#and then you outlast the storm and you’re still standing there like. wait. it’s over?

[miss-morland]

dennis in dtamhd is so bpd recovery coded i feel so much about it <333333

[robininthelabyrinth]

for the prompts: NMJ/JC - Everyone with a functioning brain cell can see that JC just needs someone to tell him he’s doing a good job. And if WWX isn’t stepping up? Well, NMJ definitely will. (Preferably smut and/or fluff) Thank you! ❤️

Compliments - ao3

It started in anger, out of spite.

Traditionally, the world took this to be a bad thing, but in all honesty the vast majority of projects in the Nie sect were started that way – they inherited fiery tempers and spiteful personalities from their ancestors along with their saber cultivation traditions – and it didn’t always turn out badly. There were any number of buildings, techniques, or technological innovations in the Unclean Realm that had started life as a furious fuck you to someone and only turned into something worthwhile about halfway through, once the person involved had calmed down enough to think about what they were doing, realize they were already committed, and then shrug and carry on forward because there was no point in stopping a charge midway.

What Nie Mingjue meant was: there was precedent.

He liked to think it started with Jiang Fengmian, but if Nie Mingjue was being honest with himself, it started back in the Unclean Realm when Nie Huaisang had told him, quite casually over dinner, that he thought that the female cultivator in his class was very pretty and that he’d be happy to marry her.

“Uh,” Nie Mingjue had said, very intelligently. “Huaisang, you’re seven.”

Nie Huaisang had not seen the problem. Instead, he explained very forthrightly that it was only right that he start thinking early on about his marriage, as getting married and having children would be his great contribution to the sect on account of being useless good-for-nothing unfit for anything else –

“Wait,” Nie Mingjue said. “Who told you that?!”

Nie Huaisang claimed he had deduced it.

Nie Mingjue claimed that Nie Huaisang was full of bullshit, and also that he wasn’t good-for-nothing even if he wasn’t good at saber, and anyway even if he was a total good-for-nothing he was still Nie Mingjue’s good-for-nothing and no one had better say a single damn word against him or Nie Mingjue would bite them.

“I meant stab them!” he explained, far too late; Nie Huaisang was already rolling around laughing to the point of tears. “I have a saber. I can stab people! I’m actually very scary, you know!”

Nie Huaisang hadn’t believed him one bit and had carried on, seemingly at peace and forgetting everything, but Nie Mingjue had gone seeking advice from all of his elders and counselors and the more dependable senior disciples of his sect, abruptly terrified that he was permanently damaging Nie Huaisang by raising him the wrong way or something. Didn’t children need encouragement at that age? Weren’t they all young and tender peaches liable to be bruised at the slightest glance or young sprouts that needed to be sheltered from the harsh wind lest they grow up crooked?

Everyone assured him that children were hardier than they appeared, flexible and capable of bouncing back from just about anything. He'd pressed, though, pointing out that even the most flexible wood would eventually form a crack in the face of a vicious hurricane, and in the end they'd admitted that it was better to avoid applying too much pressure at too young an age, that a child squeezed too hard or not hard enough might develop neuroses that would hinder them in the future.

They mostly tried not to look at him when they said that, presumably thinking to themselves that Nie Mingjue was little more than a child himself and had already been subject to the worst pressures possible, which would undoubtedly result in who knows what future issues, but he hadn’t paid that part any mind. As far as he was concerned, his life was already a loss – he had sworn to take revenge for his father, to make that ancient monster Wen Ruohan pay with his life for what he had done and furthermore he'd sworn to pay back the blood debt in full before any of that burden passed to Nie Huaisang.

Letting Nie Huaisang grow up happy – that was what mattered.

Letting him be insulted when Nie Mingjue wasn’t looking played no part in that plan. If Nie Huaisang were going to be insulted, let it be by outsiders who he wouldn’t need to care about! Within their Nie sect, at minimum, he should be doted upon and honored, or else those responsible would have to explain themselves to Nie Mingjue.

Those dark thoughts still lingering in his mind, he had gone to the Lotus Pier for a discussion conference, and that, perhaps, was where it really started.

Rumor had already made the entire cultivation world aware that Jiang Fengmian had found the orphaned son of Cangse Sanren and Wei Changze, and that he had taken him into his home as his ward, allowing him to become a Jiang sect disciple – treating him almost as one of the family, even. That much was known, so it didn’t come as much of a surprise when Jiang Fengmian proudly introduced him or even more proudly showed him off, praising him to the high heavens.

What did come as a surprise was how little he praised his own son standing beside him, despite them being only a few days apart in age. It was as if Jiang Fengmian had simply forgotten that such a creature existed, much less that he had himself contributed to its spawning, and the constant looks of hope – invariably crushed – the child sent him made it clear that the present situation had been going on for some time.

Fuck you, Nie Mingjue thought, seeing red, seeing instead Nie Huaisang in his failed saber classes, struggling so desperately to keep up with the rest even though his body wouldn’t allow for it, being told he was useless and a good-for-nothing and fit for nothing but marriage. Fuck you, Jiang Fengmian.

He couldn’t say that, of course.

So instead he said, “Excellent stance,” to the child, who'd received the courtesy name Wanyin but seemed to be universally called Jiang Cheng. “Do you know the others in the set?”

Jiang Cheng, staring at him, very slowly nodded, and demonstrated them.

“Absolutely perfect,” Nie Mingjue said loudly, drawing attention to himself with his over-loud voice that everyone would automatically forgive on account on him being both a Nie and a young man. “You can see how hard you’ve worked at it, and it has paid off handsomely. You are very lucky in your son, Sect Leader Jiang.”

“…thank you,” Jiang Fengmian said, a little bemused at being interrupted. He’d been talking yet again about Wei Wuxian’s brilliance at picking up the sword again after years of living on the streets without practice, even though at the moment the smiling boy's admittedly impressive skills were still largely wild and undisciplined.

Nie Mingjue nodded, and said: “When exactly did you say the opening festivities would be starting?”

Jiang Fengmian had clearly forgotten about that in his enthusiasm, so he quickly hurried back to the actual subject at hand and the discussion conference was started in earnest.

It was almost enough to allow Nie Mingjue to forget the matter and put it behind him.

Or, it would have been, if only Jiang Fengmian hadn’t continued to insert praise for Wei Wuxian at every possible instance – it was as if he were the man’s first-born son, rather than another person’s child.

Irritated beyond belief, Nie Mingjue started complimenting Jiang Cheng every time Jiang Fengmian said something nice about Wei Wuxian, and he made sure to keep his compliments accurate: he was a hard worker, dedicated and sincere, thoughtful, clever, not overly arrogant…

“Wei Wuxian came up with his own ideas for a sword style already,” Jiang Fengmian claimed at one point. “You can see him on the training ground now, practicing it – take a look!”

Nie Mingjue picked up a stone and flicked it over with his fingers, making Wei Wuxian jump half a chi into the air and nearly fall on his ass.

“Weak foundation, and he over-commits,” he analyzed dryly, because it was true, and because no one else was saying it. He didn't make it any harsher than it had to be: he had nothing against the boy himself, of course; it was only that he knew from experience that it was much easier to be the one being complimented than the one not. “He’s got his head so high in the clouds that his feet are barely touching the ground – the weakest fierce corpse would knock him flat as a pancake with a childish style like that. He’d be better off sticking with orthodox or he’ll end up in real trouble one day.”

“Sect Leader Nie, really,” Jiang Fengmian said disapprovingly. “He’s only nine.”

“Old enough to pick up bad habits,” Nie Mingjue retorted. “Your son’s the same age and he’s as steady as a rock. If Jiang Cheng keeps going as he is, he’ll have a strong enough base to outlast the fiercest storm.”

“A rock has no imagination,” Jiang Fengmian said, and was he actually arguing that his son was inferior? Out loud, in front of outsiders? Did the man have no shame? “Mingjue, you’re young, but you must know that my Jiang sect prizes freedom and creativity as the highest virtue –”

“Would you rather build a house using a firework or a foundation stone?” Nie Mingjue asked, doing his best not to outwardly bristle at the condescendingly intimate use of his name by someone who might be technically his elder but legally his equal. “Tell me, Fengmian, does your Jiang sect’s acclaimed ‘freedom’ only allow for people to be as fluid as the river and not as steady as the earth?”

Jiang Fengmian faltered, clearly not knowing how to answer that.

Nie Mingjue raised his hands in a sarcastic salute: “As the leader of a sect whose style is based on a grounded foundation, I would be very happy if you would educate me in your wisdom. No doubt my peers would benefit as well.”

Perhaps it was at that point that Jiang Fengmian realized that his words could be misinterpreted as an insult to all the sects whose styles were less free-flowing than the Jiang – just about all of them except for maybe the Lan and their subsidiary sects, given their preference for techniques modeled on the wind over the water – and moreover that this was a discussion conference, where every word was political, and that a great deal of people were glaring balefully at him. He hastily moved the conversation onwards, and left the subject of his sons for another day.

Later that evening, Madame Yu came over to where Nie Mingjue was nursing a bowl of very fine wine that he didn’t especially feel like consuming. Before he could start worrying about the Purple Spider’s intentions, she said, voice stiff, “Your words regarding my son are too kind. His skills are still inferior; he has a great deal of progress yet to be made.”

“He’s only nine,” Nie Mingjue said, feeling mortified that she’d noticed his little temper tantrum, which he had belatedly realized was probably extremely obvious. “Anyway, I wasn't lying. He has a good foundation; he’ll be a fearsome cultivator one day, there’s no doubt. I only said what I saw.”

“You didn’t comment about Wei Wuxian,” she said. “You must have noticed his genius.”

“Geniuses don’t need to be praised overmuch,” Nie Mingjue said. He himself had been termed a genius by his teachers, and he’d hated every single moment of it – couldn’t he just be good at things without having people fall all over themselves to compliment him? He’d enjoyed it at the start, but after a while it had started to wear on him; he was expected to be a genius in all things, and being simply ordinary was suddenly seen as failing. “It’s the ones that have to work hard that do, or else they’ll be discouraged…comparing someone to another person’s child works as a spur to a certain extent, but after a while it loses its potency as a tool.”

Your husband is a fucking idiot, he didn’t say. It’s his own son! How could he speak like that about him? Shouldn’t he be holding him in his palms like a gentle flame, protecting him from the wind and rain? How can he bear to scold his son when he hasn't shown that the scolding is meant for his benefit?

“Perhaps,” Madame Yu said, but it was clear on her face that she wasn’t about to start taking parenting advice from a half-grown sprout like Nie Mingjue. “Nevertheless, your words were kind.”

She swept away after that, much to his relief. He shook his head and daydreamed about a magic tool that would make this whole nightmarish experience go by that much quicker.

In the end, it went by at the same speed it always did. It could have ended there, but Nie Mingjue kept up the habit of blatantly complimenting Jiang Cheng in future sect conferences as well, if only because it clearly irritated Jiang Fengmian – less because Nie Mingjue was praising his son and more because it was so obviously meant as an indirect critique of Jiang Fengmian’s skills as a parent or sect leader, and moreover it reminded all the other sects of that unfortunate interchange and made them less inclined to listen to him – and of course, because, well, once you’ve started a charge, you had to finish it even if you came to your senses about halfway through.

He made sure to keep it proportionate, of course, since there was nothing worse than false praise. He didn’t really mean anything by it, other than the half-formed thought that someone ought to be doing it – that the boy should know that someone looked at him and Wei Wuxian and remembered to praise him first. Nie Mingjue praised Wei Wuxian too, of course, since the boy often deserved it; it was only that he made a particular point not to forget about Jiang Cheng, either.

(He also made sure the other sect leaders saw how well the technique could be used to fluster Jiang Fengmian, an intrusion into his personal life that could be masked in perfect politeness, and several of them picked up the same tact, though less consistently than Nie Mingjue – Sect Leaders Jin and Wen, naturally, always looking for a weakness, but interestingly enough also Lan Qiren, who was normally above such petty maneuvers. Possibly he was actually just complimenting Jiang Cheng because he sincerely approved of him.)

He didn’t think much of it.

Nie Mingjue didn’t think much of it during the other discussion conferences, or when he came to the Cloud Recesses to pick up Nie Huaisang, who had – amazingly – actually managed to pass this time, although the expression on Lan Qiren’s face suggested the pass might have more to do with the other sect leader’s desire to never see Nie Huaisang haunt his classroom ever again.

“You know what, don’t tell me. Tell me….hm…how did Jiang Wanyin do?” Nie Mingjue asked, hand over his eyes as if it could forestall the headache. “He’s a bright boy, and knows how to put his mind to something when he wants. Tell me about him instead, it’ll be less depressing.”

“He’s very bright,” Lan Qiren agreed. “Very thoughtful, and very thorough. He sometimes errs towards conservatism out of fear of giving the wrong answer, but that’s just a matter of confidence; his thinking is very good. He’s very clear-sighted as long as the matter is logical, rather than emotional.”

“No surprise,” Nie Mingjue grunted. “He’ll be a sect leader worthy of respect, in his time.”

When he’s rid of that father of his dragging him down, he thought ungraciously, and he saw Lan Qiren bob his head in a sharp nod of unspoken agreement.

“All right,” he said. “I’m adequately fortified now. Tell me about Huaisang.”

Lan Qiren gave him a look of profound sympathy.

It wasn’t until much later, during the Sunshot Campaign, that it was first called to his attention – by Jiang Cheng himself, oddly enough.

“Why do you keep doing that?” he hissed, having stayed behind after one of their meetings.

Nie Mingjue blinked at him. “Doing – what?”

“You – you said – about me…!”

Nie Mingjue tried to recall what he’d said during the meeting just now. “That you – were doing an excellent job while facing much higher level of obstacles than everyone else?” he hazarded, because he had said something like that. “Or was it the bit about how if any of them had needed to rebuild their sect and fight at the same time, we’d all be doomed because they couldn’t multitask for shit?”

Yeah, it was probably that one.

“I didn’t mean any offense by referencing what happened to your sect,” he said, hoping to explain. “It was only –”

“I didn’t take offense,” Jiang Cheng mumbled. “It’s fine. I mean, it’s not fine, but – it happened, everyone knows that it happened, not talking about it isn’t going to make it not have happened. That’s not what I meant…why do you keep saying such nice things about me?”

Nie Mingjue blinked at him. “Because they’re true?”

Jiang Cheng’s cheeks flushed red. “You’ve always said nice things about me. Ever since I was a little kid – every time you saw me, at the discussion conferences, or the Cloud Recesses, or even in your letters to my father…”

He had in fact done that.

“I just want to know why. Is it – my father’s not around, you can’t be doing it just to piss him off, even though I know that was part of it. Why me?”

Nie Mingjue coughed a little, having not realized that Jiang Cheng had noticed. Or possibly even overheard, in regards to the Cloud Recesses. “I’m sure you’re familiar with the concept of the other person’s child,” he said, and Jiang Cheng nodded his head sharply, clearly thinking of Wei Wuxian. “You’re Huaisang’s.”

“Me?” Jiang Cheng seemed unduly vulnerable when he asked. “You compare him – to me?”

“It’s amazing he tolerated you at the Cloud Recesses,” Nie Mingjue said with a sigh. In fact, his brother had all but declared war on Jiang Cheng in absentia on account of all Nie Mingjue’s comments, only for his first letter home from the Cloud Recesses that year to be I see why you like him! He’s cute! A perfect match for you! because he’d apparently decided that Nie Mingjue had a crush on the boy.

Which he certainly hadn’t – at least not when he’d been that age, anyway. Jiang Cheng had grown up to embody every single one of the compliments Nie Mingjue had paid him when he’d been younger, especially with the maturity and natural aura of command that came to him after his personal tragedy.

“But why…you knew Wei Wuxian about as well as you knew me.”

Nie Mingjue snorted. “And that would have helped Huaisang how, exactly? If I wanted to compare him with someone who picked things up the first time they saw it, I wouldn’t need to go outside the Nie sect for that – I was also considered a genius when I was young. It’s no failing to be born without a vast and unending natural talent; Huaisang’s issue has always been his unwillingness to put in the effort.”

Jiang Cheng stared at him.

“Anyway, your father was so blinded by his adoration for Wei Wuxian that he overlooked your merits, which are different but no less impressive,” Nie Mingjue added. “As someone who was trying to figure out how to raise a child, it irritated me; I thought someone ought to make it clear to you that you were seen.”

“Yes,” Jiang Cheng said, his voice strangely hoarse. “Yes, you – you succeeded.”

He paused for a moment, meeting Nie Mingjue’s eyes intently, and then abruptly said, “I’ll be leaving,” and dashed out.

Nie Mingjue wasn’t entirely sure if that meant he should stop or not. Jiang Cheng had said he wasn’t offended…anyway, it was a fixed habit by now. He’d been doing it for over half his life! He couldn’t stop that easily! It would be like trying to stop his temper, or a charge – there was nothing for it.

Jiang Cheng would just have to live with a few compliments.

“Wow, you’re an idiot,” Nie Huaisang said when he told him about the incident, months later while he was lying in bed, recovering from the disaster that had been the end of the war. “I’ll fix this.”

“Fix what?”

“I’m going to tell him you’re dying,” Nie Huaisang decided.

“You’re going to do what?!”

“Stay in bed, da-ge! Doctor’s orders!”

The Nie sect chief doctor was an extremely terrifying person. Nie Mingjue stayed in bed.

Some time later, Jiang Cheng stormed in, face pale.

“Huaisang’s a rotten liar and I’m going to be fine,” Nie Mingjue said at once.

Jiang Cheng stopped mid-storm, and abruptly deflated. “Really?”

“Really. I would’ve stopped him, but I’m stuck in bed for the moment.”

Jiang Cheng took a seat next to him. “That sounds serious. You shouldn’t underestimate war wounds, especially given your sect’s tendency towards qi deviations...”

“Compassionate as well,” Nie Mingjue teased. “I’ll have to add that to the rotation of compliments.”

Jiang Cheng flushed red. “You’re…planning on continuing?”

“For the rest of my life, however short it might be,” Nie Mingjue said, because he was an honest person, even when it was inconvenient. He was going to explain about the habit, and the concept of stopping mid-charge, but he didn’t manage to start before Jiang Cheng grabbed him by the collar and pulled him up into a kiss.

After that, he figured that maybe explaining that part of it wasn’t necessary. He might be slow on the uptake, but he wasn’t actually stupid.

[cuttoothed]

Getting this in just under the wire for day 1 of @jonmartinweek prompt “Comfy Jumpers”. I get so much joy from writing these two in s1 and thinking “lol you idiots are going to be in love some day.”

*

Martin knows that Jon doesn’t approve of the way he dresses.

It’s not exactly a surprise. Jon doesn’t approve of much about Martin: his report-writing, his Latin translations, even his very existence seems to irk Jon at times. Frankly, the feeling is mutual. Martin was perfectly happy working in the library, where his boss wasn’t an overbearing perfectionist arsehole, and if he’d been given a choice in the matter he’d still be shelving books and updating the filing systems, not getting glared at for his clothing choices. He’s well aware that Jon never wanted him in the Archives either, but they’re here now, so Mister Head Archivist is just going to have to live with it. They’re both going to have to.

Jon isn’t subtle about his displeasure; it’s difficult to miss his pointed scowls at Martin’s scuffed trainers and graphic-print t-shirts. And considering that Sasha wears jeans and t-shirts some days as well—though admittedly she tends to plain colors or muted prints, rather than retro video game characters—it’s pretty clear that it’s less about the clothes than it is the person wearing them.

Well, Jon can scowl all he wants, because everything Martin wears technically falls within the Institute’s dress code and there’s not a word Jon can say to him.

Martin has always run hot, so as winter closes in and other people are bundling up in heavy coats and jumpers, he throws hoodies over his t-shirts and zips them up only far enough that the bright graphic prints are still clearly visible to Jon’s critical eye.

Yeah, he thinks sometimes when he walks into Jon’s office, get an eyeful of Yoshi and see how you like it.

Jon, for his part, seems determined to outlast the winter in his usual dress shirt and tweed jacket combo. Martin knows that Jon isn’t particularly warm blooded—he’s seen the way the man huddles into his jacket like a tortoise in its shell until the central heating warms the basement up in the mornings—but he still refuses to add so much as an argyle sweater vest to his outfit in deference to the season.

The only concession Jon makes to the weather is a voluminous gray overcoat and a dark purple scarf, which he takes off the moment he gets into the office, regardless of how cold it is before the ancient heating system creaks to life.

And, well, it’s none of Martin’s business if his boss is too much of a pompous arse to dress appropriately for the weather. If he wants to freeze his backside off to maintain his academic dignity, far be it from Martin to intervene. Martin doesn’t feel sorry for him, when he sees Jon blowing on his fingers to warm them up, or briskly rubbing his arms while he waits for the kettle to boil and he thinks nobody else is around. Not in the slightest.

It’s below zero on the day in December when the central heating finally gives up the ghost. Even Martin can feel the chill in the Archives this morning, keeps his hoodie zipped up all the way even when he runs into Jon in the kitchenette. Jon looks miserably cold, his shoulders hunched and his movements stiff as he makes his tea.

“Morning, Jon,” Martin says cheerfully. “Bit nippy, isn’t it?”

“Just a bit,” says Jon sardonically. Somewhere overhead, there’s a metallic clanking as the heating system starts up.

“Finally,” Jon mutters, casting his eyes upward. The pipes creak and clank some more, and there’s an odd whirring sound that Martin’s fairly sure isn’t normal, and then a long, descending groan into silence.

“Oh,” says Martin. “That doesn’t sound good.”

“Bloody hell,” says Jon, and storms off to his office. A while later, he sends an email to inform them all that he’s spoken to Elias and the heating is out for the whole building, and that they should all feel free to work from home for the rest of the day if they choose. Sasha and Tim waste no time packing up, but Martin lingers, agonizing over which notes and references he should take with him. He’s never before had a job where working from home was an option, and he isn’t Tim or Sasha, isn’t someone Jon trusts and actually wanted to work with. Martin needs to make sure he gets it right.

At last he thinks he has everything he needs, but still Martin is hesitating, fiddling with the strap of his satchel. Maybe he should just check in with Jon before he leaves, make sure there isn’t anything else he needs to do. Make sure Jon knows I’m going to be working today, not just skiving off.

The door to Jon’s office is standing ajar; Martin taps on it, and pokes his head in without waiting for a response.

Jon looks up as he walks in, his expression startled. He is wearing a jumper. A chunky knit jumper in a warm maroon color, with a Christmas tree and several reindeer on the front. One of the reindeer has a red bobble for a nose. The jumper is oversized, the ends of the sleeves falling past Jon’s wrists.

It’s...incredibly cute, which is not a term that Martin ever expected to associate with his arsehole boss. Attractive, in a severe, unattainable way, sure, but not cute. Yet somehow, here they are.

“Ah, Martin,” Jon says, looking flustered. “I, uh, I thought you’d left with the others?”

“I was—I just wanted to check in with you first, make sure you didn’t need anything. You should head home too, it’s freezing in here.”

