#anyway. that's all for the lore hours. //scurries away

[fandomizedtrash]

I need to remmick lowkey, making turning you into a vampire like a marriage proposal like gets a ring and everything only to ruin your pretty dress with your blood as he taste it and you ruin his nice shirt by tasting his(i know it's not in the film so maybe a symbolic gesture?) Smut if you feel inspired or willing ✨️

Hope this inspires something it is a little cliche

Blood Vows

Summary: When he came into your life, everything changed. Your once tedious routines now had purpose, and soon enough, it came time for you to give yourself to him completely. Bone and blood

Word count: 1.6k

Warnings: blood, smut, some violence(?) Reader and Remmick bite each other and it gets messsyyyy

Notes: thank you anon for matching my freak

REQUESTS OPEN

The night you encountered him was like any other. The sun had just set over the rolling fields and you were walking home after a long day of serving meals and taking orders. Little did you know it would be the day you life, and your fate would change forever.

Truth be told, Remmick had no intention of finding you, or really anyone. For the first time in his centuries old existance, it was as if someone had found him instead. An odd experience to say the least.

Walking down the road you have walked down all your life, you heard a rustling from the trees. Usually it was nothing more than a squirrel, deer, or other forest critter, but it was followed by a soft moaning sound that was unmistakably human.

“Is someone there?” You called out.

No responce came but the rustling sound of leaves in the wind.

Your conscience took over and you scurried off the path behind the tree to have a look anyway. There before you laid a man who seemed as if he just spent an hour in a furnace. Skin scalding and blistering.

What followed was you on autopilot. Helping him up, trying to get him to walk to your house which laid a quarter of a mile further down the road. But by the time you got home and the sun had set, the man was completely healed, not a single sign of injury.

You’ve heard stories. Every child growing up in the Delta knew the lore and stories of the things not to be meddled with. The manevolent beings that lurked in the darkness who would lead you down a path of a fall from grace.

But he was not that. Not one bit.

You sat him down on your couch and gave him water which he sipped eagarly. Standing at the end of the couch, you looked at him with curiosity. You saw the change of color in his eye, his unhuman-like healing. I was all you needed to know.

“I know what you are,” you stated. It wasn’t a threat, merely a statement.

The man looked up at you from his position on the couch. Eyes just as curious as yours.

“Then you must be mighty brave or mighty stupid if you just let me into your home.” He echoed back.

You scoffed in response. “I guess that's for you to figure out."

“And are you afraid?” The answer to anyone else in your position would have been obvious. He was deadly. A physical depiction of a wolf in sheep’s clothing. And if any of the stories you grew up with held any truth, you ought to be running for your life.

“No.”

After that first encounter, you had him stay the night. The two of you talked for hours. Learning where he came from, how he got here, what he wanted. And you shared your Delta childhood, your tedious life, what you heard about his kind.

“Can I see you again?” He asked with caution, scared of the potential answer.

You smiled softly, “Certainly.” That was the first time he kissed you, and the devil had never tasted so sweet.

***

Your life then became a series of nights. It was no longer the day that mattered. You had your mundane routine of breakfast, work, shopping, dinner, other household tasks, and then the torturous waiting. It was completely random the hour of the night he arrived. Sometimes it was the moment the sun set, others had you up just an hour away from dawn.

The lack of sleep was difficult at first but nothing you body couldn’t adjust to. Besides, the reward at the end of the wait was so sublime, you would have gladly waited hours more. His touch, his voice, his strangely soft hands on your body, how could something damned feel so right?

“I want you to be mine.” Remmick uttered. Breathy and desperate. Hands clenched in your hair like his life depended on it, your bodies covered in sweat. He had you against a wall, not even bothering to get to the bed, your dress already half unbuttoned and hair messy.

“You know I already am.” You chuckled in response.

“Y/n.” He began, already breathless. “I want you to be mine completely.” Out of his pants pocket, he took out the finest rings you have ever laid eyes on. The women in the Delta could never imagine something so grand.

You looked back at him, eyes wide, mouth half open.

“Will you have me, forever?” By then, the air has left your lungs completely.

Unable to muster the words, you kissed him fiercely. Smathing your lips together as your hands started to grab at his clothes.

Once you finally parted, Remmick spoke. “You know what it means?” You nodded. Of course you knew. It was something you have made your peace. There was no one left for you here. No life worth saving. Remmick slid the ring carefully on your finger.

“I’m ready.” You announced, massaging his neck and shoulders.

Remmick hesistated. This was a moment he has been waiting for as long as you have, but the thought of him actually doing it now was more pressure than he realized.

“Please.” You whisphered. Taking his hand into yours, you squeezed it reasurringly.

He opened his mouth, eyes glued to the soft curve of your neck.

Your breath hitched, eagarly anticipating the bite.

And then, there it was. His fangs penetrate your skin slowly and torcherously. You breathed in deeply, taking in the sensation. Nothing in all your years of living has ever hurt so good. Blood started to spill out of you and onto the (very fittingly) white dress you had downed that morning. It trickled down your neck and onto your chest, and Remmick couldn’t get enough. He knew he had to control himself, but no blood had ever tasted as magnificent as yours.

The two of you collapsed to the ground, adrenaline practically radiating off your bodies.

It didn’t take long for his own clothes to get stained as well. The blood red steadily made its way through his shirt's fabric.

It was pure ecstasy. The venom was making its way through your veins and through your body. Venom wasn’t even the right word for it. It wasn’t painful or unwilling, it was a drug, a drug you’d be high on for the rest of your existence.

After summoning up enough will power, Remmick finally pulled his fangs from your flesh.

“I want you to taste me too.” You looked at him stunned, the thought never occurred to you, but seeing as you gave yourself to him, it was only fitting for him to do the same.

You approached his neck gradually, scared, but exhilarated to taste him.

Just as he did to you, you opened your mouth and penetraded his skin.

When his blood touched your tonge, all the chocolate cakes, the pies, the roasted chickens and steamy casserols that made up your once human diet were brought to shame. Of course you have had Remmick in, well, other ways to say the least, but this, this, was something different. More personal, more intimate. Still sitting on the floor, you continued to taste him as you got up to straddle his hips, mouth still on the bite.

As much as his flavor intoxicated you, you still wanted more.

“Remmick.” You started, detatching from his skin. “I want more of you.” You immortal lover took the cue and begain to grind his hips against yours.

You tossed your head back and groaned, already feeling his buldge against your clit. Placing your arms around his neck, you brought your faces together for a fervid kiss. Remmick’s hand supported your back as he cacrefully laid you down on the wood floor. As the kiss deepened, your hands went down to unzip his pants, your cunt already aching for him.

When his cock sprang free, he made his down and up through your dress to the hem of your panties, all but tearing them off you. After casting them aside, he aligned himself with your enterance before agonizingly burrying his cock as far inside you as he could.

The stretch was intense, perhaps it was the energy between you or your recent transformation, but the feeling you were so accustomed to felt more vigorous than usual.

Remmick started to roll his hips back and forth. Torturously, removing his dick halfway out before slamming back into you. His thrusts began to speed up as his hands roamed your body from under your dress, trying to feel as much of you as he could.

Your nails dug into his back and shoulders while arching your back. The pace was unrelenting, every movement sent a firework through your body. You couldn’t remember the life you were living before, everything was dreary and grey compared to now. A life with endless possibilities, a life with no end ast all.

Remmick’s breathing deepened as he let out a heavy groan. It wasn't long before you felt your climax approaching. A steady but sure build was leisurely growing instead of you.

One look at your lover told you he wasn’t too far either.

Soon, the pressure that was growing shattered as your orgasm hit. Your pussy fluttered around him as you felt Remmicks hot stream coat your walls. He collapsed ontop of you, chest heaving up and down.

“Y/n.” He said as he stroked the side of your face with his hand. “Mine forever.” Gentle lips kissed your forehead.

You looked up and smiled at him.

“Your’s forever.”

[imbadatwrighting]

PAIRING: dean winchester x ditzy!winchester!reader, sam winchester x ditzy!winchester!reader (both platonic)

SUMMARY: maybe the winchester brothers should have made sure you were doing your homework instead of letting you goof off in your room; it only made you more stubborn.

A/N: i’m pretty sure this is very stupid and probably not that well written (if you can’t tell by the summary). I gotta start getting into writing again on tumblr 😭 but anyways this is based off this post!! mentions of getting hurt from a gun.

They should have known you weren’t doing your homework like you promised. You were never one who liked to do your schoolwork, even after being homeschooled due to the hunting life you were born into. It wasn’t like you couldn’t, just most of the time, you never put much effort into trying to.

It’s why most times when Sam gave you work to complete by yourself, you’d hold off until Sam’s patience wore thin and he begrudgingly helped you out. Not that Sam didn’t like to help his baby sister out, but he knew you could do it if you tried. Then again, it felt sort of nice to know someone relied on him and not Dean for once.

Maybe the first sign they should’ve noticed was how quickly you sprung up to go your room at the mention of school work. Once perched on Dean’s lap as he sat in one of the library chairs, your fingers twiddling with his flannel, then up and scurrying to your room when Sam only asked if you got any done yet.

A look of confusion spread on their faces and a quick, “be careful!” left Dean when he heard your little giggle as your thigh high socks made you slide down the hallway. But the groans and huffs of annoyance soon heard throughout the bunker caused them to force away their questions and continue on with their day. Dean drinking his beer and pretending to read the lore books while Sam actually read.

It was only a little more than half an hour later when they heard your door slam open and your feet paddling against the hard floor that they looked up. Sam stood up, walking quickly to where he heard you coming before your figure collided with his. He stumbled back only slightly, his hand grabbing onto your elbows to still you. It looked like it affected you more than it did him, Sam having to hold you up to stop you from getting knocked down on the floor.

“Hey, hey,” he spoke softly, his face painted with concern. “Are you okay?” You nodded your head quickly, basically hopping on your tippy toes with excitement. “I did it!” you giggled.

Sam raised his eyebrow. “Did what? Your homework?” he asked. He almost congratulated you before he saw the look on your face. Pure confusion and slight disgust. “What—no. Why would I want to do that?”

Of course not. Sam hummed with slight disappointment, but he didn’t get another word in edgewise before you were squirming out of his grasp and speed walking over to Dean. Your hand grabbed at his sleeve, trying to drag your older brother out of his chair.

Dean only looked at you with an amused expression, not moving a single inch even when you used your full body strength to try forcing him up. It wasn’t until the tone of your whines started getting more annoyed that he relented. His hand grabbed yours, making sure you kept your balance. “I’m up, I’m up. Don’t get your pants in a twist, sweetheart,” he grumbled, setting his beer on the table as you already started pulling him towards your room.

You didn’t even bother to question his phrase, even though you knew you were wearing a skirt, not pants. You just continued to drag Dean as Sam followed behind you two silently. You were babbling on about how you had to show Dean something but never mentioning what that something was.

When you finally got to your room Dean looked around in slight confusion. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. An army of stuffed animals still on the pink covers, your backpack, where you stuffed all your school papers, still peaked out of your closet unopened. Neither Dean nor Sam saw any reason why you’d want them in your room.

It wasn’t until you held up your computer. “See that, Dee?” you giggled, almost pushing the screen into his face. Sam grabbed the laptop from you carefully, but still held it so Dean could see.

“What am I supposed to be seeing, sweetheart?” he asked, looking at your screen. All he saw was a video game, that only took him a short second before he questioned if you should be playing it. But then again, he wouldn’t be bringing that up right now, he’d leave that to Sam.

A pout rested on your face and an annoyed huff left your mouth. “Mhm, I won!” you answered, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Dean nodded silently at your words. “Good for you,” he muttered.

You waited for Dean to add anymore but when he didn’t you groaned, taking a small step forward. One of your arms wrapped around his while the other pointed at the laptop screen. “I shot all those people! Now you can really give me a gun!”

That got your brothers’ attention, their heads turning to look at you. Dean grinned but his eyes stayed focused on your face like he was trying to find a glimpse at any sort of prank. Yet he found none.

Dean’s face hardened within seconds. “No,” he suddenly declared.

He could only think of all the scenarios of you getting hurt because of a damn gun. He hated the idea of you forgetting to turn off the safety and hurting yourself or someone taking your gun and using it against you. He especially hated the idea that you needed a gun in the first place. You don’t need a gun, you have him.

Sam nodded slowly, agreeing with his brother before shutting your laptop. “Video games aren’t anything like real life. We can’t make the decision to give you a gun based off it,” Sam sighed.

A frown fell on your face and you unwrapped yourself from your brothers, snatching the laptop from your other brother. “We hunt literal monsters and I still can’t use a gun?” you pouted, throwing your laptop onto your bed and crossing your arms.

“Well, when I don’t have to worry about the gun smacking you because of the recoil or you dropping it from the noise, I’ll think about it,” Dean grumbled.

“Besides,” Sam cut in with a small, apologetic smile, “you don’t need a gun; we gave you a knife last year incase there was a time you needed protection and we couldn’t be there, remember?”

You huffed dramatically, turning your head to the side in frustration. “Yeah, but that’s not the same,” you pouted. Sam nodded slightly, thinking of what to say to hopefully get you to agree. “Well, maybe in a few years we can revisit it, but for now, Dean and I don’t think it’s the best idea.”

“That’s not fair!” you declared, stomping your foot against the floor.

Dean rolled his eyes at your little temper tantrum. What was the big deal? So what if you can’t get a gun? It’s better than shooting off your face because you forgot to turn the safety on when you tried messing with it. “You know what’s not fair—” he started, eyes narrowing on you.

“Listen,” Sam interjected quickly, giving Dean a quick glare. “we can talk about this later. In the meantime both of you need to calm down. Go watch a movie or something.”

It seemed like your pout lessened and your frustration dissipating as the seconds went by. “Only if I get to pick,” you muttered.

Dean scoffed at that, his eyes rolling slightly. “I am not watching Gossip Girl with you again,” he grumbled. Your eyes narrowed on your eldest brother and before Sam could blink both of you were squabbling like toddlers.

Sam sighed, running a hand through his hair. He didn’t bothering trying to stop you two; that would lead nowhere. With a huff, he was already heading out the door, knowing the fight wouldn’t lead anywhere else. By now you probably already forgot about not getting your way anyways. “Do your homework, please!” Sam said before stepping out of the room.

“I’ll do it later!” you yelled back, barely paying attention as you tried messing with Dean. Sam could hear you giggle as Dean probably pushed you onto your bed. Sam could only sigh, hiding his smile as he moved into the dean cave. He began setting up the movie he knew both his older brother and little sister would like; there was only so much energy in you before you’d want to cuddle up to your brothers and watch tv.

[xstrawberryshiftsx]

TITAN VALOR ACADEMY DR PT11

pt1/pt3

Titan Valor academy (TVA) is world known—like I’m talking famous—international school based in the smack middle of New York City, anyone with any inkling of a power strive to get in-but they only except the best of the best…super elite, they only take main sub-mutant powers (basically super flashy powers) TVA isn’t the only school of course; mutant schools are littered all over the world, but TVA is everyone’s dream.

I stare at the building in front of me…it was big-like castle big. Is this really my new home? “Hi! Welcome to Titan Valor Academy! How are you today?”

An American accent rang in my ears and I looked behind me to see a very short, very skinny and very blonde lady wavy at me.

“I’m Rachel and it is so nice to meet you!”

she smiled and reached out her hand, I stared at her for a second before shaking it carefully.

“hi I’m-“

“I know who you are! We all know who you are! Welcome Dove!” She interrupted me and giggled before walking ahead of me and opened the main doors.

“now! I’m the guidance counsellor of TVA so I’m in charge of the welfare of students and extracurricular activities! So I’m very busy and don’t have time for you right now, which means I’ll be passing you on to one of our-uh-um…finest? Student!”

Rachel laughed awkwardly and her left eye twitched slightly. She led me into the foyer to where a student was waiting by the couches. They where blonde (whether dyed or not it wasn’t clear) and pale, they low key looked like Addison Grace.

“This is @zipperrants! They will be showing you around school! We had another student ready for you…but they-uh-they died. Laugh! Out! Loud!”

and with that she scurried away up the stairs leaving me alone with…Zipper.

“Hey, your Dove?” They walked over to me and shook my hand.

“Uh-yeah It’s nice to meet you” I laughed awkwardly, fiddling with my hands.

“Yup! I’m in your class this year, my uncle is the vice principal here so I basically know everything, since it’s halfway through the year you’ve missed a bit but my job is to basically help you along for the rest of the year.”

Zipper walked me around the school as they explained the ‘lore’ of the school as they put it.

“okay so first-this school has been open since the dawn of mutants! So like since 1970 I guess. Anyway so since this school is elite or whatever we only have one class for each year group and each year group has around 18 people…”

we walked up the stairs and passed a window, outside

was a giant field filled with students fighting, it looked amazing. Everything was choreographed and perfect, the mutants powers worked perfectly together. They looked so professional.

“…We have about five lessons a day, we have two breaks one for 30 minutes and one for 1 hour, school starts at 9 and ends at 4, we have mostly normal lessons other then two lessons at the end of the day which are focused around power and combat training”

Zipper continued the tour pointing out things around the school as they did.

“So what’s your power? I can teleport, im a sub-space mutant so uh-I’m pretty cool” they said smirking.

“oh-I like to call mine Siren! My mum and dad where both sub-mermaid mutants, I’m basically just what you’d think of a siren”

Zipper paused for a second before smiling

“so your…an evil mermaid….thats not Australian of you, not very H20”

“I will siren sing you into jumping off the top of this school”

zipper paused

“Dually noted”

finally they reached the dorm house

“So this is your dorm! Number three, I’m number six down the hall, I’ll come by in about an hour for dinner. I’ll introduce everybody then!”

and with-that they blooped? Away? Either way they disappeared somewhere.

I HAD TO CUT THIS SHORT BUT I PROMISE ILL INTRODUCE YALL NEXT IM SORRY

link if you want to be added to my dr:

@ningsols @maddies-chronicles @littlecoffeeadict @sugaredlavenderhearts @st4rshipr4nger @faithymanifestsandshifts @zipperrants @lilydreamsss @livingsecret

[clockworkvenus]

gotta know more about "gimme shelter" :3 or if someone has already asked that one then dealer's choice

heheh, gimme shelter (named after the rolling stones song) was from when sierra was still a corpo in the Big Fic In My Brain. originally the plot was that she worked for zetatech and recruited elise and austin on behalf of her boss to do some of the corp's dirty work, but somehow said dirty work was exposed and sierra's boss then threw them all under the bus and they end up on the run after zetatech agents try to kill them. this particular scene has elise and sierra holed up in the sunset motel, heavily inspired by the end of 'search and destroy' in the main game. i do actually still like this plot and will probably tweak it to work with sierra's new media lore instead (idk where austin is in this scene, this ain't about him anyway)

The silence in the motel room was deafening, bar the occasional scuttle of a cockroach. The only light source was the shimmer of the moon creeping through the blinds, a haze of cigarette smoke lingering in the moonlight. Bullet holes and blood stains decorated the walls, hinting at the secrets of its previous guests. The two single beds did little to invite one to lay their weary head, the unmade white sheets covered in questionable stains. The room stank of stale cigarettes and death. Elise’s bloodied hands trembled slightly as they held the shotgun in a white-knuckle grip. She was perched at the end of one of the beds, her breathing slow and calm, but only because she was forcing it to be. The pulsing vein in her temple accompanied by the trembling hands gave away her apprehension. Her eyes stared at the motel room’s door, the shotgun poised in the same direction. Her face was splattered with blood, mixing with the beads of sweat trickling down her face. Was the blood hers, or that of someone else’s? She wasn’t entirely sure. Sierra sat on the other bed, her knees raised with her elbows rested atop them, holding her head in her right hand. Instead of her usual immaculate and well-kept corporate appearance, she looked disheveled - her once exquisitely pressed suit now torn and bloodstained. Her stare was fixated on the floor, her eyes never even flickering to follow the cockroaches scurrying in the filth. She wasn’t acknowledging anything, really - her eyes merely providing an anchor point while she relived the last few hours over, and over, and over in her head.

[painless-innit-colourful]

‘Where I Go, Will You Still Follow?’ - A Clingyduo Fic from the Hunger Games AU

In the most ironic twist, I missed Tommy’s lore stream on Monday writing Clingyduo comfort/hurt (in that order). I wasn’t sure whether this fandom needed any more angst right now, but whatever, take this anyway. This fic is set in a Hunger Games AU where the characters of the Dream SMP reside in Panem and must compete in the Games. Only Tommy + Tubbo appear in this fic though. Angst reigns supreme on Reaping Day, where the boys face the possibility of being picked for the deadly Hunger Games for the first time. (Also I promise you don’t have to have read HG to get this.)

tw nothing really, they’re only being reaped here.

word count: 3102

On the morning of the reaping, two boys tread carefully through a desolate orchard.

At this time of year, the trees are mostly left to their own devices. In about six months their boughs will bear fruit, and there will be plenty of people scurrying to and fro beneath them collecting their bounty to be stored and sent to the Capitol. Those very boys will join them. However, on that late Spring morning there is no one about. During this season the trees require only the occasional pruning, and everyone’s still in bed this early anyway. No reason to get up on a day where you don’t need to. Public holidays like this are rare.

Tommy and Tubbo hold hands as they move through the trees. Old habit, they suppose, a defense mechanism against getting split up, for better or worse. With the number of people in their district it can make public gatherings hazardous for lonely children, and if there’s anything worse than getting caught alone in a stampede, it’s getting left behind in a chase. If one boy falls, so does the other. If one boy is caught with his hand in the larder, the other will be nearby. The two of them are a package deal: where one goes, the other follows.

They only stop when they’re sure they’re properly alone, deep in the orchard. It would take anyone hours to find them; it would take most people hours to get out from this point. But years spent traversing these paths - both from the ground and the branches above - have given them an instinctual knowledge on which way to go. They settle in beneath a large apple tree; lush and green now that the blossoms have since blown away. They go about unwrapping several grease paper packages that were previously weighing down their pockets as Tommy hums a tune to keep them company. Tubbo shuffles uncomfortably as they lay out a small breakfast of half a loaf of bread - dark and dotted with seeds, District 11’s signature - a petite disc of cheese that Tubbo suspects Tommy sat on at some point, and an apple each. Food they either squirreled away from the pantry at the orphanage or stole outright. The thought pinches Tubbo’s cheeks.

