#and then i go outside and clamber up a tree

[just-some-user-hunny]

Thinking about bastard!readers upbringing with yandere Targaryens...

~So obviously reader has come from a rather humble background. Shes used to collecting water from streams and communal wells, mending her simple scraps of clothes, and eating plain food like stale bread and lentils.

The whiplash she'd get once she's thrust into the limelight of royalty- plentiful fresh water and milk, beautiful ornate outfits, and plentiful food of whatever she desires. It'd probably take her a while to eat comfortably, wishing her mother and little brothers could eat this well too. Thinking of them sitting alone at home with rumbling tummies always killed her appetite.

~ You can imagine Daemons frustration, and Rhaenyra's growing anxiety as they watch the little princess refuse to eat another bite at mealtimes. Her expression stern and stubborn, willing to ignore little lukes encouragement to at least eat a little more. His mousy brown eyes peering at her all sweetly, a little hand nudging at her fork.

"Darling, eat your food. You'll be hungry". Is all Daemon will utter. Fixing you with a stern and silent look. His whole visage is demanding and poised.

"My mummy and brothers are hungry right now".

The table will fall into utter silence. The occasional scrape of utensils and clutter of servants placing dishes out upon tables will fill the still room, and suddenly the air grows thick and uncomfortable.

"They would be. If they were still yours. Now eat, don't be unseemly". Daemon is the only one to brave against your words, and Rhaenyra shoots her husband a stern look and pursed lips.

At his cold words, your eyes water, and everyone holds their breath because they know it's going to be another tearful night.

"Must you be so callous". Rhaenyra hisses beneath her breath, watching solemnly as you wiggle out of your seat and leave the room- a maiden following close behind, seeking to comfort you. Your soft sniffles echoing in the hall alongside the quick paced pitter-patter of your footsteps down the hall.

~ Eventually she may grow out of this with age, but it doesn't make it any less stressful on Daemon and the rest of the family. You'll probably spend most of your time picking at food and drink, and distracting yourself by talking to your half-sisters and brothers, or maybe even Helaena. She is good, friendly company.

~ Now it would probably become a little overwhelming to constantly entertain every single family member who wants to occupy your space and company, so you'd probably find hobbies like reading and writing, horseback riding, sewing, and causing a little harmless chaos amongst the castle.

~ It'd be more than amusing to clamber up into a tree and watch everyone go into a panic trying to find you, knights dashing around with their glinting silver armour and billowing capes, or handmaidens calling for you whilst offering honeyed cakes and toys as attempts to lure you out.

~ It's only when a mildly frantic Daemon hears your muffled giggles in the gardens, right above his head, does he realise your antics. He'll peer up at you with a not very impressed look, but still, he'll encourage threaten you with time-out to clamber back down into his reaching arms.

~ Due to Bastard!readers constant attempts to escape, or wade back through the ocean, your disappearances are always met with panic. At some point, to quelm everyones anxieties of you escaping, you'll be assigned your own personal handmaiden/lady in waiting, and a knight. Your handmaiden will diligently be by your side 24/7, and your knight will accompany you whenever outside of the castle walls. You are free to roam the gardens and beaches, but as long as he is by your side.

~ I can see bastard!reader being a little sweet but mischievous thing with her personal knight. Curious of his sword, shyly trying to slip it from it's sheathe- only for a large armoured gloved hand to gently persuade her hand away from the blade's handle.

(maybe Harwin strong is made her personal protector? And there's silent beef between him and Cristen Cole as they're both competitive platonic yanderes for her? I might go into that more later 😌)

~ Until you become bound to the cannibal, your family would be very insistent of you relying on them and their dragons. Vermax is a sweet chirpy boy around you, like a little song-filled canary. Morning and Moondancer are passive and gentle to you, and syrax is doting. I can also see Sunfyre being a sweet boy to you (regardless of how Aegon treats you, Sunfyres actions always speak the truth of his genuine feelings towards you. Chirping and purring, nudging you around for attention and pets). Your parents however will only ever trust you to mount their dragons, since their children are willing and eager for you to ride with them, they simply feel it safer you stay with them.

~ Just Rhaenyra gently explaining to a deflated looking Luke and Jace that they have to wait till they've grown older and more experienced to have you ride dragon-back with them. Sadly, both boys will never achieve this dream of their. If you know, you know :(

If anyone has any more thoughts/ideas to elaborate, I'd love to hear them!!! I have so many ideas they keep getting jumbled up, and can't decide 😅

[ssahotchnerr]

jack & ellie trying to make soup for a sick aaron🥺🫶 they’re like tossing around dry pasta noodles in a pot 😭😭🫶

- 🧶

sick day

WAIT you just gave me an idea so let me elaborate i hope that's okay 🫶🏻 cw; mentions of sickness, dad!aaron, fem!reader, fluff <3

Jack and Ellie were huddled underneath the shade of a tree, heads together and busying themselves away with something.

The window above the kitchen sink allowed clear visibility into the backyard, letting you keep an undeviating eye on them. It was a bright summer afternoon, all windows in the house were open, a cool breeze sweeping in. You could easily hear and observe the two of them, while also doting on your sick husband.

This morning, you awoke to a sweaty Aaron beside you; cowlicks and t-shirt drenched. He was sporting a sore throat along with his fever, as well as a lingering headache. Last night he had even returned home early, the fluorescent lights of the BAU not having mercy on his head.

"How's it going?" You peered your head into your bedroom, Aaron buried deep under the comforter. While it was quite warm outside, he had stated he was freezing.

A muffled, "Fine." came from beneath.

"Need anything?"

Another incoherent mumble in response.

After obtaining him more water (and making sure he drank some) you went forth with your day, cleaning up the kitchen's mess after lunch. As you did so, the screen door rolled open, slamming with a shut.

"Watch fingers." You advised, continuing to place dirty cups into the dishwasher. With the two of them coming in and out of the house so hastily, you were eager to prevent potential broken fingers.

In your peripheral they passed, rather slow for their usual nature. It raised your suspicions immediately, causing you to slow, before committing to follow. Especially when Ellie recalled the word dirt.

They ventured upstairs and into your bedroom. It was dimly lit; lights off and curtains pulled, the slight sheerness of the fabric allowing the sun to subtly brighten the room. Again the windows were agape - allowing fresh air to circulate through the room.

"Daddy." Ellie whispered, her face close enough to his whereas he could feel her breath on his face.

"Hm?"

"We made you soup."

Her words snapped him out of his feverish haze, both his eyes opening and heart melting in one go.

"You did?" Aaron gingerly sat up, using his elbows for leverage and leaning against his pillow. He purposely strained his voice; finding his soft, Dad tone and attempting to push past the hoarseness; sounding as normal as possible.

Jack produced a small bucket, one that usually remained within the sandbox. Instead it was filled with water, dirt, grass, miscellaneous leaves; anything the backyard could provide.

The contents took Aaron by surprise, stalling for a split second once in his grasp. Dumbfounded, but extremely touched.

"Do you like it?" Ellie asked, clambering onto the mattress besides him.

"I do." Aaron commented, offering her a smile. "It's... organic, that's for sure."

"Bunnies eat grass." Ellie explained, looking from the 'soup' to him. "'member when we found the baby bunnies? You said they eat grass to be healthy and strong. So this will help you not be sick."

Aaron's face softened more; the logic making complete sense in her little mind - why wouldn't it? He laughed gently, and naturally he didn't have the heart to tell her it was inedible. "Thank you sweetheart, that's real kind of you. Did you make up this recipe all by yourself?"

Ellie nodded, a thoroughly pleased expression on her face. "Jackers helped too. He put the water in from the hose and added the leaves."

"I didn't tell her you couldn't eat it," Jack quickly whispered to him, "she really wanted to give you something that could make you feel better."

Aaron offered him a look, an understanding between the two of them. "Well, it definitely is making me feel better. I can promise that."

"Really?" Ellie blinked up at him.

"Really. I had no idea I had such skilled chefs for kids." He coughed; his voice was slowly beginning to give out, the more he spoke.

"Like Grandpa Dave!"

Aaron laughed brightly, ignoring the burn in the back of his throat and the heaviness in his body. "Just like Grandpa Dave."

"Here," You pushed yourself off the doorframe, where you had been silently (and pleasantly) observing. Ellie had been a bit too close for too long, and you could tell Aaron was gradually fading.

You took the 'soup' from him, internally grateful all of it had stayed in the bucket despite traveling up a flight of stairs. "Why don't I take this. Daddy needs to get some rest, that'll help him feel better too."

"Peace and quiet."

"That's right, peace and quiet." You echoed Ellie as she hopped off the bed, touching her head gently to gesture her out. You flashed Aaron a smile as the three of you exited, one tugging onto his lips too as he drowsily eased back against his pillow.

[marlynnofmany]

Recreational Food

I admired the scenery as we walked. “I’m glad we came during the dry season. Looks like there wouldn’t be much solid ground otherwise.” This wide flat area was pretty clearly the flood plains for the river just over the hillside, with several tiny plateaus where huge trees had escaped getting washed away. Everything else was dirt.

Paint spread her arms beside me, basking in the sun like the little lizardy alien she was. “I’m just glad to be outside! It’s been so long since we had a delivery on an actual planet, not to mention one that smells nice.”

It smelled like dry river mud to me, which was nice enough, but maybe those trees were extra appealing to Heatseeker senses. There was a scent of something kind of like rosemary on the breeze, now that I thought about it.

Paint was still talking. “We’re not even in a hurry today! The drop-off went fine, so we can stroll back to the ship at our own pace. This is lovely. I could stay out here all day.”

The ground rumbled. Splashes and the bleats of distressed animals sounded from the direction of the river. The rumbling got louder.

I asked, “Are you familiar with the concept of ‘jinxing it’?”

Before Paint could answer, a stampede swept over the hill toward us. Paint screamed and bolted. I ran after her, frantically searching for a plateau that was both climbable and close.

“This one!” I yelled over the noise of what had to be hundreds of alien fauna. Vaguely buffalo-shaped things without horns. I’d study them more closely when they weren’t closing in fast. Paint barely heard me, so I towed her over to the plateau and boosted her up. She wasn’t a natural climber, but she made do, scrambling to safety with me close behind. We made it out of trampling range just in time.

I clambered up and lay flat under the spreading tree while Paint hyperventilated beside me, an ocean of brown fur rolling by underneath. The rocky ground shook and the tree showered us with leaves. But the branches didn’t fall and neither did we, and eventually the herd calmed down from whatever had startled them.

The problem was, they calmed down before they finished passing our tiny island. Thundering footsteps slowed to a mooing, moaning amble, with buffalo-things surrounding us for a good distance in all directions.

My phone rang. We both twitched. Luckily the animals were loud enough to miss it. I pulled the phone from my pocket, hands vibrating with adrenaline, and answered a call from the captain.

“Are you safe?” she asked, her voice distant over the phone. “We got a report of local fauna moving unexpectedly.”

I laughed, wide-eyed while Paint tried to get her breathing under control. “Yeah, we barely made it. I’m not sure how we’re going to get back, though. They’re all around us, and I don’t like our chances if we try to just walk through.”

“Yes, don’t get too close.” I heard claws on keys as Captain Sunlight checked the local information bank. “These creatures are known to be hostile. They also treat approaching shuttles like threats, which doesn’t bode well for an air rescue.”

I tried to breathe deeply and get my heart rate back to normal. “Threats that they should attack, or run from?”

“This says they face off with shuttles, and defend whatever territory they’re occupying at the time. Attempts to chase them away have been unsuccessful, as have attempts to lead them away.”

“Yeah, that’s the worst,” I said, glancing up at the thick branches above. “Our vertical access is garbage right now anyway. We’d have a hard time getting into a shuttle.”

Paint was looking a little more calm, though worried. “Maybe they’ll wander away on their own?”

I relayed the question in case Captain Sunlight hadn’t heard it. She said, “Maybe. Let me contact the local authorities for more information. Stay safe; I’ll call you back.”

I said goodbye and put the phone away, then just lay there listening to my heartbeat and the various grunts from below. Paint sniffed audibly, no doubt appreciating the spicy tree smell. I tried to enjoy the view. The buffalo-things had heavy paws instead of hooves, and their faces were misshapen to my Earth eyes, more mooselike than anything. The thick brown fur was normal enough, though.

I was trying to think of what breed of dog it reminded me of when a cloud covered the sun.

A dark cloud. The kind that might be full of rain.

“Oh no,” I said.

“That can’t be rain,” Paint said, scrambling up. “It’s not the rainy season!”

I got to my feet, clutching a branch. “It could be rain. A flash flood might solve one of our problems, but…”

“Oh, that would be so much worse!” Paint hugged her arms close. The air hadn’t gotten that much cooler yet, but rain could be bad for a cold-blooded Heatseeker. And that was even without considering whether we’d have to swim for it.

I looked around frantically. “There’s got to be something we can do. Maybe throw a rock and scare them into stampeding away again?”

We scoured the rocky plateau, but nothing came off bigger than a fingernail, and the only things up there aside from the tree were some sparse bits of grass/moss and stray dirt. Even the tree didn’t have any small branches that looked easily snapped off; they were all thick limbs. I could probably climb out over the herd if I really needed a stick, but that did not look worth it.

I checked my pockets. “Wait, I have food. Maybe that’ll help.” We’d left right before lunch, and I’d grabbed a few portable things in case the delivery took too long. I thought hard about what kind of food these creatures might like, and how they might react to it, as I knelt and emptied my pockets onto the ground.

It was all Earth stuff from the import sector of the last space station we’d stopped at. A packet of turkey jerky. Freeze-dried strawberries. A tube of peanut butter that had thankfully not ruptured in the scramble up here. Pop Rocks.

I picked up that last one, thinking fast.

Paint was reading the label on the peanut butter. “Oh, this is the one some of your people are allergic to. I suppose it’s too much to hope these creatures are as well?”

“I have a better idea,” I said, eyeing the lowest branch. It was sturdy. There were creatures below. And they were all wet from the river. I turned to Paint. “Throwing something might startle them enough to stampede if we hit one just right, but I’ll bet that’s not as startling as the sound of sudden hissing from the back of their neck.”

“Which of your foods does that??” Paint asked.

I held up the brightly colored package. “Recreational food. They’re basically sugar crystals with tiny pockets of compressed air inside. They pop and hiss when they dissolve.”

Paint shook her head. “I’m not even going to ask why.”

“Great.” I shoved the package into a thigh pocket that I’d be able to reach easily, then hooked an arm over the branch and climbed up.

“Be careful!”

“I will,” I said as the clouds darkened further. Lying on the branch like a particularly awkward jungle cat, I scooted over the edge of the plateau. None of the creatures seemed to notice, busy as they were in nosing the dusty ground for sprouted grass, or whatever passed for it here. Good. I wanted their heads down.

When I was over a big one, I stopped and got out the pack, oh so carefully. Dropping it now could well be the kind of mistake I’d regret for a long time. I ripped open the package with care, knees clamped around the branch, as thunder rumbled closer than I’d like.

Then I gauged the angle carefully, and poured a stream of Pop Rocks directly onto the buffalo-thing’s neck.

I heard it crackle and pop as the sugar dissolved in the wet fur. Suddenly everything was panicked bellows and the thunder of feet. I clung to the branch, hoping desperately that it wasn’t about to snap off under my weight. All I could see below me was waves of brown fur.

It felt like the stampede went on for longer this time. Maybe because I didn’t have any climbing to distract me; all I could do was hold onto the branch like the most desperate of baby monkeys, and hope it held.

It held.

Finally the rumbling footsteps receded over the hill, leaving churned-up dirt below and a very grateful Paint behind me.

“You did it! It worked! Now let’s go; I think I see rain!”

She was right. I shimmied back onto solid ground to pick up the rest of my snacks, shoving them into pockets alongside the crumpled Pop Rocks package, then I helped Paint scramble down from the plateau.

Wind had picked up, blowing rain towards us in a visible wall from the west. But something silver glinted in the sky to the north, which grew swiftly into the welcome sight of a local rescue shuttle.

We ran for it. It landed on the riverbed, door open and arms waving from inside, and we dove in just before the rain hit.

“Safe!” Paint exclaimed as the door shut and a Frillian in a uniform guided her into a chair. “That was too many close calls for one day!”

