#but casting hold person on her and wailing on her for a round seemed to do the trick lol

[invinciblerodent]

i just test drove my endgame plan for Petyr's build on Minsc in my "current", Iona playthrough.

well, uh.....

he may have joined the party all of one day ago, but the way he just carried us is VERY on brand for such a warrior of legend.

the fight in the Guild Hall took two rounds total. We took no damage whatsoever. And the only person we lost was the bodyguard that was standing in front of the Zhentarim fighter, nothing really that we could have done for her.

yeah, i feel like it's fair to say that this build is... viable lol.

(it's 5 levels of gloomstalker ranger, 3 levels of thief rogue, and 4 levels of battlemaster fighter, dual-wielding hand crossbows. it's.... kind of really OP. I felt actually bad for bullying the Zhents like this.)

[vodkassassin]

🥒✈ doing fuck marry kill using whoever. Obviously they will be overheard, by mqf, mbj, or both. Also can have sqh state his sexuality which is nothing. Ace rep baby.

Yesss danci I can always count on you! Thanks for slipping my hc ace!SQH in there. Ily @dancibayo

—

“I’m bored,” Shang Qinghua grandly announces.

“Yes, so you’ve said, fifteen times already,” Shen Qingqiu states dryly, but his friend steamrolls right over him.

“I am so bored, so,” Shang Qinghua says, “Shen-ge. Fuck, marry, kill.”

Shen Qingqiu startles, nearly dropping his fan. He whips around to stare at the other with wide eyes. Shang Qinghua props himself up onto his elbow and the grin that’s on his face is mischievous and evil.

“Wh—Airplane?” He nearly squawks, and then returns the grin. “No, stop—!”

Shang Qinghua’s grin nearly splits his face. “Fuck, marry, kill! Tianlang-jun—”

“No!” Shen Qingqiu laughs, reaching for the nearby cushion to chuck it at his cackling friend.

Shang Qinghua ducks the projectile and continues. “Tianlang-jun, Zhuzhi Lang—”

“Airplane!”

“And Sha Hualing!”

“Her?” Shen Qingqiu shrieks, diving for another pillow. His fan tumbles to the floor. “Out of everyone you could have picked for the choices, it had to be her?!”

Shang Qinghua, nimble bastard that he is, managed to avoid this cushion too. “First round will be easy! I definitely didn't have a brain blank and totally forgot anyone else existed. Plus! Shen-ge, I have to cater to the player! Bi-represent!”

“If it’s catering to the player, then this isn’t the game to play when it comes to you,” the Qing Jing peak lord grumbles.

He grabs his tea up from the table he sits at and down the entire cup in one go as if it’s a shot.

“You gotta choose!” Shang Qinghua needles, and Shen Qingqiu casts him a glare.

“Goddammit, fine,” he groans. “Um…. Fuck Tianlang-jun—”

Shang Qinghua bursts into laughter.

Shen Qingqiu scowls, but it directly contrasts the grin that is unwillingly stretching across his face. “What? At least I know he’s got experience!”

“Oh my god,” Shang Qinghua gasps, and then waves a hand. “Okay, go on, go on.”

He narrows his eyes at him, and then slowly continues. “Marry Zhuzhi-lang, and kill Sha Hualing.”

“Do you really hate her that much?” Shang Qinghua asks curiously.

“No,” Shen Qingqiu shrugs. “I mean, she’s practically a teenager, and I hate teenagers on principal, but no. She was just the only one left.”

“Fair enough,” Shang Qinghua bobs his head in acquiescence. “Why marry Zhuzhi-lang, though?”

“Well, I can’t fuck him—”

“I mean, you could, you monsterfucker—“

“You’re so goddamn rude, you know that?” Shen Qingqiu rolls his eyes. “He’s just way too…. too baby. I can’t fuck him, so marry it is.”

“Oh, yeah,” Shang Qinghua finally agrees, staring up at the ceiling in thought. “He is just baby, isn’t he? Okay, good choices, I agree.”

“Your turn,” Shen Qingqiu says dangerously. Immediately, Shang Qinghua raises his hands into the air in surrender.

“I can’t play this game!” He whines. “I can’t fuck anybody! That drastically tilts the answer results!”

“Just change fuck to something else!” Shen Qingqiu demands. “You don’t get to just be the one who asks the question every time, that’s boring as fuck. Listen — kiss, marry, kill?”

“Kissing is like, the same as marrying though,” Shang Qinghua squints at the ceiling. He’s lying on his back now, feet dangling off the side of the bed. He gives them tiny, little kicks as he thinks. “Maybe, like, cuddle?”

“Isn’t that the same as kissing?” Shen Qingqiu scoffs. “Just use kiss, moron.”

“Fine, okay, fine. So! Kiss, marry, kill… who?”

“Kiss, marry, kill… Liu Qingge, Mu Qingfang —”

“Oh my god, bro, please—”

“Listen, this is my revenge — and Mobei Jun.”

Shang Qinghua turns his head away from the so very fascinating ceiling just to glare at him. Shen Qingqiu feels so special, very loved. “You totally suck.”

Shen Qingqiu stoops down to grab his fan off the floor and flips it open just to smirk over the top of it at his friend. “You gotta choose.” He quotes.

“I fucking hate you.”

“I mean, you could go back to being bored, it’s all the same to me.”

Shang Qinghua scoffs, lifting his legs up and pressing the heels of his feet into the bed. “God, okay! Umm… kiss… uhh…”

Shen Qingqiu presses a hand against his mouth to smother his laughter. “I’ll wait.”

“Why the hell did you make this so hard for me?” His friend grumbles, crossing his arms over his chest. “You totally hate me don’t you? Um, kiss Mobei Jun—”

“Called it.”

“Shut up, monsterfucker. Kiss Mobei Jun, marry Mu Qingfang, and— oh fuck,” Shang Qinghua sits up and turns toward him, pout out at full force. “There’s only kill left! Shen-ge! I can’t kill Qingge!”

“You gotta,” Shen Qingqiu shakes his head sympathetically. “That’s the game.”

“This isn’t fair! I gave you an easy out on your first go with Sha Hualing, you have to return the favor!”

“You already started choosing!” Shen Qingqiu argues. “Anyone else I give you now is just me choosing a random person for you to kill!”

“I totally forgot kill was a choice after you gave me the names! Shen-geeeee!”

“Goddammit, fine! You can kill Yue Qingyuan, for me, okay?”

Shang Qinghua pauses his wailing to shoot him an amused look, pout vanishing into nothing. What a brat. “You really have it out for that guy, don’t you? Um, alright, sure, I’ll kill the sect leader for you, but only because we’re bros.”

“Don’t turn this back on me! You’re the one who begged me to give you someone else to kill! Anyway, it’s your turn.”

“Haha! Fuck, marry, kill — Rong Qingsheng, Ju Qingsong, and Qi Qingqi.”

“Easy,” Shen Qingqiu scoffs. “Fuck Rong Qingsheng, marry Qi Qingqi, and kill Ju Qingsong. At least try and make this hard for me, Shang-ge, c’mon.”

“Wow,” Shang Qinghua sits up again to look at him, tugging one of the thrown cushions into his lap to hold. “No hesitation at all! You decided that so fast… what’s the thought process?”

“Rong Qingsheng is pretty, and not a douche at all, so I’d rate him pretty up there on the fuckable scale just for that. Qi Qingqi is a scary lesbian Amazonian warrior, and if I wasn’t male I’d definitely go for her, but if she ever needed to marry a man as, like, a cover for her true lesbian activities while under the thumb a homophobic dystopian government or something, then I wouldn’t mind submitting my application for that.”

“She can be pretty, uh…” Shang Qinghua makes a face. “I mean—”

“Purposefully provocative because she likes watching macho men squirm when she takes them down a peg and also has bigger muscles than them?” Shen Qingqiu sighs dreamily. “Yes, it’s boss as fuck.”

“Okay, I wasn’t going to word it exactly like that, but yeah,” Shang Qinghua admits. “And Ju Qingsong?”

“He’s an annoying pest. Kill.”

“Bro!”

“What? Please, You cannot tell me that you haven’t daydreamed about wringing his neck even once?”

“I mean. He can be kinda—”

“Irritating? Aggravating? Drive-one-to-murder?”

“—But! Under all that he’s a good guy! He can be really sweet, actually! He’s only really like that because he’s got a useless gay crush on—!”

The door is kicked in. Shen Qingqiu startles, dropping his tea straight into his lap while Shang Qinghua gives a loud yelp and falls completely off the bed with a resounding thump.

They both whip around to stare in uneasy and slightly-guilty silence at the group of people standing outside the door.

“Oh my gods,” Ju Qingsong says, face pale and arm still outstretched. “It was so amusing at first, but please don’t kill me, I promise I’ll be better!”

Rong Qingsheng leans around the man and stares at them for a moment, before casting Shen Qingqiu a wink.

“I wouldn’t mind,” the mild-mannered man says, and Shen Qingqiu brings a hand up to rub over his face.

“Not that I’m not incredibly interested to hear what this was all about,” Mu Qingfang says, from behind them, and Shang Qinghua squeaks. “But, it’s time for Shen-shixiong to take his medicine.”

“Please don’t tell anyone,” Shang Qinghua pleads, holding his hands up to cover his beet-red face.

“I’ll do you one better,” Shen Qingqiu says calmly, pulling off the tea-drenched outer robe. “If any of you eavesdroppers have loose lips about what you heard here, to anyone, then I will kill you. Understand?”

Ju Qingsong makes an odd sound in his throat, one that sounds both terrified and furious, and the way that the man glances between him and the smirking Rong Qingsheng leads Shen Qingqiu to believe he knows exactly who Shang Qinghua was going to say his ‘crush’ was. How adorable. Too bad for him, then, that Rong Qingsheng seems to find him just as annoying as Shen Qingqiu does.

“There will be no murdering of martial family,” Mu Qingfang says mildly, stepping into the room. “Is that water boiled? I thought I’d try the tea blend, since the capsule form doesn’t agree with you, shixiong.”

“Many thanks,” Shen Qingqiu says.

“Oh, it’s never a problem. Shang-shixiong, Qingge was looking for you. I believe he has the location of one of those flying thunder beasts the two of you were discussing the other day?”

“I don’t wanna go monster hunting again,” Shang Qinghua wails. “Why can’t he just play go with me and call it a day?”

“You’ve overstayed your welcome, Shang-ge,” Shen Qingqiu tells him, smiling politely at the betrayed look his friend shoots him. “Would you mind escorting these two out?”

“See if I ever bring you the newest tea leaf export again,” the An Ding lord huffs, climbing to his feet. “Rong-shidi, Ju-shidi, lets go.”

“Qingsheng, Qingsheng, let's play that game too—!”

“I’m not doing this with you, Qingsong. Shang-shixiong, let's go. I wanted to talk to you about next month's produce quota.”

“Sure thing, Rong-shidi!”

“But, Qingsheng—!”

“Bye, Shen-ge, see you later!” Shang Qinghua chines cheerfully as he tugs the moping man after him. Rong Qingsheng walks out ahead of them. “I had a lot of fun today!”

