#and then mace is likee soaked in that scent

[tennessoui]

“You don’t want me.”

I don’t have any au preference. I just know the potential with this one has me vibrating!!!!!

ahhh ok ok so !!! this is the long-awaited (im telling myself this) regency au snippet where obi-wan and anakin meet!! here is the tag for the au on tumblr to find the other snippets + bonus ao3 christmas tide oneshot, but chronologically this takes place first (with minor tweaks to the existing au: obi-wan always knew anakin was the duke, mace was there their first time meeting each other)

(2.4k) (squick tag: a/b/o)

At the very edge of the dancefloor, Obi-Wan stands with his hands tucked neatly behind his back as he watches the members of high society spin around the ballroom as if it’s some sort of contest.

He supposes it is.

And being unwilling to participate in such pageantry has found him invariably pushed him to the edges of their circus, his tattered, off-season clothing only cementing his place there.

He has stopped caring four seasons ago, taking his cue from his elder brother. The people who could not hold their tongues called Mace spinster to his face, and conceited behind his back. But Obi-Wan was there at his side the first time his brother realized high society had moved forward without him: he had seen the relief that accompanied his slumped shoulders, had seen how much lighter his eyes grew when the last of the alphas at the ball dragged their eyes past him as if he were invisible.

Almost immediately, Obi-Wan, all of ten and seven then, had wanted that freedom for himself. Alphas were exhausting. Society alphas even moreso. When his brother had stepped back to a nominal role in the season—present only in body, only as chaperone to his four younger omega siblings—Obi-Wan had been eager to step into the shadows with him.

“Alas, my ankles hurt,” he told every alpha—of which there were only a handful—who asked him to dance over the past few seasons.

Eventually, they stopped asking, though Obi-Wan still attended every dance of the season, if only to witness Bant trip over herself in front of her flutist, or to watch Aayla dance the night away with a bright smile on her lips.

He’s startled out of his contemplations by the arrival of his brother, who offers him a discreet flask from his coat pocket. “To the beginning of another season,” Obi-Wan tilts the flask towards his brother with a smirk. “May we be fat with children come spring.”

Mace huffs out a snort and takes the liquor back from him, medicating with a hearty swig before he tucks it out of sight once more. “You know, Obi-Wan, you do not have to wear the cloak of the cynic just because you like how it looks on me.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Obi-Wan replies, looking across the ballroom. On the other side of the cavernous space, people are starting to flock towards the doors, each louder and more enthusiastic than the last.

Beside him, his brother lets out a sigh. “I remember a boy who took great pleasure in his dancing lessons once upon a time. What turned him into this man, who I have not seen take to the floor once in five years?”

“His dancing partners,” Obi-Wan quips back, stealing the flask from his brother’s coat. “What do you think that is all about?” He inclines his head to the gaggle of alphas and omegas alike, clamoring at the base of the great staircase.

Mace shoots him an incredulous look. “Brother, surely you must know.”

Obi-Wan scowls. He does not appreciate the tone nor the implication that he is behind on some great piece of societal news.

“The duke Skywalker has arrived,” Mace says quite slowly. “He is spending the season here, as these are his ancestral grounds. The king wants him to settle here apparently. We have been ungoverned for too long, and are thinking of dangerous ideas. ”

“Hah,” Obi-Wan replies. “I suppose it is of no coincidence that he has arrived at the start of the season? Is he in want of an omega?”

“Surely he must be,” Mace dips his head. “Though I believe it wouldn’t matter if he were not,” he raises his eyebrows pointedly in the direction of the crowd.

“Because everyone else is in want of being his omega,” Obi-Wan finishes and shakes his head, a strange surge of pity welling up in his chest for the alpha duke. It is not often he recognizes someone so thoroughly trapped, which is the only thought in his head when the doors finally open and reveal their duke.

The man stands tall in an outfit of daring red, a color that has not been popular for at least a few seasons. Obi-Wan thinks this is probably about to change now that society has seen the way the shade looks on the duke’s well-muscled body,  the way its darkness highlights the tarnished gold of his wild hair.

From his position on the landing, the duke looks over the crowd. Obi-Wan can see the way his eyes widen slightly at the crowd that awaits him at the bottom of the stairs, though he cannot be surprised. He barely resists the urge to snort when he sees the way the alpha’s nostrils flare as he scents the room. In the city, this must be acceptable practice, but here? It is uncouth to the extreme. But of course someone as wealthy, handsome, and eligible as the duke will be able to get away with the action.

The duke’s face darkens suddenly, head still tilted a touch too high to be natural. Ignoring the guards who have announced him and who now are trying to gently urge him down the steps to his doom, he steps forward to lean against the marble banister as his eyes focus on the party below him, as if intent on making eye contact with each of his subjects before deigning to walk amongst them.

“It will be the mating of the century,” Obi-Wan says, taking another sip from Mace’s flask.

“It will be a boon onto our business,” Mace replies. “If the amount of omegas through our doors just for tonight’s dance is any indication.”

Obi-Wan blinks. He’d noticed that the business in their tailorshop had increased rather substantially in the past month. He hadn’t realized the duke’s presence had anything to do with it, though he supposes it makes sense.

“And here I thought our recent fortunes were due to your clever hands.”

Mace snorts and confiscates his flask. “One day, my vexing brother, your clever tongue is going to get you in trouble.”

Obi-Wan is a respectable omega and gentleman, so he does not stick out his tongue in response. Alright. He does not stick his tongue out at his brother for very long.

“Pardon me, I believe I should say hello to Mrs. Dubrey,” Mace nods across the way. “Smooth over Depa’s fourth late-to-return library book.”

“Mrs. Dubrey’s standing by the refreshments table,” Obi-Wan points out. “You’re not fooling anyone. And I would like a honeycake, thank you.” 

Mace rolls his eyes and claps him on the shoulder. “Then I’m sure a strong and willful omega such as yourself will find a way to get one.”

He takes his leave to the sound of Obi-Wan’s displeasure, which is apparently music to his brother’s ears.

—----------

Not two songs have passed before Mace is back in front of him, strange, troubled expression on his face. He offers Obi-Wan a honeycake wrapped carefully in a linen napkin.

“Why do you look so perplexed?” Obi-Wan asks, taking the food gleefully from his brother’s hand. “Was Mrs. Dubrey immune to your charms? Do we owe her a horse to pay for Depa's fees? Can we lend her Depa instead? With the stipulation we care just as much about a properly observed return date as Depa has in the past, of course.”

“I…I ran into the duke,” Mace says, ignoring everything else, eyebrows furrowed. Obi-Wan startles. “Or—the duke accosted me may be more accurate.”

“Pardon?”

“I was chatting with Mrs. Dubrey, and then suddenly, he was standing before me. It startled me half to death, mind you, he is...very intense, but—”

His brother breaks off and tilts his head as he looks at Obi-Wan. “Was he untoward?” Obi-Wan asks, preparing to set his honeycake aside to approach the duke and challenge him to a duel for his brother’s honor, should the situation demand it.

“No,” Mace says sounding only slightly unnerved. “No, he—scented me from afar, and asked whose scent I wore over my own.”

Obi-Wan blinks and then stares.

“Obi-Wan,” now Mace’s voice is more hushed as he leans forward, hand grabbing his shoulder. “The only scent I could possibly carry apart from mine is yours.”

Obi-Wan shakes his head slightly, eyebrows furrowing for a moment before a curl of a new scent shocks him into stillness.

Cedar and snow, clinging to the edge of Mace’s coatsleeve, and Obi-Wan is leaning forward before he even realizes it, mind focusing only on the sleeve—the smell—the cedar—the snow.

“What did he—” he starts to say, but before he can finish the question, his attention is captured by cedar&snow growing closer, stronger. 

Overwhelmingly closer. Overwhelmingly stronger.

“Pardon me,” a voice says from behind him, and Obi-Wan is turning around as if someone else is controlling his puppet strings.

Cedar and snow threaten to tear his senses asunder, so crystal clear is the scent. For one moment, he blinks in sudden, unnatural quiet as the duke Skywalker comes before him. He’s taller than him though only by a few measures. He’s older than him too, though only by a few years. Perhaps five seasons more mature, at most. A scar cuts through his brow, giving him the appearance of some sort of devilish rogue, despite the neatness of his outfit. His hair has much more shades up close than it had far away.

And suddenly how close the duke is as he stops to stand directly before him, eyes roaming over his face not unlike a starving man looks at a feast.

And then the duke bows in front of him, to him, and it is so incredibly wrong that Obi-Wan can only gape from his figure down to the upturned hand the alpha holds out. 

Mace nudges him; it’s effective in snapping him into action, though it does little to make this reality sensible again.

He rests his palm in the alpha’s hand, and the duke curls his fingers around it as if he has been given the most precious jewel in the entire kingdom.

The duke’s nostrils flare again at whatever scent Obi-Wan must be leaking into the air around them, and Obi-Wan darts a nervous look towards his brother. He is wildly out of his depth, but Mace does not offer much help.

“May I have this dance?” The alpha asks. His thumb strokes along the inside of Obi-Wan’s wrist, so close to one of his scenting glands that the action feels scandalous.

Obi-Wan swallows. “May I have your name?” He asks, clawing at normalcy as his instincts and body begin to revolt. But he would not be Obi-Wan Kenobi if he allowed himself to be so easily overpowered by his sudden urge to show his throat to a rather intense and powerful (and handsome and sweet-smelling) alpha.

The duke blinks, but rather than scowl at what can be nothing but a slight, his face breaks into a smile. “Anakin,” he says eagerly. “My name is Anakin Skywalker.”

Obi-Wan is helpless but to smile back. “Charmed,” he says because it’s true.

“May I have this dance?” The duke asks again, much more insistent now that the newest song has begun.

“You do not want my name?” Obi-Wan asks.

“I will learn it,” Duke Skywalker says so confidently that Obi-Wan would be hard-pressed to doubt him.

He opens his mouth—to tell him his name, to tell him he will dance, to tell him he cannot—but before he can get more than a breath into his lungs, his eyes are dragged away from the duke’s face by movement behind his shoulder.

People.

People staring, whispering, tongues wagging as they observe.

Obi-Wan takes his hand back, cold reality seeping into his field of vision. “You don’t want me,” he tells the duke quietly, leaning his head forward so that the words stay as private as his shame. “I promise.”

The alpha rears back as if Obi-Wan has said something deeply offensive. “I assure you, I do.”

“You do not,” Obi-Wan says firmly, turning slightly away toward the surety and safety of his brother.

“May I have this dance, omega?” The alpha catches his elbow. “Please.”

“You do not even have my name,” he says—the words are supposed to leave his mouth scathing, but instead they fall to the ground between them, heavy and lost. Before the alpha can reply, Obi-Wan shakes his head, so cognizant of the onlookers that he can hardly move his lips. “The song is almost over.”

“Thank the heavens then that the night is still young,” Duke Skywalker says immediately.

“My ankles hurt, I would be a terrible dance partner,” Obi-Wan murmurs. Mace makes a noise next to him, one that is half-disbelief and half exasperation.

“I shall have no other,” Anakin replies, stepping forward and carefully touching the dance card Obi-Wan has strapped to his wrist. “I would take all your remaining dances for myself.”

Obi-Wan’s lips curl up into a small smile. “I think that would lead to a riot, your grace.”

“Ah. So you know who I am. I wasn’t sure.”

“Know who you are? You bowed and gave me your name. I was listening.”

“You are vexing,” Anakin decides with a smile, as if the discovery is one to be worshipped or at the very least treasured.

Obi-Wan does not truly think of his actions or of their consequences. 

The last person who called him vexing had been his brother.

He is acting purely on learned behavior when he raises his chin and sticks his tongue out at Anakin. A second later, of course, he remembers himself and startles back, feeling the blush grow over his face as he blinks at the duke in front of him.

His brother groans. “Obi-Wan,” he swears as if his name is a curse. “For the love of—”

Anakin’s eyes have gone very dark. “Obi-Wan,” he repeats, testing the name on his tongue.

Obi-Wan swallows, and then, perhaps minutes too late, bows to the duke. 

“May I have this dance, Obi-Wan?” the alpha asks, extending his hand between their bodies.

This question, repeated for the third time still just as sweetly as its first iteration, causes the blush to darken across his face.

He allows his hand to rest in Anakin’s.

With his other hand, he deposits his untouched honeycake into his brother’s open palm. After a second’s consideration, he maneuvers his dance card off the circle of his wrist as well, dropping it next to the pastry. 

He has a feeling that he will not be needing it for the rest of the night.

[southeastasianists]

In Thailand, traditional food can be exquisite and elaborate. Nothing epitomizes this more than the use of tian op, Thailand’s culinary candle.

Though its name simply means “scented candle” in Thai, this double-wicked curl of beeswax is no ordinary room freshener. Tian op is a flavoring agent, or rather, a scenting agent, used to enhance specific dishes in Thai cuisine.

Chefs light the U-shaped candle at both ends, place it on top of the food to be scented, and cover it with a lid. Lack of oxygen snuffs the flames and the enclosed space fills with flowery smoke. Minutes or even hours later, the chefs lift the lid and serve the food, now garnished with the candle’s delectable aroma.

Tian op is infused with numerous ingredients also found in perfume and incense, like patchouli, ylang-ylang, mace oil, sandalwood, frankincense, and musk, to name just a few. The candle’s smoke contains a complex blend of scent molecules, including vanillin, named for vanilla but also found in woodsmoke.

This gives the scent of tian op a unique, musky sweetness which lends itself especially well to desserts. “It’s very, very distinct, very recognized,” says Thai cookbook author Leela Punyaratabandhu. “For me, traditional Thai desserts don’t taste the same, basically, unless they smell like the candle.”

In some recipes, tian op is a finishing touch, as with flower-shaped kleeb lamduan cookies, which are infused with smoke after baking. Other preparations call for ingredients to be individually smoked, such as sarim, which combines smoked sweetened coconut milk with multicolored starch noodles and crushed ice.

Though nearly all traditional applications of the tian op are for sweets, the candle is also used to make khao chae or “soaked rice,” a cold dish popular in the summertime. Chefs smoke rice with a tian op, then chill it in jasmine-scented water to provide fragrant refreshment between bites of crispy side dishes. “This candle is part of the bigger picture of Thais liking to scent things,” says Punyaratabandhu. Though chefs around the world use aromatics to infuse food, Thai cuisine has a particular appreciation for fragrance. Especially prized are fragrant ingredients like the herb pandan, which owes its nutty, roasty aroma to a flavor compound shared with jasmine rice.

Tian op isn’t even the only form of enclosed smoking used to aromatize food in Thailand. There’s also dhungar, a technique of sizzling ghee on hot charcoal in a closed oven, which is particularly associated with the cuisine of Thai Muslims. Though dhungar and tian op are superficially similar, Punyaratabandhu, who has written on both, believes that they are unrelated. Dhungar is primarily used for savory dishes, not sweet, and while dhungar originated in India and is found in other South Asian countries, tian op is unique to Thailand.

Tian op’s spectacular blend of aromatics carries, for Punyaratabandhu, “the scent of home, of tradition—of something that is dying these days.” Originally derived from the exclusive cuisine of the Thai royal court, tian op is still largely the provenance of professional dessert-makers, rather than home cooks. Those dessert-makers now have the task of preserving a tradition that is at risk of disappearing due to decreasing demand.

Traditional Thai sweets are fading in popularity, in the face of competition from foreign desserts like macarons and cupcakes, which are sometimes more affordable than the labor-intensive traditional options. And as Thai desserts go, so goes the tian op. Punyaratabandhu describes the candle as a “uni-tasker,” intimately tied to the purpose it was made for. “The candle doesn’t have a life outside of this,” she says. “We have to talk about it as a subset of what's going on with traditional Thai desserts.”

Yet while globalization threatens tian op’s original context, it also presents new opportunities. Modern Thai chefs have created fusion recipes with tian op, scenting Western-style cookies, cakes, and pastries. New York City’s Spot Dessert Bar formerly offered a candle-infused cheesecake, the brainchild of consulting chef Ian Chalermkittichai. In 2023, the show-stopping signature dessert at San Francisco restaurant Prik Hom earned its own profile in the San Francisco Chronicle: coconut ice cream smoked with a tian op for 15 seconds under glass. It’s served with the lid on, so that diners can release the sweet smoke themselves.

Punyaratabandhu cautions that because the scent of tian op is so specific, it doesn’t necessarily improve every dessert. When she used the candle on shortbread cookies, she didn’t like how it masked their original scent. “You're supposed to smell butter, not frankincense!” she says.

Like any flavoring, tian op’s power to elevate and transform must be used with care. But it’s a testament to the allure of this royal ingredient that chefs, in Thailand and beyond, are still drawn to experiment with its fragrant smoke.

[stories-of-the-multiverse]

All was quiet in the house, even the doggies had gone to bed. But sometime during the night there was a shout and with a jump B was awake. His sunglasses were knocked off in his fright, as he looked around to see what it was. Or perhaps it was his imaginatio- Ah... Nope. It was Spike, Shaking, and scared of... something. Slowly he approached. "Babe?" In an effort to not spook him any more than he already was. {Spike}

my muse has just woken up in a panic, crying, shaking and unable to say a word… send me your muse’s reaction to finding them like this

Blood. Blood took over all of his senses. The metallic sent in the air and taste in his mouth. The color painting the walls, the lockers, the floor, even some on the ceiling. The platting sound everytime his sneakers took a step.

The steady trickle from wounds he tried to ignore.

He found himself wandering the halls of his... middle... no, high... Either way, a school he went to. Clutching an M16 close to himself.

The halls slowly gave way to a filthy alley way, the blood dried on the surfaces. The scent wasn't as strong, but the taste was still ever present.

He found a figure, crumpled up in a heap at the end of the alley way. For a moment, the only proof they were alive was the shivering. Before they looked up.

"H-How much they payin' ya? I'll- I'll double- No! Triple it! Just- Please- Don't-!"

"Sorry, pal..." his own voice responded, sounding a bit younger than he expected.

The weapon then pointed at them.

"As the [missus] [boss] says... 'S bad business to jus' not carry out th' job."

Suddenly, he was in the school halls again, and the pleading face staring back out him had one eye, tears streaming down it. The stink of urine overpowered the metallic scent for a moment before he pulled the trigger.

"... Pico...?"

A voice. A very familiar voice.

Her whirred around, consciously keeping the firearm downranged.

His... his boyfriend... staring through blood soaked [blue] [pink] [blond] bangs.

Seeing the bruises littering his arms and face, he rushed to the smaller. One hand released the weapon to reach for him.

"Babe! Oh my god, are you alri-"

A hand grabbed his wrist and forced his arm behind his back. Cold metal nipped his skin as handcuffs clicked into place. He realized he no long had the gun as the other was forced behind him.

"I-I didn't do this! I was just tryna fight back! I was tryna help everyone-!"

"You have the right to remain silent," a man recited as he shoved Pico towards a police cruiser, "Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law-"

His head whirred around and he was pushed to the back door of the car, looking for someone, anyone, to take his side!

His eyes locked with a girl's, sitting at the back of an ambulance. She simply stared back, empty.

A hollowness which was contagious as he was seated.

"I knew he was trouble..." a voice scoffed before the car door slammed shut.

He found himself looking out between bars, a boy shooting up at... something. He wasn't sure.

... The... resemblance between him and this kid... How strange...

The boy won, and he rushed over to the cage, shooting the locks off. The cage door swung open, and a grin formed on Pico's face.

"Nice work, bud-"

The boy suddenly swung a mace at him, Pico leaning back just barely avoiding it.

Back in school. This time the halls were even redder than before. The boy swung again. Pico rolled out of the way. He then turned, just in time to see the boy transform into a bear.

He was... in front of a house. For just a moment.

"I think I feel hate."

Large paws wound around his throat and lifted him up in the air.

He couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe. He couldn-

Suddenly the paws let go, and as he dropped, he saw Nene briefly run behind a corner. The bear followed her.

No!

He had to- had to stop him- Had to protect her-

So he ran, ran ran ran until he burst through the janitor's closet. An M 16, just on the table. He snatched it up before rushing back out, face to face with...

Cassandra...

They started arguing. It was too jumbled for him to understand. Her [red] [black] [gray] [auburn] hair somehow spiked up even more as she became more frustrated.

It was time to end it.

He rose his weapon.

Aimed at the Nene on top.

And pulled the trigger, sending the bullet flying to her [head] [shoulder]. And she was down.

He rushed over to the remaining Nene. And suddenly he was cradling her, the [bullet in her head] [bullet in her shoulder] [slit of her wrist] oozing blood.

"Nene! Nene, I'm sorry! I didn't mean to! Just-! Just hang on! Hang on until help..."

... He was surrounded. Surrounded by bodies.

Strangers. His classmates. His closest friends. His... his boyfriend...

Weakly... clutching his pant leg...

"I'm... sorry...! I... I [tried] [didn't mean to] [just wanted to help] [ messed up]...!"

The clutch on his pant leg tightened, as the corpse of his boyfriend pulled himself up. The others started crawling, drawing closer. Their voices were all a cacophony. A cacophony of why why why why why why why-

"I'm sorry...! I'm sorry!"

His apologies came out in a mantra as he curled in on himself tighter and tighter. A mantra that went unheeded as they all continued to advance on him, piling up on him, overwhelming him both literally and mentally as they continued to ask why why why why why why-

It was at that point he'd shot up in a seating position, clutching his own biceps in a vice grip as a cry ripped itself from his throat. His tears must have been much colder than he realized, because he couldn't stop shaking.

What- What the hell...!?

A voice. A voice could just barely be heard above the buzzing in his ears and the rattling of his own skull. His eyes slowly, hesitantly trailed, met with...

... B...

Another moment of hesitation before he reached over, brushing lightly at locks of hair.

Green hair.

His hair was always green...

[fightxxmexxshiggy]

People mentioned dnd to me and now I'm having thoughts so everyone can have a crisis with me about how hot this would be.

BAKUGOU the first one up is our sexy boom man and lord let me tell you I absolutely see him as a lvl 15 half elf artificer (really hope I spelled that right) he would come up with the most intricate bombs and weapons that he'd have a reputation for always being ready to level a kingdom if he needed to. He would literally find you doing some petty theft to survive and decide your interesting. He would take you on as an assistant teach you some profitable skills and when he felt you were gonna be ok without him talked to you about where you could go for a good job. He is not happy when you laugh in his face. That is until you explain that the only thing you wanna do for work is be his assistant and work his cock inside your hole every night if he'd let you. This was absolutely the perfect thing to say because the next thing you know he's gripping you by the neck and slowly walking you backwards to the bed. The moment is tense and you can feel the sex energy in the air so you make a joke about being ready to store his boom stick for him. He smirks and pulls out a long thiccc cock that has you both wary and wetter than a flood. He would crawl over you and slide it between your lips the hand on your throat still gentle but the command he has over you is unmistakable. As he gets a steady pace of face FUCKING you, he also gets into a little rythm of squeezing and caressing your throat in time with his cock head hitting sliding into it. Before long he's cuming down your throat and growling at you to drink every drop like a good girl so he can fuck your little full of his next load. He would literally say "only good girls get breed and good girls drink all the cum their given so keep swallow my pretty assistant."