I followed the directions to take my own seat as the shuttle lifted off. A different Frillian handed me a blanket, though I didn’t need it. Nice and warm, though. I asked Paint, “Ready to go back to the indoors for a while?”

She settled a heat shawl around her shoulders and sighed with relief. “I suppose so. Much less chance of getting trampled or frozen there.”

The official next to me asked, “What caused the herd to move away? We were told they had surrounded the area.”

I grinned and dug out the crumpled package. “Recreational food!” There were still a few Pop Rocks caught in one corner, so I dumped them into my mouth to demonstrate. The expressions on the rescuers’ faces were great as the candy hissed and popped on my tongue. “I poured thith down on a big one,” I explained around it.

Paint added, “It worked great! Scared them right away.”

The officials exchanged a look, then asked to see the package. I happily handed it over and explained where I’d gotten it. Paint said our courier ship would be happy to arrange a delivery of some if they wanted.

By the time we reached our ship, the local officials were ready to talk to the captain about ordering some recreational Earth food, to use for an entirely different purpose than it was made for. But that would hardly be the first time.

~~~

These are the ongoing backstory adventures of the main character from this book.

Shared early on Patreon! There’s even a free tier to get them on the same day as the rest of the world.

The sequel novel is in progress (and will include characters from these stories. I hadn’t thought all of them up when I wrote the first book, but they’re too much fun to leave out of the second).

[tenderleavesbob]

It was past midnight. Link had gone to bed an hour ago but could barely bring himself to close his eyes. His nerves felt raw and his mind refused to shut up. He had resigned himself to a sleepless night when he heard one of the other cots squeak.

It was too soft to be Tune's cot. The teenager was also snoring away like frogs were singing in his throat. That left Mask. Link pretended to be asleep and listened for the quiet padding of Mask's footsteps. If Mask was going outside to watch the moon again, Link planned on getting up to join him. He couldn't sleep, anyway.

Mask's quiet footsteps headed in his direction. He couldn't hear any familiar snickering, so Link doubted it was a prank. Which left...

Link wasn't surprised at all when a small hand tugged on his shirt. He opened his eyes. Mask's face was barely inches from his. "Can I sleep with you tonight?" Mask whispered.

Like he had to ask. Link scooted backwards without a word. Mask clambered in after him and tucked himself against Link's chest. Link wrapped his arms and blanket around the boy. He pulled him close and waited. Tune snored on.

Mask hid his face in Link's throat where Link couldn't see his face. "What's the big deal with having a mom or dad anyway?" Mask's voice was muffled but his question was clear enough.

It was going to be one of those nights then. Link braced himself for the inevitable heartbreak. "What do you mean? Did someone say something?"

Mask shrugged. "Just stupid shit. They always act weird when I say I don't have one. I mean, did the Great Deku Tree count?"

Link wanted to hug Mask tight and never let him go. "I think so from the way you talk about him. A parent is someone you can rely on. Someone who means home. Someone who keeps you safe and teaches you about the world and helps you discover your place in it. It sounds like he was a good parent to you growing up."

Mask hummed against Link's throat. It felt odd. "You don't ever talk about yours."

Link broke and hugged Mask a little closer. He started rubbing his back. Whether to comfort Mask or himself, he didn't know. "They died years ago, before I joined the army." Their deaths were why he joined the army, but Mask didn't need to know that grisly story.

Anyone else would have apologized for his loss. Mask didn't know or understand that bit of etiquette. He made a thoughtful noise instead. "When your parent dies, is that the end? You don't get another?"

Link thought Mask was going somewhere with this, but he couldn't figure it out. "You had Hylian parents who loved you once. They tried to take care of you and made sure you were safe with the Great Deku Tree." Link hoped that was how that story went. Mask didn't talk about it. "So you had multiple parents who loved and cared for you. I bet you'll find more loved ones as you go."

Mask made another thoughtful noise. He tapped his fingers against Link's chest. Link noticed Tune's snores had stopped. When had he woken up? "Like you?"

"Hmm?"

"Like you?" Mask repeated. "Do you count?"

Oh. Oh. Link swallowed hard and immediately felt his eyes burn. So that's where Mask was leading with his conversation. "Yeah," he said huskily. "Like me."

Mask made a satisfied humming noise. "Okay. That's what I thought. Everyone keeps calling you my mom or my dad."

Link laughed quietly. It sounded a little damp. "Mom and dad, huh?"

"Yeah. No one would explain the difference to me."

Aw, fuck it. Link kissed the top of Mask's head. It was all he could see thanks to Mask's position and the blanket. "That's a conversation for a different night. Good night, Mask."

Mask huffed. "Whatever. Good night, Mom."

"Good night, Dad," Tune chirped.

Link squeezed his eyes tightly shut, but it didn't stop the tears. "Good night, kiddos."

To his surprise, it was much easier to fall asleep after that. He even had good dreams.

[whatthebodygraspsnot]

Mickey’s on house arrest for an eensy teensy crime (a total misunderstanding obviously - Mickey would never.)

At first he thinks he’s gonna go level ten batshit cooped up in their apartment. It’s not that he doesn’t like the home they’ve made for themselves, it’s just he’s a man who needs enrichment in his enclosure and everyone knows it.

Ian finds himself “breaking” things on the downlow so he can subtly float a “hey could you look at the ___ today? I think it’s busted” over their morning coffee. He's not coddling him, he just likes knowing Mickey will have something to do while he’s at work besides pace the halls and make trouble for himself out of sheer boredom.

The first week is rough. But by the next week, things have evened out considerably for Mickey. He’s clearly found a passion in something, because Ian will come home and Mickey’ll be outside on the balcony, more or less where he left him that morning. And he’s pretty sure it’s not the tomatoes he’s got potted out there.

Ian doesn’t wanna pry, especially since Mickey’s found something that works for him. But he’s a curious being. So when he comes home the next day, he decides to follow after the sound of his beautiful house-arrest husband on the balcony.

“Ha… Dumbass…”

“Who is?”

Mickey quickly turns to him as Ian steps out, joining him at the rail for a welcome home kiss.

Or…rather, Ian is kissing and Mickey is grumbling against it. “No one…”

“Mm?”

“Home early.”

“Yeah,” Ian smiles, glancing curiously at the green-space that the balcony overlooks, “got done pretty quick today.” There’s no one there. Just a couple squirrels darting around by the bushes.

Mickey nods, taking a long drag from his cigarette. 

He’s clamming up. 

Ian definitely struck something.

Silence floats between them, Ian taking the cig for himself. And he almost lets it go until it happens - movement, Mickey’s eyes darting to it down below.

Ian follows it. Hears himself huff a laugh as he watches a squirrel tear at lightning speed to the bush across the way. “Fast little fucker.”

“Gonzales…”

“Huh?” Ian turns to him. 

But Mickey refuses to meet his gaze. “Speedy Gonzales,” he says. Very cryptically.

And Ian…doesn’t know what to do with that. He chuckles, teasing, “What, you out here namin’ the squirrels, Mick?”

Another handful of seconds float by them in complete silence. Avoided eye contact.

…oh.

Wait.

Holy fuck, he’s out here naming the squirrels.

“You got somethin’ to say, wise guy-”

“No!” Wow - no - Ian doesn’t-… It’s just how the hell is he supposed to process something this endearing in such a short time span? “No, baby - nothin’ wrong with it.” Oh no, his house-arrest husband is cute?? “I mean, Speedy Gonzales - you really nailed it, ya know?”

Beside him, Mickey’s shoulders are starting to deflate from where they’ve ratcheted up in defense mode. Not all the way, but starting at least. Ian thinks they should probably leave it at that for now, but then miraculously, he’s talking again. “Got no fuckin attention span… Been lookin’ for the same shit he buried since Monday.”

Ian takes it in with a carefully constructed expression, “Oh yeah?” no smile to misconstrue or anything. “Where’s it at?”

Because Mickey knows, doesn’t he?

“Big tree,” he nods to it, “right side.”

Holy fuck, Ian is so in love with this man.

“Almost got it before you came out.”

“You think I scared him off?”

“Nah, he’s a real dumbass. Probably woulda dug two times and then ran off somewhere else.” And then, like he didn’t just make Ian’s heart absolutely rock hard, he turns to the door. “Fuckin’ starvin’ - you bring anything home?”

They have sandwiches and potato chips and Ian practically has to eat his hands to stop himself from asking more questions about his husband’s squirrels.

On Saturday morning, Ian joins him outside to water his tomatoes and then lingers, eager for any tidbits Mickey might drop on his own. 

In the grass below, a squirrel clambers over a pile of dirt and then begins a session of quick digging, bringing a smile of recognition to Ian’s face. “Hi Speedy.”

“That’s Rat Tail,” Mickey corrects from his chair.

Oh. Right. “How can you tell?” Ian asks stupidly. Because all it takes is one look with his own eyeballs to note the thinning end of this particular squirrel’s tail. “Ah.” Rat Tail. Got it.

And so begins the introductions, the two of them sipping coffee as Mickey leisurely explains the lore to him. Ian didn’t realize squirrels lead such a rich, fulfilling life, honestly. Who could’ve known? 

Mickey, of course, his feet propped up on the railing and his ankle monitor blinking away while he points out new characters seemingly every morning.

“That’s Scratch.” and “That’s Little Bitch.” and “Damn, I thoughtchya kicked the bucket, Rabies.”

Each name takes its place on Ian’s mental list.

“That one’s Allen,” Mickey says once.

To which Ian simply has to ask, the fact that he shares a name with their neighbor surely no coincidence. “What? Why?”

“He’s short ‘n ugly.”

“Got it.”

By the start of the next week, Ian feels caught up on the ins and outs of the squirrel lore. But just like with his husband, there’s always something to learn.

“Hey Mick, is that one new?”

Mickey flicks his eyes up from his phone, identifying the squirrel on the fly. “Nah, just hasn’t shown up for you yet.” Ah. “That’s Little Fucker.”

Ian nods. Interesting. “Are Little Fucker and Little Bitch related?”

“I dunno. Think they’re bangin’ each other, though.”

“Of course.”

Ian sees himself and Mickey in Little Bitch and Little Fucker.

Week Four hits, and Mickey is starting to wonder why he ever dreaded house arrest so much. It’s really not all that bad, especially when he’s got a caring husband who gives a shit about his-

“MICKEY!” comes Ian’s voice, fucking tearing through the apartment and launching Mickey into a startled fumble and ‘the fuck’ with his wet towel. “MICK GET THE HELL OUT HERE - QUICK!”

He’s dripping wet and ten seconds away from making a b-line to the gun drawer, but when he sees his husband’s face practically pressed up against the screen door, his look of sheer excitement is contagious.

“The fuck?” Mickey snaps, keeping the towel around his waist, “The hell are you out here-”

“It’s Speedy, Mick!” Ian beams, opening the door for him and pointing dramatically toward the green-space. “He’s getting it! He’s gonna get it, finally!”

Mickey shuffles over to the rail, the history that’s being made making his blood run hot when he sees it with his own two eyes, Speedy Gonzales digging frantically at the exact spot that he’s been too much of a dumbass to check for a whole month.

He and Ian grow deathly still. Wait with bated breath. 

And then…finally…after weeks of anticipation…

“Oh my god,” Ian grins, both of them watching Speedy Gonzales stuff the acorn into his mouth and then dart for cover under the bushes.

“Well whaddaya know - stupid fucker actually did it.” About damn time.

Beside him, Ian wrangles Mickey wetly into his side, processing the moment proudly. Silence may float between them, but it’s positively electric. Fiery. And when Ian glances down with him, Mickey knows the exact look in his eyes.

“You bricked up right now?”

Ian nods, swallowing thickly.

Speedy Gonzales is left to eat in peace as the two of them push their way inside, eager to celebrate the rush Little Bitch and Little Fucker-style.

[listentothelittlebird]

so I have been avidly following the lovely dbhc au that @shepscapades has made and I have made a little drabble fanfic of Doc and Xisuma because I feel very normal about them :)

setting: hermitcraft season 10, while Doc is in skyblock jail

word count: 1361

-

Doc is grumbling to himself, ramming his fist into the newly-sprouted tree with not an insignificant amount of prejudice, when he hears the distinct whistling of fireworks crescendoing towards him.

“Have you come to watch me punch wood like an imbecile?” Doc snarks, expecting to hear Scar’s fumbling denials, or Cleo’s cackling assent.

“That wasn’t the plan, no.” The quietly amused voice is far from his first prediction. An oversight on his part, really.

[Vocal Recognition: Xisumavoid.]

“Xisuma!” Doc’s next punch misses the trunk of the cherry blossom tree, glancing off the side and chipping off the bark instead. He blinks away the vocal recognition pop-up, glancing behind him just to check it really is him and not Tango with a goat horn. “Hey, man!”

“Hey! You’ve been busy.” Xisuma’s boots scuff against the cobblestone as he inspects the progress of his miserable sky island. A shulker box thunks onto the stone, freeing his hands up to brush against the cherry wood planks.

“Hardly anything else to do besides work.” Doc throws the words over his shoulder as he continues to gather his cherry wood, not one to leave a project half-done. 

His visitor is content to hum and haw at whatever he finds as Doc works away. It has only been a few days, but the one-sided commentary is surprisingly comforting. After all, no touching the ground means no redstone, which also means no time in the lab. The thought has Doc speaking up, slipping between Xisuma’s quips.

“It’s not been too busy, yeah?” Doc clambers onto the tree as he plucks off the highest branches. He pauses to flick open a calendar overlay, skimming the dates. “Nobody’s scheduled for maintenance checks until next month.” 

“It’s been alright.” The fuzzy wolf-shaped wool mask pops into view as Xisuma emerges from Doc’s pink abode. “Been a bit too quiet, even. It’s weird not having you around.”

Doc snorts to hide the way his thirium pump hiccups at the words. Logically, he knows the sound is far too soft for Xisuma to hear. Having emotions, Doc has found, is hardly ever logical.

“So you came over ‘cause you missed me?” The words are out before Doc can even try to edit the response. It instills in him the same kind of floundering exasperation he feels when trying to recall a comms message already seen by everyone.

“Well.” When Xisuma ducks his head, one ear of the knitted wolf flops to the side. “I mean. I suppose so.”

[Emotion Identified: Shyness.]

“But I did come with an agenda!” Xisuma reaches for the shulker behind him, pulling out a mobile scanner from the lab.

“You’re right about having no maintenance checks on the schedule,” Xisuma says, waving around the scanner. “With you out here roughing it out, though, I figured I should check on you.”

“Ah.” Doc chuckles, ignores his cooling vents spinning faster. “I see.”

“Well, don’t keep me waiting! You look about done with your tree.” 

“I am, I think.” Doc squints through the already-thinning leaves, nodding when he finds no branches left. “Alright, one moment.”

Dismantling the remains of the trunk takes only a few seconds. Doc gathers the wood and plonks them into the chest in his shabby house, with Xisuma trailing behind. 

With two people inside, it only reminds Doc how small the shelter is. Turning around after closing his chest puts him directly in Xisuma’s space.

“So, uh.” Doc shifts back, as much as he can. He ends up plopping down on the edge of his bed, which, well. “Go ahead, then.” 

A check-up does not require much space, really. Doc has done maintenance with the hermits in caves, in redstone farms, in underwater bases and nether bases. This is just the first time Doc himself has been examined outside of the yawning expanse of their labs. The change in routine leaves him uncertain, like recalibrating on angled terrain. 

The ease that Xisuma slips into the motions does well to settle Doc’s stress, however mild. The mobile scanner takes a while to gather results, so Doc answers Xisuma’s laundry list of questions. The list of questions is one curated by both Doc and Xisuma. Most of it is data, which Doc rattles off easily from the numbers that he pulls up in the corner of his vision.

The mobile scanner beeps cheerfully just as they reach the end of the lengthy questionnaire.

“Clean bill of health.” Xisuma shows Doc the display, which focuses less on internal processes and more on external damage or abnormalities. “Although, your average temperature is a bit lower than your usual.”

Doc shrugs. “It’s the altitude, man. Going from spending significant amounts of my time in the deserts and swamps to this is quite the change. Not to mention the wind chill.” 

As if to prove his point, a gust hits the shelter hard enough to make the planks rattle and creak. With no door, the icy breeze rushes in quickly. He tucks his metal arm into his lab coat with a sigh, the exposed components always prone to freezing the fastest.

“It’s not that bad,” Doc states flippantly, knowing without looking that Xisuma is taking in his every move. “I’m working most of the time, which keeps me warm. Plus I have my lava pool to sit beside when I need to warm up.”

“If you say so.” Xisuma shifts, leaning against his crafting bench. “The moment you start to experience temperature glitches, though, call this off. The rest will understand.”

“I know, I know.” This is all in good fun, when it comes down to it. He plays along for his own amusement. “I’ll be fine, Xisuma. I know how to take care of myself.”

“That you do.” Xisuma nods, then, with an “ah” of realisation, pulls his wolf mask off his helmet. 

“Here!” It only takes a step for Xisuma to be back in Doc’s space, pulling the wool over Doc’s head before he can react. 