“Sure,” Shen Qingqiu says, fan fluttering before his face.

He’d enjoyed it too, of course, but he’d never say that out loud. Besides, Airplane already knows, right? There’s no need.

[ahgaseda]

pray | two

you are more than my existence, please listen to my prayer, hold me, tell me about myself, call my name so I can know who I am...

summary : everyone knows of the unspeakable evil that lives on the mountain, but you willingly sacrifice yourself to the demon named Jaebeom, as long as he takes you far away from the monster waiting for you at home.

warnings : strong profanity, explicit dialogue, instances of blood and violence, graphic sexual content, black magic themes, potentially triggering elements that involve mentions of past child abuse, mental health, etc.

miniseries chapters : one / two / three / four / five / six / seven

For the first few days, you returned to the border without fail. Waiting, but mostly hoping and praying that an entrance was made for you. It went without saying you navigated the edge of the forest, searching for the slightest break in the trees and thorns for you to slip inside. You were ready to endure any injury to be back where you belonged.

Of one thing you were certain - you hated Jaebeom. How he had taken everything from you. It was selfish and cruel, and you would never forgive him for it as long as you lived.

After weeks passed and the woods remained silent as the grave, wholly impenetrable, you finally surrendered. The last time you stood before the forest, you bid her a tender farewell.

You would give anything to know Jaebeom felt your pain, that he longed for you in his heart as much as you did for him. The woods must have been lonely.

Did you cross his mind at all? Even for just a moment?

A voice came from behind you, jeering, “And here she is again, staring at a wall of trees.”

“Hello, Gale,” you droned with disinterest.

A more arrogant and disdainful boy never existed than Gale. As a child, he often led the charge of children throwing rocks as you passed by. He always shouted the loudest when it came to how alone and pitiful you were.

But in more recent years, as you developed into a young woman, his gaze became less scornful and more filled with something worse.

He came to stand beside you, though his presence was unwanted, and spoke mischievously, “I can think of much better ways to occupy your time.”

“I’m sure you could,” you spoke, monotonous and uninterested.

Neither your body language or tone could dissuade him. “Everyone has advised me against my attraction to you,” he continued, moving even closer to your side.

You avoided his eyes and retorted, “For that I am eternally grateful.”

Gale ignored your response altogether and said, “They say you’re wild, untamed, and that you would not be a good, dutiful wife.”

Music to my ears, you mused, fighting back a grin. “They are absolutely right.”

Gale crept closer, until you could smell him, until you could feel his hot breath on the top of your shoulder. Your entire body bristled, wary.

“I spent a lot of time with horses, the kind we use for war, and I can assure you,” he whispered coldly. “Even the wildest of them can be broken into submission.”

You rounded on him, refusing to show him even the slightest of fear, and countered, “I’m not a horse. I’m a woman. And I would defy you with every breath in my body until the day I died.”

Gale’s lips broke into a broad smile and he cooed, “And that is what I desire about you.”

You rolled your eyes, parting from the border with a rush to your step. Gale was unnerving. There was malice in his eyes. He didn’t see you as a human, he made that abundantly clear. To him you were an animal, a trophy; something to own and mount on the wall.

He followed you closely, losing what little patience he had. “I would rather you accept my proposal willingly.”

You snorted and kept walking, exclaiming, “That was a proposal?”

“Yes,” he replied, puffing out his chest. “I want you for my wife.”

The mere thought set a bad taste on your tongue. You frowned, wrinkling your nose, and said, “I have no interest in having you as my husband.”

Angered, Gale grabbed your arm roughly and yanked you back, nearly knocking you off of your feet if not for how solidly he gripped you. “And do you think you will ever find better than me?” he shouted, leering over you.

You stared up at him in defiance and said, “I already found better than you and I loved him. And I can still taste his kisses.”

Gale blinked rapidly, shock fading into jealousy. “Is that so? Then, where is he? I do hope I’m invited to the wedding,” he sneered, mocking.

You bit your lip, eyes filling with tears at the memory of Jaebeom casting you out of the forest.

“You are an insane little thing,” Gale muttered, tightening his grip on your arms until you whimpered. “If not for how beautiful you are, I would never waste my time on you.”

At that, Gale released you harshly and skulked away, leaving you with your tears.

You turned a little, gazing solemnly at the forest in the distance. It was time to let go, time to move on. You would have to focus on self-preservation for the foreseeable future. And so you stopped visiting the border, forcing yourself to keep from looking in the woods’ direction.

On the morning of your eighteenth birthday, you wanted nothing more than to stay in bed. It had been a year since you last saw Jaebeom.

Despite your sadness, your father would never allow you to spend a day in your room and you continued on as if it were any other Thursday. You sat at the table and picked at your breakfast.

Your father did little to hide his eagerness at the offers he received for your hand in marriage. He planned to build his small fortune on your back.

However, the current war waged between men had put a delay on the arranged marriage. And your father’s temper had never been worse.

He reached sharply across the table and grabbed your wrist, growling, “You had better make this man happy. I will hear nothing of you resisting his advances. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, father,” you spoke submissively. You knew nothing of the man he mentioned, only that he would soon own you.

There used to be more fire in you, but it had burned out. Every day felt as cold as the forest had been when she was taken from you.

Your father continued to rant, but his voice faded into the background. All you could think about was the kiss with Jaebeom on your last birthday. Your first kiss. And you shared it with a demon in the canopy of the forest, watching the sun go down.

There was nothing that could compare, nothing that could ease the pain of having lost your only friend on the same day you realized you were in love with him.

Commotion outside tore you from your melancholy thoughts.

Your father glanced through the window, brows stitching, and huffed irritably, “Damn kids harassing something again.”

That piqued your attention. You excused yourself and gathered your heavy skirt in your hands, hurrying outside to see what the rowdy neighborhood boys had found this time. Once you rescued a nest of eggs from their clutches. On another occasion you saved a fawn with an injured leg from their amusement.

This time, the boys were chasing a little black shadow and cornered it along the fence by the chicken coop. Only when you squinted and looked closer did you realize it was a baby panther.

“What is wrong with you?” you exclaimed, snatching a stick from one of the boys’ hands and slapping him over the head with it. “It’s just a baby, you brat!”

“Give it to me,” jeered another boy. “My father can make a little rug from its pelt.”

“I will skin you first if you touch it,” you threatened with a snarl, approaching the small beast delicately.

She seemed to sense your intentions and did not attempt to bite when you hoisted her up by the scruff. You cradled her in your arms, seeing she was female, and spoke soothingly to her.

The little cub wailed, starving for food.

The door to the nearby house burst open and a man wielding a knife yelled, “That little beast killed two of my chickens!”

Your eyes widened at the weapon he brandished and you knew the cub was about to suffer a brutal fate. You couldn’t stomach the thought and so you did what you had always done.

You ran.

The boys shouted with disappointment and called for their fathers. The man preparing to butcher the cub warned of punishment you would endure for blatantly defying him. Another voice, belonging to your father, broke through them all, demanding you stop dead in your tracks.

You listened to none, thinking only of the innocent beast in your arms. She gave no struggle, only gazed up at you with warm yellow eyes. For an animal, she seemed well-aware of the dire situation.

You ran until the border came in sight. Months had passed since you saw its thorns. They had not moved even an inch since the day you were barred from entry, but you had to try.

“You have to let me in,” you yelled with conviction. “I won’t let them kill her!”

The little cub mewled in your arms.

For a moment, you were met with only silence and your heart sank. Someone or something had weighed the scales and did not find in your favor. Tears filled your eyes and you whimpered, desperate.

Then, the forest groaned. It knew your voice, even after all this time.

The boughs shifted and the thorns parted. You were given the smallest of entries, enough space for one person as if you were a highly kept secret. You knew, thought it went unsaid, that the forest would certainly seal itself again in your wake, trapping you inside forever.

This was it.

You contemplated setting the cub at the edge and ushering her inside, but there was no one to feed or protect her. Then, you looked down at the cub and chuckled at your own hesitation. Your heart belonged in the forest and now you could finally return home.

You pressed inside, vanishing into the darkness.

After only a few steps, the thorns came alive again. No one would be able to follow you.

You cradled the cub close to your chest protectively and walked. You had no idea where to go, no thought of where you should go. You merely walked among the trees, breathing in the icy air that tickled your skin.

The forest had darkened. Light struggled to seep through the canopy. You could hardly see ahead and your breath appeared like smoke from your mouth. The cub noticed too and burrowed against your breasts for warmth.

“Don’t worry,” you cooed, exhaling heavily so your breath was manifest. “I’m a dragon.”

The joke may have amused you, but it was lost on the cub’s ears. She whined and hid her face in your arms with a mewl.

You pressed on, reaching the small clearing that once made your heart soar. The ground was brittle, the grass had died. A howl echoed amidst the darkness.

The forest had remained bound in winter for an entire year.

Rustling tickled your ears. The air chilled even more. Ice nearly formed on your lips and lashes. You shivered in place, hands turning numb. But you stood firm, knowing he had come.

Jaebeom descended from the shadows above and your heart jumped wildly in your ribcage. His feet touched the ground and his wings swept gracefully around him, coming to perch over his head.

“I told you,” Jaebeom warned through clenched jaws. “Never to come back here.”

You glared vehemently at him, how he could treat you with such frigid judgment. But you were quick to notice the year had not treated him kindly either. Darkness marred his beautiful, piercing eyes. Even more ink seemed to be branded across his chest. Despite the anger coursing through you, you wanted nothing more than to kiss him and melt the ice.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” you murmured shakily, glancing down at the beast you had smuggled inside. “They wanted to slaughter this little cub.”

Jaebeom took a step closer, peering down at the ebony creature in your arms. She turned and with one look at him, hissed in defiance. You fought a grin, pleased at her reaction.

That was why the forest let you in, Jaebeom mulled with a frown. Your willingness to protect nature. The wood heeded his wishes, but he was also required to heed hers. It was a mutual, symbiotic relationship.

Though he cursed the forest in his mind for letting you inside, he knew she would hear no argument of sending you back.

Jaebeom moved closer, wings dragging the ground behind him. “Are you afraid, cheonsa?” he asked lowly, almost in intimidation.

You hardened your gaze and replied, “No.”

Jaebeom tilted his head and persisted, “But you know I’m a monster.”

You eyed the great horns on his head and scoffed. “You are no monster compared to them.”

Jaebeom came even nearer and you could hardly breathe. Winter had taken residence in his chest and was freezing everything around him. He reached out and stroked a thumb over your cheek. You sucked in a breath. Despite his cold, he carried the scent of a raging wildfire, destroying all in its path.

“If I steal you away, you will be my bride,” Jaebeom reminded, his voice almost like a song. “Can you fathom that - being the demon’s bride?”

You countered, “You can’t steal what is already yours.”

Jaebeom’s eyes flickered and he was tempted to smile. A year for you had been an eternity for him. It still perplexed him how he had been able to survive for so long without you. His wings arched, flaring out in display.