SERO he is a shifter archer who was on the way to meet up with his party when he finds you wounded after a battle with a rude hobgoblin. He patches you up and takes you with him to the next town to get you to a proper doctor. After meeting with his party he goes back to visit you and make sure he didn't drag you here only for you to take a ground nap. He doesn't expect to find you up and fully healed. But at this point he's just gonna go with it. As a thank you you take him to a local inn for a meal. After talking and laughing together for a bit you start getting flirty and rubbing his leg underneath the table. He grins slow and cat like before hooking his leg around yours and jerking his head towards the back alley. Once outside he's got you against the wall and is finger FUCKING you WHILE he rolls your clit with his thumb. In minutes your squirting and squeezing his fingers. That's when you learn that shifters are long and strong. SERO'S teeth are gripping your shoulder while he holds you up against the wall finger tips digging into your ass and hard cock rearranging your guts like it's a damn sport. Your cuming again when he let's go and floods your womb with hot cum. Just as your ready for him to put you down he starts thrusting again hitting your deepest spot like he's guided by magic. The nonstop pounding has you breathless an unable to do more than grip his hair as you moan in his ear. A part of your mind is wondering if his party has space for one more until everything goes blank when you cum so hard you go limp.

KIRISHIMA he is a goliath barbarian with a surprising sense of humor. His party uses your town as a homebase of sorts and he comes to your shop often for supplies and even more often for the snacks and pastries you sell at the counter. He always buys enough for his friends and then sits down with the large portion he got just for his big ass self and has tea with you while he fills up. He regales you with tales of his dungeon raids and where he might be off to next. Usually he leaves you with a little charm he had carved while off on a quest except this time he leaves a wooden carved ring with the word mine engraved on it. The sly man has already headed back to the large home he shares with his party on the edge of town. Once the work day is done you march down to his home an knock on the door. It's answered by the ever grumpy half self that you push past and march up to your goliath. You drag him out by his ear and hand him the ring back with a growled if you don't put it on me the right way no more snacks. He puts it on your left hand and then throws you over his shoulder. He runs to his room and drops you on the bed much faster than you would have thought such a big man could. With your skirts thrown up around your waist you have a perfect view of the redhead slurping and feasting on your pussy. It's only after your 6th screaming orgasm that he frees his cock. You swear it's a war hammer made of flesh but that doesn't stop your pussy from clenching at the sight of it. Long minutes later you were impaled on half of his cock just whimpering and squirting while he worked you up and down like a fuck doll. His growls and snarls only made your pussy weep more juices down the length of his cock. On a particularly hard thrust you came so hard your pussy convulsed around his cock milking his cum from him so violently that even when he had shot every drop into your welcoming womb he was still twitching inside as if he had more to shoot.

DENKI he is a tabaxi rogue. He was doing some scouting for his party on a quest when he sees you. Your collecting herbs and fruits nothing strange except your scent hits his nose like mace to the face and he jumps from the tree's to land in front of you. Needless to say you are freaked out until he apologizes and explains that his species are drawn to the sent of their mate and your scent is making him want to both protect you like a precious treasure but also rail you like he's in rut. Yes he says this like it's not kinda nuts to say to a stranger. You weren't happy in your village and you had given up on finding a life partner so you took a leap and said you'll be his mate on the condition that he courts you like other races do first. He's over the moon and agrees but asks that you let him cover you in his scent before he goes back to his work just to keep him sane. He rubs and grinds all over you for about five minutes before running off to continue his work. From that point on he visits you at least twice a week and courts you, bringing gifts and having meals with you. One night after it had been two weeks since he last came he shows up with a few almost healed wounds and tells you that his last mission was difficult. You fuss over him for a while until you notice the clear bulge in his pants. Thinking about how much you had missed him you decided that you needed the closeness that only sex could bring. He's panting at the knowledge that he'll finally be able to claim the little pussy that's been giving off the most alluring scent he's ever smelled. A few minutes of tongue FUCKING you with your leg over his shoulder later, your sliding down his thicc cock and riding him like you used to ride your father's horse. He's FUCKING up into you with no mercy, absolutely abusing your gspot. The sensations are too much and you can't stop crying as you cum soaking his cock. He rolls you to your back still fucking you like a madman until he shoves deep and his cock swells locking him inside your pussy as he cums so much you can feel it escape your pussy.

Someone come take my internet away. @hipster-merchant-of-death @reinawritesbnha @sendhelpimstupid @cupcake-rogue

[baguettehead]

Quarry days

Stan Uris x they/them reader

warnings: some curse words, richie tozer, lil bit of angst, possibly based off of real situations, lil bit of Reddie ;)

Summary: You’ve always had a thing for the brown eyes and mop of curly hair, the voice that made you melt like a Popsicle, but what if you added in scheming friends, darkness, missing gas, and maybe a turtle.

_____________________________________________________

   You had known the losers since 6th grade. That was the year your parents decided to make the move from Michigan to Derry, Main. You moved around a lot, and you weren’t even an army brat, your parents just seemed to enjoy hopping from place to place. Your parents owned their own business, all the work was mostly online so it was pretty easy to just up and leave. You were born in Washington state, lived their for a while, then you lived in California for a few years, Colorado for a singular year, Michigan, and now the shithole that is Derry, Maine.

    You had no idea why your parents chose Derry, there really wasn’t much here. A few nice shops, a pretty decent arcade, old people with sticks up their butts, and what you thought to be a normal group of neighborhood bullies.

    When you moved to Derry you had no one, and at this point you didn’t care enough to try and make friends, you didn’t know if you were staying long. After an tantalizingly long day of being forcefully introduced to classmates and eating lunch alone, in the library, you honestly just wanted a nap.

  Leaving the school you were suddenly pushed into the wall next to you, your bag thrown off your shoulder, and coming face to face with the wonderful scent of vodka and utter shit. Must be Bowers. He held you by the shoulder of your shirt with his right hand and with his left he put his forearm on your neck, effectively trapping you to the wall

  This was your first encounter with the infamous gang, but you’d heard about them from the few conversations you’d had with kids in classes and passing periods. Let’s just say, he was as disgusting as you’d heard. Has he ever tried a toothbrush before??

  “Look at this” he spoke, looking back to his gang of douchbags “Fresh meat” his goons laughed a little while you just rolled your eyes, you’d dealt with your fare share of bullies and asshats that you simply couldn’t bring yourself to care anymore

 “look” you said in an exasperated sigh “i don’t have cash, my mom packs my lunch”

  “well then” Bowers said “you’ll just have to pay me in another way darling” a disgusting grin overtook his face and his goons began laugh and cheer like they just took a shit on the toilet for the first time

  “i’m good” you spoke calmly as you attempted to leave his grasp. Bowers just stared down at you confused for a second before he snapped back into action and held you a little tighter

 “it wasn’t a question” he seethed through closed teeth

 “and i wasn’t giving a suggestion dipshit”

 Henry’s jaw tightened and you could practically see the anger bubbling inside him while his group of misfit toys got real quite

“now listen here you little bit-”

“no you listen asshole” you cut him off  “i don’t have time to deal with insecure little boys who didn’t get mommy’s attention as a child and now take it out on all those around him” you spoke quickly faking a pout and slowly worming your way out of his grip “your just some stuck up prick who relishes in the hurt of others because you are so hurt that your deranged little brain finds pleasure making other miserable so that you can fake happiness. News flash, hurting others won’t make you happy, you’ll always be an attention deprived, whiny ass child who probably won’t live past their 30′s, will definitely have a substance abuse issue, and even as a 15 year old attempts to drown his sorrows in vodka and punching kids smaller than him for fun” you finished your little rant, taking in a short breath “now” you continued, marveling at the befuddled looks on all their faces “i have a can of pepper spray in my back pocket and if one of you little rascal looking ass children comes any closer i’ll mace you in the face. Got it”

 As soon as you finished you slipped from his grasp and starting running like hell towards your house. You could hear him screaming profanities, and you knew you were now on his hit list, but you really couldn’t find it in yourself to give a shit.

 Once you knew you were far enough, you knew he wouldn’t follow you but didn’t want to risk it, you sat on the curb to catch your breath. Almost immediately you saw 4 bikes coming around the corner, the occupants stopping in front of you and throwing their bikes down.

“HOLY FUCKING SHIT THAT WAS INCREDIBLE”  the one with coke bottle glasses screamed at you practically screamed at you, you returned a weak smile

“H-h-he’s gonna f-f-fu-fucking kill you” another rushed out

 You shrugged your shoulders “ive got a at least a few days” you told them “i wounded his masculinity, gotta build that back up” you muttered

 “I can’t believe you did that” the one with the fanny pack stated as he started to pace in front of you “i mean, now bowers and his whole gang are gonna be on your ass” he stopped in front of you and made direct eye contact “your gonna have to watch for him at all times” he deadpanned and you grimaced a little bit

“don’t worry” coke bottle glasses spoke up again “bowers is always on our asses so we can show you the best place to avoid him”

 “a-and the hallways to a-a-avoid h-him” the dirty blonde spoke up

you smiled up at them “i’d actually quite like that”

“Then welcome to the losers club y/n” the forth boy spoke up as he held his hand out for you, the one with curly hair and amazing eyes. You had him in two of classes and he always seems to catch your eye. You took his hand and he helped you off the curb before they gave you their unofficial, official, tour of the town.

 After that you were practically glued to the four boys, you did everything with them now. And if it wasn’t all of them, you were with at east one practically at all times.

You told them about your moving adventures, even opening up about your constant fear that your parents are gonna pack up and leave forcing you to leave them, and earning Richie’s nickname for you Cali. For some reason Richie couldn’t seem to let go of the fact that you lived in California, asking questions about it whenever there was downtime, and telling you about his dream of living there one day and making it big. You always told him that he could do it, because you truly believed he could.

Soon Bev, Mike, and Ben joined the group, making it 8. You gained your ‘secret’ clubhouse, and Bill, Mike, Stan, and Richie all got their licences.

 Now its junior year, you’ve made it almost 5 years in Derry, and you’ve gained the closed friends you’ve ever had

_________________________________________________

“You guys wanna go to the quarry after school?” Richie asked, his mouth half full of turkey sandwich and pretty much yelling over all the noise in the cafeteria. You shuddered and watched as Eddie slapped his shoulder and scolded him for talking with his mouth open, Rich pouting like a child. You loved watching them, a knowing smile on your face.  

 “sounds like fun” Bev voiced “y/n and i just went swimsuit shopping and they looked killer in their suit” she smirked at you from down the table while you blushed and rolled your eyes

“i mean i’d prefer to see the suit on the floor but whatever your comfortable with” Richie commented

you threw a baby carrot at his face, which he caught in his mouth promoting cheers from the others and for you to dissolve into laughter

“i is s-s-s-supposed to be like n-n-ninety degrees today” Bill added in

“oh fuck that” you groaned as you lent your head on stand shoulder next you and continued munching on your carrots, missing how he smiled down at you

“quarry it is!” Richie exclaimed before everyone else fell back into their conversations

“sooooo” you heard Stan draw out from above you, moving your head to look up at him but leaving it resting on his shoulder “will i get to see this new suit you apparently look amazing in?” he questioned while wiggling his eyebrows in a suggestive way. You simply laughed, shoving his shoulder and telling him to shut up.

You’ve had a crush on Stan since 7th grade. You always thought he was attractive, like REALLY attractive, but after getting to know him and spending time together you knew you were fucked.

Bev has tried convincing you that he likes you back but, something in your brain just can’t accept it. She’s gone on and on about how ‘different’ he acts around you, how hes “not such a stuck up prick, he like, actually kinda nice and soft”, her words exactly. But, that was just the Stan you knew, the one you always saw. Caring, kind, funny, and enjoyable.

Bill drove you and Bev to her house, where your suits where from the last time you slept over like 4 days ago, and then took you both to the quarry. Once you got there you saw all the other cars and heard splashing and screaming.

“Those assholes went without us” Bev cried as she ripped the car door open, bolting for the cliff and immediately jumping off. You and Bill just laughed and sat there for a moment.

“r-ready m’lady?” Bill asked as he left the car and extended a hand for you

laughing, you took his hand “Of course good sir”

Bill was already in his trunks so after the short walk up the hill he plunged into the water , full cannonball, soaking almost everyone except Mike who swam out of the way. You watched from the top, laughing as they splashed each other back and forth. Sometimes it was nice to just watch their antics and relish in the moment.

“you coming sweet cheeks” Richie yelled up to effectively drawing every ones attention you

You blushed at the sudden attention “Whatever Tozier” you yelled back before you began stripping down to your swim suit.

Unbeknownst to you at the top of the cliff, you had some effect on poor Stan down in the water. He sat with his eyes glued to you as you exposed more and more skin. He’s seen you in a swimsuit before, hell he’s even seen you in your panties, but every time it still manages to make his mouth go dry and eyes widen.

“They’ll catch you drooling if you stare too long” Richie quipped with a smirk

“Shut it Tozier” he murmured lowering into the water to hide his blush right as you jumped from the cliff.

The eight of you spent hours in the water. Chicken fights, splash wars, and Richie attempting to dunk you, Bill even found a turtle which he claimed meant good luck. You only got out of the water for a bit to dry off before leaving. You and Bev lie on the rocks to dry off and maybe tan, that was, before Mike carried a bucket of water over and splashed you both with started yet another splash war. You finally got out when the sun started to set. You sat around and talked, told stories, before you had to leave. You were all still pretty wet but you didn’t care.

Stan had offered you a ride earlier and you happily agreed, knowing you’d get some alone time with him and ice cream if you begged hard enough.

You layed back on the rocks, to watch the sunset and see the stars starting to pop out.

“alright were heading out” Richie suddenly said

 Mike had already left, taking Ben with him due to their stricter curfews. But Rich was taking Eddie and Bill Bev.

“What, why?” Stan said, narrowing his eyes as if he knew they were plotting something

“j-just tired is all” Bill replied casually before he began walking to his car

“bye” Eddie chimed in

“Bye Edds!” you called back

“wait why can she call you that” Rich argued walking side by side with Eddie

“cause i actually like them” He replied casually with a shrug

Richie just huffed and pouted like a child before Eddie nudged his shoulder and he was all smiley again

“See you at school” Bev called, sending a wink in your direction which you replied to with an eye roll

As they walked towards their cars and began to drive away Stan turned towards you “That was suspicious right?”

“completely” you replied climbing down from the rock you previously lied on

“Okay good, it wasn’t just me” he said with a sigh

You laughed a bit “But when are they not suspicious?”

“You got me there” he said before he leaned back on the rock behind him

You crawled over to sit next to him, laying your head on his shoulder and just admiring the sunset. You both sat like that for a while, surrounded by comfortable silence.

One thing about Derry was that no matter how hot the days were the nights seemed to always be freezing, accompanied by wind. You crossed your arms over yourself in hopes of generating more body heat.

“Are you cold” Stan asked taking notice of your shivering form

“Just a bit” you answered not wanting to ruin the comfortable bubble you’d found yourselves in

“i have a blanket in my car” he started to stand up only for you to groan and cling on to his arm. Laughing, he sat back down and you cuddled into his side.

“you’ll catch a cold babe come on” you blushed at the pet name and melted even further into his side when he started combing through your hair with his fingers. Noticing that you weren’t going to budge he huffed a bit, though, he didn’t want to move either.

“I’ll get you ice cream” he sighed

You bounced up with a goofy grin on your face, pulling his hand towards the car

“Lets not waste time” you started “i’m in critical condition, need creamed ice immediately” you feigned sick with a hand to your forehead and pouty eyes. He only laughed, getting up and heading to the car, his hand never leaving yours as you walked to the car.

“what the fuck” he muttered as you reached the car

Tucked under the windshield wiper of his car was a note that said ‘use protection’, clearly in Richies handwriting, and a roll of condoms

You blushed lightly, giggling a bit. Stan looked to with a puzzled expression on his face “i don’t know” you shrugged trying to prove your innocence.

“I don’t understand half the things he does” you comment as you climb into the passengers seat

“does anyone?” he questions with a laugh

Stan throws the note and condoms into the center console before starting up the car. Your bouncing in your seat, the anticipation of ice cream making you giddy and Stan laughs at that. Well, the car doesn’t start. Stan tried multiple times, clearly getting frustrated

“uh Stan” you try and grab his attention, it works, anytime you talk Stan always has his full attention on you. You point towards the gas meter, which displays empty.

 “I literally got fucking gas on the way here what the fuck” he exclaims as he gets out of the car, you follow. You see him stop and stare at the gas tank opening

“what?” you question before reaching the other side of the car and falling silent

Right below the gas tank, on the ground, lays a rubber pipe.

“Did they fucking siphon my gas?!” He yells

You stand there for a moment longer, staring at the gas lined pipe, before you break out into hysterical laughter. The pure kind that comes from the belly and leaves you gasping for air with side cramps

“its not funny” he yells

you try to talk but it just dissolves into more hysterics and soon enough Stan is laughing with you, your laugh is just contagious and your radiant smile that could light up the entire galaxy never fail to make him follow along.

After you both calm down, clutching your bellies, you break the silence

“so, what do we do now?” you look over to Stan who’s sitting next to you on the curb

“i guess i’ll call Rich and have him come pick us up” you nod

He stands up, pulling out his phone and calling Rich. You sort of zone out, guess you were more tired than you thought, but your brought back to earth by Stan yelling into the phone. All you could catch was

“what?! No! Hey no no no” and “Fucking asshole” as he ended the call. You new what was coming but you asked anyways

“so?”

“He said hes not coming” Stan sighed in defeat as he sat next to you and lied his head on your shoulder. Your hand immediately immersed itself in his hair, gently scratching his scalp and brushing through his curls. You sighed wondering how the fuck you were gonna get out of this one.

“what about Mike and Bill?” you questioned

“in on it” he sighed out and you hummed in response. You both sat there for a moment, in comfortable silence, trying to calm Stan down.

“did he say anything els-”

“do you like me?” Stan’s head rose from your shoulder, looking you in the eyes and cutting off your sentence. You felt your mouth go dry, eyes widening, cheeks getting hot and probably bright red.

“i- uh- well” you stuttered out, really having no clue how to answer that question

“I mean” he started, sighing and nervously running a hand through his head of wild curls “not in a …. friends way” he finished slowly, meeting your eyes

He had a blush of his own covering his cheeks and his marvelous brown eyes danced all over your face as if looking for the answer there. You sat there staring at him for what felt like forever, running over your choices. Just as the though of running away and joining the circus came into your mind you felt a surge of confidence and smashed your lips into his.

He tasted like mint, salt, and something you could only describe as Stan.

Your lips moved together perfectly, dancing around each other in the best dance you’d ever preformed. Teeth hitting teeth as the years of desperation and pining were finally put to a rest. His arms snaked around your waist, pulling you into his lap to straddle him, as yours wound around his neck and wove into his hair.

You both pulled away panting. His lips barely leaving yours, still ghosting over them like a precursor for whats to come. You stared into his eyes, you could get lost in those brown orbs so easily, drowning hopelessly in their beauty and dying happily. Stan was the first to break the silence

“yes?” he questioned

you threw your head back and laughed heartily. The sight alone made him melt in your hands and the sound dug his grave. The brilliant smile you flashed him afterwards felt like the afterlife and when you leaned down to capture his lips one again he knew he was in heaven.

“yes” you breathed as you pulled away from him, as difficult as it was

Stan smiled so brightly and let out a little cheer before falling right back into your lips and kissing you more passionately than anyone ever has and you doubt anyone ever will. There you sat, Straddling Stanley Uris in an empty parking and kissing him until you were gasping for breath.

You pulled away from Stan, leaning your forehead on his, pressed into his chest, barely inches away. He leaned up and peppered your face in small kissing causing you to break into giggles.

“I love you y/n y/l/n” he spoke softly into the night air

You stared into his chocolate eyes, in complete euphoria

“I love you too Stanley Uris” you told him with the most confidence you have ever had in a statement.

[hugleikinn]

Hagging Out!

My biggest project this month was making several batches of Kyphi-type incense. One was a traditional recipe based on historical sources for my sister (not a part of this post), one to sell and another one to preserve the contents of my herbal cabinet by processing them and not letting them sit around loosing potency. 

^Final results, please notice my Slavic roots showing!

Generally, to define a Kyphi-type incense, we can say that this type of incense features a wet part consisting of wine, raisins, dates/figs, honey and a dry part, which are mixed and dried to form pellets. 

In general, to form the wet part of the incense dough, you need cca 4 raisins per tablespoon of dry material and one cup of dried dates/figs per 50 raisins, a tablespoon of honey and enough wine to cover it all and have left over to add, after the raisins and dates soak it up. Optionally, you can add some essential oils to the mix as well. 

You chop the raisins and dates finely, or if you are lazy like me, put both in the final jar, add wine and chop it using a hand blender. 

Leave the wet mixture (raisins, dates/figs, honey, wine and essential oil) to sit for 1-2 weeks, stir daily and add any blessings and incantations you may like. 

^From right to left: Wet ingredients jar, dry ingredients jar, misc tictures

Use these two weeks to finely grind your chosen dry ingredients. This incense type works best with a lot of resins and woods.

You can decide the final number of dry ingredients based on the intended purpose of the incense (planetary numbers etc.), or by what you have available in the necessary amounts. 

My dry materials consisted of among others:

Frankincense

Elemi

Myrrh

Damara

Lavender

Propolis

Pollen 

Mace

Mastix

Copal

Pine

When your wet materials have steeped enough, it is time to boil them down. 

Over a low heat, just enough to warm the mixture without boiling it, simmer it while stirring often for a couple of hours, until it forms a gooey batter. Ventilate you kitchen well!

Place your dry materials into a large bowl and once a little cooled, add the wet portion in slowly, while working it in. Don’t add everything at once, you are aiming to knead a firm dough that no longer sticks to the sides of the bowl and you may have more wet ingredients than needed. 

When you are done, break the dough into small pellets and place in on a drying rack. If you are fortunate like me to have an electric herb dryer, the process of drying the incense at 35°C takes about a week. If you are drying it in room temperature, it may take up to 3-4 weeks. Either way, the place where the drying will happen will smell absolutely lovely. 

The goal is to dry the pellets so they are firm to the touch. 

Afterwards, after removing the dried incense from the dryer, I like to coat it with ground Benzoin resin to work as a preservative, since the incense still contains organic materials and may also contain water. I also added Dragon’s blood to the coating for an added kick of scent and color.  