“I—I’m perfectly fine.” Jon plucks at the front of the jumper, looking embarrassed. “This is, ah, I bought this for the Institute Christmas party, but it’s surprisingly warm—and quite comfortable.”

“Oh, that’s, uh, that’s not part of your usual wardrobe then?” Martin hazards a chuckle, and to his relief, Jon huffs an amused breath. He raises a hand to adjust his glasses, but his sleeve gets in the way; he pushes both sleeves up to the elbows, and oh no, that’s even cuter.

“No, not—not usually,” he says. Martin frowns, suddenly remembering.

“You didn’t wear it at the party last week, though?”

“No, it’s—it was from the previous year, when I was in Research. It-it didn’t seem appropriate this year, being in a management role. Fortunately I still had it in a box, though I, uh, I didn’t really expect anyone to see me in it.”

Martin feels a sudden pang of something that might be sympathy. He understands how it feels, the desperate pressure to be professional, to be taken seriously, the constant second guessing of what you’re doing, whether you’re giving away something you shouldn’t. It’s hardly the same, of course: Jon’s not likely to be fired for wearing a silly jumper. But...Martin gets it.

“Actually,” he lies, “I, uh, I have to meet with Sophie up in the library later, so I’m around for the day. I was just going to go out and pick up some early lunch. Thought I’d see if you want anything?”

“Oh, ah, where are you going?” Jon asks tentatively, looking surprised at the offer.

“I was thinking of that cafe just around the corner—maybe get some soup and a sandwich?”

“That would be...very nice, actually. If you’re sure you don’t mind?”

“I wouldn’t have offered if I did,” says Martin, and takes the ten pound note Jon offers him.

“Thank you, Martin,” says Jon, and it’s the probably the most sincere thing Martin’s ever heard him say. He finds himself smiling without meaning to.

“Not a problem.”

It’s too early for lunch, really, but Martin knows Jon never eats breakfast and he missed it himself this morning. He gets two portions of steaming tomato and basil soup and toasted cheese sandwiches from the cafe, and when he gets back, Jon’s found a small space heater to plug in, so his office is marginally warmer than the rest of the Archives. They sit on opposite sides of Jon’s desk to eat, talking about the case that Martin’s working on. It’s the first time Martin’s actually had the chance to properly discuss a case, rather than stumbling through his report while Jon watches expectantly; Jon listens, and asks questions, and even offers some helpful suggestions for Martin’s follow up. It’s...oddly nice.

(Jon also continues to look unreasonably cute in his oversized Christmas jumper, but Martin carefully ignores that.)

The heating gets fixed by early afternoon, and the Archives warm up to the point where Martin can unzip his hoodie. When he drops off his finished case report to Jon’s office, Jon is back in his shirt and jacket, the maroon jumper packed away out of sight. He looks perfectly staid and professional once again. I saw you looking cute, though, Martin thinks, and then tries to pretend he didn’t; he is not going down that route.

Jon glances up when Martin comes in, taking in the “Marvin the Martian” t-shirt that’s now visible beneath his hoodie. Instead of a disapproving scowl, however, he gives a small, hesitant smile.

“Thank you, Martin,” he says as he takes the report, and something flutters warm in Martin’s chest.

Oh no, he thinks.

[ilostmyshoe-79]

It’s been snowing here and getting back into writing has to start somewhere. So enjoy this little Wincest drabble. Don’t judge me too hard- it’s been a LONG time!

The snow is deeper than Dean's seen in years, a couple of feet at least, maybe a few inches more. He grins a little at his boots, as they sink with each step. It's so quiet and peaceful here, this little field on the side of the road where he'd pulled over, a blanket of undisturbed white on the ground and trees lining the edges of the property line.

“It looks like a Robert Frost poem,” he says, watching his breath swirl in the air.

Sam looks at him and smiles, cheeks flushed with the cold and making him look like he did twenty years ago, when his cheeks were always rosy and Dean spent his time aching to touch them. Anger had flushed Sam's skin then, but there's only calm behind his expression now. “You don't read,” he teases.

Dean resists the urge to roll his eyes.

The air swirls around them, blowing snow and whistling through he trees, and Dean inhales until his lungs burn with winter. The moment feels alive, electric, waiting for one of them to say something profound and important.

Dean throws a snowball instead.

It catches Sam on the shoulder, right where Dean had aimed. Sam doesn't even bother to look in Dean's direction as he immediately kicks at the mound of snow at his feet, sending up a spray that covers Dean's chest and face.

“Hey!” Dean laughs.

Sam shrugs. “You started it.”

And that's all it takes to start the fight, snow flying, both of them laughing as they slip and freeze and try to outlast the other. Finally, Dean launches his body at Sam instead of a snowball, pushing them both down into the soft cold.

“Get off me!” Sam shoves at Dean without meaning it, eyes crinkled with the laughter he's holding in.

Dean stares at him for just a moment. Sam is so beautiful, with his long hair plastered to the snow, his face covered with a beard he finally grew out, relaxation in the lines of his skin. Dean adjusts himself so that his body is completely on top of Sam's, then leans down and kisses him.

It's a gentle kiss, lips moving slow and sweet, taking the time to just feel Sam's own cold lips. Sam smiles a little, hands sliding up Dean's chest to grab his coat and pull him closer. Dean's heart crashes in his chest, fully appreciating the whole moment, the peace of this snow storm and of Sam pulling him down like gravity, down to where he belongs.

It only takes seconds for the kiss to change, for them to use their tongues and hands a little more, for Dean's hips to slowly slide against Sam's.

“Wait,” Sam finally says. “Let's get in the car. It's freezing.”

Dean kisses Sam's jaw, nuzzles his way down to Sam's shoulder and takes a deep breath, calming himself down. “Yeah, Sammy. Okay.”

Even when Sam stands up, when Dean is left sitting in the snow alone, the magic spell doesn't break. He is still in his own personal snow globe with Sam, his whole body thrumming with contentment and the knowledge of how lucky he is.

He looks around once more, taking in all the details, before grabbing the hand Sam offers and pulling himself up. He can't help but throw one more snowball as Sam nears the Impala.

Sam turns around, eyes narrowing. “Okay, you're gonna pay for that one.”

“Am I?” Dean teases.

He's still laughing as Sam pulls him into the backseat.

[laurelsofhighever]

“Wet kisses after finding refuge from the rain” for Maighread and Cullen? 💙

Thank you for sending this prompt, and for finally giving me a reason to write Maighread and Cullen’s first kiss! It’s rambling and heavy on the angst because maighread overthinks everything, but it has a happy ending, I promise.

--

Maighread Trevelyan, Herald of Andraste and storied leader of the Second Inquisition, stands at the tower door, hand raised to knock as it has been for long enough that the blood is starting to drain out of her arm. It’s pouring rain, night black around her, storm lanterns guttering on the walls, and she’s drenched. At least the bad weather means no one can see her, though the thought is of little comfort. The light spilling under the door means that Cullen is still inside, awake – probably working.

What is she even doing out here? A sensible person would have waited until morning, or at least until the rain stopped. But she’s not sensible. Her feelings for the Inquisition’s Commander have been burning in her, consuming her from the inside out like a fire in the heart of a lightning-struck tree. She thinks about him all the time. When he talks to her – smiles at her – the blood in her veins sings; when shadows bruise his eyes and his voice emerges in terse, indistinct mumbles it’s like the cut of the wind off the mountain peaks. Varric and Bull have needled her, and Cassandra has been kind, but she could not make any of them understand. She had tried to weather the emotions Cullen stirred in her, determined to outlast the impossibility of having feelings for a man put so far out of her reach by past and present circumstance.

But her mind won’t let her rest. It turned over, and paced, and snapped at her heels until it went one sting too far and drove her out of her rest and into the rain, to his door, now bedraggled and shivering with the bravery drowned out of her at the last step. All she has to do is knock.

And what will she say? She already knows all the reasons why it’s a terrible idea, she’s recited the full list to herself often enough. Besides which, she must indeed be presumptuous to think their rally of book recommendations and a few games of chess in the garden mean that his feelings run along the same lines as hers. She imagines his rejection, imagines him laughing at her – or worse, pitying her – and her hand drops to her side. Her arms wrap around her own body. No, she thinks, better she fights this demon on her own rather than succumb. She’s survived worse.

Then again…

Her steps halt a few paces back towards the castle. He seeks her out, asks about her wellbeing. He searched for her through the snow after Haven and lets her hide away in his office when Josie crams Skyhold with too many noble visitors for comfort. And isn’t it always better to take the lid off a boiling pot, instead of letting the contents bubble over without control? So what if her feelings aren’t returned? She cannot control his actions, but she has always felt pride in her ability to control her own, and she has suffered enough shame to last a lifetime for things she cannot help. After a moment summoning courage, she turns, glares at the door, marches up to it to raise her hand again as the sheet of falling raindrops hiss onto the stone at her feet.

No. She can’t do it. The cost is too high. She’s a mage, and she’s nervous and standoffish and lacking in all social grace; the only thing special about her is the mark in her left hand. Water drips off her lashes and suddenly she’s glad for the storm, because her eyes sting and her throat is starting to burn and she is a fool but at least she is one out of sight of all the people who will snicker at her behind their hands. None of them really know how much of a coward she is, and if she leaves now, retreats back to the fancy tower room, they’ve given her, she can hide away until –

The door opens.

“Inquisitor!” Cullen halts in the doorway with an oilskin envelope in his hands and surprise hanging off his open mouth.

She must look like a used handkerchief. Her voice doesn’t work. She drops her gaze, drawing her arm back into her chest.

That startles movement out of him. He throws the packet in a vague direction behind him so that papers burst and scatter over the floor, and steps out across the threshold to gather her up against the rain before she an protest.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, closing the door. “Has something happened?”

Panicking, she can only shake her head.

“You’re soaked to the bone. here –”

She numbly allows him to guide her over to his desk chair, which he pulls out for her before bustling around the small room to tidy up. Dread fogs her mind, the rain still a roar in her ears. He’s seen her now, which means she can’t pretend she was never stood arguing with herself in a downpour, which means he’ll ask her why she’s here, which means –

“Will you be alright here for a moment?” he interrupts, in a voice timorous with concern.

Her head turns towards him, but she can’t unstick her gaze from the wall. For a moment longer, he hesitates, until he seems to decide that staying would be worse than going, and retreats up the ladder into his loft, which at least now has a barrier charm over it to keep out the weather. Her fingers tighten on soft wool and she realises he’s tucked his mantle around her shoulders before he left. It smells like him. His warmth is still on the collar, and her traitorous hands wrap it more tightly around herself as if she might hide in the depths of the red-streaked fur.

She could leave, sneak out. But then she would have to explain herself to him later, and she knows she won’t. She’ll avoid him, dodge around his gaze or simply escape to some Maker-forsaken part of Thedas until he gives up, and that will hurt him. He’d think he did something wrong.

The clatter as he drops from the ladder startles her, as does the waft of scent, oakmoss and elderflower, that enfolds her as he brings her blankets that must have come straight from his linen chest.

“You don’t have to –” she tries, but he’s already piling the soft wool around her. It seals in the wet with her, but she won’t deny it’s nicer than having the draughts of the room stealing what little body heat she has left.

And now he kneels before her, tugging his gloves off with his teeth and laying them aside on the desk so he can get at her hands to chafe them warm. The callouses on his skin rasp against her knuckles, the broad fingers disappear hers between them, but the touch is delicate, gentle, and she can’t take her eyes off the sight. A ribbon of water seeps through her drenched hair and trickles cold down the back of her neck.

“What’s happened?” he asks again, quiet.

Her heart trips against her ribs. “Nothing. I’m –” But finishing that sentence would admit too much.

Her halted answer brings a sigh from his lips, as if he’s steeling himself – or losing patience.

“Maighread…” He sucks in his bottom lip. “If something is troubling you, I would help if I can. If you would let me. And not only because you are the Inquisitor.”

The rain still lashes down, but inside this solid stone it’s less impressive, a futile bit of noise. Their hands are joined in her lap, just together, and he doesn’t seem to mind that hers are leaching warmth away from his. In the silence, his thumb makes a slow sweep along hers.

“Do you care for me?”

Her gaze stays rooted on their hands, but on the edge of her vision his head snaps up. Another bead of water escapes her hairline. This time it traces the contours down the side of her face, before it loses momentum in the corner of her mouth and gets stuck there. This sudden spark of bravery doesn’t even feel like bravery, with her hands cradled so as if she’s precious, but nevertheless it fizzles out just as quickly under the weight of his stare.

“I tried not to think about it – to wonder,” she excuses, shrinking. “I know we’re at war, and I’m the inquisitor, and there are so many bad things that might happen. Not to mention –”

He prompt is as tender as his hands. “What is it?”

I am such a fool.

“I’m a mage. You were a templar. I –”

It’s too much. Her throat closes up, her body holds itself so she can’t breathe and she has to squeeze her eyelids shut because he hasn’t moved and she wishes all at once that she had more courage, that she were anywhere else, that she could barricade herself off from the raw strength of emotions tugging her along like a pebble caught up in the tide.

Fingers curl under her chin.

“I didn’t think it was possible.”

The wonder in his voice forces her eyes open, and her heart rolls through her chest like thunder at the whiskey softness looking back at her.

“I… I’ve wondered a thousand times what I might say in this kind of situation,” he admits. “But I never thought I would ever get the chance.” A smile curls at the corner of his mouth as he sweeps a glance over her bedragglement. “Especially not on such a nice day.”

She huddles deeper into his blankets. “I didn’t know it was raining. I mean – I did, but I didn’t notice at first, and then –”

“I do care for you,” he interrupts, and her ramble stutters to a halt. “It seemed like too much to ask for, that you would return those feelings… but I want to.”

He’s leaning in, fingertips sliding along her jaw, waiting for her to pull away, but she doesn’t – can’t – because having him so close is overwhelming and her mind has fled to wonder if her shivering is because of the cold or because Cullen is about to kiss her. Their lips meet without fire – she is still half-frozen and he has chosen caution – but still her insides twist, her limbs tense as if with lightning. It doesn’t feel like last time she was kissed; Cullen’s focus is rapt on her, responding to her movements but not demanding more, and at the end she breaks away because if she doesn’t the tension thrumming in her chest will suffocate her completely.

But he doesn’t pull away. Their breath still mingles, his thumb strokes her cheek as she fights for steadier breath, his forehead pressed to hers.

“I care for you,” he repeats. Laughs. “I’ve wanted to do that for so long. I’ve wanted to tell you… I didn’t think you’d welcome it.”

“Cullen…”

“Mm?”

“What happens now?”

His smile fades. “What do you mean?”

“I wasn’t expecting to get this far,” she stumbles, in her haste to reassure him. “I thought –”

She thought of rejection. Humiliation. And now that she’s been wrongfooted, all expectations scattered, a new kind of panic takes hold. Her hand has taken a vice-like grip on his. She has no idea what to do, how to act – what if she does something wrong, something unforgivable, what if something happens? Words have been spoken now and made the whole thing real where before she could have denied it and kept it hers alone, secret, impossible to be used against her.

“I care for you.” This is the third time he’s said it. “What do you want to happen now?”

Has anyone ever asked her what she wanted?

“I don’t know.” And it’s absurd. A bubble of laughter forces itself out of her chest, because she’s in his office, completely sodden, confessing her feelings as far as she can because actually saying it leaves her too vulnerable, and she feels so pathetic she could cry, and yet – and yet. “I – I’m cold.” It’s the only thing she can settle on.

“Then let’s warm you up before you catch a chill.”

He rises, practicality back in place now that he has a problem to solve, but as relieved as she is that some attention has been deflected from her, her traitorous heart skips in her chest because he’s still holding her hand.

--

kiss prompts

[alicemarion]

OUTLAST :  THE  MURKOFF  ACCOUNT  (  PART 2  )   sentence starters !

this  prompt  was  made  using  dialogue  from  issues  #4 ,    #5  and  #6  of  outlast :  the  murkoff  account  by  red  barrels .    feel  free  to  edit  any  of  these  to  make  them  more  suitable !

“  _____  wasn’t  fucking  around  about  disappearing .  ”

“  our  chances  of  finding  a  lead  in  this  are  vanishingly  slim .  ”

“  what  you  got  there ?  ”

“  i  hate  it  when  they  have  families .  ”

“  since  when  did  _____  hurt  women  and  kids ?  ”

“  sorry ,    that  was  in  bad  taste .  ”

“  he’s  been  gone  for  a  while  now .  ”

“  i  saw  him  back  just  last  night .  ”

“  i  saw  him ,     standing  right  over  there .  ”

“  drove  my  dogs  batshit ,    which  is  weird .  ” 

“  they  always  used  to  like  him .  ”

“  _____  said  _____  was  here  last  night .  ”

“  it’d  take  us  days  to  find  him  under  all  this  shit  if  he  was .  ”

“  guess  we  better  get  started  then .  ”

“  it’s  garbage .  ”

“  is  ...    is  some  of  this  garbage  moving ?  ”

“  ants .    the  place  is  infested .  ”

“  what  do  you  mean ?  ”

“  emailed  him  ants .    not  the  strangest  thing  i’ve  seen .  ”

“  these  look  like  passwords .  ”

“  ouch !  ”

“  little  fucker  bit  me .  ”

“  black  ants  don’t  bite .  ”

“  motherfucker !    motherfuckfuckfuck -  ”

“  they’re  all  over  me !    jesus !  ”

“  not  there !    not  there !  ”

“  water !    water !  ”

“  goddammit !    make  room !    i’m  coming  in !  ”

“  fuck  this !  ”

“  it’s  not  working !  ”

“  we  need  fire !  ”

“  take  your  fucking  clothes  off !  ”

“  now  do  me !  ”

“  got  anything  i  could  wear ?  ”

“  nope .  ”

“  what  the  fuck  am  i  gonna  do ?  ”

“  hey ,    that’s  the  same  homeless  guy .  ”

“  that’s  not  possible .  ”

“  i’m  sure  it’s  him .    he’s  following  us .  ”

“  hey !    stop !  ”

“  where’d  you  go  ...   ?  ”

“  you  work  for  _____  ,    don’t  you ?  ”

“  ...    who  are  you ?  ”

“  i  believe  you’ve  heard  of  me .  ”

“  you’ve  been  following  us .  ”

“  what’s  your  name ?  ”

“  yes .    i’ve  been  watching  you .  ”

“  you’ve  got  something  most  running  dog  mercenaries  don’t .  ”

“  i’m  not  a  mercenary .  ”

“  you’ve  got  shame .   you  know  what  you’re  doing  is  wrong .  ”

“  it’s  a  job .  ”

“  but  you’re  somebody  who’d  chase  after  me  ,    despite  the  fact  that  you’re  injured  and  naked .    who  does  that ?  ”

“  ...    i  can’t  stand  not  knowing .  ”

“  tell  me  your  name .  ”

“  i’ve  read  your  files  ,    _____ .  ”

“  six  years  ago  you  leaked  company  files  and  vanished .  ”

“  been  off  the  map  ever  since  ,    encouraging  other  whistleblowers .  ”

“  you’re  trying  to  destroy  _____ .  ”

“  of  course  i  am .  ”

“  they’re  evil .    you  work  for  the  devil .  ”

“  you’re  protecting  _____ ?  ”

“  you’ll  never  find  him .  ”

“  i  couldn’t  tell  you  if  i  knew .  ”

“  willful  ignorance .    i  remember  that .    almost  let  me  sleep  some  nights .  ”

“  how  do  you  sleep ?  ”  

“  how  do  you  justify  working  for  people  you  know  are  evil ?   ”

“  _____  was  a  pebble  in  a  pond .  ”

“  that  is  where  the  real  sickness  spreads .  ”

“  those  are  coordinates .  ”

“  if  you  cannot  look  at  what’s  there  and  not  eat  yourself  hollow  with  shame  ,    you’re  not  human  anymore .  ”

“  i  need  your  help .  ”

“  i  need  somebody  still  inside  _____ .  ”

“  i’m  not  asking  ,    i’m  telling  you .   you’re  going  to  help  me .  ”

“  ...    i  have  to  do  my  job .  ”

“  what  are  you  ...    the  fuck ?!  ”

“  freeze !    i  said  freeze  ,    motherfucker !  ”

“  i’m  leaving .  ”

“  please  don’t  make  me  hurt  you .  ”

“  he’s  ...    a  monster .  ”

“  what  was  he  shoving  in  your  face ?  ”

“  fucked  if  i  know .  ”

“  let’s  get  you  some  clothes  before  i  get  too  turned  on .  ”

“  dental  records .   my  identification .   he  wasn’t  done  with  me .  ”

“  and  we  weren’t  done  with  him .  ”

“  this  make  any  kind  of  sense  to  you ?  ”

“  nothing  i  feel  good  about .  ”

“  but  at  least  it  closes  the  books  for  now .  ”

“  the  evidence  couldn’t  get  any  more  thoroughly  destroyed .  ”

“  there  is  one  more  thing .  ”

“  nothing  i  know  of .  ”

“  i  wouldn’t  put  too  much  faith  in  anything  i  heard  from  an  animated  pile  of  maggots .  ”

“  maybe  we  should  check  it  out .  ”

“  nah  ,    leave  it  alone .  ”

“  you  should  get  home  ,    spend  some  time  with  your  daughter  ...    make  sure  she  doesn’t  grow  up  to  be  somebody  like  me .  ”

“  he  ain’t  gonna  let  us  get  away .  ”

“  every  step  we  take  ,    the  less  power  he  got .  ”

“  we’ll  get  to  the  wicked  part  of  the  world  ,    and  god  hisself  ain’t  even  gonna  be  able  to  find  us .  ”

“  do  you  know  if  yeshua - ha  nostri  was  a  real  person ?   like  ,    in  the  bible ?  ”

“  never  heard  of  him .  ”

“  when’s  that  book  report  due ?  ”

“  you’re  getting  an  early  jump .  ”

“  figured  i’d  be  too  beat  to  work  on  wednesday .  ”

“  you  didn’t  touch  your  dinner .  ”

“  i  wasn’t  hungry .   it’s  not  like  i  need  the  extra  calories .  ”

“  _____  ,    honey  ,    that’s  crazy .  ”

“  you’re  a  string  bean .    a  beautiful  string  bean .  ”

“  shut  up  ,    _____  ,    god  ...    ”

“  there’s  somebody  messing  with  our  mailbox .  ”

“  your  daughter  is  connected .  ”

“  my  partner  and  i  had  agreed  not  to  investigate .  ”

“  turns  out  i  was  lying .  ”

“  i  hear  you  now .    where  are  you ?    it’s  noisy .  ”

“  sorry  to  interrupt  you  on  a  sunday  ...    ”

“  you’re  not  interrupting  anything .  ”

“  i  was  just  ...    folding  laundry  ,    listening  to  prairie  home  companion .  ”

“  i  don’t  think  i’m  gonna  make  it  into  the  office  tomorrow .  ”

“  i  need  to  spend  some  time  with  _____ .  ”