“Uhm.” The mask is large enough that it goes over his horns easily, fitting loosely around his face. He has to lift and adjust it slightly to get his eyes back through the openings. “What?”

“To keep you warm!” Xisuma draws back again, settling against the crafting bench and tapping his heel against its side. “I mean, even over my helmet, it sure retains the heat. I know it doesn’t quite help with your metal arm, but it’ll at least warm up your horns and face.”

Doc does feel warmer, in fact. Though that is not necessarily correlated with the wool mask itself, and more the action of gifting it to him.

“But it’s your mask,” Doc replies, a flimsy rebuttal. “For your Woolves of Wool Street.”

“I have spares,” Xisuma chimes, eyes squinting happily through his helmet. “I’m sure the others won’t mind if you’re wearing it. Take it as a souvenir, of sorts.”

“Right.” Doc reaches a hand up to the wool. The material is soft, slightly worn from use. It smells a bit like Xisuma’s armour, the polish that he uses to clean it at the end of the day. “Thanks.”

“No problem, Doc.” 

Xisuma’s communicator chimes. A quick look has Xisuma turning back to Doc with an apologetic sigh. “Sorry, I’ve got to go. I’ll come back soon, though, if you don’t mind?”

“Come back anytime,” Doc replies. He tries to reel it towards comedy with a gesture to his surroundings, his meager belongings. “You won’t be interrupting anything.”

The dry quip draws out a laugh from Xisuma, even as he gathers his shulker and activates his elytra.

“See you, Doc!” Xisuma waves from the edge of the cobblestone, then nosedives away, a rocket propelling him rapidly out of sight. 

Doc takes a moment to watch the clouds, then laughs at himself. Did he not poke fun at Tango last season, when he stared longingly at the portal Jimmy left the server with? Now look at him.  

He draws a hand up to the wolf mask, rubbing the soft knitting between his fingers, and decides that Tango absolutely cannot see him wearing this.

He can keep it on for now, though.

[lulublack90]

Prompt 22 - Roommate AU

@wolfstarmicrofic April 22, word count 938

CW - Pandora jokes about Remus getting murdered and dismembered.

Moving countries was scary. Moving to the capital city seemed scarier. Remus left his childhood home in the Welsh countryside and clambered onto the bus that would take him to London. 

He’d wanted to move for years but had always been too scared. His parents had instilled in him how dangerous it would be for him not to know anyone for hundreds of miles.

One morning, while he was munching on his cornflakes, he noticed an ad in his father’s newspaper. 

‘Roommate Wanted!

All bills are paid. Just pay for your own food. 

Sexy, well-bred male looking for a friend/companion to share a house in a highly sought-after area of London.

Please use the number below to apply. Please, serious enquiries only. No, this is not a joke.

P.S. Must love Bowie, or we’re not going to get along.’

Remus quickly put his breakfast things away and, grabbing his phone, fled outside, typing the number into his phone as he went. 

He settled under his favourite tree and pressed call.

“Hello,” A husky voice answered. 

“Oi, hi. My name is Remus Lupin, and I—” He started to explain. 

“Look, mate. I don’t know what you’re selling, but calling me at this ungodly hour is unacceptable. Goodbye.”

“Wait- wait. I’m not selling anything. I’m phoning about your ad!” Remus hurriedly spoke before the man could hang up. 

“Oh, in that case. Hello, I’m Sirius.” Sirius suddenly sounded a lot more cheerful. “So why do you want to be my roommate?”

“Well, erm. I’ve always wanted to move to London, but I’ve been a bit worried about living there on my own.” He told Sirius, deciding the truth would be best. 

“Uhuh, uhuh. Anything else?” Sirius sounded a bit bored. Remus knew he was screwing this up.

“I’m clean and tidy and don’t make much noise. I have enough money saved to pay my way—” Sirius cut him off again. 

“All the bills are paid for. You only need to get yourself food.” Remus nodded even though Sirius couldn’t see him.

“Oh, right. I wasn’t sure if that bit was true. Erm, I don’t have a job yet, but I’ll start looking straight away.”

“Remus, I’m gonna stop you there. I don’t think we’re going to be a good fit. I can already tell you are the complete opposite of me. No offence, but you sound like you go to bed early and like nothing more than to sit by the fire drinking hot chocolate and reading a good book.” Sirius said honestly. He wasn’t wrong. What Sirius had just described was his usual evening routine. He had to think of something compelling to change Sirius’s mind. 

“I have every David Bowie vinyl.” He blurted out. 

“Really?” Sirius sounded excited now. 

“Yeah, yeah, and I don’t know how you feel about T. Rex, but I have all there’s as well, and Led Zeppelin and loads of others.” All he could hear was the slight buzzing from the phones as the line went silent. 

“Alright, Remus Lupin, you’ve twisted my leg. You’re the only person who’s called so far that I’ve actually managed to tolerate for more than ten seconds. So, let’s give it a go. When can you move in?” Remus sat there in shock. 

“Really? You want me?” 

“Sure, why not? The room’s all set up just need to bring some clothes and whatnot. I’ll text you the address, and you can let me know when you want to come. If you find it’s not for you, you can move out whenever you like. That sound okay?” Sirius spoke quickly, but Remus managed to make out all the words. 

“Sounds brilliant. I’ll make arrangements and then give you a date.”

“Grand. Oh, and Remus, I really hope it works out.” With that, Sirius hung up, and Remus was left reeling.

“Oh, you’re totally getting murdered.” Pandora, his best friend, snorted when he told her he was moving to London and what the ad had said. 

“No, I’m not. Sirius seems really nice.”

“Oh, sweet baby, you are so getting chopped into little bits and placed around London to look like a smiley face or something.” She’d clapped her hands together and jumped up and down on the spot. 

“Gee, thanks, Pan. Love the confidence there.” He rolled his eyes and pushed down the panic that her words could actually turn out to be very true. 

The bus was packed with holidayers, commuters and everything in between. Remus was glad of his noise-cancelling headphones and his favourite book. In a couple of hours, he’d be starting his new life. Everything he owned was in the compartment under the bus and was surprisingly little. 

London was busier than he had ever imagined, coming from a tiny village. The noise and smells were overpowering. He got the tube from Victoria next to the coach station and rode it up to Islington. 

He followed Sirius’s directions through a beautiful, tidy neighbourhood. Remus walked past a picturesque park and found the house. Number 12 Grimmauld Place loomed above him. It was far grander than he’d imagined. He walked up the front steps and used the heavy serpentine brass knocker. It thudded loudly against the wooden door. He heard scrabbling on the other side before a heavy lock clunked, and the door swung open to reveal the most beautiful man Remus had ever seen, flipping his long black hair out of his face.

“Remus?!” Sirius exclaimed joyfully. Oh boy, Remus was in trouble. He reached his hand out and shook Sirius’s before following him into the house, closing the heavy door behind him.  

[grumpyeagleandfriends]

À Terre II | Poe Dameron x OC/Reader

A/N: Reader is a Resistance pilot that was captured during a solo reconnaissance mission. They escape by hijacking a ship. Gravely injured and hanging by a thread, they rejoin the Resistance by crash landing just outside of the base on D'Qar. A certain distraught squadron leader runs out to help. 

Hurt/Comfort. Gratuitous, self-serving one shot TWO PART story. I have rewritten the first chapter in addition to adding on a second installment. This time it's in Poe's POV. I don’t like using “y/n” so I give the reader a generic, 1 syllable Star Wars name in the middle of this bad boy.  ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ I’ve been daydreaming about this for months years, so I finally decided to write it all out.  There’s a little bit of a long set up, but I’m not sorry about it.

Rating: T

Warnings: Mentions blood and torture. Shellshock/PTSD vibes. Cursing. Tons of graphic medical stuff. Injections (so needles).

Word count: 5,439

Masterlist

Blood was everywhere when he finally made it inside the cockpit...

Even after he got her free from the safety harness, when all he could do was keep her calm and alert until the med techs arrived, he noticed the way she looked at him, the way she pulled it together to focus every time she nearly fell asleep. Hol hadn’t been able to properly talk, but with every command he gave her, she nodded and tried her best to comply. 

The metallic iron smell of it nearly knocked him back when he opened the canopy. It covered everything. Her shaking hands, her hair, her flight suit, he even found it coating the inside of her mouth after he coaxed her to let him take away the life support mask. 

He desperately wanted to give her water to see if she could drink, but there wasn’t any to be found in the cockpit. He wanted to put her in one of his jackets to help stop her from shaking, but the patch of trees she crashed landed into was too far from his quarters on base. He wanted to scream at her for being so goddamn stubborn, but he couldn’t shake the way she desperately clutched onto his hand. 

They hadn't been careful enough when extracting her. There wasn't enough time to wait for proper immobilization equipment to be brought out to the crash site. Between Hol's blood loss and the ship leaking dangerous fluids into the forest, they made the difficult call to just move. 

Seeing that utmost trust in her eyes, alongside the fear and the pain, was what really scared him the most. He wouldn't be able to forgive himself if he let her die there, not after she clawed her way back to them.

He had no way of knowing at that moment, but the jostling when they lifted her out caused a broken rib to puncture one of her lungs. Poe couldn’t keep from blaming himself for his own role in that.

The second they placed her onto the hover gurney, her condition began to rapidly deteriorate. One of the med techs caught sight of her blue fingertips and immediately diagnosed a collapsed lung. Poe only just managed to clamber out of the cockpit to see it all. He stood frozen on the wing of the ship while he watched them cut open her flight suit to reveal her bloated chest. The bright glow of a laser scalpel quickly appeared and they made an emergency incision between her ribs to let the trapped air escape.

Once they got her breathing again, she was loaded onto the back of the waiting med truck and they took off. Poe was left to follow behind on the back of a ship technician's speeder bike.

--------------------------------------

He sprinted into the medbay only a few moments after Hol was rushed in on the hover gurney. Bypassing the waiting area and going directly through the sliding double doors was unusually easy. In hindsight it should have struck him as odd that no one stopped him, but the overstretched med staff meant that no one paid him any mind when he planted himself against the back wall in triage.

As promised, Kalonia’s team was already primed and waiting to receive her. Poe had to crane his neck to be able to see, but he counted at least seven different med techs helping transfer her over to the exam bed.

They began working like a well calibrated machine, her dirty flight suit was sliced open and quickly stripped away. As soon as they were connected, the more sophisticated diagnostic scanners lit up and began  displaying the worst of her injuries. Images of her chest cavity were produced on a monitor near the end of the exam bed, along with her vitals.

From where he stood, Poe was able to catch Hol’s foot beginning to subtly twitch. He wondered initially if he had just imagined the movement, but the surrounding med staff began to take notice as well.

“Eyes are beginning to flutter, she might be starting to come around.”  

Dr. Kalonia took a step back as her staff continued their work. She pulled aside the young medic who had been down in the cockpit with Poe. He began rattling off the details of Hol’s condition when found and how exactly she was transported. After a couple of minutes he began gesturing over his shoulder in Poe’s direction, causing Kalonia to promptly look up. Her eyes narrowed when she caught sight of him standing back by the door. 

Shit…

His back stiffened in preparation for an argument that never came.

“Dameron, get over here!”

She issued the instruction like an admiral as she pointed him over to the top of the exam bed.

He didn't think, he just immediately crossed over. The moment he was within reach, she grabbed hold of his arm and brought him to stand where she was.

“Do exactly what you did down at the crash site, alright? Talk to your pilot. Keep her calm.”

Hol’s head gently lolled to the side on the padded exam table, her face slack and eyes half-lidded. She went still once more just as he took his place. He cupped her face in his hands, noting how cool and clammy her skin felt against his palms.

Kalonia stood to his right, a penlight ready in her hand to test the reaction of her patient’s pupils.

“C’mon, Tarmin…” She called while carefully tugging open Hol’s eyelid.

Immediately, there was a weak moan, greatly muffled by the respirator mask. Hol tried to roll away from the touch, but Poe’s hands braced either side of her head.

“Hey, hey- it's okay. Easy, kid, easy.” He whispered, holding her in place just long enough for Kalonia to work.

“Settle down, Lieutenant.” The doctor spoke as she pulled away. “You crash landed on D’Qar. You’re in medical.”

Poe didn't let go once she finished. He continued cradling Hol's head, his short nails scratching at her scalp in some attempt at providing comfort.

Her body was fully exposed under the surgical lights, revealing the extent of the damage that he wasn't able to see back in the cockpit. The bruising along her abdomen and rib cage was mostly black, as if there were large ink blots staining her skin. There were blaster grazes on her right side, localized swelling where her right forearm was clearly fractured, wounds in her lower abdomen...

So much of it jumped out at once, he found it hard to focus on any one injury long enough. He began to wonder just what sort of state she was in before the crash.

Hol emitted another faint groan, one where he could distinctly hear a wheezing sound that came from deep in her chest. Her body jerked from the force of a cough. Red flecks of blood appeared inside the clear respirator mask.

Slowly, she began to blink against the lights. A worry line formed in the center of her forehead.

"No...n-no… "

It was hoarse and strained, but everyone standing around caught the audible plea. Hol's good hand suddenly lifted in an attempt to bat away those touching her.

Dr. Kalonia cursed.

"Restrain her! I'm trying to insert a chest catheter here!”

Padded white cuffs were produced and promptly attached around each of her limbs, securing her to the exam bed.

"Hol, look at me." Poe commanded. He cupped her jaw as he leaned directly over her, giving her no choice but to comply. He made himself the only thing she had to look at. His shadow worked to shield her eyes from the glaring overhead lights while also blocking her view of the med staff.

Her gaze was glassy and unfocused, but she was thankfully looking at him.

"You've got to relax." He urged, his hand smoothing her tangled hair back off her face as he spoke. "We’re trying to patch you up, alright? Let us help."

She blinked at the sound of his voice, and though the distress on her face didn't fade, she went still on the exam bed. Her eyes remained set in his direction.

"There you go, sunshine..." Poe quietly praised, using once again the affectionate name he knew she absolutely hated. "Keep those eyes on me, don't worry about anything else."

His attention never left her, but he was aware that Kalonia and another med tech were beginning to work at prepping the incision site to insert the chest tube. He wasn't convinced that Hol recognized who he was or even that she was somewhere safe, but he couldn't risk her getting freaked out by the procedure being performed on her chest.

There was still visible fear in her eyes, but she never looked away from him. Her struggling thankfully ceased as she began to lean into one of his palms bracing the side of her face.

"You're safe, you know that?" He found himself reminding her. The pads of his thumbs traced over the outer shells of her ears, trying again to ease the visible discomfort he saw etched in her face. "Promise you, babe. You're good, we've got you."

Hol winced before swallowing. His brow furrowed as he watched her lips suddenly part.

“Poe…"

Her voice was painfully raw, and normally the sound of her saying his name would have been reason for relief, but he only worried that she was wasting her energy trying to talk.

“Yeah, hey, Hol.” He greeted in a whisper, dipping just enough to brush his lips to her hairline. "It's me. I'm right here."

He frowned when she tried to say something more, something longer and impossible to parse.

"Shh-hey, no, that's enough. Don't want you to talk anymore." He gently scolded. "We’re going to do like before, okay? You relax while I run my mouth.”

Poe doubted she remembered their conversation down in the cockpit, but she thankfully fell silent. Her eyes remained on him as he kept quietly talking to her, blabbering on about how lucky she was to get out of briefings and inventory duty for the next few weeks, about how she was going to sit back on the medbay's best painkillers and watch the trashiest holovids he could find.

He knew deep down that she probably wasn't following him entirely, but he was trying to reassure himself at this point more than her. He was keenly aware that none of what he was saying was guaranteed, but he had to give himself something to hold on to, because imagining anything else simply was not an option for him. 

She had to pull through this.

She had to be fine.

Minutes passed like that, Hol's unfocused gaze trained on Poe's face as he worked at keeping her distracted. Kalonia was able to successfully insert the temporary catheter into Hol's chest, which would assure the function of her uninjured lung until they could patch up the other.

Poe listened closely as a medtech outlined all of the crucial information, providing him with the rough plan of how her treatment would proceed. Once they finished stabilizing her most grave injuries, she would be taken back for surgery. There would be some additional testing after, which would take a couple of hours...

The explanation suddenly stopped short when an alarm began to sound from one of the machines. The level of the urgency in the room immediately started to bubble over.