Store in an airtight jar and voilá, your own Kyphi-type incense:

[imagine-turtles]

Not How It’s Supposed To Be

This isn’t exactly what it was supposed to be, but it kinda got off the leash and I never quite got it back.  Bayverse.  Small piece for @brightlotusmoon​ thank you SO much for waiting half a century ;;

EDIT: Title courtesy of @hummerhouse

His eyes sting.  God damn, his eyes sting.

Teary eyes are common in the field, from smoke bombs and mace and whatever other irritants are thrown their way, besides the fact that no one gets close enough to see past the glare of Don’s inch-thick glasses.  The needle room, too, sees its fair share of crying--Mikey and Raph being the usual culprits, Leo far less often.  Never Donnie.

Almost never Donnie, he sullenly, silently amends.

But it’s only when his brother is stable, thanks in no small part to an alarming amount of luck, that Don really starts to implode.  It’s useless, frustrating; even so, he scrubs at the tears his mask can’t soak up in a futile attempt to get back to the million-and-one tasks he still needs to take care of.  If he focuses, he can almost feel the imaginary walls compartmentalizing his doctor and brother personas cracking under the strain.

This is just a delayed stress response.  Mikey’s going to be okay, he’s certain.

But what if he wasn’t?

That’s what hits Donnie the hardest, because he knows.  He knows he should’ve reassured Mikey after Leo barked at him, knows Mikey takes arguments pretty hard, knows he should’ve pulled his head out of his ass and told Leo to do the same instead of ignoring the whole thing.  But he didn’t.  So Don finds himself staring down at his uncharacteristically-still brother, head swirling with regret and the scent of blood still thick in his nose.

He’ll be okay, just like he always is.

Don knows rehashing the night’s events will only upset him further, but it needs to be done.  While it’s still fresh.  Download the go-pro logs, timestamp the relevant sections, snag any outside footage before wiping the surveillance cams entirely.  Get a debrief ready, send it to Leo.  Make sure it never happens again.

Of course, it’s only when he manages to swallow down his grief that he registers Leo already beside him, and his too-soft inquiry towards Donnie’s well-being really sends everything to shit.

Suddenly Don can hardly choke out a full sentence, only able to wheeze through half a thought before another hacking sob bubbles up in his throat.  Leo's saying something--he can feel the groggy timbre rumble in his chest--but Don faintly doubts he'd understand even if he could hear his brother.  The air is so, so cold, yet even as his face is pushed against Mikey’s warm arm it burns in his throat, in his lungs, until all that's left of his voice is a ragged gasp.  

Again, he feels Leo speaking more than he hears him, but this time Don parses out a question mixed in with the overwhelming stimuli.

“Are you finished?”

It sounds unsympathetic at first, but Don knows from experience; that’s not what his brother is trying to say.  Have you done all you can, he’s asking, can I take you away from here?  

No sooner does Don nod than he’s shuffled out the door, and it’s only when he’s been seated on the closed toilet lid that he realizes it wasn’t Leo that practically carried him there, but Raph.  The worry seems permanently carved into his face by now, but he doesn’t seem eager to share whatever’s on his mind as he starts wiping the blood off Don’s hands.

Maybe I’m having some sort of episode, he wonders, distantly, as if observing someone else entirely.  His sudden sense of detachment probably isn’t a good sign, but at this point Don’s just grateful for a quiet moment.  Almost too quiet.  He hasn’t seen his brother take this much care with anything in a while; but Don grudgingly admits his fingers are a bit too stiff to wash the blood off himself.

He should tell Raph he’s alright, he’s just exhausted and overwhelmed, and bursting with regret--everything will go back to normal as soon as he gets no fewer than 14 hours of uninterrupted sleep.  Just gotta slip into something a little more comfortable, he’ll say, like a small coma.  And Raph will crack a smile, threaten to sedate Don if he’s not asleep by the time he’s out of the shower.  

But as soon as the warm rag touches Don’s cheek, he’s crying again.  The familiar burn behind his eyes is just enough to trigger a fresh wave of tears and a sharp gasp before he manages to clap a hand over his mouth; as if the earlier meltdown wasn’t embarrassing enough, he bitterly notes.  Still, Raph says nothing, but Don can hardly hold it against him.  How would he know what to say, when Mikey’s always been there to say it for him?  So they sit in almost-silence, together, and Don wonders if his brother is thinking of all the things Mikey might say, too.

The rest of the night is a bit of a blur, but Don remembers enough.  He remembers cushions pushed together into a familiar pile, remembers croaking out a weak comment about Raph’s stink and earning an almost-chuckle in return.  He remembers another hand on his back, briefly; it’s not much of a feat to identify Splinter by touch alone, but how could it be anyone else’s claws tracing nonsensical patterns on Don’s shell?  Some time later, his father’s absence and a familiar weight against his side tells him his brother’s been ejected from the needle room as well.  The fact that Don didn’t hear resistance tells of either Leo’s exhaustion or his own.  Maybe both.

But they’re okay, despite everything.  Or, more accurately, they will be.

Just like they always are.

[for-a-muse-of-fire]

before the otherness came

the wench and the witcher

“before the otherness came”

Fandom: The Witcher (2019)

Paring: Geralt of Rivia x Fem!POC Reader.

Summary: Geralt realizes how much he has to lose.

Warnings: NSFT/18+ - you should not be interacting with this fic if you are under the age of 18. Fingering, intercourse, sex as a coping mechanism (again, jfc Geralt). Smangst!

A/N: This is absolutely the brainchild of @witchernonsense​, who provided me with this scenario and then helped me flesh out the next parts that I have planned because she is my DARLING TUMBLR WIFE. Listen, I got a taste of the smutty angsty and it’s just *chef’s kiss*. Love me some emotional turmoil, y’all. Title and lyrics from “As It Was” by Hozier.

Part 2 can be found here.

@coconutxraikage - @onyour-right - @ly–canthrope - @kianya-loves - @c-s-stars - @gczanetti1 - @alwaysnatz - @agniavateira - @witchernonsense - @owillofthewisps - @hina-chans-stuff - @yespolkadotkitty​ - @wastingmypotential​

And the sights were as stark as my baby And the cold cut as sharp as my baby And the nights were as dark as my baby And half as beautiful too 

He’s awake long before dawn, too agitated to try for a few more hours of sleep. He tries to relax again. Failing that, he tries to close his eyes and quiet his mind – find the stillness that comes with meditation – but the peace is illusive. It won’t come. He can’t shut out the sleepy, easy rhythm of your heartbeat, nor the warmth of your hand over his chest. Geralt gives up before long, rises carefully - you don’t move, which shouldn’t make him feel relief like this. He finds his clothes, quietly sets about strapping into his armor and tries not to be distracted by the scent of your skin. It teases at his nose. He can still taste you on his tongue.

As he pulls the last buckle taught, he hears you murmur and lets himself look. You turn in your sleep, curl over the pillow he’s vacated. The dark of your hair spills over your neck and face and his fingers itch to push through it. He should wake you. At the very least say goodbye, but the words cloy. They sit heavy in his mouth, an unwieldy chill behind his teeth.

You look soft, and warm, and so fucking lovely in bed that it grips around his heart.

He thinks suddenly, wildly, about throwing down his sword and his armor and crawling back under the covers.

His weapons could gather dust under the bed.

You would wake up curled next to him every morning and smile like the beaming sun. He could repair the roof, keep learning how to bake – smell of your soap and fresh bread instead of gore and road dirt. Worst thing he would be covered in would be cooking oil.

Fuck he can see it – that quiet, boring, simple life and what’s worse, he wants it. He wants it so much that it hurts, deep down into the pit of his stomach and not even the thought of his inevitable return can ease the pain. The idea of leaving, the thought of being without again – it’s a hunger-pang ache. It gnaws at him.

Geralt grits his teeth as he pulls his boots on. You hum sleepily when he ducks in and kisses your cheek, but he’s out the door before you begin to wake.

It’s mostly quiet downstairs, though he hears the rattle of a cart on the road outside. The sky outside begins to wash from inky blue to muted gray with the coming dawn. He takes quick inventory of what remains in his pack, using the list in his head to distract from the pull of desire and the temptation of soft, willing skin upstairs. The scent of you lingers on his hair, in his clothes – you’ve seeped down into his very pores, it seems, soaked him in the sweet, honeyed smell of you.

That scent, clover honey and fresh herbs, suddenly grows stronger and Geralt frowns until sees you coming down the stairs. The soft fabric of your shift whispers over your bare legs and that’s when he realizes your scent is off. It’s tainted – too sharp, too bitter. He sees why when you falter at the last step and the sight strikes like the blow of a mace.

He’s seen you cry – from laughter, from rage, from sorrow – but this is different. This is the sharp, acrid scent of fear under the salt-brine bite of tears and a hollowness behind your dark eyes that hurts to see. Your jaw works, your full mouth twisting before you duck your head, but not before he sees the wet shine on your lashes.

He needs to leave. Needs to walk away because this is suddenly far too real, too raw, but his feet carry him towards you instead and he tastes salt on his tongue when he kisses you. You gasp – sob – against his lips and the noise twists between his ribs. Your heartbeat thunders in his ears and he grips at your hair, your waist, while your fingers tangle and fist into his hair. His hands twist in the light cotton of your shift, bunching the fabric as he lifts you into his arms; your legs grip over his hips.

“Don’t go,” he hears you whisper; it’s soft, and broken, and sad. “Don’t go.”

Geralt squeezes his eyes shut. He manages to set you on the smooth surface of the bar, shivering when your fingernails scratch over his scalp. His gloves hit the floor. Your legs are warm and soft under his palms, and between them is slick and wet and sweet. The smell of you, rich and heavy, sends a shock of arousal straight through him, sudden as a lightning strike. He groans, letting his fingers stroke over your swollen, slick flesh until you’re panting, until you shake apart in his grip, moaning into his mouth. Your fingers tremble as you yank open the buttons of his trousers.

It’s not gentle, not by a long shot. He ruts into you with sharp, greedy strokes and you cling to him, panting hotly against his cheek. Your heels dig hard into his backside. Each shuddering gasp from you seems to take root in him, grips around his heart with grasping vines to squeeze, to bloom with heat and light and fuck all he doesn’t want to leave. He doesn’t want to leave.

He doesn’t want to leave you.

So, he kisses you hard. He draws you close and breaks the tracks of your tears with his thumbs, licks each soft, bitten-off sound from your mouth. You whisper his name when you come; the silken grip of your cunt drags him along, blinds him with the white-hot shock of his orgasm. He grits through a moan with his face pressed into your hair.

You won’t look at him, after.

He picks up a clean rag from the pile folded nearby, lets you clean the mess as he rights his trousers again. Still, you won’t meet his gaze. The thick curtain of your hair hides your face. Geralt picks up his gloves, watching you weep silently. You don’t flinch from him when he touches your cheek, pushing back the fall of bed-wild curls, but he feels you drawing away. Like you’re trying to curl up and vanish.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs.

He hears you give a wet sniff; you finally lift your head. Your lovely, dark eyes are bloodshot and bright with unshed tears. There’s a heavy, awful thing pressing at the back of his throat; it’s bitter when he swallows. He chews the inside of his cheek, bites his tongue - he tries not to let himself drown in the deep sorrow behind your eyes. The ache between his ribs thrums.

“I will come back to you,” Geralt whispers in a rush. He crowds close, pressing his forehead to your temple to breathe you in. “You’re - ”

The ache surges in time with the slow pulse of his heart, catches him off-guard. “You’re my home,” he breathes.

Geralt feels panic claw at him, snaring with freezing cold fingers. He forces himself to breathe through it as he presses a rough kiss to your temple and turns on his heel. It feels as if he’s watching everything happen instead of being there – he takes his pack, his weapons and the next thing he knows, he’s managed to swing into Roach’s saddle. The world snaps into clear focus again.

The panic twists, the cold mingling with the ache.

The Witcher grits his teeth, spurring the bay mare into movement. “Shit,” he hisses to himself.

[unholyhelbig]

Bellmare | Chapter One

Ship: Beca Mitchell/ Aubrey Posen 

Read on Ao3 here 

Summery:  Aubrey Posen is used to the brutal cold of the city- so after an attempt is made on her life and she has to forcibly relocate to a small southern town seemingly stuck in the 1950s, she's surprised to stumble upon a new case, and an annoying clingy FBI agent who she can't seem to shake.

Aubrey Posen hated the crown molding in her apartment. It clashed abrasively with the dull gray that slathered the walls and descended in four even steps. She thought it was ugly when she found the place but the hardwood floors made up for the inconsistency in eras. So she ignored it and signed the yearlong lease. She never tended to look up anyway, so what was the harm?

The crown molding was the only thing that she could focus her stare on now. She had read through the paperwork and she couldn’t take a sledgehammer to it even if she wanted to. It made her angry, and she thought she was frowning but couldn’t be sure, because that hideous crown molding wouldn’t be the last thing she saw before everything went dark.

She could smell the greasy odor of the sesame chicken she had ordered from the restaurant down the street as it wafted from the counter. It mixed nicely with a new metallic kind of scent- and Aubrey didn’t’ realize what it was at first.

Getting shot didn’t hurt.

Not the pure action of a lead bullet entering the soft area of her stomach, or the one that hit her knee. It felt like the time right before Christmas when her family took photos on the beach, before dusk. There were horseflies that had no mercy for them- and their bites stung, but they weren’t debilitating. Not in the slightest.

But now her stomach burned and her mouth filled with blood, and she was staring at that stupid crown molding. So it wasn’t an insect with a vengeance, not in the dead winter in New York City. It couldn’t be; so the logical connection was that she had been shot. Twice.

There was broken glass from her balcony and a draft. She felt cold and tired and the front door was left open to the hallway because that was the way that the man had exited. He had missed her the first time, but she was an easy target, standing still in nothing but shock.

She flexed her fingers and wiggled her toes and realized that she wasn’t paralyzed. She could feel every breath move through her lungs and the discomfort of her spine pressing against the wood floor. Aubrey was in and out of consciousness and she couldn’t’ tell for how long. Not initially.

Aubrey had memorized her neighbor’s habits; what times she came and went from classes at the local community college. It wouldn’t be long before she padded up the stairs, refusing to take the elevator, no matter how secure, and found her door open. But she wondered half-heartedly if she would make it that long.

Had she done everything she hoped for in life? She had gotten good grades, had gone backpacking around Europe a year after she graduated college with a bachelor's, traveling was always good. And she had powered through all three years of law school. She hadn’t gotten married, but that was fine. Not many people do, and nowadays something like that didn’t last.

Aubrey had graduated to a prosecuting attorney and had convicted so many people; including the Ripper of Manhattan- that was her golden case, the one that put her in the running to become a DA. One more case and she had it in the bag, one high profile case.

She supposed, as she lay on the hard wooden floor staring at the spotty architecture, that this was a possibility. Something that wasn’t quite a robbery, something that was intentional. Aubrey Posen wasn’t dense, she knew that she had made enemies, that this last court case was a rough one, the whole city was watching.  

Her consciousness wavered again and she felt a cold puddle of blood soak into her shirt. She had hung her blazer against the back of the chair. But she was oddly content- tired if anything. But she was sure that had to do with the 60 hour work weeks.

There was a jingle of keys and the muffled sound of music. Jessica was home and she had removed a headphone. The girl was probably staring tentatively at the open door and Aubrey hoped desperately in her solitude that her fingers were visible. That any part of her was.  

“Bree?” She called out, her words strung together. “I have mace!”

Mace. Aubrey would have scoffed if she could, but everything was becoming harder to do and that acid burn in her abdomen hissed with every breath. She listened as her neighbor walked cautiously into the apartment. It wasn’t long before she spotted her.

“Holy shit, Aubrey!” She felt Jessica drop to her knees, felt her hands, cold from the winter night, on the side of her face, and then on her neck as she pressed for a pulse. She didn’t mind the blood or the fluttering of Aubrey’s eyes “Help! We need help in here!”

She scrambled for her phone, dialing 911 fast. There were more footsteps and the scent of chicken still lingered like a bad hangover. Jessica stayed by her side, and a male voice countered her own. She swore she felt someone pushing down on her chest but latched onto the familiar voice instead.

“…719 East Ord Street- yes, we’re on the second floor. My neighbor has been shot I don’t know how long she’s been here I just found her. Yes, she has a pulse, it’s weak. Please- you have to hurry.” There was a hand on her shoulder, squeezing “You’ve got to keep your eyes open for me, okay? Someone will be here soon.”

When was this place built? The molding shouldn’t be this out of style. It doesn’t match the stainless steel of the appliances or the nice wooden floor. It clashed with her throw pillows, and she’s bought at least seven different ones just to make it acceptable. But nothing was.

           She doesn’t remember waking up. It’s not something Aubrey put too much thought into until it came into question whether she would or not. There was an uncomfortably bright light that buzzed like a trapped fly above her head and a television in the corner of the puke-colored room that played soap operas.

Aubrey could tell from the bad acting and the grainy quality of the scene in front of her. She knew she was in a hospital room; the beeping of the monitors and the IV that was taped roughly to the top of her hand gave that away. They could never find a vein in her arm because it was right on top of a nerve. She hated getting blood drawn, and hated ones lodged into her tendons even more.

She blinked a few times, focusing on the dotted ceiling tiles as she moaned. Not so much from the pain, which was ever-present, but from the stiffness of her body. The heart monitor picked up, and whoever had turned on the television in the first place flicked it off.

“Easy,” Jessica’s voice came from the side of the bed, and an instant wave of calm washed over her body. “You’ve been through a lot.”

Her bed was somewhat propped, facing the busy hallway. It must be evening, she assumed. From the lack of nurses at the station directly across from them. There was a guard sitting in a metal chair in front of the glass windows, skimming through a magazine that she couldn’t’ quite read.

A cynical part of Aubrey expected more people to be here. There was a vase of purple flowers on a side table that had begun to welt and a card that had her practices logo on the side of it. Jessica had her laptop open to a school assignment- and she didn’t’ know what else to expect. She didn’t’ have very many friends in the city unless the wardens at the prison counted. She became well acquainted with them each time she walked through the doors to speak to a client.  

“Where am I?” She asked, regardless.

“A Hospital in Baltimore, you had an accident.”

An accident? She supposed that was the simple way of putting it. It had been no accident, though. Someone was sitting on her couch when she walked through her front door. They knew where she lived when she would get home. Who she was, and they easily raised a 9mm and fired off three rounds.

“How long have I been here?”

“Three weeks.” Jessica frowned, trying to remember the exact time “You’ve had twelve surgeries. It’s a miracle that you’re even here right now.”

Aubrey didn’t’ think it was quite a miracle, but she still held her life in her hands. What a life it was, so focused on trial after trial. She lifted her chin weakly at the guard “Who’s that guy?”

Her neighbor hesitated and then let out a small breath “He’s here for your protection. They still don’t know who shot you.”

There was a thick form of tension in the room and Aubrey felt her fingers curl around the fabric of the bed. The needle in her hand tugged so she unwound them. “What are you not telling me, Jess?”

Her neighbor stepped away from the bed and flicked on the television again. This time she changed the channel to the news; a generic reporter stood in front of their apartment building. His eyes were dark and tired, a hat pulled down over his hair, and his nose red and raw. She struggled to focus her eyes on the moving text at the bottom of the screen. It used to be so easy to listen to the monotone words and the flashing subtitles.

MANHATTAN PROSECUTOR FOUND SLAIN. KILLER STILL AT LARGE.

She didn’t’ understand; the television continued to drone on but she wasn’t listening. Had this been a serial attack? Was she a lucky one out of all of the lawyers in the city? She wasn’t aware of anyone else in their building having a background in law.

Her heart monitor must have picked up its pace because Jessica’s hand was wrapped around hers, calming and warm and grounding. “Hey, hey, relax. You’re here, okay?”

“They’re talking about me?”

She nodded “Aubrey, you were the last on a long list of people. The case you’re working on, all of the witnesses… they weren’t as lucky as you.”

She swallowed the cotton taste in her mouth and made a small noise. There was always a danger to her job, angry people with access to firearms. She didn’t flinch at the profanities shouted at her as she walked down the halls of the state facility, or the horrible articles spread about the people she put away being innocent. But she never expected this, never wanted this.

“I don’t understand” She whispered, frowning.

“They needed to make it look like you died, Aubrey.” Jessica explained, her voice was soft and sad “for your protection, you can’t stay in Manhattan. Not anymore.”

[clippcr]

MUSE  PROMPTS .  repost,  don’t  reblog .

WHAT  DO  THEY  SMELL  LIKE ?

noelani  often  has  a  peculiar  aroma,  an  exotic  and  unidentifiable  scent  that  is  both  sweet,  slightly  spicy  and  earthy.  it  sticks  to  her  regardless  of  where  she  is,  whether  she  has  freshly  showered  or  been  waist  deep  in  the  isle  marshes  so  many  that  are  close  to  her  recognize  it  as  her  own  natural  scent.  she  will  also  often  smell  like  rain - soaked  moss,  deep  soil  and  freshly  dug  roots,  due  to  her  work  with  plants.  there  is  also  the  unmistakable  scent  of  sea  salt.

HOW  DO  THEY  SLEEP ?

noelani  sleeps  curled  tightly  into  a  fetal  position,  her  knees  tucked  up  close  to  her  chest  and  hands  held  beneath  her  chin  until  she's  coiled  up  like  a  ball.  if  she  is  sleeping  with  someone  she'll  usually  play  the  role  as  the  little  spoon  and  likes  to  be  held,  however  for  partners  who  prefer  it,  she  will  wrap  around  them  and  sit  like  a  backpack  when  acting  as  the  big  spoon.  noelani  is  a  relatively  deep  sleeper  but  her  instincts  can  be  exceptionally  sharp  even  when  she  is  dreaming  and  is  quick  to  rise  if  she  feels  that  she  is  unsafe.

WHAT  MUSIC  DO  THEY  ENJOY ?

when  on  her  own  noelani  likes  acoustics.  soft  strings  and  slow  beats  that  she  can  relax  and  sometimes  sing  along  to.  however,  when  with  her  rowdy  crew  she  joins  in  their  loud  boisterous  singing  of  sea  shanties  and  other  bold  and  wild  music.

HOW  MUCH  TIME  DO  THEY  SPEND  GETTING  READY  IN  THE  MORNING ?

noelani  spends  quite  a  bit  of  time  getting  ready  in  the  mornings  as  she  spends  the  first  five - ten  minutes  collecting  herself  mentally  through  meditation.  once  she  has  centered  herself  and  prepared  herself  for  the  coming  day,  she  will  typically  get  dressed  into  her  work  out  gear  and  go  out  to  find  gil.  she  and  gil  will  train  for  an  hour  every  morning  and  only  then  will  she  spend  the  next  five - ten  minutes  to  shower,  get  dressed  and  do  her  hair  before  allocating  five  minutes  to  breakfast.