“  no  worries .    we  all  need  personal  time .  ”

“  fuck  me  ...    no  service !  ”

“  i  guess  the  heat  and  the  sun  got  to  me .  ”

“  heavenly  god .  ”

“  _____ ?    what’s  wrong ?  ”

“  are  they  out  of  hot  chocolate ?  ”

“  multiple  perforations  of  the  intestines  ...    spread  throughout  her  blood  ...    had  to  induce  a  coma  in  order  to  arrest  progress  ...    internal  bleeding  ...  ”  

“  surgery  is  no  longer  an  option .  ”    

“  _____  is  dead .    i’m  so  sorry .  ”

“  aiiee !  ”

“  i’m  so  sorry  honey  ,    i  didn’t  mean  ...  ”

“  we  don’t  want  no  trouble !  ”

“  i’m  just  gon’  take  your  pistol .  ”

“  hey  ,    hey  ,    take  it  easy .    jesus  fucking  christ  ...  ”

“  don’t  you  take  that  name  in  vain !  ”

“  safety’s  on .  ”

“  who’s  the  girl ?  ”

“  jesus  ,    how  pregnant  is  she ?  ”

“  god  have  mercy  on  your  soul .  ”

“  i’m  not  going  to  hurt  you .  ”

“  you  need  helllll  ...    ”

“  mmm - hmm .  ”

“  that’s  all  you  got ?    ‘ mmm - hmm ? ’  ”

“  i  heard  you .   it’s  the  least  crazy  thing  you’ve  told  me  so  far .  ”

“  fair  enough .  ”

“  you  are  in  such  deep  shit .  ”

“  i  know .  ”

“  you  lied  to  me  ,    you  went  off  the  reservation .  ”

“  what  the  fuck  are  you  doing  ,    _____ ?  ”

“  i  fucked  up .  ”

“  don’t  fuck  yourself  any  deeper .    i’m  on  my  way .  ”

“  spill .  ”

“  okay  ,    number  one  ,    you  work  for  _____  ,    not  _____ .  ”

“  number  two  ,    you  don’t  interfere  with  ongoing  experiments .  ”

“  we  only  enter  the  equation  when  the  science  is  done  and  the  side  effects  need  mopping  up .  ”

“  shit  ,    you  don’t  even  know  if  this  is  an  experiment .  ”

“  and  number  three  ,    fuck  you .  ”

“  you  don’t  work  without  me .    we’re  partners  ,    you  stupid  motherfucker .  ”

“  sorr  ...    ”

“  don’t  say  you’re  sorry .    i  hate  that .  ”

“  you  want  the  silver  lining  to  your  shit  show ?  ”

“  you  don’t  suppose  you  brought  me  a  suit ?  ”

“  i  even  brought  you  a  tie .    hope  yellow’s  alright .  ”

“  you  called  it  a  ‘ vision ’ .    not  a  hallucination .  ”

“  it  felt  real .  ”

“  first  rule  in  the  playbook  is  don’t  get  high  on  your  own  product .  ”

“  what  about  brain  injury ?  ”

“  the  scan  must  have  been  corrupted .  ”

“  is  there  more  to  your  testimony ?  ”

“  yes  ,    of  course  ,    excuse  me .    i  was  just  ...    ”

“  could  we  see  those  brain  scans ?  ”

“  they’re  already  off  to  the  lab  ,    but  we  have  copies .  ”

“  evidence  ,    all  of  it .    this  had  become  a  matter  of  containment .  ”

“  we’d  love  to  meet  the  patient .  ”

“  the  little  guy  in  here  has  been  kicking  up  a  storm .  ”

“  is  that  a  tattoo ?  ”

“  a  globe .    no  ,    wheels .    ‘ wheels  within  wheels ’ .    that’s  biblical  ,    from  the  book  of  ...    ezekiel .  ”

“  you  can’t  have  him !    you  can’t .    i’ll  die  before  i’ll  let  you  kill  him .  ”

“  i  seen  the  messenger  and  i  know  i  ain’t  burdened  with  the  enemy .  ”

“  my  blood  is  true  ,    i’ve  sipped  at  the  fountain  and  borne  the  pain  and  marks  of  salvation .   ”

“  you  ain’t  gonna  take  my  baby  ,    you  ain’t  ...    ain’t  ...    ”

“  get  a  doctor !  ”

“  doctor !  ”

“  we  lost  her .    we  need  to  leave  ,    now .  ”

“  she’s  dead  ,    gone .    there  was  nothing  we  could  do .  ”    

“  minimal  footprint .  ”

“  i  realized  too  late  i  was  operating  above  my  security  clearance .  ”

“  are  you  sure  she  was  dead ?  ”

“  yeah  ,    case  closed .  ”

“  it’s  sad .  ”

“  still  ,    i  gotta  get  home .    i  said  i’d  be  there .  ”

“  you’re  a  good  dad  ...    you  always  take  care  of  your  girl .  ”

“  _____ !    you  home ?!  ”

“  you  work  for  us  now .  ”

“  we  didn’t  find  dick .  ”

“  there  we  go  ,    my  child .    every  last  drop  of  salvation .    your  children  are  waiting  for  you  in  heaven .  ”

“  god  does  not  pour  half  measures .  ”

“  the  storm  is  abating .    all  these  undeserved  blessings .  ”

“  he’s  still  not  answering .  ”

“  send  people  to  his  house .  ”

“  they’ve  been  feeding  _____  information .  ”

“  that’s  no  good .  ”

“  i’d  put  my  money  on  _____ .  ”

“  if  we  find  him  ,    i’ll  put  electrodes  on  _____ .  ”

“  how  many  bodies  we  looking  at ?  ”

“  hundreds .    it’ll  take  us  days  to  get  them  all  sorted .  ”

“  lot  of  these  local  corpses  show  signs  of  cyanide  poisoning .  ”

“  god  damn  this  guy’s  heavy  ...    ”

“  that  doesn’t  look  like  cyanide .  ”

“  yeah  ,    a  lot  of  them  got  creative  about  dying .  ”

“  took  a  lot  of  what  killed  her  to  get  the  job  done .  ”

“  last  name  sounds  like  a  crustacean  you’re  not  supposed  to  eat .  ”

“  how  did  you  know ?  ”

“  he  was  supposed  to  be  making  sure  they  didn’t  find  this  place .  ”

“  we  got  one  breathing  here !  ”

“  ‘ and  i  only  am  escaped  alone  to  tell  thee . ’  ”

“  is  that  from  wrath  of  khan ?  ”

“  it’s  actually  book  of  job  ,    by  way  of  moby  ...    ”

“  i  know  what  it  is  ,    you  don’t  have  to  try  and  impress  me .  ”

“  well  ,    holy  shit .  ”

“  his  eyes  are  all  pupil .    completely  catatonic .  ”

“  we  need  to  dig  in  his  head .    don’t  be  gentle .  ”

“  they  rarely  are .  ”

“  there’s  blood  on  the  walls .    looks  like  something  was  written  and  smeared  away .  ”

“  what  do  you  want  to  do ?  ”

“  actually  ,    no .    do  me  a  favor  and  find  his  corpse  ,    because  if  he’s  still  alive  ,    he’s  fucking  dangerous .  ”

“  where’s  _____ ?  ”

“  you’re  asking  the  wrong  question .  ”

“  i’ll  still  help  you  find  the  answer  ,    but  you’ll  need  to  trust  me .  ”

“  dead  ,    twice .  ”

“  how  about  you  just  tell  me  whatever  it  is  you  want  to  tell  me .  ”

“  it’s  not  surprising  religion  would  be  such  an  effective  delivery  mechanism .  ”

“  gods  communicating  with  men  ,    gods  dividing  themselves  into  components  that  men  could  understand .    a  trinity .  ”

“  in  the  name  of  the  father  ...    and  of  the  son  ...    and  of  the  holy  spirit .    amen .  ”

[nagia-pronounced-neijia]

WIP wednesday

Doing two wip Wednesday posts today. I'm blaming @ejunkiet even though it isn't their fault.  Beware, this one is long and spicy.

I was in such a storm that I didn't realize Lycus, Telemachus, and my guards had followed me until I turned the next corner and there was a lot of armed jockeying for position.  I couldn't bring myself to care about any of it.  I was too focused on the sheer, unmitigated gall of Ignacio's plan and just what a terrible person he was.

Lycus slammed my chamber doors shut and barred them.  I didn't think of that as weird.

At least, I didn't think of it as weird until he started stripping his armor.  Off came the surcoat, which he tossed at a corner, and then the breast plate — he was more careful with that — then a layer of mail he treated like gold, and then his padded jack.  Now that he could fully bend over, he pulled the boiled leather plates off his thighs and the greaves off his shins, then stripped his gloves.

He was standing in my chambers wearing nothing more than a dark silk shirt and trousers.  He was fully dressed by modern standards, but it felt like looking at him naked.  He had never, in the weeks I'd known him or the memories of my prior adult life, worn so little near me.  Even in the orphanage, he'd rarely worn only his shirtsleeves; there had always been some kind of coat or vest.

I blinked.  Then, because I was a number of things, and one of them was 'flawed' and another was 'attracted to men,' I looked.  Openly.  A dark curl of hair lay just visible at the bottom of his untied collar.  I fixated a little, imagining the rest, and the thick line that probably started around his stomach and trailed lower.

"Come here," he said, and when I went to him, he reached up to tangle his fingers in my hair and finally, finally kissed me.

It was electric.  He was very straight-forward about it; I'd barely started to kiss back before he was nibbling at my lower lip.  The instant I responded to that, his fingers tightened in my hair and he pressed his tongue to mine.  His mouth tasted like salt and basil; I recognized that from the tooth powder that I used now, too.

God, his lips were soft, and as I sank into the sensation, he pulled me even closer to him.  He managed to disentangle his hands and used one to cup the back of my head while the other wandered down my back — pressing first at the center of my spine, then finding the hollow in my lower back and pushing me there, using it as leverage to pull me as close as he could.

I grabbed his collar and stretched onto my toes, curious and delighted.

It turned out that I had the breath control to outlast him.  He eventually had to pull his head back and inhale harshly through his mouth, like he'd forgotten to use his nose.  His chest actually heaved with the effort.

I let him stay there, but I took the opportunity to run one palm over his arm.  Fucking muscle on top of muscle, I swear.  I'd always known he was big and I'd seen his strength in a number of different ways.  It was a totally different thing to actually put my hands on the source of it.

A better thing.

Lycus grasped me by the shoulders and pulled me back into him, as gentle as he seemed to know how to be.  He leaned his head down again, but this time, he just rested his forehead against mine.

"I could have lost you," he said, so softly that at first I wasn't sure I'd really heard him.

"You didn't."

"I could have.  Fifteen different times — and that was only in the active assassination attempt.  There were other opportunities."

"Wre handled it.  We'll keep handling it."

He pressed another kiss — feverish: heated and aimless and short — against my mouth, and whispered back, "I don't know if I can."

I didn't know what to say to that, so I didn't say anything.  I just chased his mouth with mine, catching him for another kiss.  This time, I bit his lip when he started to return it, and judging by the way one hand immediately dropped to the curve of my ass, the way he opened his mouth a little wider for me, he was very into it when I took charge.  When I pressed into his mouth, he squeezed.

And then we were both breathing heavily.  Lycus moved to untie his cuffs and pull his shirt off.

What we were heading for picked that moment to hit me.  So did my scruples.  Threaten a pregnant woman's execution?  I could do that, apparently, but I couldn't abuse the power I had over the captain of my guard and my oldest friend.

"Are you sure about this?  If you're not, I understand.  You said you can't be —"

He snorted a bitter laugh.  "I've been compromised from the start.  I'm not going to be less distracted, leaving now.  Just sloppily armored."

That was true.  It made my heart hurt anyway.  I looked away, not sure how to respond.

Lycus reacted by touching his thumb and a finger to my chin, gently making me look back at him.

"What happens next… what would change, if I left now, but lost you tomorrow?  What would my regrets really be?"

"About the same as mine, I think," I said, and stepped forward, into him.  I wrapped my arms around his neck and snuggled in close.  His skin smelled of sweat and, weirdly, lavender.

As he always seemed to, Lycus took the opportunity to pick me up and carry me.  I think he got the same kick out of it that I did, if from the other side of things.  I loved that swooping sensation in my stomach when he lifted me, loved twining my arms around him, loved that feeling of being totally supported.

He was big and he was terrifyingly strong and every single time he carried me, it was like a silent, subtle promise that he would always put all that raw, physical power at my disposal, rather than use it on me.  It was a heady feeling.

He dropped me carefully on what had seemed until now like a uselessly big bed.  He took that moment to pull his shirt off, tossing it away as carelessly as he had the surcoat, before he climbed in with me.  For my part, I took the chance to touch all that exposed olive skin, dancing my fingers from his collar bone to one of his pecs and then sliding lower. I followed the line of thicker, darker hair that started just under his belly button to the waistline of his trousers.

He sucked in a breath — and his stomach — and I laughed.

"Ticklish," I said, but I didn't keep teasing.  Instead, I pulled him down to kiss me, tangling my fingers in his hair, gripping the back of his head.

He kissed me back, biting at my lips, but seemed more interested in reaching around behind me to unfasten the whitewood buttons of my dress.  When he reached the third, he made an indignant noise into my mouth, and I laughed again, half-turning and pulling my hair over my shoulder.

Jesus, my crown was still on my head.  Forget Aquanet; apparently all I needed was a determined maid and a bunch of tiny, jabby hairpins.

While he focused on my dress, I unpinned my hair and underhanded the crown toward the side table like the most valuable frisbee of my life.  It clattered away.

Lycus' hands stilled on my dress for a moment, but then he pressed his lips to the part of my upper back he'd revealed.  It felt strange through my chemise, and he made another annoyed sound.

I stood and tugged the dress off, laying it aside as carefully as he had his mail, and laughed at Lycus' annoyance at my shift and slip.

"Just the chemise and stays after this," I promised.  "And the stockings, unless you want those to stay on."

Lycus gave me a look like he was seriously considering tearing the rest of my clothes off with his teeth.

I couldn't help it.  I laughed again: it was just so purely him.  I pulled my shift and slip off, then waited while he tugged at the laces of my stays.  I heard him muttering curses under his breath at the knots my maid had tied, but with one final jerk he undid them, and I felt the stays loosen.

Lycus tossed them aside like they had personally offended him, then untied the ribbon at the neckline of my chemise and drew it up over my head.

I turned, then, and reached out to cup my hand over his cheek.  I knew the reaction that was coming.  Every man and most of the women I'd ever dated had shared it.

He turned his face into my palm for a moment, surprisingly thick eyelashes shuttering down as he closed his eyes.  When he opened them, I could see the minute his focus zeroed in on my breasts.

He reached up to touch, first stroking then cupping the sides of them.  Then he lifted my breasts in his hands.

I scooted forward, closer to him, and he made a noise of vague approval.  He was one hundred percent focused, and there was no keeping the smile off my face because of how ridiculously, giddily warm he made me feel.

"Lycus," I said, and had to say it again to get his attention back.  I pressed a kiss to his brow, delicate and gentle and over all too soon, and asked, "What comes next… have you done this before?"

He struck me as the kind of man who would have reacted to not being able to have the person he wanted by just not sleeping with anybody.

Lycus stilled for a second, and then said, "Enough to know what I'm about."  He paused, considering, and asked, "Is there some expectation otherwise, in Seattle?"

"Nah, but I think it's easier to talk about, there.  It just would have changed my, like, angle of approach."  I heard the 'like' slip out and wanted to kick myself.  But if he noticed the verbal pause, he didn't seem to care.

Instead, he offered me that damnable, devastating movie star corner-of-his-mouth smile.  "Your angle?"

"You know what," I said, and then thought better of using words at all.  I reached out and pushed on his chest.

Lycus, saint that he was, humored me, falling back to the soft sheets.  I straddled him and reached down to the laces on his trousers.  I wasn't used to dealing with knots there, but it wasn't any worse than button fronts, really, and I'd had plenty of experience getting those off people.

I rolled off him and let him strip them off with a writhing motion that didn't look sexy, but the sheer intimacy and vulnerability of how dumb he looked made it hot.  I put a mental bookmark on that thought to figure out later.

Not even counting the multitude of dick pics I received in Portland and Seattle, I liked to think that I'd seen a fair number of dicks in my day.  Some of them had been meh, some of them had looked more like a technical challenge, and some of them had made my whole brain light up like I'd won a prize.

Lycus' made my mouth go dry.  It wasn't his length that impressed me — whatever the hell it was in inches, he looked proportional considering his height — but the girth.  He was uncut, which looked mildly weird to me, but dear god, he was thick.

My brain got stuck on the word 'thick,' and I lost power of speech.  I possibly lost power of thought.  It took me a full fifteen seconds to manage the words, "Oh god, I want to ride you so bad," and I only got them out because he started to look kind of worried.

He let out a breath.  "I was about to ask if you'd ever —"

"— Yes.  Can we stop talking now, because I really want... "  I made a helpless waving gesture; I was pretty much out of words.

He reached for me.  I put my palms in his for a second, then slid them down his arms and straddled him again.  I watched his teeth bite into his lower lip, out of interest or uncertainty, and leaned forward to kiss him.

I found one question.  "Trust me?"

"Yes," he told me, simple and honest.

I shifted on top of him, lining us up, then slowly, slowly sank down.  I didn't want to go slow.  I felt like I'd been starving for how much and how long I'd craved him and I wanted to feast.  I didn't let myself: I took him in slow inch by slower inch.  The way I had to stretch to take him was the perfect kind of pain.  Shivers rolled down my spine even as it burned so good, like my chest when I was belting a note at the bottom of my tessitura.  At one point I had to stop, and I leaned my head back to suck in a lungful of air.

Lycus actually made a strangled noise in his throat.  His fingers tightened on my skin where he was holding onto my hips.

I breathed out through my nose, a centering breath, and kept going.  I had to stop again when he was all the way inside me.  From the way he'd closed his eyes and his fingers were twitching on my pelvic bones, I could tell he needed the break, too.  We both stayed still, breathing together, in and out in the same rhythm.

I stayed that way until I heard Lycus blow out a ragged sigh, like he was only barely keeping it together.  "Please," he said, "please," and I was ready for it, too.

I rocked my hips.  I was already so soaked, and the feel as we moved back and forth — in and out like our breaths had just mingled — threw any kind of thought out of my head.  Pressure was building low in my stomach and the small of my back.  Second after second of need and pleasure stacked on top of each other, like some part of my body was building a tower.

One of Lycus' hands wandered from my hips to the curve of my ass.  He squeezed, fingers digging into my skin.  I was so close to the edge, pinned so thoroughly by the tightrope it felt like I was walking, so focused on that building tension and the pulse that beat between my thighs, that it didn't even hurt.

I don't know how long we lasted.  It felt like forever.  It felt like two seconds.  But it was so good: so slick, so perfectly fitted, and then one of his hands traveled from my hip to the place where we joined together.

I lost it.  The throbbing pulse found a new beat, the tower tumbled, the tension broke.  I threw back my head and screamed.  I could feel myself twitching around him, tensing and relaxing in a way I couldn't have hoped to control or stop and wouldn't have wanted to, anyway.

My voice bounced and echoed off the stone walls and the high ceilings.  I didn't hear anything Lycus might have said, didn't hear any noise he might have made, when he went over the edge.  I felt him shake underneath me, felt him move inside me and the throb-pulse of his climax.

When I was pretty sure he'd finished, I rolled off and collapsed onto the bed beside him.  I lay there, breathing hard, for about a minute before I rolled onto my side to watch him.  I got to witness him getting his breathing and his face back under control; he was flushed and sweaty and his eyes had gone heavy-lidded.  It was a good look on him.

"That was…"  But I let myself trail off.  There were no words that seemed to fit.  'Good' was too small; 'amazing' seemed glib.  I shook my head.

Lycus rolled onto his side, too, and I saw his dazed expression as he watched me.  He didn't have words, either.  I traced his features with my eyes, pleased just to have a chance to watch him without that professional soldier mask on.  As if he was thinking the same thing I was, he reached out and rubbed his thumb along my cheek.  In answer to his motion, I turned my head and caught the pad of his thumb with my lip.

"We were fools, to avoid this," he said.

I agreed.  "We were always going to end up here, weren't we?"

He let out an edged, bitter laugh like he had weeks ago, the day he'd told me he loved me too much to let someone else protect me.  "With you having come three inches from death, and me a fool?  Yes.  Oh, yes.  My fate is to lose you.  One way or another."

"You believe in fate?"

"You don't?"

Ah, we'd reached that stage of afterglow.  I sprawled onto my back and looked up at the stone ceiling.  Light from the lamps outside the windows cast strange, flickering shadows on it.  I stared at them for a few seconds before realizing it was because of a breeze moving the curtains.

[katcadecascade]

Road to Home (RWBY fic)

Summery: Rhodes reaches the Glass Unicorn at 11:40pm because someone asked him, “So who’s at home for you?”

Tags: AU - Canon Divergence, Volume 8 Chapter 6

aka my take on Cinder’s backstory AU

-

“So who’s back home for you?”

Rhodes kind of hates his name. It’s almost like cruel irony or a bland destiny to always be traveling, constantly on the move, and never staying too long in one place.

“No one. I don’t really have a place to return too.”

He believed that’s just how his life is as a hunter of Grimm. It feels like he’s always taking one mission after the next, a pattern that takes him across the kingdoms. All alone, it’s easier that way, efficient Rhodes believes.

It’s a cold truth he concluded on after his team parted. Talk about a crossroads.

“Hmm.”

Yet every once in a while there’s a hunt that demands many hunters. An abnormally large nest of Nevermores in Vale. If he had the option, Rhodes wouldn’t have joined. The path he wanted to take is the one that’ll take him back to Atlas, all the way back to Cinder.

She’s a tough kid in a not so good situation. That’s all Rhodes can really say on the matter, what with the loose child labor laws and the old reputation that keeps that hotel running. Look, Rhodes ain’t the man for critiquing ethics and socialism, especially Atlas and Mantle of all places.

Still though, he did what he thought was best for Cinder. Train her in secret, visit monthly if possible, and not take her with him. The life of an active huntsman who’s constantly traveling is not ideal for a kid to tag along. At least in the Glass Unicorn, Cinder is under a roof and away from the Grimm.

Or at least that’s what Rhodes keeps telling himself.

Each day he’s away from the girl, he tries to come up with another reason as to why he should not just up and take Cinder with him. For obvious reasons, it’s kidnapping. Then there’s the whole issue of his entire life is not child friendly.

No home for Cinder to be warm in. No extended family that can keep an eye on her when he’s away. No teammates…

And yet last month's visit, there was hesitation on his tongue, wanting to ask if she wanted to accompany him. It’s an outrageous idea, tactless and unreasonable. Training her for the academy entrance exams is the smarter play, a long one but way smarter than just thrusting Cinder onto the road with him of all people.

