air about something. I say a lot of mean things about this show, but I want to make it clear I hold absolutely no ill will towards any of the cast. On the contrary, I think the cast does a genuinely fantastic job, simply because they aren’t all constantly breaking character and guffawing at the stuff they have to read. I especially want to highlight Lili Reinhart, Cole Sprouse, and Camila Mendes, who play Betty, Jughead, and Veronica respectively. Those characters seem to get the worst sub and main plots, moreso than Archie (although KJ Apa does a fine job as well). That all being said... Chapter Ninety-Two. I’m excited.

                                                     *          *          *

Well turns out I was dead wrong.

The infamous flash-forward is here in S5, and it turns out I’ve landed with it in full swing. I’m not sure if it was throughout the whole season or just in the second half, but every single character is doing something equally astounding and unbelievable (except for Veronica, who is continuing to re-enact the plot of Succession [I assume the two are similar but I’ve never seen it]). Let’s see the damage:

Archie went to WW1, exactly as the rumors said. Yes it is still in present day, approximately 5 years in the future in fact, but it is still decidedly WW1. There’s trenches and it’s in Europe and the guns are old. Apparently Archie’s squad, which he was the sergeant of, was used as a personal hit squad sent on a suicide mission at the behest of a corrupt commanding officer. All of his squad is brutally killed except for one, who survives with a missing leg. In today’s episode Archie gets the evil general court-martialed, and is successful. The tribunal happens off-screen, and we don’t see Archie doing anything during or after it except celebrating so... why?

Jughead’s story isn’t 100% clear to me. He becomes an alcoholic writer/teacher burnout, just like his grandfather before him, and apparently he descended into this spiral after unceremoniously abandoning Betty. This episode we see him try to pass off a former friend’s book as his own, only to repent and relent at the last second. Again... why?

Turns out Betty did actually decide to become an FBI agent at Charles’ behest – she’s even doing vigilantism in an attempt to avenge her younger sister’s death, hunting an elusive serial killer. So basically Dexter but different.

Cheryl Blossom is now a pastor, and Kevin her... assistant? I guess? Anyway, Cheryl’s mom wants to lead the flock so to upstage her Cheryl decides to become a Saint by performing three miracles as if they’re magic tricks. I don’t think that’s how any of that works.

And last and least we have Veronica, who seems to have gotten the shaft once again. Her plot is the least changed, seemingly; she’s still butting heads with her dad on the business scene, and she sure is doing business. Not sure what business but... she’s doing it. #girlboss or whatever.

I feel like I was submerged in a sensory deprivation tank and I am just now being pulled out, kicking and screaming, begging for oblivion again. I genuinely thought people were kidding when they told me about some of this stuff. I can’t understand why the showrunners would decide to pull this flash-forward out of their ass like this. Maybe I’d understand if it was the final season, but this is Season 5. Season 6 exists, we know it does. I am well and truly lost now, and it hasn’t even been a week yet. Let me tell you something, dear reader; I don’t see myself finishing this endeavor whole. I fear I may lose a part of myself I’ll never get back if I continue, and yet continue I will, because I always keep my promises. I’ll see this through to the end, which hopefully entails the entire town of Riverdale and all of its inhabitants being completely wiped from the face of the Earth. Given the amount of serial killers that town produces it’d probably be doing humanity a service.

Tomorrow: “Chapter Eighty-One: The Homecoming” aw darnit another S5 episode. My kingdom for a return to the halcyon days of Season 1, where everything was simple, with only 1 murder mystery happening at a time.

Not a ton of notes today, I’m afraid; I spent most of the episode staring slack-jawed at the screen, trying to process what I was seeing:

quick notes

- ok what. the hell. is going on.

- Archie was already in the Army??? Betty’s a prostitute? Cheryl is... a pastor...? Jughead was in NA or AA or something (actually that doesn’t surprise me for some reason)? is this a flash-forward or something???

- so Veronica is now a dirty businessperson, like her father before her. interesting...?