“What’s that sour face for?” Tommy asks him, flicking his eyes up every so often as he arranges the cheese on the bread with a tiny knife stashed in his boot and breaks the half-crescent of bread roughly in half. “You’re not still worried about getting caught.”

Tubbo sighs, and it tells Tommy all he needs to know. “C’mon! We covered our tracks and literally no one saw us.” When Tubbo’s expression doesn’t change, he puts a comforting hand on his friend’s arm. “Well, definitely no one saw you. I’ll take the hit for it, if they find out.”

“No, it’s- fine.”

“Your face says otherwise, my friend.” All the same, Tommy retracts his arm and finishes haphazardly spreading the cheese upon the bread. He nudges one of the apples towards Tubbo with his foot, “Here, start.”

“Excuse me, the apple comes after the main course, how dare you break tradition.”

“My apologies, my liege.”

The easy smile returns briefly to Tubbo’s face as they laugh, then quickly melts away again. Tommy fixes him with a sympathetic look. “What?” Tubbo asks, locking eyes with him as he finishes brutalising the cheese and hands him his half. “You’re worried about the reaping.”

“And you’re not?”

“Should I be?” When Tubbo gives him a sideways glare, Tommy shrugs. “Dude, it’s a tiny chance. Two in thousands and thousands. You’re more likely to get struck by lightning than have either of our names fished out of the bowl.” And though Tommy was likely skewing his numbers a bit, he supposed it was true. It was their first year of reapings and neither of them had taken any tesserae. They were about as safe as you could be between the ages of twelve and eighteen. Still…

“Besides,” Tommy continued. “If your name gets called, I’m sure someone would volunteer for you.” He barely makes it to the end of his sentence before Tubbo’s noise of dismissal drowns him out. “Yeah right. Let’s be realistic here.” Tommy leans back against the tree as he eats. Sunlight peeks through the branches at random intervals, illuminating him in softly glowing patches. He turns his head slightly and beckons Tubbo over with a nod. They shift their bodies and the food around until they’re sitting shoulder to shoulder between two large roots, and Tubbo finds that the sunlight is almost as warm as Tommy beside him.

They remain in that position for some time, eating their way through their swindled picnic. It’s a bit much for an ordinary breakfast, but it’s somewhat of a tradition to have something special on reaping day. Makes the hours standing in the square while the Mayor drones on about how it’s right to send two children to their deaths a bit more bearable. According to those traditions, you’re supposed to celebrate with a meal after the reaping too, though neither boy is quite sure where that convention came from. Not many in District 11 could afford it in any case.

At some point Tubbo drops a hand to the floor between them, and at some later instance Tommy places his where their fingers can interlace. “You’re nervous too.” Tubbo states without looking at his companion, instead remaining as he is, staring past the leaves to the clear blue sky. “No way.” Tubbo giggles at Tommy’s indignant tone. “A big man like me is not scared of being picked in the reaping.”

“Fearless he is, Big Man Tommy.”

“Too right!” They laugh, and the terror their giggles mask bubbles just beneath the surface, a pot mere seconds from boiling over. 

“Look, Tommy,” Tubbo’s voice becomes serious, and Tommy’s laughter peters out. “It’s all well and good laughing and joking about it, but… In the event one of us is chosen…” Their eyes meet and Tubbo squeezes Tommy’s hand, to which Tommy returns the grip. “I need you to tell me you remember our promise.” In response, Tommy sighs, drops Tubbo’s hand, puts that arm around his best friend’s shoulder, pulls him close and runs his free hand through his hair, almost all simultaneously. “Yes of course I remember it.”

“And?” Tubbo replies expectantly.

“And what?”

“Say it, you dummy.” Tommy places his free hand over his heart like a salute. “I, Tommy Innit, promise my dearest friend Tubbo Underscore, that if he is chosen for the Hunger Games in this afternoon’s reaping, I will not volunteer to take his place.” He waits for Tubbo to relax, satisfied, before tacking on: “Thus letting him be led away to a faraway place to be on television then get brutally murdered, also on television. “ He can feel Tubbo’s eye roll without even looking. “You made me promise the same.”

“Yeah I did, didn’t I?” He admits quietly, leaning his head against his best friend’s, brown curls obscuring half his vision.

“It’ll be okay, right?”

“Yeah.” Tubbo’s hair smells faintly of apples, somehow. Tommy squeezes his best friend and hopes he won’t have to betray him.

Unbeknownst to him, Tubbo has the same thought.

---

The duo spend the hours before the reaping as they usually do: sleeping in each others embrace somewhere they technically shouldn’t be, pretending the clothes they have to change into back at the orphanage are any better than what they’re changing out of, and hogging the second floor bathroom for way longer than necessary. The black storm cloud that is the reaping casts a longer shadow than previous years, but they manage to ignore it for most of the morning with enough shenanigans to fill their quota for the year. The clouds threaten to burst however when the time reaches half twelve, and the parentless teenagers of the district begin to make their way towards the square where the ceremony will take place. The once-blue sky darkens as the crumbling facade of the Justice Building comes into view, as if nature were waiting for her cue, and Tommy wonders if he jinxed himself with his earlier comments about being struck by lightning.

He’s holding Tubbo’s hand again - standard crowd procedure - and he’s thankful for about the millionth time that they’re the same age. They head with the other twelve year old orphans to the corresponding pen for their age group, and find themselves sandwiched in the centre. Tubbo exchanges a few words with some of their peers, most likely to be ‘Good luck’, but Tommy’s not really concentrating. The square is already full and still there’s many more people to come, and with every person that joins the crowd there will only be more cramming the possible tributes together like sardines in a tin. There have been crushes at reapings before; they tell them in school about the reaping for the seventh games, where too many spectators packed the floor and there was a panic that killed four people, including one kid in the crowd. In an ironic twist, their name was later pulled from the ball, and their escort had to be informed live on stage in front of the entire nation that they’d died earlier that day.

Decidedly, the odds were not in their favour.

Tommy doesn’t like to admit it, but tight spaces get to him. And here, packed in by bodies with camera crews perched high on the rooftops over the crowd, scanning for the faces that will leave the district tonight, he feels like a fish in a barrel. “Hey-” Tubbo’s voice reaches him through the din of thousands of people talking at once, but he sounds a million miles away. He practically crushes Tubbo’s fingers with his own, and, in retaliation, Tubbo flicks him on the nose. He blinks at him angrily for a second, the distraction welcome despite his show of annoyance. “Breathe, Tommy.” He forces air in and out of his lungs for about thirty seconds just to make sure he still can. Tubbo traces stars on the back of his hand.

By the time the Mayor’s stepped up to the podium and began his yearly recitation of the history of Panem, Tommy thinks he’s calmed himself down somewhat. Tubbo still traces stars in little pentagram patterns on Tommy’s hand with his thumb, and though it’s starting to get a little irritating, something stops him from signalling him to knock it off. He glances briefly sideways to Tubbo, and though his expression is mostly blank, the two have gotten used to watching each other’s tics and tells, signs that are imperceptible to anyone else but them. The small twitch at the corner of his mouth, the way he scrunches his nose slightly when he blinks, even the way he presses a little too hard with his thumb, his patterns becoming less uniform and the edges of his nails leaving little scratches. He’s as scared as Tommy. So he lets him keep doing it, for both their sakes.

The Mayor finishes his history lecture, reads the list of past victors and then finally introduces the District 11 escort, a spritely-looking man in a bottle-green suit called Montaque. He’s been the district’s escort for a few years, and Tommy and Tubbo used to joke his mustache was so spiky-sharp looking you could win a Games by using it as a weapon. He seems to glide across the stage as he gives a speech about District pride or some nonsense, then utters the classic phrase, “Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favour.” 

He crosses the stage to the front where two glass balls sit, holding thousands of tiny slips of paper. A lump forms in Tommy’s throat. Somewhere in one of those balls there’s two slips of paper that could serve as their one way ticket to the Capitol. He knows they’re somewhat lucky: some kids their age have many more slips thanks to tesserae, but Tommy feels a pang in his chest even as he thinks about it. Some kids have parents. Some kids have somewhere to put their tesserae so it won’t immediately get stolen. He and Tubbo may have considered it, but what use would they have for grain and oil when on most days they could barely hold onto their bedsheets? It was one less thing to worry about.

Montaque the Stupid sticks one of his disproportionately-large hands into the first glass ball, and retrieves a slip of paper, and Tommy begs inside his mind, not us not us not him. He reads the name, and the entire world suddenly stops spinning. Somewhere in the back of Tommy’s mind is a lag, like when one person in a chain of people passing produce from a field to a wagon disappears. The chain does its best to keep up, but it’s very quickly overwhelmed, leaving debris in the form of dropped vegetables and a backlog that needs to be attended to.

That’s how it feels inside Tommy’s head as the crowd parts for him, a sea of people craning their necks as they shuffle aside to form a runway for him towards the stage. This can’t be happening. His mind can’t catch up to the fact, doesn’t want to catch up to the fact that this is happening. He glances to his side and immediately regrets the action, for Tubbo stands beside him looking equal parts shell shocked and distressed. Their eyes meet, teary and desperate, and Tommy only has the strength to mouth ‘Promise’, before his feet start to carry him towards the stage alone, and his hand in Tubbo’s becomes an outstretched arm. When they finally let go Tommy can feel the ghost of his friend’s hand in his own, and knows that it will be one of the last kind touches he ever receives. He tries not to think of that as he half-marches towards the veranda. He doesn’t look back for fear it’ll set him off crying, but if he were to, he would see Tubbo standing impossibly alone in such a huge crowd, holding the hand that held Tommy’s to his chest.

He mounts the stage and looks out over the people of the district he calls home, a tiny voice in his head telling him to make the most of this last time. Last time. He searches for Tubbo in the crowd, spotting him easily by the empty pathway he just walked down being slowly absorbed back into the crowd. He can see even from here the tears shining on his cheeks, the way his whole body shakes with the effort of holding more back. There’s a couple orphanage kids looking like they’re trying to console him, and, if Tommy should weigh in, doing a pretty sh’it job. He looks away to watch Montaque snatch the second slip of paper from the glass ball, and he tenses every fibre of his being shouting internally please please please. The name is read, and this time Tommy finds himself still breathing and present as some older kid makes his own shaky way to the podium. He’s about fourteen, with a stocky build that betrays work in the crop fields. As he takes his place opposite Tommy, the young boy is reminded that the Games will be full of people like him. Stronger, older opponents. Tommy, at the monumental age of twelve, doesn’t stand a chance.

The moment lingers, and then it keeps lingering, and then Tommy turns to Montaque to find out why the da’mn moment won’t move on. He’s staring out into the crowd once more, and Tommy’s heart, already too heavy, drops straight into his boots as he follows Montaque’s gaze. The crowd parts once more, and Tubbo strides forward, a shaky confidence marking his every step. The murmurs around the square hush, as he comes to stand mere metres from the tributes. Tommy wants to catch his eye, shake his head, scream at him to stop, but Tubbo doesn’t look at him. Tommy knows exactly what he intends to do as he opens his mouth; Tommy mouths the words along with him.

“I volunteer as tribute.”

Now you’ve gone and done it.

Montaque, biggest pri’ck on the planet, waxes lyrical about courage and bravery while he arranges the exchange of the fourteen year old for Tubbo. As if he’d ever know what it is to be brave. As the Mayor takes over once more, reading the Treaty of Treason as he is bound by duty to do, Tommy tries to catch the attention of his best friend, who’s acting annoyingly aloof. He watches as Tubbo stares into the distance, looking alarmingly calm with the whole ordeal. Tommy wants to scream, and do a bit more than scream and call him all the foul names he can think of and demand he un-volunteer and why? You stupid bi’tch absolute idiot why would you volunteer when we had a promise, why did you betray the promise? Why? Why why why why why?

As the Mayor wraps up the Treaty bore-fest, he motions for the two tributes to shake hands. Tributes. Now bound unrelentingly for an arena where they will kill other people. Other children. Maybe even each other.

Tommy feels some comfort in how helpless their situation is. Odds are they’ll die long before each other are a threat. They’re going to be a team obviously, and Tommy’s going to protect Tubbo as long as he can. That’s what he promised him the day they met, and that’s what he intends to do.

They shake hands, and Tubbo finally looks at him. The tears have dried on his cheeks. They take a little longer than is necessary, conducting a silent conversation between them.

‘Sorry.’

‘I am so fu’cking mad at you.’

‘You thought I would really leave you?’

‘I hoped I was wrong.’

They stand for the anthem. They are carted into the Justice Building to wait for people to come and say goodbye. No one comes. They weren’t expecting anyone anyway. They are all they have; all they’ve ever had. And where one goes, the other follows.

Tommy waits alone in the Justice Building, trying to figure out if the first thing he’ll do when he’s alone with Tubbo is hug him or strangle him. Beyond that though, he has to protect his boy. He has to keep his promise. An uneasy feeling stirs his gut. One promise has already been broken today.

And the odds aren’t playing nice.

[crackimagines]

Daisy and Sunshine (FE: Three Houses Full Fic)

All 3H AU’s Listed Here!

—

DOOM Paralogue

On the Doom Slayer's day off, he loses track of his beloved pet Daisy, and he goes on the hunt to bring her back. He finds out quickly his day off is about to be put on hold...

----

“Against all the evil that hell can conjure,

All the wickedness man can produce,

We will send unto them, only you.

Rip and tear, until it is done...”

----

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP-

SMASH!

[Life at Garreg Mach Monastery - Fire Emblem: Three Houses]

Doomguy rose from his bed and looked over to the side. Before he smashed his homemade alarm clock, it was about 8 in the morning.

Once he finished stretching, he looked at the calendar and sighed in relief. 

Sunday.

Being an instructor for House Isekai was tiring work. Even though he never spoke, there hadn’t been a day for these past few months where he hasn’t sighed out of disappointment.

Compared to the other houses, this one was trying to herd several cats.

Megumi, Cocytus, and if it ever got too bad, Byleth had to try and calm them down.

Sara did nothing to help and in fact only added fuel to the fire.

(Hayden) “Must you keep destroying the alarm every morning? We do have to keep an eye on our resources.”

The voice speaking was one of the AI’s that Doomguy had on him when he was transported to Fodlan. Personally he would have preferred if it was just his main assistant, Vega, here but he made do with it. It’s not as if Hayden could do anything.

Ignoring him, Doomguy got dressed in his Praetor suit and checked his rabbit pen.

Daisy was normally still sleeping at this hour, but she was wide awake. Her head turned to Doomguy.

Getting a small hay cube, he held his hand out to her, which she nibbled off his hand.

Nodding in satisfaction, he left his room for breakfast.

At the mess hall he met up with Megumi, Sara, Cocytus, Byleth and Seteth.

Once they all grabbed their plates and food, they sat down at a table near the entrance. More and more students eventually poured in and the Mess Hall went from nearly dead quiet to extremely busy.

(Sara) “Finally, a nice old Sunday! These aching bones need to rest.”

(Byleth) “...I don’t recall you doing anything other than do lectures, Sara-”

(Sara) “Exactly! Teaching is hard work, ESPECIALLY with the kiddos that we have!”

(Seteth) “Hmph, that I will agree with. House Isekai’s students seem to be more high maintenance than any of our three houses.”

(Megumi) “You have no idea, but it is fulfilling work!”

(Cocytus) “INDEED. SEEING THE YOUTH SLOWLY BECOME BETTER AND BETTER FIGHTERS IS A REWARD IN OF ITSELF.”

Doomguy nodded in agreement.

(Sara) “Bah, enough talking about classes already! I’m gonna be drinkin’ the day away as soon as breakfast is done!”

(Seteth) “My goodness, it is not even twelve yet!”

(Cocytus) “I SUPPOSE I WILL BE ASSISTING ANY STUDENT IN THE TRAINING HALLS TODAY.”

(Byleth) “I haven’t decided yet.”

(Megumi) “Neither have I. What about you, Slayer?”

Doomguy put his hands to his helmet’s chin.

He wasn’t too sure himself. He supposed he could read for today. It’d make a nice change of pace.

Doomguy shrugged at Megumi and went back to eating.

After everyone finished their breakfast, they all went their separate ways.

...

Turning off the chainsaw, he had finally finished making a makeshift hammock for himself and sat down. He put his helmet onto a leftover parts of a tree he had punched off.

Opening his book, he continued where he left off.

Dungeons and Demons, 6th Edition.

As he read, the morning slowly turned into early afternoon, students and staff passing by and waving hello at him.

He waved back, but hadn’t moved from his spot in hours as he tried to better understand how to play this new tabletop game.

A little later passed and the sun was still shining nice and warm over him. It seemed like the rules and lore within this never seemed to end, so he put it down to catch a small break.

It was then he noticed his helmet’s visor was glowing.

Raising an eyebrow he put the helmet back on and Vega’s voice appeared on screen.

(VEGA) “Slayer, your pet rabbit Daisy has escaped the cage.”

Normally he would have let Daisy explore and come back on her own, since she had a habit of doing that anyway, but he was in the mood to stop reading for the moment, so it was a perfect excuse.

Knowing already where her favorite hiding spot was, he put his book down on the log and went down to Abyss.

[The Forgotten - Fire Emblem: Three Houses]

When he turned the corner, he was greeted by the Abysskeeper.

(Abysskeeper) “Oh, hey Slayer. Got something to report.”

Doomguy stopped walking and nodded at him.

(Abysskeeper) “We got that shipment of supplies we’ve been needing for a while thanks to your assistants. So thanks.”

Doomguy nodded again and grabbed a piece of paper nearby. Quickly scribbling onto it, he showed it to the Abysskeeper and pointed towards the paper’s drawing.

It was an extremely crude drawing of a rabbit.

(Abysskeeper) “Ah, your rabbit. Yeah I saw her run by, she’s fast on her feet. Think she went towards the former classrooms.”

Doomguy gestured his hand upwards as a sign of thanks and went towards that direction.

As he was walking, a familiar face emerged from the corner.

(Hapi) “Oh, Teary. What’s up, Daisy got down here again?”

Doomguy nodded.

(Hapi) “Hmph. Alright, I’ll help you look for her, wasn’t really doing anything anyway.”

Not needing to say anything further the two continued walking and searching every crevice for Daisy. After about 10 minutes of searching the classrooms, they decided to see if anyone else had seen her.

(Yuri) “Oh, hey you two.”

(Balthus) “Heya.”

Yuri and Balthus were in the main room with Angelica, and Sharon.

(Angelica) “’Sup?”

Sharon bowed.

(Sharon) “Good afternoon!”

(Hapi) “Supplies still being brought in, Yuri-bird?”

(Yuri) “Yeah, figured we would’ve been done about half an hour ago. Just how much were you able to get?!”

(Sharon) “When you’re as convincing as I am, you can get whatever you want!”

(Balthus) “That’ uh...ominous.”

(Angelica) “And that still didn’t answer his question.”

(Yuri) “Well anyways, we appreciate it. We’ll be good to go for the next few months with what we have. But I digress, what brings you to our humble abode, Slayer?”

(Hapi) “Teary’s rabbit got lost down here again. We were wondering if you saw it.”

(Yuri) “No idea, but I can send word for everyone to keep an eye out if that’ll help.”

(Constance’s voice) “AAAH!”

Everyone spun around as Constance ran in.

(Constance) “T-THERE IS A HIDEOUSLY LARGE RAT THAT IS SCURRYING DOWN HERE!”

(Yuri) “That should be nothing new, but a large one?”

(Angelica) “Would that rat happen to have been a light brown color?”

(Constance) “Yes! It had massive ears and-”

(Hapi) “Coco, that’s a rabbit.”

(Constance) “A rabbit does not move like that! They hop around in an adorable manner, not bolt around at super speeds!”

(Sharon) “Well, looks like we have found your rabbit!”

(Yuri) “Which way did it go?”

(Constance) “Ugh, we are chasing it?! Let’s see, this way!”

Finally chasing her down towards the arena, she was sitting in the middle.

(Sharon) “Oh, I have not been down here in a while!”

(Angelica) “Wait, what?”

(Balthus) “Er, long story short, she, Megumin, Momon and Nabe, and Akechi were down here a couple months back. They actually helped us stop that Demonic beast in the cathedral.”

(Hapi) “Yeah, pretty sure I saw Sharon slit so many throats down here that some of the stains are still here.”

(Angelica) “Huh, so THAT’S what the whole demonic beast attack was about.”

Doomguy did have some recollection of defending the town during that period of time.

(Constance) “Now, mister Slayer shall you get your rabbit, please?”

Doomguy nodded and knelt down, trying to catch her attention.

Instead of running to him, she ran away in terror.

(Yuri) “Huh, that can’t be good.”

[Woven by Fate - Fire Emblem: Three Houses]

A portal slowly started to emerge, with red alerts blinking on Doomguy’s screen.

(VEGA) “Alert! Demonic presence detected!”

Doomguy’s eyes widened as he quickly got up. He instinctively reached for a gun but had none on him.

(Hapi) “Ooooh crap!”

(Balthus) “Demons, seriously?!”

(Constance) “Did you sigh, Hapi!?”

(Yuri) “Everyone, just get ready for whatever’s coming through that portal!”

Everyone pulled their weapons out as Doomguy walked closer to the portal.

“Slayer...I have found you once more...”

(Balthus) “Uh...are they buddies?”

(Hapi) “B, does it look like they’re friends?!”

(Constance) “Then what is he?!”

(VEGA) “That is a Marauder.”

His voice was coming from nowhere, in which they were all confused by.

(Hayden) “Do not be concerned of where his voice is coming from, focus your attention to the incoming portals!”

Behind the Marauder appeared several demonic beasts, some from Fodlan while some others came from Doomguy’s world.

(VEGA) “He will handle the Marauder, I recommend taking out the smaller beasts so he may focus on his task.”

Angelica cracked her knuckles.