Rhodes is not the most upstanding role model to look up to, no less having to travel with. Imagine his surprise when a kid looks at him with starry, wide eyes. He doesn’t deserve any of that, not sure if he ever will, yet he kept training her. He kept returning to Atlas for Cinder.

“What’s that humming supposed to mean?”

There’s not many people for Rhodes to return to, even less if anyone ever wanted him in the first place. Cinder is the exception though, his mind excuses. She doesn’t know the mistakes he made, the suffering or aftermath.

In due time, the academy would give her a better life, not him. Just gotta stay in this waiting game, for Cinder’s sake.

“It means that I think you’re lying.”

That’s a long road he’s forcing Cinder to walk. For the longest time, Rhodes believed that was the only course of action for Cinder when really it’s just the path of least resistance. All because he is a coward stuck in the crossroads.

“...Fine. There’s this kid I look out for, that’s all.”

All the excuses he accumulated began the moment he saw Cinder in that dusty storage room. Of course she’s miserable and of course he pities her. Rhodes wasn’t the strategist of his former team, nor was he the heart. He was just the tank, master of waiting for the perfect moment, and the one who ends up walking a long road all alone.

It’s stupid of him to think Cinder should endure it all alone. It’s collassily ignorant of him to give her attention and leave the next day and think that’s proper teaching. It’s akin to constantly relighting a candle wit. One day there will be nothing left to spark.

“That so? It sounds like you must care a lot about her. She must miss you too.”

It took too long for Rhodes to think that maybe his interference has made Cinder’s life worse. He gave her a direction, a goal to reach the academy, a dream of freedom on the open road. Hope can be a powerful and dangerous thing.

Rhodes knows first hand how devastating it can be when hope ends out. He can outlast a storm, a horde of Grimm, nearly anything but that’s no guarantee for the people around him. This always lingers in his head when he’s out on bigger missions with a group of hunters.

“She’s not mine.”

This particular Nevermore hunt had a few familiar faces for Rhodes, all of whom he’d avoided. Then by luck he was caught by some of the newer graduated hunters, probably with only three or five years of experience. Not the ideal team up but the less he complains the quicker they complete the objective.

If only that white hooded huntress wasn’t so talkative and observant. If only she didn’t dig into his vague words and made him think. If only he had learned all of this months early for Cinder’s sake.

“My boyfriend has a baby girl at home. I might not be her birth mother but I will always see her as my daughter.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

There’s a knowing glint in those silver eyes. “You look like you’re eager to return home.”

Rhodes couldn’t get that line out of his head. Eagerness is a burden on long trips, it’s the annoying sibling to waiting, and it’s the very thing on Cinder’s face whenever Rhodes enters the Glass Unicorn.

Eagerness is in his heart that first night after meeting Cinder. He wanted to return. He wanted to take less missions away. He wanted Cinder to finally leave that place.

Why did he insist on making her wait?

Each and every excuse he came up with nipped and lashed at his ankles on every step he took closer to Atlas. The Grimm hunt was dealt with at a near blinding speed and that huntress said she’ll cover for him on the post-hunt reports that he always hated.

For transportation to Atlas, Rhodes had to suck up his pride and call the only other teammate who’s not dead.

“You wouldn’t ask unless it’s an emergency, Rhodes. An airship will be at the airport in an hour.”

“Thank you Willow, I mean it.”

True to his former teammate’s words, the huntsman was later in a private Schnee jet enroute to Atlas. If he was more reckless he would’ve hand it land right at the Glass Unicorn but attention was the last thing he wanted.

Once on the streets, he was practically retracing his steps all the way back to the hotel. Through the late night streets, up the steps and through the fancy lobby. At the reception desk, perfectly orderly is the woman of the establishment.

Her wrinkle lines move along with her cordially smile, prepared for greeting clients no matter the late hour.

Rhodes never thought of this madame in good graces. Rumor has it that the Glass Unicorn didn’t always have child servants back when the lady’s late husband was in charge. Under new management as the saying goes and the regular clients here didn’t bat an eye when the staff dwindled to one young employee.

It’s hypocrisy that he was a part of the silent crowd and only now does he actually react.

On previous visits, he’d always just booked a room and waited for the lobby to empty to get to Cinder. Right now though, Rhodes doesn’t have the patience to wait any longer.

Once upon a time, he had to brainstorm a myriad of lies to get Cinder out of the hotel. Excuses that range from she’s a missing link in a case or outright threatening to her to hand over Cinder. Well he’s not entirely sure how any of those scenarios would play out but it doesn’t matter in the end.

The mood in the air changes when two blonde girls come running out of the staff door. They’re both frightened out of their perfect composure.  

“Mom, come quick, we found something.”

“It’s Cinder, she has a weapon!”

Their mother glares at her daughters and clicks her tongue once the sisters notice the client present.

“Leave,” she demands lowly, “now.”

The girls scamper off in another direction while the lady smooths down her skirt. One hand lingers inside the pocket.

“Pardon me, Huntsman Rhodes, I have to attend to the matter.”

She takes one step, one loud clack of her heels away from the reception desk and Rhodes knew that this was it. It had to be now or never.

“Wait,” Rhodes didn’t waste his movement, striding past the lady and blocking her path to the door. “It’ll be best if I go.”

Scowling as politely as possible, she argues, “Sir, I assure you that girl is absolutely under my control.”

“You’re awfully confident,” Rhodes snaps. This is taking too much time, who knows what’s Cinder doing right now.

“I am,” she raises her voice, not appreciating his attitude.

It looks like she’s about to lecture him about respect so he cuts her off. “I’m going in there, not you. Got it?”

He’s not sure what kind of expression he’s making. Yes he’s angry and impatient and just wants this whole hotel gone. Something about him must have conveyed his true rage because the madame stands frozen, confusion and fear in her slacken jaw and how she took a step back.

Then he sees how her eyes flicker to something behind him.

On some sort of instinct, she took her hand out of her pocket. Clasped there is a remote with a yellow button, her thumb pressed down.

There’s a scream in his ears, a chilling shock down his spine as he turns around and sees Cinder at the doorway. She dropped the sword he gifted her and has one hand on the frame to support her shaking body as electricity rumbles and bites at her neck.

Rhodes never thought to ask why she had a fancy necklace. He wonder how stupid he is for failing to recognise lightning dust. He’s even more of a failure to be surprised that this is happening.

To add more evidence that Cinder has spent far too long in this hotel, Cinder grits her teeth and lets go of the doorframe. She starts limping over, the shockwaves going up and down her skin. Rhodes watches in horror and perverse awe before he hears a button getting mashed.

He grabs the madame’s wrist, snatching the remote out of her hand in seconds, and crushing it in a steel hand. It’s pathetically small help, clearly everything Rhodes has trained Cinder for was not the help she really needed.

There’s a momentarily delay in the remote’s signal as the shock collar continues. Cinder reaches a shaky hand up and rips the collar off, glaring at the source of all her pain.

“Cinder,” Rhodes interferes with her path but the girl is still glaring at the madame. “Let’s leave right now. You don’t have to stay here any longer.” He knees down to her, desperately wishing that the fire in her eyes won’t burn her up. “I’m sorry it took me this long to get you out.”

She still hasn’t looked at him. Yet at his apology tears start welling up. Cinder marches past him, stalking up to the madame who’s backed up against the frontdesk.

“Without you, I am nothing,” Cinder tells her and her tone sounds odd to the huntsman, like the words are warped around her tongue and teeth.

She thrusts her hand up, still holding the shock collar, and harshly presses it to the madame’s throat. In mere seconds, the metal is superheated in Cinder’s grip and the madame cries out, jerking away and falling sideways on the desk and then falling to the floor.

The madame clasps a hand around her neck but Rhodes saw the burnt skin there, diamond shaped like the collar’s centerpiece.

“But because of you,” Cinder hisses and throws the collar at the madame’s face, “I am everything.”

The girl is a heaving mess, her hands curling up and steaming.

“Cinder,” he calls and the girl’s whole body flinches.

Swirling around, Cinder angrily demands at him, “She deserves so much worse!”

“And you deserve better and you will get it all if we leave right now.” Rhodes begs her, “Please, will you come with me?”

Cinder quietly gasps at his question. Some combination of awe and surprise on her young face as she starts crying more.

He honestly doesn’t know if he can talk her out of murder, revenge realisticly. But if he can just take her away from this place then maybe she’ll choose otherwise. Maybe she’ll always want to kill these people but for right now, he needs to physically get away from these people.

The heat of her semblance dims from her hands as Cinder wipes the tears off her cheeks. She stumbles over to Rhodes and once close he hugs her tight. The girl bawls into his chest and Rhodes wastes no time to securely carry her in one arm.

He remembers to pick up Cinder’s fallen sword as he gets up. The madame on the other hand is still on the floor, trembling and confused but not making any motion to stop them. There’s a frantic wheezing coming from her too.

When she glares at them, Rhodes frowns back. “No one is going to ask about tonight, got it?”

The madame bitterly coughs and manages to croak out, “Leave.”

He lets her have the final word and marches out. Cinder got her breath back and has wide, teary eyes as they approach the doors. She squirms for a bit and he lets her down.

Standing on shaky legs, Cinder pushes open the doors with all her might. The wide swing of the doors shakes the frame but the girl doesn’t care. On her first step out of the hotel, the grandfather clock in the lobby rings twelve.

-

One step outside of the Glass Unicorn and Cinder felt like sobbing, running, and collapsing at the same time. Her hand squeezed tight onto Rhodes’ as she trembled against the midnight air. Its chill is heavenly on her overheated skin, an after effect from the electricity.

It’s all over now. She’s finally free from the madame and her hotel. Cinder just wants to run despite her straining muscles so she leans on Rhodes. He mumbles something about hurrying to the airport, hoping that a plane is still there but Cinder barely comprehends.

She’s actually free and Rhodes had wanted her to leave with him. Each visit, Cinder truly thought that he didn't want her around. The plan was for the academy, where he won’t have to deal with her but instead he actually asked.

Granted Cinder had wished he’d asked like the first night they met. Or maybe years earlier, that would’ve been good too. But here they are. It took her obnoxious step sisters to get too nosey and for Rhodes to finally be there at the right time.

Yet it still feels like Rhodes is late. The madame had one last play with the collar and Cinder wanted to finally end her. She can still feel the buzz in her neck.

Even though they’ve only walked down the street so far, Cinder feels too close and so far away from the Glass Unicorn. She feels like sobbing again.

“Hey, hey,” Rhodes moves his arm to comfortably enwrap her with warmth, “it’s okay now Cinder.”

A sob hitches in her throat and it’s like her semblance is burning her from the inside. Cinder doesn’t think she’s okay right now, she doesn’t believe she’ll ever be okay, but finally walking out of those pristine doors felt so good.

Somewhere in her thoughts, there’s the question on how it would feel like if she actually gave what the madame and her daughters deserved. At the same time, Cinder never wants to enter the Glass Unicorn even if her life depends on it. Which it does not though, she doesn’t ever have to be there again.

She’s finally freed.

That hopeful feeling gets lodged into her throat when suddenly a nice looking car pulls up in front of them. Rhodes holds her close as her heart hammers. Cinder can’t phantom what is going on as the well dressed driver exits and approaches them.

“Mr. Kolossos,” the man nods politely and when he looks at Cinder she flinches but he continues with another nod, “Miss.” He opens the backseat door and waves over, “This way please.”

“I didn’t call for a car,” Rhodes said and walked on, guiding Cinder away from the car.

As they’re passing the open car door, someone from inside scoffs, “Just get in here, Rhodes.”

In the nightlight, it’s hard for Cinder to see inside the car but she sees a feminine figure that matches the voice. Cinder can’t help but shake.

Rhodes on the other hand freezes.

“What are you doing here?”

“Picking you up unless you want to walk all the way to the airbay. The jet’s not there by the way.”

The huntsman huffs quietly but up close Cinder can see his lips barely form a smile. He catches her gaze and he winces. Rhodes pinches the bridge of his nose before whispering to her, “Cinder, I know you’ve been through a lot right now but do you still trust me?”

She doesn’t like the unsureness in his eyes, like she’s the one who will hurt him. Cinder knows there has been nights where she outright hates it when he leaves or his plan to wait seven years in that hotel. But every time he comes back, Cinder can’t help but want to hope that this time, she’ll join him.

And now it’s happening she knows that Rhodes is the only person she can rely on. If she’s on her own, well, she’ll have to be everything she needs. Cinder doesn’t know where that will take her but right now, she wants to stay with Rhodes.

“Yes,” Cinder tells him, squeezing his hand back.

“Thank you,” Rhodes smiles and she doesn’t know how to feel about that. Being thanked and stuff, especially over feelings. He looks back over to the car and huffs, “Fine, we’ll get in.”

Rhodes goes in first, still holding Cinder’s hand and worryingly looks between Cinder and the door closed behind her. Cinder kind of appreciates not being in the middle seat. Feeling trapped in a fancy enclosed position is too soon for her anxiety.

Still though, Cinder peeks behind Rhodes’ bulk to see the lady. The car starts up and when they’re passing under streetlights, Cinder sees white long hair of a woman only seen on TV.

“I never imagined this is what your emergency was about.”

“Well, I didn’t need to tell you Willow,” Rhodes said plainly.

Willow Schnee rolls her eyes and accidentally makes eye contact with Cinder. She presses her lips in a thin line, neither mean or annoyed, simply processing. Eventually she sighs and looks away, “You two need a place for the night. We’ll talk more tomorrow, okay Rhodes and…”

The empty silence has Willow awkwardly glance back to her. Cinder has never seen an elegant lady look awkward before, it’s kind of odd.

“Cinder,” she fills in.

“Cinder,” Willow repeats. “Alright, well,” she sighs again, faces the front, “we’ll be at home soon enough.”

At that word, home , Cinder tenses and relaxes. Any place is better than the hotel. She leans into Rhodes’ side and closes her eyes.

-

Thanks for reading!

[kadeuyongsun]

               ❛ you’ve got to watch your step, little bear ! ❜ 

   her voices rings clear and true, even in sunny’s ears, from where he stands just less than a yard away. it should sound distant, forgotten in his exploration, but yongsun could hear his sister’s voice among the noise, no matter the circumstance. 

   he’s fourteen now, yet she still calls him little bear. a nickname that came to life when he was only five, brought upon by his tendency to try and scare her. jumping from around the corner with a growl to boot, he always thought he’d won when byeol would gasp and clutch her chest, feigning fear. he never truly won, of course — she always knew he was there, anticipated his surprise. but little sunny was the most theatrical of the family, there was never any harm in humoring him. 

   he had fallen, stumbled and fell, his hands catching the brunt of it. scraped up and bleeding from the force, there’s a pout at his lips. if only he’d been paying attention, like byeol had said, he wouldn’t have scuffed himself up so bad. there’s stains on his pants now, guaranteed to warrant a very stern look from their mother. as he’s about to lift himself and dust off, byeol is there, dragging up by his upperarm and to his feet. 

   ❛ ma’s gonna be upset, ❜  he says, with a huff to truly exaggerate his words. despite his worry, though, his sister shakes her hand ; dusting the dirt from his hands, she examines the wounds with a furrowed brow. 

   ❛ oh, ma’s always upset about something. you’ve just given her cause to bitch and moan for the remainder of the evening, while she scrubs the dirt from your clothes. i told you, little bear, watch your step. ❜

               ❛ i know. ❜

                                         —————————

   she used to be his best friend, his only friend, the only one he could trust. his confidant, his terror twin, so to speak. when all else failed, sunny thought he could rely on her. that he’d turn to glance over his shoulder, and she’d be there. 

   but things change. people change. and she wasn’t there like she used to be. he became the star child, the golden boy, and their parents forgot about her. she’d always been smarter, prettier, more social, better in everything he attempted to excel — it should’ve been her. it should’ve been her to move on, to become something bigger than what she was, than what their family was. he didn’t — no, scratch that, still doesn’t — deserve it.

   she wasn’t there for his first performance at the palace. he’d invited her, of course, begged her to come — but she wasn’t there. it was fine, he figured. she’d said she might be busy, but she’d be sure to make the next show.

   ❛ it won’t be the same, ❜  he says the following evening, when he managed to track her down and she could spare a moment of her time.

   ❛ it’ll be just the same ! what difference does it make ? a show’s a show, is it not ? ❜  she speaks so matter - of - factly, her main focus the glass of wine in her hand. this is her third, most of the bottle gone, whereas sunny has barely finished his first.

   ❛ that’s not the point, and you know it. ❜

   ❛ of course it’s the point, little bear — ❜

   there’s a familiar sting in his eyes now, though he’s done his best to fight it. there’s a strange pang of fear in his chest, the sudden fear to show vulnerability. on stage, it’s different — but here, before his sister, before the person he’d once put every last bit of trust he had into ... he simply doesn’t want to feel vulnerable. and so sunny rises to his feet, his glass discarded and forgotten, as he averts his gaze and takes a step closer to the door.

   ❛ you don’t — you don’t get to call me that anymore. ❜  his voice shakes, the hint of a quiver in his lower lip. another step, closer to the door and further from his sister. at his sides, his hands remain fists, nails digging into his palms. the pain, it keeps him grounded ; it helps him focus, reminds him of the moment they’re in.  ❛ if you didn’t wanna come, that’s fine. i can’t force you. i won’t beg you. i just thought you’d wanna be there. i thought you’d wanna see that — that none of what i did was pointless ? it has meaning. it’s not just memorizing lines and reciting them in front of a crowd. it means something to me, and you don’t — you can’t even fucking pretend to care. ❜

   she opens her mouth to reply, yet sunny finds himself raising a hand, cutting her off before she’s even begun. he hadn’t expected her to obey, yet she does, waiting for him to speak once again.

   ❛ i don’t know what happened, truly, for me to lose you. i don’t know if it was something i did, or if it was ma and dad, but i’m sorry. if i could fix it, i would. if i could be the one they forgot, they abandoned, then i would take that role. it should’ve been you. i know it should’ve been you, because you’ve always been better. BUT IT WASN’T YOU, AND I’M SORRY. they picked me. i became their golden child, and they fucking left you behind. i can’t change that. i can’t fucking alter the past, though it’d be a lot better if i could, would it not ? ❜  he has to take a breath, close his eyes and breathe. his hand is on the doorknob now, his mind reeling as he opens the door. 

   ❛ i can’t change how they chose to raise us, byeol. all i wanted was my sister back. i’m sorry for thinking i could have something as simple as that. ❜

   ❛ you already have everything else you could want. ❜

   ❛ you’re really fucking full of yourself if you think that’s true. if you think that’s the case, then you’re already a lost cause, and i don’t know why i came here in the first place. ❜

   before she has a chance to reply, to make a snide remark and further their argument, sunny swings the door open. he won’t look at her — he can’t, can’t look at her — as he steps through the door. 

   it isn’t until he’s a ways away, trekking down the street and in the direction of his home, that the first tears begin to fall ; like those first drops of rain, slow and steady. but when it rains, it storms, and there’s nothing he can do to outlast this one.

[becausewhatiam-iswhatimnot]

I am so so sorry but I can't read your bio is there any way you can copy and paste it somewhere in black and white :')

"When given the choice between being right and being kind, chose kind"| Memento Mori My Friends | Genderfluid, Grey-romantic, Demi-sexual | Be Trans Throw Hands Bitches | I'm an Unus and you can't stop me | Minor | I'm Nøah. | I am almost always free to to talk and vent to. Just shoot an ask or DM. Please, you're worth more than you think. I want to help. | I accept all people unless you a -phobe. | I'm the scary trans person the media warned you about! | Once drowned in the depths of darkness, you lose sight of light. When that light has dispersed there is no return. My light has died out long ago and so there's nothing back for me to go back, or look forward to I shall continue to indulge myself in this darkness until it completely consumes me, then I will be nothing but an empty course left on this cold & cruel world to rot. | Knowing you’re different is only the beginning. If you accept these differences you’ll be able to get past them and grow even closer. | If you wanna stop this, then stand up. Because I’ve got one thing to say to you. Never forget who you want to become! | There’s nothing crueler than letting a dream end midway. | The deeper the darkness, the more dazzling the light shines | The things we do outlast our mortality. The things we do are like monuments that people build to honor heroes after they've died. They're like the pyramids that the Egyptians built to honor the pharaohs. Only instead of being made of stone, they're made out of the memories people have of you. | A fresh start gives us the chance to reflect on the past, weigh the things we’ve done, and apply what we’ve learned from those things to the future. If we don’t examine the past, we don’t learn from it. | Someone I loved gave me a box full of darkness. It took me years to understand that this too, was a gift. | Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that. 

-You remind me everyday, I'm not enough but I still stay. (July by Noah Cyrus) | 

Act as if what you do makes a difference. It does. | 

Success is not final, failure is not fatal: it is the courage to continue that counts. | 

I can't change the direction of the wind, but I can adjust my sails to always reach my destination.  | Maybe, just maybe I want to kiss jk jk unless... | 

Nothing is impossible. The word itself says "I'm possible!" | 

Sometimes you will never know the value of a moment, until it becomes a memory. | "Shut up, count your calories. I never looked good in mom jeans. Wish I, was like you. Blue-eyed blondie, perfect body. Maybe I should try harder. You should lower your expectations" (prom queen, beach bunny) | 

"Don't let me see what I am. 'Cause I can't stand, it, no I can't. I'm coming back round again. It's been over a year, I thought this was the end. And now I don't remember comfort. Because what I am is what I'm not. I don't belong here, it's just hopeless. Find me a way out if you love me at all. Don't let me hear what they say. 'Cause I can't stand it everyday. I'm thinking that I should leave now. And I don't think I'm coming back this time. 'Cause now I don't remember comfort. Because what I am is what I'm not. This phantom skin it's weird to live in, so find me a way out if you love me at all" (Dysphoric, Cavetown) *I legit put down the whole song XD* | "Carry on my wayward son. There'll be peace when you are done. Lay your weary head to rest. Don't you cry no more" (Carry On My Wayward Son, Kansas) | 

"Settle down, it'll all be clear. Don't pay no mind to the demons, they fill you with fear. The trouble it might drag you down. If you get lost, you can always be found. Just know you're not alone. 

'Cause I'm going to make this place your home" (Home, Phillip Phillips) | 

"Even if we both break down tonight, and you say you hate me, and we go to bed angry. I know everything will be alright. I'll be here waiting, I promise I'm changing. I just need time." (Time, NF) | 

I'm all choked up. I cannot talk. I gotta fucked up brain, Fucked up thoughts. I thought I was ok, But then I guess not. Hope you know that this is your fault. I want you to feel bad when you go to sleep. I hope you're sad when you remember me. And feel bad for all you did to me. I hope you lie there in your misery. Hey little girl, You'll never believe, There's a ghost inside of you, But it's hidden too deep. Hey little girl, You'll never imagine, When you get a little older, You'll get abandoned. Hey little girl, You know smoking kills, You don't really care 'Cause you love how it feels. Hey little girl, You're falling apart, You don't really care 'Cause they broke your heart. ( Hey Little Girl, Sophie Marie B) | 

"If I lay here. If I just lay here, would you lie with me and just forget the world" (Chasing Cars, Snow Patrol) | I wish that I could be like the cool kids. | Just your casual dumb fatass. TERF, ARO/ACEPHOBES, NAZI, TRANSPHOBES, HOMOPHOBES DNI. | You ever just... | Gen Z | Just a plastic bag, drifting through the wind, wanting to start again. | I will fuck a bitch up if you mess with my friends. I think I have friends on here. At least 2. | 

I will see you again, oh. This is not where it ends. I  will carry you with me, oh. Till I see you again. | So, before you go

Was there something I could've said to make your heart beat better?