"Heart rate is increasing!" Someone announced.

Poe visibly paled as he watched Hol's eyes roll backward. His hands still bracing her head, he desperately looked up at the med staff, searching for some kind of instruction.

"Dameron, out!"

Kalonia swooped in and firmly shouldered him out of the way.

Before he could object, a med droid approached and began to usher him towards the door.

"Doc, what's going on?" He demanded, sidestepping the mechanical arms reaching for his shirt. "What's wrong?"

His question went ignored. Hold was entirely obscured from his view. There were too many people now surrounding the exam bed.

"She's seizing! Start anticonvulsants and prepare for a transfusion!"

"Master Dameron, the team needs to prepare the patient for surgery. You must leave."

The med droid's pincers whirred as it closed in on Poe.

"Don't tell me what I have to do!" He snapped, the outline of his jaw more pronounced as he spoke through clenched teeth.

In a moment of sheer stupidity, he pushed back hard against the unforgivingly solid metal chest. He clearly forgot that these droids were built to easily lift the deadweight of critically ill patients of any species.

The mechanical arms tightly wrapped around him, securing his own arms to his sides. They closed, crushing him flush against the droid's metal body. The gesture was completed so quickly that he could feel the air being forced out of his own chest.

Poe feebly kicked, but it was useless. The droid easily hauled him back out through the double doors and towards the waiting area.

________________________

The word about who crash-landed into the trees traveled like wildfire across base. All of black squadron, Finn, BB-8, several of the x-wing techs and pilots from various outfits formed a large group just outside of the medbay. Each of them had duties elsewhere that they were purposefully ignoring, choosing out of loyalty to be present while one of their own hung in some grave state between life and death. They were the ones who threw back countless drinks in the mess hall together, who organized a massive fantasy Gravball league that nearly sent the entire Resistance into chaos, and who pooled their commissary credits to throw each other birthday parties.

They were all present to witness the painful moment Poe was forcibly escorted out of the sliding double doors leading to triage.

"Shit!-alright, alright! Let go!" His shouts ricocheted down the hallway as he finally managed to yank himself free. The force of the motion caused him to promptly fall to the floor.

The others watched as he quickly scrambled up from the ground, stumbling and hurrying to kick at the back of the retreating med droid.

He missed, which only served to enrage him further. The doors promptly closed behind the droid and Poe spun around— his mouth set in a tight line while he began to inexplicably search his surroundings. His chest rose and fell for several beats. His face twisted into a sneer before he abruptly lashed out at the nearest object, sending a trashcan flying with his boot. The steel barrel was thankfully empty, but the sharp clang sent a shockwave across the medbay.

The few people waiting in the sitting area immediately stood up to vacate the space.

Finn was the first to take a step forward to intervene, but he was halted by a large hand on his arm. He turned his head to see Snap, skin still humid as if he came straight from the refresher.

"Best to stand back and let it pass." The pilot urged with a sad shake of his head. "His scenes are never pretty."

Finn didn't want to agree, but as he stood and watched the scene unfolding before them he couldn't find any reason to argue. Snap and the others would know better. They did know. 

Poe’s hands were pressed to the back of his head, his fingers laced together as he glared at the closed doors. He could have easily pushed his way back through, but he inexplicably remained where he stood. His eyes shot a deadly amount of spite toward whatever was happening on the other side of those doors— information that, for the time being, only he knew. 

His arms fell heavily to his sides. Ignoring the uneasy looks following him, he turned and traipsed over to the first row of waiting chairs, silently throwing himself down onto one of the seats.His legs stretched out while he leaned back, his arms folded over his chest.

He continued to stare at the doors, a hard glint in his eyes for the faceless goliath wrecking untold damage on the other side.

The others slowly filtered over to join him in the waiting area. A supportive hand would occasionally grip his shoulder or linger on his knee, but no one said anything. Those unvoiced questions sat heavy above their heads.

BB-8 remained near Poe’s feet, unusually still and silent.

Hours grudgingly crawled by. The light outside faded away and began to just barely creep back over the horizon when someone finally came out to speak to them.

Poe was the only one to be escorted back behind the double doors. Dr. Kalonia stood there waiting for him, still dressed in some of her surgical garb. Thankfully, her mask was off, because her facial expression alone was able to answer his most crucial question.

She was alive.

Kalonia began to turn before she motioned for him to come along.

"Follow me, Dameron..."

________________________

They walked together down the main hallway of the medical wing, back to where Poe knew the overnight patient beds were located. He remained silent as Kalonia gave the run through of everything— what exactly happened when he was forced out of triage and what they were able to correct during surgery. Internal bleeding was what caused Hol to begin seizing. They performed a blood transfusion that stabilized her enough to undergo surgery, but they hadn’t been confident that she would make it through. The surgery itself took hours, but they were successfully able to localize and stop the bleeding in her abdomen and patch up her punctured lung. They installed a more substantial drainage tube in her chest to allow excess air and fluids to escape so her lung could continue to heal.

She would need to be kept asleep so her body could focus on repairing itself, but Kalonia was going to let Poe see her while they performed some additional tests.

They came to a stop just before the smallest room along the hallway. Due to space constraints on base, most of the rooms along this corridor housed multiple beds. This room was only for patients in a bad enough state to justify being kept isolated from others.

Kalonia stood aside to let him enter first.

They had Hol lying half-covered on an exam bed, her chest was mostly obscured by bandages. The first thing he noticed was that she was clean now, so much so that it made his head spin. 

It shouldn’t have been such a surprise, because of course they were going to scrub away the blood and grime before putting her on fresh bedding. But still, the contrast from when he found her sitting strapped in that downed ship was startling.

Several machines were attached to her body. She was hooked up to a respirator and receiving fluids intravenously, but Poe also caught sight of the aforementioned drainage tube extending from a patch of bandages in her side. It ran all the way over the edge of the bed into a receptacle on the floor. Her injured arm was wrapped in bacta strips and immobilized with a splint.

He remained a few feet away from her bed, a distance that he decided would be safe, because it felt too dangerous to touch her. His eyes slowly took in every piece of equipment being used to keep her stable, at first he began to count but stopped himself when he reached double digits.

His brow furrowed the moment he noticed the padded white cuffs still attaching Hol's wrists to the bed frame.

"Why is she still strapped down?" He demanded, his voice oddly distorted from hours of not speaking.

"It’s just a precaution for now.” Kalonia began to explain, seeming to choose her words cautiously. “She’s still on anticonvulsants to help reduce the likelihood of further seizures, but even while sedated there are still some tremors. With the location of the drainage tube we can’t risk her moving too violently or ripping it out when she wakes.” 

Poe blinked, taking a moment to process the information. 

"How long does she have to keep the tube?”

“No more than 2 to 3 days.” 

He nodded while he chewed on his lower lip, his eyes still trained on Hol. 

“Look, Dameron…” 

She interrupted his thoughts in a gentle tone that was meant to be comforting, but it only made the hairs on the back of his neck stand straight. Dr. Kalonia was known for ruthlessly running the medbay like a battleship. They went back far too long, he knew to brace for the worst whenever she started to go soft.

Poe turned to face her, the pit of dread he felt low in his stomach was only growing. He would have given anything in that moment for them to fall into their traditional roles, for him to be the one injured and for her to be yelling at him. - Dammit, Dameron! Either make yourself useful or get the hell out of my medbay!

But she only continued to speak in that horribly gentle tone.

“As Tarmin’s commanding officer, there is something else that you should know.”

She walked him around to the opposite side of the bed, where there was noticeably less tubing.

“During the examination before her surgery, I noticed some smaller injuries that made me order full lab work.”

He watched as she lifted the bit of blanket covering Hol’s legs. 

“I found infected injection sites on the insides of her arms and thighs, then these small circular burns on her ankles.”

Immediately Poe began to understand the rationale behind her delicate words.

He'd seen those marks on more than a few Resistance members who managed to escape capture. He sported similar ones himself after being captured on Jakku...after the Finalizer.

“We found traces of antipsychotics, nerve agents, and truth serum in her system.” Kalonia continued to explain. 

He bowed his head as he listened, the sour taste of bile was creeping up in the back of his mouth. He pinched the bridge of his nose while the facts began to register in his mind. His teeth clamped down on the inside of his cheek, he forced himself to slowly exhale.

"There are chafe marks on her body from restraints. The partial break to her humerus looks like it's from prolonged strain during intero—"

He couldn’t let her fully pronounce the word. 

"Alright!”

He didn't have it in him to yell anymore, but the tension in his voice filled the space like a streak of lightning.

To her credit, Kalonia never flinched at the sound. She stood patiently, unwavering, her face neutral as she watched him. An uneasy silence settled over the room.   

He took a shaky breath, being mindful to adjust his tone before continuing.

“It’s okay.” He spoke softly, voice trembling despite his efforts. “I-I got it, Doc.” 

He turned to face away as he desperately tried to calm the tightening in his throat. The corners of his eyes were sharply stinging. The best he could do to regain control was to continue biting down hard on the inside of his mouth, inhaling and exhaling through his nose.

After a couple of minutes he scrubbed both hands over his stubbled face. With the heels of his palms he rubbed at his eyes until he saw stars. Slowly, much too slowly for his liking, he was able to push his own agony down enough to recenter.

Poe turned to face Kalonia once more. He cleared his throat. 

“She's not going to be in too much pain when she wakes up?” He demanded. “You can keep her comfortable, right?”

She pointed his attention to the IV stand by the head of the exam bed.

"I can't promise when she wakes up that she won't be in some pain, but we can adjust the medication through her drip and it'll take effect almost immediately."

He nodded. His hand combed through his hair before he slowly approached the bedside once more.

Poe stood and watched Hol's face for several minutes. He searched hard for any signs of movement or distress but found nothing. Her features were mercifully still and serene for the moment. She was protected under the fog of artificial sleep.

“How long are you going to keep her under?”

The question was spoken in a near whisper. 

“Depends on her vitals, but at least a day, maybe two.”

Kalonia took the time to show him her vitals displayed on the monitor near the head of the bed, providing a brief explanation of what the numbers currently meant. For the moment, everything hovered just barely inside the acceptable range. It was far from ideal, but it was at least temporarily stable. They would have to see over the next few days how she progressed.

While standing there together, they witnessed a ripple of stiff movement pass through Hol’s limbs.

“Whoa…” Poe visibly straightened, alarm written on his face as he began to think the worst.

Kalonia’s hand found his arm.

“Those movements aren’t another seizure.” She assured him. “It’s a residual effect from nerve agent exposure. Think of it like the nerves in her body recalibrating.”

Poe nodded in quiet understanding, but all he could think about was the excuse Kalonia gave him earlier for keeping Hol restrained— how she didn’t want her to hurt herself. There was some logic behind it, he could admit that much. But now that he knew some of what happened to her, he could barely stomach the idea.

They allowed him to stay in Hol’s room overnight. Kalonia had a cot brought in for him to sleep on, but only under the condition that he promised two things: to use the refresher across the hall and to actually get some sleep.

When he was finally alone with her he felt oddly numb. There in the nearly dark ward of the medbay, he stood over Hol’s bed and just watched her. It took several minutes for him to work up the courage to approach, but he did it. His hand briefly rested on the metal railing, as if he was grounding himself before he finally reached to touch her.

His fingers snaked between her own as he slotted his hand over her's. Immediately he realized that her skin felt strangely warm, prompting him to reach up and feel the side of her face. A quick look at her vitals confirmed his suspicions, she had a low-grade fever beginning to form. 

Poe made a note to point it out to one of the medtechs when they would come to make their rounds. He touched her hand once more before he stepped back to take a seat on the unfolded cot.

From there he watched her rest. He felt the heavy pull of exhaustion on his body, but sleep was the last thing he wanted for himself. His mind was all over the place, thinking about too many things at once.

Leia would come to visit her soon. He knew that much. Once she was past the worst and strong enough to speak, they would make her issue a report and do a formal debrief in front of Leia and her counsel.

It would be long and grueling. She would have to relive everything in great detail and be thoroughly questioned. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to know all of the facts himself, but he definitely knew that he didn’t want to put her through having to recount it too many times. Those meetings were meant to be classified, but it wouldn’t take long before everyone would know.

Poe so desperately wished that he could save her from that part—when everyone on base would begin to look at her differently. He knew that it was inevitable though. While he sat there next to her bed, watching over her while she slept, he could only think about what was to come.

He knew that for however long she stayed asleep in this room, she was at least protected from all that was waiting out there. The thought comforted him some, even if it was only temporary.

He also knew that the two of them needed to talk about a lot of things once she woke up.

Her position in Black Squadron needed to be rethought. It was a massive understatement to say that her flying under him was unethical. Before Hol left for Batuu they tried to be discreet about their relationship. They both told themselves that they were doing a good enough job keeping things secret, a delusion that went well past the point of denial. They thought their regular heated arguments in front of the others and their general refusal to touch each other would provide ample cover, but their sneaking off to fuck in supplies closets hadn't always been the most covert. But now that she was back, Poe was ready to throw discretion out the window. 

There were without a doubt other positions for her as a pilot, other opportunities, but it was going to be difficult convincing her. Making her understand that it wasn’t a punishment would be delicate.

He would talk it over with Leia, with some of the other squadron leaders. He would confess that he was the one in the wrong, and readily accept whatever disciplinary action came his way. They would figure something out for Hol. They had to.

Poe knew he also owed her an apology. He could have handled things differently when she volunteered for the mission, he could have spoken his mind while remaining supportive. His only memories of that conversation were just of him dressing her down, desperately trying to pull rank as a last ditch effort to keep her from leaving by herself.

The truth was that he was so fucking proud of her. During the weeks she was gone he had been livid, walking around with anger bubbling under his skin at all times. But now all he wanted was for her to hear how proud he felt, because he didn't want to leave her with those memories of their final argument.

She kept her head cool and found her way back. She survived whatever hell she fell into and fought her way out. He still couldn’t wrap his head around how she managed to pull off the execution of that landing. She had one broken arm, was trying to evade being hit with no comms system, all while coming in on fumes.

A medtech came by a couple of hours later, which woke Poe out of a light sleep.

He sat up and watched from his cot as they administered medication, checked the tubes and wires around her body to make sure nothing was out of place. 

He mentioned the fever, which thankfully hadn't climbed any higher. They started her on another course of antibiotics.

“She looks peaceful, doesn’t she?” They asked him at one point.

The very moment he heard the word a bitter taste spread across his entire tongue, making his mouth twist downward in a frown. He knew they meant well enough, but his head still snapped around to look at them in disbelief.

Because "peaceful" had never been Hol. 

Conniving.

Stubborn.

Impulsive.

A pain in his ass.

There were easily ten dozen choice adjectives he and quite a few others on this base could use to describe Hol Tarmin, but peaceful was definitely not one.

Peaceful was a word that people used to describe the dead. 

And his girl wasn’t fucking dead. 