(Angelica) “You got it!”

(Yuri) “Everyone, on me!”

Doomguy was looking back at the group and was relieved. VEGA and Hayden would be ensuring they’d be alright.

(Marauder) “How amusing. You think that they will be safe.”

Doomguy slowly turned to the Marauder and gestured towards him, daring the Marauder to even try.

They circled each other as the Marauder activated his Rune Axe, and Doomguy’s wrist blade shot out.

(VEGA) “Your team’s current objective, Rip and Tear!”

----

[Super Gore Nest - Doom Eternal]

UNIT SELECTION:

Begin the slaughter?

>[Yes] Yes

Victory Conditions: Rip and tear the enemy commander.

Defeat Conditions: Leave the area not filled to the brim with demonic organs.

----

Doomguy threw the first swing, the wristblade bouncing off the Marauder’s shield. 

The Marauder retaliated by swinging the axe overhead, crushing the concrete beneath him as Doomguy dove out the way.

A demonic imp jumped onto Doomguy’s back. Doomguy grabbed the imp by the throat and slammed it down onto the floor, his boot completely crushing the upper skull with its guts and blood splattering onto the floor.

The shoulder cannon spewed out flames behind Doomguy catching a demonic beast into flames as it howled out in pain.

Doomguy countered the Marauder’s axe with his wristblade, and used his freehand to gut punch the Marauder.

Staggering backwards, several hell hounds formed next to the Marauder and charged Doomguy.

(Marauder) “YOU WILL FALL, USURPER!”

(Yuri) “I can’t believe that guy’s so used to this!”

Yuri got his sword out of a demonic beast as another one tried to eat Balthus.

Balthus managed to punch it away, making it fall back onto its side.

Sharon used her wires to tangle it’s mouth shut as she threw her knife into its eye.

(Hapi) “His name is Teary for a reason, Yuri-bird!”

(VEGA) “Actually, his name is-”

(Hapi) “Not now, VEGA!”

Constance used her magic to disintegrate several demons into dust while Hapi did the same with her magic.

Angelica grabbed one of the demons and slammed its face into the wall, and kicking the head so hard into it, it exploded.

Another one tried to swipe at her, but was grabbed by Balthus. He snapped off its neck before slamming it into the floor, with him stomping it to death.

Angelica turned to Doomguy and noticed just how many enemies were around him.

(Angelica) “Some of us need to back him up!”

(Hayden) “That is ill advised, Rogner. Getting in his way is a good chance for you to lose your limbs.

(Sharon) “We should leave him to his fun, yes?”

(VEGA) “That is the recommended course of action. Several more portals appearing behind you.”

A demonic beast came charging out with everyone diving out the way.

With the last of the hellhound being punched so hard, the skull exploded into fragments, he checked his surroundings and noticed a massive shadow above him.

Doomguy spun around and ripped apart the jaw of a massive demonic bird-like beast that tried swooping in, using the upper beak to stab it in the skull while using the lower beak as a makeshift weapon.

Several more demons tried to rush him, and were immediately impaled with the sharp end of the beak.

The Marauder fired an energy projectile from his axe and flew towards Doomguy.

He threw the beak at the projectile, letting the beak and the demons stuck in it get cut in half as he charged the Marauder.

The Marauder charged and the wristblade and axe clashed against each other.

The Marauder brought out a shotgun and was about to fire before Doomguy headbutted him, and grabbed it from his hands.

He ripped the gun in half and threw it to the side, taking out one of the Marauder’s main weapons.

(VEGA) “Friendly portal inbound, we are dropping a weapon for you, Slayer.”

A blue portal appeared above Doomguy, and he raised his hand upwards and caught his super shotgun.

Finally having a gun again, Doomguy started to smile underneath his helmet.

The first Demon that tried to rush him got the barrel in its mouth, its head completely blowing apart into tiny chunks.

Reloading, he looked at the group of demons enclosing around his group. His shoulder cannon shot a grenade out behind him as he rushed to help.

Angelica and Balthus shattered the skull of a demonic beast with the force of their punch while Yuri was dodging swipes from several imps.

Sharon’s wires grabbed and wrapped around their necks as she pulled them over to her.

It tried clawing Sharon, but its head was immediately sliced off from the garrote going through its neck.

She continued smiling as she threw her knife at an imp’s head attacking Yuri, which he grabbed the dagger and drove it into mouth of the last imp.

Hapi and Constance closed the last portal with their magic before making it explode, the demons around it bursting into limbs with blood flying everywhere.

(Constance) “Such detestable creatures!”

(Hapi) “We keep killing but there’s so many!”

A flying demon was about to attack them from behind until it was grabbed out of the air by a hook.

The hook suddenly closed in with Doomguy flying towards it and ripping the beast in half with his wristblade.

(Hapi) “Teary, any chances of this fight finishing up soon?!”

He looked at Sharon and pointed at her wires.

(Sharon) “Oh, you require this? Of course, mister Slayer!”

He nodded in thanks as he held the wires firmly in his hands and turned to Hapi, gesturing towards the Marauder who was running towards them.

(VEGA) “Everyone, the last of the demonic forces are closing into your position, a defensive line would be recommended!”

Hapi ran ahead of Doomguy and readied her magic while Doomguy was catching up behind.

(Marauder) “A friend to the Slayer? Then allow me to open your eyes to this-”

Hapi interrupted him by shooting a fireball at him, which he reflected with his shield.

(Hapi) “Shut the hell up, would you?!”

The smoke disappearing, the Maruader took his chance and swung towards Hapi, only to be blasted in the chest by Doomguy who was now standing in front of her.

Wasting no time, Doomguy used Sharon’s wires and wrapped around its neck, and he kicked him towards Hapi.

Hapi used dark magic and blasted the Marauder upwards into the air.

Tugging the wires forcefully down, the Marauder went crashing down into the concrete, shooting up several bricks upon impact.

Using the wristblade to stab into his eyes, he used the wires to get him out of the hole, shot a grenade into it, then threw his body back.

Using his suit’s dash, he went over to Hapi and shielded her from the explosion that sent body parts and blood raining down on the arena.

No one was spared from a shower of gore that landed on them.

Yuri and Balthus looked slightly annoyed while Constance was screaming that so much bits of guts was on her.

Angelica made a noise that didn’t decide if it was a swear or sound of disgust while Sharon stood completely still, her smile not even twitching.

(Yuri) “Well...didn’t think a rabbit hunt would turn into a demonic invasion.”

(Balthus) “Sure was fun!”

(Constance) “UGH! HOW REPULSIVE! I MUST SHOWER AT LEAST 3 TIMES TO GET THIS SMELL OFF ME! AND MY DRESS IS RUINED!”

(Angelica) “Eugh, son of...Well, at least it’s over.”

(Sharon) “I would be happy to wash everyone’s clothes if they wish for it!”

Doomguy’s shoulders relaxed as he turned to Hapi.

There was only bits of blood on her, but she looked more annoyed than anything.

(Hapi) sigh “Finally that’s over with.”

(Constance )”H-HAPI?!”

Doomguy cocked his shotgun back and turned to the side, blasting a demonic beast that came charging in.

The blast sent skull and eye fragments scattering into the air as it stopped in its tracks, sliding across the bodies and debris.

(Hapi) “Thanks. Now, let’s go find Daisy, yeah?”

(VEGA) “Daisy is currently hiding in a small hole to your right.”

Doomguy nodded and motioned for Hapi to follow. Everyone else joined him.

[Life at Garreg Mach Monastery - Fire Emblem: Three Houses]

Doomguy emerged from the entrance of Garreg Mach alongside everyone else, while he held Daisy in his arms, softly petting her to calm her down.

Byleth passed by and stopped, looking at all of them.

(Byleth) “...Is...everything alright?”

They were absolutely soaked in blood and giblets, all of them standing awkwardly.

Doomguy nodded at Byleth.

(Hapi) “We’re uh, we’re fine thank you. Everything’s fine...How are you?”

(Yuri) “Hey, professor.”

(Balthus) “Pay no attention to our gut soaked rags, professor!”

(Angelica) “Yeah, don’t mind us.”

(Sharon) “Excuse us, we had a bit of a struggle down in Abyss.”

(Byleth) “I can see that.”

(Constance) “P-Please direct us to the baths, Professor Byleth.”

(Byleth) “...To your left, up the stairs.”

Everyone went towards the baths to get washed up.

...

Once everyone was finally washed up and went their separate ways, Hapi went with Doomguy to this room.

Doomguy set a small tea set down at the table and poured them a drink.

After a few minutes of silence as they ate some snacks, Hapi laid against her chair.

(Hapi) “Thanks, Teary. That hit the spot.”

Doomguy nodded as he drank the remainder of his tea.

He looked over at the cage where Daisy was resting comfortably.

(Hapi) “By the way, thanks for saving our butts there. Not that I had any doubt that you would’ve left us anyway.”

Doomguy didn’t say anything, but Hapi knew he would have said “No problem”. Or at least that’s what he gestured.

(Hapi) “...Ya know for being a person who never speaks, you’re a really nice guy.”

Doomguy tilted his head in confusion but she just chuckled.

(Hapi) “The scariest man alive serving tea and caring for a pet rabbit. I’m sure girls like me would just be swooning.”

Doomguy waved his hand dismissively.

(VEGA) “Perhaps we can get a dating site when we get back, Slayer?”

(Hayden) “As if.”

Doomguy punched the wall to signal to the both of them to shut up.

(Hapi) “I said that as a joke but now I’m pretty curious...”

Doomguy glared at her.

(Hapi) “Alright alright, forget what I said!”

She continued to chuckle as he sighed through his helmet. The two continued to sit in silence as his attention was brought over to Daisy.

Daisy was woken up by the sound but looking at Doomguy. He walked over to the cage and fed her small hay cube, which she nibbled off his hand.

Nodding in satisfaction, he went back to the table and enjoyed a quiet tea time with Hapi.

[alvaar-aldaviir]

Movement: Mesto

Time Frame: Heavensward. Spoilers accordingly.

Notes: Alvaar is far from okay, but the breakneck speed post-Vault rather suits him. So does fixating on other people’s needs over his own. Sometimes we don’t know quite what to say, but we have to do our best anyhow.

Cross posted to Ao3.

 -

In the wake of tragedy, the Warrior of Light keeps his hands busy and his steps busier still.

Sometimes the grief of others was far easier to deal with then the grief waiting buried in your own heart.

 -

Glancing over at Alphinaud, Alvaar studied him quietly a moment from under the brim of his hat.

With Y’shtola rescued from the lifestream by the Elder Seedseer and her siblings, all that was left to do was wait and see as the Miqo’te rested in her inn room with her sister tending to her.

Tataru had left some hours ago to Alvaar’s permanently reserved room at the Roost, doing some last-minute touches on whatever surprise she’d been working on. That left the Bard to stand vigil with Alphinaud as the night dragged on and the hiss of Gridania’s frequent rains murmured from the large open doorway.

The youth had stoutly refused any offer to retire himself, so Alvaar had felt little other choice but to remain with him, watching the many patrons move in and out of the establishment while he worked on another one of a never ending collection of sewing projects. This one a small plush in the shape of a pudding for the leader of his Free Company.

But as time dragged on, the Bard felt he could practically hear the guilt weighing over his companion, the soft notes of song echoing in his senses if he focused hard enough.

It wasn’t remotely surprising. He’d long figured Alphinaud still vehemently blamed himself for all that had happened to the Scions since that fateful banquet in Ul’dah. Many had been lost along the way and Ishgard had seen yet ano-

He twitched as he pricked himself on his needle, wincing and recoiling without a word of pain as he shook out his hand and studied the mark.

No, he couldn’t think about what all had been lost. There was still much to be saved and if the best that he could do right now was help this youth in whatever way he could... well. So be it.

“You know there’s quite a view off the back porch of the Roost? It overlooks one of the lakes in the Shroud,” he started, leaving the statement hanging expectantly as he stared at the snowy haired Elezen.

Blinking out of his reverie, Alphinaud gave him a flat look. “It’s black as pitch outside and a rainstorm to boot. I hardly think there’d be much of a view.”

Point.

“Humor me anyway, some air would do us both good.” Rising to his feet he stared at the Arcanist pointedly when he still didn’t budge. “Or would you prefer I take up my harp?”

Why that always had Alphinaud scurrying to comply he wasn’t certain, but it felt like a double edged insult.

-

Dragging in a slow breath of evening crisp air, Alvaar took a moment to enjoy it. Leaning against the banister he tilted his head to watch Alphinaud steadily follow and stare out into the dark morosely.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Alvaar asked softly.

Even in the dim light cast off from the building he could see the Arcanist tense. “What needs be discussed?” he asked in turn, tone carefully neutral. Unwilling to bring things up himself.

Studying him for a few more moments Alvaar finally looked away. He knew somewhere he had words, good ones. Ones he’d learned from several people now lost but the wisdom stayed with him still. Words that might help to drag him back from this guilt spiraled depression Alphinaud had been in. But anytime he tried to summon them up he was never certain how to say them, feeling them ring hollow on his tongue and heavier in his heart.

And this time he didn’t have Haurchefant to rely on as he had in Dragonhead...

His heart ached painfully, and he pushed through it stoically anyway. Not now. Not when the weight of his grief would overtake him if he let it and drown him in it. His strength was still needed by those he protected.

Alvaar had long been uncertain how to help his friend, worried about stepping on the youths pride or coming off wrong. Never knowing how the Warrior of Light should reply when a matter needed more than just a ‘yes let me go do the deadly and dangerous things now.’

And watching the weight of a world gone to hell pile up on slight shoulders, soaked in the bitter acid of loss and guilt and grief so like his own...

And here he was, a Bard without words. Unable to craft a song to aid his comrade in the worst battle of his life.

So much for being a hero of lore and legend...

It was the Coils of Bahamut all over again. Heart heavy and trying to find a way to reach out and offer support but unable to find the right way to say it.

So he said nothing and pulled Alphinaud to him instead. Held him as tight as he could and ignored the way the Arcanist struggled a moment for balance despite being held rocksteady against a tall but sturdy frame.

“It’s not your fault.” They weren’t the words he’d been looking for, but they were true all the same. Not nearly as robust or poetic but that was fine. It would have to suffice for them both.

“Alvaar what on Eorzea are you doing I’m fine,” Alphinaud hissed even as he froze, certainly red to his ear tips in embarrassment but the light too dim to see.

“None of it was your fault,” he whispered, deaf to or just ignoring his friend’s protests. Instead he just bowed his head and stayed still. A poor replication of what his mentor had done for him in his youth but it would still just have to be enough.

“I... Alvaar now isn’t the time for th-”

“It’s not your fault,” he repeated again, tone a bit firmer and hold a bit tighter as he felt the faint tremor in the Arcanist’s shoulders. And that was a feeling he knew. The feeling of pride and anger and sadness at everything and trying so hard to keep it together so you wouldn’t be viewed as weak. There wasn’t ever any time to be weak in a world this cruel...

“You’ve still got me. Whatever happens. Me and Tataru and Urianger... But Y’shtola will wake up and she’ll be fine, and she’ll tell you the same. It wasn’t your fault Alphinaud and no one will ever blame you for what happened. It’s going to be okay.”

“Al-” the words cut off with a choked noise, making Alvaar’s ears twitch and his heart went out to the Arcanist at that raw note of pain he knew like an old friend. The beast that now shadowed his step and once this was over, once this battle and his revenge were taken it would be his turn to face it too…

“It’s okay. I’ve got you,” he whispered. And he didn’t have any further words after that but it would have to do as he stood silent vigil, listening to the rain and doing his best to seem like he didn’t notice the soft tremors and sobs as his resolute charge finally fell apart.

[seenashwrite]

12 Days

Status: Complete Word Count: 4.7K Category: One-shot; Humor; Holidays; Christmas; Behind-the-scenes canon-compliant; Fluffersnark Rating: Teen & Up Character(s): Dean, Sam, Cas, You, special guest stars Warnings: None Author’s Note(s): Merry Christmas ya filthy animals; let’s use some tropes for good not evil; don’t sweat the word count, a good chunk of it is listing things (you’ll see); more post-story Overall Summary: It’s twelve days until Christmas, business is slow, but boredom has been chased away by the arrival of some very special gifts for two very deserving hunters.

1.

It started on the thirteenth, which - as all supernaturally-inclined people know - is a harbinger of doom. But Dean didn't see it that way, at least, not at first. Neither his hackles nor his suspicions were raised, and why would they be?

Sam pointed out that they should be, given the lack of postage or a “from” on the fancy tag attached to the fancy box with the fancy bow.

Here was the thing, though: pie.

The smell was heavenly; well, as heaven ought to smell, as far as Dean was concerned. And it should taste of whiskey. And it should sound of classic rock and classic engines. And it should feel of broken-in leather seats - hell, even just broken-in flannel. Anyone who knew Dean would presume such, and they would be correct.

And there, now, atop a library table, was a little piece of heaven. The tag had a "1" drawn on it in ornate calligraphy, a TO DEAN just under, and when opened, a charming drawing of the best of desserts, more fanciful handwriting proclaiming: A Fresh Homemade Apple Pie.

"Whoa," said Dean.

"Hmmm," said Sam.

It was beautiful, it was exquisite, it was delicious, and Dean ate it straight from the box, demolished it, nothing but crumbs in just under an hour.

"You don't think this is a bit weird?" Sam asked, watching as his brother leaned back with a contented sigh.

Dean brought his eyes to Sam's, then rolled them. "Our life is weird. Anyway, I know exactly who this is from - it's about trying to make up for that fight we had last week."

"Hmmm," said Sam.

Again.

2.

The next day, there were two boxes - the first was identical to the the prior day's, from packaging to content. The second was wrapped in kind, only bigger, the tag sporting "2", and featuring a tiny inking of brightly-colored shirts, though this time the tag read TO DEAN & SAM. Inside were plaid flannel button-downs, one for each of them, perfectly sized, in exactly the colors they would have chosen.

Dean was pleased, goaded Sam into trying his on; he begrudgingly admitted it was nice. But he had a question, so he asked it.

"I don’t get it - why? I mean, including me, if this is about your fight?"

Dean shrugged. "Got me. Who cares? I'm up for getting my ass kissed six ways to Sunday - if she wants to run The Twelve Days of Christmas gambit, she can knock herself out."

"Technically, the twelve days should start after----"

Dean interrupted as he picked up the box with the pie. "Before, after - I can handle twelve days of this whenever. So? You in this time?"

3.

Outside the bunker door on this day were three boxes: first, pie; the next, shirts; and the newest elicited a gasp from its recipient. TO DEAN, read the tag, Three Rocking Tapes. And there, just as the little drawing had shown, were three mix tapes full of his favorite songs, and his favorite songs only, no filler, no B-sides. He would soon find that one of the tapes was strictly live recordings, and the tunes were as crisp as if time had been rolled back briefly so as to capture the melodies in HD, sounding as if he were right there in the front row.

Dean put on his new flannel, stuffed his pants pockets with the tapes, snatched up the pie, and scurried to his room without another word. Or a fork. Or a napkin.

Sam sighed, and then he put away the shirts.

4.

Brought into the library were four packages - one pie, two shirts, three tapes, and now a box which held tiny bottles of top-shelf liquor. Four Shots Of Whiskey declared the tag, and Sam would swear that Dean erupted in what one could’ve interpreted as a squeal. A very manly one, naturally. 

It tasted wonderful, according to Dean, and he thought to offer Sam the fourth after pounding the first three. Sam tried it, happened to agree, and he drank his shot as Dean hacked into the latest pie.

An odd look crossed his face.

“What?” asked Sam.

Dean shook himself out of it. “Nothing. She tweaked the recipe, I guess.”

Sam nodded, set his empty bottle with the rest, but before he began to gather the shirts, he asked another question:

“Didn’t she always say she hated to cook?”

5.

Dean was singing under his breath as he tied his robe a little tighter, then opened the door. “It’s the most wonderful time of the---- Whoa!”

He’d yelled so loudly that Sam came rushing out of the kitchen and up the stairs. “What is it? What’s wr---- Wow.”

The morning had brought with it one pie, two shirts, three tapes, four whiskeys, and there, on a very large, very heavy box, a tag reading TO SAM.

As he flipped the tag open, he said, “I think she’s doing it wrong, I don’t think each gift is supposed to be repeated every----” Sam cut himself off with a massive intake of air once he saw it:

FIVE BOOKS OF LORE!

They were old, slightly yellowed, smelled ancient, and Dean wrinkled his nose, but Sam inhaled deeply, and his eyes sparkled as he laid each of the books out on the table almost reverently.

“These…. are…. AMAZING.” He looked to Dean, excited. “They’re really rare, I’ve been looking for a couple of these for forever!” A pause. “Something wrong with the shirts?”

Dean had opened the package, and was staring into it with a perplexed expression; he held up a sleeve for Sam to see.

“This look pink to you?”

6.

A hunt had taken the duo away from the bunker overnight, and on the front steps the evening of the sixth day, waiting for them to return, were: one pie, two shirts, three tapes, four whiskeys, five books, and six bags of salt.

“That woulda been useful last night,” Dean muttered.

“It was a big body,” Sam commented.

“He was a whale!” Dean snapped.

Sam frowned. “Why don’t you eat some pie and calm down.”

Dean grumbled something unintelligible.

“Huh?” Sam asked.

Dean didn’t answer, but did continue to grumble as they brought the salt bags - and the rest - inside.

“Will you please just tell me what’s wrong?” Sam tried again.

Dean sighed, and said, “Yesterday’s pie was… off.”

“Define ‘off’,” said Sam.

“It was really… I dunno, sour, or something.”

“Maybe it was a different kind of apple.”

“Maybe.”

“Well, now you’ll be used to it, if it’s in today’s.”

“You assume I’m gonna try today’s.”

Sam gave Dean a look.

Dean returned it in kind - then he shrugged, picked up the pie, turned to go to his room, thought better of it, turned around, and grabbed the whiskey, too.

7.

A suspect stomach prevented Dean from seeing the newest batch of presents until Sam had brought most of it down into the war room, the flush of a toilet echoing down the hallway heralding his arrival, and he stood by the stairs, watching as the job was completed.