If only I'd have known you had a storm to weather

So, before you go

Was there something I could've said to make it all stop hurting?

It kills me how your mind can make you feel so worthless

So, before you go |Single Pringle Life. |

[heretyc]

“owo? is for me?” |  Val crackfic because today is just full of surprises [ooc Val, obviously]

YES this is bad but IT’S MEANT TO BE HDSFSJDFFDSADSFDSF |

I use he/him pronouns for Val in this. I’m warning you now. [Do ppl still care abt their pronouns/sex or did that debate die a longggg time ago]

I really do not know what would happen if an outsider went to Temple Gate [Blake doesn’t count because he was ‘the father’, not rlly an outsider per se] so I made you/the MC a ‘god[dess]’ in this scenario ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ when do I NOT make the reader a holy figure? Hm? [MC is gender neutral, yipee]

This shitstorm is inspired by my previous shitpost

(☞ﾟヮﾟ)☞☜(ﾟヮﾟ☜)(☞ﾟヮﾟ)☞☜(ﾟヮﾟ☜)(☞ﾟヮﾟ)☞☜(ﾟヮﾟ☜)(☞ﾟヮﾟ)☞☜(ﾟヮﾟ☜)

This place was familiar, and yet you didn’t know whether to panic or stare at the scenery in awe.

Last time you checked, you were playing Outlast 2 for the fun of it. You had already completed it, so at this point you were just playing it for the thrills.

A couple of minutes after you started your first game, you had blinked a little too hard to push back the burn of craved sleep that caressed your eyelids. Blinking was a common human activity and you did it all your life. But why did this blink suddenly bring you to Temple Gate? The land of the STD’s and murder? God really seems to hate you, doesn’t he?

The crows that sit upon the branches seem to think so, as they cackle to each other, almost as if they were laughing at your displeasure.

If blinking transported you into your video games, you really should blink while playing those pet simulators.

You’d kill to pet an animal right now.

All you have to do right now is pray. Pray that there is no crazed cultist around the corner, ready to sacrifice you to the gluttonous, lust crazed moron with an ego the size of the sun.

If you remember correctly [it’s hard to remember shit when you’ve been transported into a horror game, but I digress, what does an author know?], you’re close to the spot where Blake experiences his first flashback. 

You - Blake, if you wanna get technical - were here when you blinked. This is where you left Blake standing before getting fucked over by the gods of alternate timelines.

You walk along the little stream of rushing water, trying to think about how this happened, when a little reminder clawed through your head;

yeah, Blake had his first flashback up here, but you know what else happened?

His wife got abducted by Val, just a couple of feet away from where you stand, and Blake got straddled. 

But would Val even come for you? You’re not Blake. Blake is gone. Do we even know Blake? 

Lynn isn’t here either. Val only really went for Blake and Lynn. You’re not carrying anything holy.  [Unless you’re wearing an Outlast shirt. Then yeah, he’d go for you. That shit is holy.] 

He wouldn’t go for a random ass person. Neither the New Testament or Heretics have attempted to slaughter you yet, so if you’re lucky, you’re invisible and you can find a way out of this.

Your theory of invisibility has proven to be false, however, when you feel a force push you onto your stomach.

“I found them, our God,” hot breath forces its way to the back of your neck, and frankly, it’s fucking gross. Arizona was hot enough as it is, and the random guy behind you had the audacity to breathe on you? Nasty.

“Hey!” He shouts behind him as he forcefully pushes you onto your back, with a hand pushing down on your abdomen to keep you down. Now that you see them face to face, the New Testament members look oddly intimidating. Not only that, but this one smells like old blood and failure.

You shrivel your nose in disgust, while he eagerly states that he ‘found God’ to his buddies that took their sweet ass time walking up to the two of you.

“Wait until Papa Knoth sees this!” One speaks up, obviously excited about potentially pleasing the prophet, and you can feel the tears invade your eyes.

You’re not upset about being caught, no, you’re upset about having to probably see Knoth. Oh god, why you? Why? Why?

You never thought you’d be happy to hear quiet groans and moans, but you were. The Heretics were so vocal. You were glad to hear them for once in your life.

When the noise of bare feet and boots hit the rocks beneath you, the New Testament members go silent. “Shh,” the one holding you sounds a little fearful.

He’s almost haunting when he turns his face to look at you; his pupils are as small as a freckle as he stares into your soul. He whispers, “Heretics.” 

That’s all that he’s able to say, because a Heretic rips him off of you and twists his neck until a crack blesses the air.

You can finally breathe without having to smell rotting blood. All you can really smell is mud now, but it’s better than innards and the eagerness to please.

The Heretic lets the lifeless body fall to the ground; he was more interested in ‘staring’ at you rather than help the body down to prevent noise.

...Was he staring at you? His head was staring in your direction, but with the mud coating his eye area, it’s kinda...difficult to tell.

He’s quick in grabbing your shoulders and pinning them to the ground though, so that proves you right. 

The cracking of boots hitting pebbles is satisfying but also a little unnerving; you KNOW Val is coming, there’s nothing you can do to stop him and you had to expect this, but he has followers that will kill you in a heartbeat. What if you did something he didn’t like?

Just as expected, Val appears like lightning from a storm, and shoves his fingers through the last member’s eyes as if they were butter. It was effortless.

“I watched my father,”

Here it comes.

“uwu your god...”

...The fuck?

“...to death.”

Did you really just hear a cultist say uwu? What drugs are you on?

The eyeless corpse collapses onto the ground with a thump as if it was weightless, and the infamous blonde turns to walk over to you while staring at you with eyes as cold as ice.

“God doesn’t uwu you,” he straddles you, and in the moment you couldn’t care less, because what kind of fucking cultist says “uwu” OUT LOUD?

“not like I do.” He ends his iconic phrase and begins to lick your face as if it was ice cream.

You’re questioning how much marijuana you probably smoked once he shapes his hands into finger guns and pushes his pointer fingers together, tip against tip. His expression could be compared to that of a lost puppy.

This shit never happened in the game when you played it.

“Are you here for me?”

"...What?”

Did you say that out loud? Oh, you did. Oops.

He keeps his pointers attached. The only thing that changes about him is a smile creeping up on his face, and an expression that basically tells you he knows you don’t belong here.

“You aren’t from here. You came here for a reason, I know it.” He chuckles a little bit.

Now the air is filled with silence. Is it awkward? Yeah, but only to you.

Val and his little followers are looking at you like they expect you to say something. 

So you do to prevent your demise. 

“Uh, yeah, sure. I’m here for you.” You try to say it as convincingly as possible. Can they smell lies? If so, you’re fucked.

“Oh, swell!” He climbs off of you and motions to the Heretics, “bring them home. We have some...uwuing, to do.”

Welp. That’s certainly code for you’re gonna die. 

Whether it’s by a knife or by cringing so hard your neck snaps off.

Have fun with that.

[lectophile]

Words of Wisdom: Crooked Kingdom

He had become a great beast, and yet that beast would devour him.

A card game is like a duel. It’s the little cuts and slashes that set the stage for the final killing stroke.

The really bad monsters never look like monsters.

Words like to ride the water.

Why build such monuments to death?

You’re a stolen painting...

I’m pragmatic. If I were cruel, I’d give him a eulogy instead of a conversation.

We meet fear... We greet the unexpected visitor and listen to what he has to tell us. When fear arrives, something is about to happen.

Better terrible truths than kind lies.

No, you’re the man who sits idly by, congratulating yourself on your decency, while the monster eats his fill. At least a monster has teeth and a spine.

Could forgiveness come if she killed not to survive but because she burned with living, luminous hatred?

You are forsaken. As you have turned your back on me, so will they turn their backs on you.

She could not pretend those words had been conjured by strategy or even animal cunning. The magic they’d worked had been born of belief. An ugly enchantment.

He felt free, dangerous, like lightening rolling over the prairie.

His only crime had been putting his faith in his son.

Trust but verify.

Because the law here is profit.

He feeds corruption with corruption.

Even better men can be bested.

Patience would bring all his enemies to their knees in time.

You build in safeguards for failures, but something in the safeguards ends up causing an unforeseen failure.

Never underestimate the public’s desire to get something for nothing.

We are not our fathers.

You don’t win by running one game.

He was just a boy fueled by a white flame of rage, one that threatened to burn the pretense of the hard-won civility he maintained to ash.

The Saints hear prayers wherever they’re spoken.

Praying and wishing are not the same thing.

Sometimes the trick to getting the best of a situation was just to wait. If you didn’t like the weather, you didn’t rush into the storm—you waited until it changed.

The silence between them was dark water. He could not cross it. He couldn’t walk the line between the decency she deserved and the violence this path demanded. If he tried, it might get them both killed. He could only be who he was—a boy who had no comfort to offer. So he would give her what he could.

But that debt is mine to pay.

...that fear is a phoenix. You can watch it burn a thousand times and still it will return.

You sink into trouble like it’s a warm bath.

I wait with open ears and a ready heart.

Your enemies are my enemies, and I stand with you against any foe...

There is no greater honor than to stand by your side.

Meeting you was a disaster, but I am grateful for that disaster. I needed a cataclysm to shake me from the life I knew. You were an earthquake, a landslide.

You aren’t a follower, you’re every blossom in the wood blooming at once. You are a tidal wave. You’re a stampede. You are overwhelming.

He didn’t need to be popular to survive.

You were angry. Angry wears off. I needed you righteous.

There’s always a price to be paid for greatness.

Everyone can shoot, but not everyone can aim.

I cannot be anything other than what I am, and if my gifts can help people, then it’s my duty to use them.

What kind of mother would I be to my son if I hid away my talents? If I let fear be my guide in this life?

You knew what I was when you asked me to choose you... Do not now suggest that I be anything else.

No matter the height of the mountain, the climb is the same.

It was a planet and she was its moon.

What a luxury to turn your back on luxury.

You’re weak because you’re afraid of people seeing your weakness. You’re letting shame decide who you are.

We can endure all kinds of pain. It’s shame that eats men whole.

Our work is death, and it is holy.

You cannot fear death and be it’s true emissary.

But I ask no money for the lives I take. They are the jewels I wear. They are my glory in this world and will bring me honor in the next.

I don’t hold a grudge. I cradle it. I coddle it. I feed it fine cuts of meat and send it to the best schools.

We want to create something that outlasts us.

But if you couldn’t open a door, you just had to make a new one.

When they backed you into a corner, you cut a hole in the roof.

But he couldn’t fix something he couldn’t catch a hold of.

It was all black desert, starless sky, barren earth.

That had been heat, fire, light. This was a cold flame, one that burned low and blue.

We are tied to the power of creation itself, the making at the heart of the world.

But maybe death wasn’t just one thing.

It came after the shipwreck, when the tide moved against you and the sky had gone dark. It was the first sight of land, the hope of shelter and even salvation that might await you on a distant shore.

The city had come alive, and it was angry.

There’s no time to constantly be apologizing for existing.

But when someone does wrong, when we make mistakes, we don’t say we’re sorry. We promise to make amends.

This action will have no echo.

Stop treating your pain like it’s something you imagined. If you see the wound is real, then you can heal it.

I’m dying anyway, I’m just doing it slow.

I love you with all my lying, thieving, worthless heart...

He’s the house. He has the resources to play until your luck runs out.

I can’t live in a city where I can’t hold up my head.

It was a mad, spiky monster of a plan, and that was what it had to be for them to succeed.

There was always an angle, and he was an expert at finding it.

Words have not been invented for such an occasion.

Every sin makes the shadow stronger, until eventually the shadow is stronger than you.

The distance between them felt like nothing. It felt like miles.

Violence was easy.

He clung to the tether of her voice.

It hurt to stand here like this, so close to the circle of her arms.

He ignored the sting in her heart.

He didn’t deserve peace and he didn’t deserve forgiveness, but if he was going to die today, maybe the one thing he’d earned was the memory of her—brighter than anything he would ever have a right to—to take with him to the other side.

He might as well go to meet his death in style.

Crazy enough, but not stupid enough.

This city’s price is blood, and I’m happy to pay with yours.

Why run from the amazing things you can do?

This was the kiss he’d been waiting for. It was a gunshot. It was prairie fire.

Rich men want to believe they deserve every penny they’ve got, so they forget what they owe to chance. Smart men are always looking for loopholes. They want an opportunity to game the system.

The toughest mark is an honest one.

Sometimes, a proper thief doesn’t just take. He leaves something behind.

The dead will wait, but I won’t.

But this was different. This was decay.

And that was what destroyed you in the end: the longing for something you could never have.

So let’s go show them they picked the wrong damn fight.

Maybe she should feel ashamed, maybe even frightened. But she hadn’t been made for shame.

But just as surely as life connected everything, so did death.

She was the Queen of mourning, and in its depths, she would never drown.

It willl be your honor to serve me in death.

The blood you spill is the blood of kings. You are not fit for such a gift.

We learn to hold our heads as if we wear crowns. We learn to wring magic from the ordinary. That was how you survived when you weren’t chosen, when there was no royal blood in your veins. When the world owed you nothing, you demanded something of it anyway.

There is no shame in meeting a worthy opponent. It means there is more to learn, a welcome reminder to pursue humility.

She had chosen to live freely as a killer rather than die quietly as a slave, and she could not regret that.

Even now, n this last moment, she looked like a girl from a story, destined for greatness. She was a queen without mercy, a figure carved in ivory and amber.

May you make more than misery in your next life.

Suffering is like anything else. Live with it long enough, you learn to like the taste.

Fate has plans for us all.

It was a smile he thought he might die to earn again.

There’s so much in the world you don’t have to be afraid of, if you could only open your eyes.

Lightening doesn’t like a master.

Be free, as you were meant to be. Be a warrior, as you always have been.

I have been made to protect you. Even in death, I will find a way.

You will meet him again in the next life, but only if you suffer this now.

Funny thing, when you train an animal to obey, sometimes they get too easy to command. Better to keep them a little wild.

You don’t win by running one game.

You can only sharpen a blade so far. In the end, it comes down to the quality of the metal.

Loving you made him better.

He went easier into the next world knowing he’d done good in this one.

Laughing at my jokes. Forgiving me when I was foolish. Never trying to make me feel small. It doesn’t matter if it’s next month, or next year, or ten years from now, those will be the the things I remember when I see you again.

Try to catch hold of me and you’ll find you’re trying to hold air.

But it was one thing to be a thief in a house and quite another to be a guest.

He had been so much of her world for so long.

Be the thing they all fear when they close their eyes at night.

She’d need only move the smallest amount and they would be touching. He was that close. He was that far from reach.

She understood suffering and she knew it was a place she could not follow, not unless she wanted to drown too.

She would fight for him, but she could not heal him. She would not waste her life trying.

Crows remember human faces. They remember the people who feed them, who are kind to them. And then people who wrong them too.

Her mind refused the image before her. This could not be real. It was an illusion, a false reflection, a lie made in rainbow-bird glass. She would breathe again and it would shatter.

The world was made of miracles, unexpected earthquakes, storms that came from nowhere and might reshape a continent.

Her heart was a river that carried her to the sea.

You think you’re finished with a place, but that doesn’t mean the place is finished with you.

[ask-them-bois]

Hurt Him Some More (Final)

The night was young; the sky was still grey on the west horizon. Above, stars burst to life through the inky blackness as a million eyes that watched from the shadows. Nebulae and galaxies spread their impossible forms through the gaps, as the two moons bled their light across the glassy water.

It was cold, the salty air biting like the fangs of war dogs. Not a sound was to be heard; even the wind’s voice was hushed. The sharp brine and bitter scent of gunpowder drifted with the breeze. Even the water below barely burbled.

The world was holding its breath, no more than an ancient vase balanced on a precipice of primitive ruins, waiting for its slumber to be disturbed.

With the taste of his own blood on his tongue, Ruthless stood upon his Warshark’s deck. He watched as, silhouetted against the moon, the Dragon Star approached. He had very little time left. From the distance, it was no more than the size of his thumb, but Alastr would be upon him shortly.

It’s just like that night, he thought, raising his head to feel the wind brush past his hair and fins. Just like the night I lost her; it was this beautiful then, too. He opened his eyes and gazed up at the faint lights in the sky. There was a nebula above him that was her color. Are ye watching me, my love? Lend me yer strength.

Casting his gaze around his ship, he nodded once. He reached out, his claws gently running over the grains in the mast. His ship had outlasted him; she was still waiting when he had returned, hidden where he’d left her. She was old and tired; her wood was warped and her belly leaking, her sails tattered and ropes frayed. Just like him.

“O√e last fight, lass. Last o√e, I promise. The√ ye ca√ rest. I’ll sail ye ta the cove a√’ letcha rest o√ the sa√d.” He looked back out towards the Dragon Star, “Or we’ll both be √othi√’ but salvage. Either way, we do this together, aye? Show me that mighty stre√gth ye had before.” Deep in the bowels of the ship, he heard her groan. He chuckled dryly and pat the mast. “Atta girl.”

He fell silent once more as he watched the Dragon Star approach. This time, he thought, this time is definitely different. Neither had their crews to man the stations or fight alongside them. Neither had the strength they possessed that day. Ruthless himself had no will for this fight. His bloodlust had died when she did. Even now, as he wore his old uniform, he did not wear his pins and patches; those belonged to someone who perished with her. He reached into his coat and pulled out his necklace. Looped on a silver chain were a pair of rings. One was studded with emeralds, while the other was adorned with amethyst. He clenched his hand around them and kissed his knuckles.

“RUTHL£$$ D££PBIT£!!”

And just like that, the night was broken. The vase wobbled closer to its edge. The captain raised his head to see the Dragon Star glide up beside him, so that they were side by side. Of course, the Dragon Star was in pristine condition; Ruthless had no doubt he’d put it back together once he had returned. Standing on its deck was Alastr Afasia, in all his glory. The bronzeblood raised his boot and placed it on the edge, leaning forward with his elbow on his knee.

“Ar£ you r£ady, old man? It’$ tim£ for you to join that worthl£$$ w£n€h you w££p for!” Forsaken called across the water. Ruthless slid the necklace back into his coat and stepped forward.

“√o, Alastr. Where she has go√e, I ca√’t follow. But I’ll meet ye dow√ there eve√tually.” He said, his voice even and emotionless. Forsaken tisked, before he laughed cruelly.

“P£rhap$ you’r£ right. $o,” He reached into his trench coat and pulled out his pistol, aiming it at Ruthless’ face. He cocked the hammer, “got any la$t word$ for th£ living?” Ruthless merely shook his head.

“Ye’re pathetic, Alastr.” He said tiredly, “A thousa√d years, a√’ ye ca√’ let thi√gs go. I √ever did a√ythi√’ ta ye. A√’ whatever I did do ta ye, I did√’t mea√ ta. I √ever k√ew ye existed ‘til ya killed Lucy.” He took another step forward, “Ye’re the o√e that destroyed my world, √ot the other way arou√d.”

Forsaken seemed to falter for a moment; it was slight, but his pistol dipped towards the deck, before his expression hardened and he jerked it back up.

“Liar! Your fan€y word$ won’t $av£ you h£r£, £-”

“Do √ot!” Ruthless cut him off, a snarl now on his lips, “Ye do√’ get ta say my √ame! O√ly she ca√ say my √ame!” Forsaken paused, before he laughed.

“Fin£, what£v£r. Your nam£ €an fall to th£ bottom of th£ o€£an along with your €orp$£.” He spat. He tensed as a thought occurred to him, before he brightened. “A€tually, your body won’t mak£ it that far. $hall I introdu€£ you to the on£ who will g£t to it fir$t?”

“What-” Ruthless began, as Forsaken swung his arm around and fired into the water. The gunshot cracked through the air, the bullet disappearing into the waves. As the ringing died away, a rumble filled the air. It was deep- subsonic- Ruthless could feel it in his very bones.

That was not a rumble, he realized with a cold shock of fear, but a roar.

Something under the water was responding to the gunshot.

He barely had the mind to lunge, to grab the mast and hold on, as the ocean exploded.

Sea water blasted into the air around him, climbing higher than the turbulent waves in a storm, as another roar- now unmuted by the water- swelled through the air, filling the empty space until Ruthless felt like he couldn’t breathe.

The unholy, righteous fury behind the sound made him go cold. That was a sound that even banshees and demons ran from. It could curdle milk, boil blood, and make even the stars quiver and weep. He heard the boards in his ship crack with the force behind it as the Warshark was tossed to and fro by the waves.

Still, she stayed upright, and Ruthless could only watch as a humongous serpentine head rose from the chaotic, frothing sea. He didn’t realize he was shouting until water fell on his tongue. The once clear sky was suddenly swirling with dark clouds, which crackled and lit up with lightning. Thunder undercut the sounds around him, before the sky opened and rain fell with the sea water.

Distantly, he heard Forsaken cackle.

“YOU MAY HAV£ HAD A M£GALODON RUTHL£$$, BUT I, I HAV£ A L£VIATHAN!!” He howled with glee.

Ruthless clutched the mast tighter as he watched the ungodly monster rise. His mind could barely comprehend the size of the beast. It was just- too fucking big, and he was only seeing a portion of it. Its scales were black, black as the void of night, but its teeth- its teeth were blindingly white as it opened its mouth and screamed. Finally, it turned to face him, and Ruthless stared into the eyes of his own oblivion.

Those were the eyes of the devil, he thought. Eyes so red, so deep, deep red, that even the Empress would hesitate to touch the color. Those eyes lived for nothing but to watch carnage and slaughter. Those eyes had seen the gods and laughed at their pitiful powers. Those eyes held a hunger that could not be sated, even if the monster swallowed the stars themselves.

As sea water washed across the deck, drenching the captain, he felt his resilience fail. He could not fight that thing, and he knew it. He dug his claws into the wood and turned away, squeezing his eyes shut as he waited for the end.

“Alastr!”

A voice cried out, nearly buried under the noise, and Ruthless jerked around to look.

Upon the Dragon Star’s deck, a pillar of fire erupted. Ruthless flinched as one appeared on his own ship. Out of the flames stepped Decaying, Incoding, Innocent, and Musrio. On Forsaken’s ship, Drayco emerged from their own pyre, once more in their Black Hand Form. All five of them stumbled as they stepped onto the rocking decks, but they stayed upright.

“What the hell are ye doi√’ here?!” Ruthless shouted at his morails and the rustbloods. If they answered, he couldn’t hear it as thunder shook the sky. Musrio met his eye and grimaced, before he tipped his head towards the Dragon Star.