- and Cheryl wants to become a Saint. sure why not. whatever. this is... too much, almost

- yeah this is too much. I have so many questions but I think I’ll save them till the write-up

- holy shit Archie actually did go to WW1, seemingly. how? why? is this a flash forward or flashback? is it both at the same time?

- if the gang is older why do they all look the same? actually wait I know this one – they already don’t look like highschoolers, but now the script can justify this discrepancy

- wait so Betty is merely disguising herself as a prostitute to hunt and kill a serial killer... so she’s just Dexter. unbelievable

- and she used to be in the FBI...? like Charles?

- Veronica: “You’ll never be an alpha, Chad. You’re a born beta.” Someone on the writing team is laughing very hard at this joke

[sootcloak]

Day 14: Commend

Admiral Merlwyb Bloefiswyn looks for a path forward regarding one of her officers, whose repeated sacrifices have left her more machine than aught else.

Roughly 1800 words.

AO3 Link

    The Rhotano is calm, the sun bright, and the skies clear. The fair winds off the ocean makes sails and flags billow. Down below, the Admiral can see her people going about their lives. Traders shouting from their stands, noiseless from here. Artisans working diligently, sharing brief words with their guild colleagues. Travelers, new to the city and veterans of her winding, spiraling streets both, arriving at the docks. Adventurers near the Aetheryte, enjoying the sun and one another’s company. Another peaceful, quiet day.

    There’s a knock at the door. Merlwyb glances away from her city and people to the signed forms on her desk. She hesitates, a moment. But then, loud and clear, she says,

    “Enter.”

    The doors swing open noiselessly, the guard directly outside speaking firmly.

    “Admiral. Captain Aceris, as requested.” He gives a sharp salute, and stands stiff as a board.

    “At ease. Leave us.” She says, arms folded behind her back as she gazes out the windows of her office. He says nothing, simply steps outside and closes the doors behind him.

    Vavara stands loosely, waiting with an easy patience. Merlwyb continues to stare out over the Rhotano.

    “Ma’am?” Vavara asks, a quiet familiarity there.

    “Forgive me.” She turns her head to look over at the soldier, “Have a seat.”

    Vavara moves on of the chairs slightly closer to the desk, and then sits with both her knees under her, giving her just enough height to have her shoulders rest above the edge of the desk. She takes her hat off, and rests it in her lap, and pulls the loose hair from inside it into a loose tail. She quickly ties it off with a length of black ribbon. Merlwyb lets out a thin, long breath, and then sits down at her desk and faces Vavara.

    “Something need doing, Ma’am?” The earnest way Vavara always asks sends a cold chill running through Merlwyb’s chest - is it guilt? Shame? Either way, it doesn’t show. 

    “No. You outdid yourself at Paglth’an, and by all reports deserve nothing less of a medal.” A restrained, convincing smile works its way onto the Admiral’s face. “Or some other reward.”

    “Last we had this conversation was Ghimlyt, Ma’am. Respectfully, I decline.” A weight slides off Vara’s shoulders. Barely-concealed relief. “I would prefer to have my name appear on as few official documents as possible, for all our sakes.”

    “I remember.” She says, sagely nodding. Her eyes close a moment, and she seems to gird herself. When they open, her face is steely. 

“Captain Vavara Aceris,” The authority in her voice shakes Vavara from the comfortable banter she’d begun to slip into. Her eyes widen a moment, and then she straightens and listens.

    “You are hereby removed from service, effective immediately. I had wished to send you off with honors, but if that is not your desire, so be it.” The shock on Vavara’s face stings, the betrayal written in her eyes cuts deeper. “You are discharged of all privilege, authority, and responsibility granted to you by your rank.” The Admiral pauses for a breath, and Vavara swiftly cuts in.

    “Ma’am!” There’s a desperation there, raw and open, “I swore to follow you until I could go no farther, I have served faithfully and-”

    “Any possessions granted to you by the Maelstrom for your service are yours to keep.” She stands suddenly, her chair squeaking on the floor. “From this moment forward, you are a civilian in the eyes of Lominsan law.”

    Vavara sits still as death, eyes glimmering with unsteady light. Her hands are balled into her coat, and her jaw is clenched. Her body trembles, here and there. Merlwyb closes her eyes, and takes a breath in.