“Nice of you to join the party,” Sam said with a grunt, depositing the last box onto the map table.

Dean studied his sweaty brother. “Why’re you so-----”

“Because, look,” Sam said, pointing.

The bags of salt had increased in size, tripling, in fact, from the few modest pounds the day prior; even for Sam, it was quite the haul. That made: six bags of salt, five books of lore, four whiskey shots, three rocking tapes, two flannel shirts, and a fresh homemade apple pie.

“Fresh, my ass!” Dean practically screamed at the package. But then his attention went to the newest arrival. “You or me?” he asked.

“You do it,” Sam replied, flopping into a chair, hair flopping out of his eyes as he did so.

Dean looked at the tag and grinned. “Ah-ha. Lucky you. Hopefully this time it’s something we can both----” Scanning further, he cut himself off, raised his eyebrows. “Welp. At least there’s the whiskey.” He gestured to the box as he took his own seat. “All yours.”

TO SAM ~ Seven Healthy Smoothies

As Sam removed the ornate wrapping and began to open the box, he jostled it, and his eyes met Dean’s briefly at the sound of clinking glass. He began removing the smoothies and setting them in a line. All seven were cool to the touch, all in crystal goblets, all piled high and with a dusting of peppermint flakes on top, all ready-to-drink due to the thoughtfully-included straws.

And all were an interesting shade of slightly neon green.

“It’s… festive,” Sam finally said, after several beats of silence.

“So? You gonna try it?” Dean asked, caution in his voice, a hand reflexively coming up to rub his belly.

“I dunno - you really think the pie made you sick? The pie itself - not the fact that you’ve been killing off a whole one every day for a week now?” Sam asked pointedly.

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “Then try it.”

“All right,” Sam replied, and picked one up, brought it to his nose for a sniff and, apparently satisfied that it wasn’t toxic in that regard, took a tiny sip. He grinned. He sipped more. He grinned more. And then he removed the straw and began to gulp it down. When he lowered the glass and his line of sight was clear, he found Dean eyeing him.

“Really?” Dean asked.

“It’s great!” Sam exclaimed, picking up another. “I gotta ask her for the recipe! Hey, have you talked to her at all? To say you’re sorry?”

“I’m not sorry,” Dean replied, smug, and stood - pausing briefly as his gut let out a horrific moan - then took the box with the tapes and retreated to his room.

Sam huffed, and shouted after him. “You’re not gonna help me with all this salt?!”

8.

“You need to call her.”

Dean and Sam were standing near a bookshelf, watching the box, both jumping in sync, startled when the shaking started up again.

“No.”

“Then go open it.”

“You open it.”

“Yesterday’s was for me, this one is probably----”

“It may be for both of us----”

“I can see your name on the tag from here!”

Rock, paper, scissors ensued.

Dean lost.

He flicked open his pocket knife as he walked to the table. The box suddenly went still when he gingerly raised the tag with the tip of the knife. “I can’t read what it says,” he told Sam.

“You could if you actually opened it!” Sam replied, growing annoyed.

“Fine, I’ll open it!” Dean declared, and used the knife to draw a large slit through the paper, enough to where he could get the flaps of the box open.

“I meant the tag--- oh, never mind,” said Sam.

Dean stood there staring down into box for so long that Sam finally walked over - and he found himself staring, as well, once he came to a stop by Dean.

The contents of the box were glowing.

Along with the seven healthy smoothies, six bags of salt, five books of lore, four whiskey shots, three rocking tapes, two flannel shirts, and a fresh homemade apple pie, it appeared the Winchesters were now the owners of eight canning jars, based upon the two rows of four metal caps, jars with minuscule holes pierced into the lids, jars whose contents pulsed gently with a warm amber light.

Rock, paper, scissors ensued.

Sam lost.

Dean backed away.

Sam reached in, removed a jar, snickered, then turned to show Dean that there, trapped inside the glass, was a fast-chirping, hard-glowing, wings-vibrating, bird-shooting, larger-than-usual-size, very pissed-off little lady.

Dean’s eyes grew wide. “But why?” he whispered.

Sam read the tag aloud. “TO DEAN - Eight Angry Fairies.” Then he burst into laughter.

“Sure, real funny!” Dean said with a sneer. “This is a total bitch move, even for her!”

Sam laughed harder. “We only have one microwave - you gonna go for the oven this time? What do you think, about three-fifty for a half-hour should do it, huh?” He set down the jar, still chuckling as he moved to the box containing his smoothies, took one out.

“You still have some in the fridge!” said Dean, coming back to the table, but hesitating briefly when the fairy threw herself against the inside of the jar, rocking it and causing a puff of sugarplum-scented glitter to waft into the air. He quickly picked it up by the lid - using his fingertips only - and deposited her back with her friends, closing the flaps for good measure.

Sam continued unpacking, said, “I know, but I wanted to see if she’d done anything new to these.” He took a sip, closed his eyes, the corners of his mouth turning up as it slipped down his throat.

“And?”

“They still taste great. Better, even. How’s the pie been?”

“Didn’t finish yesterday’s, it was mushy.”

“Mushy?”

“Yeah, mushy!” Dean exclaimed. “Why do you care?”

“Jeez, Dean! I’m just making conversation!”

“And the tapes suck, too, before you ask!”

“What are you talking about?”

“The first day they were great, and the second day, and then all of a sudden hair band rock started sneaking in----”

“You like----”

“NO, not ALL of it, and then there was grunge----”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh, and you know what was on the last one? Right in the middle of ‘Black Betty’? Friggin’ Bieber!”

Sam went back to laughing. “This is too good, you get what she’s doing, right? She’s telling you she’s not sorry, either!” 

Dean began to sulk, and Sam went back to drinking the smoothie, both still doing so when Castiel came into the room.

After a brief frown at the pile of salt bags - once more having increased in poundage since the last batch - he asked about all the packages. They explained. The frown returned.

“So you haven’t been helping her in any way, at all?” Dean asked.

“No,” replied Castiel, picking up a fairy jar and studying it. “I wager someone is, however, based upon the books Sam is receiving, and based upon these specimens - they’re quite reclusive and quite aggressive, that she managed to locate eight is… impressive.” He returned the jar to the box and turned to Sam. “Have the books continued to be rare tomes?”

Sam swallowed the most recent mouthful of his lime-hued treat, and answered, “In a way - they’ve all been different, and nothing we already have, but…. it’s just….”

Dean and Castiel raised their eyebrows, prompting him.

“Well, a few have been about cryptids, some about urban legend type stuff, things that she knows aren’t true. Maybe it’s some filler, since she’s having to come up with so many of them, or something.”

“And today’s?” asked Castiel.

“Open it up and see, if you want,” answered Sam, and Castiel did so.

“These are hardback copies of first-edition Chuck Shurley stories,” he said.

Sam just barely managed to avoid a spit-take. “This is great!” he choked out.

“Laugh it up, ass,” Dean shot back, and tore into the box with the shirts. He groaned. He yanked them out, threw them on the table, greeted with more of the same ol’, same ol’. Sort-of. Their sizes, yes; flannel, yes; pleasant-colored-plaid, no. They were patterned in pastel flowers.

A thought striking, he ran to his room, came back with a boombox, tested out the tapes. They were indeed classic rock. The elevator music version. Dean was fuming. The box of whiskey still held liquor, and it was still whiskey, though just a taste told him it was no longer top-shelf; not swill, but definitely well.

And then there was the pie.

Once the seal was broken, the smell was an assault, something sharp and pungent, all three men muttering “ugh” and “oof” and “ew”, and when Dean set it on the table, it made a belching sound, the slightly burnt crust sinking down, a thick grey ooze seeping out and over the edge of the dish.

“Man, she’s really nailing you, Dean!” Sam cried, laughing so hard this time that tears came to his eyes, and he had to sit down, Dean’s glare doing nothing to stop him, and when he settled, he was finishing off the last of his drink when Castiel directed a question his way.

“Why are you consuming pureed elf?”

9.

“This doesn’t make sense,” said Sam.

He held up one of the shoes. A left shoe, because they were all lefts. He had been gifted, according to the tag, Nine Missing Shoes.

Dean ran a hand over his face. “They’re not actively trying to kill us. Can we not look a gift horse, here?”

Sam tossed the shoe back into the box. “Let’s get started.”

Castiel had advised the fairies be kept in the dungeon - in their tightly sealed jars, of course - until he could determine what best to do with them. Dean and Sam, meanwhile, had a plan for the rest. Seven smoothies, flushed away. Six salt bags, piled in storage (after all, it would eventually get used). Five books, after being screened for usefulness, taken to recycling. Four whiskeys, after being tasted for quality, down the drain. Three tapes, after being checked for listen-a-bility, crushed underfoot. Flannel shirts, if not of plaid or plain flannel, donated. And as for the pie, into a trash bag it would go.

Their mission took the entire day, and after they pulled back into the garage and Dean cut the engine, he turned to Sam. “I think she’s trying to say something about bad luck.”

“With the shoes?” Sam asked.

Dean nodded. “Maybe she’s trying to say that it’s like the other stuff - nothing bad at first, but get ready, it’s coming.”

“Can you just… just get over it, and call her? I’m afraid she’s messing with some bad stuff, if she’s getting into cursed objects all because of a stupid misunderstanding---”

“I have tried, okay?! It kept going to voicemail, all last night, and when I tried earlier, it was disconnected!”

Sam blanched. “We need to do a locator spell, or get Cas to find her - she could be in real trouble, Dean.”

“She’s not in trouble, she’s being a dick,” Dean spat, and got out of the car, slamming the door behind him - and then he froze.

Sam climbed out, followed Dean’s gaze, and he was stunned - there, near the steps leading back into the bunker, was every gift they’d just disposed of, stacked and wrapped, not a bow out of place. They shared a serious look, then spoke at the same time.

“I’m getting the ingredients!” Sam announced.

“I’m getting Cas!” Dean announced.

The locator spell did not work, and the brothers, defeated, went to bed, but fell asleep with faith in their hearts, with faith in their angel friend, who was, at that very moment, out looking for the source of the mischief which had fallen upon them.

However.

They knew he was having no success when they were awoken at the same time in the middle of the night by footsteps running down the hallway. Sleepiness initially impacted aim, but a baker’s dozen of rounds later, and the shoes had been brought to a halt. The pair of gun-wielding, mussed-hair, pajama’d hunters looked upon the pile of hole-filled sneakers at their socked feet.

“Heh. Lucky thirteen,” said Dean.

Sam just looked at him.

“Thirteenth try’s the charm?” Dean suggested.

Sam rolled his eyes, shook his head, and went back to bed.

“‘This is too good, Dean!’ ‘This is great, Dean!’ ‘She’s really nailing you, Dean!’” Dean muttered in a high-pitched, mocking tone as he shuffled off to his bedroom. A squeak from behind caused him to whip around, fire a shot into the side of a shoe which had weakly tried to make a run for it. Its laces went lax.

Dean made sure to reload before his head met his pillow.

10.

A not-so-fresh homemade rotted-apple pie. Two lavender, paisley-patterned flannel shirts. Three rocking tapes filled with “Rock-A-Bye-Baby”, karaoke-style, by a singer who sounded a great deal like William Shatner. Four rancid whiskey shots. Five Hardy Boys books. Six twenty-pound sacks of salt. Seven pureed elf smoothies, with what appeared to be fingernails sprinkled on top. Eight angry fairies, whose flailing was beginning to crack the glass. Nine missing shoes, which squeaked out whines despite not making contact with the floor.

And now, ten tiny bubbling cauldrons of putrid purple, Ten Witches’ Fluids, all for Dean.

“I hate her,” Dean said.

“No, you don’t,” Sam said.

“I’m gonna kill her,” Dean said.

“No, you won’t,” Sam said.

11.

Dean crouched down, jaw dropped, putting himself on eye-level with the intricately-carved case, fixated on the row of eleven clown marionettes. He poked one in the tummy with his index finger. They all began to sway and giggle maniacally.

“Yep,” he said. “Eleven clowns-a-dancing.”

“Nope,” Sam said, and he fished his lighter from his pocket, then held it between his teeth as he began to drag one of the massive bags of salt toward the table. He managed to tear the corner of it open, spilling salt everywhere, scooping up two handfuls and stomping to the creepy diorama.

Dean shook himself out of distraction and stood in between his adrenaline-fueled brother and the newest gift. “What are you---- no, Sam, NO!”

Sam threw the salt in the direction of the snickering puppet nightmare anyway, but the lighter now resided in a tightly-clutched fist. “WHY NOT?!” he bellowed in response, his neck - his entire face - flushed.

“You wanna do a salt-and-burn inside? Are you insane?”

“SHE’S insane! Why would she do this, what have I ever done to her?!”

“Oh, because I deserve this? Because I’ve done something to her?!”

Sam was livid, and he’d be lying if he said a good portion of it wasn’t from fear. “What was the fight about?”

“Whadda you care?”

Now it was Sam’s jaw that dropped, and he wordlessly gestured to the clowns; they tittered and chanted “Sam Sam Sam Sam Sam Sam Sam Sam Sam Sam Sam!” in acknowledgment.

Dean sighed. “She got pissed because when she met up with us to help out, I said… look, she’s real independent, I get it, and I get that she’s been hunting a long time, but not as long as we have, and….”

“What. Did. You. Do,” Sam asked, voice low, teeth grit.

“I maybe said… suggested… that she hang back a little, because… well, you remember her leg? The time before last? When she wasn’t paying attention, and that rugaru shoved her into that rusty junk at the scrapyard? How nasty it was? How much she cried, I mean, I’ve never seen her cry, and...”

Sam crossed his arms, narrowed his eyes.

Dean opened and closed his mouth a few times, trying to find his next words, and when he did, they came out in a burst. “She could've gotten tetanus!”

Sam looked at Dean in disbelief. “Do you like her-like her?”

Dean gave him a look. “Are we in grade school? What the hell does----”

Sam quite possibly gasped. “You do.” Now he took a few steps in Dean’s direction, quite possibly poised to punch. “I heard you talking to her about staying safe, and giving her tips she doesn’t need, but you’re the reason she cut out early, aren’t you? You went and pulled a bunch of ‘Hey sweetheart, you’re gonna get yourself hurt, I’ll protect you’ crap, didn’t you?”

Dean’s silence was all the confirmation that was needed.

Sam shook his head, began backing away, pointing to the clowns. “Burn them!” he hissed, then continued in reverse out of the room, not turning his back on the pile of presents til he was halfway down the hall.

12.

So it was, on the twelfth day of Christmas, the exhausted and gut-churned brothers now had in their possession:

A troupe of tiny clowns who wouldn’t shut up; a now-quarantined med room because of witch fluid corroding anything in its path; shoes that screamed as they pounded against the door of the room into which they’d been thrown; a dungeon filled with escaped, definitely rabid fairies; a stopped-up sink of viscous elf; a storage room stacked with overflowing bags of salt that trickled into the hall; a kitchen table filled with bottom-barrel whiskey; a crate with un-spooled tapes that would re-spool each night; racks filled with garish flannels; and taking over the refrigerator, worm-laden apple pies.

"It's the 24th. That's it," whispered Sam.

"What could that mean for tomorrow? Since it'll officially be Christmas?" Dean whispered back.

Sam turned to him, seriousness coating his posture, his expression, his tone. "It means we should be the hell out of town."

Dean grabbed Sam by his jacket, eyes wild. "She’ll find us! It doesn't matter where we go! Cas is still out there looking for her, but he’s never gonna find her!"

“She doesn’t want to be found. And I know why. I know what I did,” Sam said.

A barely-there vroom prompted them to look warily upon the twelve glossy, innocent-seeming toys in the long, narrow box. Dean let loose of Sam, and then he snatched the tag off the box - TO DEAN ~ Twelve Classic Cars - ripped it in two, and tossed the scraps to the side. Not that it would do anything but it felt good. 

“So, what? What do you think? Will it help us get out of this mess?” he asked.

“I don’t know, because how am I supposed to apologize?” Sam asked in reply, and then he said, “I heard you being all patronizing with your hunter 101 tips, at the motel. I was right there, and I didn’t speak up. I could’ve changed the subject or pulled you aside and told you to lay off. That’s what I did - what I didn’t do.”

Dean grew solemn. “So that’s what I was being? Patronizing?”

Sam nodded. “You’d wouldn’t talk that way to me. I mean, you want me safe - I want you safe - and you sure as hell tell me when you disagree with me, but... you’d never make it seem like… like…”

“Like if you got hurt on a hunt, it’d be because you couldn’t take care of yourself.”

“Yeah. I think... I think all she needs to know is that you believe in her, and you’ve got her back.”

“And how I think she’s pretty freaking badass,” Dean added. “Because, I do.”

They stood silently for a few moments. Twelve tinny horns honked. They looked to the cars.

“Curse box?” asked Sam.

“Curse box,” confirmed Dean.

The curse box, while sturdy and appropriately chanted over, was - apparently - on holiday, as it were.

It was midnight when Sam was jolted awake by his door slamming against the wall, Dean jumping on his bed so hard it nearly rolled him onto the floor with the rebound. He immediately pulled his gun from under his pillow when he saw Dean’s shocked expression, the shotgun in his hands, aimed somewhere at the floor. Then he noted twelve pairs of headlights, heard twelve revving engines.

And eleven cackling clowns.

And nine pounding steps.

And eight flapping wings.

The clock on the bedside table flipped to 12:01.

Despite everything, Dean grinned. “Merry Christmas,” he said with a pump of the shotgun.

The grin was returned. “Merry Christmas,” replied Sam with a click of the hammer.

You leaned back, moving your legs to the side as Chuck took his seat, then passed two of the small popcorn containers he carried to you and Amara.

“Extra salt?” you asked.

“Got you covered,” he said in reply; to Amara, he said, “And there’s M&Ms, too, Sis."

“Oooooh, yes,” she responded happily.

“What’d I miss?” asked Chuck.

“Round one just started,” you answered, then ate a mouthful of the best popcorn ever created.

“Oh, I almost forgot to ask - did you want some elf poltergeists in the pipes?” Amara inquired.

You shook your head. “No, this is good. I think they learned their lesson. Besides, I’m glad they’re having some fun.” You pointed to the large movie screen at the front of the empty theater. “Look at those faces.”

“Pure bliss,” she agreed. “And I must say, you’re very creative.”

“Not really,” you said with a little laugh. “I just thought: how do I show them that even the best hunters can get wrapped up in a crazy situation? How sometimes it’s just bad luck? And that the last thing that’s helpful is to be babied about it? Plus, well, ‘tis the season of giving.”

“So do you think you’ll go for it with Dean, now that you’ve got some inside scoop?” asked Chuck.

“Ah. Well. What do you guys think I should do?”

“Can’t answer that,” Amara said.

“Free will’s the name of the game,” Chuck said.

“Fair enough,” you said.

A few moments of chewing on the parts of all parties, then:

“He’s a great kisser,” Amara offered.

“I wrote him to be fantastic in bed,” Chuck added.

You gulped, then coughed. “Good to know,” you croaked.

Chuck smiled. “Who says we don’t answer prayers?”

See Nash Write : Master  /  See Nash Write : Mobile

🏷️🏷️Wanna be tagged? Hit me up! 🏷️🏷️

Author’s Note #2: I know I took liberties with the 12 days dates, hope you don’t mind too terribly much 😉

Author’s Note #3: My trope comment means: Dean likes pie? Are you sure?! and Sam loves THE LORE?! OMG! and on and on and on, which often... often... offfften... we (and yes, I’m pointing fingers at myself, too!) beat into the ground in our stories. I thought I’d attack some of those. And granted, they attacked back.

Behold, the summoning of The Nashooligans:

  @butiaintgonnaloveem @impandagrl @waywardjoy @jalove-wecallhimdean @jame-sbarnes @just-another-busy-fangirl @amanda-teaches @fanforfanatic @salt-n-burn-em-all @idreamofhazel @cyrilconnelly @rozadolphin @theblackharrystyles @carryonmycobaltangel @ilsawasanacrobat @klaineaholic @helvonasche @ericaprice2008 @amionthetumbler @tankcupcakes @littlegreenplasticsoldier @emlostinwonderland @michellethetvaddict @theoriginalvicki @ellen-reincarnated1967 @copperseraphim  @mrswhozeewhatsis​  @crowleylovesyou  @bumbleball13  @anticipate1003  @sixtysevenandwhiskey @raspberrymama  @lastactiontricia  @babypieandwhiskey  @winchesterprincessbride   @gripmetight-raisemefromperdition   @roseblue373   @waterfeenix137   @thisismysecrethappyplace  @fandomismyspirit  @thedevilinthedetails​  @rainflowermoon

[brynne-lagaao]

(Fanfic) Set in Stone - Chapter Three

Title: Set in Stone

Pairing: Sarumi

Chapter: 3/18

Rating: M

Mirrors: AO3 | Website

Summary: Yata wasn’t sure what he was expecting when he performed a summon on his own in a fit of drunken loneliness. It definitely wasn’t some asshole demon with a bad attitude, even if that demon happened to be frustratingly hot. But breaking their contract was going to mean working together, and he wasn’t sure how much of that he could take before he snapped… one way or another.

Note: Thank you to @dropletons for being my beta and to @chromekins for helping with the magic aspect. This fic is not entirely accurate in terms of modern magic and the demon lore was basically made up to suit the story, but I tried to keep somewhat of an authentic feel, so hopefully that succeeded.

It was cloudy outside, which wasn’t unusual, and there was a mid-Spring chill in the air still. Yata threw a hoodie on over his T-shirt before they left the apartment, but Fushimi seemed more or less indifferent to the weather.

“Aren’t you cold like that?” Yata asked him as they turned off the walkway leading from the apartment complex onto the sidewalk.

“I don’t have the same body temperature as a human,” Fushimi responded blandly. He was walking with slightly hunched shoulders, hands in his pockets. It made him look even more like a regular person, which made the previous night feel even more like some kind of weird dream and not an actual thing that had happened and potentially fucked up Yata’s life. “Or a changeling, apparently.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Yata glanced around just to be sure, but nobody seemed to be paying them the slightest attention. Not that they’d be taken seriously even if someone heard… “I’m not that much different from a regular human. Just the aging thing and – ” He stopped there, abruptly unsure how much he wanted to give away.