“You broke my heart, Jaebeom,” you whispered morosely. “You chose my life for me.”

Jaebeom nodded, apologetic though he dared not apologize. “Fate had other plans,” he replied gruffly.

“If not for the war, I would be married by now,” you told him with a foul taste in your mouth, then snorted. “It’s been a year. I would undoubtedly have a child as well.”

Jaebeom stuttered, imagining the great swell of your belly or the sight of a dark-haired newborn nursing at your breast. He could barely force out the question, “Do you… want children?”

For the past year, you had been forced to give the notion plenty of thought. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you replied softly, “If I have a child I want them to be from a place of love and passion. Not convenience or obligation.”

“I understand,” said Jaebeom with a nod, glancing down at the cub once more. The little thing promptly gave a high-pitched growl at him.

You looked up at him with wide eyes, surprised. “Do you?”

“Yes.”

Your cheeks flushed as you asked, “Is that what you want from me?”

“What?” Jaebeom exclaimed. “No.”

You searched his face in confusion and pressed, “Then, why do you have to take a bride?”

Jaebeom pursed his lips and spoke dryly, “The Master commands it.”

You shuddered when you realized who he was referring to and said, “He’s not here. Why do it?”

“As we age our magic grows,” Jaebeom explained, surprisingly patient. “That’s why the forest is saturated in black magic.”

You waited.

“We have to find someone, someone we can bond our souls with, or the magic will become too much. It will kill us.”

Your eyes widened. “You mean, I will bear magic?”

He gave a single nod. “Yes.”

Your imagination ran wild and you asked, “Will I grow horns or wings?”

“No, you will stay as you are, but the sun will not smile upon you any longer.”

You sighed, softening a little, “I will be doomed to live in the darkness. Just like you. That’s why you pushed me away.”

Jaebeom’s eyes shone with unshed tears and he reached to cup your cheek, desperate to feel your skin beneath his fingertips again. He pulled you close, lips mere inches from yours, and whispered, “I saw you in the sun. I could never bring myself to take that away from you.”

You set your jaw and replied, “They can keep the sun, but you stole away my light for a year. For what I thought would be the rest of my life.”

Jaebeom winced, hearing that pained him though he already knew it deeply. “I promise, I will spend every day until my last making it up to you.”

You fought a smile, lowering your head to hide the corners of your mouth lifting.

Jaebeom slipped his hand beneath your chin, tilting up until your eyes were on him again. “Well?”

You sang quietly, “The demon comes to take her away. On a bed of stars they will lay.”

Jaebeom smirked before finishing, “And never again will she see the light of day.”

You giggled. It should have come as no surprise he knew the songs your people sang of his kind.

A scream sharply pierced the forest, making your blood run cold. You whirled around, shuffling backwards in horror. Jaebeom wrapped his arms around your waist and steered you behind him.

“What is that?” you gasped. The cub in your arms stirred restlessly, terrified.

“The forest is wounded,” he told you angrily, charging forward. His great wings fanned out, bristling with aggression.

Gale stepped with purpose inside, sword glistening with the dew of trees and vines. He had cut and sliced an opening for himself in pursuit of you.

The moment Jaebeom came into view, Gale gripped the hilt with both hands and held it before himself, shouting, “Stay back, demon!”

Jaebeom was livid and snarled, “You dare bring steel inside this place?”

You molded yourself to his back, a hand on Jaebeom’s arm, and called incredulously, “Gale, what are you doing?”

Gale felt his blood boiling at the sight of you in a demon’s clutches and said, “I saw you run here. I know you’ve been entering the forbidden woods all along.”

Jaebeom snapped, “Be gone from here.”

“Like hell I will,” Gale retorted. “Do you think you can steal my fiancee?”

Jaebeom scowled, seething.

“Your what?” you blurted in disbelief. “Gale, I said I will never marry you!”

“Your father agreed.”

You stood there dumbfounded. It was your worst nightmare come true.

Jaebeom’s wings rustled, a testament to his fury - and his restraint.

Gale held out his hand and called your name. “Come. He won’t take you while I have a sword.”

Jaebeom grimaced, eyeing the weapon with nothing short of loathing.

You let your hand slip down Jaebeom’s arm, moving past him until he was behind you. Jaebeom didn’t stop you. He knew the choice was yours and he would have to live with whatever you decided.

“You said I was insane,” you told Gale, gazing down at the cub against your chest. “Maybe I am. But not nearly insane enough to marry the likes of you.”

Gale recoiled and his face tensed with rage. “You little bitch, come with me now. I bought you fair and square!”

You met his eyes and felt only sympathy. And after a pause, you said, “I am where I belong.”

Jaebeom moved faster than you thought possible, sweeping you in his arms and taking to the air with a forceful beat of his great wings.

Gale’s shouts and threats faded into the rushing of wind.

You gripped Jaebeom tightly, gasping for air and lost for words. The demon soared through the forest, branches moving from his path and birds singing his arrival. When he broke through the canopy, you gasped at the thick fog around you, the same clouds you remembered surrounding the mountain.

Jaebeom flew higher and higher. Your ears began to ring. Your breaths were labored. You had never been at such an altitude. The cub in your arms screamed its confusion.

With you in his arms, the demon burst through the clouds, alighting on a precipice of stone. You looked around curiously, gasping at the sight of a looming castle before you.

For a moment, you held Jaebeom tightly, peering over the crest of his shoulder. He rather liked the heat of your rapid panting on his neck and made no moves to set you down.

“Where are we?”

“Home,” Jaebeom replied softly.

“This is your home?” you asked, voice trembling from the flight as you gawked at the many turrets and towers.

“Our home,” Jaebeom whispered in your ear, nuzzling his face in your hair. The scent of you was overwhelming.

“And what about this little shadow?” you asked, leaning down to kiss the brow of your baby panther. She closed her eyes contentedly at your affection though her fur still stood on end from defying gravity.

Jaebeom lowered you to the ground, an arm wrapped around your waist until you found your balance. “She’s all yours,” he droned. “I’ll have no part in raising her.”

“Shadow,” you mulled to yourself, meeting the yellow eyes of your new companion. “I quite like that name.”

You placed the cub on the ground and she danced at your feet, following you dutifully as you walked with Jaebeom into the castle. The demon pushed open the double doors and you stepped into the endless stone foyer, the pitter-patter of your bare feet echoing down the walls.

“It’s massive,” you said, gazing up at the ceiling and spinning in a circle.

“Mostly unused,” Jaebeom told you blithely. “I tend to keep myself between the bedroom and the kitchen.”

You chuckled, twirling again. Little Shadow refused to part from your feet.

Jaebeom watched you with delight, but you would have never known given the lack of expression on his face. “That… human in the forest,” he began.

“Gale.”

Jaebeom clearly wanted more explanation than that and pressed, “He was your betrothed?”

You laughed. “No. Definitely not.”

Jaebeom still wasn’t satisfied. “He seemed to think so.”

You finally faced him and quipped, “Then, he is much crazier than he ever said I was.”

Jaebeom tilted his head, smiling slightly. “Do your people consider you insane?”

You beamed with pride. “Very much so.”

The demon chuckled.

You studied him, approaching him with purpose in your step, and began, “All of my betrothals fell through. Men were ready to pay for ownership of me. Did you have something to do with their failures?”

Jaebeom shrugged and replied, “Men are preoccupied with the war between realms.”

You cocked a brow. “And how would you know that?”

“I have prayed every day since you left that the war would never end,” Jaebeom told you solemnly.

Folding your arms, you shot back, “I didn’t leave. I was cast out.”

Jaebeom felt his heart clench and hardened his gaze. He reached out and took your hand, bringing it to his lips for a chaste kiss. “And how long are you going to hold that against me?”

You smiled up at him and smarted, “For as long as it pleases me.”

Jaebeom wanted to chuckle. His heart was spinning, dancing in circles. Every moment you stood there before him he found it harder and harder to breathe.

When he woke up this morning, he had no idea you would be with him.

But here you were, the brightest of smiles on your lips, traveling up to your glistening eyes. Jaebeom was hopelessly drowning in his feelings for you.

You blushed when he wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you flush against him. His bare chest was hot beneath your fingertips and you wanted to trace the pattern of one of his many tattoos.

“Do you accept me as your husband?”

You stared up at him, the grin making your cheeks hurt, and replied with a single nod, “I do.”

Jaebeom ran his thumb over your bottom lip, studying you intently. “Come with me then,” he beckoned with a low voice.

“Where?”

“To bed,” he replied bluntly, taking your hand and leading you beside him.

Your eyes widened and you asked curiously, “Are you trying to bed me without a wedding?”

He looked over his shoulder. “When I said make you my bride…”

“Oh, I see,” you said, planting your feet and letting your hand slip from his grasp. “I want something more binding.”

Jaebeom stopped, pivoting on his heels to face you, and his wings shuddered with excitement. “There is nothing more binding than me claiming you as my own.”

You found your resolve and reminded him, “Once upon a time, I offered myself to you.”

Jaebeom paused, heart heavy, and murmured, “I remember.”

Your lip trembled. “You made me feel unworthy.”

Jaebeom asserted, “I was the one that wasn’t worthy.”

You sighed. There you stood in the castle of a demon, about to become his bride for all eternity. You had prayed and wished for freedom and protection all your life, and he would forever be your lighthouse in the storm.

One day you would let go of your anger.

“I fully intend to surrender my virtue to you, Jaebeom,” you told him. “But first, I want marriage.”

Jaebeom wrinkled his nose. “Hmph.”

“And a wedding,” you added, at this point resorting to humor to relieve the tension you caused.

“Fine,” he said shortly.

“It can be just us,” you continued, slipping back into his embrace and wrapping your arms around his waist. “And someone obviously to perform the ceremony. Whatever you desire.”

Jaebeom roamed his hands to rest on your hips and his great wings moved instinctively around you, shielding you from invisible dangers. “My only desire is you…,” he finally revealed. “And whatever makes you happy.”

You batted your lashes. “I would not be opposed to a white dress, if you happen to have one.”

Jaebeom exhaled loudly, searching his thoughts for where in hell’s name he could find one. “I need to send a few letters.”

At that, his hands slipped free of your body and he began striding down the hall.

You followed him eagerly, hot on his heels, and asked with excitement, “Does this mean we will fly again?”

Jaebeom turned, brows furrowed. “No,” he replied flatly, pushing a door open and pointing inside. “Stairs.”

“How boring,” you whined, proceeding forward.

The two of you appeared in one of the higher towers, a turret with glassless windows. Ravens congregating inside squawked at your sudden arrival, but quieted at the sight of their fellow winged creature.

Jaebeom took small rolls of paper on the nearby table and began scribbling with a narrow piece of charcoal. You watched in silence as he prepared six brief letters, tucking each into the ankle band of a crow and sending it out into the sky.

“Ravens,” you thought aloud. “We use doves.”

“Doves have very small attention spans and even smaller brains,” Jaebeom deadpanned.

You giggled.

Returning to the main hallway from the tower, Jaebeom said, “Come along. I will show you to your room.”