    “Why…?”

    The answer is there, tangible and present in Merlwyb’s mind, but her voice falters a moment, and she does not speak. Instead, the air hangs heavy and bitter.

    “I never failed you. I always, always returned with reports of success, of victory.” Vavara speaks between sharp cuts in her voice, as though she were trying to take a breath though she has no lungs. “Have I angered you, Ma’am?”

    It stings the Admiral, that she’s directing blame back at herself. The wounded look, the jittering trembles. This hurt her, and she’s trying to find what she did wrong. In her head, she feels this justifies the measure, that she’s right to do it. In her heart, it burns and aches.

    “Victory has a price.” She says, quietly and steadily. She has to force her words out evenly. “But I willingly allowed you, my subordinate, to pay it in full. I saw you pay it again, and again. Each time, returning beaten and broken, a report written in blood landing on my desk. After Ghimlyt, I decided it would not happen even once more.”

    “I wasn’t injured, and even if I’m damaged I won’t be a liability! If you’re worried of me falling into enemy hands, I prepared a-”

    “Stop. Please.” Merlwyb looks away and out to sea. “I took advantage of you, knowing you would bear that weight gladly. But I cannot send you to Garlemald or beyond, knowing I would send you to die for me again. Possibly for the last time.” She turns and stares back into Vavara’s eyes. It’s a piercing, intense look. “You aren’t a ship, to be damaged and repaired as a necessity demands, eventually consigned to sink. And I’ve asked you on more than one occasion to not treat yourself as such.”

    “I wish for you to retire. To take a well-deserved rest. You’ve died more than once for the Maelstrom, for me, and each time you did so willingly. I will not lean upon you again.” The Admiral leans on her desk with one arm, pushing a small sheaf of papers forward towards her.

    “Ma’am.” Vavara straightens her back, the temperamental, unsteady trembling steadying bit by bit. Her hand moves to her eyes, as though to wipe away a tear, but stops halfway through the gesture. Muscle memory, realization. “Regardless of whether you order it or not, I can’t retire. Not yet, maybe not ever. Even as a civilian, my path leads me back to Garlemald. Whether I do so alone or not has yet to be determined.” She pushes off the chair and slowly stands. She brushes off the top of her cap, and holds it gently in both hands.

    “When I was found-” She steps lightly around the Admiral’s desk, and looks out to sea. Merlwyb turns away, grimacing. “As an Imperial, I mean. Detained and questioned. My future was uncertain. I was scared. And then you and I shared words. I had seen Vlybrand by then, of course. The troubles of its people. The shadows made by the sins of your past. I had thought to myself you were ��Another pretender, claiming hers is the righteous cause’. I had few options, at the time, though. And so I took your deal. Kept my freedom. Lent you my aid.”

    “I remember. You’ve stood by us since then. Though I did not know you thought so poorly of me.” The Admiral says.

    “Aye. But there was a point, both a long while ago and rather recently, at which my mind changed. Do you remember the Crystal Braves? The banquet?”

    She nods.

    “You stood by them, and helped me hide and recover when I was presumed dead.” Her gaze is unbroken on the horizon, body steadier now. The ease with which she holds herself, working its way back into her stance. “You proved me somewhat wrong, there. I had thought you shortsighted, more concerned with your own power and influence. But those decisions cost you. They cost you time, reputation, and coin. But it was what was best for the realm, for those other than yourself.”

    “And then you upstaged yourself. Reckoned with those looming shadows, faced your own mistakes and those of your forefathers. Were ready to pay for it all, too.” She glances up at Merlwyb’s belt, where the pistols hang, “I do not regret joining the Legion - much in the same way you cannot regret being caught in a landslide. It was the wrong choice, but it was the only one left to me.” Her eyes trace down to the city itself.

    “But the Maelstrom? This was the right choice. If you wish me to leave, I will abide by your orders. But I cannot retire. If you would have me, though, I would prefer to continue on with you. Although, I would not complain if my missions in the future are less dangerous, or not as solitary.”