Fushimi gave him a sidelong look. “And…?”

“Never mind.” Yata shook his head slightly. Better not to reveal all his secrets. If they had to stay together long enough, he’d find out pretty quick, but that didn’t mean there was any reason to tell him now. “I’m not that different, s’all.” He managed a bit of a smirk. “I don’t have horns or anything.”

The typical click of Fushimi’s tongue answered him. “I could fix that for you pretty easily.”

“Hah! No thanks.” Yata shook his head, smirk widening as he turned back. “Y’know, I’m not totally ignorant about this summoning business. I’m the one who summoned you, right? I know you can’t do anything to me that I don’t want.”

The expression on Fushimi’s face turned sour; Yata couldn’t help but huff out a laugh. “You don’t like losing much, do ya?”

“That’s a stupid thing to say,” Fushimi muttered back. “Nobody enjoys losing.”

Yata’s spirits were buoyed enough by the small victory that he let that one pass. “Anyway, we got a few blocks to go to get to the station. Usually I’d use my skateboard or – ” He caught himself in time, and cleared his throat instead of continuing. “Well, you’re slowing me down, but whatever.”

Fushimi raised an eyebrow at him, unimpressed. “Would you rather I followed you from the air?”

That… actually wouldn’t have been a bad idea, if it wasn’t shitty timing. “We’re in public, dumbass!” Yata reached up to scratch the back of his head, annoyed that he hadn’t thought of it sooner. “Look, if you’re still around later, I’ll find some place to cast invisibility and – wait.” He squinted at Fushimi, realizing belatedly that he really had no idea how demon magic worked. “Can you make yourself invisible?”

“No. Unfortunately.” The answer came with another almost petulant click of Fushimi’s tongue; he frowned. “If I could, I’d have done it already and not have to deal with navigating your world in the first place.”

“Right, right.” Made sense; no point doing things the hard way if you didn’t have to. “Anyway, I can do it for you later and then you can race me if you really want.” He couldn’t help a smirk at that. “I’m pretty fast, though – just sayin’.”

Almost reluctantly, the corners of Fushimi’s mouth edged up in response. There was a flicker of something like interest in his eyes. “Is that so?”

“Better believe it is!”

“Hm.” Without losing the tiny smirk, Fushimi shut his eyes, letting out a small, amused huff. “We’ll see.”

The exchange was oddly enjoyable – and the prospect of a challenge had Yata feeling fired up. “All right!” He folded one hand into a fist, raising it with enthusiasm. “Let’s get this shit done and I’ll show you!”

“So noisy,” Fushimi muttered, but it lacked most of the frustration of earlier.

They walked in silence for a bit. It was an uneasy silence – like a temporary truce had been called – but it wasn’t horribly uncomfortable. Yata wasn’t sure if it was more of a relief not to have to defend himself from constant verbal attacks or… kind of a disappointment. For all he’d been an asshole, Fushimi was strangely fascinating. Or maybe not so strangely. He was a demon, after all – that was kinda cool, and it was something Yata didn’t know a heck of a lot about. If they’d been on better terms, he might’ve asked about what that was like.

Where did Fushimi live when he wasn’t being summoned? What did he do all the time? Did he have a family? Friends? Hobbies?

Yata stole a glance sideways at the man walking next to him. He looked perfectly normal – well-structured features, yeah, but not a vision of perfection by any stretch. His clothing, posture, habits, and general appearance were all that of any regular guy. He didn’t seem phased by the apartment or city. Did that mean he lived somewhere like this? Was the place demons lived another whole plane of existence, like the fae that Homra dealt with?

Fushimi seemed to notice he was being scrutinized, because he tilted his head slightly and met Yata’s gaze. “What?”

“Huh?” Yata blinked, caught off-guard, and shifted his eyes forward instead, reaching up to rub at the back of his neck awkwardly. “Oh. Nothing. My bad.”

He could almost hear the frown in Fushimi’s response. “If you say so.”

The feeling of eyes on him made his skin prickle in a way that wasn’t… totally unpleasant. Yata made an attempt to shrug it off, letting his hand drop and deliberately increasing his pace. “S’not much farther. C’mon.”

The subway station was crowded as usual – it wasn’t too bad with it being past noon on a weekday, but rush hour would start in an hour or so, and if they weren’t quick, it might be hell coming back. At the moment, the traffic was just a steady stream, which meant there’d be more than enough standing space in the trains, but having to pack in like sardines wasn’t fun, even if he could be sure Fushimi wouldn’t do anything if he got annoyed enough.

Yata frowned, considering it. I might end up having to show him after all…

“Are we going in?” Fushimi’s voice cut into his thoughts. He’d slowed to a stop when Yata had, and was studying him with that inscrutable expression.

“Uh – yeah.” Except… tickets. Which was no problem for Yata, since he had a transit pass, but… “Shit. I forgot I’ll have to buy you a ticket.” He pulled out his wallet, checking the meager supply of cash he kept on him.

Fushimi clicked his tongue. “Don’t bother.” Before Yata could react to that, he turned, stepping into the path of a random man. “Hey. You.”

What the hell is he doing? Yata stared after him, momentarily stunned into inaction.

The man who’d just been accosted blinked, openly startled. “Uh… me?”

“That’s right.” Fushimi indicated to the paper in his hand. “Did you just buy that ticket?”

“Uh…” The man lifted the ticket and looked at it, as if needing to confirm, and then squinting dubiously at Fushimi. “Yes?”

“Good. Which way is the ticket station?”

“Oh!” The more innocuous question seemed to relieve the man, who turned with much more confidence to wave in the direction he’d come from. “Just back there – you can’t miss ’em!”

“Thanks.” Stepping around the man – who seemed happy enough to scurry off without a backward glance, Fushimi made his way back towards Yata.

“What the hell was that ab – ?” The protest died in his throat as he watched Fushimi hold his hand in front of his body, fingers curling as a small square of paper appeared from thin air within them.

“Let’s go then,” Fushimi drawled, deftly turning the paper to reveal the ticket information printed on it.

Yata gaped at him, unable to help. “You – hold up – how’d you do that?”

Fushimi’s answering look was flat. “Magic.”

“I never saw magic like that.” He was used to components – incantations – runes – channeling… Not just making things appear out of thin air. Who did that?

Well, okay, demons – but still!

Fushimi sighed, sounding long-suffering. “You’re going to be tiresome about it, huh?” He held the ticket between two fingers and slid them apart slowly. The paper dissipated between them, leaving no trace behind. “It’s illusion. The ticket isn’t really here.” He brought his fingers back together, and the ticket manifested again between them. “Demonic magic is all about fooling the senses. Starting with mine and ending with everyone else around me.”

“Really?” It sounded so simple. Yata reached out automatically towards the ticket, and felt his fingers brush the paper. It felt real. “I can touch it, though.”

“I said your senses, not just your sight.” Fushimi clicked his tongue, withdrawing his hand. “Shouldn’t we go? We’re going to look suspicious just standing around here.”

That was true – a glance around showed a few people giving them curious looks. Yata frowned back at them, and they quickly looked away. “Yeah, yeah, fine,” he gave in grudgingly, tearing his eyes from the ticket in Fushimi’s hand to pull his pass out. “Let’s go.”

There was a small line-up at the ticket gate, so Yata took the opportunity to continue his line of inquiry in an undertone. “Hey. So why’d you have to stop that guy back there?”

“I needed to see what a ticket looked like.” Fushimi’s voice was almost a mumble – barely audible over the chatter around them. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to make one, would I?”

“Huh.” That kind of brought up an alarming thought, though. “Wait, you didn’t just copy his ticket, did you? Because – ”

“Keep your voice down, will you?” Fushimi cut him off sharply. He frowned. “Of course I didn’t – I’m not an idiot. The barcode is based on a time stamp.” His tone was flat and matter-of-fact. “Once I saw what his looked like, I calculated mine based on a different time stamp.” He reached up to push his glasses higher on his nose. “It’s unlikely that anyone here will have an exact duplicate, but even if that happens, I can pretend it didn’t scan properly and change it to a different one.”

Yata stared at him, astonished. “You figured that out in your head?”

Fushimi shrugged. “It’s not that hard.”

“Seriously? It’s fucking amazing!” The grin spreading on his face was almost involuntary. Damn, this was actually cool. Fushimi was a damn genius. “All you did was glance at his ticket, and you figured that all out in like – what – thirty seconds? Not even!” It was impressive as hell; he couldn’t help the admiration flooding through him. “That’s awesome!”

For a moment, Fushimi just blinked at him, clearly taken off-guard. It was almost charming. He recovered quickly, though, clicking his tongue and turning his gaze to the side. “Don’t be so loud,” he mumbled.

“Yeah, right.” Yata shrugged that off, stepping forward again as the line advanced. He eyed the gate. “Even if it’s an illusion, it’ll still go through okay, right?”

“If I can fool a person, I should be able to fool a machine,” Fushimi responded drily.

He ended up being right about that – the ticket scanned with no problems, allowing them to pass through to the platform and then the train without incident. Yata bit back the storm of questions raging around inside his brain while they boarded and rode the subway, waiting impatiently for them to be in the open where there was less chance of being overheard.

Unfortunately, the aisle where they stood side-by-side on the train car had them facing a group of four girls who looked like they should’ve been in school at that time of day. Yata did his best not to look at them, growing increasingly uncomfortable. Every time he happened to glance down at where they were sitting, at least one of them quickly averted her eyes and the whole group giggled nervously. It was a stressful experience.

“You’re not very good with women, are you?” Fushimi commented blandly as they – finally – stepped off the train.

“Shut up,” Yata grumbled in response, trying to shrug off the tension that had collected in that cramped space. He’d never managed to figure out where that discomfort came from – it was just something to do with the way it felt when women were looking at him. Like they could see through him, in a way that men couldn’t somehow. He was old enough now to know it was irrational, and he seriously was getting better at dealing with it, but his feelings didn’t always cooperate. “What’s it to you?”

The question was ignored. “Is that why you prefer men, maybe?”

“Not so loud!” Yata glanced around furtively as they pushed through the doors leading out of the station, but it didn’t seem like their conversation had attracted any attention. Good. He wasn’t particularly ashamed of his preferences – not any more, anyway – but it pissed him off when people gave him those judgy looks. It was none of their fucking business.

Actually, it wasn’t Fushimi’s business either, but hell if he was gonna let that stupid misconception go. “I like guys because I like guys. That’s it.” Automatically, he reached up to scratch at the back of his head, letting out a frustrated breath. “Dunno if I’d be bi or something if it wasn’t for the… women thing, but that’s how it is.”

He could feel Fushimi’s eyes on him. It was unnerving, like his thoughts were being read right through his skull. The part he hadn’t admitted – and wasn’t going to admit – was that there were things he’d found he liked in bed that he wasn’t likely to get from a woman, at least not without having to bring it up in a really awkward way. Things he didn’t really feel like doing without, honestly. It made any speculation on that subject moot, more or less; he could safely consider himself exclusively gay.

That was going way too personal for a conversation with someone he barely knew and didn’t even particularly like that much. Yata hastily changed the subject, picking up his pace just enough to lead them in the right direction onto the sidewalk outside. “Anyway, you said demon magic was illusions, right? Can you put illusions on anything? Like, make things look like something else, and all?”

“More or less.” Thankfully, Fushimi picked up the new topic without any fuss. “There are rules, though. I can only make things seem like they’ve changed – or that they exist in the first place, when they don’t already.” He held up the ticket again between his index and middle finger before giving them a wriggle and brushing off the illusion as if it were dust. “I can’t make things disappear if they exist in reality. But you know…” At that he smirked a little, glancing sideways at Yata again. “The things I make are real enough. An illusionary knife will still cut.”

Yata frowned back at him, shaking off the involuntary shudder that came with the statement. “You’re creepy as hell, y’know that?”

“Demon,” Fushimi drawled in response, without losing an inch of the smirk.

“Yeah, yeah,” Yata grumbled, vaguely annoyed by the tone. “If your magic is all illusion, doesn’t that mean you could just make yourself look like a bird or something instead of going invisible when you fly?”

“I can’t use illusions on myself.” At that, the smirk did lessen, shifting toward a frown. “It’s awkward, but sometimes you can work around it. External things like clothing work, for example.”

“Huh.” The word was barely out of his mouth before an outrageous possibility entered his head. Yata turned to stare, vaguely alarmed. “Hey, wait – does that mean – those clothes you’re wearing now – ?”

Fushimi clicked his tongue. “I don’t exactly bring a wardrobe with me when I respond to a summon.”

Yata tripped over his own feet and just about fell, stumbling a few steps as he stared at Fushimi incredulously. “The hell? Doesn’t that mean you’re walking around” – He felt his cheeks flare up as outrage mounted within him, and lowered his voice, glancing around furtively for any possible eavesdroppers – “naked?”

“Would you like me to?” That smirk was edging up on Fushimi’s face again, slow and wicked. “It seemed like you were trying not to attract attention earlier, but it makes no difference to me.” His voice had shifted back to a mocking drawl, but there was an undercurrent of interest in the lazy gaze he shot Yata’s way. “By the way… that’s an awfully strong reaction for someone who can’t tell the difference. What are you imagining?”

The blurred image of a pale-skinned bare torso flashed to the front of Yata’s mind, and he nearly choked, the warmth on his face intensifying. “I-I’m not imagining anything!” Setting his mouth into a scowl to cover his embarrassment, he deliberately increased his pace to put a little space between them. “It’s weird to think about, okay? That’s all!”

“Is it?” The response was light and unaffected. “Because your emotions say otherwise.”

That was irritating enough that Yata shot him a glare over his shoulder. “Shut up, asshole,” he gritted out, before turning back deliberately. “Can’t wait to get you out of my head and out of my life already!”

Fushimi clicked his tongue again, the drawl giving way to irritation. “You’re not the only one.”

There was no point justifying that with a response. Yata distracted himself by turning his attention to his surroundings, despite having come this way often enough to more or less know the place by heart. This was part of the city’s business district, so they were surrounded by high rise buildings. The streets were wide and well-kept, crowded with cars even at this hour, and the sidewalks were mostly occupied by professionally dressed men and women. There was a feeling of cool efficiency in the way that people moved briskly about, both the steady traffic of the road and the confident pace of the pedestrians on the walkways.

At one point he’d been uncomfortable coming to this part of town, but he was more or less used to it by now. Barely anyone gave him more than a half-interested glance, too absorbed in their own business to pay attention to random punks. The attitude used to piss him off when he figured they were all looking down on him, but a certain amount of experience made it pretty clear that most people just didn’t pay attention to anyone; it wasn’t really anything personal.

Hell, sometimes it made things easier for him. He couldn’t complain.

“Here.” Yata paused at the ramp leading up to their destination so that Fushimi could cross the couple of steps worth of distance between them. The building they were in front of was sandwiched between two high-rises, which made it look a bit odd, considering that it was a fairly modest height compared to some of the others in the area. The design was sleek and symmetrical, the majority of the exterior made up of thick-paned one-sided glass. There were two thin marble planters on either side of the double doors that the ramp led up to, with neatly cut plants growing in an elegant arrangement.

As usual, it was sickeningly perfect. “Let’s go.”

The inside of the building was no less orderly than the outside, the cleanly tiled floor shining in the light that poured in through the windows from all sides. There was a large crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling that scattered tiny refractions across the room. On the wall opposite the entrance was an elevator and a listing of the floors and offices in the building – nothing particularly unusual.

Yata pressed the ‘up’ button without bothering to look, tucking his hands into his pockets and watching the elevator door idly as he waited.

“Is this really an office building?” Fushimi asked him; when Yata glanced at him, he was looking around the room, eyes lingering on the ornate light fixture above them.

“No idea.” Yata shrugged, turning away as the elevator pinged at them. “I only ever go to one place here.”

“Hm.” Fushimi didn’t appear satisfied with that answer, but he let the matter drop without comment and followed Yata onto the elevator.

Once the doors closed, Yata hit the emergency stop button, paused for a second to make sure the lighting on the numbers changed from white to red, and then hit a few of them in the sequence that Kusanagi had painstakingly drilled into his head. The panel beneath the number pad popped open and a thin keypad slid out, which he dutifully typed his personal access code onto.

There was a click, and the lighting changed from red to green. The keypad receded.

Into the following silence, Fushimi commented blandly, “’Yatagarasu’?”

Goddamn, he was good at catching things. Yata shot him a frown. “Nickname with my coven.” The reminder had his frown shifting even further into a scowl. “Dunno how this guy figured that out, but – ”

He was cut off as the elevator whirred to life, and the ground abruptly seemed to drop from beneath them as it began its rapid descent.

Even though he’d done this countless times already, it was still jarring. Yata grit his teeth, holding steady as the disorientation passed. Sometimes it felt like that pause between entering the code and the elevator starting to move was just for the building owner’s amusement value. Seriously wouldn’t put it past that guy…

Fushimi clicked his tongue; when Yata glanced at him, he looked irritated. “What is this, an amusement park attraction?”

Yata couldn't help but snort in response. “You’re telling me. I have to come here almost every day for this asshole. It’s not something you get used to.”

There was no real chance for a response, even if Fushimi would have offered it; the elevator slowed and came to a halt almost as jarringly as it had started up, sounding off an obnoxious ‘ding’ as it did. The doors slid open.

The hall they revealed was similar in elegance to the lobby above, but the decor was not as plain. The ceiling was vaulted, and both it and the walls were ornately carved with delicate lines and simple patterns, soft off-white with little traces of silver and gold. The floor was slick, polished grey, and the lighting, cool and faintly tinted with blue, seemed to reflect off of it and cause a myriad of colors to echo through the room.

Yata let out a soft ‘ch’, already a little irritated just from the sight of it. Show off. He started out from the elevator, deliberately letting his sneakers skid on the spotless floor.

At the end of the hall was a familiar set of double doors, large and black with golden handles and an elaborate knocker with the Roman numeral “four” engraved on its surface. Yata ignored the knocker, reaching for the handle without hesitance or ceremony – the guy behind the door knew they were there already, so why bother?

Behind him, Fushimi let out a strangely resigned-sounding sigh. “The fourth, huh? I thought so.”

Yata paused with his hand on the handle, turning to frown at him. “Huh?”

“Never mind.” Fushimi shook his head. “Let’s just go in.”

For a moment, Yata squinted suspiciously at him – but hell, he wasn't going to get answers by standing there arguing with this guy. “Yeah, yeah.” He pressed down on the handle and opened the door, stepping in without waiting.

“Oh?” A deeper-toned voice greeted him with mildly. The man it belonged to sat opposite the door behind a broad wooden desk, which was surprisingly bare in contrast to the overdone ornate decor on the walls and flooring. The structure of the hall extended into this room as well, but somehow the light within felt like daylight seeping through open windows. Which was stupid, considering they were underground, but there it was. Several display stands with various items – most of which were probably rare, and way more than he could afford anyway – flanked the desk. On the surface in front of the man, a half-finished puzzle was laid out.

This was Yata’s current employer, a man he knew very little about beyond his name – Munakata – and the vague nature of his underground business. Which was... something to do with providing rare and valuable components for some of the more extensive spells Kusanagi cast on the Homra bar to keep their doings under wraps. Whatever. As long as Kusanagi vouched for him, Yata was fine with it too. And since he was getting paid well enough, the rest wasn’t too important.

The smile offered up in response to his entry held the usual annoying mix of knowing and amused. “How unusual that you would return today, Yatagarasu-kun.” Munakata rested his elbows on the desk, creating a bridge with his hands and somehow managing to avoid brushing aside the tiny puzzle pieces with his heavy, ceremonial black robes. “I seem to recall being informed that your intent was to have the day ‘off’.”

“Yeah, well, shit happened.” Yata scowled at him in response, even more irritated than usual by the formal speech. “And quit calling me that! It’s not my real name, goddamnit!”

“My apologies.” There wasn’t a trace of real apology in the statement. “I admit to being quite charmed by the fitting nature of the nickname. But that aside...” His gaze shifted away from Yata. “You appear to have gained a most interesting companion.”

“What ‘gain’?” Yata muttered, glancing back.

Fushimi clicked his tongue, cutting off any further complaint. His was looking past Yata to where Munakata sat, gaze wary. “What are you doing here, Captain?”

“Eh?” For a moment, Yata was too stunned to do more than look back and forth between them, caught completely off-guard. “Wait – what do you – ?”

Munakata leaned back in his seat, leaving his fingers interlaced in front of him. “This is merely a side venture, Fushimi-kun,” he responded, without acknowledging Yata's stuttered attempts at questioning them. “Please rest assured that I have no intention of neglecting my more pressing duties.”

Fushimi frowned at him. “And what do you call giving out a collection of our summoning circles to a civilian?”

“Yata-kun is a most competent witch – not to mention an exceptionally strong being.” Munakata's gaze flickered very briefly to Yata, and his smile widened marginally. “I had every confidence that he would not misuse such a gift.”

That earned another click of Fushimi’s tongue. “Your confidence is misplaced, then. This guy performed a summoning while drunk, and didn’t bother to include a timeframe.”

“Is that so?” Munakata leaned forward again, keen interest lighting in his gaze. “And you responded even so.” He tilted his head. “How very unlike you, Fushimi-kun.”

Fushimi caught his breath sharply; when Yata looked over at him, he caught only a brief glimpse of those blue-grey eyes widening before their owner was turning his gaze aside, scowling. “You didn’t have to say that much...”

“What’s that s’posed to mean?” Yata demanded – and then abruptly remembered there were more pressing questions. “And – wait – how the hell do you guys know each other? What are you even talking about, anyway?”

“Haven’t you guessed yet?” Fushimi muttered, sounding out of sorts. “This guy is my boss.”

“Huh?” Yata gaped at him for a moment, then spun around again. “Wait, wait, wait…” He thrust a finger in front of him, pointing directly at Munakata. “You’re telling me this guy’s a fucking demon? Like, a demon lord, even?”