“My room?” you questioned in pleasant surprise.

Jaebeom held out his arm and you looped yours in the crook of his elbow. “Assuming you won’t come to bed with me until we’re married, it would be poor manners to put you in my room.”

You chuckled. “I see.”

He escorted you to a door and explained, “This is the only spare bedroom that gets any use. My fellow demons sometimes stay here when they come to this side of the forest.”

You nodded to let him know you understood.

Jaebeom pushed the door open and ushered you inside.

“Oh,” you gasped, eyes widening at the scale of your room. Massive windows graced the far wall, curtains blowing lightly in the breeze. The bed lay in the center, on a raised platform, and a canopy of white gossamer material gathered overhead, tied to each of the bedposts.

Your vision darted to the desk along the wall, littered in writing materials. Then, you looked to the bookshelf and quaint reading nook, wanting to throw yourself on the velvet chaise and feel its warmth.

Shadow bolted inside, nearly colliding into your legs, and began to survey the room for herself. You giggled at her joy, following after the baby panther and plopping down on the side of the bed.

Jaebeom struggled to hide his smile more than ever, but his pale face stayed constant. He proceeded to say his goodbyes, allowing you to get settled with privacy.

“Jaebeom,” you called, before he could shut the door.

Jaebeom stuck his head back in and asked, “Yes?”

You gripped the side of the bed, your legs hanging and unable to touch the floor, and hoped he would sate your curiosity. “Do demons really steal away only the most beautiful of mortal women for their brides?”

Jaebeom bobbed his head. “Those of us doomed to live among mortals have no other choice. The Master keeps all she-demons in Hell with him.”

You blinked. “Oh.”

Jaebeom shifted his weight, his wings curling to his back almost in embarrassment as he continued, “We aren’t like your kind. No demon forces a woman into bed with him.”

You had tried to veil the question, but clearly he had realized what you were after and his answer put you at ease.

“We mate for life. Whoever we give ourselves to is our mate until we die. We need them to want us.”

You stood, approaching him somberly. “Am I free to leave? If there ever came a time…”

Though you had accepted him, Jaebeom understood you would want reassurance that you weren’t a prisoner in his castle. “I could not stop you,” he said, tender.

“Even if I am your mate?”

“Then, I would go the rest of my life with half of me missing.”

That’s right, you remembered. He said you would bear magic. “It sounds intense,” you told him. “So final.”

Jaebeom snorted. “We demons tend to live in extremes. Very dramatic, the lot of us.”

Heat flushed your cheeks when you asked shyly, “Would you prefer to have a demoness as your mate?”

Jaebeom shrugged. “I’ve never laid eyes on one.”

You looked down bashfully, tucking hair behind your ear, and mumbled, “I’m sure they’re far more beautiful than I am.”

Jaebeom felt his hands twitching with the urge to take you in his arms again as he whispered, “Nothing in this world or beneath it is more beautiful than you are.”

You lifted your head, gazing up at him while your heart fluttered.

“I’ve said too much,” Jaebeom huffed, gliding back to the door. “Rest now, cheonsa.”

“Why do you call me that?”

He paused, then teased, “It means… clumsy one, in my mother tongue.”

Somehow, you knew that wasn’t true.

Turning back to your room, you grinned and danced on your toes. It was a far cry from your little cot in the attic of your father’s house. Shadow whined at you, curling comfortably on the bed.

But you couldn’t sleep. Excitement raced violently through your veins. You smiled until you covered your face with your hands. Despite having no wings on your back, you swore you could fly.

Here you were, stepping into a new life; one you had always dreamt of, but could never reach.

As you lay on your back in bed, comforted by the crisp night air slipping past your curtains and into your sheets, you thought of Jaebeom. Your mind was consumed with memories of him.

You licked your lips, thinking of his broad chest and muscled arms. He had felt so strong when he carried you through the forest, as if you had been weightless. You imagined it must take endless restraint to keep from breaking you.

Your pulse quickened as you thought of your kiss beneath the trees, how carefully he had laid you on a bed of grass. How gentle his caresses and touches had been.

You tossed and turned a last time before giving up. Such a fool, you thought. As much as you had longed for Jaebeom, every moment of every day for the past year, to be sleeping in the room across the hall from him.

Smirking, you sat up in bed, looking to the baby panther asleep on one of the pillows. You gave her chin a scratch and sang, “Stay here, little Shadow.”

The door to Jaebeom’s room creaked no matter how slowly you pushed it open and you winced. To your relief, the figure in bed did not stir. Tiptoeing closer, you marveled his wings and how they tucked to his body like armor whilst he slept.

You pushed aside the wisp of curtains hanging from his bedframe and climbed onto the mattress, propping yourself over him. How beautiful he was, you thought. You were green with envy at the length of his lashes.

Leaning in, you pressed your lips to his with the most innocent of kisses.

His eyes slowly opened. Clearly he had not been asleep.

“Why are you…” Jaebeom began.

“I changed my mind,” you interjected.

He cocked a brow. “About?”

You straddled his hips and pulled the nightgown over your head, revealing your naked body for the first time.

Jaebeom swallowed the lump in his throat, eyes on your breasts before returning to your face. “No wedding?” he asked, more so for your benefit.

“Yes, wedding and the white dress,” you said levelly. “Tomorrow.”

Jaebeom brought his hands to your thighs, caressing his way to your hips and waist. Then, he confessed like a solemn vow, “All I’ve thought about is you. Every waking moment is you. Every dream I dream is of you.”

You felt tears in your eyes and whispered, “Kiss me, Jaebeom.”

He didn’t have to be told twice. Jaebeom sat up, ensnaring your body in his arms and molding his lips to yours. You held his face in your hands, kissing him back with desire before raking your fingers through his dark hair.

Jaebeom rose with you in his arms, guiding your legs to lock around his waist. His massive wings were daunting as they shrouded protectively over you. They shuddered and rustled with arousal, restless.

You slipped your hands through his locks and gripped his horns, feeling their ridges from base to tip. They were sharp, no surprise there, but Jaebeom seemed to feel nothing.

His wings were entirely different. The moment you touched where they connected to his shoulders, the wings came alive, fluttering. You danced your fingertips through his feathers, pleased at the way Jaebeom’s breaths staggered out as you kissed and touched him.

When you had your fill, you took his hand, fingers covered in black script, and brought it to your mouth, pressing kiss after kiss to his knuckles.

Jaebeom returned your affection, lingering his lips on the curve of your neck, trailing kisses to your collarbone and the swell of your breast. His hand slipped from your grasp and his palms roamed your body, drawn to the softness of your skin. You let out a small whimper when his thumbs rolled over your nipples.

Finally, he tightened his arms around you and asked, “Are you sure?”

You gave him a nod. “Yes.”

Jaebeom pressed his lips to your chest, squarely over your heart. The brands appeared, flesh-colored. Not stark black like his. The markings blended in with your skin.

You clenched your teeth and hissed. The burn of his branding was not painful, but the searing heat took you by surprise. You relaxed when you realized you were in no discomfort.

Then, you tipped your head back and moaned softly. Magic was coursing through your veins, from the tips of your fingers to the soles of your feet. White hot fire pulsed from your heart, like you were consumed in flames.

Jaebeom pulled back, gazing down at his handiwork. The script was in his mother tongue, which one day he hoped you would speak fluently with him. The magic would seep into your bones, living inside you until you both returned to the earth.

“The first of many,” Jaebeom growled, eager to see more brands spread from the anchor across your heart.

You smiled down at him, reaching for his naked chest to trace your fingertips over winding letters that lined his muscles.

Jaebeom cradled your face, running a thumb over your cheek affectionately. You couldn’t part your gaze from his eyes for even a moment.

“Please be gentle,” you whispered shyly.

Jaebeom tugged you down, kissing your lips. Then, his hand parted from your face and landed on your naked breast. “You will never know pain from me, my love,” he growled, kneading your mound. “Only pleasure.”

You swallowed thickly, desperate to kiss him again.

Jaebeom gathered you in his arms and turned, laying you softly on your back and making a place for himself between your thighs. His great wings arched and splayed, hiding you within.

His wings shuddered as he made love to you, like the ecstasy of your body unhinged them. You would never forget how it felt to be one with him, how he not only filled you, but made you overflow. And Jaebeom would never forget how you cried out his name when he found release in you.

Never had you been more satisfied. Every ache in your body was gone, never to return. The longing in your soul had dissipated. You were completely whole. All of your life you had been running and searching.

Finally, you were home.

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[solarishashernoseinabook]

67, Hill (Horace/Will)

Thanks Mel! Story is below the cut ^-^

LInk to the prompts if you wanna send one in!

67. “I want to start a family of our own…”

Snow settled on Horace's head and shoulders, clinging to his cloak and occasionally sliding off his cowl. Beside him, Will was doing only a little better. He had taken out the black and white patterned cloak he had used in Norgate and between that, the snow covering his shoulders, and Tug's white coat, he was virtually invisible.

'You're sure this is the right direction?' Horace asked.

'Yeah,' Will said. 'The--' Tug abruptly shook his mane to get the snow out of it and Will was forced to close his eyes as the snow landed on his face. Horace smothered a snort of laughter that turned into a guffaw when Will opened his eyes to glare at him through snow-encrusted lashes. 'Very funny,' he said, wiping his face. 'Anyway, the tracks from the cart are still clear.'

'But it's been hours.' Horace cast his eyes over the snowy path before them. 'And I don't see a thing.'

'You can see where the wheels left an impression, look, the snow hasn't eliminated them yet.'

Horace squinted. 'Oh, yeah, there they are,' he said, though in truth he didn't see a thing.

'Anyway, we're gaining on him. A cart won't be moving fast in this weather,' Will said.

Horace was going to nod when they reined in their horses. From around a corner in the trail they heard a sound like an animal in distress.

They exchanged looks, then Will drew an arrow and laid it on his bow, urging Tug forward at a walk. Horace loosened his sword in its scabbard and followed him.

They rounded the corner and paused in confusion. There was no sign of an animal, but the cart was there - sans both horse and the thief who had stolen it. Will put the arrow back, knowing he could draw it in a split second if he had to, and trotted Tug forward to examine the ground around it. Horace followed, but stayed towards the rear of the cart so as not to interfere.

'He unhitched the horse, you can see where he was standing to do that,' Will said, pointing at faint marks in the snow.

Horace nodded. He heard the noise again and looked at the cart curiously. One box was shaped differently from the rest and had a blanket haphazardly thrown over it.

'Looks like he went through the trees to the north,' WIll said.

'Will,' Horace said slowly.

'His trail is still clear, I can go after him--'

'Will, there's a baby in the cart,' Horace said.

Will jumped off Tug and hurried over. Horace had drawn back the blanket covering the box, revealing a box lined in more blankets. The baby was wearing a knitted wool cap and matching mittens, one of which it was sucking on and occasionally whimpering.

'That must be why he suddenly abandoned the cart,' Will said after a moment. 'He must've heard the baby and realised he was on the hook for kidnapping instead of just theft and panicked.'