The very idea was something he couldn’t dwell on for too long, because of the way his foundation had very nearly crumbled during those weeks she was gone. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt panic the way he had at the crash site, thinking at any moment he would be forced to helplessly watch while she slipped away from him, like watching water slowly leak out of his cupped hands.

It felt selfish to have those thoughts while she was lying there in front of him, but he was keenly aware of how impossibly lucky they were to get her back — how impossibly lucky he was.

@idkwhattoputheress @boghag-after-dark @faveficsblog @flyleaf-girl @whatthehekko @maplemind @foxilayde @arctrooper69 @pascalsaac @booktvmoviefangirl @tattooednursewrites @wild-lavender-rose @alexlynn16 @euphorealis @pioneergirlsie @lilhawkeye3 @theedgeofmagik @x-wing-dameron @kik51199 @isretroavibe @mrs-kidflash @rawrimacarebear @peterwandaparker @kassdyer @holdingthegun

 . 

[weministertomonsters]

M Werefox (Harcourt) x F reader - 1

➤ Pairing - M werefox x F reader ➤ Wordcount 1.9k

A lovely reader on Patreon liked Harcourt and asked about a Part 2 for this story and of course I said yes! I had to rewrite Part 1 though, so here it is! Part 2 is coming soon as well.

I don't think I've ever posted this to Tumblr because this story was from my glory days on Wattpad before my book got deleted. (If you’re reading this on Wattpad, maybe you remember it? Idk)

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It's your twelfth birthday and the sun is shining and your friends are due to arrive in an hour for your little party. Suddenly you hear your mother yelling outside.

"Shoo! Out, out!"

You scamper into the backyard to see what the fuss is about and find her chasing the scrawniest werefox kit you've ever seen away from the chicken coop. He's got egg yolk clinging to his chin, an undeniable sign of his theft. His black-tipped ears pin to his head as he deftly dodges the dishcloth your mother is wielding and leaps over the backyard fence, disappearing into the brush.

"I've heard all about him from Pansy down the street. She says she's also missing eggs now and then," your mother says, putting her hands on her hips and blowing her hair out of her eyes.

"But Ma!" You wail, "he's hungry! Did you see how thin he was?"

Your mother pats your head. "He's different from us, darling. Those creatures are half wild. I'm sure there's plenty of things in the forest for him to hunt."

"But he's so small," you reply anxiously. "Not much bigger than me. Maybe he can't catch anything."

"How did he even get in?" Your mother murmurs, checking the latch on the coop, and then tutting in dismay as she sees the side of the coop, where the kit has scratched and chewed through the thin wood planks, making a hole to squeeze through.

"Oh dear. This is going to take a while to fix," your mother sighs and peeks into the coop. "And now I'm a few eggs short for your cake. At least he didn't go after the chickens."

You hardly care about your cake now. "If he comes again, can we keep him?"

Your mother purses her lips together in the way she does when you ask her a question she doesn't know how to answer.

"He might be wild, but he's not an animal," your mother finally replies. "He'll grow just as big as you, and you can't keep him as a pet."

"Why not?" You whine. "He doesn't have a mommy or a daddy, does he? He's all alone."

"You don't know that, darling," your mother says.

"Pleaseee?" You hop from one foot to another and stare up at your mother with pleading eyes.

She smiles, but she doesn't say yes. "My soft-hearted girl," she says and hugs you. "Come, let's see if we can still put together something sweet for your birthday."

You pout for the rest of the week, but she doesn't budge, like any sensible mother. The little werefox has to have a den nearby and you hope the next time you see him, you can follow him to it. The next Saturday your mother is visiting the Pansy down the street with some soup for her sick son. You're alone at home, swinging in the backyard and trying to see how high you can go. Your stomach swoops as the swing brings you down, and just then you see a flash of russet through the corner of your eye.

The werefox boy sits down and pries at the planks on the newly repaired coop, bracing one hindfoot on the wall as he begins to pull. He's stronger than he looks, and you hear the wood beginning to splinter. You leap out of the swing and misjudge your timing, crashing onto your knees in the dirt. The noise startles him and he jumps up.

"Wait!" You clamber to your feet.

He hops over the fence and scurries away, darting glances at you over his shoulder. You grab your half-eaten ham sandwich from the porch and race after him. He's fast and agile, darting into the trees and leaping over fallen branches while you straggle behind, still calling for him to wait for you. You lose sight of him when you're forced to stop and catch your breath. The lettuce has fallen out of the sandwich, but you're pretty sure he wouldn't have wanted it anyway. You walk aimlessly in the direction he went, wondering if you'll be able to find him.

You come across a hole between the thick roots of a tree that looks just about big enough. You kneel and look into the hole. The dirt has been scraped away and smoothed down to make a tunnel.

"Hello?" You call down. "Is this your den?"

There's a rustle, and the werefox boy pops his head out, his eyes alert. You sit back on your haunches and look at him.

"Why are you following me?" He asks, his ears constantly twitching as he listens to the forest.

"You can speak?"

"Duh," he replies.

"I brought you this." You hold out the sandwich, which is crumbly now.

His eyes narrow and he leans forward to sniff your hand. He snatches it from you and scarfs it down, his pupils widening as he tastes the ham.

"Is it good?" You ask.

He nods and eyes your greasy hand. He leans forward and presses his muzzle against your hand, licking the taste of ham away.

You giggle. "You're like a really big puppy!"

He pulls back and disappears into his den.

"Better come inside. It's dangerous out there," he mutters.

You clamber happily in with no regard for your safety. His den is like a secret treehouse, but way cooler. The floor is lined with dry, crunchy leaves and soft downy chicken feathers.

"You might get in trouble for killing people's chickens, you know," you say, crossing your legs and getting comfortable.

There's just about enough room for the two of you.

"I'm not," he says. "I gather the loose feathers when I... You know." He looks ashamed.

"Where are your parents?" You ask. "They should be taking care of you so you don't have to steal."

"I don't know," he says, lying down and curling his tail around his thin body. "I ran away."

"Ran away from your home? Why?"

"It wasn't a home, it was a traveling circus." He stares at the dirt ceiling of his den. "We went to so many different places."

You glimpse a scruffy, dirty collar chafing the fur around his neck.

"Was that from the circus? Why are you still wearing it?"

"I can't work the latch," he says.

"Can I help?"

He squirms and shivers, but tilts his head to let you try. In a few seconds, you've removed it. His eyes brighten and he rubs the fur on his neck.

"Thank you," he says shyly.

You nod. "What was the circus like? Did they poke you with sticks like they do with the lions? To get you to do tricks?"

His shoulders quiver and he makes a barking sound that seems equivalent to a human laugh.

"No, I pickpocketed the crowd. I was small and quick, so nobody really noticed me.

"Where the circus people mean to you? Is that why you left?"

He shakes his head. "They were okay. But we were always in the cities when all I wanted to do was be in the forests and look up at the night sky. I couldn't leave because I had a contract, so I just ran away."

"And now you're here."

He nods, idly scratching the matted fur on his neck where the collar was.

"You can't steal any more eggs," you tell him. "I'll bring you food instead."

"Why would you do that?" His gaze follows you as you crawl over to the entrance of his den.

"Because we're friends," you tell him. "I have to go home now, or else my Ma will wonder where I am."

"Okay."

"You never told me your name. Friends need to know each other's names," you tell him.

"At the circus, everyone called me Harcourt, so I guess that's my name."

"So fancy," you giggle and tell him your name in return. "See you tomorrow!"

You keep your promise, showing up the next day with a whole sandwich this time, and a brush. You show him how to use it and help him pick twigs and clumps of dirt out of his fur. He hates the water, but you convince him to try it. Once he's dry, you brush him until he's fluffy and soft, and the sun dances in his fur. He begins to smile, and you never mind how sharp his teeth are. As time passes you grow apart from your old friends, but Harcourt remains close.

Your mother notices that the eggs are never stolen again. One day as you head out for your daily "walk" she packs some extra food and puts it in your hands.

"How long have you known, Ma?"

"Do you think I'd let my girl leave the house almost every day without making sure you're safe?" She says with a twinkle in her eye.

You wrinkle your nose, trying to picture your mother sneaking after you.

"So you don't mind?" You ask. "Harcourt and I are friends now."

"So his name is Harcourt..." She murmurs. "Just make sure to come home before dark, my child."

That's how you made- and kept- your unlikely friend. You spend most of your free time in the forest with Harcourt, eating sandwiches and drinking cool water from the spring nearby. You taught him how to swim and look for shapes in the clouds and in return, he showed you how to forage for berries and edible mushrooms. You brought some blankets out to his den and on cold days you would curl up together inside his den and you would read to him with the light of a lantern.

He began to put on a little muscle and get taller than you. He was also moodier, and would sometimes growl when he was in an extra bad mood. You got testy yourself, and sometimes you would argue and end up storming back to your house in angry tears. You had always told your mother everything and that didn't change. She listened to you, smiled, and sometimes even shed a tear at your woes.

She never complained about your friendship with Harcourt but as puberty hit she got more cautious, often poking around embarrassing subjects, which embarrassed you to no end. You would tell her it wasn't like that and you were just friends, and then you would run to your room and blush angrily into your pillow, wondering why she even had to bring that up.

Eventually, you had to leave for the capital to further your education. You cried the hardest that day, soaking Harcourt's fur with your tears and promising that you wouldn't forget him. You wrote him letters and asked your mother to read them to him. Your dear mother even wrote back for him now and then. Harcourt's letters were filled with stories about fishing, expanding his den, an incident with a badger, and even working in town to make some money. He had learned to read and promised to learn to write as well.

Half a year later he fulfilled that promise. His handwriting was chicken scratch and hard to read, but you stuck each one to your dorm wall and looked at them often. Your roommate got to hear the whole story from you, and would often tease you and tell you that you were definitely in love. After a while, you stopped denying it.

Finally, you completed your last year and graduated. You could hardly contain your excitement as you packed to go home, looking forward to seeing your mother, breathing in the crisp countryside air, and meeting your good friend again. You headed to the train station and before you knew it, you were on the way home.

[onceuponaoneshotfanfic]

I'm Happy Just to Have You

I'm Bright Baby Blue, Falling Into You

Chelsea!Roy Kent x Coach's Daughter!Reader

2.6k words

Warnings: Language, lying/sneaking around, no Ted Lasso characters except for Roy, fluff & flirting, protective dad, some self-deprecating talk

Just like every summer was spent running around Chelsea’s pre-season training, every night before the first match of the season was spent having dinner with the team. Your mother loved hosting the team in your backyard, with big bowls of pasta and salad on the tables put together to make one long table, and you always loved getting to sit among them. As a child, you’d draw pictures that you handed out to bemused players; as a teenager, you’d steal sips of beer and bat your eyes at the rookie athletes. Now, as an adult, you’d sit far too close to Roy Kent and monopolize his attention all night with jokes and sly attempts at flirting.

This year would be more of the same. After all, who were you to break tradition?

Of course, this year your dad raised an eyebrow at the little summer dress you wore, which you did your best to ignore as you helped your mother set the table, having skipped training to help her prepare the outrageously big meal. As the players started to arrive and help themselves to drinks, you chatted happily with them, pushing yourself to be even more friendly than usual, in hopes of throwing your dad off by making it seem like you were being extra affable with everyone, not just Roy Kent.

When the sound of two quick rings wafted outside from the front door, you had to stop yourself from sprinting inside. “I’ve got it!” you hollered to your mum before she could move towards the house. Surely, anybody could be at the door, right? It wasn’t as if Roy Kent had arranged some sort of doorbell 'signal' to ensure a few moments alone with you, right?

“Hey,” he hummed, leaning in the doorway, cool as ever. He glanced over his shoulder before pulling you in for a brief, heated kiss. You probably could’ve stayed there for hours, in his arms, his lips pressed to yours, if you weren’t in the doorway. His cool expression was replaced with a dopey grin when he let you go. “Brought you something.”

Curiosity crossed your face. “A gift? For me?” you teased.

With an eyeroll, he handed you a book. “Since we keep telling your dad we’re exchanging books,” he explained, “we should make sure we’re, y’know, exchanging books.”

You smiled and held the book close to your chest. “Clever, Kent.” After making sure you were still alone, you leaned close. “Kinda missed you today,” you admitted in a whisper.

“Missed you too, princess.” A quick kiss found your forehead. “Let’s go out tonight. After dinner. Grab a drink or something.”

Fuck, that sounded great. “I think my dad’ll think something’s up if I take the car so late,” you grumbled, sticking out your lower lip.

Roy chuckled softly at your bratty pout, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “Fair enough.” He shrugged. “Sneak out, then.” When he saw your sour expression, he narrowed his eyes at you tauntingly. “Come on, Miss ‘I used to used to climb this tree all the time’. Put your money where your pretty mouth is.”

“Fine,” you huffed. “Maybe I will.” You smirked at him. “But you’re going to be pretty damn embarrassed seeing me climb that thing with ease after you could barely clamber up it.”

He let out a small, surprised laugh and looked ready to say something, some sassy retort no doubt, when his eyes flickered somewhere behind you. “Coach,” he greeted, straightening up.

“Kent.” Your dad’s gaze bounced between the two of you. “We’re all outside if you care to join us.” Despite his polite words, you knew this wasn’t a suggestion for the midfielder; it was a warning.

“Right, right.” Roy cleared his throat and turned back to you. “Like I said, no rush getting it back to me.” He gestured to the book in your hands. “But let me know what you think. I liked it.” With a curt nod to your dad, he briskly walked through the house, making his way to the backyard.

Once the sound of the closing backdoor reached you, your dad turned his attention to you, eyebrows raised. “Another book club meeting?”

You nodded quickly. “Yeah, he told me about this one the other day, said I might like it.”

Your dad gently took the book from your hands, scanning the cover carefully. His brows furrowed. “Didn’t you already read this?”

Lots of girls would kill to have such an attentive dad. Normally, it made you feel pretty damn loved. Today, however, it was a freaking curse. “I don’t think so,” you said. Lied, actually. “If I did, I guess it wasn’t memorable.”

“Hmmph.” He smoothed down your hair, the way he used to when you were a little girl. “Come on, let’s go outside.”

Once you stepped into your backyard, your dad was distracted by a couple of the guys who called him over to them. You busied yourself with setting things on the table, willing yourself to not to look at Roy, no matter how badly you wanted to lose yourself in those brown eyes and little smirks, because that would only tempt you to grab him and-

“Need some help, gorgeous?”

It was like your entire body melted as you sensed him behind you, his hand ghosting over your back for a fraction of a second. You wanted nothing more than to grab him and drag him up to your bedroom. Hell, that cologne he was wearing tempted you to turn and kiss him right then and there. Fucking Roy, he was going to get you in so much trouble. And dammit, he was so worth it.

After steeling yourself, you turned to glance up at him, offering what you hoped was just a friendly smile. “Sure, Kent.” You handed him a handful of forks, shivering when his fingertips slyly brushed against yours.

Roy offered you a small wink and turned to his task. Your eyes kept meeting over the table, eyes full of affection and teasing and about a million other things. Eyes that, if anyone noticed, would easily give away the heat between the two of you. You did your best to remind yourself over and over that your parents were here, that your dad’s hawklike gaze was definitely going to be working overtime. But still, you couldn’t resist taking the spot next to Roy as everyone settled in for dinner.

Normally, you set a respectable distance between yourself and the dreamy midfielder. Close enough that you could flirt, far enough that you didn’t make a complete fool of yourself. Tonight, however, you couldn’t resist scooching your chair a smidge closer, just close enough to be able to knock your knee against his and leave it there. You could see his ears tint red at the contact as his eyes zeroed in on the bowl of pasta in front of him, trying- and not quite succeeding- to hide his smile.

Deciding that Roy needed something of a break from you, you turned to your right to chat with Jules, a striker you liked very much. He was about Roy’s age, incredibly friendly and affable, and was the only young player your dad didn’t seem to mind you chatting with; probably because he thought of Jules as “safe” compared to the other players. Jules had married his childhood sweetheart, a lovely girl named Katie, who worked at a publisher and you considered a friend. She sometimes sat near you at matches, or even drove with you to away games a few times. They were an adorable couple, always smiling at each other and whispering what you assumed were sweet nothings in each other’s ears. Hopefully, chatting with the very taken striker would placate your dad into ignoring you for the rest of the night, so you could flirt with his star midfielder in peace.