“Lord of the fourth region of hell’s influence.” Fushimi's tone was drawling, almost bored. “Not that it means as much as you'd think.” He looked up again to fix Munakata with a steady gaze, pushing his glasses up on his nose. “But he does have jurisdiction over any contracts formed in my sector.”

The word ‘contracts’ somehow managed to snap him out of his shock. Yata lowered his finger, directing his own glare at Munakata, who smiled pleasantly in return. “So you’re the guy who can get us out of this.” He narrowed his eyes. “You’re the fucker who got me into this, so you’d better fix it!”

“A most unjust accusation, Yata-kun.” Munakata seemed unbothered by the attention. “I merely gifted you with the book – there was no coercion on my part regarding how you chose to make use of it.” He tipped his head towards his interlaced fingers, glasses catching the light in a way that made them seem to glitter. “However, if you are in need of my assistance, I can certainly provide it – in exchange for an appropriate price, of course.”

This fucking guy... Yata’s hands curled into fists at his side, scowl deepening. “‘Appropriate price’, my ass, you – !”

“What price?” Fushimi cut him off, voice sharp and dripping with suspicion.

Munakata made a small noise of approval. “How practical of you to ask, Fushimi-kun.” He finally unclasped his hands, reaching down to open one of the drawers of his desk. “As it happens, I do have a task that will suitably employee both of your unique talents.” When he straightened again, the hand he extended toward them held two small stones.

They looked like ordinary stones, Yata noted, squinting suspiciously at them. Both were small and oval-shaped with smooth surfaces. One was orange and crystaline, with sharp angles and tiny specs of contrasting shades within, like ashes rising from a flame. The other was soft blue with splintering white highlights, looking as though a blizzard had been frozen and contained within.

“Sunstone and moonstone,” Munakata identified them without being asked. “In reality, two different offshoots of a mineral known as feldspar. Their potency for use in magic is almost entirely dependent on the amount and quality of sunlight or moonlight they have absorbed.” He paused very briefly, and then added, “At present, that potency rests at zero.”

“So? You want us to charge ’em?” That didn't sound difficult. Yata frowned in response. “Gotta be more to it than that...”

“Most perceptive of you, Yata-kun.” Munakata set the stones delicately on his desk in front of the half-finished puzzle. “In point of fact, an ordinary charge would not be sufficient for the purpose I intend to turn these to.”

Fushimi let out a short sigh. “Is it necessary to be so cryptic?”

“My apologies. The intended purpose need not concern you.” Munakata leaned back in his seat, this time crossing his legs and clasping his hands in front of him. “Yata-kun, your aspect is the sun – and Fushimi-kun’s, the moon. That makes the two of you ideal for this... unusual venture.” Without waiting for comments or questions, he went on. “In this instance, I need to have the moonstone charged with sunlight and the sunstone charged with moonlight.” He studied them both intently. “Further, the charges need to be exceptionally strong – and completed within a lunar cycle of one another.”

“Huh?” Yata blurted, even as he heard Fushimi’s flat, “What,” from beside him. He stared at his employer, flabbergasted.

To charge the stones in the opposite element... What the hell’s the point? Also, because of the incompatibility, it was going to be hard to get a decent charge – much less an ‘exceptionally strong’ one. And how were those charges going to last long enough to be of any goddamn use? The stones wouldn’t hold them for all that long.

In short, none of it made any damn sense at all.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Fushimi echoed his thought out loud, an edge of thinly contained impatience in his voice. He frowned suspiciously at Munakata. “What are you up to, Captain?”

Munakata returned the frown with an untroubled smile. “Have faith, Fushimi-kun – my actions will surely line up with the logical order in time, as always.” He glanced at Yata, and made a small, self-satisfied hum. “It would be wise if Yata-kun were to take charge of the moonstone and you the sunstone, for now. I can sense the presence of twelve points in the city ideal for the collection of either moonlight or sunlight – if you can endeavor to locate each one and determine its properties, I have confidence in your ability to collect a full charge in each stone before long.” His gaze lingered almost uncomfortably. “Yata-kun has an uncanny knack for determining precisely when exposure would hinder rather than help; I suggest you make use of that.”

The unexpected compliment brought an odd blend of disgruntled acknowledgement and reluctant pride; Yata stared back at him, nonplussed and not sure how to respond. “Yeah, right,” he muttered, reaching up to scratch at the back of his head awkwardly.

Instinct, again – he’d always been good at finding just the right quantity and quality of what he needed, without bothering with measurements or anything. Kusanagi had gotten him to charge things in the past, though Yata more often made use of that talent in the kitchen where he did most of his casting.

It was something that rarely failed him – except when it came to his love life. And demon summoning circles, apparently.

The reminder fired up his determination. Yata reached out and snatched the blue stone from the table, letting out a frustrated ‘ch’ as he did. “Whatever. I’ll do what it takes to get this asshole out of my goddamn life. The sooner the better!”

Fushimi clicked his tongue as well, extending his hand to pluck the orange stone with far less enthusiasm. “What a troublesome job.”

Munakata chucked. “I have every confidence in you both.”

That wasn’t even worth answering. Yata snorted, pocketing his stone and turning to head for the door. “This doesn't change the fact that I’m off today,” he said irritably, reaching for the handle. “I’m not doing any deliveries until tomorrow.”

“Of course.” Munakata's response was perfectly calm and even. “I had no intention of allowing these... unusual circumstances... to interfere with our regular business arrangement.”

Naturally he wouldn't. Yata huffed a frustrated breath, swinging the door open with force and stalking through it, leaving Fushimi to close it behind them.

“Take care,” Munakata's voice followed them, and then the door shut firmly, cutting off any remaining connection.

[frenchy-and-the-sea]

Demi-Canon Series: Part 1

Welcome to another round of ‘Frenchy is sick of looking at this and needs to get it off of her Drive account’. Consider this the first of a small group of pieces under the same banner of “demi-canon”: things that had the potential of happening in the actual canon of Seven Cities lore, but may or may not actually play out this way.

Also, cause I really liked the dumb play on words.

4027 words, set pre-Seven Cities, before Alex and Tahir are really anything like friends. Menstruation very heavily implied/featured so a warning to those who need it.

If Alex had been given longer than two hours to ready herself for eight months at sea, she might have been prepared for this.

As it was, she had done rather well on her own. The forging of her own examination papers, the hurried sewing of extra padding into the crotch of her trousers, the only slightly illegal procuring of excess of wads of fabric and a thoroughly-cleaned sponge – all of it had worked long before Tahir had become privy to her situation and added an extra set of eyes on her back. For all of the hurrying she had done, Alex still considered it a rather brilliant ploy of playing the average pressed sailor.

Except that she hadn’t had the time to plan for pain.

It was a rare thing, but once every couple of months, Alex would wake with the telltale throb low in her gut, and crawl down into the first dark space that she could find to wait it out. On the street, that had been as simple as finding a dry, quiet piece of ground out of sight of the city guard; on a ship, there was neither a dry nor quiet piece of ground to be had, and her absence was always too easily noticed by the bosun’s wandering eyes.

And this morning, it felt remarkably like someone had a grip on her insides, and was determined to squeeze the life out of each one in turn.

She tucked herself further into the shade of the ship’s bulwark, forehead pressed against her knees, an emergency flask of water cradled hot and empty in her lap. A few minutes ago, she had pressed it to her lips, desperate to out coax another few drops. In a few more, she would try again. She had passed the last hour the same way, miserable and thirsty and lying to herself, and she certainly didn’t intend to break that cycle. Baseless routine was better than sitting around waiting for the pain to stop. She was fool enough to believe that, at least.

A shadow crossed over her as she reached for the flask again, blocking out the sun in a great stomping of boots that stopped inches away from her bare toes. Alex felt her lips draw into a scowl. Only a handful of men on board wore boots on deck, after all, and while she wouldn’t dare to sneer at an officer, none of them would stop to give her more than a passing glance.

Tahir was another matter entirely.

“Mr. Sheffield!” His voice boomed somewhere overhead, low and laughing. “Slacking off again, I see.”

Alex pulled her head from her knees and glared up against the halo of bright sun around him.

“Sick,” she croaked out. That, so far, had been enough to scatter anyone who had done more than step over her outstretched legs on their way to the quarterdeck. Sympathy, like dry, quiet spaces, was hard to find on a ship.

But Tahir didn’t recoil, or shrug and wander off like the rest; through her half-open eyes, Alex watched him look her over in one slow pan, lingering just a bit too long on the position of her hands low over her stomach to be casual.

Then his shadow moved away, and she felt two wide hands wrap full around her arms and yank her suddenly to her feet.

She yelped and latched onto his wrists, scrambling to find her balance as the deck disappeared below her. Tahir’s hands held steady onto her arms despite the clawing she was doing though, and managed to keep her upright until her feet found the hot wood underneath them again. He let go as soon as she staggered away, then clapped a good-natured hand onto her shoulder.

“Aye, you and the rest of us too,” he said with a wide grin. “But you don’t see anyone else hanging off the rail all day, do you?”

Alex shrugged him away with a grunt and stooped to grab her flask from where it had fallen, tentatively rolling her shoulder. Tahir’s exuberance usually left it tingling and numb; today, he had exercised a remarkable amount of restraint, one that didn’t match his casual attitude about putting her back to work when she was so clearly miserable. The man was hopelessly oblivious on even his best days, but this seemed almost performatively so.

Which meant he was up to something.

Another knot of pain squeezed suddenly low in her gut and Alex grimaced, bracing herself on Tahir’s arm. When it passed, she looked up and caught him watching out of the corner of his eye.

“I doubt you’ve got much sickness left in you, seeing as you’ve been here an hour or so,” he went on, quieter this time. His eyes darted away, back towards the quarterdeck. “Might wanna come help me so you don't have the bosun chasing your heels.”

Alex snorted and pushed herself away from him. For all the casual tone, Tahir’s voice carried a weight that she couldn’t quite place, an earnest bidding that was so unlike him that she almost asked him what he was scheming outright since he was doing such a miserable job of hiding it anyway.

His hand fell across the span of her shoulder before she could decide though, and began easing her towards the lower decks. She scowled and shrugged him off again, but let herself be led, too curious and too miserable to do much more than grumble.

They climbed down into the gun deck, then down again, twice more. Tahir made idle chatter about what work needed doing while she stumbled wordlessly after him, filling the silence with talk of the inventorying the hold until they passed into the lowest deck of guns and out of earshot of most of the crew. Then he fell suddenly quiet, and she felt his hand tap lightly on the back of her arm as he gestured to the floor. Peering into the gloom, she could make out the faint outline of a hatch that led down again, this time into one of the ammunition magazines. It was already propped open, waiting.

Alex yanked herself away from Tahir’s side.

“What’re we going there for?” she asked, her voice firm despite the shaking in her knees. She had only been into one of the ship’s arsenals a few times - the gun crews had a particular dislike for her, and tended to ensure she was nowhere near them or their work - but she knew enough what the tight, dark space looked like; how well it hid the things that wanted to stay hidden.

Tahir stepped away like he already expected her unease and offered a pacifying gesture.

“Easy,” he said, with a small grin she thought would have been reassuring if not for her heart pounding on her ribs. “We’re just reorganizing. Powder boys’ve made a mess of things down there, you know.”

His voice had that weight again too, the same bidding and earnest that made it sound rather like he was trying very hard to get her to trust him. She suddenly realized that she knew the tone, recognized it with a familiar wrenching in her gut that had absolutely nothing to do with her monthly bleeding. A dark, isolated part of the ship, in close quarters with a man twice her size and strength - on anyone else, that tone was warning.

But she had also seen Tahir cheerfully threaten to put another man through a table for harassing a barmaid one too many times to think him capable of anything quite so sinister. She steadied herself with a breath and swallowed the thumping knot of her heart in her throat.

“Right,” she said after a moment, waving him forward. “Go on, then.” She still tugged at the knot of her rigging knife when he turned away though, just to be sure it was there, before following him down. There was always some small comfort in knowing that she was capable of drawing blood if she needed to.

A dim lamp was already burning overhead when they dropped down into the hold, the negligence of some boy hurrying along and forgetting how little powder it would take to blow out their hull. Tahir grunted as he crossed to it.

“You’d think they’d know better,” she heard him mutter as he started coaxing the flame back to life. “Scurrying around cannonfire like they do. That’d be just our luck; lamp gets knocked off its ring and suddenly the whole damn ship’s on fire. All cause some brat’s got the notion that it’s too much work to douse a light. Little shit would probably complain about space on the longboats too...”

Alex grunted, half in amusement and half with the effort it took to wedge her shoulder against an overturned shot barrel on the opposite side of the room. She managed to get it mostly upright again before she caught Tahir staring at her from across the room, snickering quietly into his shirt collar. She frowned, pausing with the barrel leaned hard against her shoulder.

“What?”

He said nothing, just stifled another round of faint snickering. Alex’s frown suddenly became a scowl, and a knot of anger coiled thickly in her chest. Grunting, she shoved away from the barrel and it collapsed flat onto its side with a deep, shuddering crash.

“So do you intend on standing there giggling like a whore with empty pockets, or will you actually be helping me?” she sneered, gesturing toward the barrels that had been dragged away from their places in the stocks along the wall. Tahir’s laugh pitched up slightly before he smothered it back down again.

“Helping you do what, exactly?” he asked, grinning. Alex raised an eyebrow.

“Reorganize,” she said slowly, drawing out the word as if explaining it to a child. And then, with an accusatory jab of her finger, “That’s what you said we were here to do!”

Tahir’s grin widened. “And you believed that, did you?”

Alex’s heart leapt into her throat as he ducked underneath the lamp swinging overhead. Her fingers snapped reflexively over the grip of her rigging knife, but Tahir turned away before he got anywhere near her, crossing instead to another corner of the room where sacks of sand had been piled high against the wall. One of them, she noticed as she stared, had deep dent worn into it, as though something large had been sitting on top of it for a very, very long time.

Tahir shoved a line of powder kegs set along the wall aside, then turned and nudged the dented sack with the toe of his boot.

“Go on lad, take a seat. You’re not looking like you’re much for standing right now.”

Alex snorted and let her hand drop away from her knife. Her heart still pounded angrily at her ribcage, but she found herself moving towards the sack at his gesture anyway. Suspicion aside, she could feel her knees wobbling harder underneath her, and their trek through the ship had sapped the last of what little energy she had been able to muster.

She set herself down gingerly onto the worn sandbag and leaned back against the ones piled behind her. It was a hard seat, with a back that sat a little too upright to be perfectly comfortable, but it was still infinitely better than being slumped against a bulwark and baking in the hot sun. She wiggled a little bit further into the groove, stretching her legs in front of her and relishing the tug of the muscles in her knees with a relieved sigh as the pain in her back eased slowly away.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Tahir stealing a glance her way and grinning.

“You’re welcome, by the way,” he said as he pawed through the small line of powder kegs. She raised an eyebrow and he nodded to the sandbag below her.

“Took Sam ‘n I a full week to make that comfortable.” His face contorted into the perfect picture of a grimace as he looked her up and down. “Just figures that it’d be some brat of a midshipman what reaps the spoils.”

Alex snorted, letting her head drop back against the stacks as her eyes fell closed. “I’m sure you slaved away too. For hours on end, instead of working.”

He laughed. “We did!”

“And now,” she went on, a grin touching the corners of her mouth. “I’m to kiss the ass that did all of that fine sitting about, am I?” She flicked her hands upwards in a gesture that would have been grand if not for the way she was slumped lazily back. “O’ hail thine glorious rump, whose girth, on a lesser man, may have staved from us the possibility of a throne suited to only the most distinguished gentlemen.”

She heard a gentle huff and then grinned in full as her hands were swatted away.

“Little shit,” Tahir snapped, though it still sounded remarkably like he was trying not to laugh. “It’s a damn good thing I like you. Here.”

Something thin and cool and leather dropped suddenly into her lap, heavy with a sloshing weight inside. She recognized it as one of the ship’s canteens as she craned her neck to look and glanced back up at him, brow furrowed.

“What’s this for?”

“Drinking, s’far as I’m aware,” he said dryly, without looking up from where he was sliding powder kegs back into their places along the wall. Alex rolled her eyes.

“You know what I mean.”

“I’m certain I don’t,” he replied. “But if you’ve got the notion that I can get ahold of anything that ain’t small beer and water on this ship, you’re either truly daft, or you're flattering me.” He flashed a wry grin over his shoulder. “And honestly, I don't think you're rightly capable of either.”

Alex grunted, ignoring both compliment and insult in favor of uncapping the flask and giving its contents an investigative sniff. Just water, she decided; over the smell of salt and leather, she caught the faint sweetness of sugar that came in all of the ship’s ration water to mask the taste of its souring. In any other circumstance, the thought of drinking something that spoiled would make her stomach turn. But now, desperate and dry, with the gritty feeling of salt still plastered to her tongue? Her mouth practically watered.

Tahir chuckled as she took a deep, greedy draw, propping his elbow against one of the nearby shot barrels.

“Careful, lad. You’re gonna make yourself sick that way,” he warned, though he made no move to stop her. Alex pulled the flask away just long enough to shoot him a withering glare.

“Couldn’t be doing much worse than I am right now, can I?” she muttered against the lip of it, then took another long swig. The barrel beside her creaked as Tahir pushed himself upright.

“Sure,” he said, with a good-natured roll of his eyes. “And I s’pose seasickness’d pair real nice with your being on the rag, huh?”

Alex’s throat suddenly wrenched shut around her swallow of water. She sputtered, lurching forward over her knees in a fit that devolved quickly into a round of deep, ragged coughing. Something shifted beside her and Tahir’s hand suddenly clapped firmly on her back, tapping twice, hard, until she was sucking in grateful lungfuls of air again.

She wiped her mouth across the length of her sleeve when she had caught her breath, and turned back to him with a glare.

“The fuck’re you talking about?”

Tahir leaned back against the barrel behind him, smirking. “You thought I didn’t know? I’ve got five sisters, Alex. Your playing seasick was about half as convincing as if you told me you could fly.”

He stooped down and grabbed the flask that had clattered to the floor, pressing it back into her shaking hands. She scowled, but took another begrudging sip to stifle the last rumblings of the fit in her chest. He had known all along. The thought settled uncomfortably in her chest, loose and fluttering.

“So,” she hedged after a moment. “Rousing me from the rail, the dark room, all that talk of work that needed doing…” She ticked the words off on her fingers, letting her voice trail off as Tahir shrugged.

“I saw enough what my sisters suffered, what my mum did for them,” he said casually. “Figured you could use an excuse to disappear for a few hours."

Alex huffed, a short, incredulous breath through her nose.

“An excuse that’d get you discharged and me killed if anyone were to catch on,” she corrected, her voice going sharp and thin with earnest. The fluttery, nervous thing in her chest bounded up again, shuddering against her ribs. “That’s not a thing sane people do, Tahir. The fuck were you thinking?”

He said nothing at first, just fixed her with a quiet, searching look as he pushed himself onto his feet again. It stripped her bare, that look, and she folded her arms over her chest like it had suddenly become a pane of window glass, and he could see the frantic thing running itself ragged inside.

“I was thinking,” he said at last, in a voice as placid as lake water. “That you do a piss-poor job of giving a shit about yourself. And that there ought to be someone who does.”

The thing fluttering in her chest fell suddenly, deathly still. With it went the steady hammer of her heart, the even tempo of her breath, and about all she could manage was to put her gaze firmly away from anything that looked even remotely like Tahir’s direction.

She knew the sentiment shouldn’t have surprised her. He had never been quite so blunt about it before, but the whole ship knew that Tahir was a little soft - that behind the gruffness and the imposing silhouette, he was always the first to take stock of the new midshipmen, always the first to lend a penny to the man running dry in the bar seat beside him. He was a collector of favors after all, or so the joke went.

But this felt different, somehow. She already owed him something well beyond a friendly face or a penny lent. Hers was a debt of the compounding sort, the kind that doubled with every moment he spent not dragging her before their captain. By all rights, Tahir should be asking her to find him flasks of water, and relief from the sun, and a seat worked into a sandbag over the course of a week. But he didn’t. Hadn’t. Wouldn’t, she was pretty sure, except to make a joke about it.

And if it wasn’t a matter of gathering favors, and if it wasn’t a matter of repayment, the reason Tahir did anything for her at all resembled something that looked remarkably like fondness.

Alex tightened her grip on the flask in her hand, so hard that the edges bit angrily into her palms, and squashed the rest of the thought into silence.

The barrel squeaked beside her again and pulled her attention back to her left, to where Tahir was peering down at her and frowning so hard that his brow had furrowed into a neat little line of knots. They smoothed out as soon as she looked up, his tense look flashing away in an instant as it was replaced by an unsteady version of his usual grin.

“And besides,” he continued, with a touch more volume than was necessary. “I can’t rightly let you die out there. You’re the only one who listens to my jokes, and it’s only ‘cause you’ve got to.” He crossed his arms over his chest, recovered enough to paint his face suddenly, dramatically grim. “If you go, the world’ll lose them forever.”

Alex snorted, rolling her eyes and trying her marked best to pretend the last few moments away as he had. “So I would have to die for you quit trying to be funny, is that it?”

Tahir nodded gravely, and she sank back into her seat, blowing a deep, billowing sigh through her cheeks.

“Well, shit,” she muttered. “It’s a real fucking shame that I’m so selfish, innit?”

Tahir broke first, buckling into a deep bellow of laughter - real laughter this time, so loud that Alex had to shush him around the grin she felt creeping involuntarily over her lips.

“Guessing you feel better,” he managed once they had both collected themselves enough to speak.

Alex tucked her grin away, shrugging. “Guess so.”

Her limbs still shook, of course, and she could feel the last little tongues of pain still working somewhere deep in her gut, but the worst seemed to have finally passed. Laboring under the beating sun again sounded like a fate for the dying, but Alex’s well of stubborn resolve ran deep. She gathered herself up in a breath and slid forward, pushing up onto her feet with a grunt -

And ran her shoulder straight into the flat of Tahir’s palm.