WHAT  IS  THEIR  FAVORITE  THING  TO  COLLECT ?

plants.  noelani  loves  to  collect  different  samples,  clippings  and  pots  of  plants  both  native  to  the  isle  and  not.  both  her  bedroom  and  her  clinic  are  cluttered  with  different  varieties  of  vines,  succulents,  herbs,  flowers  and  seed  plants  that  she  has  collected  and  studied  to  ensure  that  they  are  safe  to  keep.  she  one  day  hopes  to  have  her  own  greenhouse  where  she  can  keep  more  plants.

ARE  THEY  LEFT  OR  RIGHT  HANDED ?

noelani  is  right  handed.  while  she  can  perform  tasks  with  her  left,  she  is  a  little  clumsier  and  less  coordinated  with  it.  she  is  practicing  to  become  ambidextrous  with  her  cutlass  and  mace  but  it  is  difficult.

WHAT  IS  THEIR  RELIGION ?

noelani  does  not  have  any  specific  religion  and  she  certainly  does  not  worship  any  deities.  but  she  believes  in  her  crew  and  her  family  above  all,  if  she  were  to  put  her  faith  in  anything  or  anyone,  it  would  be  them.

WHAT  IS  THEIR  FAVORITE  SPORT ?

she  enjoys  participating  in  group  sports  such  as  isle  rugby,  doomball  and  once  she  is  exposed  to  it,  tourney.  she  loves  playing  a  supporting  role  in  group  sports,  and  even  when  not  actively  participating,  she  loves  to  watch  from  the  sidelines.  anything  where  a  group  must  work  together  in  order  to  succeed,  noelani  likes.

WHAT  IS  THEIR  FAVORITE  TOURISTY  THING  TO  DO  WHEN  TRAVELING ?

she  likes  to  go  out  and  shop,  especially  when  in  new  districts,  cities  or  areas.  she  will  go  out  of  her  way  to  find  small  locally  owned  businesses  and  any  stores  which  handmake  or  design  their  own  products  of  clothing  or  accessories.  while  noelani  does  not  see  herself  taking  fashion  as  a  career  opportunity  she  does  like  to  see  what  a  specific  area’s  style  of  dress  is  as  a  hobby.

WHAT  IS  THEIR  FAVORITE  KIND  OF  WEATHER ?

noelani  likes  clear  days  with  a  slight  cooling  breeze.  as  she  works  often  outdoors,  she  enjoys  natural  light  and  since  she  is  always  moving  around  a  lot,  a  cool  breeze  keeps  her  from  overheating  or  getting  tired  too  quickly.

WHAT  IS  A  WEIRD / OBSCURE  FEAR  THEY  HAVE ?

noelani  struggles  with  being  one  hundred  percent  honest  with  people.  she  has  a  deep  rooted  fear  of  being  known  and  struggles  to  trust  others  with  every  part  of  her  personal  identity  and  has  a  habit  of  presenting  only  the  surface  of  herself  to  others.  she  also  develops  an  intense  fear  of  the  sight  and  smell  of  excessive  blood.

tagged  by :  no  one tagging :  @nolacharm​,  @violatile​,  @cecaelian​,  @hookbled​,  @herobloomed​,  @isleraised​

[southeastasianists]

The memory of Thanaruek Laoraowirodge’s favorite Thai dish is intertwined with the memory of his grandmother, Somsri Chantra. Originally from the eastern town of Trad, Laoraowirodge vividly remembers the chicken stew that she would cook after he returned home from school.

The dish, as simple as it is, is included in his family’s upcoming cookbook, a volume that will detail the recipes created by his khun yai, or grandmother. Not surprisingly, Yai Somsri’s recipes also make up much of the menu for his family’s popular Bangkok eateries, Supanniga Eating Room and Krua Supanniga by Khunyai.

Laoraowirodge considers the upcoming tome to be the family’s first funeral cookbook. “It will include all stories of memories from our family members with khun yai, related to her life and her cooking,” he says.

Most Thais consider funeral books a way to safeguard good memories of a loved one. Distributed by family members as mourners file into the temple to say their farewells, funeral books are typically put together by grieving children or partners. Often, they document the life of the deceased, share family anecdotes and photos, and reprint important Buddhist sermons.

However, many books cannot help but include matters dear to the departed’s heart. A jewelry aficionado’s funeral book could contain a primer on spotting gem quality. For an avid foodie, it might include their favorite places for street eats, replete with histories of the vendors. Yet whether a slim pamphlet or a thick, hardcover volume, favorite family recipes have become standard funeral book content.

But legend has it that the origins of the Thai funeral book are rooted in tragedy. The first queen of King Rama V, Sunandha Kumariratana, and her daughter, Princess Karnabhorn Bejraratana, drowned in 1880 when their boat capsized on the way to the palace. Courtiers and servants who would have been able to help were rooted to the spot, for fear of breaking a law that forbade commoners from touching royals. At their funeral, King Rama V gave out 10,000 books to commemorate the lives of the queen and his daughter, but these did not include any recipes. Instead, they featured Buddhist teachings and philosophy. The nangsue anusorn ngan sop (funeral book) was born, and the custom was swiftly copied by the king’s subjects.

The motives behind this tradition, however, may not entirely stem from a desire to keep good memories of the deceased alive. “Grand families were very competitive in showing face—and still are,” says Phil Cornwel-Smith, author of Very Thai and the new book Very Bangkok. “Funeral books would have shown all the titles, awards, and ranks that the deceased had been bestowed, which would be of vital interest for the surviving relatives to publicize and justify their social position.”

While funeral books were initially considered the purview of the aristocratic elite, the bourgeois—the military, high-ranking civil servants, and wealthy merchants—were only a few steps behind. Initially, Buddhist philosophy was a popular feature, until King Rama V in 1904 proclaimed the volumes to be “not very enjoyable” and advised future books to include more interesting subject matter, such as popular Thai fables. It was only later, in the mid-20th century, when food-related matters became the norm in funeral publications.

“For grand ladies of the past, there would be far less in terms of rank to document,” says Cornwel-Smith, “so their household accomplishments would be lauded, such as recipes,” adding that one of his first jobs in Thailand was to edit a funeral booklet for a female Sino-Thai banker.

It might seem odd that Thailand would be able to nurture the unique culinary tradition of the “funeral cookbook” when cookbooks themselves were a relatively recent phenomenon. Inspired by Isabella Beeton’s The Book of Household Management, the first Thai food cookbook, Mae Khrua Hua Pa (or “Talented Women Chefs”), was published by Lady Plian Phasakorawong in 1908. Before Lady Plian’s masterwork, recipes were transmitted verbally, ideally to family or household members only. These recipes were guarded fiercely. For a family to reveal one’s culinary secrets was tantamount to ceding social cachet to another rival house. “Grand families competed in culture as much as in titles, such as quality of food and rival troupes of traditional musicians,” says Cornwel-Smith.

The publication of the first Thai cookbook finally allowed for the sharing of private culinary knowledge in the public sphere. It also reflected a general rise of literacy in the pursuit of siwalai, the Thai attempt to appear more “civilized” in the face of encroaching colonization, academics say.

The debut of Mae Khrua Hua Pa was said to have been a commercial failure because of its relatively high price. However, it has since managed to take hold of and eventually shape Thai culinary discourse—primarily through its reprinting as a souvenir for Thai funerals. In essence, it has enjoyed a second (and third, and fourth) life as a funeral cookbook for families wary of sharing their own recipes.

Other funeral cookbooks have added to the cultural conversation by keeping specific family traditions alive. The many funeral cookbooks of one of the grand houses of old Siam, the Bunnag family, detail a plethora of dishes from the homeland of Sheikh Ahmad, who arrived in the kingdom as a Persian merchant in 1600. After entering the service of King Songtham, Sheikh Ahmad eventually rose to the rank of samuha nayok (First Prime Minister), a position that many of his descendants would also hold.

Scholars such as Thai food chef David Thompson—the proud collector of at least 600 funeral cookbooks—credit the Bunnag family for bringing gang massaman (loosely translated to “Muslim curry”) to Thailand. Although hailed today as one of the most popular Thai dishes in the world, massaman curry is still classified by some Thais as “foreign” since it incorporates a mix of dried spices, while traditional Thai curries are based on fresh herbs.

Today, the family recipe for massaman curry lives on in Bunnag funeral cookbooks, and includes raisins, small potatoes, nutmeg, cumin, star anise, cardamom, mace, and the decidedly un-Thai flourish of bay leaves. In the funeral cookbook of Sheikh Ahmad’s descendent Longlaliew Bunnag, one can find Persian-inspired gems such as the aforementioned massaman, khao buree (translated loosely as “smoked rice,” the family’s own take on chicken biryani) and sai gai, a saffron-scented, syrup-soaked dessert known as jalebi in Indian cuisine.

A wealthy family into the 20th century, the Bunnag family recipes also mirror the many foreign influences that shaped the Thai upper classes. One recipe calls simply for Chinese-style egg noodles mixed with olive oil and sprinkled with “the grated cheese of your choice,” a fusion that probably would have horrified Lady Plian.

In an essay on Thailand’s culinary identity, journalist Panu Wongcha-um argues that funeral cookbooks are still shaping Thai culinary discourse. This can be amply illustrated by the menus of Michelin-starred Thai restaurants such as Nahm, Paste, and Bo.lan, whose menus are rooted in the funeral cookbooks of noble families and whose chefs are celebrities in their own right.

Chef Bo Songvisava, like her former boss David Thompson, has a sizable funeral cookbook collection of her own. Besides inspiring her cooking, the funeral cookbooks in Songvisava’s collection represent the achievements of Thai women in the only sphere once permitted to them: the home.

“Funeral books with recipes in them in the early years mostly belonged to ladies from noble families,” says Songvisava, who is in the midst of writing her own cookbook. “Printing merely a cookbook must have seemed ridiculous back then, so they used funerals as an occasion to respect the deceased and pass on her skills, knowledge, and legacy.”

Chef Jason Bailey of Paste estimates that he and his wife, fellow chef Bee Satongun, have collected several hundred funeral cookbooks. The books, while providing a snapshot of a certain time, were also helpful in showing how Thai cuisine has evolved. “We were interested in seeing how they riffed and adapted Thai recipes,” he says of past cooks.

Ultimately, the Thai funeral cookbook was born in a hothouse environment of its own, fed by royal encouragement, the threat of colonization, a dearth of spaces for female expression, and the gradual literacy of the masses. However, unlike many conventions of the past, the funeral cookbook thrives today, even popping up abroad. British food writer Alan Davidson was so charmed by the idea that he compiled a 47-page booklet of his own, to be distributed at his 2003 service. The volume included recipes for personal favorites, such as meatloaf and toad-in-the-hole.

Songvisava thinks her funeral cookbook would highlight her work at her restaurant. “The recipes that I will include in my funeral book will be the ones that are served in Bo.lan and Bo.lan only,” she says, singling out green curry with local green figs, a salad of fresh northern Thai greens adorned with grilled fish, and household essentials such as Sriracha sauce.

Her husband, co-chef Dylan Jones, says he would present a mix of Thai influences and his Australian heritage in his funeral cookbook. For him, that means two particular recipes: one for nam prik prik Thai oorn, or black pepper chili relish, and another for Vegemite on toast.

[babyflossy]

i’ll be here when you wake | w.jh

gif credits to owner

pairing: jun x reader

summary: whenever you bite off more than you can chew on a mission, jun is always there to help.

genre: kinda gang au i guess? not really tho

warnings: swearing, blood, fighting, killing, reader gets stabbed?

word count: 1747

the golden glow from the streetlights lit the ground beneath you in regular intervals. the gravel crunching under your feet was the only noise you focused on. the shouts behind you continued angrily but quieter, now you were slipping away from them. ducking into an alleyway, chest heaving, you snuck a look past the corner of the wall to see the men approaching. you pressed seokmin's contact name hastily, crouching to the ground to rest.

he picked up before the first ring. "where the fuckare you?" you whispered into the microphone, still glancing back. it didn't seem like they had noticed you slip into the alley and you sighed with relief. "there's so many of them."

"shit, okay. we're, like, two blocks away. you still have your gps on, right?" patting your pockets to feel for the device jihoon had armed you with earlier, you sighed when you didn't feel it, thinking it must have fallen out when you were fighting the guards.

"no, it must have fallen out," you searched the area for anything you recognised, coming up empty before you saw a street sign high up on one of the buildings opposite. you carefully recited it to seokmin, hearing cursing and the squeaking of tires soon after.

"you're on the other side of town, we'll be longer–" you heard the phone being pulled away from him and joshua's voice rang through the alley.

"jun's less than a block away, he's on his way." his words shot a sliver of hope through you.

the men were approaching quickly, and you knew they would see you as they passed the entrance of the alley. you exchanged the phone in your hand for the gun strapped to your thigh, only to see it was empty. you shoved it back into the holster and reached behind you for the trench knife minghao had gotten you for christmas. after you had secured it around your knuckles, you carefully unholstered the flail mace you had also gotten for christmas, swinging it around you in preparation.

you listened carefully for jun's footsteps, but heard nothing more than the men's shouts too close for comfort. you knew you would have to start without jun, and pray he would get there quickly. with one last look at the group of men, cloaked in black brandishing knives that glinted in the artificial life of the street, you left the safety of the alley.

seeing you only seemed to fuel them on, and it didn't long before the leader was within arms' reach to you. swinging the flail mace around your head to gain momentum, you let it smash into the side of his head, hearing the bone of his skull shatter under the spiked metal. he spun to the ground, blood covering his face and pooling in the cracks of the pavement below.

it was like you opened the flood gates; man after man hurdled themselves at you, knives bared, slashing the air around you. you dodged them expertly, thrashing the flail mace around, punching them with the knuckle duster on the knife before jabbing it into the soft skin of their necks. it seemed as if time stopped. as the men dropped into the mixture of crimson blood coating the street, more appeared in their place.

missing a neck by a hair was your first mistake. your arm kept moving, not stopped by the flesh, exposing your side to the attacker. he managed to lodge his knife into to the skin under your ribs. the blunt pain making you see stars, feeling the blood start pouring down your side. before he could celebrate, he dropped in front of you, blood trickling out his mouth, a dark pointed arrow stuck neatly into his back.

he had blocked you from seeing jun run around the corner, bow poised as he took aim at the attacker that had hurt you. you could almost cry with relief, but you couldn't focus yourself to see him make his way around the attackers. your thoughts were scrambled as the knife in your side continued to slice your flesh.

without realising, you had fallen to the floor, dizzy. you couldn't concentrate on the way the men around you dropped like flies; arrows lodged into them in various places. the time between the knife entering you and when jun's face became visible was unfathomable to you. you noticed his expression; fear, concern, anger. you hoped the last one wasn't directed at you, but then again, he had told you to take backup.

your ears picked up tails of the conversation between him and whoever was on the phone. you felt in a surge of consciousness his hand in yours, slick with blood but comforting nevertheless. the black spots teasing the edge of your vision finally engulfed you before you heard the tires rolling down the blood-soaked street.

you woke to more shouting. you were moving fast, very fast. you tried to see what was happening but the light above was too bright, so you gave up. the voices around faded into a hum, blending together until a voice close to you stood out. you recognised it as jun's immediately, but you couldn't distinguish what he was shouting. giving up, yet again, you let the darkness take over after rationalising that jun was here, and he wouldn't let anything happen to you.

the next time you stirred was just before you felt a plastic mask cover your face, air pumping out harshly, surprising you. a voice close to your ear spoke to you but you didn't try to work out what it said and simply let the air pull you further into unconsciousness. your body felt heavy as the air filled your lungs, numb and cold. the last thing you registered was the hand from earlier slip back into yours, the only warmth in the freezing haze.

you weren't sure if it was the beeping that woke you up, or the wetness falling onto your hand. your mind felt foggy and the light behind your eyelids was flashing. the wetness continued to drop into your hand, accompanied by a soft sniffling that seemed to clear your mind slightly. after building up your strength, you opened your eyes. the first thing you saw after the light cleared was a mop of messy brown hair.

he didn't look up, not realising you had woken and your heart broke when you realised, he was crying. unable to speak, throat thick and dry, you focused on squeezing his hand. your grasp was weak but noticeable and his head whipped up to see you staring back at him. the tears flowed heavier as he laughed in relief. his arms were wrapped around your neck before you could process it and your senses were clogged with his soothing scent.

"i thought i lost you," his voice was shaky, and you managed to reach up at swipe at the wetness on his cheeks. he caught your hand, pressing his lips to the back of it before placing it at your side and rushed to the door, opening it and shouting out, "she's awake."

as soon as the words left his mouth, hurried footsteps filled the hall. the first person in the room was mingyu, white long coat on, followed closely by jeonghan in the same apparel. they wore matching smiles of relief as they walked over. jeonghan fiddled with the machine next to the bed, brow creased in concentration as he checked your vitals. mingyu held a torch to your eyes that you blinked away from. "how do you feel?"

"like shit," your voice was croaky and hoarse, and you eyed the water on the table next to you in desire. jeonghan followed your gaze and handed it to you, telling you not to drink much or else you would throw up. you ignored him and drank until the cup was taken from your grasp.

"your vitals look okay," you watched as more bodies filled the room. wonwoo and seokmin stood at the foot of the bed, watching as mingyu and jeonghan went about checking the machines and replacing the iv drip. after soonyoung, seungcheol and chan tried to enter the small room, everyone was shooed out by mingyu, leaving you and jun alone in the room.

he pushed off from the table at the back of the room and sat at the end of the bed, taking in your tired face. "i was so worried," he looked down and you worried he was going to start crying again. you weren't sure you would be able to watch without crying yourself, and you felt too drained to do so. "we all were. no one was sure you would make it."

"i'm sorry," it was so quiet you were almost surprised he heard it. his watery eyes met yours and he shuffled up the bed, taking your face between his hands.

"don't apologise, it wasn't your fault."

"but you told me to take backup–"

he cut you off by pressing his lips softly to yours. his hand cupped your jaw as you kissed, warmth spreading through you like a wildfire and calming you despite the events of the last day. jun always had a way of grounding you, of making you forget about whatever situation you were in and giving you a few moments of peace before facing whatever it was you two had gotten yourselves into.

he pulled away, pushing your hair out of your face with one hand whilst stroking your cheek delicately with the other. he was treating you as if you were glass which normally would have bothered you, but you let him coddle you, knowing it would help him feel better.

it didn't take long before your eyes grew tired again and you leant against jun where he lay beside you in the small bed. he seemed to notice you were trying to stay awake and chuckled slightly, the noise vibrating through him. "go to sleep, i'll be here when you wake up." it didn't take more before you were turning in his arms, as much as your bandages would let you. the pain was still numbed by some painkillers jeonghan had given you earlier, the numbness fading through your body.

jun's arms were carefully wrapped around you, creating a safety blanket over. you let yourself be lulled to sleep by his steady heartbeat and the feel of his head resting on yours.

a/n: i don’t really know if i like this but i thought i would post it anyway in case any of y’all have lower standards than me lmao

[greatshell-rider]

day twenty-four of quARTine: parent (prompt list)

Jerry missed peanut butter. He missed a lot of things from Earth, but after visiting dozens of planets and browsing through dozens more betwixt markets, he’d found suitable replacements for most stuff—a lot of it cooler, truthfully, with magics or technologies from thousands of ’scapes woven into every fabric and material.

But he had yet to find a foodstuff even sort of close to peanut butter. And he missed it.

Jerry shoved his hands in his hoodie pouch, the shopping bag dangling from his elbow as he wandered through the aisles of the store. A scrunched-up paper in his hand got steadily sweatier, each item on the list of requests from Lani and Cindy scratched off. The bag on his arm was full. He had no reason to stay at Stuff? Food? You Decide! any longer.

He paused by a shelf stocked with jars of “sliknut spread”. The containers were clear, revealing the creamy golden-brown spread inside, and each had a patterned bow tied around its lid. He reached for a pink-bowed one, but hesitated. Then shook his head and headed for the clerk’s counter. He paid with a handful of fingernail-sized crystals left over from the last ’scape.

The clerk eyed them skeptically. “Jastners?” they asked in Wide.

Jerry shrugged. “Think so.”

“Eh.” They dropped the crystals in the tin. “Thank you for shopping at Stuff? Food? You Decide! on Vaspin’s. Tell your friends about us, and have a nice day.”

“You too,” Jerry said, but the clerk was already shifting on their stool to greet the next customer. He grabbed his sword from the bin—leaving behind a small mace and bandolier of smoke bombs—and switched the grocery bag to his other arm as he left the shop. The enchanted wooden gecko engraven over the door yawped his departure, just as it had when he’d entered.

It was raining still, so Jerry put up his hood and drudged down the street, not caring that he splashed through muddy puddles or that rainwater dripped onto the unprotected groceries. Not many people were out, and he soon left the town, so it was quiet but for the sound of rain as he walked. The scenery was pretty enough—the road was bordered by a white picket fence, separating it from gentle rolling hills blanketed with turquoise coral-like plants—but Jerry felt his mood darkening the longer he walked. Earth’s rain didn’t react aggressively against his skin, leaving nasty green boils wherever a drop hit. The more he thought about it, the more he realized how much this planet sucked.

You suck, he thought at it, kicking a pebble of the same turquoise from the fields down the road.

He could imagine Lani’s smug retort. Salty you don’t align to its magic, aren’t you? Which, of course, she could say, since she aligned perfectly and could send large objects flying with just her mind. Typical.

By the time he reached the two-storied cottage with roof tiles made of that weird turquoise-coral whatever, Jerry had mud streaked up to his knees and a minor headache—another of this ’scape’s fun little side effects it gave him; something to do with the particle composition in the atmosphere’s lower layers or some crap, according to Lani—and would’ve rathered to brawl a Nellio in one of their lava pits than deal with anyone. Unfortunately, Lani was sitting at the table when he came in, building a house out of cards with her newly-learned telekinesis. House was inaccurate, really. His sister started on a third tower of her castle as he kicked off his boots.

“Is it raining again?” she asked, too innocently, though the patter of raindrops could clearly be heard and seen on the windows.

Jerry said nothing, dropping the groceries on the tabletop.

A mistake. At his silence, Lani turned in her chair to face him, a smile spreading across her face as she set her elbow on the backrest and rested her cheek against her fist. “Did someone have a hard time in town today?” she lamented in a babyish tone. “No one told you how cool your sword is?”

Jerry stomped up the stairs.

“Oh no, now I’ve upset him too—Hey, don’t forget you’re also making dinner!”