Sure enough, at the other end of the table your dad engaged in spirited conversation with the other coaches, your mother was cooing over the baby photos an older goalkeeper was showing off, and your brother seemed very content listening to some of the guys recount a recent wild night out that had definitely made its way into the paper.

As you laughed at some story Jules shared about Katie’s mother’s recent visit, you felt fingers gently brush against your thigh; the familiar touch felt warm and affectionate. Out of the corner of your eye, you allowed yourself to glance at Roy, who was fighting a smile while debating a teammate about some recent action movie they apparently felt quite strongly about. He looked good like this; relaxed. Roy Kent almost never looked relaxed. For a brief moment, you allowed yourself to imagine if this was what he’d be like at one of those family dinners, smiling and rolling his eyes in between bites. When he wanted to be, he could be so charming. You wondered if he’d ever feel strongly enough about you to be charming with your mum and dad. And if they’d love you enough to give him a real chance.

“Alright there?”

The sound of Jules speaking had you snapping out of your daydream. “Hmm? Yeah, all good.” You offered him your most casual smile.

His gaze flickered between you and Roy for a moment. “How’s school?” he asked simply as he picked up his drink. “Any fellas hanging around? You know they’ve got to go through us first,” he teased.

You rolled your eyes, pretending your face wasn’t on fire. “No fellas,” you insisted, doing your best ignore Roy’s fingers again flittering across your thigh.

“Hmm.” Jules narrowed his eyes. “Interesting.”

Late into the night, after everyone’d gone home, you retreated to your room with a wave to your parents. Once you heard their bedroom door shut with finality, you slipped on a sweatshirt and called Roy.

“You ready?” was his simple answer when he picked up.

“Yeah.”

In a flash, Roy appeared below your window, smirking up at you expectantly. Once you made sure your door was locked and turned off your lights, you opened the window, unable to hide the joy on your face as you took in the sight of Roy and his black leather jacket in the moonlight.

“Careful,” he hissed up, loud enough for only you to hear.

You simply rolled your eyes and shimmied out of the window. It was old hat, climbing down that big tree. Your hands and feet remembered exactly where to go, as if you were still sixteen and wild. When you glanced down, you saw Roy, arms open, as if he were ready to catch you at any moment, eyes wide and almost… worried. Fuck, it melted your heart.

When your feet firmly hit the ground, Roy raised his eyebrows at you, admiration all over his face. “Fuck,” he whispered. He took your hand. “Are you part squirrel or some shit, princess?”

A giggle slipped past your lips as you kissed his cheek. “You going to spend all night talking about climbing trees, or are you buying me a drink?”

Hand in hand, the two of you stepped lightly until you’d slipped through the garden gate. Once out of sight of your house, the two of you jogged down the street to his car, shy chuckles escaping every time you looked at each other. Once you reached his vehicle, Roy pressed your back against the car and gave you a proper kiss, allowing you to taste the chocolate cake everyone had eaten after dinner. Some part of you wanted to just stay like this, leaning on his car and tangling your tongue with his.

But there was no way you were going to give up the opportunity to let Roy Kent buy you a drink.

The bar he took you to was not the kind of place one might expect a Premier League star to hang out. It was small, dark, dingy, a little dirty. Roy eyed you carefully as he placed a hand on the small of your back to guide you to a booth, where he left you with a kiss to the top of your head. He returned with a pair of pints and his mouth in a straight line.

“This alright?” he asked as he slid in next to you and wrapped an arm around your shoulders. “I know it’s not that nice-”

“We won’t get caught here.” You took a sip of your beer. “Right?”

Roy nodded emphatically. “Exactly.” He kissed your temple. “Brilliant thing,” he teased.

Without thinking, you let out a little scoff. “Brilliant,” you repeated. “Tell that to my professors, yeah?”

A frown immediately covered Roy’s perfect face. “Fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

Shit. This wasn’t how you wanted to spend your time with Roy Kent. So far, your romance with him was something of a fantasy, one filled with longing glances exchanged on the pitch, stolen kisses, late nights in his bed. Sure, the two of you had shared childhood stories, and chatted nonchalantly about his job, but you’d been careful not to delve too much into your life. Sharing like that felt too real, too intimate, too much like something you’d do with a boyfriend, someone who’d stick around for a while, who’d still be there once the summer ended.

And that couldn’t be Roy- could it?

But fuck, he was leaning forward on his elbow and looking you in the eye with that intense gaze, the gaze that made you want to tell him every single one of your secrets, dreams, all the silly little details of your silly little life.

“I wrote a story last term,” you mumbled, slouching into his embrace. “I thought it wasn’t half bad. Couple of my mates read it, had lovely things to say. Turned it in, and my professor ripped it to shreds. Talked about it in front of the whole class, too.” You took a long drink of your beer, your cheeks burning at the memory. “Normally, I wouldn’t care too much, it was one professor’s opinion, but…” You shrugged. “I actually really fucking liked that story. Came across it earlier today, guess it's still on my mind.”

Roy studied you for a moment, his face hard, as if he were staring down an opponent on the pitch. “Fuck ’em,” he finally grunted.

Despite yourself, the corner of your mouth tugged upwards. “Very Roy Kent answer,” you teased.

He shook his head earnestly, not ready to joke yet. “No, for real,” he insisted. “You liked your story, right?”

“Well, yeah-”

“And you said your mates liked it too, right? Said nice shit about it?”

You looked at your drink, unable to stay focused for too long on his fiery gaze. “I guess,” you mumbled.

He tightened his grip on your shoulder, tugging you closer until his nose brushed against yours. “Then who gives a flying fuck what one professor thinks? Do you and I like every book we read?” You shook your head. “But that doesn’t mean someone out there doesn’t like it, right?” He pressed a kiss to your lips, tender and gentle, just like his words. “Not every story is for every person. But that doesn’t mean it’s automatically shit. Alright?”

Whether it was his words or his kiss, something about Roy had you melting into his embrace. “Alright,” you whispered.

Satisfied that you were no longer playing self-deprecating, Roy leaned back, although he kept you close. “However,” he continued, a teasing lilt to his voice now, “I’ve never actually read your writing. So, for all I know, you actually are shit.” He waggled his eyebrows at you. “Guess you’ll have to let me read your work sometime. Or else I’ll assume you write as well as you play football.”

“Maybe I’ll let you read something,” you said, biting back a grin. “Or maybe you’ll let me write about you sometime, Kent.”

Something resembling a blush settled on his face as he reached out and held your chin gently. His eyes flickered to your mouth briefly before settling back on your eyes. “Only if you promise to write a happy ending, princess.”

Taglist:@gee72sstuff@book-of-roses@kissykissymouth@emmy2811 @hart-kinsella @klaine-92@dearvoidgoodnight@misshall14@issieruby@royal-sunflower@kissmekent@itswhateveripromise@slaymybreathaway@darkmagazineblaze@larascorneroftheworld@infinetlyforgotten@caught-the-feels@rae4725@sisinever@cskidjgsjaoaknayan52782@dd122004dd@veryprairieberry@spacecluster @dark-academia-slut

[echantedtoon]

Love Is Blind Ch8 Life Now

(Hey everyone. I just wanted to thank everyone who read this far and liked my story enough to read it to it's end. I had a lot of fun writing it and it makes me happy knowing some people loved it enough to read it fully. If you liked this consider checking out my other works. Thanks to everyone for reading this, faving it, or leaving a nice comment. And thank you to Koyoharu Gotouge for creating such wonderful characters and giving me the opportunity to make this wonderful story. Art not mine found on Pinterest.

EDIT: This last chapter might be really short so apologies for that.)

"Are you comfortable, Honey?"

"I am perfectly fine."

Despite his assurances he lifted up his arms to allow his wife to pull the blankets over him more and tuck them around his body to ensure he wouldn't be getting cold anytime soon. You hummed smiling at him before smiling at him. A hand coming out to you and you took initiative and grabbed it. He smiled wider at you, a hand crassessing softly over your knuckles. 

"Tell me what it looks like outside."

"It's chilly outside. Most of the leaves are falling off the trees already since it's autumn."

"Ah. A lovely transition from summer to winter. Such is nature's beauty."

"Yes...And peaceful." He hummed to you in question. "Well, we're free from any responsibilities for now, no one's bothering us, I get to finally have some time with you without someone interrupting-" A small kiss was given to his forehead making him sigh. "And for once the kids are sleeping-"

"DAD!!"

A flurry of footsteps started running up through the next room towards you and before you knew it, your door was thrown open and a small black haired blur came running right in. You barely had time to stop your son from throwing himself into his father's lap and possibly knocking your husband over. The small eight year old squirmed and looked on the verge of tears as you held him up. His watery lavender eyes stared up at you as his arms held out towards his father.

"Kiriya! What on earth are you doing out of bed?"

His response was to point behind him as one of his sisters entered with the hardest scowl a sleepy, cranky eight year old could have. "Kuina, hit me!!"

"Because you won't stop snoring!!," Your daughter shouted back with a point of her own. "You sound like a moose with a head cold!"

"I do not!"

Behind your angry daughter Kinata, Nichika, and Hinaki tiredly poked their heads out of the doorway leading back to their shared bedroom no doubt woken up by their brother's and sister's fighting. Your other three daughters all looked like some stage of tiredness with messy bed heads on their pale heads and either yawning, blinking half asleep, or rubbing their eyes. Your girls seemed to take the most after you with the exception of their father's purple eyes and Kiriya who looked like the perfect copy of his father. 

"You do too!"

"Do not!"

"Do too!"

They would've continued to argue if their father hadn't held up a hand to silence them. The children fell silent as their father tilted his head at the boy in your arms.. Before wordlessly reaching out to pull the blanket back. Wordlessly Kiriya squirmed himself free from your arms to instantly crawl himself into the futon next to his father who only silently wrapped the blanket back around them. Kiriya snuggling closer to him instinctively. ...And then the stomping started. Kuina stomped her way to her father's other side as the two siblings shot dirty looks at one another. Before Kuina crossed her arms, plopped herself on her bottom, and then also laid against their father's other side.

"You two need to be still," Kagaya spoke calmly, "Kuina, we have already talked about your temper. If something happens again, you're going to lose your privileges to town. Understood?"

"Fine."

"Very good. Now both of you sleep. We'll talk about this more in the morning."

You sighed. Well at least that was settled- ?? You blinked as at least three little bodies clambered onto you dragging their pillows and blankets until you're other three girls were either leaning against ikr in your lap in one way also wishing to not sleep alone now that two of their siblings also got to sleep cuddled up with your husband. You blinked before sighing and reaching out to rub their backs. 

"So much for our romantic evening."

A chuckle was your answer back.

[strixcattus]

Chapter I: Fear/Safety

That's how this works.

History

System check. Go.

Heart: Beating. Incredibly quickly, to boot.

Lungs: Shaky but functional. Airways unobstructed.

Liver and digestive system: Not actively trying to kill you.

Nerves and muscles: Responsive to voluntary commands.

Sense organs:

Paranoid’s eyes snap open, then slam shut again at the sting of light from outside.

Operational. Your eyes have been shut for long enough that the pupils could dilate. You’ve been here for longer than an instant.

Mental faculties: Functioning well enough to progress this far in the checklist. Further analysis is impossible to conduct without filtering it through itself, and thus meaningless.

Backup: Has not yet complained about the systems check.

“Who’s there?” he asks, aloud. His voice is louder than he’d expected it to be.

No one answers.

He opens his eyes again.

He is in a cabin, which is already unusual. Normally, the cabin would be a ways down a path—which ideally would be solid beneath his feet, and if he were to really get his hopes up, would even be open and lined with perfectly ordinary trees.

The cabin is… very nice, actually. Its walls are made of clean stone, with wide, glassless windows. Cloth banners drape from the tops of the walls on either side of an ornate wooden door, and the blade is perched on the edge of a sturdy, carved wooden table—already quite a step up from the other cabins he’s had the dubious pleasure of entering. A warm light filters through the viewing window in the door.

This is a much friendlier place than any other cabin he’s seen, which means it is not to be trusted. The other cabins presented themselves as exactly as dangerous as they actually were. This one is hiding something.

He turns around and grabs for the handle of the door to the outside. It’s well above his head—how inconsiderate of the designer of this cabin. The body he normally inhabits would have been tall enough to reach it easily, but he’s clearly not taking the backseat in that body anymore.

He’s alone, and he is in his own body, his pathetically short, scrawny body that can feel every molecule of this world trying to drag him to the ground.

He finally manages to grasp the handle on his third attempt, legs kicking uselessly at the floor they can no longer reach. The quilt on his back falls to the floor without a hand holding it in place. It’s fine. There’s no one else here to see him, and he can pick it back up once he’s opened the door and escaped this place.

His feet find purchase on the wall beside the door, and he pulls. And then he pulls harder, and then he tries to twist the ring-handle as though that might be the obstacle preventing the door from opening.

It’s not, obviously. It’s locked. Where has he seen that trick before? Right—every time he tried to go somewhere the Narrator didn’t want him.

He lets go and falls to the floor, the bones of his arms clashing painfully with the cobblestones even through the fabric of the quilt beneath him. This is fine. There are more ways out of a cabin than the door.

The windows on the right are just low enough for him to look out—and no doubt low enough to climb through. The Narrator might never have bothered to mention them, but they’re still a viable escape route.

He clambers up to the frames of the windows and looks down.

The ground spans out far beneath him, a dry plain with steam rising from the ground. It’s certainly a far cry from the woods he’s used to, but that will just make it easier to see any ambushes coming, and the fall still looks safe enough. He’ll be fine. He just needs to go back and grab his quilt, and then—

His footing slips and he falls forwards into the window, all hopes for a controlled landing vanishing from his mind. If he’s lucky, he’ll get away with a broken arm. If he isn’t, it might be one of his joints that snaps, or even his skull—

His face collides with an unseen barrier, and he’s sent sliding back onto the cabin floor, facing a harsh landing for the second time in as many minutes. At least this one isn’t far enough to break any bones.

The windows won’t let anything pass through them. Of course they don’t. Do they even exist on a conceptual level? Is that why the Narrator never mentioned them?

Fine. There is one more exit he hasn’t tried. He’ll just have to play into the Narrator’s games. That’s how this works.

The Narrator, who is still not present.

Quilt back in place, he takes the blade from the table and grips it in his beak. The handle of the other door is even higher than the first. He’ll have to jump and hope he’s lucky enough to maintain his grip.

His fingers slip out of the ring on his first attempt, but he manages to grasp it on the second, and this door swings open the moment he’s caught hold of the handle, as though the cabin itself wants him to enter the basement. He drops to the floor and steps onto the stairs, slipping the blade beneath his quilt.

The stairs are as polished as the cabin, with a soft carpet to match the banners. Beautiful candelabras light the way down—a nice change of pace from the basements lit with starlight alone, if that.

“Is that you, my hero?” asks the Princess from somewhere unseen. Her voice is clear and innocent.

Great. She’s as much of a liar as the cabin.

“No, that’s someone else,” he mumbles as he descends the final few steps to see what, exactly, he’s working with.

The Princess is actually exactly where she’s supposed to be—at the other end of the basement, beyond another carpet, beneath another tantalizingly open window, and with one hand in chains. A second chain hangs ominously on her other side, leading to nothing.

She herself looks like an ordinary princess, with a golden tiara atop her head, wide eyes, and the most extravagantly puffy dress Paranoid has ever seen—not as though his sample has much in the way of puffy dresses, but he still feels safe asserting that this one is particularly puffy.

She tilts her head to one side. “...Is that you?”

She’s fishing for information. He’ll have to ensure he doesn’t give her any. Play dumb.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, gripping the blade tighter. “Do you know where we are?”

The Princess shrugs. “We’re in a basement! And above that is a cabin. And outside that… I’m not sure.”