'Why didn't anyone mention the baby was in here?' Horace asked.

'I don't think the person who reported it knew,' Will said. 'The man who came to me said he saw his neighbour's cart being stolen while they were inside getting more things to load it with. It's just a little village, one of those ones where everyone keeps an eye on each other's things, so they must have felt okay leaving their baby for just a couple minutes, but then, well...'

'Well, we can't go after the thief now,' Horace said.

'No. Can't go and fetch anyone to bring the cart back, either, and we don't have anything to hook our horses up to it,' Will said, sighing. 'We'll have to take the baby back and bring someone back here for the cart.'

'Should one of us stay?' Horace asked, but Will shook his head.

'Neither of us can fight while having a baby with us,' he said. 'Now let's go, it'll be hours yet before we get to the village and this baby's parents must be frantic.'

Horace lifted the baby out of the box, taking as many of the blankets along as possible, and settled the baby against his chest. He carefully navigated Kicker away from the cart and followed Will down a side trail through the trees.

*

'I think he's hungry,' Will said. The baby let loose another long wail.

'Do you think he's eating food yet?' Horace said doubtfully. 'We don't have milk or anything.'

'I think - ouch! - I think he's eating food, he's got teeth.' Will shook his hand to dispel the pain in his finger.

'Well, this is as good a place to stop as any,' Horace said, reining in. He reached into his saddlebags for small camp stools, little arrangements of wood and canvas that collapsed for easy transport, and set them up while Will carefully dismounted Tug with the baby. They had switched after a few hours when Horace's arm had begun to tire from holding him so firmly in place.

'I've got some bread in my kit, can you get that?' Will said, sinking to one of the stools. The stool barely protruded past the level of the snow, but it was better than nothing.

Horace nodded and quickly found the half loaf Will was referring to. He sat on the stool next to Will's and tore a bit of it off. 'Okay, here you go.' He smiled at the baby, but the baby seemed more content to chew on his mitten and whine than take the proffered morsel.

'You might have to feed him,' Will said.

'What if he bites me?'

'Be quick?'

Horace turned a withering stare on Will, but held the bit of bread by a corner and stuck it in the baby's mouth the next time he opened his mouth to wail. The baby chewed thoughtfully and swallowed.

After a moment Horace offered the baby another piece, and he almost tipped out of Will's arms moving forward to get it. Will and Horace both moved their hands to catch him before he tumbled.

They looked into each other's eyes, and after a moment Will smiled softly. 'A lot of work, isn't it?'

'I've had an easier time teaching first year apprentices,' Horace said, chuckling. He kissed Will's cheek. 'Just hold him a bit closer and I'll do the rest.'

Will propped the baby on his knee and Horace fed him bread bits at a time for the next half hour. Finally the baby turned away from the food to crane his head back and look up at Will, and Will looked back down at him.

Then the baby smiled and Will smiled back, and Horace felt his heart melt. He spent a moment gazing at them before Kicker snorted, jerking him out of his reverie. He shook his head and stood. 'Anyway, we should go.'

'Yeah,' Will said quickly, standing. 'We should be there in another hour or so.'

'Good,' Horace said. 'Let me take him so you can get on Tug.'

*

The village was extraordinarily small - only a dozen small buildings, with even the inn only being a single floor - and it looked like every one of the inhabitants were grouped outside one of the houses around a crying young woman. They were all taking turns comforting her or giving her handkerchiefs. As Will and Horace approached, a man came out of the house with a teapot, poured a mug, and coaxed the woman to have a sip from it.

Horace stood in his stirrups and waved. 'Hullo! Hullo there!'

The assembled villagers turned to them, standing quickly.

'Matthew!' the young woman shrieked. She jumped up from her seat, letting the mug of tea drop to the floor of the porch, and ran to them, her shawl falling from her shoulders to flutter to the snow. A young man stuck his head out from the house, and when he saw them he ran after the woman without bothering with his boots, apparently not feeling the snow against his bare feet.

Horace swung down from the saddle and Will handed the baby to him before dismounting himself. At that moment the woman was upon them and swept the baby up in her arms, crying all over again, and the young man - apparently her husband - put his arms around her and their son.

'I'm sorry,' Will began, 'we had to leave the cart behind--'

'Oh, blast that damn cart!' the woman cried. 'You saved Matthew, that's what matters!'

'Just tell us where the cart is, Ranger, and we'll fetch it,' an older man said, knuckling his forehead respectfully to Will and Horace. Will took out his map of the area and showed them where it was, and the man rode off with a few others, leading a couple cart horses so they could switch them out as they got tired.

'Please, Ranger, sir knight, you must stay for dinner,' the young man said.

'Oh, we couldn't impose,' Will began.

'No, no, please!' the man said earnestly. 'Come inside, we'd be happy to have you.'

Will and Horace glanced at each other, smiled, and allowed themselves to be led into the house by the remaining villagers. Someone went off with their horses, and though Will would have preferred to look after Tug himself, he didn't get the chance to say so over everyone thanking him and Horace. Someone handed them cups of hot tea and another offered them slices of pie. Soon after the pie was done, two older women who had been working in the kitchen laid the table with an impressive roast on a bed of potatoes and with preserved fruits as a side. The women insisted on serving them seconds and thirds as the villagers, who took turns sitting on the porch while others came inside, congratulated the young couple and thanked Will and Horace for their service.

Will, not used to the spotlight, was starting to feel a bit overwhelmed, and Horace put his arm around his shoulders and stood with him. 'Thank you, but we should really be going,' he said. Matthew smiled at them from his mother's lap and Will and Horace both smiled back at him before taking their leave and setting off for the cabin.

The sun had long set by the time they got back, but neither were tired yet. They rubbed down the horses, then Will stoked the fire as Horace made them each coffee. Horace sat and Will soon joined him, taking his coffee and sipping slowly.

'Well,' Horace said after a moment, 'it was an eventful day.'

Will nodded. 'I'm glad I asked you to come with me. I'm not sure I would've found Matthew on my own.'

'You would've. You're observant.' Horace smiled at him.

Will smiled slightly back, then turned his gaze to the fire.

'What's on your mind?' Horace asked.

Will took another slow sip of coffee. 'It's silly.'

Horace reached out, turning Will so he could see him and stroking his cheek gently with his thumb. 'Say it anyway.'

'I...seeing that family today,' Will said quietly, 'I...I want to start a family of our own.' He grinned sheepishly. 'But, well...it's not exactly an option for us.'

'There's a lot of ways to start a family,' Horace said. 'I'm sure we can come up with something.'

'But with our jobs--' Will began.

Horace kissed him gently. 'We can make it work,' he said softly.

[taizi]

it’s a better place since you came along

the adventure zone taako & angus mcdonald 7k words

read on ao3

“So, you must be here about the job,” the old man goes on. “To tell you the truth, I’d just about given up on finding a decent nanny. When can you start?”

Taako stares at him. There’s an alarm klaxon blaring in the back of his brain, along with a shrill inner voice advising him to “abort, motherfucker, abort!”

***

In which Taako answers a general “help wanted” ad that actually changes his entire stupid life.

x

There’s a baby crying somewhere.

Taako, left waiting in the foyer by a harried maid, has nothing else to do but tap a foot, twist one of the rings on one of his fingers, and count the long seconds that the plaintive wail continues to echo through the cavernous house.

Listen, he may not be a very good dude, just in general, and for a healthy plethora of reasons—but there’s a prickling sense of unease growing in the pit of his stomach, as one minute passes into two, and the sounds of distress go unheeded.

What in the fresh fuck, he thinks, when another member of the house staff drifts through the room without any sense of urgency. If he knew shit about magic beyond a few travel-handy tricks and the occasional intuitive transmutation, he’d assume this was some sort of elaborate illusion. Maybe a sort of test played on unsuspecting hopefuls who came to answer the help-wanted ad.

Unfortunately for Taako, he remembers all-too well what it feels like to be an unwanted child, outcast and always alone. As it turns out, he has a very particular Achilles’ heel and he’s not overly thrilled to discover it.

“Well, I didn’t need the job that bad,” he tells himself, as he gets up to single-mindedly fail this stupid test. And nevermind that he kind of really did.

‘Confidence is key’ and ‘fake it till you make it’ are two mantras that Taako could live and die by, so it’s with long, unchecked strides that he crosses the grand foyer and chases the miserable cries up some stairs, down a long corridor, and finally into an out-of-the-way bedchamber at what must have been the back of the house.

The cries stutter when the door clicks open, and Taako gets a glimpse of a tiny round face peering at him through the bars of an ancient-looking crib. The sudden appearance of this strange elf in his nursery seems to have surprised the little human, but not for long. After about two seconds, he screws his face up and screams with renewed vindication.

Taako winces, his sensitive ears twitching back at the onslaught. This is way above his paygrade, but he used to babysit younger kids in the caravans while their parents were busy or drunk, in exchange for a hot meal or a few coins. He’s not totally out of his depth here.

“Hey, little man,” he says by way of hello. “Trying to bring the roof down, huh? No, I dig that. I wasn’t gonna say anything, but this house of yours is ugly as hell.”

Taako doesn’t raise his voice, because what the hell would be the point? There’s no way he’s winning that contest of wills, and nobody wants some lunatic shouting at them when they’re this fucking distraught, anyway. He just crosses his arms on the side of the crib and leans down to get a good look at the kid.

The baby’s face is tacky and snotty, dusky skin flushed darker with exertion, curly hair a tangled mop. But he’s a cute little guy despite himself, probably a year old or thereabouts, not that Taako is in any way a decent judge of that sort of thing. As Taako talks to him in a conversational tone, his awful, heaving sobs peter out.

The tearful gulps are better. The way he lifts pudgy arms up to be held, not so much.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Taako says, casting a nervous glance over his shoulder. “I’m not even supposed to be in here. You have no idea how culturally insensitive people are when it comes to elves and babies. Your mama walks in and sees me holding you, and then she’s calling the guard, and I’m getting hauled off for attempting to spirit her little heir away, and we both perpetuate an archaic myth that all elves are equally capable of and greedy for voluntary childcare. Let me just say—from personal experience—that is not the fuckin' case.”

But he reaches a hand into the crib and lets the little human clutch at it. Tiny, clumsy fingers wrap around Taako’s much bigger ones and hold tight. The baby’s eyes are wide and curious now, soaking up Taako’s every word without a damn clue what any of them mean.

Taako almost forgot he knew how to do this. It’s been months since Glamour Springs, since Sazed ditched him on the road. Taako’s been living a half-life, made up of odd jobs and never staying for too long in any one place, and for all that it’s absurdly one-sided, this is the longest conversation he’s had since then, too.

“One of us is pretty fucking pathetic,” he confides. “And it’s not the screamy baby.”

“Ah, this is where you’ve gone,” a voice from the doorway says.

Taako jumps in alarm, and looks around in time to watch a man step into the nursery. He bears a striking resemblance to the baby in the crib, though he’s graying at the temples and his face is lined with too much age for him to be an immediate parent. Grandparent, probably. Distinguished, dressed in a suit that probably cost more than the entire cumulative worth of everything Taako currently owns, leaning heavily on a walking cane.