    “What, then? Am I supposed to send you back into the storm? Accept that eventually, I’ll send you out to never return?” Merlwyb’s eyes could bore holes into the papers on her desk, and the wood beneath them. “Am I supposed to accept that, when I’ve been given a chance to repay you for your deeds?”

    “We all have to play it by ear. Have to keep the faith.”

    “If you die, it will have been-” Her hands slam down onto the wood.

    “Who says I’ll die again?”

    “An educated guess. You’re certain? We could set you up with a workshop, a home on the Rhotano. You could leave the rest to us.” Her voice is leaden with frustration left to sit and tangle. The dismissal forms and property deeds sit neatly stacked between her planted fists.

    “I’d certainly be leaving things in good hands. But no. I’ve chosen my path, Merlwyb. I don’t intend on straying from it so late in the journey.”

    She turns from her desk, and follows Vavara’s gaze into the city. It’s high sea pillars and white stone bridges nearly glisten in the sunlight. She listens to the tiny sounds of gear and cogs ticking, the soft omni-present hum of her core. Dimly, some part of her has a realization.

    In the deafening quiet, in the peace, her whole body sings. Not a corpse, fetid and possesed. Not a thing created of violence and death alone. A music-box, the spirit of its creator alive within. It would be cruel to disregard her wishes. Would it be crueler to let them go unopposed? In her position, what would Raubahn have done? Or the Seedseer? What would her father have done?

    Answers rush forward, but none of them find purchase.

    “Very well. I’ll see the dismissal redacted.” She concedes. It feels like all the wind rushes out from her, a fatigue setting in immediately. “But afterwards, I’ll see you take that rest.”

    “As you say, Ma’am.”

[gwtwoimpsarewe]

Welcome to the Family

So, this story won’t make a lot of sense without context; but I’ll save that for another post. I wrote it to enjoy it and it’s my first full OC full prose. Hopefully ya’ll enjoy it too.

A quick helper tho set after the prologue bound by blood. So mild? Spoilers? 

Lorcan Vulthon - Norn, Roughly about 26 (circa 1332),(Ex-)Wolf Shaman,  (Ex-)Auxiliary Iron Legion Engineer, Vigil Initiate. Yes he was raised by wolves. (Not literally) 

Zariah Dào - Human, Roughly about 42 (circa 1332), (My Commander for the game, but operates under Lt. Commander to allow for easier rp), Warmaster of a Vigil Company, Lorcan’s new Boss, Has not tapped out since Claw Island. 

Veeck - my necromancer reaper I haven’t made but am taking from an old DnD character of mine, Asura, age unknown, The Deacon of Pain,  

A jungle stalker, tiger and one other feline mini follow him around that’s the joke. One of the JP’s for the Tiger den Achievement is what sparked this. 

Not sure what to tag it but it starts funny ends feelsy, found family vibes, if descriptions of eyes squick you (no harm just who’s looking at you, sudden eye contact etc) be wary or pass on, fluffy angst I suppose, emotional breakdown,

it ends happily I swear! 

(Don’t panic if things seem to change, I post and edit as I go otherwise I get locked in perfectionism spiral and never post at all.) 

-

“Boss.” 

Eyes shielded from the setting sun, Lorcan peered out over the landscape, comm at the ready. 

“Boooossssss.” 

Dusk crawled toward the horizon. Hazy smoke trails blown over the open fields lazily from the nearby mill, an end of a lovely day, on all accounts. 

“Boss!” 

The receiver came to life in Lorcan’s hand with an exhausted sigh of static as Lt. Commander Zariah sluggishly answered, “Yes, Lorcan. What is it?” 

The smile pulled over Lorcan’s face, unable to resist the urge to tease. “Kinda, an odd time of day to be sleeping sir.” 

It was utterly incredible how he could feel the dry stare-down and complex half lecture on the misuse of communications equipment in a brief pause. 

That was talent right there.  

Another sigh brought his attention back in, “I wasn’t, thank you, did you need something?” 

Brightening, Lorcan sat down in front of the mess of fur and leaves, “Yeah! I found your cat bed!” 

“… What.”  