“Who locked you down here?”

She pauses for a moment, then shrugs again. “I don’t know! But it doesn’t matter anymore, right? Now that you’re here to free me?”

She’s playing dumb, too, isn’t she? And what’s more, she’s better at it than him. He’ll have to be more direct or he’ll never get anything. “Who are you?”

“I’m… a Princess?” Her voice shakes a little, as though she’s unsure if this is the answer he wants to hear. “Oh! If you need a name, you can call me the Damsel.”

Damsel. A damsel in distress. Something to be rescued. Or an innocent. Of course, this is all assuming she’s telling the truth about what she is, and since she’s a Princess, by default I can’t rely on that.

“What do you want?” he asks, squinting at the Damsel.

Her response is quicker than her previous ones. “I want to leave!” Of course she does. She’s a Princess, after all. “And then after that…”

The Damsel trails off into thought, and Paranoid leans forward. “After that?”

She shrugs. Again. “I don’t really know! What do you want to do after we leave?”

“Get far, far away from this cabin,” Paranoid whispers. It should be soft enough that the Damsel can’t hear him, but she tilts her head when he speaks nonetheless. “Do you know how you’d get out?” he asks at a more normal volume. It’s a risky question, but at this point it’s probably the only way he can get any real information.

The Damsel shrugs. Maybe she’s not as good at playing dumb as Paranoid thought, if she only has one strategy—but she is still managing to dance around all his questions without missing a beat, which means she very much has one up on him. “I don’t know! Don’t you have any ideas?”

She cannot possibly be this incapable. She’s a Princess. She has to have a way out. She’s just playing dumb so he can let his guard down and she can strike.

Maybe he ought to strike first. But that would be showing his hand before he can see hers, and if she has something up her sleeve he doesn’t yet know about, it could spell the end for him. Then he’ll just wake up in a new cabin, and she’ll be even more of a threat. That’s how this works.

There’s something strange about that shackle on her wrist. He can’t see it, but he knows there has to be something. Some way she has more power than it seems she does. Something she has over him. That’s how this works.

She wants to use him. For what, he can’t tell. She’s a lot more cagey than the other Princesses he’s met. But she clearly wants to use him for something. That’s how this works.

That’s how this works. There’s a set narrative, and he has to figure out where everything fits into it before it swallows him whole.

Her hand. It’s not unusually slender, but it is slight enough, and the shackle large enough, that her hand has already half-slipped through her chains. She could probably slide it all the way out on her own.

And the moment she sees weakness in him, she will do so.

The Damsel tilts her head, and he remembers that the normal thing to do in this situation would be to continue the conversation. Anything out of the ordinary might tip her off that he knows that she knows she has the upper hand, and then there would be no reason to keep lying.

“No. I don’t know how I would get you out.” I know full well how you would get out, but there’s not a chance I’m enabling it. I’m just going to stay right here until I have you figured out, and then I’ll find my ticket out of this cabin.

She frowns. “Really? But… you’re supposed to save me. That’s how this works.”

That’s how this works?

That is not how this works. They’re supposed to slay Princesses, not save them, because even though the Narrator who ordered them to is clearly an untrustworthy sack of half-truths, the Princess they’re meant to slay is just as clearly a world-ending monstrosity who would be one step away from ending them if she didn’t need them to…

…If she didn’t need them to escape. Is that what this is? That’s how this works? She can’t just take her hand out of the chains because she needs him to do it for her?

Only one way to find out. He’s probably going to regret this. “Isn’t that chain big enough to slip over your hand? What do you even need me for?”

The Damsel glances down at the shackle, places her free hand on it, and slips it off her wrist. Of course she does.

…Then she slides it back on and looks at Paranoid. “Like that?”

What.

“Yes. Like that.” Paranoid grips the blade as tightly as he can. “Why can’t you just do that?”

The Damsel looks at him for a second before breaking out in laughter. “You’re funny! You’re really funny! Don’t you know that’s not how this works?”

Apparently not. “Explain to me how this does work.”

“I’m supposed to wait for you to rescue me,” she says. “Then you’re supposed to rescue me. Then we’re supposed to leave together. And then… I don’t know! I think that’s where it’s supposed to end.” She tilts her head. “Why? How else would it work?”

Paranoid hesitates. This is probably going to get him killed, and getting himself killed will only get him killed in a second, even worse manner.

…On the other hand, he’s really out of ideas at this point.

“You’re supposed to wait for me down here,” he begins. “Then I’m supposed to come down here, and you’re supposed to threaten me into letting you out, if you even want out instead of slicing me to pieces. Then either you kill me, or I kill you and then die, or I give up and let you wreak havoc on the world.”

The Damsel blinks. “And then what?”

“And then…” Paranoid shakes his head as though that will cause some thread of logic to slide into place. “I don’t know. I think that’s where it’s supposed to end.”

“Hm,” the Damsel says. “I think I like my version better.”

Paranoid forces out a laugh. “Yeah. I wish that were how this worked.”

“That is how this works!” She holds up her chained hand. “Can you let me out now?”

She’s asking him to let her out of the chains that she just slipped over her hand a minute ago. Sure. Fine. This may as well happen. Except…

“The door’s locked upstairs,” he says. “I couldn’t get out.”

The Damsel frowns. “Really? Do you think it might open if I tried it?”

He’s about to say no, that’s not how this works, the point of the cabin is that the Princess isn’t allowed to leave and the Hero can come and go whenever. Then he changes his mind and is about to say yes, absolutely, you’re some sort of world-ending monstrosity and I’m all of three feet tall. Then some bitter part of him is about to say no, everything about this whole setup is out to get us both but also me specifically but also you specifically, and if the past has taught me anything it’s that the way out will only open when you’re dead.

What he actually says is, “Probably. At least you’d be able to reach the doorknob.”

She holds out her chained arm, and Paranoid takes a moment to mourn the loss of the last bit of sense he has before taking hold of the shackle and slipping it over her hand.

The Damsel watches him through every step of the process, not as though there’s more than one step to it. “Your hands are really small.”

Shut up, he thinks but doesn’t say.

He leads the way up the stairs, half-expecting the door at the top to slam shut on them. But it doesn’t, and why would it, when the Narrator has been silent this entire time? It was always his doing whenever a door locked on them.

They step onto the first floor of the cabin, and the Damsel strides past him, reaching for the door handle. It’s easily within her grasp.

Paranoid clutches the blade under his quilt. If the Damsel can’t open the door, it’s his only remaining option. He’ll have to slay her and leave before he can learn what the consequences are.

The latch clicks and the door swings open.

The Damsel steps to the side as though allowing him through first. A courtesy? Or a way of making sure her back isn’t turned to him? Or a way of making sure his back is turned to her?

Or maybe he’s thinking about this too much, and he just needs to get some fresh air.

He steps outside into the driest “woods” he’s ever encountered. Heat wafts through the openings in his quilt, as warm as if he were standing in front of a roaring bonfire. He’ll probably end up boiling if he stays here for too long, what with the quilt wrapped around him… though there might not be enough moisture in the air for “boiling” to be an option. How is that even possible? There were steam clouds, right? Or are they just… haze?

It shouldn’t matter, anyway. This is where it all ends. That’s how this works.

He waits for a moment. The void does not come.

When he turns around, the Damsel is looking at him, brow furrowed for the first time he’s seen. “It’s supposed to end now, right? That’s how this works, right?”

“Yeah,” he says. “That’s how this works.”

Clearly, how this works and how it is are not necessarily always the same.

“I think… we need to look around,” he begins. For some reason his eyes hurt. Why would heat make his eyes hurt? “See if there’s anything… anything else…”

The blade slips from his grasp, dry grass crunching beneath it. He does not land on top of it, saved by the Damsel catching him from behind.

“Anything… else out there,” he mumbles as his eyes close and he finally falls asleep.

[youssefguedira]

Some prompt ideas for you!

Nicky and Quynh as best friends, doing some ritual or activity together that they used to do before, again after she escapes from the sea and is healing

Andy as a baby immortal, doing some dumb dangerous shit. Maybe she's doing it to help someone and it's an external pov a la your "I have seen angels in my time" series?

Joe and Lucia after he and Nicky go back to find her. Maybe he's tentative about whether she'll understand or accept them being in love, they have a serious conversation, and then it turns into her telling him embarrassing baby/teenager Nicky Stories?

Absolutely love your writing and your Lucia stories are currently some of my absolute favorites ❤️

hellooooo i know you sent this forever ago but i have been thinking about family and Them lately so. this is set a couple years after the end of if i ask you to stay wherein nicky and joe have returned to stay with lucia for a bit ! it's not quite joe being nervous about whether she'll accept them or not (she largely already has) but it DOES turn into embarassing teenage nicky stories so i hope you enjoy

"Yusuf, come help me with this," Lucia says.

It's become something of a ritual, and so Yusuf is now comfortable joining her at the counter as she splits the dough into two parts and passes one to him. Outside, Nicolò is herding the goats towards the hills and having only partial success; one of the kids splits off from the herd and starts charging back towards the house, making Nicolò curse loudly enough that they can hear him faintly through the window. Lucia chuckles.

"I am glad he will have you, you know," she says. She tosses a handful of flour over the counter and begins to knead the dough. Yusuf follows suit. "After."

They don't talk about after often, even if all three of them know. For the most part, Yusuf tries not to think about it, and he knows Nicolò does the same, though it haunts every single thing they do, a constant shadow. There are still nights where Nicolò barely speaks, overcome by it.

"Did he ever tell you why our father sent him to seminary?" she continues.

"Enough," Yusuf says.

Lucia hums. She's quiet for a while. Outside, Nicolò resorts to picking up the wayward kid and carrying it with him while he herds the rest; it busies itself chewing on his sleeve.

"I only ever wanted him to be happy," she says. "When he left for the seminary I had hoped that it would bring him some kind of peace, even if it was not what he chose. But then he decided to go to Jerusalem, and, well. He never did tell me why. And I did not think about it beyond the fact that it was taking him away, and that I would likely never see him again. He has not told me many details about what happened to him - to you both - there, but I understand enough. But even despite all of it, I am glad he found you in the end."

"I am too," Yusuf says quietly.

"He was always so..." She waves one hand in the air as if searching for the right word, scattering a light cloud of flour that shimmers in the morning sun. "Uncertain. But he seems so much more settled, around you." She smiles at him, and Yusuf cannot do anything but smile back.

There is not much more to be said, after that. Nicolò has put the kid down, and now it bounces after him, dancing around him in circles and almost tripping him up at least three times. It makes him curse again, but he's smiling too much for it to be convincing. It makes Yusuf smile, too. They finish kneading the do

"He spent almost all his time with them when he came to visit," Lucia says, nodding towards the window. "The kids loved him. He would sit down and let them climb all over him. They used to chew on his hair."

Yusuf can imagine it clearly: fifteen-year-old Nicolò, still growing, letting five or six baby goats clamber all over him.

"There was this one doe, though, who hated him," she continues. "She would let anyone else near, but not him. She used to bite at his heels every time he came near. She chased him up a tree, once. I found him halfway up. He'd forgotten that goats climb trees, too."

Yusuf laughs out loud, and it's at that moment that the door swings open, and Nicolò's voice echoes through the house. "No, no, piccola," he's saying, "you have to stay outside."

When he comes into the kitchen, he's holding the kid, who has given up on chewing his sleeve and is now trying to reach his hair, refusing to be deterred even though he keeps pushing her away. He's so caught up in this task that he doesn't notice them both watching him straight away, and when he does pauses like he's been caught doing something he shouldn't. "What?" he asks, looking between them.

"Nothing," Lucia says before Yusuf can say anything. Nicolò looks between them again, before shaking his head and carrying the goat over to the table.

"New friend?" Yusuf asks him.

"She won't leave me alone," Nicolò says.

"Nicolò," Lucia says, "do you remember the name of that goat that chased you up the tree? I couldn't seem to recall."

Nicolò blinks, then sighs. "Tell me you didn't tell Yusuf that story."

"Not all of it," Yusuf says innocently.

Nicolò groans. Yusuf laughs, and so does Lucia.

The shadow is still there, yes. But even though he complains, for a moment Nicolò's shoulders seem more relaxed, and the sun seems just a little brighter.

[redux-iterum]

Charred Legacy: Chapter Six

(AO3 counterpart here.)

Nights progressed onward, and Fireheart delightedly watched as his siblings and nephew climbed out of the nursery and wandered around camp with increasing confidence—especially Cloudkit, who waddled about like he was the leader of all the territories. He attacked Fireheart more than once, chomping on his tail or swatting harmlessly at his haunches.

“Is he our nephew, too?” Tawnykit asked one night, watching with Fireheart as Cloudkit led Aspenkit and Ashkit on a march to the elders’ den.

Fireheart blinked down at her. “I actually hadn’t thought about that. I guess he is! Isn’t that funny?”

Tawnykit squinted a little as Cloudkit clambered into One-eye’s lap, between her front paws. “Yeah. He’s older than us. S’funny.”

Fireheart regarded her sitting beside him, and then looked back at Bramblekit, who was being groomed by Goldenflower, then at Cloudkit again. Warmth spread through his body, starting from his chest, and his heart swelled with affection and pride, threatening to break out of him through his throat.

Family. What a beautiful thing to get to experience.

At this thought, a ruddy tortoiseshell with huge, pleading eyes, wet with fear, popped into his head. Not for the first time, but it still made him barely hide a jolt of guilt, fresh as it always was.

Fireheart hadn’t gone to see his sister in the Houses for a very long time. He’d had no news to share with her about the son she had given to him, since he couldn’t even visit the growing Cloudkit, and now that he was out and about, Fireheart had been trying to stay busy and spend time with his Clanmates, adopted family or just friends. Perhaps just because he was desperate to keep everyone’s spirits up, but still, he should have seen her way sooner.

She must be desperate for any news, he thought, and with that he stood up. Tawnykit watched him in surprise as he touched his nose to the top of her head, then turned to Goldenflower and said, “I’m going to go out and see if I can hunt.”

Goldenflower paused in her grooming and nodded. Bramblekit copied her nod, looking a bit puzzled as to what they were nodding for. Fireheart trotted over to repeat the nose-touch to Bramblekit’s forehead, and then pressed his own forehead to Goldenflower’s. She purred and waved her tail as he trotted away, heading straight for the entrance tunnel.

As soon as he was outside, he buckled down into a run just below sprinting speed, careful to not make too much noise as he rushed through the forest. The half-moon grinned down at him through the naked tree-branches; the leaves on the ground had all but rotted away at this point, leaving soft earth to greet Fireheart’s paws with every swift step. It was chillier tonight, but a nice sort of chill, the kind that made catching one’s breath almost pleasant.

Fireheart reached the border along the Houses and slowed down, taking a moment to breathe (and it was nice indeed) and eye the fencing that stood straight and narrow, a firm line between civilization and the wild. The grass that humans hadn’t clipped and watered were little more than yellow-brown stalks, scratching faintly at Fireheart’s pelt as he made his way up to a familiar part of the fence.

“Smudge!” he called as loud as he dared, half-worried a Clanmate would be out and catch sight of him. “Smudge, are you here?”

Silence for long enough that Fireheart started to turn away, then: the tell-tale click of a doorflap being pushed open and shutting again, scratching and scrabbling, and in a moment a friendly black-and-white head popped up over the wood.

“Fireheart!” Smudge hefted himself onto the top of the fence, tail dancing around. The rotund tom clumsily hit the ground and stumbled a bit before hurrying up to his old friend and greeting him by rubbing their pelts together, purring like a car. “Where in the world have you been?”

“Sorry.” Fireheart leaned a bit into Smudge’s shoulder. “It’s been a crazy time, I can’t even begin to tell you.”

“Well, you better, I’m curious,” Smudge said, stepping back a bit and looking Fireheart over. “You’re a little thinner than last time. Is the cold getting to you?”

Fireheart flicked his tail dismissively. “Oh, prey is thin around this time of year. Listen, I was going to go see Rosy and tell her how her son is doing. Wanna come with?”

Smudge gave him an amused look. “Of course I do. And on the way, you can fill me in.”

Fireheart’s whiskers twitched grimly. “You’re not going to like it.”