He reached the door and slammed it shut behind him harder than necessary. The room was empty, and there he let out a tight, angry breath. That left him feeling drained, his headache even worse now, and he dropped wearily onto his cot of the three, setting his sword down beside him. Maybe he would just sleep the rest of the day away, try to forget, since he’d already failed at not remembering.

But as he bent to pull off his socks, he saw his small pile of belongings by the foot of the cot, and laying atop his change of clothes, a flower. It had yellow petals and a brown disk, very similar to an Earth sunflower. When he picked it up, however, the petals shifted to a lavender hue and the disk a sickly white. Jerry scowled, crushing the flower in his fist and throwing it aside. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fists clenching and unclenching as he breathed in and out, in and out. His headache pounded. Even after counting to fifty, then back down to zero, he nearly went down the stairs to confront Lani about that thing. It had to have been her. It had to. Who else? Who else, after all these years, after all they’d been through, who else—

A rap on the window. Jerry looked up. Cindy’s face stared back on the other side of the glass. Ze beckoned him over, then motioned for him to open the window. He did so, expecting zir to clamber in, but ze instead turned and walked down the slanted roof of the cowshed without a word, probably thinking he would follow.

“Cindy,” he called zir, “I don’t have shoes.” The rain didn’t react strangely to zir skin, so ze was free to go as barefoot as ze wanted, but Jerry less so.

“You’re already wet.” Ze crouched and, gripping the edge of the roof, swung zirself down to the ground before Jerry could reply. Ze stepped into the shed and out of view.

Jerry wavered, looking over his shoulder at the door leading downstairs. A part of him wanted to stay stubbornly inside the room, to curl up on his cot and refuse to move or speak until Lani came up and apologized. . . . Well, she would never do that, except to mock him. But he could make her make her own dinner. It would serve her right. Today of all days . . .

But Jerry couldn’t stay in this room for a second longer. Not upstairs. With his socks still on, he balled his fists in the hoodie’s long sleeves and hopped through the window. It didn’t matter if his clothes got soaked and got his skin damp. For some reason, only falling raindrops caused the boils. So, though his socks got unpleasantly soggy, Jerry was able to carefully slide down the tiles to the edge of the roof and copy Cindy’s move, swinging himself down. He padded into the cowshed, which was really just a second, shorter roof protruding from the back of the cottage propped up on stilts. Currently it only sheltered a single scrawny goat, the only animal they’d found for sell in town. In theory she gave milk, but so far had only eaten absurd amounts of hay that beguiled her skinny frame. Right now, she was nibbling on grain cupped in Cindy’s palm, and gave Jerry a distrustful stare with a single dark eye as he walked in.

He ignored her, putting his back to a post and sliding down until he was sitting. Though the roof blocked the rain, he kept his hood up.

For a while, Cindy said nothing. When the goat finished off the grain, ze grabbed a brush and sat cross-legged. The goat settled right down and laid her head in zir lap, eyes drifting half-shut as Cindy moved the brush down her back in long, steady strokes. Jerry rested his chin on his drawn-up knees, watching the strangely hypnotic scene, listening to the rain beat against the turquoise-tile roof. He sniffled quietly and crossed his arms over his knees, burying his nose into the sleeves of his hoodie. The specific garment was surprisingly common across the ’scapes, so Jerry had frequent access to them, but he had yet to find one exactly like Earth’s. Something about the fabric, the dye or material or design, just wasn’t right. He ran his thumb idly down a seam. Maybe it was just the scent. Nothing like mass-produced Walmart brands, right?

Cindy hummed, and Jerry realized he’d spoken aloud.

“Nothing,” he mumbled. “Just . . . Just feeling nostalgic I guess.” But that wasn’t right. This mix of sadness and anger, of guilt, of despair, of pain, it wasn’t something as whimsical as nostalgia. Jerry didn’t know if it could be defined with one word.

He fidgeted, picking at a ball of fuzz on the sleeve. “It’s just.” He huffed. Tried again. “Shopping today, surrounded by stuff, by foods that are familiar, but not the same, I just—” He cut himself off. There was a long pause. Jerry buried his face completely into his sleeves, hands sliding up underneath his hood to grip his hair.

“I miss it,” he said, voice muffled. “I miss it so bad, Cindy.”

He thought he was too angry for tears. But there they were, burning at his eyes. At least his hoodie was already wet, right? No one could tell. No one knew.

“It’s your home,” Cindy said.

“It is,” Jerry said angrily, swiping his arm across his face then scrubbing his knuckles at his eyes. “It’s not perfect, of course it isn’t. Yes there’s loads of planets and ’scapes without corrupt governments or decade-long wars or, or, or climate change, but it’s still mine! It’s had everything I’ve ever wanted.” He sighed, because that wasn’t true either. That’s why he and Lani had started the whole thing, wasn’t it? They’d wanted more. And in the process, they’d lost everything.

Jerry dropped his head into his hands. He pressed his fingers hard against his closed eyes, though it made his head hurt more. “Do you know what day it is?” he asked Cindy, his voice croaky.

In zir silence, he imagined zir shaking zir head.

“My mom’s birthday.” He swallowed, his mouth and throat dry. “And the anniversary.”

That made him laugh, a harsh, bitter bark. “Anniversary,” he sneered. “Like it’s something to celebrate.” His hands dropped to dangle over his knees, and he stared sightlessly at the straw-strayed dirt. “Maybe for the slavers.”

He swallowed again, knowing he had to say it and hating himself for it. “It’s my fault, you know,” he said. It came out in a hoarse whisper. He tried to clear his throat, but it didn’t do any good. “My fault. Partly, sure. Lani and I both did it. But it is. My—”

He hadn’t noticed Cindy moving until ze was suddenly next to him, extending an arm across his shoulders. Ze said nothing, but pulled him close in a hug. At first Jerry resisted, going stiff in zir embrace, and Cindy started to loosen zir grip and pull away. That shot a spike of panic through Jerry’s heart and he slumped, burying his face into zir shoulder. He started crying again, quietly, as he’d learned to do in the trench, and Cindy held his shaking body tight.

“I miss her,” he sobbed, “and it’s my fault.”

He thought ze would say something, some trite phrase that was supposed to be comforting, supposed to resemble her, but ze didn’t. Ze rested zir chin atop his head and began to sing. A soft, lilting melody, haunting in the rainshower’s murmur. Jerry had heard the song before. Once, Cindy had told him it was the lullaby her parents had sung together when ze was a toddler, to help zir fall asleep. It was the same song they’d whispered into zir ear before sending zir away.

The rain continued to drizzle.

[oc-avalanche]

My Patron, My Patron

Twigger warning: Violence, blood, gore

A scene where Seraphine - one of my D&D characters - meets her patron ultimately turning her from a cleric to a warlock. She’s a new character that I am saving for my uncle’s next campaign but I will be writing her a bunch so that I can get a feel for her as a character. I hope you enjoy and don’t be afraid to leave critiques and suggestions to help me improve!

The library was her only sanctuary as Seraphine snuck in, closing the door with a soft click. Mother had been called once more by the Matriarch. Another council in the past few days, the priests were already talking along with their servants. Now everyone would be doing it and their senseless talking was going to make her go crazy. And as Seraphine let out a heavy breath, she listened to the passing guards of her home. Their voices rose and faded away, seamless splashes in the darkness.

Moving her eyes around, Seraphie took in the room with disinterest. It was big, round, and filled with more books than a normal elf could read in a lifetime. Generations upon generations of her ancestors collected the grand splendor of books before her and her mother loved to brag about it to many of her guests. Mostly the priests as they entered the house and found themselves smothered by the superiority of the female warriors around them.

Another sigh and she stepped forward. “Let’s see what clerical book I can gag myself with,” she whispered aloud, her fingers petting the spines, skimming the titles. “The history of the A’Darorzza bloodline,” she rolled her eyes. “More like a long line of clerics with maces up their ass.” As she said this, Serapine’s body froze as a spider crawled over the back of her hand, creeping slowly on her skin. She knew better than to swat it away or give any disrespect towards it. Afterall, spiders were the Matriarch’s friends.

It looked at her with black beady eyes, testing the tenacity of the young elven girl. Even though it was still, Seraphine could feel it’s little fangs rubbing her skin, teasing and taunting. The hairs on its legs poked and tickled, stabbing into skin tinged with a strange discolored blue. With a bow, Seraphine gathered the ends of her dress and lowered her head, making sure the hand that held the spider didn’t budge. While her eyes were casted on the ground, the girl could feel the spider crawling around her hand, legs jabbing into her flesh, before it ultimately skittered away.

Seraphine counted to thirty before moving again and looked towards where the spider may have gone. Curiosity overwhelmed her as she took a step to follow, wondering what in Lloth’s name could the tiny creature be leading her to. And with her first step, that’s when the voices entered Seraphine’s head.

They were soft, barely audible. Yet, the words were splicing her head, tearing it piece by piece as her mind went blank. Dodging her eyes to and fro, Seraphine covered her ears to stop the agony gnawing at her ears. It was simply maddening like wasps stinging tenderized flesh over and over again, their stingers coated in vigenar and venom. As she looked, the voices grew louder. They pulled her towards the area of the library Seraphine had never seen before.

Bugs coated their covers and her skin, centipedes and roaches of varying shapes and sizes. Their pincers chewed at her flesh with piercing precision. No matter how many times Seraphine wiped them off of her arms, clawed them off of her face, or out of her hair, more and more rose from her pores and devoured her. Screams tore through her throat - a few of them able to enter her insides - as she fumbled her way closer to the voices. They snickered and taunted her, their words making her ears bleed. Tears burned the corners of her eyes as her sight was soaked a deep crimson. Blood entered her longs and Seraphine struggled to breathe. Her fingers stumbled at the spines of the books, seeing nothing more than ashes dusting her finger tips.

Until there was a light. A glimmering black hue that tore at the red liquid. Seraphine swam towards it, reaching further and further until her fingers glossed over the pages. So fragile had her skin been chewed away, her blood soaked the corners and all was blown away.

When Seraphine opened her eyes, she found herself in a place quite unknown to her, the book opened before her and a figure standing over her. Their tentacles made her skin crawl and despite the darkness, she swore she could see the shadows moving. 

“My child,” its voice bounced off the air and jabbed all around her. Laughter coated the words spoken as Seraphine held back the vomit that bubbled in her throat. “You have found what you’ve seeked. You may call me, The Old One.” She opened her mouth and spoke only to find herself with no sound. “Don’t be afraid,” there was malice in its voice as an invisible pull forced the drow on her feet and into the clutches of the being before her. “Embrace the madness.”

Once again the world around her began to morph and change around her, the screams of people and children drowning each other out in sweet disgusting bliss. Seraphine found herself smiling, cackling as blood captured her senses. The city was burning. The city she had been born in and found herself outcasted, distrusted. Despite her mother’s ties, Seraphine would always be a stranger among the others who called themselves drow. Was she not a drow like them? She had their features and their gifts and her mother was one of their best clerics, so what made Seraphine stick out so much?

Fury rose in her chest from her stomach and beginning at her toes as she saw the other kids playing around and having fun with each other, but ignoring her completely. They laughed and teased each other and threw dirt at the boys who tried to out wrestle them. Things Seraphine had never experienced.

That fury became disgust as Seraphine gathered the power taught to her  and used it against the very ones she was supposed to help. “I hate them,” her voice echoed, feeling the presence of the old one behind her. “I want to hurt them,” flames anchored themselves to her fingers as the visions began to notice her. Their eyes gazing upon the cleric turned warlock with fear. “I will make them suffer.”

Screams echoed into her being, the scent of blood and despair plaguing her lungs as she felt the knowledge promised flogging into her mind like tentacles sliming over their prey. He laughed at her, he laughed with her, he laughed through her and Seraphine felt the grip of the power squeezing her. The bliss of ridding herself of everything and embracing the blacking blood of madness with opened arms. And as she held out her arms, tears slipped from her eyes as Seraphine found herself embracing nothing.

When she woke, Seraphine found herself back in her room with a bowl full of water on her nightstand and a cold rag on on her forehead. The scar on her chest burned with a ferocity that could match a panther protecting her young and as she sat up, putting the rag in the bowl, strange light markings rose from her fingertips and toes, coursing their way up to the rest of her body. And when she looked closer, she say that the tips had gone black. A voice in the back of her head cackled and Seraphine knew; she had to leave her home and never look back.

[capmerthur]

THE BODY SWAP

It's all in the title :) Somewhere end S1 (after 1.11 Labyrinth, but pre 1.13 Morte). In a land of myth, and a time of magic, Arthur awakes inside Merlin's body (and no, not in that way). Alternating Merthur POV. Mentions of Will, Gaius and George. 

Excerpt PART VII:

Arthur misses the first step towards the second floor (it's actually the eleventh time today that he misses a step - he still isn't used to Merlin's feet). This time though, his balance is too lost for him to compensate and he falls backwards, landing on his butt and ready to get soaked and hit by the water and buckets he has released when instinctively freeing his hands (one to help catch his fall; one to protect himself from the falling projectiles). 

Except nothing comes: no water, no hit - and no falling sound either. And when Arthur takes a look? The buckets and water are... floating above his head?

(PREVIOUS CHAPTERS UNDERS CHAPTER VII)

VII. DOOMED (ARTHUR POV)

With a last commanding yet encouraging nod, Arthur leaves Merlin by the Great Hall's entrance and starts to make his way towards the Library.

He is stopped by Merlin's name being called out twice - because he has failed to react right away; Arthur chastises himself. It is the headmaster recruiting hands: his Father wants his bath ready when the pleas end.

Arthur doesn't want to bring Merlin in trouble, of course; so he takes on the ordered job - after all, how complicated can it be?

He is paired with a newcomer answering the name of George who looks up to him as if he holds the sun: the Prince's manservant! Which isn't that bad. Until he starts, seemingly embarrassed but curious all the same, to ask questions like "Is the Prince as terrible as they say?" or "Is it true he throws knives?" and such? Arthur tries to explain that the training field is, well, to train? He isn't sure the message gets across though, as George only holds his eyes with a perplexed gaze...

Arthur can't help but hope that Merlin at least understands that he's not only training himself but also trying to get Merlin to know how to defend himself if not to attack whenever he comes at him with a mace or anything... He should maybe make his intentions clearer, apparently...

Anyway. After yet another round of carrying buckets full of cold or warmed-up water up and down and left and right, Arthur realises there is more to it than it looks; and the bath is only half full still...

And when they're nearly done? His three coworkers and the headmasteer seem satisfied, but Arthur can't help but think while bringing up the last two buckets that they achieved nothing more than a luke warm bath with a clean but no particular scent. Merlin's baths are definitely of a superior category on both accounts, and Arthur doesn't know if he should feel guilty and spoiled for regularly enjoying better baths than the king himself, or more amazed or worried about Merlin's bath-preparing skills (is he even thinking about his safety? he wouldn't actually carry boiling water up the stairs, would he?)

Arthur decides he should address the issue. And maybe take baths downstairs from now on just in case - a little backroom near the kitchen would be more practical than his chambers, wouldn't it? When the space isn't needed for banquets preparations and such of course...

Arthur misses the first step towards the second floor (it's actually the eleventh time today that he misses a step - he still isn't used to Merlin's feet). This time though, his balance is too lost for him to compensate and he falls backwards, landing on his butt and ready to get soaked and hit by the water and buckets he has released when instinctively freeing his hands (one to help catch his fall; one to protect himself from the falling projectiles). Except nothing comes: no water, no hit - and no falling sound either. And when Arthur takes a look? The buckets and water are... floating above his head?

Arthur gasps in surprise, his mind going both blank and reeling...

Then only does Arthur finally get drenched and hit on the shoulder.

Arthur blinks. Twice.

What has just happened isn't normal, at all. Only - only magic could make such a thing possible!

Arthur looks around, instinctively - scanning for a threat.

He is alone; the corridors are empty as far as he can see, and he hears no voices, nor steps.

Which is good, because no one is attacking him then.

Which is the worst though - because if there is no one around... then the only person responsible for what he has just witnessed must be - is - HIMSELF?!

Arthur gasps again; this time in panick.

His first instinct is denial. But he knows what he saw. And somehow, it just makes sense, doesn't it?

It's not the body of the Prince that whoever switched him and Merlin is after. It's his mind...

Put him in the body of a servant, give him magic, and sooner or later (and most probably sooner) he is bound to die by his Father's law. What is he supposed to say in his defense? That he IS the Prince, in another body which had been given an ounce of magic on the sole purpose of getting him executed? Who would ever believe him...

In the meantime, the schieming sorcerer must have judged that a servant in his body may be too delighted by the upgrade in status to be a threat to his plans and would gladly unknowingly collaborate, on top of being totally untrained and incompetent at any of his duties.

Then? One only has to kill the King (which shouldn't be unachievable, for someone having so much magic that he can put spells like having bodies switched even from a distance to start with?) and - for sure - Camelot is doomed to get wiped out from the map by the first band of Saxons passing by (and most probably enticed to pass by very soon after its King's death): its only true heir gone, and the supposed one obviously improper to defend it.

Arthur is more afraid than he has ever been - and he has been in combat enough for that fact to mean something. He feels crushed; defeated, even before the battle - and honestly? He has never despised himself that much. No matter that he has never felt both so unprepared and so intrinsically useless - and not even able to trust himself: surrender is simply inexcusable. Camelot depends on it.

Besides, Arthur owes it to Merlin to fight, right. It's after all Merlin's body that's to die along his spirit. Oh! The villainy, the cowardice in this attack! Use an innocent victim as a vessel to be sacrificed. Sorcerers definitely have no sense of honor indeed.

So. Arthur is angry now. A much more suited mindset, he decides - as long as he doesn't allow it to blind him. And he won't. Merlin's body depends on it too.

Arthur takes a deep breath. He has been taught strategy even before he could talk, right? Time to make a plan of action.

First. He is not as alone as Camelot's enemy has calculated him to be. He is, in fact, not alone at all. He has Merlin.

Loyal Merlin; not only willing but even devoted to getting back into his own servant body rather than happily playing the prince. Magic familiar and open-minded Merlin - which means Arthur has not only someone who won't judge him nor fear him to confide in about his new endangering (and in so many ways) abilities, but also someone who might have some basic understanding of it; since he was Will's friend? Heart-in-the-right-place Merlin: too kind, maybe (but he can at least get aware of it enough in order not to be lead only by it); but naturally just and fair Merlin. Brave, fierce, tenacious Merlin; too reckless though (but again: he can at least get aware of it enough in order not to be lead only by it). Ressourceful Merlin, fast-learning Merlin: he would master his body's strength, eventually; and Leon would be here to lead the Knights in the meantime... Arthur takes an oath. Even if they fail to find a solution to their problem, Camelot won't be left unprotected. Come what may; even the worst? Merlin *will* be ready to take his place. Having Merlin's unique edges smoothed out feels wrong; but it just has to be for show, right?

Second. Well, there is no really second yet; at least not more than what they have already planned. They need to find some books - and pray that they will be useful. And Arthur will just have to be particularly attentive about not repeating the kind of blunder he just did with witnesses present.

Yes. Merlin. Books. Start at the beginning; and with luck, it might just work out in the end.

Arthur cleans up as best as he can, using and wringing his soaked tunic in the buckets, then runs to Merlin's room for a set of dried clothes. Turning up to retake his place at 'Arthur''s side while drenched would only draw unwanted attention...

.

So. Basically? Yep. This is a magic-reveal unreveal fic. But. I mean... It's Arthur? Also: this fic (to me) is canon (fitting) - so it just can't be a reveal fic. Bonus: it explains too why Arthur doesn't get the courage-magic-strength trio hint later on. He thinks Merlin is magic; but only because there is some residual trace to sense from when his body had magic (aka this fic), not that he actually has magic still at the time... Arthur can be at the same time very aware yet very unaware, and he can be so very biased and decided to see things his way, no matter how circumvoluted, right? (Also, of course Arthur thinks in fact then that HE is magic in the trio: he was after all the one inside Merlin when his body had magic; and Merlin IS courage - Arthur has such a low self-esteem to start with...)

On a side note: Arthur would actually trust Merlin with Camelot (even despite his limits). If that doesn't tell you all there is to tell then I don't know how to express it. *SIGH* *GROSS SOBBING* (Gwen though is innately made to be Queen - but Arthur doesn't know that yet. He isn't wrong about Merlin though - for Arthur's memory? Merlin would do his best to be a great King too, you bet...) *GROSS SOBBING AGAIN*

.

I. AWAKING (ARTHUR POV)

Arthur awakes; lying on his back - unusual - and rolls over automatically.

He surprisingly falls, down, hard; and jerks fully awake now - on the floor, near a so very tiny bed, tangled in an unknown blanket (harsher than his standards, even while on errands, he can't help but notice).

In disbelief, he eyes his surroundings...

Where is he? Has he been abducted?

Think, he admonishes himself - trying to clear his mind; to remember what must have happened, to guess who has dared to commit such an act, and, most important of all right now: Find a way out.

His eyes then suddenly meet Merlin's, and relief surges through him somehow - Merlin is alive - before his anxiety returns; and double: because poor faithful, loyal Merlin has obviously been taken too; and it's Arthur's fault - he must have failed to save them both from being taken, even though he cannot remember anything...

Except when Arthur reaches out to Merlin for him to come closer (they need to share information and plan, but must be quiet as a mouse), he realizes with fright but indeniable certainty that Merlin is in fact a reflection in a mirror; and worse: *HIS* reflection!?

It his NOT his hand indeed that is stretching out in front of him; NOT his clothes on his person; and definitely NOT his own hair falling upon his eyes, as he notices the black strings in his vision range...

Arthur is dumbstruck. He sees Merlin's mouth shaping a silent O, and he sees the dread in Merlin's eyes... except they ARE - he feels - *his* mouth, and *his* eyes; and everything is just plainly wrong, and plainly impossible - but undeniably REAL.

He is... Merlin? Or better said, *inside* Merlin? How can such a thing have even come to be?

Sorcery, Arthur understands with horror: Camelot is under attack!

But now armed with the knowledge of his predicament, Arthur realizes he is actually in Merlin's bedroom. He's been in here before, once; and he recognizes it all now.

So. Not abducted. All things considered, that still counts as something, right...

And, as it surely doesn't feel as if Merlin is still somewhere in his own head too while Arthur is inside of it, well... Maybe? Logically? Merlin might then be in return inside his own body?

Arthur suddenly finds himself praying for this to be true. It would be for the best, if Merlin was in his body - if they were the only ones concerned by this unnatural situation; because what if *everyone* was awaking inside someone else's body this morning? That would be... precarious - the general panic leaving Camelot completely vulnerable to whoever must have plotted this? The worst though would be if the one responsible for this was right now in control of his body, and acting as Crown Prince to do, well, evil deeds... So yes, you bet Arthur truly wants to find Merlin to be the one inside his own body when he finally finds it.