Lorcan gestures at the pile of leaves at his feet although his officer couldn’t see it. “Yeah! One of your Sylvari, the one with the monotone-” 

“-Ours, and their name is Eir, -” 

“-Said one of your weird tiny death machines-“ 

“-Again, wild animals, and not mine-” 

“-Yeah, yeah, the striped one ran off and went to bed everything-” 

“-Tiger; and has been making beds not bedding, your Common is improving-” 

“I found one!” 

The crackle and whine from a heavy static sigh made Lorcan wince and pull the device from his ear. 

“...… You’ve found a tiger.” 

Something about the suddenly calculating monotone made his insides squirm as he forced the cheerful up another notch. “Well no, but I’ve found its bed, and now we have each other’s scents, and I probably will find it and we’ll form a life-long bond like rangers and shaman-” 

“Lorcan.” His name came gently, cutting off his rambling in a way that had nausea setting in. 

“I’m grateful you found one, does it look fresh?” The genial tone was almost disconcerting after seeing nothing but jaded exhaustion, and it was wrong. 

This was not how this works. 

This was a crank call. Because he’s Lorcan. The rambling loud, obnoxious idiot whose superiors while agitated are fond of. Lorcan, who did not want to do this all over again but here they are, and Zariah! Who’d barely known him three days! 

Who took him in without blinking after getting cut off from his war-band, who trusted him enough for a reconnaissance mission. Who put up with all his antics so far with a droll but benign stare; who—

A rustling came finally, along with the clink and slosh of what Lorcan knew to be the large mug of coffee usually in hand. 

“Lorcan-” 

“Stop that,” his throat felt tight, half leaping to his feet into a defensive stance, “You—Don’t-” The plains suddenly felt suffocatingly small, leaving him on edge and snarling into his comm. 

Burn him, what was he doing. 

“Lorcan.” 

“Stop that!” his ears were burning, eyes stinging against the smoke in the air. It was his name; it was just his name what the tar was his problem? 

The placid silence that followed nearly had him throw the damn thing down onto the rocks. Embarrassment burned viciously under his skin. He was better than this now. He wasn’t- 

“Lo-” 

He turned the comm offline. 

-

It was long past dark by the time he’d calmed down, eyes red and throat raw, hunched at the base of the tree.

Great first impression.

Really sold it this time.

Groaning, he dug his face into his knees to do something other than mope in the dark like a moody cub. Or worse start up again.

A skittering of rocks and not entirely muffled metal had him look up in time to see a silhouette with an obnoxious Asuran light nearly blind him.

“Mind if I come over? You turned your comm off.” Zariah inquired tilting his head to the side just before the last jump. “I can stay over here. Just wanted to-”

Lorcan waved him off with a flippant hand and shoved his face back down. “Make sure I hadn’t broken-”  

“-Your bones. Yes. Or anything else important to your personal self.” Zariah moved over the outburst with both a note of finality and comfort that had Lorcan looking up out of instinct, only to wince again at the mini sun in his Commanders hand.

“… If you're going to jump over, douse the Mouse-Light. Before I lose my eyes.”

 Immediately, the object dimmed down and out before far more familiar sounds came and a torch sparked to life. “Sorry about that, but I’ll ask you to refrain from derogatory names. Veeck is a valued member of our team and cares deeply about our survival.”

“… The Asura.”

“Yes.”

“Who rambles on about some new Entity?”

“Of Pain, yes.”

“… Boss.”

“Not up for debate, Lorcan.”

Heaving to his feet with a sigh, Lorcan reached out to him; “Well, can’t let them upstage me now can I. C’mon I’ll catch you; it won’t give you enough light without the M--……. beacon. From the Deacon.”

Zariah landed with a grunt into his grip. “You’ll have to share that one, they’d love that-what is that an idiom?”

“Not a clue.” Wearily sitting again, Lorcan stopped short as something small and purring wormed its way into his lap. “… Uh…”

“She likes belly rubs, and she can smell tears.” Was all Zariah offered settling next to him and safely anchoring the torch in front of them, while the Stalker wiggled about before she settled solidly into Lorcan’s lap. Big eyes batted up at him, as if pointedly proving Zariah’s point; said belly up and offered.