“That wasn’t meant to make you move,” he said with a chuckle as he eased her gently back into her seat. “Though I know better than to try and stop you if you’re committed to killing yourself out there. But you’ve still got a bit of time before anyone comes looking for you. Half an hour, by my estimate.” His grin curled into something smug and self-satisfied. “Double that, if I’m to be covering your ass.”

Alex sniffed, folding her arms over her chest. It fluttered underneath them, his words skirting too close to a reminder of her deep debt and how little he felt she owed him.

“I’m not asking for help,” she reminded him. Tahir nodded.

“Of course not. I don’t expect miracles of you, lad.” He sidestepped her half-hearted kick, laughing. “We’ll just call your debt a bottle of whiskey when we’re on shore again, aye?”

“A bottle?” Alex snorted. “You’ll get a glass, if you get anything at all.”

Tahir let out a great, heaving sigh, so deep and dramatic that his whole body sank with the motion of it. “Fine,” he agreed with a helpless shrug. “But only ‘cause I know you couldn’t afford a bottle of whiskey on your best days.”

She kicked at him again, less half-heartedly this time, and caught him in the ankle.

“Careful, old man,” she teased as he stumbled back, swearing. “You keep tripping like that, you’ll throw your back out.”

“I’ll throw something,” he snapped, his words thick as he forced them through his gritted teeth. “You, maybe. Clear over the side of the ship.”

“You’re the only one who swims,” Alex reminded him with a wide grin. “You’d have to come get me, or at least pretend the effort.”

She expected a retort, of course - had already imagined three between the end of her words and the raise of his eyebrow, ranging from, “I wouldn’t have to do shit,” to a particularly filthy gesture that would tell her her exactly how much effort he would expend for her sake.

Instead, Tahir just shook out his ankle and muttered, “You’d owe me twice the whiskey, then.”

No disagreement, no threat that he would leave her to drown, even as a joke - just a restatement of the payment that they both knew he would write off the moment she did.  The thought clung thickly to her ribs, tying each breath to the bone.

Luckily, it was the third time that he had unbalanced her today, and she was getting to be an old hat at choking down her feelings; he took the snort and the roll of her eyes as signs that he had won, and turned, smirking, towards the ladder before he saw how white her knuckles had gone on her flask.

“Try and rest for once,” he told her as he swung up onto the rungs. “You’ve got an hour.”

And then he was gone, up and out of the magazine despite his supposedly sore ankle. She heard the heavy thuds of his boots crossing over her, shaking sand loose from the boards overhead until they melted into the faint creaking of the ship, and she suddenly found herself alone with the shaking in her chest that hadn't stopped yet.

[theyareskewed]

Chapter Two

Disclaimer: Mason’s character name has been changed to Major because I’ve finally found a nickname that is even somewhat reasonable.

Chapter Two is finally here! Hopefully this introduces everyone to the inner workings of a group like this, and continues to build on character relations! Lemme know what you think through the Ask box, and don’t be afraid to send in asks for Fact Check or simply for your curiosity!

Razz woke with the dawn. The moment that the sun began to light up the street, her blue-green eyes were open and searching around for danger. It took her a few moments to remember what exactly had happened the night before, and she gave a small sigh of relief when she looked to her left and Gwen was still slumped against Major, her breath slowly stirring the air. She turned her eyes back to the street, noticing the few others who were awake. Dusk was sitting up, his dark hazel eyes staring absently down the street, and Lore was holding as still as possible so as not to disturb the girl asleep on her legs. Sin was awake as well, but those were all of the people she knew the names of that were alert, and she lost interest. She leaned forwards and pulled her backpack off, swinging it into her lap and unzipping it. Once it was open, she began to rummage through it. She knew the rough gist of what she had, and the exact numbers of the most important things. Most important things being the food she needed to survive. She grinned when she uncovered a can of mandarin oranges. They were the perfect breakfast, especially sweet for someone who had been eating canned everything for such a long time. She cracked it open, wiping her hands on her pant leg before poking her fingers in carefully. Like that she ate her breakfast, chewing slowly and trying to savor the taste. This was all she would eat until late that night, she had to preserve rations. There was really nothing to do until more people woke up, so Razz let herself zone out and tried to relax, staring out at nothing in particular. It was only about an hour until the majority of the group was awake and moving about, and Razz did her best to ignore them. She was uncomfortable with so many people around and played with the strings on her hoodie as a distraction. It was not long after that Gwen woke up, and she turned to Razz almost immediately. “Morning, sis,” she said happily. “Morning,” Razz said quietly, turning her eyes to Gwen after a moment of hesitation. The slightly taller twin squealed and dove at Razz from her sitting position, wrapping her arms around her. Razz spluttered, trying to restrain a laugh as she wiggled in her twins grip. “Oh cut it out!” she laughed, “I’m alive, alright! Let go!” Gwen cackled, letting Razz go and leaning back onto her palms. “You’re a dork,” she teased her. “Oh I know,” Razz said evenly, “and we share the same genetics so you are too.” Gwen smirked, and then perked up. She hopped onto her feet, holding out a hand. “Come on, let’s go get breakfast!” “I’ve already eaten,” said Razz quizzically, holding out her hand, “What do you mean by ‘go get’? Don’t you carry your own rations?” “Oh god no,” Gwen said with what was mostly a false disgust, still pulling Razz to her feet, “that shit’s heavy! We only carry what we need to, each group is in charge of something else!” “Groups?” “I’ll introduce you in a bit, but I’m starving. Stay here, I’ll be right back.” Razz watched her twin jog away, towards where a small group was gathering. She shrugged slightly and turned her gaze downwards to where Major was sitting. She had been under the impression that he was still asleep, but his eyes were open, and he was fiddling with something in his hands. “What’re you messing with?” she asked, glancing over at him again. “Nothing important,” he said with a small sigh, tucking the item back into a pocket. She decided not to push it and turned away. It was then that she noticed that her ponytail had slipped in the night, and was now a messy bunch that hung at the base of her skull. She reached back and pulled the ponytail off, leaning forwards to collect the hair again. She redid the ponytail with practiced ease, and when she looked up again Gwen was coming over to her with a small group of people following. As though Major could sense her sudden nervousness at the sight of the approaching people, he spoke up. “Just be calm. They’re the other leaders, all harmless.” Razz glanced at him, still uncertain, but she allowed her muscles to relax some, though she was still on high alert. Gwen walked all the way to Razz’s side, though the rest of the group she had brought halted a few feet away from them both. Razz recognized Ray from the night before. It struck her as odd that the timid girl was the leader of something, but she didn’t voice her confusion. “Razz,” Gwen said proudly, “These are the leaders of the different jobs that are used to keep us safe. I want to introduce you to them.” Razz glanced at Gwen but then focused back on the others. “Alright,” she said calmly, “Introduce me then.” “Well, if you’re going to fit in here, you need to know what the groups are and why they’re here. Our little group functions like a clock, with each cog turning to make the main mechanism tick. Each of these groups is a cog, and we need to figure out where you fit. I figured that I would let the leaders explain the basics of their job for you,” Gwen said evenly, with a smile on her face, “So, leaders, who wants to go first?” “Do we get to leave after we’ve spoken,” asked an extremely dull voice from near the back of the group. Gwen took a slow, deep breath, visibly irritated already. “Sure,” she said coolly. “Perfect.” A dark brunette girl shoved her way to the front of the group, tall and slim, with a glare like none other. “My name is Chrysoberyl,” she said with just as much distaste as Gwen had displayed held in her tone, “and I lead the Weapon’s Cache.” Razz did not have a good feeling about her likelihood to enjoy Chrysoberyl’s company. “The Weapon’s Cache is in charge of the deployment, repair, and upkeep of all of the weapons this group has to offer.” Her face was filled with cockiness as if she thought herself better than everyone around her, “and we are not to be trifled with. Thank you for your time.” Razz watched her stalk away and gave a small giggle. “Good heavens,” she said quietly to her twin, “Who uses the phrase ‘trifled with’ anyway?” Gwen snorted and tried to hold back the smirk that was curling onto her lips at her twin’s comment. “Next,” she called out, her voice holding back laughter. A small, stout, angry looking girl was the next to step forwards to the front of the group. “You can call me Dee, and I am the commander of the guards. You can guess what we do from the title.” Razz snorted. “What’re you, like ten?” “I’m thirteen,” Dee responded, without an ounce of humor in her voice, “and I could kick your ass blindfolded with my hands tied behind my back. Watch your tone.” Razz didn���t know if she should laugh or be intimidated. Dee seemed to realize this, and she sneered. “You’re gonna learn some shit when you’re in my training session,” she said tonelessly before turning around and walking away. Razz gave a nervous laugh. “Erm… so what’s her deal?” “Nothing to worry about,” Gwen said with a wave of her hand, “Let’s have the next!” Ray timidly moved to the front of the group. “You should already know me,” she said slightly worriedly, “but just in case, my name is Ray. I lead the scouts, we do the nightly watch and run ahead from time to time to inspect the areas we’re going to be moving through so that preparation is at its maximum.” “I remember you,” Razz said with a small smile. Ray returned the gesture with a tentative grin before she turned and scurried away. Razz gave a little giggle and turned to Gwen, but her sister wasn’t paying attention. “Come on, Shay you’re next!” the taller twin called. The short, curly haired girl Razz had seen sleeping on Lore last night seemed to bounce to the front of the group, there was so much spring in her step. “Hi there,” she said with an extremely high pitched, excitable voice, “I’m Shay, and it is so, so, so, so, so good to meet you!” Her voice seemed to just gain speed the longer she spoke. Razz was extremely amused and rendered uncomfortable by the child. “Erm,” she said with a nervous laugh, “Where did you get the coffee?” Shay seemed to completely freeze, her face quizzical. “There’s coffee?” “Uh…” Razz was at a loss. She looked to Gwen for help, and the girl rolled her eyes, waving at Shay. “Let’s finish this, Shay,” she prompted the curly haired teen. “Oh, right!” Shay gasped, completely forgetting Razz’s earlier comment, “I’m the second in command for Major! Lore is my partner, we work together to help them out!” Razz glanced at Gwen and raised an eyebrow in question. Why would that be a second in command? Gwen chuckled and waved Shay away. “Thank you, kiddo! Go see if anyone needs help organizing the patrols for the day,” she said easily. Shay seemed to bound away without a moment of hesitation. Razz turned to the remaining people and perked up immediately. She lifted her hand and waved. Dawn and Dusk, childhood friends of Gwen’s and constant figures in Razz’s life even if she didn’t get along with them too well, waved back in turn. Gwen didn’t have to instruct them to begin. “Welcome back, Razz,” Dusk began, “I’m in charge of-” “Razz! I’m the resident-” “Goddamnit Dawn, I was saying something-” “WERE NOT!” “Was too! Knock your shit off!” “Fuck you!” “Fuck you too!” Their voices were rising in pitch and Razz smirked. “You sound like teenage girls,” she said with a snide tone, and both boys turned to face her with indignant faces. “Do NOT,” they said in unison, both obviously trying to use deeper voices. Razz rolled her eyes as Gwen cackled evilly from behind her. Dusk coughed loudly and nudged Dawn behind him. “Anyway,” he said, trying to regain his composure, “I’m the medic. I do medicine. That’s all.” “Good, now you’re done. Move.” Demanded Dawn shoving his brother out of the way. “I’m the resident culinary artist!” “Resident pack mule is more like it,” grumbled Dusk from the side. Dawn looked wounded. “I am the cook!” He gasped, obviously insulted. “Please,” Dusk said with a roll of his eyes, “all you do is carry the cans and hand them out!” Dawn huffed loudly and looked to Gwen. In a whiney voice, he sought her approval. “Gwen, aren’t I a cook?” Gwen smiled at him and patted his head. “Sure you are,” she said with hidden sarcasm. “SEE?” He shouted at his brother. “She was being patronising,” Dusk pointed out. Gwen deftly grabbed Dusk around his arms and spun him around before he could throw a punch. “Alright!” She shouted, grinning, “that’s everyone! You two get the fuck outta here away from one another and let me and Razz have some peace!” Both boys groaned but after a small hesitation walked in opposite directions. Gwen waited for them to be out of earshot before she turned to Razz again. “Alrighty,” she said calmly, “I think, personally, that you should trial run with the Scouts first!” Razz looked at her with one eyebrow raised before shrugging her shoulders. “If you think so,” she said with indifference, “pretty sure it’s going to be a shit show wherever I go, so it’s your choice.” Gwen grinned and nodded. “Love you, sis!” She said, turning and beginning to jog away, “Stay right there, I’ll be sending a few scouts your way to do their introduction to the job!” A few feet away she paused, turning around. “Just for clarification,” she said pointedly, staring Razz down, “you’re going to spend time with each of the groups unless you find one you really like early on.” Razz was slightly uncomfortable with being left alone, but nodded. “Alright,” she called back, “I’ll be here! Gwen smirked and turned away again, making her way towards the largest body of people. Razz stood by quietly and watched, waiting for her sibling to return. Gwen wasn’t long, and after less than five minutes she broke away from the group, followed by Ray and one other girl that Razz knew the build of. That must be why; if she was a scout then Razz would have seen her during the observation period. At least her silhouette. Razz lifted a hand to say hello to Ray, and the slim girl gave a nervous smile. “Heya, Razz,” Ray greeted her quietly, and Razz nodded to acknowledge the getting. “You know Ray already,” Gwen said, “and this here is Ace. They’re going to take you on your first run. I don’t think that you’re little enough for it, but Ace might teach you the tricks of roof running if you’re doing well enough.” Razz raised an eyebrow at the term ‘roof running’, but Gwen waved her off. “They’ll explain. Ray is in charge, you don’t do anything unless she gives you the ok,” Gwen said firmly, looking at Razz with the glare only a sister can give her sibling. Razz rolled her eyes. “Yeah yeah, off you get Gwen. We’ll be fine.” “Funny,” Gwen said without an ounce of her composure slipping, “don’t fuck up now, ‘kay?” “‘Kay,” Razz sighed in exasperation, “I get it.” Gwen flashed a smile before she turned and headed away. Razz turned towards Ray expectantly as soon as Gwen was on her way. “So,” she said calmly, “what’s next?” “Basics,” Ray responded, her voice gaining a little strength. “We have to lay a few ground rules out before we can start the run.” “And those are?” “Ace, let’s see if you remember,” Ray suggested, turning her ocean blue eyes to the Albanian girl beside her. “Oh! Alright, I got this!” Ace said energetically, before pausing a moment to think. “Ok, alright,” she repeated after a second, “number one is never to leave the other scouts.” “Correct,” Ray said happily, giving a small smile, “unless ordered by the team leader, you never leave another behind. Getting separated could mean death.” Razz nodded, her gaze switching back to Ace. “Number two is…” she paused again, and then continued, “Never take unnecessary risks.” “Correct!” Ray said, obviously happy that Ace had remembered. She turned to Razz. “Any risk that you take is endangering your entire group.” Razz once again nodded her head, watching Ace again. “And finally-” Ace began, but was interrupted by Ray. “Finally,” Ray said, her voice as stern as she could get, “Never, ever, engage in a situation. You observe and report, you do not ever create or finish one.” That last rule really didn’t bode well with Razz. She was immediately unsure about the job- she knew her own impulsivity and learned to work with it. At the same time, however, she was aware of the fact that she was the newbie here. Questioning the leaders, even just the tertiary ones, would lead to judgments she didn’t want or need. Her desires were mixed when it came to this group; part of her wanted to stay and fit in, to be with her sister, but the other hated the idea of conforming to the masses like was expected here. For now at least, she would wait. She would be silent, and would go along with the rules. Razz dipped her head in understanding. “Alright, Razz,” Ray said with a small smile, “Let’s go then!” Razz forced a smile, and gestured for her to lead the way. The brown haired girl nodded at her and gladly stepped forwards to begin leading them. The shorter Albanian girl took up the rear, and Razz walked between them with as calm a face as she could put on. They walked for what seemed like an hour, but was really more like ten minutes. “This is as far as we explored last time,” Ray said to the two people following her, “and for today we need to go at least five more miles this way. We’ll find a good spot to set up camp, and report back.” “How far do you guys explore everyday anyway?” Razz asked. “About twenty miles usually,” Ray said nonchalantly, “but because you’re newer to this whole thing, I’m not going to push us out that far.” Razz just stared forwards at her. “Where are we going, anyways? How do we know we’re going the right direction?” “Gwen knows where we’re headed,” Ray said with obvious confidence in their leader, “We travel towards the rising sun, to the east.” “But what’s to the east?” asked Razz again, slightly more adamant this time. “I’m not sure,” she said, shrugging, “but Gwen knows.” “You sure do put a lot of faith in what my sister knows,” Razz muttered. “She’s never given us a reason not to trust her,” Ace piped up from the back of the group, and Razz turned to her with a small glare. “Uh huh,” she said in disbelief, “because Gwen is definitely the one that I would be putting my faith in right now.” Both Ray and Ace stared at her with chilly looks. “Let’s move on,” Ray prompted, trying to put a bit more energy in her voice. Razz rolled her eyes and nodded at her, “Lead the way,” she sighed. They walked for awhile in silence, Razz’s eyes trained on the ground. She found the silence both peaceful and unnerving. When things were this quiet when she was on her own, she was always worried about what would come next. On the other hand, however, it was nice to have a break from the constant chatter of young Ace and nervous but gentle Ray. “Razz, remember to keep your eyes up and looking at the surroundings. You want to see everything.” Ace offered her advice from the rear of their trio, and Razz instantly jerked her head up, scanning the surrounding areas. “Don’t just rely on your eyes, either,” Ray said evenly from behind them, their earlier confrontation seemingly forgotten, “your ears are just as good of an indicator of where a threat might be.” “Is that so,” asked Razz dully, obviously unimpressed with the advice. She had been on her own much longer than any of them, there seemed no reason to her that she should require so much mentoring on how to pay attention to her surroundings. She could feel Ace’s eyes boring into her back, but she didn’t give either of the others the satisfaction of looking back at her. “Pick up the pace,” ordered Ray quietly from the front of their little group, “maybe the running will do us all some good.” Well, if good was dry heaving into a rundown payphone booth, then running had certainly done Razz that favor. “Come on, rookie,” Ray called, “It’s only been three miles.”. Both her and Ace were half trying to provide support while also chastising her for this lack of stamina. “Shut up,” Razz rasped from inside the booth, “I never had to run when I was on my own, at least for not this long.” “Then how did you catch up to us?” Ray asked disbelievingly “I,” Razz said indignantly, lifting her head up and pushing herself out of the booth, “never needed to rely upon a giant mass of people for my protection.” Her voice radiated sarcasm as she said, “surprisingly, it’s not that hard for a single, smaller girl to hide from a hoard of the creatures in comparison to an entire massive lumbering group.” She smirked, and added, “On top of that, I could travel at night, unlike the rest of you who need to rest with the entirety of your little protective bubble.” Ray just looked at her, and sighed. “Come on Razz, you’ve had your breather. We haven’t found anything helpful whatsoever, there’s been nothing but empty highway. There’s none of those creatures around either.” “That’s a good sign, right?” Ace piped up from her side. “Not necessarily,” Razz pointed out evenly, taking a deep breath, “because we don’t know where they are. If they don’t attack us now, the odds of us being attacked when we decide to bring the entire group this way rises significantly.” “Hmm?” Ace made a confused noise. Razz sighed. “All I mean is that every second something doesn’t happen the chances of it happening the next second raise bit by bit. It’s simple math really.” Ace didn’t look the most convinced but she nodded her head anyway. It quirked a small smile onto Razz’s face. Gwen used to make faces like that when she was in math. It seems that both her and Ace had a similar distaste for the subject. “Come on then,” Razz prompted, “you guys think we should keep going, so let’s keep going.” They set off again in relative silence, though it was obvious that the small show of positive emotion from Razz had eased the other’s misgivings about her. It was just over forty-five minutes of walking later when they came across the first gas station outside of town. Their particular interstate highway had exits every 5-15 miles, meaning that if they timed it right they could travel the same amount they aimed to travel each day (ten or so miles), and come across a place to sleep. “Alright,” Ray said as they came up to the station, “We should check it over and then head back. We’ll eat dinner once we’re back with the group!” Razz nodded at her, as did Ace, and they advanced on the gas station. The old store was slumped to the side, as if a particularly strong gust of wind had caused it to lean. It had shingles falling off of it, and was cracked in a few places, obviously unstable. There was no gasoline anywhere, the ground was scorched everywhere around the place the tanks had once stood. “W-what happened here?” asked Ace in confusion. “Gasoline is highly flammable,” Razz said mildly, looking at the place where her family had fueled up their car so many times. Her face was unreadable and she sighed, stretching out her arm with a small yawn. She was just lowering the outstretched limb when she heard a strange growl from behind them. It wasn’t an animal, but wasn’t quite human either. “Aww, shit,” she said mildly, whipping around as her arm dropped to her belt. She had her machete in its holster there, and within a second she had her hand on the handle. She was facing a few more of the creatures than she’d anticipated. It seemed like there was five or more, rather than the one or two she had been expecting. “Alright, Razz,” she murmured to herself, holding her machete so that it was across her chest and pulling out her tomahawk in a hurried fashion, “you’ve done this before, you’ve fought off more than this.” “Run Razz, run!” She couldn’t tell which one had screamed that, but it struck her with a small bit of irritation. Regardless, she turned, weapons still in hand, and took off sprinting. Ray was hopping and waving for her to follow not far away, and Ace was right next to her, eyes wide with terror. “Ace,” shouted Ray as Razz neared them, “you take to the roof as soon as we’re in range, if we’re still being followed. Alert the group!” Razz gestured at them to run, and both turned and began following her lead, the adrenaline pumping through their veins driving them as a much faster pace than she had expected to be able to maintain. By the time they reached the edge of the town, they had very much lost the creatures, and Razz nearly keeled over as she crouched next to a building to vomit up what was left of her breakfast. She finally was able to sit back, and sort of collapsed onto her back, breathing shallow and her eyes closed. Ray and Ace weren’t much better off, though neither one vomited. They were leaning against the walls, panting, sweat beading their skin. “God…. damn it,” Razz groaned from the asphalt, “that was absolute bullshit you know.” “Welcome… to this job…” Ray said between deep breaths, “Run for your life, remember?” “Bullshit,” Razz repeated breathily, keeping her eyes closed, “it’s bullshit.” It seemed as though the entire group of them came to the conclusion that shutting up would be the safest way to go, and so that they did. They stood after ten minutes of breathing, thoroughly exhausted, and began to make their way back to their group at a slow amble. They were spotted by a skinny boy stood up on one of the roofs, and he shouted down to the group. “Scouts incoming!” Ray lifted a hand to show that they were all still ok, and they walked into the camp to give a report. Gwen and Major looked up in near unison, the former grinning over at her twin. “Hey, Razz!” she called, her smile broadening, “How’d it go? D’ya like being a scout?” Razz shot her a look that very clearly said that they would talk about it later as the scouting group sidled up to the leaders. “There’s a gas station about 10 miles down the road,” Ray reported to the leaders, mainly addressing Gwen, “with minimal interference from the creatures until the station itself. We ran into a hoard of them there, between 5 and 15.” “That’s a rather large range, Ray,” said Gwen with a minor bit of disappointment, though she didn’t hold any judgement in her tone. “8.” “What was that Razz?” asked Major, the only one to catch her muttered statement. “8,” Razz said speaking louder this time, “There were eight.” “And how did you come across that number?” he asked. Ray looked a little miffed that Razz had caught the exact number and she hadn’t. “It was because,” she said, a little jealously, “she did not listen to the most important rule of being a scout and nearly engaged.” “Well no shit I almost engaged,” Razz snapped irritably, “there were only eight, I’ve taken on 12 at a time. You’re the ones who came up with the stupid ‘don’t engage’ rules, not me!” “Hey, hey!” shouted Gwen, stepping in between them, “Knock it off!” Razz locked her jaw, glaring down at the ground. “Gwen, go talk to Ace and Ray over there,” Major said evenly, his voice gentler than hers, “I’ll talk with Razz.” “Why, because I’ll not tell the truth to my own sister?” snapped Razz sarcastically, turning her icy gaze onto the much taller boy. “No,” he said calmly, “Because I think that you’ll be better off with a calmer person than you will with your little flame of a twin right now.” Razz glared, but didn’t continue to argue. They waited until Gwen had led Ray and Ace out of earshot before speaking again. “Let’s go get you some food,” Major suggested, not looking at Razz. She glowered back. “What makes you think that I want anything to do with the food you serve me?” “Suit yourself, Spitfire,” he said with a tiny bit of amusement, “but we need to talk at least a bit so that Gwen doesn’t fry me later on.” As much as she didn’t want to, the term Spitfire was one of Razz’s favorites, and she liked as a nickname. “I have my own food,” she muttered, refusing to show her small bit of appreciation of the name, “you can have some of that.” Major nodded at her, and she turned away, walking over to the place where she had slept. She irritably pulled open her food bag, and hucked a can of soup at Major over her shoulder, before pulling another can out for herself. “So,” she said coolly, turning to face him, “Let’s talk.”