Glancing at the monstrous serpent, he saw it dip back below the waves momentarily, only to reappear on the other side of their ships; it was circling them. It wasn’t here to kill him, he realized with faint relief, it was to keep him from running away; or at least, it wouldn’t kill him until Alastr gave the word. Safe for the moment, Ruthless turned back to the bronzebloods.

They looked like they were arguing, but Ruthless could barely hear past the rush of blood in his ears. Drayco’s tattoo- the skeletal hand- was glowing against their skin as they raised their claws.

“Enoough oof this! Yoour fight will resoolve noothing! Send yoour moonster away!” Drayco bellowed, their voice deep and commanding, stronger than Ruthless had ever heard it.

“You und£r$tand nothing, you path£ti€ €hild! G£t out of my way!” Forsaken snarled. Drayco braced their feet.

“Noo! Yoou must listen too me! Yoou will die if yoou coontinue!” They cried, almost pleadingly.

“$il£n€£! The only on£ who will di£ h£r£ is Ruthl£$$! Mov£!”

“Please, Foors-” They got no further. Snarling, Forsaken raised his pistol and pointed it at them.

“G£t! Out! Of! My! Way!” He shrieked, spittle flying from his lips and his eyes popping wide. He’s lost his mind, Ruthless thought, swallowing heavily.

“NO!” Musrio screamed.

Several things happened then; Ruthless watched them all in slow motion, like he was going frame-by-frame in a movie.

First, Forsaken squeezed the trigger.

Second, a burst of fiery light flashed on the Warshark’s deck, followed by another one appearing on the Dragon Star, not a moment later, situated between the ancestor and descendant.

Third, Musrio leaped from that fire, his arms out wide as he threw himself towards the pirate, his robes flapping in the wind.

Fourth, thunder cracked and lightning flashed as dark red blood sprayed through the air, and Musrio crumpled to the deck.

Time snapped back into place like a rubber band as the gunshot rang out, and Drayco was screaming. Forsaken was laughing. Innocent, Decaying and Incoding were shouting.

And Ruthless was running.

He ran for the edge of his ship, tagging the side of it with his palm as he vaulted over. There were mere feet between the two vessels, and he cleared the gap easily, ripping his sabers from their sheaths.

Blood was roaring in his ears as he spared a glance at the fallen boy. Just like her, his head sang; he fell just like her.

A fury, a rage that had been building for a thousand years, a frenzy held back by booze and regret and the gentle paps of his morails, burst within his chest like firecrackers overloaded with gunpowder.

The vase had shattered.

Screaming, he barreled into Forsaken, sending him flying across his own ship.

“Drayco! Get Musrio ta me ship!” Ruthless thundered, glancing back only momentarily. Drayco, who’d dropped to their knees beside the bleeding rust, looked up and nodded, gathering their fallen matesprit in their arms. A burst of fire, and they were on the Warshark with the others, who immediately rushed to assist the fallen troll.

Forsaken was picking himself up, groaning weakly. Rain pounded the deck around them as he got to his feet. As he rose, his mask fell from his face and clattered to the floor. Snarling, he kicked it away. He turned to face Ruthless, his only eye bright with wrath and insanity.

The left side of his face was disgustingly marred; the skin was all but gone, revealing bone and muscle that had turned black. His eye was gouged out, the hole oozing thick blood as thin flaps of skin- what was once his eyelid- fluttered in the wind. Even a chunk of his nose was missing, blown off with the rest of it.

Forsaken bared his teeth at Ruthless, who had frozen in shock. “THI$ I$ WHAT YOU DID TO M£, RUTHL£$$ D££PBIT£!! THI$, AND MOR£!!” He howled, spittle flying from his lips. He reached into his coat for his pistols, but found them gone. Eye wide, he cast around the deck frantically, and saw them lying behind Ruthless.

Ruthless braced his feet, his face set and grim.

“I did√’ do shite, Alastr, but yer go√√a pay fer what you did.” He snarled in a low voice; the voice he once had, full of command and grandeur, befitting one of his status. He could feel the rush in his veins again; the call for blood and glory, the siren song of the merciless kill.

Before the lowblood could move, the captain was upon him, rocketing towards him with his sabers raised.

“THIS IS FOR LUCI√A!!!” He boomed, his voice lifted higher by the thunder that crashed around them. As the leviathan roared, Forsaken threw his arms up to shield himself.

Blood splattered the deck, only to be washed away by the rain. Lightning flashed so bright it blinded the others, who stood upon the Warshark. When their vision returned, they peered through the torrential rain and waves.

Innocent took a step forward, but Decaying grabbed his arm. Innocent paused and glanced at him, confused.

“Th- shark and snak- hav- m-t th-ir fat-, and n_w th- b-ast shall awak-.*” The madman rumbled. Innocent blinked, pulling down his mask as he looked out at the Dragon Star. *(The shark and snake have met their fate, and now the beast shall awake.)

Ruthless panted, his whole body trembling as he looked down at his foe. Impaled through the chest and shoulder, his blood pooling around him as he fought for breath, Forsaken blinked up at him. Ruthless had him pinned to the deck, with one boot on his stomach as he bent over the lowblood.

Forsaken gurgled and coughed, blood spattering his lips as he blinked at the seadweller with a suddenly clear eye.

“Ruth... l£$$...” He wheezed through grit teeth. With the arm that wasn’t pinned, he reached up and grabbed the violetblood’s sleeve. “pl£a$£... my pistol$... I- I want to- n££d to- d- ah- di£ with my w£apon$...” He pleaded, his voice barely more than a croak as he forced each word out. Ruthless hesitated, but nodded. He stepped off the dying troll and walked over to the abandoned guns. Picking them up, he moved back to Forsaken and placed them in each hand. The bronzeblood gripped them tightly, but made no move to attack. He sighed a soft, “Thank you.” and closed his eyes.

Suddenly exhausted, Ruthless crumpled to his hands and knees beside him. He looked down at the bronze for a long moment as their breathing got fainter.

“I’m sorry, Alastr. I du√√o what I did, but I’m sorry it drove ye ta this. I √ever wa√ted a√y o’ this. Ye took me wife away, a√d I- I did√’ eve√ go dow√ sweari√’ ve√gea√ce. I just- I wa√ted ta see Luci√a agai√. I may √ever get ta, but- it’s too late √ow, ai√’t it? I’m sorry.”

Forsaken was silent, his breathing slow and tepid. He opened his eye and stared up at the rain, before he chuckled weakly.

“... Warhound.” he rasped. Ruthless looked at him.

“What?”

“H£r nam£... i$ Warhound now. Lu€ina “Warhound” £v- £vrr£n. $h£’$ looking for you, too, but $h£ ha$n’t mad£ it ba€k to the world of th£ living y£t.” He coughed, forcing each word through numb lips.

“What the blazes are ye-?” He started, but Forsaken took a deep, shuddering breath, his grip going lax on his pistols.

He let the breath out slowly, and breathed no more.

Ruthless shut his mouth and clenched his jaw. He sat there a moment more, then rose to his feet. As he ripped his sabers from the corpse, the Dragon Star rocked violently; down below, he felt the vibrations of the leviathan’s roar.

“Ah, fuck. I fergot about the big bitch.” He muttered, sliding his blades back into his belt. He turned and ran for the edge of the ship, vaulting back over to the Warshark. He paused to get his footing, then jogged over to the others; the rain was still falling, but not as heavily now. He opened his mouth, ready to tell them off for coming when he’d expressively told them not to do that, but shut it again at the sight of Musrio.

Drayco was bent over the rustblood, who was laid out on his back, propped up on one elbow. Drayco had pulled down his robes to reveal the wound; Forsaken’s bullet had ripped straight through his left chest, most likely through his heart. It was bleeding steadily, the white of his robes already red. Musrio, his teeth clenched, kept his other hand over the wound and growled each time Drayco tried to touch him. His hand was covered in his own blood and glowing a dull white.

Incoding glanced up, the first to notice Ruthless’ presence. “He’s try1ng t0 heal the w0und h1mself,” He explained quietly, “but F0rsaken must have had s1lver bullets 0r s0me sh1t, because 1t w0n’t cl0se.”

“Not silver.” Musrio snarled, “The fucking sxlt- I cxn’t concentrxte with the stinging xnd thxt stupid snxke.” He suddenly flopped back, his head hitting the deck as he panted. Drayco leaned over him, an anxious whine in their throat. Musrio opened his eyes and blinked up at them.

“Are yoou gooing too die, Mush?” They asked quietly. Musrio pursed his lips.

“No.” He grunted, gritting his teeth in pain, “Don’t think I cxn, even if I wxnted to. My job’s not done. Plus...” He sighed, reaching up to touch Drayco’s cheek, “I’m not done with you yet. Ribbit.”

“Done... with me?” Drayco repeated; Musrio’s blood was now smeared on their face, but they either didn’t notice or care. Musrio hummed.

“You promised you’d repxir everything from before.” He said softly. Drayco bowed their head.

“... I’m trying.” They whined softly, “I doon’t knoow what I’m dooing.” Musrio snorted, before gasping with pain.

“No shit.” He muttered, grabbing Drayco’s shirt, “You hxven’t even tried to kiss me yet.” Drayco froze, their head jerking up in shock.

“Kiss yoou?” They repeated, stunned. Musrio raised an eyebrow.

“You remember our last kiss, don’t you?”

“I... oof course I doo. I was-”

“Yexh. It sucked. Thxt’s something you’ve got to mxke up to me, too.”

“But I-” Drayco broke off with a squeak of fright as Musrio surged up, smashing his lips against theirs. Drayco went still as a stone, confounded by this sudden change of events. “Mush...?” they mumbled. Musrio rumbled low in his throat, and Drayco gave in, pulling the rust close and kissing him deeply.

Ruthless quirked an eyebrow as he watched Musrio’s free hand reach up and grasp Drayco’s dangling amulet. He squeezed it tightly, and a dull, red-orange light seeped through his fingers, before it began to bleed across the necromancer’s skin, up his sleeves until it bled across his chest and into the wound, which began to close. The bullet was forced out of his skin and it clattered to the deck. Musrio finally pulled away, releasing Drayco’s pendant.

“Better.” He mumbled, his face as red as it could get. Drayco blinked at him, panting and breathless, their own cheeks dark, before their face split into a grin.

Ruthless smiled faintly, before the ship trembled again as the leviathan roared. His expression dropping, he turned on his heel and stormed towards his cabin.

“Ru?” Incoding called after him, puzzled, but the captain didn’t answer. When he returned, he was carrying a large rifle over his shoulder, and his necklace in one hand. He pushed the rings into Innocent’s hand.

“Hold these fer me, will ye? I’ll be back.”

“... Ruthless, what are you going to do?...”

“You’re n0t g01ng t0 f1ght that th1ng, are y0u?!” Incoding demanded, stepping forward. Ruthless turned to look at his morails.

“I am.”

“That’s su1c1de!”

“Aye, probably. But it does√’ look like it’s goi√’ away a√y time soo√.”

“S0 y0u’re g01ng after 1t w1th a r1fle?” Incoding asked doubtfully.

“Aye, Orpha√ers ai√’t the o√ly o√es with cool weapo√s.” He turned away, squaring his shoulders. Without waiting for an argument, he strode towards the edge of the ship. He climbed onto the edge and paused, staring down into the dark water.

Unbidden, a memory surfaced in his mind.

“Hey, Lucy?” “Hey, Ruthless?” “I’m in love with ye.” “Are you?” “Aye. I want ye ta be me matesprit.” “What if I don’t want to be yours?” “Then I will throw meself inta the sea.”

“You threw yourself into the sea. Now what?” “If ye won’t be me mate, I will summon a beast ta eat me!” “I won’t be your mate!”

“You’ve thrown yourself into the sea, and you’ve been eaten by a beast. Now what?” “What more can I do, to prove I love you?” “Kiss me.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing the memory back into the dark as he stepped off the edge and plummeted.

He hit the water, and came alive. His gills opened, sucking in that deliciously cold water as bubbles streamed out of his mouth; it was always a disorienting moment, going from air to water. His fins flared and flapped as an instinctive delight kicked in. Finally, the tiny, barely noticeable freckles that decorated every inch of him woke up. He was glowing, a warm, purple light that lit up the dark.

He turned, and saw his glow reflected in the eyes of the serpent. It had gone still, suddenly transfixed by his light. Ruthless smiled, swimming closer to it.

Dredging up ancient memories, he spoke to it in the language of the sea. Alastr is gone, he told it, his voice low and quiet, like the swish of waves on sand. Your fight is done. Go back to the deep.

I will not, it rumbled back, its tongue dripping with poison and hate, I am hungry. I shall devour you and your ships, then I shall retreat.

No, he snarled firmly, no! He pulled his rifle around and leveled it at the leviathan’s face. I will not let you hurt them! I have lost enough to the fangs of fate, your maw shall not take anything more!

The leviathan laughed. If you think you can kill me, mortal, then I invite you to try. I am a being that has eviscerated the gods themselves. There are none who are beholden to my wrath and survive.

Ruthless’ fins flared in agitation. But like the whisper of a ghost, he saw something flicker below the serpent’s belly. He paused, relief sweeping through him harder than the tidal currents that held him aloft. He chuckled, closing his eyes. He came, he thought.

“√ice ta see ye agai√, Krayk√.” He called, opening his eyes again.

“F̸a̶t̸h̴e̷r̸.̸ ̵I̸t̵ ̸h̷a̶s̶ ̴b̵e̵e̸n̴ ̶t̴o̴o̷ ̸l̶o̶n̴g̸ ̷s̸i̵n̵c̵e̶ ̴y̶o̸u̶ ̴c̴a̸m̸e̴ ̵t̸o̴ ̸m̶e̴.̶ ̶S̷h̷a̴l̶l̴ ̷I̴ ̵r̸i̵d̸ ̶y̶o̶u̵ ̸o̵f̸ ̴t̵h̸i̴s̸ ̴b̷e̶a̵s̸t̷?̷” a voice answered. The voice, just like the monster’s roar, was subsonic, so deep and loud that it was near silent.

“Aye, that’d certai√ly be helpful.” Ruthless purred.

From the darkness, a bright red light burst into being, illuminating the body of a monster as it shot towards them. That monster- Kraykn, as Ruthless had called him- reached out with giant claws and grasped the leviathan’s throat.

Swinging around like a cowboy onto a steer, he straddled the serpent and hooked his talons into it’s armor-like scales.With a roar that was no louder than a dead man’s breath, he ripped the head to the side as the leviathan snarled its last. The head ripped away, and the water was suddenly clouded as gallons of ancient blood spilled through it.

Ruthless reached out through the cloud, and a hand bigger than his torso found his fingers. They gripped his hand oh so gently, pulling him close. Once freed of the fog, he kicked away and swam up to the monster’s face.

“Ye’ve gotte√ a hell o’ a lot bigger, have√’t ye, Krayk√?” He grinned, their glows illuminating one another.

“I̸ ̴h̷a̷v̷e̴,̵ ̵f̷a̴t̴h̷e̵r̸.̷ ̷T̶h̴e̴ ̴r̶e̵w̷a̷r̸d̴s̶ ̶o̷f̶ ̸t̶h̷e̸ ̴d̴e̶e̸p̷ ̶f̷a̶v̶o̶r̵ ̶m̶e̸.̴” Kraykn sighed. Ruthless chuckled.

“What is it I hear ye’re calli√’ yerself these days? Ye chose a title, did√’tcha?”

“Y̷e̵s̷,̶ ̴f̶a̶t̷h̴e̵r̴.̴ ̵I̵n̵ ̸t̸h̶e̸ ̴d̸e̴e̵p̵,̵ ̵I̷ ̶a̴m̷ ̶k̶n̷o̵w̷n̵ ̵a̴s̵.̵.̸.̷ ̵t̴h̵e̴ ̸S̵u̵r̶v̴i̸v̴o̸r̴.”

“The Survivor.” Ruthless repeated, a gravely purr starting in his throat, “It suites ye. You’ve bee√ dow√ here all this time, have√’t ye?”

“Y̷e̷s̸.̸ ̴L̶o̵n̸g̶ ̶b̸e̴f̷o̸r̴e̸ ̶m̴o̶t̵h̸e̷r̸ ̶l̸e̴f̵t̶,̴ ̴a̴n̴d̸ ̶l̶o̷n̵g̸e̸r̵ ̶s̷t̸i̶l̸l̶ ̸a̶f̸t̵e̵r̶ ̸y̷o̷u̵.̵” Ruthless swam closer, touching the giant’s face gently.

“I’m sorry, lad. I wish I coulda told ye in perso√.” he murmured. Survivor turned his head away.

“I̴t̷ ̵i̴s̶ ̵n̵o̷t̸ ̵a̸ ̴m̵a̸t̶t̵e̴r̸ ̵o̸f̸ ̷i̷m̸p̸o̴r̴t̸a̵n̷c̸e̵ ̶a̶n̵y̶m̴o̴r̴e̸.̷ ̶T̴h̶a̴t̸ ̶w̸a̴s̵ ̸m̴a̶n̶y̸,̴ ̸m̵a̴n̸y̷ ̸s̸w̴e̵e̷p̴s̶ ̵a̷g̷o̸.̷ ̴I̴ ̵n̵o̸w̸ ̶h̸a̶v̴e̴ ̴a̷ ̷d̶e̴s̷c̵e̴n̷d̷a̵n̶t̸ ̷o̵f̵ ̶m̵y̷ ̶o̷w̸n̷.̴ ̶W̷o̷u̶l̷d̷ ̸y̷o̶u̶ ̸c̷a̵r̷e̷ ̴t̸o̶ ̴m̸e̸e̶t̸ ̴h̵i̶m̸?̵“ he asked softly. Ruthless perked up.

“Ye got yerself a lil’ bastard, too, huh? Hell yeah, lemme met me gra√dgrub.” Survivor turned and looked down into the abyssal darkness below them. The leviathan’s body was slowly sinking into black, and crouched up the remains, was another troll.

“A̴s̴h̴h̸u̸r̵.̷ ̵C̷o̷m̸e̷,̴ ̷m̶e̵e̸t̶ ̸m̷y̷ ̴f̴a̶t̶h̵e̷r̶.̴“ Survivor called quietly. The other figure looked up,then kicked off the corpse and swam towards them.

“Ashhur, huh?” Ruthless repeated as the second giant moved closer. “‘s √ice ta meet ye, lad.” Ashhur regarded him for a long moment.

“-.-- --- ..- / .- .-. . / ... ..- .-. ...- .. ...- --- .-. .----. ... / ..-. .- - .... . .-. ..--..*” *(You are Survivor’s father?)

Ashhur clicked and hummed his words. He never learned Alternian, Ruthless realized with faint amusement; it wasn’t much of a surprise, Survivor could barely speak it himself.

“I am.” he clicked back. Ashhur looked mildly surprised, but pleased. He nodded.

“-.. --- / -.-- --- ..- / ... - .. .-.. .-.. / ... . .-. ...- . / - .... . / . -- .--. .-. . ... ... ..--..*” *(Do you still serve the Empress?)

“√o. I left that life a lo√g time ago.” Ashhur frowned, clearly unhappy with that answer.

“.-- .... . -. / .. / .- -- / . -- .--. . .-. --- .-. --..-- / .-- .. .-.. .-.. / -.-- --- ..- / ... . .-. ...- . / -- . ..--..*” *(When I am Emperor, will you serve me?)

Ruthless’ eyebrows arched. “Yer go√√a be Emperor, huh?” Ashhur nodded.

“I̷t̷ ̷i̷s̸ ̸h̵i̵s̸ ̸d̴r̷e̸a̶m̵ ̷t̴o̴ ̵r̶u̷l̶e̴.̴“ Survivor murmured. Ashhur glared at him.

“.. / .-- .- ... / -... --- .-. -. / - --- / .-. ..- .-.. . -.-.--*” He hissed. Ruthless bit back a laugh; he had a feeling young Ashhur had never been to the surface. If he had, he wouldn’t want to rule, and he certainly wouldn’t be wearing pink. *(I was born to rule!)

“‘s certai√ly √ot a bad dream.” He said instead, glanced towards the surface. “Ca√ ya’ll withsta√d the lack o’ pressure ta come up a√’ say hi ta me ‘rails?” Survivor’s fins twitched and he nodded.

“T̷h̵a̸t̶ ̴s̵o̷u̵n̶d̵s̶ ̵f̴e̶a̶s̴i̵b̷l̸e̷.̴” He whispered. Ruthless nodded and turned, kicking towards the surface.

Up on the ship, Incoding and Innocent leaned on the edge of the Warshark, staring into the black water. Musrio was sitting up, dressed once again, and leaning on Drayco’s shoulder. Drayco was shyly holding his hand, unable to raise their gaze from their own lap, while Musrio gazed up at the stars. The rain had finally dissipated, and the clouds had scattered. Meanwhile, Decaying paced the ship’s length, muttering under his breath.

All five of them jumped in surprise as Ruthless suddenly shot out of the water, into the air, and landed on the deck. He dropped his rifle at his feet, shaking his head frantically and spraying sea water.

“Ruthless!” Incoding and Innocent ran to him, concern on both of their faces. “Are y0u 0kay?” Incoding asked anxiously, scanning the seadweller for wounds.

“I’m fi√e, Cody, I promise. The big bitch’s bee√ dealt wit’. I got someone I wa√tcha to meet.” He rumbled, patting the goldblood on the shoulder. Incoding scowled.

“You’re n0t f1ne, y0u fuck1ng d1ck, d0n’t l1e.” Ruthless paused, then snorted.

“Aye, fair e√ough. We ca√ talk whe√ we get home.” He murmured. Innocent stepped forward and held out the rings and chain to Ruthless, who took it. “Tha√k ye, love.” Innocent nodded. As Ruthless slipped the chain around his neck again, he tipped his head towards the water. “I got someone I wa√t you two ta meet.” he repeated, leading them towards the edge of the ship. Decaying, who had gone still, moved towards them. He grabbed Incoding’s arm, shying behind him. Incoding paused, turning to look at his boyfriend.

“Y0u 0kay, Br1?”

“Th- b-ast.” Decaying mumbled, “Th- b-ast is h-r-. The b-ast-*” *(The beast. The beast is here. The beast-)

“Aye, he sure is, rusty,” Ruthless said without turning around, “but he wo√’t hurtcha.”

Even Drayco and Musrio got up to cluster close to the edge of the ship to look as Survivor and Ashhur emerged from the water. Survivor rose as far as his waist, but even then, he towered over the ships; he was just a smidgen over twenty-four feet tall, after all. Ashhur, who couldn’t have been older than Musrio or Drayco, wasn’t even half of that; he himself was five and a half feet in stature. Then again, he wasn’t over a thousand years old.

“H0ly fuck!” Incoding shouted. Instantly, Survivor and Ashhur ducked into the water, their fins folding in fear. Ruthless’ hand clapped over the gold’s mouth.