Slowly, Lorcan answered the demand, a new deeper slew of purrs unleashed in repayment. “I thought you said they’re wild.”

“They are. Or were, a few years ago. They found me in the Maguuma, when Mordremoth was; well you know.” came the easy answer, as Zariah set about digging in his pack and handing over a wrapped meat smelling something to Lorcan who merely blinked at it.

“You haven’t eaten since before you left and I know how Norn eat. Eat your dinner.”

Gingerly, Lorcan accepted the meal; before peering at him. “… Does this get any weirder?”

“Only if you let your guard down long enough for them to steal it.”

“Wh-Hey!”

 -

They sat like that a long while, quietly; with a lap full of warm purring death machines, a belly full with warm food and drink, and tired eyes watching the torch slowly burn down to a smolder.

The lecture never came; the ‘we’re alike you and I’ speech, the wise mentor talk, whatever he’d been expecting. Zariah just sat there, relaxed and was… well, there.

But then it made sense didn’t it. He was a tactician for a military organization, one of the high tier leaders in the Pact, leader of his own company; and Lorcan was an accomplished engineer and a perceptive people's person when he wasn’t being difficult. 

There wasn’t anything to say.

He’d freaked out, he didn’t want to freak out, but he did. He’d reverted to causing a scene and trouble because he was a full inferno of freaking the blazes out. About what any of this meant now. About where home was now. What he would do now. What his purpose was now.

Had another identity crisis in an evening flat because he kept trying to put it in a title. Wolf Shaman, Auxiliary Charr—anything that wasn’t just him. How else could he go back and show that he’d changed after all? Prove he was all grown up out of his awkward paws making a mess of everything.

Except he hadn’t had he-

“pWaCKth!”

Lorcan spat fur out of his mouth, leaning away from the incessantly batting paws from his lap companion.  “Hey! Hey! Hey! C’mon!”

“I told you. She smells monologues.”

“You said tears.”

Stretching out with an innocent hum that edged too close to playful to pass as sincere, Zariah rose a brow at him, “Mm? Did I? I must have misspoken. So terribly sorry.”

The words pulled a snort out of Lorcan at the obvious lie, “So, what, she just slaps you in the face at random? Or she’s just psychic and knows when you're spiraling every time.”

Turning towards him, Zariah rose the brow higher, something of a smirk toying in the corner of his mouth. “Oh, definitely a psychic; when I need it. Constantly. She can tell usually because,” His eyes glanced meaningfully at Lorcan’s lap, “I’ve ceased to pet her.”

Lorcan paused, looking to where his hands had fallen stagnant some time ago on her back, much to the indignant pout on her face. “… Oh.”

“Well.” He chuckled at his own obliviousness and began smoothing hands down her head and spine apologetically, much to her delight, “S’a good trick.”

“She tries.” A yawn dragged out the end of the sentence as Zariah settled down more against Lorcan’s side who moved to accommodate him.

Eyes glanced at the time curiously, “Aw burn me, Boss I’m-”

“Safe.” That firm tone was back again, even as exhausted as it sounded. “And that’s all I care about. We’ll go back when you’re ready.”

“Don’t you have paperwork to do?”

“Great thing about paper, it’ll be there when I get back.”

“What about orders? Don’t you have to know what’s”

“Anything I need to know, I’ll know through my comm, if it’s of immediate importance. As for orders, there are other commanders.”

“… How many hours you running on here?”

“Two and a half, I was in fact sleeping when you called me.”

“Boss-” An incredulous laugh cut short by an overused stubborn excuse.

“I had coffee.”

-

Silence lapsed again, softer as the torch barely glowed embers and Zariah’s breathing began to deepened, and slow against his side.

It wouldn’t have made sense for how lax Zariah was, after seven years of nearly non-stop war and fighting; if the moon wasn’t glinting off four Iron Legion Sharpshooters standing guard nearby that Lorcan could now see.

“Boss?” swallowing around the lump in his throat, Lorcan nudged him again. “Hey, Boss.”

There was a slurred hum, eyes not even opening as Zariah lifted a brow in answer “Mmn—yes Lorcan.”