[georgialouisea]

Grow Like a Weed

Characters - Dean, Reader, Sam, (shop assistant, Joanne.)

Word count - 2288

Summary - Part 4 of my Baby Winchester series. Dean, Sam and the reader go shopping for baby furniture. 

Catch up HERE!

Since the day you told Dean he was going to be a dad he begged you daily to stop hunting. You finally agreed when you were 20 weeks along after a close call with a vamp. The look in Dean’s eyes as the vamp flung you across the room was enough for you to decide this hunt would be your last one for a while. After a hospital check-up and the all clear you made a promise to Dean you wouldn’t hunt.

Sitting alone in the bunker as you leafed through a lore book trying to find some information for the hunt Garth was on as you idly ran your hand across your stomach. Hearing the faint sound of the bunker door opening followed by footsteps.

“Y/N?” Dean’s voice rang through the rooms as he found you sat in bed surrounded by books.

“Hey.” You spoke as you smiled at the green eyed hunter leaning against the door frame.

“You look beautiful.” Dean gushed as he made his way across the room.

“Don’t lie Winchester.” You sighed closing the book and adding it to one of the piles next to you.

“Shut up, I’m not lying.” Dean protested as he collected the books and moved them to the desk. Shuffling your body down the bed to rest your head against the pillows as the bed dipped next to you under Dean’s weight.

“How was the hunt?” Asking as you rolled on your side to face him.

“Fine, salt n’ burn.” Dean mumbled as he snaked an arm under your neck and pulling you closer to him.

“I missed you.” Whispering into Dean’s chest, fiddling with the buttons on his shirt.

“I missed you too.” Dean responded as he placed his free hand on your bump. “How are you feeling?” He asked looking into your eyes for an honest answer.

“Pretty good.” You began as you placed a hand on top of Deans. “I’ve been reading most of the day Garth is on a weird hunt.” You couldn’t help but smile as Dean rolled his eyes at the mention of Garth.

“Bean?” He asked motioning down towards his hand.

“Squirming and kicking away.” Informing Dean of his child’s strength. As if on que the baby began to kick against Dean’s palm.

“Getting stronger I see.” Dean smirked as he felt the kicks increasing in strength.

“Don’t I know it.” You groaned as you rested your head against his chest.

“We have what?” He paused to calculate how long it was before your due date. “20 weeks before we get to meet our little one.” Dean gushed at the thought.

“Do you think we should have found out what we’re having?” You questioned Dean as you thought of the empty nursery in the next room.

“Not really it’ll be a little surprise.” Dean reassured as he kissed your forehead. “Thinking about the nursery?” He asked as he pulled himself away from you to look at your face.

Closing your eyes and nodding in response. You hadn’t yet purchased a single item for the baby, you felt as though as soon as you did so something may go wrong. Your life had been unpredictable and you had no doubt your pregnancy would be too. It was now 20 weeks until your due date and you finally felt as though you can prepare the room for your baby.

“Let’s go shopping today, finally paint the nursery.” You suggested to Dean as you sat up.

“Sure, give me 10 minutes then we can go.” Dean responded as he sat up next to you and disappeared out of the room.

Standing and making your way to the empty room next to yours. Flicking on the light and standing in the middle of the room imagining the room filled with baby things and a beautiful crib. Placing a hand on the ache in your lower back as you grew excited for the day of shopping ahead.

“Hey momma.” Sam chimed over your shoulder as he joined you in the empty room. “What are we doing?” He asked leaning against one of the walls.

“Thinking.” You shrugged as you smiled at Sam.

“About?” Sam questioned

“What colour to paint the walls.”

“Do we have options?” Sam spoke again.

“Not really…Maybe white, cream or yellow? I don’t know.” You sighed as you thought of more options. “Oh I want carpet too, wait can either of you lay a carpet? It’s not like we can hire a decorator.” You rambled on as you almost giggled at the thought of someone walking into the bunker to redecorate.

“Slow down woman, I think any will look great, yes I can lay a carpet.” Sam reassured as he hugged you.

“Are we ready?” Dean asked as he joined you and Sam buttoning up a new shirt. “Are you coming with Sammy?” Dean questioned his brother.

“Yes! We can get lunch too.” You spoke for Sam as he chose not to argue and followed you and Dean to the car.

It was 45 minute drive to the nearest shopping centre with more than one baby and DIY store.

“I need a drink. Do either of you want anything?” Dean asked as he held the door open for you to shuffle your pregnant ass out of the impala.

“Coffee please.” You requested leaning up and kissing Dean’s cheek.

“Same.” Sam echoed your choice.

“Dean we will be in here.” You informed him as you pointed to the shop in front of you.

Sam held the door open for you as you entered the store.

“Hey y’all.” A short lady scurried over to you. “I’m Joanne. Who do we have here.” She asked.

“Sam and Y/N.” Sam introduced you both motioning his hands.

“Welcome, if you need any help just give me a shout. Are you two having a girl or a boy?” She questioned.

“This is the uncle, the Dad has nipped for drinks, we don’t know yet.” You unnecessarily explained as you looked at Joanne.

“Oh, well all furniture comes in all colours, have a look around and I’ll grab you a brochure.” She apologised as she scurried back off towards the till.

“Well she’s enthusiastic.” Sam noted sarcastically as you both made your way towards the first section of cribs.

“Careful Sammy, you’re sounding like Dean.” You jested.

“Shut up.”

Hearing the doorbell chime you turned your head towards the sound and saw Dean carrying 3 coffees in a takeout tray. Upon noticing you he began to may his way towards you and Sam.

“You must be Dad.” Joanne bombarded Dean within 3 steps into the store.

“I’m sorry?” Dean asked as he looked over to yourself and Sam for clarification.

“Y/N is your wife, no?” She assumed as she looked over to you.

“Girlfriend.” Dean corrected as he took another step towards you.

“Oh I’m sorry, I should start asking not assuming.” She apologised once again as she handed Dean the brochure. “This is for your girlfriend.” She smiled as her face turned red with embarrassment.

Dean’s movements quickened as he reached you and Sam who had returned your attention to the cribs. “Well that was fun.” Dean’s voice thick with sarcasm as he handed out the coffees. “She gave me this for you, after she thought we were married.” Dean rolled his eyes as he handed you the booklet.

“She thought Sam was the father 5 minutes ago.” You laughed as you looked at Dean’s expression. “Anyway, she said all cribs come in all colours so that’s what this is for.” You explained as you waved the brochure at Dean.

“This one is nice.” Sam interrupted you as you spun to look at him.

“Sammy that looks older than Cas.” Dean exaggerated at the vintage looking crib before Sam.

“Which ones do you like then?” Sam challenged his brother as you stood back and let them butt heads while you sipped your coffee.

“I like that one.” Dean pointed to a white wooden crib.

“I do too.” You almost stuttered in shock at Dean’s surprisingly good choice of crib.

After an hour of looking through the store and selecting a few items you settled on white for all of them still not knowing if you were having a girl or a boy. After paying for the crib both you and Dean liked, a set of matching drawers, a changing table and a few other bits you let Sam and Dean play Jenga with the boxes in the impala’s trunk and backseat.

Surprisingly they worked it out in about 10 minutes.

“What else do you want to get?” Sam questioned as he shut the trunk with an exaggerated breath.

“Clothes and stuff and a pram but we can get that another day.” You smiled at the two frustrated brothers. “Come on it will be another hour at most then we can eat.” You promised.

“Come on princess.” Dean took a step in front of you before holding his hand out for you to take.

Walking into the baby clothes store with 2 giants of men felt abnormal. You watched as Dean picked up a pair of baby booties.

“How small is this kid going to be?” He furrowed his brow as he held the booties up to you.

“With your genes it’ll grow like a weed!” You laughed at Dean’s reaction to the size of the baby clothes.

Grabbing a basket, you wandered around the store picking up a few neutral coloured clothes, bibs and cloths you knew you’d be needing. Looking to your side both Sam and Dean had wandered off, looking over the shelves to find Sam, he was the easier of the two to spot. You saw him and Dean stood together near the t-shirt section.

“Look!” Dean grinned as he held out two shirts towards you. One had the words ‘Daddy’s little princess’ on, the other ‘Daddy’s little dude’ on. Sam looked between his brother and you before producing one himself from behind his back which read ‘You think I’m cute, wait until you see my Uncle’ On.

“You two haven’t been this excited over something in months!“ You couldn’t help but giggle as you looked at the expressions on Sam and Deans faces. “Sammy’s is fab, Dean we don’t know if we’re having a princess or a dude.” You tried to reason with your boyfriend who was now excited over baby tops.

“So we will get them both.” Dean shrugged as he threw the tops into the basket you were holding. “Let’s get one with giraffes on!” Dean exclaimed out of nowhere.

“Christ.” You sighed at the monster you’d created as Dean then dragged you around the store picking out cute blankets and clothes.

“You know the amount you’ve put in here it’s going to be so expensive.” You informed Dean of his shopping splurge.

“So? Go with Sammy and get us a table at the restaurant, I’ll put this in the trunk and then join you.” Dean suggested as you smiled in relief at the chance to sit down and eat.

“Come on Sammy!” You chimed and almost skipped out of the store.

 You’d planned to grab lunch whilst shopping but after looking at the time it was past 3pm. All 3 of you settled into a booth of the restaurant and pretty much inhaled the food you ordered.

On the way back to the bunker you made Sam sit in the backseat with the excess boxes that wouldn’t fit in the trunk.

“Thank you for today boys.” You sighed as you relaxed into the seat a little helping to ease the ache in your back.

 “It was kind of fun.” Sam laughed as he looked out of the window.

Nodding in agreement with him you leant your head against the cool window allowing your eyes to shut as you listened to Dean humming along to the radio.

Upon opening your eyes, you felt a chill against your whole body as you looked to see that you were in the bunkers garage, the trunk open and the backdoor open, assuming Sam and Dean were unloading the car.

Opening the door and grabbing one of the bags from the backseat you made your way into the bunker as Sam walked towards you.

“Hey let me get that.” Sam insisted holding his hand out for the bag.

“Fine.” You groaned at his overprotectiveness over you carrying a light bag of baby clothes.

“Where’s Dean?” You raised an eyebrow as you noticed Dean nowhere in sight.

“Your room, he has a surprise for you.” Sam teased as you made your way towards the room hearing Sam heading back towards the car.

“Dean? Baby?” You asked as you walked into the room seeing Dean sitting on the end of the bed.

“Here.” He patted the bed next to you to sit. “I have a surprise, close your eyes.” Dean instructed. You did as he asked and sat next to him and closed your eyes. Feeling Dean place something across your lap you fought the urge to open them and ruin the surprise you had no idea about.

“Open them.” Dean whispered.

Upon opening your eyes and looking down you saw two tops like the ones Dean had purchased earlier. These two read ‘I’m beautiful like Mummy.’ And the second read ‘Mummy’s pretty and Daddy’s lucky!’

“Dean.” You stammered out as you felt tears in your eyes. Looking back up to Dean he looked so happy you couldn’t help but cry. Here you were with such a loving man, the man you’d loved since the day you moved into the bunker.

“I love you Dean.” You uttered as you leant in to kiss him.

“I love you too Y/N”

Part 5 

[celestial-leaves]

Number 26122594

1500 BCS

The egg cracks one sunrise, in the eighth month of the year. It takes the nest by surprise, sends them scurrying about in a panic. After all there is early, and then there is weeks ahead of schedule. A nest mother sends the required missive to the Abby, but it's still hours before one of their lore keepers trudges his way up to the Craigs. In fact by the time the human makes an appearance, he's already found himself a soft pillow to snuggle against. At least, that's what they tell him. It's not as if he remembers that far back. They tell him many things that he recalls not. About how his first words were sung, and that time he'd tried to fly when he barely knew how to walk. He's not sure he believes them, his earliest memories are of a much different nature. 

He remembers the wind in his feathers, it's true, and the view from atop the Craigs. More than that though, he remembers the soothing song of the mountain breeze in his ears. 

He's five summers old, when they force him to learn his name. Before that, he'd been a variety of things, usually eaglet or chicklet. The new one is hissed out around a stalk of tobacco by a human more than three times his size. Though he hears the numbers, he ignores them easily enough, too busy wriggling his fingers next to the cold metal they've attached to his ankles. It pinches at the skin and he doesn't like it. They're clang loudly and he walks funny with them on, stumbles over rocks were before he'd been able to bound.  

It takes him only two days and the helpful hint of a nest mother to realize that if he answers when they shout the numbers, he's less likely to receive a smack from the leather straps. It takes a lot longer for the numbers to stick in his head, there are a lot of them and he struggles to say them right.  The humans aren't as patient as the nest mothers who teach him his letters, they like to yell and wave their ham sized fists around. He learns to fly in narrow tunnels,  when his feet hurt too much to walk. He learns not to wince when ham sized fists leave bruises on his skin. He learns to see the Abbey through the heavy weight of a wooden mask. 

He's twelve summers old, the first time he leaves the safety of the Abbey. Another cherub, a small fire malak, goes with him. It's a simple assignment, but it's the most fun he's had in since he began training, and he forgets himself. In a moment of careless folly, he removes the mask, and wanders the town. The dried meat he eats is too salty and yet tastier than anything he thought possible.  He ignores the little cherub that dogs his heels, once the boy proves to be uninterested in exploring. He completes the assignment in a timely manner and returns with his head held high. The humans do not see it his way. He limps for weeks afterwards.   

After that, he keeps the mask on. Always. Inside, visiting the chicklets. Outside, on assignments. Everywhere. The memory of that first assignment refuses to fade, not even when he shoves it down into the depths of his soul, it insists on slipping into his rare dreams. 

 He's sixteen summers old, when he first sees her. The blood sticks to his gloves, drips down his skin, and makes a general nuisance of itself. The body lies still and very dead under his feet, but he finds himself rooted in place. He thinks that she might be the prettiest Eolian, he's ever encountered. Tall and loud, she's surrounded by little cherubs of varying elements. She herds them down the streets with terrifying ease. It's rather endearing, how they all crowd her and call for her attention. 

He forgets about her by the next sunrise, too busy drowning in blood and confusion. The nest mothers screams haunt his dreams until he learns how to forgo sleep all together. He still sees them when he flies around the Craigs, so he ceases to go. 

He ceases to do a lot of things, his mission load increases as he adds more inches to his wingspan. He encounters her again, one sunny morning as he drags his latest assignment to the local outpost. She stands in the sun and nods his way with a bright smile. The surprise is strong enough that he fumbles his prey, and has to chase after it. Ever since the massacre, his fellow eolians flee his presence, her greeting befuddles him. She becomes a regular presence when he reports in at all hours, always ready with a quip or teasing comment. Through trial and error, he learns that her name is Theodora. She hits him when he expresses confusion and asks for her actual name. So, he chalks it up to her having been raised in a different Abbey. 

Still, when she asks for his, he gives it readily enough. The numbers slip out while he's still elbow deep in a cow, and so he misses her facial expression. He flings intestines her way when she asks if he goes by any other, it seems only fair. 

 He's halfway through his sixteenth year according to the Abbey's calendar, when she asks if she can call him Zaveid, she claims that his real name is too much of a mouthful for her to pronounce regularly. His feathers bristle uncomrfably, but he says yes anyway, and her smile makes everything worth it. He grows accustomed to hearing that name from her, she's the only one who uses it, and that's okay. 

He still introduces himself by his name, when others press into his business. It seems to be what they expect. He upgrades his mask, picks up white seals one summer, and kills his first wyvern. At least that's what the report says, it's not like he remembers. One morning, he sees Theodora speaking with a Fire Malak. He approaches, feathers beginning to bristle though he's unsure why. The newcomer greets him like they're old friends, but he has no recollection of ever meeting him. He says as much and the Malak laughs, seeming unbothered by it. Theo frowns at him though, her own wings shift restlessly. 

Seven months go by before he sees her again. As usual, she's full up with cherubs and children. He loans her a hand and smiles. It's easy. Theodora makes the solid lump in his chest beat harder and harder, until he grips it just to ensure that it stays in his body. He enjoys her presence, and though the missions continue to weigh heavy, he finds that coming home is nice.  

He runs away from the Abbey shortly after his nineteenth birthday. It's an act, he commits on a whim. Stupid, foolish, but ultimately worth it. Theo tracks him to a volcano, and sits besides him until he works up the courage to take off the mask. She kisses him under a moonless sky, and he laughs. 

He swaps masters, swaps Abbeys, swaps masks, yet Theodora is a constant that never fades. He forgets things and learns others. He kisses Theodora under the festival bridge where the Abbey won't see, and she teaches him how to braid hair. He teaches her charges how to count, and she teaches him how to write. For awhile, he forgets about the Abbey and Craigs. It's nice. 

He meets the human while on an assignment far from Theodora and the children. The human changes things with a boisterous laugh and a heavy hand that knocks the fog clean out of his head. For the first time in years, he finds himself without his mask, at the mercy of a creature that could kill him, and he hates it. Despises the fact, that he's feels afraid of humans again. The human lets him go, tells him kindly that he doesn't kill his kind, and disappears. He remains on the ground for hours, stares at his broken mask, until his wings can't handle the strain anymore. 

He's well into his sixth century, when he meets the group of chaotic misfits. They've got a cherub with them and he bristles automatically, concern for the little one harshening his words. Though he is far from Theodora's influence, he feels her protective instincts urging him to secure the cherub. He forgets all of that when the earthern goes for his throat, with a heavy swing that reminds him of the human that broke his mask. It pisses him off. He fights harder than he has in years, and slowly the anger fades to enjoyment. He flares his wings and tosses out comments just to see the earthern snarl. 

The human with the blood-thirsty hand destroys both of them. A loss is a loss, so he helps with their little barrier problem. It's not difficult after all, he's known how to dismantle them since his second century. The earthern confiscates the gun which irritates him, but he gives his name anyway. It's the first time that he reads pity in another Malaks eyes. He chooses to retreat instead of punching it off the frowning face. 

He forgets what it's like to live without Theodora and her eternal posy of children. He takes her presence for granted, trusts her when she says that she's got no plans to leave. It's a mistake. He ignores the warning signs, the way his domain and blessing feels weaker when he sleeps besides her. The darkness and anger that sometimes brews in their children's eyes. He forgets the feeling of blood soaking into his skin, it's not needed, he doesn't serve the Abey anymore. He forgets that Theo still reports to a higher power. 

After close to two hundred years of her presence, he loses her not to the Abbey or to a hellion, but to another Malak. An earthern that speaks of death as if its salvation, and hides his own turbulent thoughts behind icy walls.

He learns how to live without her.

It hurts.

He starts wearing a necklace, no one looks at him twice when he scratches his neck. The phantom feeling of chains is still there, but the warm leather is a shield in its own way. 

It's comforting.

He learns how to lie. 

It's easier than he expects.

He learns how to protect himself from the humans. He stops using the Abbey's name for him. It's not a name, he knows that now. 

It's hard. 

 He learns how to laugh again. 

The cherubs trust him swifter when he smiles at them first.

He relearns how to kill. 

It's harder the second time, memories resurfacing until sleep ceases to be a necessity.

He learns how to love again. 

It hurts just as much the second time.