The lazy cheer on Smudge’s face wilted a bit, but he simply cocked his head in an inviting gesture and turned with Fireheart to start walking down the road to Rosy’s house.

As they walked, Fireheart (praying that StarClan wouldn’t get angry at him) recounted what he hoped was a short and softer version of the past couple months. Smudge listened with growing shock and poorly-concealed horror, especially when Fireheart’s voice caught in his throat as he ended the former deputy’s story.

“And we’ve all just been recovering from that since then,” he said with an unsteady sigh. “The Clans don’t allow you to talk about cats who get their names taken away, or who did bad things like that. But now my mira had her kits, and one of them looks just like his father. Everyone gives him a startled look when they see him for the first time.” He narrowed his eyes. “Sometimes after that, too.”

“Good heavens.” Smudge shook his head in disbelief. “And here I thought the most danger you could face was from the animals out there, not your own colony. Well, at least you came out of it alive.”

Fireheart just hummed, his ears back.

Smudge looked at him, eyes now shaded with concern. Hesitantly, he asked, “Mind a nibble on your thoughts?”

Fireheart’s answer was delayed and so quiet he half-expected Smudge to not hear him as he finally gave voice to a thought he didn’t want to ever hear out loud. “…That tom was arpam to me, and I killed him. If– if I’d just kept my mouth shut, either time, he’d still be alive. Bramblekit and Tawnykit would have a father to be raised by. Goldenflower’d have her mate, and—”

“No, no, none of that.” Smudge stopped suddenly, and when Fireheart paused and looked his way, he had a very serious, stern frown on his face. “Don’t you get to feeling guilty for consequences that cat had coming to him whether or not you were there. He murdered and crippled your friends, Fireheart. You should be proud of yourself, if anything.” Fireheart flinched, and immediately Smudge’s expression and voice softened. “I know, you don’t want anyone to be hurt, but he deserved it. If he was still alive, your leader would be dead, and who knows who else. He could have turned on you, for all you know.”

“He wouldn’t,” Fireheart wanted to say, but it stuck in his throat. He swallowed the words back down and squeezed his eyes shut, fighting a tremble that tried to sweep through his body.

A very light weight rested itself on his hindquarters; when he opened his eyes again, Smudge’s tail was draped over his side and he was giving Fireheart a sympathetic look.

“Come on,” he said gently. “Chin up. You’re not responsible for anything but justice, even if it was to family. Let’s get you to Rosy, alright? Give you something happier to think about.”

Fireheart swallowed again, this time a much larger lump, and nodded. Smudge patted him with his nearest paw and withdrew it to start walking again, his friend slowly following.

By the time they reached Rosy’s house, Fireheart’s chest was looser and his stomach less queasy. He took the lead in leaping onto her fence and dropping down in her yard. Through the glass door, he could see his sister asleep in a little bed.

“Rosy!” he shouted, feeling half-guilty for waking her up.

Immediately, the yellow-green eyes flew open and her head lifted sharply. As soon as her eyes landed on him, she bolted upright and scrambled out of bed, her back feet kicking it hard enough to send it sliding halfway across the room. She belted through the door-flap and crashed into Fireheart, knocking him over.

“Sorry! Sorry!” She backed up just enough to let him get back onto his feet before pushing forward again and putting her head under his chin, purring almost as loud as Goldenflower. “Fireheart! I haven’t seen you in forever!” Before he could respond, she pulled back and looked around wildly. “Where’s Cloudy? Where’s my baby?”

Fireheart gave a low chuff and replied, “He’s still at home, growing up and being kept safe by my Clanmates. You should see him, he’s—”

“Ooh, tell me everything!” Rosy vibrated with excitement. “Where does he sleep? How’s he doing in training? All of it! Tell me all of it!”

With a calming paw-gesture for quiet, Fireheart’s eyes creased with affection. He’d missed his sister’s eager energy. “One thing at a time. First, he’s completely fine. He’s fat and happy and all of my Clanmates love him.” Except Darkstripe, but it’s hard for me to care about that at this point. “What I wanted to tell you first is that he’s gone from all-white to being white with this ginger patching on his ears and nose, and his tail too. Even some of his toes are starting to get it. I’ve never seen anything like it before.”

“Oh!” Rosy straightened up even further with delight, somehow. “He’s like his father! Onion had grey instead, but he had the same thing.”

“‘Had’?” Fireheart tilted his head, his happiness faltering. “What happened to Onion?”

Rosy’s face fell into a melancholy disappointment - nearing a scowl, to Fireheart’s surprise. “I don’t know where he is now. He just strolled off without even asking about his kits, and I never saw him again.” The scowl turned more glum and solemn. “All of my babies went to different homes. They barely stopped nursing before they were taken away from me. I have no idea how they’re doing or where they are…” She suddenly shook herself violently and forcibly perked up, beaming at Fireheart now. “But I know where Cloudy is!”

“Well,” Fireheart said, relieved to move on to something happier, “he had a slight name-change. The Clan named him Cloudkit. When he’s an apprentice, his name will be Cloudpaw.”

“Oh! That’s right!” Rosy nodded rapidly. “The name-changing, I forgot about that.”

“Why does your Clan even do that?” Smudge asked, sitting a body-length away. “Gets real confusing, if you ask me.”

“It makes sense if you live there.” Fireheart looked at him now. “It helps tell you where a cat is in rank. Plus, it feels really rewarding to have a special name. It’s like everyone gets to see you say, ‘Look, I grew up and I proved I can be one of you. I earned my name through hard work and determination.’” His eyes unfocused as he reflected warmly. “And hearing your name be chanted by the entire Clan… it’s among the best feelings I’ve ever experienced.”

Smudge’s mouth stretched to one side in an amused grimace. “I’ll take your word for it, bud.”

“Well, Cloudkit then!” Rosy nudged Fireheart’s chest. “Tell me about him! Are you raising him?”

“Oh– no—” Fireheart shook his head. “Toms aren’t allowed in our nursery. He’s being taken care of by Brindleface. You’d like her, she’s very sweet—took to him immediately and adopted him without a word. He has two siblings, Ashkit and Aspenkit.” He snorted. “He’s always leading them around on pretend patrols. He can’t wait to get out and see the territory. And he loves our elders. He spends more time with them than he does me! And—”

He cut off his next sentence at the confused and slightly sad look on Rosy’s face. Her voice was much less eager than before. “He… has an adopted family out there?”

Ah. Fireheart nodded, trying to break the truth gingerly. “He’s had Brindleface, his siblings and me. That’s the family he knows.”

Rosy’s eyes fell and her energy dissipated like mist. “…So he doesn’t know me.”

“I…” Fireheart didn’t have it in him to lie so boldly. “No. I’m sorry. He’s too young to remember being brought out here by you.”

Rosy breathed out unsteadily. Her nose pointed down to her paws.

“I don’t mean to keep you a secret,” Fireheart said quickly. “When it comes time to make him an apprentice, I’m going to mentor him, and then I’ll tell him about you. When we can talk privately, and he’s old enough to handle being born an outsider.”

“Why can’t he handle it now?” Rosy asked, voice barely above a mutter.

Fireheart stayed patient and careful. “Remember that the Clans don’t really like outsiders. They barely accepted me when I first got there, and there was a debate on keeping Cloudkit after I brought him in.” He leaned in a little and spoke kindly, trying to get her to lift her head. “Telling him right now would be a lot on such a young mind. All he’s ever known is the Clan. He doesn’t know that it’s okay to be born elsewhere, so long as you’re loyal to your Clanmates. I promise, he will know about you, sooner or later.”

Hesitantly, Rosy looked up at him, cautious optimism on her youthful face. “And will I get to see him again? Will you take him to meet me? Or… can I visit?”

Bringing her to visit immediately peppered Fireheart’s mind with angry ThunderClan faces and potential fights. “He’ll come see you someday. I’ll bring him here myself. I can’t say when, but I know he will meet you for real.”

This got Rosy to sit up taller again, though slowly and with less enthusiasm than before. Fireheart gave her an encouraging blink, adding, “And until then, you can rest assured that he’s okay. He’s better than okay, really. Round and happy and energetic and bold. He’s a spark of sunset, even among the other kittens.” He purred. “Actually, with my mira and siblings, he’s got an even bigger support system—”

“Your ‘mira’?” Rosy echoed, tilting her head. “You’ve seen our mother again?”

“Oh, ha, no.” Fireheart’s ears went back sheepishly. “The matriarch took me in as her son.”

He didn’t expect Rosy’s face to fall again, even deeper this time. Her voice dropped the lowest it had been this whole conversation. “You have family out there, too…”

“Don’t be disappointed by that, Rosy,” Smudge said quickly. “It’s good that his Clanmates like him so much that they’d adopt him. And he still came to see you, didn’t he?”

“Right.” Fireheart nodded. “You’re my family, too. You’re by blood and they’re by bond. That’s all.”

Rosy took in a breath and copied her brother’s nod, but her face did not look any cheerier. “You have so much of a life, Fireheart. I hear you talking about all these things and I’m happy for you, but… it’s hard to not be a part of it as often as I’d like.” Fireheart’s face must have changed, because she hastened to add, “I know you aren’t allowed to come see me. That’s not your fault. I just miss you, you know? I miss Rusty, and sometimes it feels like I don’t even know Fireheart.” She exhaled with force and scrubbed her face. “Look at me, being selfish and dumb. I’m sorry. I’m grateful you came, and that you took Cloudy– Cloudkit. I’ll be happy whenever you bring him, whether he’s an apprentice or warrior.”

Fireheart leaned forward to rest his chin on her head. He had no idea what to say, beyond a soft, “You’ll see us both again, as soon as I can manage.”

Rosy said nothing, but he felt her faint purr through his throat.

“Well,” Smudge said with a clearing of his throat, “I do hate to interrupt this, but I’d say you ought to get back to your forest before any of your friends and family miss you.”

Fireheart turned his head with a puzzled frown. The tense look in Smudge’s eyes told him something—he wasn’t sure what, but he drew away from Rosy and said, “I should, yeah. I’m sorry. I’ll visit again when I can.”

Rosy, luckily, did not look too sad about this. Weary and resigned, but not sad. She nodded and yawned. “Please be careful out there. And… and make sure Cloudkit is ready to be the best apprentice in the world.”

“He will be.” Fireheart rubbed his cheek on his sister’s. “I can’t wait to show him off to you.”

This cheered her up enough to make her tail curl over her back. Fireheart waved his own tail before turning around and following Smudge to the fence. The two jumped over together, Fireheart landing smoother and first on the other side. They walked together in silence, until Fireheart was sure Rosy couldn’t hear them so he could lean in and whisper, “What’s up?”

Smudge’s mouth was thin and stretched. “I haven’t told Rosy yet, she’s been inside so much. There’s a dog loose somewhere around here. I wanted to get you out of here before it can find us.”

Fireheart stiffened and almost stopped walking. “Here? Really?”

“The rumor goes that it’s already killed a house cat.” Smudge looked to Fireheart, his eyes widening in realization. “You’ve heard about a dog too, haven’t you?”

Fireheart’s bones were ice-cold. “One of the other Clans’ leaders told us all that they’d lost a cat to a pack of them. But they’re easily more than a day’s travel from here.”

“A pack?” Smudge’s short fur flared in alarm. “And they’re even attacking your colonies?”

“And it sounds like they might be moving around.” Fireheart shivered, like that would make the frosty fear in his body go away. “Smudge, do me a favor and make sure you and Rosy and your friend at my house stay inside your yards. I have to tell my leader and deputy about this.”

“You might get in trouble for coming out here…”

“Then I’ll get in trouble.” Fireheart’s firm tone eased some of his chill. “I can’t keep this a secret. Bluestar knows about Rosy, she’ll take this the best. I don’t think our deputy will mind how I got the news either, when it’s this important.”

“You’re bold.” Smudge gave him a respectful look. “Then get to your camp as soon as possible. I’ll be fine walking home alone.”

“You sure?”

“Very sure. I’m more worried for you.” Smudge nudged him with his head. “Get to running, Fireheart. Be careful, alright? I don’t think even you could outrun a dog.”

“Good thing we have trees to climb,” Fireheart said, almost to himself. He nudged Smudge back and, after a confirming look to a nod, started off at a run.

Perhaps he was going faster than usual as he entered the forest, dodging dead ferns and fallen logs, but it certainly felt as sluggish as a nightmare.

[anonymous-dentist]

Something from Royalty AU? Or something about from Richas’ other dads’ perspective in BD. Like, a day in the life of Tazercraft or whatever the heck Forever does instead of getting a job *coughflirtingwithvariousrichmencough*

Set between chapters 9 and 10 of Breaking Dawn.

-

It's Friday night, which means it's time to go digging again.

Ugh.

"I don't see why we can't just get Cell to get us someone," Pac grumps. He slumps in his seat with his arms crossed, the seatbelt digging into his neck uncomfortably. "That's gotta be easier than digging someone up once a week."

Mike just kind of shrugs in response. He's driving, so Pac respects his decision not to start gesturing around like a crazy person like he normally does when they have this kind of argument.

"What, do you want to break his therapy?" Mike asks. He shakes his head. "It's easier just to get somebody on our own."

"I'm just saying that we have our own personal serial killer and we aren't even using him."

"You're way too casual saying that. Show some respect."

"Says the guy about to experiment on a dead body."

Mike, wisely, shuts up.

Content, Pac snuggles into his seat and watches the trees fly by outside. In a week, he and Mike and Forever and... well, just the three of them now, he supposes, will be out there. It's exciting, but, man, he's starting to get sick of it.

Their usual graveyard has been compromised by that freaky weird bear-looking guy setting up its ice cream truck across the street (which has to be bad for customers, by the way), so now they have to drive all the way across the island just to dig up a corpse, which is so annoying.

By the time they make it to their grave of choice, the moon is high in the sky, and it's making Pac's skin itchy. He can feel the full moon creeping up on him, fun!

Pac, of course, is doing most of the digging. Mike's more of a scientist than a graverobber, and Pac's always happy to get a workout in.

Mike is on a nearby bench scrolling through his notes on his tablet.

"He should have the adrenaline levels we need..." he muses.

Pac hits the coffin with his shovel. Bingo.

He clambers out of the grave and waves Mike over for an inspection. Mike comes, and he looks down at the body as Pac lifts the coffin's lid with expert precision.

"This isn't him," Mike eventually says.

Pac lets the coffin fall shut. "What?"

"Wrong grave. This guy died of natural causes."

Pac groans. They don't want that. They need someone who died young and healthy for their, like, health juices or whatever.

(He's an engineer, he doesn't really get the biology bits. That's Mike's job.)

"Alright," Pac sighs. He reaches a hand out of the grave, and Mike takes it and pulls him up. "Find the right guy, I'm gonna fill this in."

Man, who knew finding the secret of life would be this much hard work? It almost makes Pac wish they stuck with finding a cure to lycanthropy, this is just too much.

[le-trash-prince]

KimKenta WIP snippet

anyone want some Kenta whump that doesn't involve Tony

I’m hmmmm maybe halfway through this draft and should be able to post it by the end of the week, unless I keep adding more scenes, which could happen.

Kim reaches his hand out and grabs at the back of Kenta’s hoodie, yanking him towards the window. “Give me the gun,” he growls, and this time Kenta obeys. Kim covers Kenta’s back, firing towards the guards, while Kenta squeezes past him. It’s inelegant—Kenta struggles through the window, and Kim finds himself wishing they had special equipment with them, like in a spy movie. A smoke grenade, for the guards. A grapple hook, for a smooth getaway. Or perhaps a partner that he could let himself completely trust. On any given day, it's a coin toss as to whether Kim is more comfortable around Winner or Kenta. Winner at least has clear motivations. He wants money, and Pete has plenty of it. But Kenta remains a closed book to Kim. He says he's not interested in redemption, or forgiveness, and Kim can't figure out what it is that he's after. Kenta tugs at Kim’s sleeve once he’s outside, and Kim swings back out of the window. He slides the gun neatly into Kenta’s shoulder holster and watches as Kenta's breath catches in his throat. His metallic, coppery scent is stronger than usual tonight, and it fills Kim's nose in an almost unpleasant way. They clamber downwards, holding onto the concrete ledge and dangling off the side of the building. Kim takes a deep breath, looks over at Kenta, and nods once, before letting go. It’s a painful fall—as much as the dense bushes break the impact, Kim knows he’ll feel this for days. But his limbs are all in one piece, if not his dignity; he rolls out of the bushes with leaves still clinging to him. Kenta is on hands and knees on the ground, breathing heavily, like the fall took it out of him. He's got one hand pressed tightly to his side, and Kim feels an unexpected, cold sense of dread trickle down his spine when the man doesn’t get up. A car skids to a halt on the street in front of them and honks twice. Dean. “Come on,” Kim whispers, hooking his hand under Kenta’s arm and pulling him to his feet, dragging him under the cover of the trees before the guards can spot them. Kenta stumbles unsteadily and leans into Kim, like he can't support his own weight, and that's when it fully clicks. “Damnit, Kenta, were you shot?” “… I’m fine,” Kenta replies hoarsely.

Edit: Ch. 1 here