Arthur jumps on his feet, ready for action. Luckily (even though Arthur feels a bit guilty, as he notices his armour in pristine state against the opposite wall - apparently Merlin has been polishing it late into the night then) Merlin hasn't bothered to undress before falling asleep.

So. First thing first: he has to go to his chamber.

Picking some weapon on the way for good measure, you bet ...

/

Simply walking the few paces to open the door though turns out to be a challenge. His limbs are too long, and dangly; it feels like he has two left feet, and he has to try thrice before actually getting a grip on the handle - because he isn't used to this body, of course - but maybe it is truly NOT Merlin's fault if he trips over his own feet that often after all...

Gaius is already out - hopefully looking for herbs and not wandering out of his mind... Arthur would have preferred to be able to test right away his theories about how many people were affected by the damn body change; but unfortunately, it would have to wait some more.

The corridors are empty too, except for a stray black cat who walks at his side long enough for Arthur to start questioning himself about asking to the cat if he *is* Merlin - because Merlin HAS to be somewhere, right, as he obviously isn't where he should be to start with; but then the cat takes another turn... Arthur feels stupid for worrying so much about his silly manservant - but he cannot deny that he definitely will worry less only after having indeed finally found said silly manservant.

Arthur relaxes slighthly though when he enters the kitchen: people are working as usual, apparently not in shock, apparently in their right bodies. He picks up the first tray he finds, along with an extra knife that he hides in his pocket for good measure.

He tries to put on a confident grin as he walks (with the most assurance he can muster in this awkward-feeling body) towards the guards at his bedroom's door - and can only hope it will look the same as usual to them. They let him pass without trouble, and Arthur isn't sure whether it's a good thing. On the one hand, he *doesn't* doubt Merlin - he simply, intrinsically doesn't; and would never want him to feel like he did if his guards were to search him whenever he was about to enter his chamber. On the other hand... well, it isn't Merlin right now entering his chamber, with knifes at the ready... This time, it's only him; but what if it happens again, and if the one then inside Merlin's body has ill intentions...

Deciding not to dwell on this for the time being, Arthur enters his bedroom - hoping to find Merlin doing whatever Merlin always does, but preparing for a fight, if need be...

.

II. AWAKING (MERLIN POV)

Merlin awakes as if in a cocoon; literally. He is surrounded by softness, flush, warmth; he cannot remember ever feeling so comfortable - and the world can wait for just another few seconds before he opens his eyes, right... Merlin wriggles, shifting on his back, sighing softly as he nestles some more into the cushions...

When Merlin awakes for the second time - culpability sinking in as he realizes he has overslept - his eyes open to a Pendragon red canopy he would recognize even among hundreds. Merlin freezes: what the hell is he doing, sleeping IN ARTHUR'S BED?!

Merlin sits upright at once - blankets falling all around him to reveal that he wears ARTHUR'S NIGHTGOWN too ?!

Whaaaaaaaat?!

This... just DOESN'T make any sense. The last thing he can remind is sitting on his own bed, polishing the last bit of Arthur's armour before letting himself fall down to sleep (*AN). He surely doesn't recall walking to Arthur's chamber, and even less...

Merlin's mind is reeling as he shuffles out of bed as swiftly as he can. Oh my... What is Arthur going to think? And come to think of it - true panic now creeping down on Merlin at that thought: *WHERE* is Arthur to start with?

His attention is drawn out right then by Arthur calling out his name (Merlin feels relief, no matter his current embarrassing situation) - in one of those thousands yet unmistakably always Arthurian ways to say his name: a myriad of moods and meanings in those simple two syllables - the voice sounding odd though this morning (is Arthur sick?), and tensed (well, he just found his manservant in *his* bed, that might explain it!).

Merlin turns to face his sovereign, trying to feel less self conscious because he mustn't look guilty, while wishing for inspiration, and buying time until it hits: "There is actually a perfectly valid explan-"

But it is NOT Arthur he sees: it is... himself? His breath catches as 'utter confusion' gets a new meaning, you bet...

At the same moment, Merlin notices suddenly just how *not his* his voice has just sounded, and how he's wearing a very particular ring around one finger of what's NOT his hand, and how *blond* hair is falling upon his eyes... And still nothing makes sense; but at least it *does* explain how he awoke in Arthur's bed in Arthur's clothes: he *is* Arthur?; and... Arthur... is him? MUST be him. He has been calling his name right the right way, right?!

"Arthur?" Merlin barely dares to breathe out, both in wonder and in plea (because Arthur CANNOT be gone - the fear and pain and simple *impossibility* of such a concept slicing through Merlin's mind like a knife).

There is a bright smile then appearing on his face - a smile that doesn't entirely look like his own though - "Yes, Merlin. It's me," followed by a relieved sigh: "And it's you". And, despite the shock about them having apparently switched bodies (?!?!), Merlin can't help but feel warm all over - because Arthur (and yes, it is so clearly Arthur, even in HIS body!) has apparently been worried about him.

.

(*AN) Headcanon time :

Merlin uses magic to clean Arthur's armour in the beginning, indeed. And he still uses magic for most of the chores, as much as he can, of course (washing clothes, mending clothes, emptying chamber pots, sweeping fireplaces, preparing baths, refreshing beds, cleaning floors, cleaning everything, really (except for mucking the stables, because there are always others around, grrrr). But he quickly grows nearly *maniac* about Arthur's food (picking at it as a way to make sure it's not poisoned etc...) and about Arthur's armour: it's one of Arthur's protections - so you bet Merlin definitely cleans and polishes and repairs and oils the leather ligaments that hold it together and EVERYTHING the hell out of it, with extra ardor and fervor, with his own two hands, all the while continuously trying to put on it any protecting spells he ever finds, and repeating those over and over at each occasion...

Also: mirrors were probably not so advanced at the time... But let's say Merlin has an enhanced one, after all he has magic, right... On a side note, I'm never going to be over Arthur's priority-thinking (I'm in trouble = CAMELOT IS UNDER ATTACK (babyyyy let me hold you - being Camelot Prince/King is NOT your only worth) and Merlin's priority-thinking (what the hell is happening = WHERE THE HELL IS ARTHUR (babyyyy let me hold you - your devotion to The (brave, kind, admirable (shut up Merlin)) Prat doesn't have to mean that you always must come second (and a bit self-preservation cannot be harmful)) *SIGH* I just love those two idiots so much !!!

.

III. DISABLED (MERLIN POV)

But soon, Merlin is terrified.

And not because of the puzzling body swap.

*HE HAS NO MAGIC!?*

(Not that Merlin knows of any spell to reverse their current situation at once, mind you; so he doesn't actually try anything about it. But Merlin simply knows: there is nothing but blood running through his veins now - no vigorous warmth, no energic flow; there is simply nothing singing under his placid flesh, as he focuses on it.)

He cannot help but wish he's wrong though, and desperately tries to move a quill on Arthur's desk behind Arthur's back - the simplest of things, really; yet he fails, indeed...

His magic is tied to his body. Not to his mind.

No, no, no, no, nooooooooooo.

Merlin is, to his core, *terrified* - as he has never been. Not only because he feels more powerless and utterly helpless than he has ever felt - and worse, unable to protect Arthur! But also because the longer Arthur stays in his body, the more chances he has to find out that he has magic!? (And even though Merlin has nearly told Arthur, once? He is still not ready for him to know right now... Will after all didn't lie to protect Merlin's secret on his deathbed for Merlin to take chances with his life so soon after...)

Merlin though decides to push his panic aside for the moment: he simply MUST focus. No matter which sorcerer has this week decided to deal with the Pendragon line once and for all, Arthur's life is undoubtedly in the balance; and that's dearer to Merlin than all the magic in the world - included his own.

Because Merlin's life *has* tilted, on that rocky beach by The Great Seas of Meredor.

Merlin's earnest readiness to lay his life down to save Arthur's had been instinctive, beyond doubt visceral; and the concrete force of the impulse had surprised him. Because it hadn't been related to his first supposed then anyway indeed wished upon destiny. It had merely been a reflex, a spontaneous reaction: what he had wanted to do; more than what he ought to do. And Merlin had realized right then that he had, somehow, but undeniably, actually come to *LOVE* Arthur? He had known, for some time, that he liked him. And he had felt oddly pleased when Arthur had turned up at Ealdor - maybe Arthur liked him too? But if your first thought when someone is threatened is 'I'd rather die than see him die'? Well, there is a kind of selfishness, even in seflessness, that goes beyond 'liking', right...

It shouldn't have been such a shocking revelation though. Sure, Arthur could be a spoiled, royal prat; an irritating, pompous ass; an arrogant, moronic bully - to list but the top of the iceberg of his massive shortcomings, and without even mentioning the complete dollophead he could sometimes be. But Arthur could also be truly brave, honest, and kind; willing not only to trust but also to actually defend the words of mere servants, ready to defy his father's orders in order to save a child's life, and volunteering to help a village not even belonging to his Kingdom, to note only a few examples. Also: at some point, Merlin had realized how what could at first appear as near manhandling tactility was in fact just Arthur's disguised way to show (or ask?) affection (because one probably just doesn't walk around asking for cuddles while growing up between Uther's judging cold glares and Morgana's sharp witty tongue; and the physical occasional playfulness of the knights training must have seemed like the only way to go...). And last but not least: Merlin owed Arthur his life - if Arthur hadn't gone looking for a Mortaeus flower... So, in short: of course Merlin had gotten fond of the man. For his own values; and not because he was meant to be the other side of his coin or something. And notwithstanding how so annoyingly beautiful he always was (for the record on that particular subject: Gwen is so adorably beautiful, and Morgana so petrifyingly beautiful).

But, as Arthur - bound to be King one day Arthur - hadn't even hesitate before choosing to sacrifice himself, in order to fix what he had recognized to be his error, instead of using the (even offered) life of a simple servant? Well... There is a difference still between having the conviction that Arthur is a good man ready to fight for the greater good, even knowing it could be his death; and knowing as a FACT that Arthur *is* a good man ready to *die* for the greater good, even knowing it *will* be his death. And you bet having been proven *exactly* how pure of heart Arthur intrinsically is has only cemented that burgeoning love deeper into Merlin's heart - simply; truly; and maybe irrevocably. Merlin would now willingly die a thousand deaths to save his Prince.

.

(And feel free to shout with me about 1.11 because *MAJOR FEELS*!)

(And then hug me as I shamelessly cry because this is still NOTHING next to what's to come - aka Arthur becoming ACHINGLY beautiful, as Merlin turns ready to KILL a thousands times to save his King, blackening his own heart in the process and thinking himself then unworthy of Arthur's love because Arthur is just so BRIGHT; but wishing for it nonetheless?)

.

IV. PLANNING (MERLIN POV)

Arthur, miraculously (even though understandably; because he must be shaken too, right), is unaware of Merlin's internal crisis as he shares what he's uncovered until now: "It seems to be just us. The kitcheners and the guards all seem to be themselves."

"So. Whoever has done this is targetting you - personnally."

"Nice to see your wits are still so very particularly sharp, Merlin. Is there any reason for the one behind all this to be targetting you?"

It is beyond odd to *hear* Arthur's usual tone in his own voice; but Merlin still has the grace to sigh, before pushing his point further: "But why you?"

"Well, obviously *you*'ve forgotten, but I am Camelot's Crown Prince, responsib-."

"Which is exactly what's bothering me!" Merlin can't help but interject. "Why take on the Prince when you can take on the King?"

"Oh... Do you think... Could someone be... training on us, then? Before attacking-"

"I honestly have no idea. Maybe you got targetted indeed because you're head of security. We shouldn't rule anything out."

Arthur brings his fist down on the table, determinedly: "Well, whatever the evil plan might be, we just cannot permit for it to work. We'll have to find a way to stop this nonsense - no offense. In the meantime, we must act as if nothing unusual is going on. It might be for the time being our best chance at keeping Camelot safe - making whoever planned this think the spell didn't work?"

Merlin can't help but let out a helpless (yet realistic) sigh: "That's... a lot; on both accounts."

Arthur echoes with a helpless sigh of his own: "I know."

/

But if they are to keep up pretenses, Merlin is going to need to be prepared: "So. What's on your agenda for today - besides the monthly open pleas this morning and the daily training this afternoon?"

"Nothing particular. And there are no coming feasts nor abroad visits planned for the coming time, thankfully. (worried sigh) But there's concil, tomorrow."

"Well, let's start at the beginning. I should do fine enough for the pleas. It's mostly your father's duty; your presence is required, of course, but mostly you're to hear and listen..." Fear grips Merlin at once: "But it's public; so it would be a great opportunity to try to murder you!" He MUST protect Arthur's body: "Will you please go fetch your chainmail in my room?"

"No."

The tone is definitive, and Merlin is torn between begging, or growing impatient - because Arthur can be so obtuse sometimes (now really isn't the time for Arthur to be feeling indignation about being ordered around like a simple servant; even though he *is* one at the moment - not that Merlin would ever think he was one, of course - but what if Arthur thinks he does and enjoys the chance at some payback?): "Arthur, please (again?). It's the expected type of errands of the body you momentarily (because it MUST be momentarily, right?) inhabit - I can't - You're the target. I need your chainmail. I have no fighting skills, nor any kind of skills really to protect yo-"

"I cannot be seen wandering the castle in my chainmail without reason, Merlin; it would attract attention", Arthur interrupts in a somehow gentler tone; and Merlin realizes that Arthur hadn't registered at first how Merlin's concern was about him, more than himself - and is obviously humbled by the thought. "Court clothes are required, anyway. We're not supposed to look threatening, nor threatened, when our subjects come to present their wishes," Arthur pursues, killing any possible protest in the bud. "Besides, the guards will be present. So don't worry too much about anything happening to us", Arthur ends in a lower voice; as if the last part had been more a thought to reassure himself than a phrase meant to be uttered - and Merlin just has to savour that precious 'us'...

Merlin though isn't reassured enough about his Prince's safety: "Please (yes, that's thrice; adamant much?) Sire, at least allow me to wear your thickest leather under your tunic" - willing his voice to make it sound like a not-to-be-denied demand more than a true question.

Arthur holds his gaze; and it actually feels like a blessing when he finally relents: "As you wish; but it won't be comfortable against naked skin."

"I'll manage." Merlin can't help but fidget some before pursuing - asking Arthur to do what is and should be *his* work feeling not only weird but even wrong: "But I'll need your help to tie it in the back?"

Arthur dimissively tousles his hair, grumbling: "I *know*, Merlin." 'My clothes' going unsaid.

Merlin can be relieved about one thing, at least: Arthur obviously isn't piqued about doing a servant's work...

/

Merlin picks out the largest fitting of Arthur's clothes. He puts on the braies and trousers while still wearing the gown, respectfully tying the belt blindly around his waist. He puts on socks, and shoes. Then only does he take the gown off, and turns his back towards Arthur so that he may help with adjusting the leather's straps.

A surprised but definitely pleased whisper ("Impressive, ain't I?") echoes in Merlin's ears, as the Prat Prince seems apparently unable not to comment about his damn broad back, angling Merlin shortly that way and this way as if to assess it even better.

'Believe me, I know', Merlin can't refrain from thinking; feeling a blush coming over his face, and thankful that Arthur is too busy looking at his own back to notice any of it.

"I think I might even have outgrown Sir Leon - in width at least if not in height", Arthur concludes proudly before finally starting to work the ties - leaving Merlin suddenly ashamed of his initial internal reprimand, and oddly upset. Of course Arthur would only wish to see in his physique the strength of a warrior. Of course his first thought, when finally able to actually see his own back, would be to compare it to his given models - the Knights; and most of all among them, to his own chosen model, Leon - both the noblest and strongest of them all, yet young enough to play the part of the older brother Arthur could look up to while growing up... No one has probably ever told him that he is beautiful, Merlin realizes sadly. But the fact that Arthur is so unaware only makes him even more beautiful in Merlin's eyes...

Merlin forces himself to tease Arthur, hiding his turmoil under their usual banter: "Well, I could ask Gabriel to take measurements, if you so badly wish-"

"Shut up, Merlin", accompanied by a rewarding hit in the back of his right shoulder, which Merlin gladly revels in, no matter the unusual fist size. This, no matter their predicament, feels normal.

And in that short moment of normalcy, when everything feels just right as Arthur ends tying the leather, Merlin notices something he hasn't noticed before, when all he could feel was STRESS.

Oh no.

/

"Arthur?" Merlin can't help but wince at the intimidated tone in his voice as he turns around; and Arthur is eyeing him now with furrowed eyebrows. "I think I need - I mean you need... to... have to go?"

Arthur makes a face - with his face; except it still looks somehow like a typical outraged Arthur face (damn, this is just too confusing...): "Merlin!"

"He! Do not look at me like this is my fault! It's *YOUR* body! Maybe you shouldn't have drun-"

"Well, maybe you shouldn't have brought a full pitcher at dinner then!"

They eye each other, both unrelenting over who is at fault.

And Merlin can't help but think that somehow he is, indeed, no matter what. Because there are levels in intimacy; and he IS definitely crossing a line. There is a difference between being around and trying to avoid his gaze when Arthur walks in and out of his bath, or applying Gaius's healing balm to bruises on Arthur's back because it's a place Arthur can't reach on his own, and, well... watching and touching Arthur's *manhood*, even if only for urinating, technically ensuring no mess is done while doing it?

Arthur suddenly sighs though, and his voice sounds kinder as he offers: "This will surely happens a few times before we sort it all out, huh. To the both of us. So. How should we proceed?"

Merlin scratches his head, summoning some courage: "Do you want to... hold-"

"Your hand, Merlin!", Arthur demonstrates, lifting the would-be-culprit in the air and wiggling its fingers for good measure; and that's a 'No way' if Merlin ever heard one...

"Would you rather it to be your hand-"

"It's *your* hand right now!" Indeed. So. Another 'No way'.

But suddenly Merlin has a solution, of sort: "What if I... go sit into the stream? There's a quiet spot not so far from the castle I found while collecting herbs for Gaius... If I hurry I still can make it back before the pleas."

Arthur actually claps his hands, obviously relieved: "Sometimes, I swear, you are a genius." He hurries over, handing Merlin his tunic and grabbing the Pendragon red doublet before marching out: "Let's go!"

"You're coming?" (hastening to put the tunic on and grabbing a towel before following)

"Well, as I just said, it's bound to happen to me - you - so I might just as well tag along, and know where it is."

/

Once out of potentially spying ears reach, they plan the day further.

"We HAVE to tell Gaius, at the least, about our situation: no one will contest his word if he says you're not to train for a while - because honestly how am I supposed to spare with your Knights? They will notice right away that something isn't right. And, well..."

Merlin hesitates, not wanting to incriminate Gaius in any way. As it turns out, he doesn't have to:

"You're right. Besides, Gaius has heard about a lot of... stuff, in all his years. I was planning to go around Jeffrey and look for the forbidden books, but I have no ideas how many volumes are hidden down here, nor where they even *are* to start with... If anyone we know might have even the slightest clue about how to fix our problem, it's him; even if it's only about finding an adequate book."

Merlin nods, relieved: "So. After the pleas, I stage a fall, and we go to Gaius, who tells you're not to train for the time being. That leaves the rest of the day free, both for looking up about our situation, and briefing me on what I should be aware of for tomorrow's concil. Do you address things in an established order; who's whose specialisms; what you discussed by the latest concils which might be brought up again tomorrow; and so on..."

"I'm supposed to make the battle plans, Merlin? But as far as plans go, I have to admit this isn't a bad one. Except I'm not you; I do not trip on my feet twice a day. So. I'll make you fall. That's more plausible."

"No way! You'll end up in the stocks!" Merlin realizes how - no matter what he might have been thinking just a few months ago - he simply doesn't want Arthur in the stocks. Ever. "Which is NOT where you should be spending your afternoon." Merlin quickly amends; hiding his concern under logic's sake, knowing it to be the best way to persuade Arthur anyway. "So. You fall. I try to help you. But we both fall. I'm clumsy, as ever; you're noble, as always; everyone get to laugh at me, and praise you; and your father might skip punishing me for you getting hurt in the process, as you obviously didn't want me hurt to start with?" (pause, before adding earnestly, yet fiercely, as Merlin isn't able to tone back the surge of threat in his eyes at the mere idea of having anyone disrespecting Arthur in that way) "If he doesn't though, I'll stand guard next to you."

"Would you?" Arthur seems surprised; but touched: "Well, who knows, maybe I'll return the favor the next time."

Merlin can't refrain a whine: "The next time?"

"Even I can't save you from my father's wrath every time; it's bound to happen, either from your two left foots or your snarky mouth."

They can hear the water now, and Arthur accelerates towards it, as Merlin lags behind, unable not to smile:

"I guess I'm supposed to say 'thank you'?"

"I might have forgotten to mention I'll probably throw something in your face myself at the last moment. Prince's privilege and all that..." - Arthur even turns towards him, giving him one of his goofy faces to boot (Merlin didn't know *his* face could do *that*, by the way).

Merlin just keeps on smiling anyway. He probably hasn't felt that brightly, positively, ridiculously happy since "I'm rehiring you - because someone needs to muck out my stables". Arthur has a particular way to express fondness, and Merlin wouldn't change it for the world.

.

AN: Sorry? I'm cackling though. Poor boys, what they have to go through... Just remember it's all Bradley's fault anyway; none of this is on my head :)

.

V. THERE'S SOMETHING ABOUT MERLIN (ARTHUR POV)

Arthur is the first to reach the stream, and crouches down to test the water with his hand.

"It's cold", he warns, while Merlin walks in a straight line towards a tree with a low hanging branch and starts undressing - he does come here often, clearly.

Merlin shrugs: "Be grateful it's not winter yet. Try bathing around Imbolc - that's cold." Merlin goes on; stating an afterthought while hanging his pants on the branch: "Still worth it though; everything here is just more... alive, you know. You don't get that indoors."

And Arthur has bathed on patrols enough to know that, honestly?: he prefers his warm baths. He can't help but feel a smile on his face though at the words; they are so intrinsically Merlin.

/

Arthur had been struck, when they had met. No one had ever defied him, in any way. And it had stung; Arthur could admit. So. He had not been displeased at all when he had overmastered the fool and turned him over. The affront had been too public to be allowed to slide, and Arthur had decided he wouldn't dwell a further thought about the goodhearted fool (Arthur knew terrorrizing people wasn't right. He tended though to react badly whenever anyone acted cowardly (which was, well, all the time, around him); especially as he was actually *praised* for it somehow), but fool nonetheless, who should have known to mind his own business...