He doesn’t look as though he’s about to ring the alarm, but Taako is still a little keyed up. Given the way he’s been living, the feeling of getting caught, even for a moment, activates his fight or flight response.

“Sorry,” Taako says lamely. “I heard him crying.”

“I don’t doubt it. His parents, my daughter and her husband, died recently. An accident on the road,” the man says. There’s some sorrow there, but it’s pushed back and away. Compartmentalized. “He came to live with me, but the transition hasn’t been an easy one. It seems as though all he’s done is cry.”

Taako doesn’t melt even slightly for the poor kid, because he’s made of sterner stuff than that. But he does let him hold onto his hand for a little while longer. It’s not hurting anything.

“So, you must be here about the job,” the old man goes on. “To tell you the truth, I’d just about given up on finding a decent nanny. When can you start?”

Taako stares at him. There’s an alarm klaxon blaring in the back of his brain, along with a shrill inner voice advising him to “abort, motherfucker, abort!”

It wasn’t a nanny ad. It was just a ‘general help wanted in exchange for room and board’ type of deal. He wouldn’t have shown up to take the job in the first place if it had specified providing 1) cooking, 2) companionship, or 3) childcare, and that’s for damn sure. He believes in playing to his strengths, and while vapid charm is certainly one of them, being personable and likable for any extended period of time is not.

And Taako absolutely doesn’t know what to think of this old rich guy who seems to be operating under the illusion that thirty seconds is plenty of time to get enough of a read on some rando to then trust your child to them. For real, and from the bottom of Taako's heart, what the fuck?

He’s only been acquainted with this particular child for about five minutes, but his ears go back and his hackles go up at the idea of someone just walking in off the street to take charge of him.

Maybe there’s some crucial insanity element to parenthood that Taako just isn’t fucking picking up. Maybe total and complete willingness to just ditch your kid at a moment’s notice is part of the package. Sure would explain a few things about Taako’s childhood.

But… this old manor house is clearly in the middle of nowhere. Two hours from the nearest settlement, where the job posting was hiding beneath other flyers on the board in the square. Taako wandered the woods all afternoon and almost gave up finding the place before the chimney smoke tipped him off.

It’s remote. Safe. And, at a glance, more comfortable than any of the inns and caravans Taako has lived out of since his auntie died.

He’s not qualified for this position, but since when has that ever stopped him? It’s not like he went to culinary school, either, and for awhile he was one of the most famous chefs on the continent. A baby can't be that much work.

Fake it till you make it, he thinks, and then faces the old man with a smile.

“Hell, I’m already here. Might as well start now.”

#

Aside from Taako, there are three other members of staff on the books, and none of them are full-time. The maids come in every other day to do the cleaning and the laundry and bring in groceries, that sort of thing. The groundskeeper only works the weekends.

They like Mr McDonald well enough, the girls confide in Taako over tea on his first night there, and the pay isn’t bad, but he’s forgetful. Doesn’t think to eat until he feels hunger pains, that sort of thing. Don’t be surprised if you get paid twice some weeks, or not at all others.

“He’s just not interested in running a household, I think,” the older of the two imparts, ancient at seventeen for all the weariness in her eyes. “I’m glad he finally found someone to take care of the baby. I felt bad about him crying all the time.”

Baby Angus had seemed to surprise both teens by being agreeable and downright adorable, perfectly content to be tucked into the crook of Taako’s arm and soothed to sleep by the rumble of his voice.

Did any of you try, like, holding him? Taako wants to ask acidly. Seems a little fucked up that Taako, of all people, is more on top of this than anyone else. But the maids are little more than kids themselves, and it seems as though grandpa isn’t completely with it.

About a month after Taako first wandered in, grandpa proves it.

“It was before Angus was born,” Mr McDonald says, digging through the many drawers in his study, looking for some expensive rich person thing he’d acquired at auction four years ago. There’s an empty crystal tumbler sitting on the liquor cabinet, next to a half-empty decanter of whiskey. “We went to Goldcliff for a charity fundraiser. Marquis proposed to my daughter that night. You remember, Taako?”

Taako, halfheartedly poking through stuff on the desk while Angus chews on the end of his braid, replies, “Sure do, homie. Hell of a party.”

He finds a photo in a stack of letters and pauses. Two humans are pictured with their arms around each other, handsome smiles on their faces for the camera, a baby cradled tenderly between them.

At the bottom, in looping handwriting, someone wrote ‘Marquis, Angela, and Angus.’ There’s a little heart drawn under the names with such care that it, in itself, is something of a revelation.

Angus’ parents wouldn’t have let him cry himself sick in a faraway room. They wouldn’t have let some stranger be holding him now. They abandoned him, but not on purpose. Not the same way Taako’s family did.

This kid was loved. He’s due love. And all he has is an absent grandpa and a shitty elf looking after him.

“Check it out, Ango,” Taako says quietly, holding the photo up so the baby can see, carefully out of reach of those sticky fingers. “Your genes are killer. You’re gonna outshine the whole damn world.”

He pockets the photo with a sleight of hand he perfected at ten years old, and then guts some ugly painting in the service hallway in the name of repurposing the frame, and then he and Angus stage a tactical retreat.

The nursery was too depressing, just in general, so one of Taako’s first acts as nanny was to move all the baby stuff in with his. He had his pick of any of the second floor bedchambers, and he chose one overlooking the overgrown gardens, with a pretty bay window that it only took like two hours and a handful of stubborn Prestidigitations to scrub clean.

He enlarges the photo, slides it into the frame, transmutes it to look like a more professional job, and then sets it in place of pride on one of the empty shelves.

“Gang’s all here,” he says. He bounces Angus a few times, eliciting a toothy smile from the kid.

Lordy, Taako thinks, she’d be laughing her ass off if she could see me right now.

The thought comes out of absolutely nowhere and disappears just as quickly, sliding right out of his mind like water through a sieve. Then Angus makes a sudden dive to grab one of the charms hanging off the brim of Taako’s hat, and he has more immediate things to worry about.  

#

Living in a house is weird. Having the run of the place is even weirder.

Taako is certainly not the type to sign up for extra responsibility, and he’d be the first to say as much to literally anyone who asked. Keeping himself alive has always been trouble enough, and now he has a whole ass extra person he’s in charge of, too.

But as time drags on, he realizes he’s been pretty solidly assimilated.

When McDonald forgets to give Catherine the grocery allowance before he fucks off on one of his bi-monthly business trips to Neverwinter, Taako forks over his own gold without feeling the sting of it too badly. He practically writes his own checks around here, anyway. He can make up the difference whenever.

When crotchety old Boniface came in from the gardens looking for an answer about the freshly broken fountain, he bypasses McDonald’s closed office door entirely to demand guidance out of Taako instead. Taako is in the library, laying on his stomach to supervise Angus’ painstaking and artistic destruction of a probably priceless but unfortunately racist oral history Taako found on one of the shelves, and gives Boniface the go-ahead to gut the old eyesore.

“If it dies, it dies,” Taako says plainly, passing Angus a new red crayon. Boniface, pleased that he’s allowed to demolish something, makes it a point to ask Taako about these things first from then on.

When Ezra shows up in Taako’s suite one morning with tearful eyes and an ugly burn from the temperamental furnace in the basement, neither of them stop to question why she ran all the way up here. They’re both reasonably intelligent people, after all, and Taako is quick to cast a nonverbal Helping Hand. He doesn’t need to overthink it. The burned skin on Ezra’s arm is shiny and red, but repaired.

The girl surges forward to hug him, visibly rethinks it, and then changes course and scoops Angus up for a hug and a noisy kiss on the cheek instead. Angus shrieks in bald delight, and Taako finds himself smiling.

So, yeah. It’s weird, the whole thing is weird, but he wouldn’t say it’s bad.

McDonald is a kind but largely absent presence in their lives. When he’s home, he’s shut up in his study. Angus hardly seems to recognize the man anymore, only watching him with solemn brown eyes from the comforting circle of Taako’s arms. It doesn’t really sit well with Taako—he didn’t take this job to upstage any relatives or be a replacement parent—but he’s already nanny to a precocious two-year-old, he can’t also be nanny to a seventy-something-year-old retired scholar. If McDonald wants to be a part of Angus’ life, that’s on him. It can’t possibly fall on Taako’s shoulders.

“And even if it did, I have a bad back,” Taako informs Angus. “You’ll have to do the heavy-lifting for me, sweetpea. How’s that sound?”

“Okay, Taako,” Angus says gravely. If there’s a tiny part of Taako that’s fucking delighted every time this tiny miracle says his name, he squashes it down good and hard and no one is the wiser.

It feels a little bit like nothing exists outside this spacious manor house. The extensive grounds might as well be a magic barrier between Taako and the rest of the world. It won’t last—nothing good ever does—but for now he allows himself to pretend that it will.

#

Taako and his little shadow swing into the kitchen around noon one day to find Catherine in tears.

This is so far from the norm that Taako actually draws up short in the doorway. Angus toddles right into the back of his leg, loses his balance, and plops down hard on his padded bottom.

“What’s this all about, darling?” Taako asks warily.

Catherine is sharp in all the places Ezra is soft, and while it makes her much easier to understand—a girl after Taako’s own black, shriveled heart—it also makes her approximately one million times more difficult to comfort, as likely to bite at a helping hand as accept one.

At the first sign of her vicious temper, he’s gonna grab his kid and bail. There’s fruit and bread in the larder that’ll see them through to dinner, and if not, he's not above bribing Ezra to run interference.

But Catherine just lifts her head out of her hands and says, “I burnt the stupid soup!”

Taako blinks. He stands still so Angus can use one of his legs as leverage to pull himself back upright, and cups the back of the boy's head in silent praise when he manages it on his own.

“Okay,” Taako says slowly. He can piece this shit together. “The soup is burnt. And you’re cheesed about it because…you feel really strongly about soup.”

“Don’t be stupid,” she snaps, but it’s without any real heat. “I just. I can’t get anything right today.”

Ah. Okay. So it’s one of those.

He hesitates for a moment, and then leans down to scoop Angus up and balances him on a hip. Angus knows not to toddle into the kitchen unsupervised, and rarely gets to toddle in at all when there’s cookery going on.

Taako himself rarely goes in. It feels too much like tempting fate. But his feet carry him forward, and he leans over the pot of thick and creamy chicken and dumplings, and right away he can smell the problem. It caught on the bottom of the pot and scorched.

He’s never worked in this kitchen—and he never will—but he remembers the steps. It’s mise en place. He reaches into the spice cabinet and withdraws a small tin shaker.

“Cinnamon,” he says at length, offering the tin to Catherine.

She stares at him, losing some of her steel for a moment. “Really?”

“Really,” Taako says, and firmly steps back. The six-second exchange has left him feeling tense and sick, his appetite fully and completely fucking out of the picture.