“Ye ca√√y yell ‘rou√d them, Cody. ‘Specially out o’ the water like this. Ye’ll break their eardrums.” He explained in a low voice, “They weren’t raised ‘rou√d big √oises, a√’ they startle real easy.” Incoding’s eyes widened.

“S0rry.” He muttered. Ruthless dropped his hand and leaned over the edge.

“It’s alright, Krayk√. He did√’ mea√ ta scare ya.” He crooned as he reached towards the water. Survivor, who’s sunk down until only his eyes were above the surface, reached up for his father’s hand and held it like a scared child.

“W̷h̴o̶ ̴a̶r̶e̸ ̴t̷h̷e̷y̵,̶ ̴f̷a̵t̶h̴e̵r̵?̸“ he murmured.

“This here be I√√oce√t, Incodi√’, Decayi√’, Musrio, a√d Drayco.” Ruthless explained softly, nodding to each troll in turn, “I√√oce√t a√’ Cody be my ‘rails. Decayi√’ is Cody’s mate, Musrio is Decayi√’s desce√da√t, a√d Drayco is Musrio’s... eh...” He glanced at the two teenagers.

“Friend.” Musrio supplied. Ruthless nodded.

“Frie√d.”

“.-- .... --- / .. ... / - .... . / -.-. --- .-. .--. ... . / --- -. / - .... . / --- - .... . .-. / ... .... .. .--. ..--..*” Ashhur asked, pointing at the Dragon Star. *(Who is the corpse on the other ship?)

Ruthless looked up at the other ship, his face becoming hard. “Ah. Right, fergot about that. He...” he looked down at Survivor, “He was yer mother’s killer.” Survivor’s fins pricked up at the mention of his mother, before he scowled.

“I̵ ̵d̵o̸ ̶n̸o̶t̶ ̴w̵a̵n̴t̵ ̴t̶h̴a̷t̷ ̵s̴h̶i̵p̷ ̴i̴n̸ ̷m̸y̵ ̸w̴a̴t̶e̶r̸.̶“ He mumbled.

“Ye ca√ destroy it.” Ruthless assured him, “Just lemme take these lads back ta la√d.” Survivor blinked at him.

“W̷i̷l̷l̷ ̸y̶o̴u̶ ̶c̷o̵m̸e̸ ̸b̴a̴c̷k̶?̷“ He whispered. Ruthless smiled softly.

“Aye, √ow that I know yer still ‘rou√d. I always come back, remember?” Survivor nodded, satisfied, and released the violet’s hand.

“W̷e̸ ̷w̸i̶l̷l̸ ̵w̴a̴i̴t̵ ̷f̷o̵r̸ ̸y̶o̵u̴r̵ ̴r̴e̸t̶u̷r̵n̴,̵ ̶f̷a̷t̴h̸e̴r̶.̶“ He purred, before he tuned and dove under water again, revealing a fan of spines and fins on his back as he disappeared. Ashhur watched him go, then looked up at them.

“.. / --. --- / .-- .. - .... / ... ..- .-. ...- .. ...- --- .-. / ..-. --- .-. / -. --- .-- --..-- / -... ..- - / .. / .-- .. .-.. .-.. / .-. . - ..- .-. -. --..-- / - --- --- .-.-.- / .. / .-- .. ... .... / - --- / ... . . / .-- .... .- - / - .... .. ... / .-- --- .-. .-.. -.. / .. ... / .-.. .. -.- . / -. --- .-- .-.-.-*” He bubbled, before he looked up at Innocent, “.-- . / .- .-. . / --- -. . / .. -. / - .... . / ... .- -- . --..-- / -... .-.. --- --- -.. / .-. . .-.. .- - .. ...- . .-.-.- / .. / -.-. .- -. -. --- - / .-- .- .. - / - --- / ... . . / .-- .... .- - / -.-- --- ..- .-. / ... .--. .- .-- -. / .. ... / .-.. .. -.- . .-.-.- / .. ... / .... . / .- / .-- --- .-.. ..-. --..-- / - --- --- ..--..**” *(I go with Survivor for now, but I will return, too. I wish to see what this world is like now. **We are one in the same, blood relative. I cannot wait to see what your spawn is like. Is he a wolf, too?)

Without waiting for an answer- Innocent didn’t understand him, anyway- he dove, too, flickering away into the dark. Ruthless waited until they were out of sight, before he let out a breath.

“Well, the√, let’s get ye la√d-lovers back ta solid grou√d.” He turned and strode away. As he did so, he reached up and gripped the rings around his neck, looking up at the sky. Were ye watchin’, love? He whispered, Our boy is alive an’ safe. This time, I promise, I won’t let ‘im down.

(EVERYONE PLEASE WELCOME KRAYKN AND ASHHUR JAYBEZ!!!)

[thescholarlystrumpet]

The One Where Blum Doesn't Exactly Get What He Wants

Rated Explicit

A/N: I’m TRASH and needed Roland Blum porn so I gave him an OC to square off against. Please enjoy!

On AO3 HERE

Blum took a step forward and Madeline took a step back. They repeated this dance until she felt the wall at her back. He grinned triumphantly, raising one arm just past her shoulder, boxing her in on one side.

“Really? This is your big move? Cornering me in an empty office after a couple drinks?”

“If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it,” he shrugged, leaning in toward her.

Madeline turned her head to the side, denying him contact, but she didn’t move away. Her heartbeat was thudding in her ears, pulse thrumming hot and centering between her legs. She’d tried so hard to ignore it, to keep it at bay. Some part of her still hated him, hated everything he stood for. Hated the way he used people and tossed them aside.

Hated the way he could still affect her, even knowing all his demons as she did.

Blum wet his lips with a swipe of his tongue. “I’m not keeping you here against your will. You came back up with me.”

“I was drunk when I said yes.” Madeline rolled her eyes for emphasis.

“So was I. I'm drunk right now.”

“You’re always drunk, Roland.” She gave a half-hearted laugh.

“Mm, I like it when you say my name, Maddy.” He lifted his other hand to her cheek, trailing his fingertips across her jaw and over her lips. She parted them without thinking and he dipped a single digit inside. “Sweet, beautiful clever little mouth you have,” he crooned.

Maddy flicked her tongue against his finger before catching it with her teeth, smiling around it as Blum’s eyes widened.

“Oh, baby don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me,” he sang, slightly off key.

She tilted her head away and he withdrew his finger. “You said you had something for me,” she reminded him, trying to regulate her breathing.

Don’t do this, she reminded herself. You’ve outlasted so many others because you’re smart, you’re talented, and you won’t fuck him. Gotta keep him hungry or he’ll lose interest and you could lose the most interesting job you’ve had since graduating law school.

“What did you think I was talking about?” He cupped himself through his pants and waggled both eyebrows.

“You’re disgusting.”

“You’ve always known that.” His eyes searched her face. “Come on, Maddy, I heard what you said at the fundraiser tonight.” His gaze raked a burning path down her body and she felt naked despite the heavy satin of her dress. “Looking like that, hanging on my arm all night…”

She huffed a protest. “We were working. Networking. I was talking you up to a prospective client, like I always do. Like you pay me to do.”

He pursed his lips and dropped his arms back down, fiddling with his cuffs. She tried not to feel it as a loss when the warmth of his body shifted away.

“Who are you trying to fool here, kid?”

She closed her eyes and shook her head. “It’s been two years. Two… complicated but ultimately successful years, need I remind you? I’ve outlasted three other associates and God knows how many members of your damn entourage. Why now? Why tonight?”

Blum met her question with an inscrutable look. “Why not tonight? We’re riding high, I’m feeling good.” He cha-cha’d toward her, hips gyrating, before leaning in to whisper in her ear. “And I haven’t been able to take my eyes off of you all night.”

A shiver ran down her spine as his hot breath tickled her hairline.

“Roland,” she breathed, flushing scarlet in a flood of desire and shame.

He nosed along her neck, one hand shaping her waist. “That’s right, baby, say it again. Say it like you mean it.”

“I’m not your baby,” she grit out through clenched teeth, even as her traitorous body responded to his ministrations.

“Fine, Ma’am. Mistress. Whatever you wanna be called,” he muttered into the crook of her shoulder before nipping at her pulse point.

An exclamation escaped her and she clenched her thighs together as the throb between them grew.

Fuck him. Fuck him. Fuck him.

Not like that.

Exactly like that.

Fuck.

His hands were beginning to roam as his mouth continued to work its magic along her neck and collarbones. She’d have expected him to be sloppy, uncouth and selfish but apparently seduction was the only area outside of creative truth-telling to which Roland Blum could bring any serious focus.

Throwing the last reserve of her willpower into her hands, she grabbed his lapels and pushed his face away from her neck.

He gave her a frank look of surprise. “And here I thought we were starting to enjoy ourselves.” He added an exaggerated pout. “Go on, tell me that pussy’s not a little wet…”

“Jesus… read the room, Blum.” She tried and failed to steady her voice, to sound like her breathing hadn’t gone ragged and shallow.

“I am and you know I am.”  A sly smile spread across his face as he sunk to his knees. “In fact, I’d put good money on it. If I lifted this skirt and pulled down your panties right now…” he toyed with her hemline, eyes never leaving her face.

Maybe it was the alcohol still in her veins. Maybe it was the tension that had been building much longer than she cared to acknowledge. Maybe it was just the sight of him on his knees, wild-eyed and wanting.

Whatever the reason, Madeline finally let go.

“Ok. Ok. You know what? Just. Just… oh, fuck it.”

“Music to my ears,” he chuckled.

She glared at him. “You just down there to beg or what?”

His eyes lit with gleeful anticipation. “Oh, I can do so much better than that, Maddy.”

Permission now clearly granted, he didn’t waste another second. His hands wrapped around her calves, kneading the muscles there. As he moved upward, he bunched the fabric of her skirt and ducked his head beneath.

Madeline swore aloud as she felt his breath ghost over her sex, his beard scratching at her upper thighs. He nudged her legs further apart and she grabbed the edge of a nearby table to help stay upright. She could feel him trailing open-mouthed kisses from her knees to the crease of each thigh, just glancing past the place she was neediest. She made an impatient sound and he laughed, muffled by her flesh and the fabric.

Still, he took the hint. The next thing she felt was a hot, wet lapping against her thong. She spread her legs just to the point where she could still stand, inviting him in. The tip of his tongue traced the edges of the skimpy mesh lace before returning to press into the center. He licked a stripe upward, hitting the underside of her clit and her hips bucked involuntarily.

“Oh yes,” he groaned and repeated the motion.

One hand emerged from under her skirt to hold her hips in place as the other hand pulled the sodden undergarment aside. His tongue lashed against her directly and Madeline hissed her pleasure. He slid his tongue the length of her slit, teasing at her entrance and withdrawing. She reached down and found a handful of his wild curls, her nails scratching against his scalp as she directed him forward.

The hand not holding her hip lifted one of her legs and flung it over his shoulder. She flexed her foot and shunted her hips toward him.

“Yeah, just like that,” he muttered before driving his tongue inside her.

Madeline ground against his face, whimpering shamelessly as she sought more sensation. She could feel her climax just beginning to build, a tenseness in her abdomen, fizziness at the base of her spine. But it wasn’t enough.

She pulled his face away from her pussy and he looked up at her, panting.

“What?”

“Use your fingers. I like it rougher than that.”

“Oh fuck baby - sorry, Mistress Maddy - I’m gonna come in my pants, you keep talking like that.”

Madeline shrugged one shoulder. “Not my problem.” She guided the hand that had been holding her hip down between her legs.

Blum fixed her with an expression of unfathomable hunger. “Ask and ye shall receive.”

He watched her face as his fingers played over her heated flesh, one finger sinking in easily to be joined quickly by a second. He pumped them slowly in and out of her, his lips parted and eyes half lidded.

Madeline rolled her hips, urging him deeper, faster. He picked up the pace, setting a brutal rhythm but she met him thrust for thrust, chasing that exquisite friction. He slowed just enough to ease in a third finger, crooking them just so, hitting that most sensitive spot over and over until she was nearly mindless with pure sensation. Her entire focus narrowed to the delicious fullness, the spark that flared higher and higher each moment until it engulfed her. She shouted inarticulately at her peak, inner muscles clenching around his digits.

He pet her gently through the aftershocks, planting little kisses on the insides of her thighs once more.

Madeline adjusted her thong to provide what little coverage it could and lowered her leg from his shoulder. She found herself wanting to giggle but she swallowed the feeling down. There’d been quite enough indulgence for one evening.

Blum got to his feet, rubbing his knees as he did so. His erection was bulging obscenely against his fly. He gave her a smug smile.

She returned it with her best ‘cat that ate the canary’ impression and pushed past him, striding toward the door as best she could on wobbly legs. “Well. Thanks for that.”

“Wait. Wait, Madeline,” he called after her.

She turned halfway, looking back over one shoulder. “Hmm?”

He gestured emphatically to his hard-on. “What about this?”

Madeline smiled, saccharine sweet. “Told you, Roland, not my problem.” She turned back to the door with a tepid wave of one hand. “See you Monday, boss.”

She could still hear him swearing as the elevator doors closed. Oh, there’d be hell to pay but she could weather that storm when she had to. For now, she needed to go home and unwind in the fading afterglow of both orgasm and getting one up on Blum.

[blankdblank]

Anaticula Pt 25

Pt 1 - Pt 2 - Pt 3 - Pt 4 - Pt 5 - Pt 6 - Pt 7 - Pt 8 - Pt 9 - Pt 10 - Pt 11 - Pt 12 - Pt 13 - Pt 14 - Pt 15 - Pt 16 - Pt 17 - Pt 18 - Pt 19 - Pt 20 - Pt 21 - Pt 22 - Pt 23 - Pt 24 -

Hogsmeade, the first visit came as always and in full agreement at hearing of a discovered plot through Remus, who had spent another hour being low key interrogated by Andrew. Who continued to question why he had a dog with him, to which he continued to answer Dumbledore had agreed he could bring his dog, who he was prone to fits without due to his last mission leading to his break as an Auror to teach. Through his interrogation Remus had asked for K’s help in inspecting in his rented room in Hogsmeade his files, learning of his plans weeks prior of his inspection of the Wizarding town. Mainly, to your amusement, the Shrieking Shack, a former hotspot the marauders loved to occupy during the week of the full moon, rumored to have been confirmed by more than one source to be true.

Under the cover of darkness you joined Remus through the pathway out of the castle to rush to the Whomping Willow you slid through the opening under it to hurry through the tunnel to set up a series of booby traps. Subtle ones that would no doubt be the work of malevolent spirits. Leaving only a few hints of random vagabonds having dwelled there.

.

In the interim of waiting to see him storming off only to hear the sound of leaves crunching under unseen feet following after the missed Mr Ser and his agitated scowl coated in remnants of varying oozes he was in the process of shaking off.

“Sirius Black murdered Peter Pettigrew!” Andrew barked out to Fudge in pouring himself a drink.

Off in the corner Harry stood open mouthed hearing Madame Rosmerta ask, “Who?”

Andrew, “Little lump of a boy. Always tottering after Black and James Potter.”

Looking between the adults Rosmerta said, “Well why would he be here for Potter of all people?”

Andrew, “Because he isn’t finished yet.”

Rosmerta, “With what?”

Andrew, “Potter is still alive.”

Rosmerta, “He wouldn’t!”

Andrew, “Says who?! That little brat of his?!”

Fudge, “Black turned Lily and James over to You-Know-Who, and to cover his tracks when Harry was taken to safety Black chased down Pettigrew, the only other one who knew about the safe house other than Black.”

Rosmerta, “That doesn’t make any sense.”

Andrew scoffed, “I see you’ve bought into her game too. Winning his trust to serve him up on a platter for daddy. Well I’m not going to let it happen!”

Fudge, “He didn’t just kill Pettigrew, he destroyed him! All that was left, a single finger. Black is a monster and the whole family is a Plague on our kind, the whole lot of them.”

The door opened revealing a messenger arriving for Fudge, who finished his drink and left with a shake of his head at the ooze covered Auror who downed his own drink, a thunk sounded at his planting it on the table to point at Rosmerta, “You tell me if you see him. No telling what that killer could be doing.”

Proudly he strut out of the room just leaving her standing there open mouthed in tears welling in her eyes to whisper in her assumed solitude, “They’re going to kill that poor girl.” Wiping her cheeks she sniffled and smoothed her hands after down the apron tied around her waist, “I’ll be damned if I let that man tear up what’s left of their family. Just wants to bury his own cowardice.” Strolling to the door she added lowly, “Fudge can’t hide from what he did to her forever.”

Warmly a tear streamed down Harry’s cheek and he hurried out of the pub and made straight for you gripping your pinky with his to guide you along tugging the curious Barty and Snape along with you and the twins wondering at why your arm had moved backwards like that. Nearly halfway to the school Harry pulled his cloak off and turned to you all but shouting, “Tell me what happened to my parents!”

Your lips parted and the twins said, “Ser said something to you?”

Harry, “Fudge and that man were saying something about a Pettigrew, and that Sirius killed him to hide that-,” You shook your head with lip quivering in the darkening of your hair at it all streaming back again, “Tell me!”

Locking your eyes to his you said, “There was a prophecy, and Riddle learned in it that there would be a child born around the time you were that could bring about his downfall. They had it narrowed down to you and Neville.” Parting his lips, “So the Potters went into hiding. An old incantation protected by one secret keeper, Peter.” You wiped your cheek feeling Barty’s hand fold around your shoulder through Snape’s sorrowful gaze at your pained expression, “They were barely in their twenties, and Riddle was terrifying. Dad went to try and rally up the team to try and track him down leaving me and Mum in the safe house. But Riddle found Peter, who was terrified. After Mum was gone when she refused to join Riddle he went to find your parents. He killed them, and then his body was torn apart in trying to kill us at the same time.”

Harry inched closer to you, “What happened to Peter?”

“He cut off his own finger and turned and hid, knowing my dad would probably want to kill him for not choosing better.”

Ron, who had snuck after you said, “If he was tortured for the location-,”

You shook your head, “Peter watched him torture my Mum.”

Hermione, “He didn’t do anything? Nothing at all?”

Your eyes shifted to hers at another tear falling, “He was busy holding the muffling charms on the cupboard Mum had hidden me in.”

Harry, “He saved you, but not her?”

“Riddle found out Mum was his cousin. He would have kept coming back if he hadn’t killed her. Peter knew Dad would want him dead, but he knew it would have been worse if he would have let both of us die. My Mum died knowing Peter was keeping me safe.”

Harry barked back at you, “Well then where is he if he’s such a great guy?!”

“He’s with Riddle.” Dropping their jaws at the clenching of Barty and Snape’s, “Riddle’s building his strength. He’s going to return.”

Harry mumbled, “I’m going to kill Pettigrew.”

Hermione spotted the pain in your eyes, “Peter’s your spy, isn’t he?”

You nodded, “Yes. No matter what Ser and Fudge believe now, they won’t be able to believe it forever. Not when the truth comes out.”

Ron, “You said it was between, Neville-, his parents-?!”

“They were tortured in my aunt and uncle’s try to learn where Riddle had gone assuming he might have been captured somehow.”

Harry, “How are you okay with this? Fudge and him are trying to frame your family!”

“Fudge is afraid. Just like he was back then. War unending that comes to an abrupt halt, three young parents killed, he needed someone to blame. Just like when Hagrid got blamed for the first opening of the Chamber of Secrets.”

Ron, “But you’re innocent.”

“He’ll see that, eventually.” Your head tilted to the side, “Now go and enjoy Hogsmeade. I need some tea.” You said turning away to head to the Hog’s Head where Minerva was meeting you.

.

Unhappily Ser stalked back to his room to bathe and change without any luck in discovering anything past the hints of tattered forgotten belongings of random homeless vagabonds. No trace of Sirius at all. More and more he continued to inspect each inch of Hogsmeade without any luck at all only worsening the mood of those controlling the shops there. Dumbledore had allowed him to inspect the grounds at night with his Dementors but outright refused the creatures to enter the school once again darkening the color of the vengeful man’s eyes at the disobedience to his whims.

All through to October he tried and tried to slip inside the school only to be tossed out again by the giant Phoenix taking him as a clear threat to his chosen nest and the student inside. A sinister plan was set and high over the quidditch pitch you among the thousands of students watched as Harry fell from his broom after being surrounded by Dementors having been lured past the allowed borders.

.

“What happened?” Harry asked sitting up inspecting the faces of each of his friends and team around him.

Hermione, “You passed out Harry.”

He shook his head and waved his hand in front of him, “No. I mean the game. Who won the match?”

Hermione, “No one blames you Harry.”

Harry, “Who won?”

Hermione, “The Dementors aren’t supposed to come inside the grounds until sundown.”

Ron, “Terrence caught the snitch, only-,”

Harry, “What is it?”

Oliver brought out his broom wrapped in a Gryffindor banner, “When you fell, it blew into the Whomping Willow.”

Harry, “Ugh..” he cradled the broom asking Remus on the bed beside his between glanced at the dog asleep behind him, “Is there a way to mend it?”

Remus shook his head, “Afraid not. Just have to scrap it.” Harry huffed and plopped backwards onto the bed.

Harry, “What are we doing for practices then?”

Chuckling to yourself you eyed the Twins as they said, “Could always dip into the family spares.”

Harry looked to you as you held up a trio of miniaturized brooms, “Two Nimbus 99’s to choose against a 98.”

Hermione, “Why would he want a 98 over 99’s?”

You chuckled as Oliver answered for you, “99’s are built sturdier to outlast but the 98 is known for steadfast speeds.”

Harry, “I can give the 98 a try.” You nodded and tossed it to him, “Thanks.”

You shook your head, “Not at all. Family stash, can’t have you borrowing from the school supply.”

Remus chuckled passing Harry a piece of chocolate he grinned and raised to nibble on while you all turned your heads hearing the echoes of a distant shouting match of Ser being put in his place.

.

The telling off, though effective to a point it seemed to only to push the point on harder. November reared its chilly head and one after another oddities seemed to stir up each day in the random bursts of truths being spilled. It all seemed innocent until concerned the heads of each house paper began researching and one question kept coming up, ‘Where is the Chamber of Secrets?’ A young girl was seen, unknown to any questioned, passing out small tart samples with questions being asked, though at the jumbled answers for the questions a deep scowl formed on her face before she stormed off.

Small secrets were shared and in the speedy hand outs of the antidotes one reaction seemed to stir up your rise to action. Dean sat blankly staring at the ground holding the empty cup from downing the antidote in Snape’s classroom stirring up the confused Professor’s brow and his chest in a deep inhale uncomfortable with how silent and morose the usually chatty teen usually was. “I am certain whatever was said will be forgotten within a week. The Triplets might be able to assist in a proper diversion.”

Dean sullenly shook his head, “I doubt they would help me now.”

Snape, “What, pray tell, might give you that impression?”

Dean, “Ginny dumped me.” Setting the cup down on the desk Dean stood up and turned to head to the door, “Thank you Professor.” Snape blinked at his back and glanced at Remus, who had found Dean in the hall staring off into the distance in shock.