“… Thanks.”

“S’ what ‘m here for.”

-

Epilogue (aka beeps an giggles)

For the weight of a Pact Commander, Zariah was unnervingly light once you removed the pack, armor, weapons, felines, etc.

Which Lorcan awkwardly got to know firsthand as the pint-sized (seriously how small was this guy) Asura fussed around this way and that muttering too fast to keep up with.

It was a very odd feeling of you break it you buy it, with the Commanders sleep schedule. Which cemented in his mind as no one else seemed bothered by the ranting Asura at his feet. 

“-two months! Two months! Not even! We were so close, on ordered leave, relaxing, vacationing, nearly had it! But no! The evil little box of death opens its evil little mouth and ruin everything! This does not please the Pain!”

Lorcan made the mistake of uttering “Does anything,” before realizing the error as he became the subject of the bespectacled, laser sharp, owlish gaze before off again as they moved in thought. 

Finally, with a decisive nod, they firmly shouted up to him, “…… Milk! Milk and Ink!”

(Seriously did the guy think he was deaf? Though they looked like they’d fit into his boot with room to spare, and he wasn’t exactly short himself.)

A tiny hand lifted into the air, fire in their eyes; “I shall explain!”

“Please don’t.” Lorcan begged.

“Easy Squeak-A-Veak, lets save converting until after we get Boss back to bed for a few hours. We’ve already got orders to meet up with General Soulkeeper in the morning.” Came the beautiful rescue from one of the other officers Lorcan couldn’t put a name to.

Whose hands lifted up immediately in a placating gesture, as the tiny Asura looked ready to implode, “Rephrase, to head over to General Soulkeeper in the morning.”

Small detonation avoided, the medic, nodded with minimal professional sulking, “He’s napping on the way there.”

“As always, you can try small fry, you can try. Eir wanted to see you; I’ll see that Boss gets settled yeah?” Offering a fond amused look, they winked at Lorcan who wasn’t honestly sure what to do with himself at this point of being ‘Boss-shelf’.

Veeck squinted but turned and left with a toddle out of the room. “I know what you’re doing and I don’t appreciate it but yes I will leave and stop scaring our recruit.”

“… Wasn’t scared.” Came late and lamely as the officer chuckled and lead him in to where Zariah was staying for the time being.

Which for the first few moments Lorcan was sure they got the wrong room before he finally spotted a bed past all the paperwork. “Is that a war table?”

“Mini-sized yeah, Rye sleeps in his office, it was the only solution after a long drawn out internal war lemme tell you.”

“How is that a win?”

“He used to do it on a cot armed with a coffee pot, and don’t worry about Veeck. Squeakers is harmless; they get dramatic with displeasure and pain cos it’s like a prayer offering? I think? I’m trying to follow it but I need a few more run throughs. They’re a lot calmer day to day.”

“…….. Oh! Good to know, thanks—ah…”

“You forgot my name already didn’t you.”

“……………………..”

Laughing they helped settle Zariah down and into bed, even tucking them in. Which by this point, Lorcan had one final question.

“…… Sooo, kinda curious. Why he’s not; you know.”

“Twitchy as fleas about being handled like a doll? He usually is, but this is day four of small naps and I made his coffee decaf. He’s out cold for the next three to five hours.”

“Burn me.”

“It’s a good thing, say goodnight if you want; just hit the lights when you're done. I’m catching a few myself before we hit the road.” They offered with a wave before heading out.

Lorcan absentmindedly gave a wave only to perk and try to call out; “Wait! You didn’t--…… tell me your name. Tar’nfeathers.”

Sitting down with a sigh he glanced over at Zariah, and with a crooked grin leaned over. “Night Boss. Still totally going to steal your tiger.”

A brow raised as tired, but amused eyes snapped open, “Still totally not going to let it happen.” Zariah challenged as Lorcan shrieked with a flail and fell off the bed. 

“Burn! Tar! and Feather You!”

Yawning with a final chuckle, Zariah listened to him stalk off and turn out the lights. “Good Night, Lorcan.” 

“Welcome to the family.”