Angus is a perceptive little monster, and settles more heavily into Taako’s arms. He heaves a very pointed sigh, something he started doing to communicate that he’s feeling particularly safe and content. It makes Taako’s chest hurt in a much different way than impending panic attacks tend to, and he presses a kiss to the kid’s curly head.

“Thanks, angel,” he says.

“You’re welcome.”

“Holy shit, Taako,” Catherine says, looking up from the soup with awe in her eyes. As he watches, she tries another spoonful, and then she actually laughs out loud. “It worked!”

He finds himself searching her face for—sickness. Shortness of breath. Something.

It’s stupid. The people he killed in Glamour Springs didn’t show signs of death for days.

“I didn’t know you cooked,” Catherine goes on. “Could you teach me?”

“I don’t,” Taako blurts. It comes out sharper than he meant for it to, sudden and a little bit too loud. Catherine’s smile tapers. Angus lifts his head off Taako’s shoulder. Breathe, idiot, Taako tells himself. Be a fucking person for two seconds. “Cook, I mean. I don’t cook. Or, uh, teach. I’m kind of useless. Pretty, though.”

He flips his hair. It makes Angus giggle, but Catherine isn’t an easily-amused toddler, and she’s not buying it.

Her eyes are sharp, and seem to peel through layers of Taako’s bullshit like a knife. And then she scoffs, and mimics his hair flip with her wrist even though her hair is only about two inches long, and the tension drains out of the room like someone pulled a plug in the floor.

“You’ve been teaching Mango to read,” she says dryly. “And Elvish. And magic. But okay, Mr I Don’t Teach.”

“He’s my fucking protege. That shit’s different!”

“Shit!” Angus agrees cheerfully.

“Whatever. Now that I know you’re secretly a fountain of knowledge, I’m dragging you in here the next time I fuck up a recipe.” She studies him for a moment, and adds, “You don’t have to cook, Teach. If it bothers you. I just…I need help sometimes.

Taako feels himself relenting. This house is turning him into a fucking pushover.

“I know, Cat,” he sighs. “Try to find one person who doesn’t.”

#

“Alright, little man,” Taako says, tugging Angus’ collar straight. “What are the rules?”

“Hold your hand, don’t talk to strangers, aim for the eyes if I can reach them, knees if I can’t,” his boy recites gravely.

Next to him, Ezra stifles a snort of laughter. Boniface, waiting by the loaded carriage, looks reluctantly amused. Catherine says, “Who the fuck thought it was a good idea to give you a kid?”

“Uh, your boss,” Taako says without looking at her. He stands up from his crouch as the front door closes, and they all turn as McDonald comes down the steps to join them in the crumbly courtyard.

“Are we ready, boys?” he asks with a smile. “Neverwinter is waiting.”

Honestly, Taako has been sick with dread over this trip for the past two weeks, but he wouldn’t know how to go about explaining that. And he sure as hell isn’t sending Angus off alone with his absent-minded grandfather. The kid probably wouldn’t make it home.

It’s not as though Taako has been sequestered in the manor house for the last five years. He’s ambled into the settlement with the girls now and then, has gone farther up the road to buy from caravans for Candlenights gifts, has let himself be bullied, cajoled, blackmailed and bribed into helping Boniface lug imported plants home from the train station.

But this is fucking Neverwinter. The Jewel of the North.

“Taako? You okay?” Angus says from somewhere near his elbow.

“Just dreading three hours on the road playing I, Spy with you, boychik,” he lies smoothly. “Go pet the horses so we can get that out of the way.”

Angus looks mulish for a moment, but he does insist on petting the carthorses before they take the carriage literally anywhere, so he lifts his head and crosses the courtyard with great dignity. Taako watches sharply until Boniface rolls his eyes so hard Taako can practically hear it and hefts Agnus up in one huge arm to better reach the giant creatures without running the risk of getting fucking trampled.

“I’m making the salmon at home tonight,” Catherine says abruptly, a non-sequitur that takes Taako by surprise. “If I don’t fuck it up, I’m gonna cook it here, too. So don’t be late, Teach.”

“I’ll a hundred percent eat your share if you’re late,” Ezra adds. Her smile looks a little strained.

Taako has not been subtle. He’s been freaking out right out loud where anybody could see it. Get it together, asshole, he coaches himself helpfully.

“Cat,” he says earnestly, “your salmon is literally the only thing I have to live for.”

She groans and pushes him away from her. Angus has finished with the horses and returns to Taako at a run, even though they’re all going to be walking back across the courtyard to the carriage in like one minute anyway. 

McDonald is handing out a few last minute instructions. They’re mostly things that have already been taken care of, errands that have already been run, the ushe. The girls nod along politely, but there’s a level of uncertainty lingering above them like a cloud. They look as nervous about Taako leaving as Taako feels.

Now, Taako is many things—an elf, a failed chef, a murderer, a dime-store wizard, and one lucky nanny—but he is not some mercurial fairy tale creature. He’s not going to vanish from their lives the second they lose sight of him. He could if he wanted to, and he will if he has to, but he doesn’t want to. For now, he doesn’t have to.

So he lifts a hand and says, “Back soon.”

But for some reason, it fucking hurts.

#

The trip is about everything he expected it would be: long and boring. Angus gets bored with I, Spy within about ten minutes, the interior of the carriage is a little too tight to practice his cantrips, and Boniface seems to be aiming for the roughest parts of the road on purpose. Taako tries reading aloud from one of the Caleb Cleveland books, but McDonald keeps interrupting every time they get to the good, mysterious parts, so Angus and Taako trade a loaded glance and wordlessly agree to save it for later.

Still, it’s not awful. Angus at six years old is bright-eyed and relentlessly clever. He wants to be a detective like Caleb, and has taken to solving little mysteries around the manor house, like who left the jam out on the counter (Taako, and what are you going to do about it, pumpkin?) and who tracked the mud inside the undercroft (Boniface, obviously, that’s where all the booze is, and he literally works in mud all day. You didn’t have to put on your detective cap for that one).

Needless to say, Taako would burn the whole world down for this kid.  

With no choice but to spend time in his grandson’s company, Taako can see Angus’ innate charm going to work on McDonald. There’s something wistful in the old man’s eyes, affectionate and more than a little bittersweet. He stops interrupting as Angus starts to describe his latest case in great detail—the mystery of the missing tarts!

The tarts are wrapped up and waiting in Taako’s bag for when they inevitably get snacky during the trip, but he's not going to tell. He kinda wants to see how far the kid takes this one.

By the time they board the train, Angus is tuckered out. The excitement of a trip so far from home is wearing off after hours in a carriage, and Taako ends up carrying him into their sleeper car and putting him to bed in one of the bunks.

McDonald takes a seat at the small table and watches without commentary as Taako extracts the boy’s hat and glasses and wand without waking him, pulling the blanket up to his shoulders. And then, out of habit more than anything else, he murmurs the only Elven blessing he remembers, quite literally ‘sweet dreams.’ He remembers Auntie saying it to him, and…someone else, maybe? He remembers that it always made him feel loved to hear it.

“Hiring you was the best thing I could have done for him,” McDonald says suddenly.

Taako turns with a trademark smile on his face, only as charming as it needs to be. “Hiring me was the best thing you ever did, period.”

His boss smiles back, but there’s an edge to it that Taako can’t translate. This is the most present and aware he’s looked in the last five years. Taako isn’t sure he’s ever had this much of McDonald’s attention.

“There’s another reason I wanted to take the two of you with me this week,” he says. 

It’s ominous as fuck, and as the train lurches into motion, pulling away from the station, Taako realizes that he’s effectively trapped here, in a way he never was at the manor house. Some of his thoughts must show on his face, because McDonald’s smile warms a bit, and he gestures at the other chair. 

“It’s a good thing, son. No need to be nervous.”

Taako sits in an irreverent collapsing of limbs to prove that he isn’t nervous, actually. McDonald pulls a bunch of papers out of his briefcase and sets them on the table. They look official as fuck. McDonald’s signature at the bottom draws Taako’s eye—huh, so that’s his first name. After this long, it would have felt a little awkward to ask. Beneath that is the signature and seal of a notary.

“What am I looking at here, Charlie?”

McDonald’s lips twitch. He probably cottoned onto the name thing. 

“Well, this isn’t an easy conversation to have, and I probably could have picked a better time for it, but.” He glances over Taako’s shoulder at where Angus is sleeping. “It’s probably better if the boy doesn’t overhear until it’s sorted.”

“I hear ya. That little bugbear is all up in everyone’s business all the time,” Taako says proudly. “Just the worst.”

“He’s amazing,” McDonald says. That sorrow swims into his eyes now, an ancient, ruinous thing. “He reminds me of my daughter every time I look at him.” Oh. “It’s been…hard to look at him sometimes.” Oh.

Taako carefully reevaluates his opinion of Angus’ absent grandfather. Not too much, because the dude still should have been around, but, you know. Some.

Taako tries to imagine losing somebody, how much it must hurt. He tries to imagine looking like somebody, a family resemblance, a belonging at face-value. He’s never experienced either, but there’s still a bitter pit in his throat, a feeling like if he swallows too hard he’ll start to cry. So he sits very still instead.

“But still, he’s my only grandson, and I want him to be taken care of when I’m gone,” the man goes on. “I’m getting on in years, and I probably don’t have much longer left—oh, Taako. It’s alright.”

Taako is certain he didn’t move. He’s still doing the sitting-very-still thing. Then he realizes his ears betrayed him, pressed back flat against his head. Goddamn things.

“No, it’s uh. Taako’s good, don’t. Just.”

It’s the human age thing. He doesn’t want to think about it. He waves McDonald on, a tight rolling gesture. They really need to power through the rest of this conversation while Taako still has enough self-control left to not do something really embarrassing in front of his boss, like have a whole emotion.

McDonald takes pity. Thank fuck.

“It’s normal to want to get your ducks in a row,” he says. “I’m not planning on kicking the bucket any time soon.”

“Alright, let’s organize these ducks,” Taako says with unwarranted enthusiasm. He’s trying to trick himself into it. “Fucking ducks, am I right?”

“Angus is my heir. When he’s of age, he’ll get the estate and everything that goes with it, as well as his parents’ properties,” McDonald says, once again reminding Taako that he’s a rich old fuck. Istus. “But that’s still more than a decade away. If something should happen to me, I don’t want him to end up a ward of the state.”

Taako blinks. In the back of his mind, he realizes that he has become one of those elves that would one-thousand-percent kidnap a human baby if it came down to it. Leave Agnes in an orphanage? His Agnes? It would literally have never occurred to him.

“Custody cases can be so long-winded. The easiest way to circumvent the whole mess would be to adopt you into the family,” McDonald says, super nonchalant about flipping the world upside down. “That way Angus has an immediate next of kin that no one would question.”

He looks up when Taako doesn’t say anything and frowns at whatever Taako’s face must look like.

“You don’t have to use the surname if you don’t want to. It’s mostly just for the sake of paperwork.”

“I can’t,” Taako blurts.