It had been nothing though in comparison to his surprise when their paths had crossed again. Arthur hadn't been able NOT to taunt him - hoping, somehow... But the last thing Arthur had been actually expecting had been for Merlin to act *exactly the same*. Surely, now that he knew who he was, he would just scrabble around him as anyone else - not defy him again, knowing it would get him in chains again, right? Arthur had been *delighted* by Merlin's untamable fire - the words, and then the look he had thrown at him while taking his jacket off? (Maybe Arthur had just been waiting all his life for someone to finally stand his ground to him, indeed...) Of course Arthur had let him go without punishment that second time - and any time since then (which was honestly difficult, as Merlin - always fighting for what was right more than for himself Merlin - frequently got riled up, be it in private OR IN PUBLIC, by literally anyone and anything).

Since he has been to Ealdor though, Arthur can't help but see things under a new light.

Hunith is everything Arthur believes a loving mother to be. But there had been no father at home, nor any mention of one. (Arthur knows the sting of this kind of wound - missing a parent; and he had been saddened, as he had realized that Merlin bore such a wound too.) Arthur hadn't dared to ask, but he had wondered: did Merlin ever got a father to start with; or had he been abandoned - intentionally or not? (Arthur knows how even an accident still feels akin to a betrayal in a child's heart.) Which would be the worst anyway? But what if Merlin had been bullied through his childhood because of it? - children could be particularly malicious, when they intended to... Was it how Merlin had learned, the hard way, that fighting - both with his words and his fists - was the only way to end the pestering? And had decided it wouldn't be only for his own sake, but for the sake of anyone who might ever need help? Was it what had brought Merlin close to Will - the fact that they both had lost their father? Was it the reason Will had wanted to learn magic to start with? (Arthur knows the near constant anger, too. As does Merlin, obviously.)

Arthur can't help but feel grateful anew, somehow, and no matter what, still, that Merlin has had Will around: surely, no matter how bad the fights Merlin had jumped into, Will must have kept him safe - at least safe enough - *with his magic*. The thought had been unbidden the first time it had occured, and had definitely surprised Arthur; but he hadn't been able to deny that it was what he truly felt indeed.

/

Because of course Arthur had come to care for Merlin. Isn't it why he had gone to Ealdor to start with after all...

Merlin.

Definitely not an ordinary manservant. And probably not the champion manservant by any book (fast learner, and smart, and hard working, he was; but only about what *he* deemed important - hence for example his total disregard for any kind of storage? - but Arthur generally agreed with what Merlin deemed important or not anyway). But honestly the only manservant Arthur now could imagine ever having - or ever want to have.

Because Arthur likes Merlin as his manservant exactly just the way he is, and would now never wish for another - no matter (and specifically because of) how well-schooled and zealous to satisfy his every need (and whim) that hypothetic other might be... Arthur now sees what others might judge flaws as assets (Merlin's clumsiness and chattiness are more endearing and uplifting than unefficient, especially as his opinions always sound reasonable; his sarcasm and insults are a sure way to keep Arthur's head from ever getting inflated; and his challenging manners push Arthur to do and be better - from training with the knights to saving people's lifes), and what others might judge insubordinate as being treated, for once, finally, as an equal, somehow (even though they both know and acknowledge they aren't) - no matter whenever it comes out at Arthur's expanse too, food getting shoved into his mouth and getting unceremoniously pulled out of bed included in their everyday banter, as Merlin can give just as much as he gets indeed. But that's maybe what Arthur values the most: how Merlin's respect feels earned and honest; neither forced by birthright or fear for repercussions, nor cajoling nor calculated.

Arthur has never had a private servant for longer than a year - his Father's rule; but you bet Arthur is decided about keeping Merlin at his side when the year would end. He will have to strategize; he will need irrefutable arguments. But if he plays his cards well - and Merlin never ceases to hand him over cards to play - Arthur has no doubt that his Father will actually allow it: it's in the best interest of the Kingdom after all.

Merlin.

A whirlwind. Always animated, always busy; never still, even when he's doing nothing. But always so expressive - so easy to read - a fact Arthur has come not only to appreciate after decades around perpetually guarded scheming faces, but even to *trust*.

A chatty nature-loving poet with dangly limbs, gentle heart, and the brightest smile Arthur has ever seen - Arthur has come to know. Yet the sassiest mouth and the most unrelenting fighter Arthur has ever met; his utter lack of skills balanced by sheer defiance - Arthur has learned right from the start. (Merlin just never backs off, no matter the odds; which is very stupid, but also very brave.)

A confusing, clashing mess of contraries. But an admirable man, with a beautiful soul.

And you bet Arthur wouldn't have him be any different.

Arthur shakes his head. Maybe - just like with his two left feet - it isn't Merlin's choice to be such a poet all the time. Arthur hasn't been inside Merlin's body for more than a few hours, and already he is turning into a maudlin bard himself, huh...

/

Arthur sighs; bringing himself back to the present - only to be struck by Merlin yet again.

Merlin has by now disrobed of everything except for the leather, which he has rolled up to his chest (logic; it would take too much time to tie it up all once more), and the tunic, which he now holds tightly in a bundle against his chest too, even if (and no doubt exactly because) it must get in his vision range as he enters the water. The lengths Merlin now goes again, simply to avoid to *see* - treating his body with the utmost respect, even when it is betraying him?

It should be insignificant, but the whole endeavour screams once more just how *devoted* Merlin always is, to him; and it is honestly dumbfounding.

He has been willing to die for me. And more than once.

The thought slices through Arthur's mind; as usual charged with guilt, and heartbreaking, yet oddly sweet.

Arthur doesn't understand: he has truly done very little to earn such high esteem - and that's an euphemism. Getting the man in the stocks? Letting him drink poison destined for him? Having his only friend die?

But you bet Arthur cherishes it all the same. And he wants - oh, he WANTS - to be worthy of it. Not because it's what he ought to do, repaying kindness with kindness, loyalty with loyalty; and definitely not because he owes Merlin a friend - you can't replace a friend (even if Arthur never actually had a friend, he knows that it's supposed to be a special, powerful, unique bond). Not even because Merlin does indeed makes him want to be a better man - even if that's true, and definitely positive for the future of Camelot. But simply because HE. WANTS. TO. Arthur has realized by now how he is always tempted, whenever they are together: either to act silly in order to cause a smile; or to provoke Merlin until he bites. Both reactions feel peculiarly satisfying; spreading a pleasant warmth through his whole being - and Arthur just always has to smile...

So.

On impulse, Arthur disrobes Merlin's lower half and enters the (indeed very cold) water while holding his tunic bundled up too, keeping his eyes stubbornly fixed on his own body sinking until the water reaches up to above its waist, as Merlin sits on his knees in the middle of the stream. And yes, the fact that Arthur has just chosen to abide by Merlin's stubborn dedication on that matter, instead of letting his perpetual interest about literally everything run free, for once, (because yes, if he hadn't witnessed Merlin's commitment, Arthur might have taken a look at Merlin's body, out of sheer curiosity; he wouldn't though, not from now on...), is both a pledge and a self-serving whim.

Merlin, drawn by the sounds, turns to him with questioning eyebrows, and Arthur sheepishly drops on his knees next to him: "I thought it unfair to let you have all the fun on your own. Now, ready to scare the fish?"

Merlin howls with laughter. Arthur decides it's definitely worth playing silly while freezing his ass off.

.

(Imbolc = 31 january)

Feel free to come and fangirl with me over 1.01 and then scream with me over 1.10 !

On a side note, I'm sorry but not sorry about that fish line? It was *totally* unplanned but then it just rolled out and I went 'yep, sure, arthur would, totally; it stays!' ?

.

VI. THE PRINCE'S PART (ALTERNATE ARTHUR/MERLIN POV)

They get out; get dried; put their clothes back on. Merlin ties the towel to the branch, for future use.

Then, on their way back to the castle, Arthur asks Merlin about his agenda for the day.

Merlin gives him a look - like he's unsure whether Arthur means it. Arthur gives him a look back - meaning he isn't joking indeed.

Merlin smiles, eyes full of mirth: "Your chambers are a complete mess, your clothes need washing, your boots need cleaning, your dogs need exercising, your fireplace needs sweeping, your bed needs changing and, oh, *someone* needs to muck out your stables." Merlin sobers up. "But we have more pressing matters at hand; so I think you can consider yourself free for the day."

Arthur is taken aback. He recognizes his own words, of course. It's both baffling and humbling - that Merlin can quote him, months later? and that Merlin has omitted one part and one part only in his old speech, because they both know his armour doesn't need any repairing (the devotion Merlin shows those metal pieces echoing the devotion he shows to Arthur himself)? Arthur had first planned to give a playful thankful bow; but it would feel wrong.

"So. I'll go bother Geoffrey. Try to get him to show me where the secret books are hidden. I'll tell him Gaius has found a strange herb and wants to make sure it isn't dangerous or something..."

/

Merlin has to give Arthur that: he is indeed insightful.

The mention of Gaius's name though has Merlin slightly panicking again: Gaius doesn't know yet about their current situation. What if he mentions 'something' upon walking on Arthur thinking he is him? No. Merlin has to be there when they'll get to see Gaius.

"Speaking about Gaius? Stay clear from his chambers. I doubt he'll be as magnanimous as I am. He'll do that thing with his eyebrow and have you pick herbs and brewing healing potions and concocting ointments before you even got a chance to tell him about our predicament - he's really dedicated in my education as a physician, you know..."

"And I believe you rather enjoy it."

"I do, indeed. I mean... It's fascinating - do you know that the same stuff can cure you or kill you sometimes, depending on the dosis? Anyway, who wouldn't want to know how to save lives?" Merlin can't help but twitch. "I'm not sure I'm any good at it though..."

/

There is a flash of guilt in Merlin's disheartened eyes, and Arthur realizes two things:

1) Merlin feels responsible for having been unable to save his friend Will. Which is understandable, because Merlin must have gathered by now some knowledge from Gaius's lessons; but heartbreaking - because Arthur has seen enough arrow's wounds to know that Will's could never have healed - and perplexing - because Will has died to save *him*, not Merlin; so why would Merlin think the guilt was his to start with? and how come Arthur has never felt like Merlin might blame him for it either?

2) Merlin's face is always *transparent* - a fact Arthur truly appreciates on Merlin's face - but a fact that could turn out problematic, now that it's on his own face...

"Let's get back to my chambers. There is still something you should master better before the pleas."

/

And that's how Merlin finds himself positioned by Arthur in front of a mirror.

"What do you see, Merlin?" Arthur asks.

"Well, you?" Merlin feels he's missing Arthur's point, but he has no clue...

"Do you? Because I see my body, I see my clothes; but I do not see the Prince of Camelot - I'd like to think I play it better than that - and I must be, because my Father would not allow *this* I assure you - at least I hope or the kingdom is doomed." Arthur ends on a sigh, shakes his head, and then turns commanding eyes back towards Merlin via the mirror. "Close your eyes, Merlin. Think of me. I mean, *picture* me; and more especially, picture me at any official activity you've served me through. See how I walk, how I stand, how I sit, how I move, how I look?"

Merlin does as asked, searching through his memories. After a while, he nods.

"Got it?"

"I think?"

"Then open your eyes, Merlin. What do you see?"

Merlin understands now. He can't help but sigh helplessly. "Not the Prince of Camelot. Obviously. I'm sorry Arthur, I guess I'm just not... majestic enough to play you."

"It's not that hard, Merlin. Come on; I'll explain. Ready?" Arthur grins at him via the mirror, exuding confidence - trust in him?; and Merlin would face (has faced) monsters to earn it indeed.

Merlin nods, their eyes still linked via the mirror.

"First thing first? You're slouching."

"Yes. (Merlin tries not to slouch; but is still not satisfied with the result) I think though the biggest problem is- There's something wrong with your face."

"Because you wear your heart on it, Merlin; and you mustn't. Believe me, you do not want to be lectured for hours about this by my Father..."

Arthur moves away, and Merlin can't see him anymore in the mirror. His voice is directing though, and Merlin focuses on the words to school his face.

"You're a prince, so you *must* always look like one. No matter what you do, you must always, *always*, look confident. That's the first strength of a kingdom - the strenghth of its ruler. That's what keeps your people safe. So. Chin up, Merlin. Square your shoulders. Stand tall - stand *proud*."

Merlin realizes the words are not Arthur's; they're Uther's. He wonders how often indeed Arthur has heared those words - most probably often enough to give himself a internal pep talk before any official anything apparently...

"That's better; but still not good enough. No matter how you feel inside must not show, Merlin. When you're tired, hide it. When you're sick, hide it. When you hurt, hide it. When you're stressed, hide it. When you worry, hide it. When you doubt, hide it. When you're bored, and even more when you disagree; hide it - it's disrespectful; and we do not want wounded pride to fester, don't we Merlin? When you're afraid, definitely hide it. When you're sad, hide it. And the trickiest part maybe: when you're happy, hide it too - or risk whatever is making you happy to be taken away: weakening you is weakening the kingdom; and its enemies will never hesitate to bring you down, if you let them see even an inch of an opportunity."

Merlin is shaken. He feels guilty, somehow. This is, certainly, too intimate. Merlin feels like he's intruding. This feels even more trespassing than being in Arthur's body. It's like being forced in Arthur's head, without his consent. It's nauseating.

"Again, Merlin. Your eyes; focus. It's a part; but it's part of your job. So for the love of Camelot, Merlin, please try harder. Your people reckon on you to lead them and protect them; so it's your duty to be a leader, and to be strong. Work hard; harder than anyone else. You *must* be an example, an inspiration. You must be admirable in everything, so that your people will follow you everywhere. But you must lead, Merlin; never follow. A ruler is alone - *must* be alone. Do not trust anyone; at least do not trust anyone more than anyone else, and surely not more than you trust yourself. Your own judgement must *never* be clouded."

Merlin can't help but turn towards Arthur at the words, both in disbelief and in ache... Because Merlin has grown up hiding, but he had never realized that Arthur had, too; and maybe even more than him. Arthur must not only always pretend and perpetually watch over his shoulder; he must pretend and watch over his shoulder *alone*. And Merlin can only imagine how hard that must have been, and be. Back at Ealdor, Merlin had (and still has) his loving mother, and he had Will. Even here, now, Merlin has Gaius. And somehow, yes: he has Arthur too, Merlin suddenly realizes; and then feels ashamed, because he can't help but feel blessed - Arthur trusts him. Because Arthur is definitely less guarded around him, isn't he? When it's just the two of them; Arthur and Merlin? Arthur laughs, Arthur doubts, Arthur *shows*; maybe not everything - but that's probably not possible as he is so trained - but something at least always shines through; even if it's by putting his feet on his face... But Merlin knows now, how rare and precious it truly is. They can never be friends, maybe; but Arthur trusts him. That's undeniable; and that's everything, somehow.

"Do not look at me; look at the mirror, Merlin. Harden your eyes. Smile; always politely, even when you don't want to smile at all; more genuinely, when it's true - but never let it go up to your eyes. First thing about tomorrow too; as we're at it. Hear everyone out. Listen with your full attention to everyone; whether you agree or not. Never decides right away; except if it's necessary, in war time. Your decisions must be thought upon; never a spur of the moment. If something is unclear, do not let it show during concil. If you favor a position, do not let it show during concil. If you disagree, do not let it show during concil. You need further advice, or even only further information? Seek the appropriate person in private; ask man to man. They will see the honor in it if it's positive, and be thankful you kept it private if it's negative. Also. You must be ready to be impartial, Merlin; because you do not need to be kind, but you must always be fair. You may - and you will, unfortunately - make mistakes; but never ackowledge them. Fix them. If you can't; repair as much damage as possible. Learn from your errors, in order to never make the same mistake again. But never apologize. Come on Merlin; I'm sure you can do it. You're nearly there."

More over, Merlin realizes the Arthur he gets to see nowadays - the true Arthur - has always been there already, even under the pretense of the moron. Kilgarrah is wrong. His destiny isn't to change Arthur; because there is nothing to change. Arthur already has everything to be a great king, the greatest king, all on his own.

And so, Merlin is *angry*. He has now yet another reason to despise Uther, it seems - scarring his child on the inside in such a way. Of course Arthur always feels inadequate; of course Arthur feels lacking; of course the only bond Arthur values is the one with his fellow knights - ride to glory or death, together? It's the only bond Uther has authorized him to authorize himself to ever have... But Merlin's anger is a good thing, apparently - because whenever Merlin thinks about Uther, Arthur finds that he's playing the Prince's part better.

"There Merlin, you have it. See? Right there. Lock it; just like that. That's good enough for anyone looking today; because believe me, someone *will* be looking, even if only my Father and not the one who switched us or anyone else with ill intentions - there is *always* *someone* looking, Merlin."

Fine. Think about Uther; until the pleas are done. Merlin can do it; and he'll gladly do it. He'll probably gladly do anything; for Arthur. He can still have a cry or hit a wall afterwards, right...

.

Arthur needs a hug. I volunteer. Anyone with me? (besides Merlin, obviously...)

[asongstress1422]

If You Go Down to The Woods Today

Reylo Fanfic -- werewolf au

Read on: AO3

Happy Halloween!!

The prickle on the back of her neck had Rey turning around to scan the area, hand slipping into her coat pocket around the small canister of mace. It was just shy of three in the morning and for what Rey could see of the rain soaked street it was vode of life. Though her instincts had gotten her out of too many tight spots for her to just not listen to them now. It they told her something was out there, it was out there.

So she had two options.

First being go back the way she had come. It was about two blocks, less than five minutes if she ran, to the club where she worked, though she doubted anyone would still be there. On a night like this her coworkers would want to get home just as much as she did. But she could lock herself safely inside and call an uber, though even the shout few blocks to her apartment would send her bank account into the red.

Her second option was walking the four remaining blocks to her apartment. A longer distance, yes, but if things got really hairy there was a twenty-four hour convenience store that she could hide out in. It was Satur-- er, Sunday morning so that meant Bonnie would be manning the counter. Rey bit her lip, weighing the idea of potentially luring her problems to the woman’s place of employment against knowing the older woman had a concealed weapons permit and was always packing. And Rey’s apartment was only another block up from there.

Path decided, Rey buttoned her coat tight around her neck and, on a deep breath, closed her umbrella.  The mid-October rain was cold, instantly plastering her hair to her scalp. Shoving wet hair out of her eyes Rey marched forward, impromptu weapon clutched in her hands.

She made it about a block until her body screamed at her again and with little thought she turned, umbrella in a defensive block across her chest, palms and wrist loose, ready to counter just as her Sensei had drilled her.

A deeper shadow along the row of cars froze, yellow-green eyes reflecting the steep lamps. Her brain’s pseudo perpetrator.

Rey’s sigh floated in the air around her as her shoulders sagged in releaf. Then she laughed at herself further revealing her tension. “Good graces, boy, you scared me. What are you doing out here in all this wet, don’t you have some place to be?”

The dog remained pressed up against the red honda that had seen better days, completely motionless. Only its eyes followed her as she crouched on the sidewalk offering a hand. “Come on, I’m not going to hurt you,” she cood. “I just want to see if you got a collar so I can get you home.”

Slowly the animal moved, inching towards her and out of the shadow of the car.

“Wow,” Rey breathed as it cautiously slunk towards her, “you are a big boy, aren't you.”

In the weak light he appeared to be all black, long hair distorting his body as it dripped water. Kneeling as she was if he stood to his full height he his head would have topped hers but instead he kept his body hunkered close to the ground as he stretched out his huge head to sniff at her fingers, warm air curling over them.

Tentatively Rey scratched his chin. After a startled second of tension the great beast ease deeper into her palm. She ran her hands back to his neck. Finding no collar she gave it a good scratch as she looked down both ways of the empty road.

“Well, somebody has to be looking for you. You’re too well groomed to have been a stray long with all the hair you have.” He looked up to her as she spoke making them nearly nose to nose. “My goodness, you are a pretty thing.”

What she was about to do was probably one of her more stupid endeavors but her conscience simply wouldn’t let her leave the animal out in the rain. With a sigh she pushed to her feet.

“Okay, big guy, how about you come home with me and we’ll get you dry, does that sound good?” She smiled when his tail wagged, as if he actually understood her instead of responding the higher pitch in her voice. “Okay, let's go. And you can keep way any other stalkers I happen to pick up.”

Not bothering with the umbrella as she was already soaked, Rey and the animal walked the last few blocks to her apartment building.

“Just three flight of stairs and another door and we’re set,” she got out through clattering teeth. The dog pressed up against her side. “You’re sweet trying keep me warm but you’re probably just as cold as I am. I’ll get us fixed up as soon as we get inside.”

She was shaking so back by the time they finally reached her door it was a tryal to get the key in the lock but she managed. The apartment opened up into the living room, the space just big enough fo the couch to fit comfortably and everything else to squeeze in around. The lights were off inside but the key holder on the wall said one of her two roommates were home.

“We have to be quiet,” she whispered to the dog closing and locking the door, leaning the closed umbrella against the wall and hanging up her own keys. “Our lease says we can’t have animals.”

The dog whined softly once in reply but followed her as she led them into the bathroom. The fluorescents turned everything slightly orange as she shut the both of them inside. Zeroing in on the shower her first goal was turning the faucets all the way to hot.

“Okay, buddy, in you go.” He needed no second promoting hopping into the stall and laying under the hot water with a deep sigh. “Yeah, I bet that feels good.”

With numb fingers she picked at her own clothes, leaving them in a sopping pile on the floor.

“Hey, boy,” she said easing a foot under his rug like bulk, “scoot over some.”

He glanced up at her and nearly brained himself on the tub spout when he scrambled to his feet.

“It’s okay, I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to get warm, too.” She moaned as she stepped into the hot spray. The dog tensed, pressing his face deeper to the seam of the tiled wall.

After a long minute just standing there with the water thawing her out she set about her shower ritual, running shampoo and conditioner through her shoulder length hair before grabbing her body wash and turning on the dog who had remained motionless the corner the whole time.

“I hope the scent isn’t too strong for your nose but we’re also going to need something to cover up that wet dog smell.”

She squirted a great glob of the pink gel in her hands. He flinched at the first touch of her hand and she tried soothing him with kind gibberish as she ran the soap through his long fur. It took some finagling to get him all washed, as it almost seemed as he refused to look directly at her as she crouched before him in the tub, but finally the water ran clean.

“Okay, boy,” Rey said around a huge yawn as she shut off the water. “Lets get dried off then it’s time for bed.”

She stepped out snagging the towel from the bar on the wall and wrapping it around herself, not wanting to give up her warmth now that she had it back. She picked up her wet clothes and hung them over the shower rod to, hopefully, dry by morning. Grabbing a second towel she called for her shower mate who stepped dantaily over the high lip of the tub, seemingly fine to look at her now that she was covered.

“You so funny,” she cooed raking the towel over him, carefully patting around his eyes. Still too wet for her liking she pulled her seldom used hair dryer. Hoping not to scare him she was extra affectionate as she turned it on. Not that she had to worry, he loved it. Turning his face into the heat and sitting contently as she ran they dryer all over his body. She found that he had a cute little white half-sock on his left hind foot. He seemed disappointed when she finally shut the dryer off.