Remus, “Hmm, I can only imagine this goes well.”

Snape, “One would hope Ginny is the more mild tempered of the bunch.” His answer came with Remus’ head shaking making the stoic Professor stare towards the door with a soft shared, “Hmm.”

..

Up towards the Ravenclaw tower you raced after the note from Draco at Ginny’s collapse onto her bed beginning to weep. Huddled in Draco’s arms the pink faced puffy eyed girl wrapped in his arms sniffling between muddled blubbered attempts in a confession as to what had happened. Behind her you climbed and stretched out joining the snuggling pile as Luna returned from the fireplace downstairs she used to brew up some tea to help calm her friend and roommate down while Cho was currently racing back from the kitchens with a slice of her favorite brownies to help as well. Hermione stumbled through the door saying, “I just heard, got a bit turned around helping the twins plan a diversion so they could hurry off to Honeyduke’s.” She tilted her head eyeing Ginny saying in a hopefully helpful tone, “Dean’s a jerk.”

Ginny scoffed and nuzzled more against Draco’s chest, mumbling, “No he’s not.”

Softly in her next sniffle you asked while stroking her back between Draco’s arms, “What did the tart make him say?”

Sniffling again she sat up forcing you and Draco to do the same, her eyes fell on you in the quivering of her lower lip, “Nothing big. Just that he was glad that I spent part of the summer break in Egypt,” her voice cracked for a moment, “So he and Seamus could stick to their planed trip out to head out to Ireland with Seamus’ family on their annual camping trip.” She sniffled again, “And he broke into the plans he and Seamus made for the next trip to Hogsmeade, all the way up to curfew.”

“Oh,” you softly replied.

Cho broke through the door, “Cake!” grinning between pants moving closer to pass it over to sit on the foot of the bed, “What did I miss?”

Ginny, “I broke up with Dean. He likes me, but doesn’t want to really be with me.”

Cho, “I can’t believe he said that!”

Luna handed Ginny the cup of tea she accepted and sipped from feeling a tiny bit better, “I am certain you have taken in all the facts and variables and chosen wisely. No doubt it is for the best.”

Ginny nodded, “Thank you.” Her eyes lowering to the cup she raised for another sip. An hour you sat listening to all she wished to say, now all far from the topic of Dean until she asked, “What can we do about the truth serums? Dean said he didn’t get a tart, or any treat for that matter, just bumped this girl who passed him his dropped thermos back.”

Tapping your finger nails to your knee your eyes lowered to your chipping nail polish Luna had chosen for you a few weeks prior coated in owl footprints, turning your head to Ginny you said, “nail polish.”

Hermione, “Nail polish?”

“From a book Alastor bought me there are simple charms you can put on items to change colors when an item or food is poisoned.”

Cho, “Brilliant. Then you could just tap a finger in it to see if it’s poisoned.”

Ginny hopped up hurrying to her wardrobe pulling out a medium sized box she carried back to the bed making you giggle, “Well, there was a bit of a mix up few months back on an order form and I got 500 vials of Glitz and Ginger Polish. Good deal too, these shades were being discontinued for their pastel Spring. We could charm them all and, I don’t know, invite everyone all up for a manicure.”

Cho, “That would take time.”

You nodded, “We could split up and head to the common rooms. It’s nearly lunch most should be in their dorms.”

Charming the full box didn’t take long and when the girls had gone to each room to gather up the students there to dig through the choices, boys included, after which the box was carried over to the nearby Gryffindor tower alongside Neville who joined you along the way wondering what you and Hermione were doing with the box.

The thought of escaping the threat of poisoning a vast majority joined the colorful crowd, the rest decided on the clear coats to keep the protection without the trouble of deciding on a color.

Slytherin of course flocked to the supply and chose the boldest ones they flaunted after, topped only by the Puffs in their modifying charm to add shimmering qualities to their choices and designs the bewitched brushes eased across the nails of the students there. All soon joined by those unaware at the news spread from their housemates.

Outside the Great Hall you grinned at Percy when he passed you the full list of students within the school, “The full student body has accepted their shades and designs along with all the Professors, in respectful clear coats of course.” You nodded, “Also Penelope had the idea it could be part of a movement.”

“Movement, like a protest?”

He nodded, “Yes, some sort of response for those falsely persecuted in the war.”

“Nail November.” Making him chuckle and join you to your table, “We should eat.”

He looked over to his sister asking, “How’s Ginny?”

“Better than I guessed she’d be. I think it’ll blow over soon enough.”

Percy stole another glance at her to give her a supportive grin then took the spot by you sandwiching you between him and Cedric halfway through his second sandwich.

…

Morning rolled around and right through breakfast, during which Dumbledore was uncommonly absent your eyes turned to the hallway at an uncommon flash of white and black parting your lips revealing Lucius and Narcissa in the hall. The former turned to head to Dumbledore’s office while Narcissa hurried over to your side, where Draco had sat to ask your opinion on an essay he had written.

A grin eased onto her lips and she came over to you to sit on the bench by you where she raised your hand admiring the orange sherbert color complimenting to the coral shade Draco had chosen. “Lovely choices. Now, I got your letter Draco and I would like to assist you.” Your lips parted as she added, “Your father is going to speak with Dumbledore about the poisonings meanwhile I have contacted a beautician, the best, their full team will be dropping by every other weekend to reapply the polish.”

“Thank you. That’s very generous of you.”

Her eyes moved lovingly to her son in his saying, “What could Dad do? I mean, yelling at Dumbledore won’t do much when Fudge won’t see reason.”

She chuckled replying, “We are trying to work through the Ministry to get him pulled off this. Hopefully it won’t take too much longer. No one is yelling at Dumbledore, simply sharing the news so far and about the team.”

Softly she shared about the things hey had planned for the rest of the month and not so subtly hinted they were available for the holiday break in hopes to be invited to your home to share it with you both. Lucius, before leaving made certain to reassure you both that this matter would be dealt with soon. A final sentiment that you would be kept under their watch was given to be promptly followed by a comment from Lucius on his having picked out a set of family sweaters for the holidays to compliment the ones he had heard from Regulus would compliment yours perfectly at his own wish to be invited again.

.

Hogsmeade a few weeks later came with a grey cloud over it. Half of the usually boisterous pair of Dean and Seamus was unusually glum, and it wasn’t the obvious one. Seamus had felt the blow of his friendship had dealt on the fledgling relationship between his person and their first try in a couple and it was painful for him.

He had tried it all to ease Dean’s glum mood, even to the point of finding Ginny, who promptly killed his try to give Dean another chance. Reminding him that between the three of them he knew that she didn’t belong in a relationship with him and that they would still be friends it would just take time to settle back out of their formerly coupling ways and behavior.

Instead of focusing on the trip she couldn’t make Ginny was elated to get in an extra practice before the upcoming match against the Puff. As the new Chaser alongside Draco after their prior seventh year Chasers had graduated they were both eager to get their own try at the coveted team rivaling yours. But all the excitement died as the sounds of shouts carried from the school luring the teens back again joining the groups of those returning from Hogsmeade.

Up in the Towers you found the gathering Professors and students all staring up at the tattered portrait. Blubbering shouts were heard through the halls for those unable to see that a madman had destroyed her portrait when she refused to grant him entrance. Without any sight of the clear culprit, that same Andrew Ser, for the few courses the older students had were allowed to be held while the other students gathered a night’s worth of things and then followed the orders to head to the Great Hall to be accounted for. All day as the school was searched you remained in that hall that sealed itself to ensure your safety under the watch of the Prefects, Head Boy and Girl.

Sleeplessly you laid there watching the stars cast up on the ceiling wondering just what would happen next. All night softly in his spot by you on watch Percy would keep you company trying to keep you and himself calm and away from letting your mind wander for what was to come.

.

Sunrise found you all painfully climbing up off the floor to roll up the sleeping mats and blankets you set on the designated carts freeing up the space for the tables to appear again fully coated with a breakfast to help ease you back into your second day of freedom until classes resumed in their usual patterns distracting you all. Upon return to the Gryffindor Common room Sir Cadagon had taken up the Fat Lady’s place as the only one willing to do so. It all seemed to calm down and through to the end of November there were no more signs of your designated disturber as what he had intended to gain from the attack.

The battle between Ravenclaw and Hufflepuf as usual took place in a blizzard and again was won by the capture of the snitch from Cedric under the nose of Cho, who was distracted by her broom’s twitching from the dropping temperature.

Celebratory cocoa was passed out through the giggled conversation about the foxes seen on the way in and in the move to what you hoped to be a full on snow castle building spree for a shelter for the snow ball battle sure to follow after an explosion sounded in the distance. Through the snow flurries as usual you raced across the field finding Ron and Neville both on their backs, Neville still was propped up on this elbow deflecting a curse away from Ron, who was curled up clutching his bleeding leg.

Skidding to a stop in the slamming of your mental charm of Anaticula Andrew blinked wondering what you had intended as you dropped down by Ron shifting him onto his back to rest his leg on your lap easing your dripping a few drops of Phoenix tears onto the burn and slice in his shin. The burn healed with the cut scabbing over in the arrival of Madame Pomfrey and the other Professors. In a swirl of darkening smoke Andrew shot off into the unknown. Ron was lifted up as the twins who made sure he wasn’t harmed past a painfully bruised rib.

Neville grimaced through saying as he looked over to Dumbledore, “Sir Cadagon is going to need to change the passwords.”

Dumbledore, “Why is that?”

Neville, “I can’t find my note with this weeks passwords on it.”

Dumbledore nodded and turned for the school at Snape’s side while Minerva helped you guide the injured teens to the Hospital Wing. Distant shouts sounded and clearly he warning had come too late as by the arrival of the Professors up to the Common room it was turned upside down as well as all the dorms but nowhere near the level they had assumed he would go to not realizing your charm on him. Alongside Percy and the other prefects you kept the students in your vision in their search of the missing intruder. At the commotion the distant Hippogriffs neared you all wondering at the noise.

A cloud of smoke crashed behind you and a firm hand latched onto your arm jerking you backwards earning an angered squawk in the distance. “You will tell me what curse you laid on me!” The hand holding you was soon torn away at the talon tipped foot came crashing down across Andrew’s face with the second clawing down into his shoulder tearing his shirt in a bloody mess spreading as the talons slashed across his chest and stomach. Heavily onto his back he collapsed screaming in pain as you turned with hands raised locking your eyes on Buckbeak who was still reared up on his back hooves.

Steadily his front feet still dripping in blood curled up as his orange eyes with blown pupils turned from your attacker to you narrowing his pupils, “Beaky, Beaky,” lowering to all fours he lowered his head through Flitwick’s levitating Andrew on the way to the Hospital Wing after putting an apparating block on him. Bloody prints followed you as you guided the still clearly flustered pair of Hippogriffs, “Come on, let’s go get you some ferrets.”

Tenderly you stroked their beaks and cheeks calming them on the pat back to Hagrid’s hut, meeting him halfway to explain that it wasn’t their blood. Worry flashed into his eyes but he covered that and helped you in settling the duo back into their shed habitat with a full supply of ferrets. Warmly they settled into their nests under the blankets you settled over their backs, contently they grinned at you giving off thankful squawks as you both stepped outside into their clearing where you looked up at Hagrid in his sniffling through raising a protective bubble around it so none could burst in and attack them.

Gently you patted Hagrid’s arm, “It’ll be okay Hagrid. It was in defense.”

He nodded, “I know.”

By morning the Dementors had descended, but this time under the guard of Lucius and a band of Aurors, who came to collect Andrew. Under the serious blocks and circle of Dementors a glint of ruby red in the palm of the maimed Wizard caught your eye and. Before you could say anything more of his allied Aurors arrived with an official notice from Fudge to hand over a death notice for the Hippogriff in question. Completely ignoring the attack on two students prior to his gripping you so harshly. A squeeze of the item in his hand and a cloud of red mist surrounded his fist and your lips parted recognizing the combustible gem, rapidly you drew your wand and manifested a lead box around his hand widening his eyes while his mouth fell open in his try to throw it.

Try as he might the gem had latched onto his fingers and a muffled explosion was heard. Heavily the box fell to the ground revealing his shriveled blackened hand stirring a gasp from the Wizard Lucius bound in uncharmable chains covering his entire body. His fire filled blue eyes landed on the Aurors coming to delay his capture, “Kill the beast for all I care this waste of a Wizard is mine.”

Harshly he left the hall dragging Andrew behind him, stealing a supportive pat on your shoulder in leaving. The dark eyed Auror grinned turning to Dumbledore along the wall beside you to say, “We don’t need his permission, beast is already done for.”

Flatly your expression dropped and you moved out into the hall, seeing in the distance a glint of silver through the growing storm and the squawks of the fleeing crows over Hagrid’s calls for the presumably dead creature. Open mouthed you felt Dumbledore’s hand pat your back in calling out, “Percy.” The teen’s stance perked up and he shifted closer to you a few steps, “Kindly escort Miss Black to her dormitory.” After a pause he said, “I believe the second floor entrance should work best due to the blocks on the lower levels.” Your brow inched up, “If you wouldn’t mind, along the way keep an eye open, I seem to have lost my watch. Try as I may I can’t seem to discover when I lost it in retracing my steps.”

You both nodded and glumly you joined Percy into the hall through which you walked quietly until you were asked in latin, “Did you catch those hints I did?”

“Did you tell Dumbledore where we use our turners?” you whispered to him in return.

Percy shook his head, “No, though not hard to guess it would be a safe place to go back.”

“Okay.” Down another turn you eyed the various portraits whispering along your path in your trotting up the first flight of stairs. “You know, I miss my second year.”

Percy chuckled and stole a glance at you saying, “Ah, you’d miss it all. Makes you wonder if each generation had years like ours or just how terribly dull it was for them.” Making you giggle weakly.

Pt 26

[parabellum-rpg-archive]

Congratulations, Meghan! You’ve been accepted to play Zoey Everett. Please make your page and send it in within 24 hours.

Admin note: This was such a hard decision to make because there were three other perfectly written auditions. I’m not even exaggerating, they were all perfect, spot on, flawless. In the end, I think you did such an amazing job at portraying Zoey. Everything felt so fluid in the samples, I could tell that you really connected with her. I can’t wait to see this character fleshed out even more!  - Admin V

IC INFORMATION —

CHARACTER DESIRED

Zoey Everett.

DESCRIBE THE CHARACTER IN YOUR OWN WORDS

No need to rewrite the biography - but who are they to you? What are their goals, ambitions, or flaws? Here’s your opportunity to show us who this character is to you.

I think Zoey is someone who is a complicated balance of strength, belief, and a sensitivity that borders on vulnerable. She had always been innately strong— however, shouldering the abuse meant for both her and her mother created something unbreakable inside her at a young age. She wouldn’t be cowed by intimidation. She wouldn’t retreat inside of herself when confronted. As a child, Zoey could do nothing to change her situation— but there wasn’t a single force in the world that could dictate how she should react.

Bruce’s hair-trigger temper was as fragile as tripwire, and Zoey learned quickly nothing would please him. It was better to retain every inch of her resolve instead of folding, better to keep a tight grip on her kindness in favor of becoming hard. These things couldn’t be beaten out of her— not even when she felt abandoned by her mother, or when the weight of hiding the abuse sat on Zoey’s chest like a weight.

Strength was a necessity, a survival tactic.

She was young, yes, still knobby-kneed and freckled, but she was firm in her sense of self— Zoey reacted to things on her own terms.

It would have been easier to harden herself, as a way of protection. Many children would have. But Zoey let herself remain sensitive to a full spectrum of emotions, let herself be moved by beautiful things, by new people, culture, something as simple as trying Italian ice for the first time, or something as grand as seeing La Pieta during a college trip.

Her warmth and sensitivity was not naive; instead it was incredibly purposeful. It was this strong sense of identity that helped her to endure. She wouldn’t lose herself to trauma.

Because of Zoey’s resolve, and her strength, as an adult she has an incredible capacity for sensitivity—allowing herself to be vulnerable in the most human of ways. Her job demands vulnerability. Reacting to art requires vulnerability, particularly abstract modern art, where so much of its meaning is dependent on what the viewer brings to the table.

You react to art; art reacts to you. It’s impossible for Zoey to harden herself to emotion and do her job well— she curates based on intuition, on what she anticipates others will feel from a particular piece. She can’t look at a Kandinsky with any less emotion than a Monet. Art, every medium it belongs to, moves Zoey with a profound intensity— the intention behind it, the history —and it’s in those emotions she feels closest to her father. To an alternate life she never had.

Six years old and gap-toothed, she would often park herself in front of her future inheritance; a collection of art so extensive it would make any collector green. But Zoey never saw it as the sum of its price tag.

The love she had for it was something innate.

Which is why I think her gallery is a representative of so much more for Zoey: a connection to the father she could never meet, concrete proof she had been able to escape her childhood. It’s symbolic. She could outgrow her past. Settle into her own interests and ambitions outside of her family, outside the trial that had consumed her life, the relationships that had been ruined by it.

The freedom in her life had always cost something.

Look what Bruce’s death had.

Which is why she has to move forward; Sonoma was the dream that propelled Zoey out of the pain of her childhood, and now it’s become everything to her.

Every cent of her money has been invested in this gallery. Partnering with the Costello’s may have been reckless, desperate, but she’s come too far to let give up now. The same strength that fuels her determination is the same thing that makes it impossible to let go.

She’s no idiot— she’s not unaware, either. Zoey is just someone who is determined to stand her ground, at the possibility of exposing herself to danger, to an uncertain future that risks bringing her face-to-face with things she once left behind.

Running away from fear isn’t in her blood, nor does she see it as an option.

WRITING SAMPLE

Provide as many IN CHARACTER samples as you like. At the very least, we expect three paragraphs written in third person. Aside from that, there are no rules. Please include anything you deem necessary.

The lock is clicked firmly on Zoey’s door. The line of her shoulders slacken. She can feel an ache in her upper arm; four red dots, the rough outline of fingers that will surely blossom into bruises the next day. She shrugs on a sweatshirt, unfolds the heavy book in her lap.

Her heart-rate slowly ticks down to normal.

The house is unnervingly silent now, and her eyes flicker down to the first open page, eager for distraction, and— oh.

Oh.

Of course it opens to this—Helen Frankenthaler. Jacob’s Ladder.

The art book had belonged to her father. Her real father, of course— not the monster that had done this to her arm — and the sight of his favorite painting makes Zoey’s eyes smart with tears, makes her throat tightens in a way it hasn’t in years.

Tears for the father she’d never gotten to meet.

They plop down onto the book with each deepening exhale, warping and wobbling the page beneath it.

This sadness for him feels fitting— but Zoey won’t give the other man her tears. She never had. She bore his anger with a set jaw, a firm determination that outstripped the usual maturity of a fifteen-year-old. He would never see her cry.

Not ever.

Letting her hand drift down the glossy pages seems to center Zoey’s mind. She clears her throat, quiet and purposeful, flips through the rest of the book with a growing calm.

There’s a peace that settles in around her, despite the situation.

She isn’t in this house anymore, with her stepfather fuming dangerously in the next room. Not entirely— Zoey is elsewhere. Standing next to saints and apostles on grassy hillsides, heads illuminated by gold leaf; lost in the reverence of the Middle Ages. She’s in a Friedrich next, peering over an imposing cliff. Southern France, Van Gogh, surrounded by yellow flowers.

It isn’t escapism as much as it’s inspiration. What had all these artists endured? What had the subjects of their paintings? Zoey sees herself reflected in these works, and there’s something fortifying about it, something that clears the mind and stokes determination. There was so much beauty, in the face of pain.

It’s only the buzz of her phone that pulls Zoey from her musings.

She reaches over with a reluctant hand, slow to answer until she sees the name flashing across the screen. Kai.

She smiles.

Patches of light in her life, patches of warmth— proof that it was not all bad, not simply storms and monsters.

She answers the phone without a trace of her leftover emotion. Kai can’t hear any lingering hurt her voice, not him; there are some thing she wants untouched by the pain at home.

Her step-father caused it, and her mother ignored it.

Zoey simply endured.

Somehow, eventually, it would be her that outlasted them all.

———-

Sunlight falls through the windows like tall patches of amber, and Zoey Everett steps into the building’s doorway, the ties of her green coat knotted loosely around her midsection.

It’s cold for this time of year.

The smile she gives the approaching man is almost sunny enough to compensate.

“Hi, Mr. Addams—we spoke on the phone earlier, I—”

“Yes. You’re Zoey?”

Crisp. Quick. To the point. She wonders why all of these artistic managers have to follow the same brusque script.

“That would be me.” A half-beat later. “I’m here about the possibility of curating few of your client’s pieces at Sonoma. Given how often the—”

“Yes.”

Another interruption, but not even to agree to her proposition; that much Zoey can tell. He’s simply cutting in to control the conversations run-time.

“I remember. You’re a representative for the own—”

This time its Zoey who cuts in with a firm, polite smile. Best to clear up any confusion now.

“I am the owner.”

There’s a weighted pause as the man considers this. It’s shock, mostly— there’s few, if any people who expect a gallery owner to look like her, and Zoey simple smiles in response, tries to re-direct the conversation as she glances at the art displayed inside the office building.

“We’re going to be exhibiting a few pieces from El Lissitzky soon…”

She walks idly along the row of oil paintings, allowing for a pause. He would’ve heard of this artist before. Zoey was proud of acquiring those, of the effort it took— Sonoma wasn’t some no-account gallery. It was smaller, and it was new. But it was going to be successful. She would give anything to ensure that it happened.

“Along with some contemporary pieces from a Chicago native. Really amazing stuff— similar use of geometric design, strong influence from 20th century typography…”

She has his attention now. There’s no script Zoey needs to follow for this—just the truth, the passion that bubbles up naturally.

“We want to be the future of Chicago’s art scene. And we’re going to be. There’s too many incredible artists in this city getting passed over for recognition because they fail to meet an incredibly specific criteria; because they’re not discovered by the same ten people who dictate where trends go.”

Zoey runs her thumb along the inside of her palm, smiles.

“Good art is good art, no matter who finds it.”

She thinks she can see a shade of agreement in the man’s eyes; his client had earned his recognition in ways that many in the art community deemed showy, too mainstream. But now he’s being lauded for it.

Mr. Addams makes a noise of vague approval. She takes it as a cue to drive this point forward.

“Your client’s work would fit perfectly with this season’s exhibit— particular his most recent pieces, the mixed-media? All that red? It would look incredible next to New Man.”

Something shifts on his face. There. That’s what she needs— even a glimmer of willingness to imagine with her. Just the smallest amount. Her voice grows warmer.

“It would be the perfect home for it. Along with all the other new pieces.”

“I want Sonoma to be a place to display some colleges student’s visual thesis alongside a Pollock. Old and new.”

“Pollock?” She can hear the skepticism in his voice, but it sounds friendlier now. Less brusque. “That would be near-impossible to acquire, wouldn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Zoey agrees, shouldering her bag with an easy smile. “But I’m going to.”