“I’m sorry,” she laughed, “but I need to go to bed.” She look him over with a frown. “Though your probable hunger, aren't you?” He perked up at that. “Okay,” she sighed. “Let me get some clothes on first.”

He followed behind her as she scurried on bare feet into her room across the hall. She quickly unbound the towel from around herself tossing her head down to wrapper her hair up in it. Diving into her dresser she pulled out the first things her hands grabbed; panties, sweatpants, an oversize sleep shirt, and her thickest pair of clean socks.

The dog was busy studying the ceiling when she turned back around. Shaking her head at herself for assigning gentlemanly behaviors to a animal she let the way into the way to the kitchen.

“I need to go shopping,” she grumbled half bent, shuffling things around in the fridge. Giving up on finding anything premade she grabbed out the half carton of eggs, the last tablespoon of foil wrapped butter, and took it to the stove.

Kicking the burner on high she tossed in half the pad of butter letting it partially melt before cracking in four eggs. Grabbing a fork from the drawer she gave them a scramble in the pan. Dash of salt, hint of pepper, a cursory flip and on a plate. Giving the eggs a change too cool, she didn’t want the dog to burn his tongue, Rey made herself some as well.

Finished she set his on the ground and opened the fridge for some salsa to go with hers. About to dig in when the dog let out a whine and pawed at her leg.

“What?” He looked at the salsa then back at her. Frowning, she picked up the jar she had set on the couter. “You want some?” He yip softly, licking his jowls as he dance in place. “It’s spicy, I don’t know if dogs can do spicy.” It was mild, she didn’t really like spice herself, but she was pretty sure the rule applied to dogs. He yipped again, insistant. “Fine, but I’m not making you anymore if you can’t eat it.”

The sounds of a beast feeding filled the small kitchen. Rey shook her head, forking up a bite of her own eggs. “First dinner date in six month and it’s will a dog.”

Metal ringing against ceramic dragged Rey from sleep. She rolled over to see at her roomate through bleary eyes as actually-to-god sunlight poured in through her crackerbox size window.

“You know we’re not aloud to have pets,” Paige said scooping another spoonful of mini wheats to her mouth.

“It’s just for one night,” Rey said trying to blink the sleep away.

“Don’t let Rose see him,” Paige warned. Rose was Paige’s four-year-younger sister that was in the inbetween stages of moving in with her boyfriend. Meaning most of her stuff was still here and she paid her third of the rent but she spent most of her time over there.

Rey nodded understanding. Growing up Rose had always wanted a pet but Paige had to put her foot down, barely able to make ends meet with just the two of them after their parents death.

“I took him on my run this morning to do his business,” Paige continued, “and fed him a can of tuna. Side note you’re, out of tuna.”

“Thanks,” Rey croaked stretching. She glanced down when her feet hit a large weight. The dog blinked at her, head lounging on his dinner-plate paws. If she had though he was large last night he was huge in the light of day. Curled as he was on her full sized mattress his tail still thumbed her upper arm in greeting. “Good morning to you, too.”

“He’s weird,” Paige said staring at the animal. “I had to bribe him with going outside before he’d leave you and I swear he glared at me when I tied a couple of scarves around him for a leash. But he kept pace with me fine and didn’t try to break free even though he could.”

Rey rubbed shoulder with her foot through the blanket. His tail thumbed again.

“Also, the wet dog towel you left handing in the bathroom?” Paige spoke around downing the last of the milk in her bowl. “Not cool.”

“I’ll do laundry,” Rey promised.

Paige grunted bending down to scratch between the dog’s ears. “Goodbye, mutt. It was nice having a running buddy.”

Rey stood in the kitchen nursing a cup of coffee, trying to figure out what her next steps would be getting him home. Paige had skipped out to work. Rose probably won't be home til late to get ready for school the next day and Rey didn’t have work until five. She could probably take him to the pound but she didn’t like the idea of him being in a cage. And what if his owner never found him?

She peeked over the counter to look at the dog as he munched on the defrosted lunch meat she had found in the back of the freezer. “You wouldn’t by chance be half homing pigeon would you, that way you can just lead me to your home?” she asked.

He glance up and Rey got the distinct impression of a yes before he stood and stretched and headed towards the front of the apartment. She came around the corner to see him waiting patiently at the door. “Well, okay. Let me go get on some shoes.”

Taking a leaf from Paige’s book Rey wrapped a scarf around his neck in an artistic take on a collar tying another on to it for a leash.

“Don’t you look handsome,” she said ruffling his scruff, the grey of the scarf setting off the near blue black of his fur.

“So once we’re out on the street, I’m going to give you an hour to find home, then we’ll need to figure out another plan.” She smiled ryle, “I should probably stop talking to you like you can understand me. I’ll be getting enough strange looks from leading around a hundred and fifty pound dog with a scarf.”

He gave her cheek a lick.

“Aww, your sweet.” She gave him another pat standing. “Let's go see if we can find who you belong to.”

Once they hit street level the dog was a like a man on a mission. He didn’t pull or try to get out of the haphazard lead rope but he did keep a steady pace that Rey had to nearly trot to keep up with. The ground was still wet and the air held the hit of a bite but the sun was shining brightly.

“I thought Paige said she ran with you today,” Rey panted fifteen minutes later. “Her route is like five miles. How do you have so much energy still?”

He gave no reply, even though Rey was half expecting one, diligent on his path. That was another thing, there was no backtracking, no hesitancy it was almost as if he actually knew where he was going. At ten minutes to his hour cut off he stopped across from a little cafe.

“Here?” Rey demanded trying to hide her disappointment. What did she expect? She had allowed a dog to lead her on a merry-goose chase across town. She sighed rubbing her face. “Guess we’ll just have to think of something else.”

Checking both ways for traffic the dog made for the door. Rey pulled back on the scarf. “We can’t go in there. It’s a restaurant, they don’t allow pets.”

He persisted forward. The knot came undone and she nearly stumbled at the unexpected slack. Instead of running off as would be normal, he gave what could only be described as an eye roll as he took the ‘leash’ in his mouth and dragged her to the front doors. She was too surprised to do anything else except let him.

As they crossed the street a waiter taking a couple's order on the outside patio looked up in surprised. “Solo?”

“You know him?” Rey asked, the dog sitting at her feet.

“Yes, well you know, his … owner? Yeah, his owner is a ..buddy of mine. That’s his dog ...Kkkyylo.”

“Didn’t you just call him ‘Solo’?” Rey asked.

“My friend's name’s Solo. The dog’s name Kylo.” He hurriedly turned back to his customers, “let me get this to the kitchen for you and I’ll be right back with your coffees.” He gestured for Rey to follow him inside.

“Can Kylo come in too?” She showed him the scarf, “I don’t have a proper leash for him and I’d hate for him to get lost again when he’s so close to being home.”

He looked down at the dog and flinched. “Yeah he can definitely come in. I’ll give his … owner a call. If you want to grab a table?”

“Yeah, sure. Take your time,” she reassured as he smiled and disappeared into the kitchen. Kylo followed her as she grabbed one of the side tables by the big bay window.

“What was your master thinking,” Rey asked him as she shed her coat, “naming you something as nonsensical as ‘Kylo’.” She ran a hand down his neck, “though I probably shouldn’t be saying that to you, it’s not like you named yourself. Kylo is a wonderful name for such a wonderful dog.” He laid head on her thigh. “I know, I’m sorry. I wont make fun of you anymore.”

The same waiter as before passed her with two lattes in hand. “I got a hold of someone, they’ll be by to pick him up in less then half an hour. If you can’t wait you can just leave him with me and I’ll see that he gets back.”

“No, I’ll wait.” She grinned up at him sheepishly, “I need to be the one to make sure he gets home.”

“I get it.” The man glance down at Kylo then away with a smile. “I’ll be right back to take your order.”

“No, that’s,” she started but he was already out the door, “okay.”

Rey sighed, it wasn’t as if a sandwich would break the bank. And she was hunger after all that walking. And she did get paid tomorrow. With a shrug she flipped open a menu left on an empty neighboring table.

“Does your owner come here often?” she found herself asking Kylo. “What does he usually get?”

She wasn’t sure if she was surprised or not when he nosed at the turkey club.

When the waiter, Paul was his name, came back round she ordered the sandwitch with the chicken noodle soup. She fed the strips of bacon to Kylo as they waited for whoever was going to pick him up to show.

A newer silver SUV style car pulled up to the curb outside the cafe. A woman draped in an elegant black shawl stepped out, her hair expertly coiffured. She set her sunglasses atop her hair as she entered the eatery eyes immediately lasering in on Kylo before flicking up to Rey as she stood.

“I’m Leia Organa,” the woman offered her hand.

“Rey Johnston,” answered shaking it once, trying to remember why that name sounded familiar. “I thought Paul said his owner was a man.”

“My son.” Leia said succinctly her eyes glaring down Kylo. “I told him to be careful when … walking his dog.”

Rey set a protective hand on Kylo’s head. “Yes, your son should have been more careful but its not Kylo’s fault he got lost, he’s just a dog.”

“Kylo?” Leia asked confused. The dog woofed softly at his name. “Right, Kylo.”

“And your son should really get him identification tags. If he wasn’t so smart we would have never found you.”

“I will definitely be having words with my son,” Leia said fastening hard eyes on Kylo. Taking a calming breath she turned back to Rey. “I’m sorry of all inconvenience this has caused you,” she reached in her purse slipping out several bills from her wallet holding them out to her, “please take this for your troubles with my thanks.”

“I appreciate the offer,” Rey said with a smile folding her hands in her pockets. “But if you can ensure that something like this doesn’t happen again that’s all the thanks I need. Kylo is a really special dog, I would hate for something bad to happen to him.”

“As would I,” Leia set the money on the table. “Thank you for taking care of him. Come B...Kylo, it’s time to go home.” Leia nodded her head regaly to Rey before turning to the door. Kylo pressed himself against Rey’s leg before following the woman out.

Rey watched out the front window, trying not to feel depressed as the car pulled way.

“It was less than a day,” she scolded herself. She was usually better with this kind of thing, it was the name reason she hadn't given Kylo a name in the intrume, she knew he would be leaving and she didn’t want to make a connection. And here she was sniveling over a dog.

She let out a gusty sigh, eye’s catching on the money out of the corner of her eye. Leia really shouldn’t have given her anything, it was her son’s dog to begin with and secondly Rey hadn't been looking for a reward. Absently she counted it, blinked, then counted it again more thoroughly.

Five hundred dollars.

She looked up with the half baked thought of running after the long gone car to give the money back. Who the heck just drops five hundred dollars in some random person’s hands. Shaking her head she walked up to the coffee bar.

“Paul?” The waiter looked up from adding a dusting of cinnamon to a drink. “You said you were friends with that woman’s son, right?”

He raised an eyebrow, “yes?”

“Can you give him something to return to her the next time you see him?”

“I don’t see him all that often,” he hedged frothing milk for a second drink and not getting eye contact.

“You can probable send it to her office,” the nice woman manning the Cash register said as she rang up Rey’s lunch.

“Her office,” she questioned handing over her bank card for payment.

“Yeah, the City Hall.” The woman said with a smile giving her the receipt to sign. “That was Mayor Organa.”

Rey went to work that night with the five hundred dollars in a marked envelope just waiting for a stamp. A stamp she wasn’t sure if she was going to put on it, thinking of the horrors of having some much untraceable cash lost in the mail. But it would be presumptuous to show up at the Mayor’s place of work, wouldn’t it?

“Rey,” her shift manager called over the pounding techno beat, “we need more glasses!”

Nodding her head to show she heard, Rey grabbed the bin of Dirties and carried it in the back. Returning with a loaded tray of Cleans she saw a man scanning behind the bar. His eyes immediately locked on her as she stepped through the swinging door, a charming smile on his lips. He was good looking; tall with dark hair just a bit longer than average and an aquiline nose.

Setting her burden down she half turned to ask over her shoulder as she stacked cups, ”can I get you something to drink?”

“No.” For a second it was as if his voice cut straight through all the noise of the loud bar. “I’ve come to return something.” His large hands set a bundle of charcoal material on the bar.

Recognising the material she nearly snorted in derision. He seemed a bit old to be having his mother step in to fix is mistakes but then again some people just never grew up, she’d served enough drinks to them to know the kind. “You must be Solo.”

“Ben,” he introduced, leaning on the bar as he offered his hand. Rey knew it would have been rude not to take it though she disengaged quickly. “I wanted to come and thank you,” his full lips twitched, “in person.”

“Mmmhmm,” she hummed turning her back on him tension in the line of her shoulders.

“You’re angry,” he questioned, “why.”

She slammed the last glass down tucking the tray under arm as she pivoted on him. “Do you have any idea how badly it could have gone with Kylo last night? He had no form on identification, no way to get home. He could have been hit by a car or taken to the pound or worse and nobody would have ever know.”

“Yes,” the smile on his lips died, eyes turning haunted. “Things would have gone a lot worse if you didn’t see him when you did.” Rey was surprised by the seriousness in his voice. But it was gone quickly replace with that same charming smile.  “So what do you do when your not working or out rescuing stray dogs?”

“Kylo’s not a stray,” she snapped. She bit her lip wishing she could have bitten her tongue before speaking. She quickly began cutting lime wedges for drink garnish.

“What do you mean?” Ben asked after a pause.

“Kylo was lost,” she emphasize, eyes glued on the cutting board. “He is not a stray. There’s a differences.”

“And what is that difference, Rey?”  Her head shot up at his intimate tone. Again it felt like his words surrounded her, cutting out the other sounds.

“‘Stray’ means your not wanted, ‘lost’ means somebody cares enough to look for you,” she found herself answering without really thinking. Annoyed with herself her tone turned caustic, “And how do you know my name?”

He sat back as if she had physically snapped at him instead of just verbally. “My, uh, mother. She must have mentioned it when she was dropping off Kylo.”

“Yeah, your mother Mayor Oranga. I can’t believe you didn’t even care enough to come pick him up yourself,” she shook her head.

Remembering that afternoon and Leia made her remember the envelope she had in her bag. Rey flagged down her manager from across the bar, tapping her wrist twice then mining cracking something in half. The other woman nodded turning back to her own customer.

“Stay there, I’ll be right back.” Rey glared over her shoulder at Kylo’s owner before as she turned away. She returned in under a minute with the money filled envelope which she handed over the bar to the man. “Can you see that your mother gets this? She forgot it when she picked up your dog. And keep the scarf, it looks better on Kylo then it ever did on me.”

Curiously he drew the paper under his nose as if scenting it. There was an amused curl to his lips when his eyes flashed up to hers. “My mother is not a forgetful person,” he said sliding the envelope back across the lacord finish wood. “I’m sure whatever this is, she intended for you to have it.”

Forcefully Rey set her fingers on the opposite edge and pushed it back to him, eye’s hard. “I don’t let others make up for someone else’s mistake.”

“How about you let me make up for it.” That curle turned into a full blown grin. “Dinner?”

Her eye’s raked over him. If she had met him in any other way, in any other place, she would have said yes.

When she got back on after her break he was gone. Tucked next to her cutting board was the envelope with a newly inked seven digit number on its corner.

“Is there something I can help you with, miss?” the secretary asked in a chipper voice with a kind smile.

“I, uh, have a letter. For Le-- Mrs. Ora-- the Mayor?” Rey stuttered wanting the tasteful beige carpet to swallow her.

“If you’ll give me just a second I’ll check if she’s in.”

“No, that’s okay. I could just leave--” the woman was already up and though the frosted glass door that lead to what Rey assumed was back offices.

Fidgeting awkwardly with the envelope Rey resigned herself with waiting. Catching the ten-thirty bus into the center of town she had been half hoping to catched Leia when she was out on lunch, wanting only to drop off the money and then move on to do her grocery shopping. She wanted to make Paige dinner for being so cool with the Kylo fiasco. She was thinking spaghetti and then they could take the leftovers for lunch--

Rey nearly jumped out of her skin when the secretary returned. “Leia will see you now.”

Leia Organa was seated behind her chrome and glass desk paperwork spread before her. She look just as regal today as she had yesterday, the gold beaded jacket adding a seasonal flare to her wardrobe. She frowned slightly behind the glasses perched on the edge of her nose. That quickly cleared when she recognised who had walked through her door.

“Aw, Ms. Johnston. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I just want to make sure you got this,” Rey said walking up to the desk and laying the envelope down before scurrying back to her place by the door. “I also wanted to ask how Kylo was.”

“He’s fine,” Leia answered absently running her fingers over the several scratch marks that blackened the bottom corner. “Is this my son’s phone number?”

“Uh, yeah,” Rey winced. She knew she should have put it in a new envelope but she had gotten that one from work and hadn’t wanted to ask for a replacement. “He stopped by my place of business last night. I tried giving it to him to give to you but he wouldn’t do it.”

“That sounds like him,” Leia sighed. She waved the envelope infront of her before setting it on the edge of the desk. “But that doesn't change the fact that I gave this to you for helping my son.”

“I helped Kylo and him getting back home is all the thanks I want.” Rey nodded her head, only just stopping herself from actually bowing. “Sorry for taking up your time. Have a nice day.” Before Leia could think of stopping her she turned and bolted.

Rey didn’t like being around politicians. Something about all that artifice made her skin crawl. It always felt like they were three steps ahead and lying through their teeth about it. And as cordial as Leia seemed Rey hadn't missed the pinching of the older woman’s lips when she had recognised the random sequence of digits or that her first instinct had been to throw money at Rey for her services.

Nodding to the security guard on duty as she steps through the glass front doors Rey is distracted enough that she runs right into someone trying to enter. A starbucks cup goes flying, spilling its contents on the concrete.

“I’m so sorry,” she starts mortified.

“Rey?”

She looks up. Of course it was Kylo’s neglectful owner looking like a poster child for Menswear Monthly. His glasses and the professional looking laptop case on his shoulder made the look more human instead of airbrushed but Rey still wished she could just disappear. She’d taken some care with her appearance but she still was only planning on going to the grocery store.

He seems just as surprised to see her as she was. “What are you doing here?”

She tried not to flinch at the shock in his voice still feeling a bit raw from her appointment with the mayor. “I came to see your mother.” She frowned, “but if you were going to see her today anyway you could have saved me the trip.”

“You returned the money?”

Rey’s hand’s went cold with the knowledge that he new his mother had paid her. “Yes,” she bit out.

“You didn’t have to,” he said softly closing the space between them.

“Yes, I did.” She took a deep breath tried to shake her defensive anger. “Look, I’m sorry for your coffee, let me spot you for another one.”

He held up a hand, “it was mostly gone anyway.” He got a sly look in his eye, ”though if you really want to make it up to me, you can accept my invitation to dinner.”

“I’m not doing this.” She dug in her pocket and counted out five ones, grabbing his hand and slapping them in it. “Buy your next coffee on me. I’m sorry I crashed into you.”

She turned and walked away knowing it was just her furtive imagination that made her think he said, “I’m not.”

Halloween was busy at the club, something about alcohol and costumes seemed to draw the weird out of people. Last year, a month into the job, Rey had dressed to the nines as a forest spirit, spending days making her costume from thrift store finds and random things she had at the apartment. She had walked home defeated with her broken paper mache antlers smelling of a medley of spilt drinks and one woman’s throw up.

This year Rey new better. Her minimum hassle costume consisted of a black tank top and short-shorts that she already owned and a tail and headband set she had picked up from the dollar store.

“It’s crazy tonight, must be the full moon,” one of the servers, Sasha, said coming up to the bar for a new round of drinks. She cast concerned eyes over Rey, “you do have a ride home tonight, right?”

Rey smiled over at her, touched, in the midst of making Frankenstein’s Monster a haunted martini. “I only live a few blocks up, I’ll be fine.”

“North or south?” A cheesy dracula, already two of his three sheets to the wind, asked from perch at the bar. “I’ll be more than happy to walk a pretty girl home.”

Sasha and her shared a look as Rey loaded the tray with a dozen shot glasses, filling them with tonight’s cotton candy colored special. They were cheap to make, tasted disgusting, and were selling like hot cakes.

“Thanks,” Rey gave her customer service smile, already use to this song and dance, “but I already got a boyfriend.”

“He doesn’t have to know,” the man slurred drunkully.

Rey chose to ignore him as Sasha took up her tray to wade back in the fray. Instead she turned to get the order of the third ‘Jake from State Farm’ she’d seen that night.

The rest of the night was pretty much a blur of progressively drunker people. She had started early and didn’t have closing so it was one-thirty when Rey stepped out of the back doors of the club. Just like she had predicted she had a whole tray of those cotton candy shots tipped on her when a zombie cheerleader and an awesome Princess Mononoke’s San had been started making out a bit aggressively. So instead of doning her coat, she was carrying it and freezing her butt off.

“Hey pretty girl, need someone to warm you up.”

“Your place or mine, kitty cat?”

She ignored the group drunken fools standing outside the front of the club smoking cigarettes and kept walking, way too tired to deal with their bull shit. She did, however, turn when they screamed.

One man was in the middle of the sidewalk on his ass. A large hulking mass radiating menice stood over the the terrified man. His friends stood frozen against the wall not knowing what to do. The dog made a step forward, a silent snarl shaking his body. This wasn’t good.

“Kylo, come.” The animal went rigid at the command. Slowly its great head turned away from its prey to eye her over a massive black shoulder. Rey’s eyes narrowed, she was having none of that, “I said come.”

Not waiting for him she turned and continued up the sidewalk. After a tense second she heard his nails on the cement as he stalked to her side. Not looking down she laid a hand on his warm head, icy fingers sinking into thick fur.

“Yo bitch! I was just trying to be nice, you didn’t have to sic your dog on me!” One of them men yelled, out of danger their drunk brains turned back on.

Kylo hesitated at her side as if he understood. She kept walking keeping her hand in his fur and he kept pace so as not to loose contract with her.

It took half way to getting home for Rey to lose the tension keeping her body going. She would have collapsed to the concrete it an early rain hadn’t wettened the ground, she didn’t want a wet but on top over everything else. So she locked her legs taking several deep breaths and letting them ghost around her as she let them out slowly. Kylo whined.

“I’m alright, boy,” she reassured rubbing tiredly at her face, it was just the adrenaline crash that was making her eyes tear up. She looked over to him and force a smile, “Paige is going to be so pissed at me when she sees you.”

He bumped up against her leg warming the chilled skin.

“It’s okay, I’m used to it. But, as Sensei says, its better to walk away instead of escalate things.” She patted him on the head. ”You never acted aggressive before, should I be scared of you?” she wondered aloud.

He licked her fingers, burying his muzzle in her palm and looking up at her with big puppy dog eyes.

She smiled, for real this time, and gave his chin a good scratch. “Let’s go home.”