“Of course. I wouldn’t insist that you change your family name if it’s important to you—”

“Not—not that, who gives a fuck about my family name,” Taako says too loudly. Angus shifts around for a second, like he might wake up, and Taako snaps his mouth closed so hard it hurts his teeth. In a whisper, because it’s all he can manage without giving into the urge to scream, Taako forces out, “I—I’m—I can’t.”

In the nightmare scenarios that still sometimes plague him in the middle of the night, when everyone else is asleep and he’s alone with the voice in his brain that fucking hates him, the choices always boiled down to either leaving Angus behind or taking him on the run. Both choices were fucking awful for a myriad of different reasons, and left Taako pacing his room tirelessly trying to think his way out of an unsolvable problem.

The idea that he could become a legal part of Angus’ family as simply as signing a piece of paper is so far-fetched and ridiculous that he can’t wrap his mind around it.

But bringing all his shit into Angus’ life? Signing up for this only to get snatched away the second the paperwork goes through and the militia finally finds him? Leaving his dirty laundry all over the front yard like the worst fucking house guest imaginable, and then peacing out to spend the rest of his long-ass fucking elf life in jail, while Angus was left to just…deal with that?

He couldn’t. He can’t. Every single option is bad. He shouldn’t have stayed. He should have known he would fall in love with that baby on day one. It’s really fucking stupid that he stayed.

“—aako. Taako.”

Taako jerks his head up. His ears are twitching and his hands are shaking and McDonald has probably been saying his name for awhile.

The man’s eyes are bright and steely. They look exactly like Angus’ do sometimes, when he wakes Taako up from a miserable meditation, when it’s just the two of them in a huge house surrounded by a crumbling garden.

“Tell me,” the man says sternly.

At a fucking complete loss, Taako just…does.

When he’s finished, McDonald looks at him really hard for what feels like a long time. Then he pulls a pair of reading glasses out of an inner pocket of his coat, poises the business end of a fountain pen against a fresh sheet of paper, and starts asking questions.

It’s a business-like, no-nonsense exchange. Taako is wiped out, emotionally he is the equivalent of a damp rag wrung out to dry, and he has no wherewithal left to lie or deny or deflect.

When they’re done, McDonald has filled three notebook pages of blocky handwriting, and Taako is swaying in his seat. He watches somewhat vacantly as McDonald nods to himself and rummages in his briefcase for a stone of farspeech.

“We won’t reach Neverwinter until morning. Get some sleep,” he says, and his voice is kindly again, the way it was before. Taako stares at him. “And don’t tell me elves don’t need it, please. I wasn’t born yesterday, and you nap twice as much as my grandson ever did.”

Well, it would be nice to get one last unnecessary snooze in as a free man, Taako supposes, and he doesn’t hesitate to climb into Angus’ bunk. It’s a familiar ritual. The kid squirms to accommodate him without fully waking. Taako tucks an arm around him and buries his nose in that riot of curly hair.

He hears McDonald say, “You’re not much more than a kid yourself, are you?” but that might have just been part of a dream.

He hears someone else say, “That can’t be broken or lost or taken away, it’s always going to be so important,” but Taako thinks that, whoever that was, they were very clearly wrong.

#

Taako wakes up to a six-year-old’s warm brown eyes. They’re crinkled at the corners in an urchin sort of way, and it’s the only tell Taako needs. His kid has been up to some mischief.  

“Grandpa said you were tired and I should let you sleep,” Angus reports cheerfully. “He also said that there was a nice lady selling flowers a few cars down, and I ought to go buy a few!”

Ah. Taako glances down at the ruin of his hair. It looks like about a hundred snowberry blossoms were worked into the thick flaxen braid. It’s going to be an absolute pain to brush out later. He’ll probably find bits of plant in his hair for days. He loves it.

He risks a glance in McDonald’s direction.

The man looks amused by their whole general existence, which is fair. He also doesn't look like he's about to summon the guard to have Taako hauled into the brig, which is a fucking relief and a half.

“The world changed while you were asleep,” he says significantly. “Would you like to sign the papers now or with your pardon?”

Angus says, all in one breath, “You should sign the papers first! Grandpa says then you’ll be my family! I mean, you already are, so I’m not sure what the point is, but it must be important. Look at how official they are!”

Taako feels about four cups of coffee behind this conversation. He scoots off the bed, spilling into one of the chairs at the table, and folds his hands.

“Charlie. Buddy.”

“I stepped out for two minutes,” McDonald says defensively, “and I thought he was asleep!”

“That’s the oldest trick in the book,” Taako mutters. His heart is doing something really complicated and largely unnecessary, fucking backflipping in his chest, at Angus’ thoughtless ‘you already are.’ Like it was a given. What the fuck. “Can you go back to, uh—the world changing? A pardon? What’s up with that?”  

“An old friend of mine is a cleric,” he says pushing a steaming cup in Taako’s direction. “Level nine, or thereabouts. She owed me a favor from when we were in school together, when I—well, that’s not important. What is important is that she was happy to cast Discern Location to find your old stage manager.”

Taako fumbles the cup, almost drops it. He sets it down hard.

“What the fuck? No, hold that thought. Angus, I love you. Get lost.”

He’s really banking on the kid being more stir-crazy than curious, and sure enough, Angus hops right off the bunk and sprints for the door.

“Okay, I’ll be in the dining car! You’re not s’posed to take food back with you, but I’m gonna see how many pastries I can fit in my pockets so you won’t be hungry when you sign the papers that make you my family! Love you, bye!”

“A three-hour carriage ride followed by six hours on a train was the worst fucking idea,” Taako says severely. “He’s gonna be on eleven when we roll up to Neverwinter. They might not let us in.”

“He’s just excited,” the old man says, with the tranquility of someone who isn’t going to have to child-wrangle all day long. “I told him I had good news for you.”

Taako is fidgeting, turning the cup of coffee around and around in his hands. It’s leaving a ring of condensation on the table.

“You found Sazed?” he asks, and hates how small his voice sounds.

“We did.”

“He probably hates me,” Taako mutters. “I ruined his life.”

McDonald takes the cup from him and sets it down on the other side of the table with a firm clunk. 

“Pardon my language, but you didn’t ruin crud.” Taako mouths ‘crud’ in bewilderment, but McDonald isn’t finished. “I was suspicious of your story when you described the way those people died. Those aren’t the typical symptoms of deadly nightshade, and I’d never heard of a transmutation spell failing in that way before. So I looked into it. Or, I should say, I had a few friends look into it.”

“Are you in a cult?” Taako asks. He can’t help it. He’s one part genuinely curious and two parts hardwired to deflect any time someone tricks him into having a serious conversation. “We frown on cults in this family. Mysterious shadow organizations are never a good thing, no matter what greater-good shit they’re peddling.”

“I’m very rich and belong to very elite social circles,” McDonald says dryly. He’s unmoved by Taako’s general everything. “This whole thing took about three calls. I wish you would have told me about this five years ago, but I do understand why you didn’t.”

Taako doesn’t have a cup to fuck around with anymore. He stopped wearing jewelry when Angus was a baby and literally everything smaller than an apple was a choking hazard, and he never really got into the habit of it again, so he doesn’t have rings to twist around his fingers, either. He wrings his hands instead.

“If it wasn’t the elderberries,” he chokes out, and doesn’t make it any farther.

“It was arsenic,” McDonald says. His voice is kind again, but not so much so that it’s painful to hear. “Sazed was questioned within a Zone of Truth. He admitted to—okay,” he cuts himself off, putting a hand on Taako’s shoulder. “We’re done talking about it for now. Just take it easy.”

Taako doesn’t uncurl from his chair until the door rattles open and Angus’ voice fills the room. He’s found a dozen things to talk about in the ten minutes he’s been gone, and is very proud of himself for all the contraband pastries he managed to make off with. There’s a cheese danish wrapped very carefully in a napkin, only slightly squished, that he presents to Taako with a showy flourish that he really only could have picked up from too much time around one particular idiot.

Taako accepts the danish, and then hauls Angus up onto his lap, and then says, “Charlie, baby. Pass me that fancy pen.”

#

For the first time in almost eight years, Taako is cooking for an audience again. His hands are shaking, but as long as everyone else is politely pretending like they don’t notice, he can do himself the same favor.

I fed those people their death, but it wasn’t on me, he recites inwardly for the seven millionth time, a nervous mantra. My magic was good. My cooking was good. I was good. It wasn’t on me.

He looks up from the counter where all his tools are laid out and his ingredients are arranged. Ezra is bouncing in her seat, Boniface is lingering in the doorway like he doesn’t care but he also isn’t leaving, and Catherine’s eyes are wide and moonlike and younger than Taako has ever seen them. Angus has place of pride, a seat on the counter by the sink with the best view in the house.

“Okay,” he says. “What are the rules, pumpkin?”

“No swiping ingredients, no magic in the kitchen, and no taste-testing until you say it’s okay,” Angus rattles off promptly. “Autographs at the end of the show are three gold apiece, photos are ten, and the overall experience is absolutely priceless.”

Over the sweet sound of the rest of his audience groaning at him, Taako goes on blithely, “And what are we cooking today?”

“Macarons!”

“And who’s your dude?” Taako asks, pointing a whisk at him. Angus giggles, and Taako’s hands aren’t shaking anymore.

In a month, Angus is going off to a summer camp out past Rockport. It’s Caleb Cleveland-themed, and the whole thing sounds extremely nerdy and book-cluby, and Angus is desperately excited. He’s also desperately nervous about being away from his family for three whole weeks but he’s trying to keep that on the down-low. He’s very grown up at nearly ten years old.

Taako can respect that. He also bought the kid a stone of farspeech, because actually fuck that.

And while Angus is off having his first away-from-home adventure—since the girls think that Taako’s just going to be useless and mopey the whole time, and Boniface already threatened to bury him in a flowerbed the first time he whines about literally anything—Taako is going to go do something cool, too. There’s always some interesting jobs posted on Craig's List up in Neverwinter. He’ll be able to find something to occupy his time.  

But for now, he’s gonna make some goddamn desserts.

“Come on, Ango,” Taako wheedles, “who’s your dude?”

“You, papa.”

I’m good, Taako reminds himself. He looks at his kid, who only deserves the best this piece of shit world has to offer, and thinks, I can be good.

[buildmeafairytale]

Female Reader x Female Harpy

Just finished up this request for @featherynutcase​ for a harpy soulmate AU. Hope you guys like it! 

The Rushing Isles had come by the name quite honestly - a thought you often had when trying to make your way through the docks. Taking a shortcut through the markets always seemed like a good idea, but yet here you are, trying to convince the old women of the port city that you do not need to be set up with their nephews from the neighboring isles. 

Truthfully, the idea of their nephews had become a bit less repulsive with time. Most of the people you’ve grown up with have seen their soulmate’s footprints, shining like a prism and beckoning them to their other halves long ago. You have not been so lucky. You’ve seen prints, shining and glowing like all the stories say, but you wouldn’t exactly call them feet. Claws would be a much better description. That never deterred you, and on the rare occasions that you saw the prints you would follow them, only to be disappointed when they would abruptly end. 

“I wonder how appalled the old women would be if I asked if they had any handsome nieces who were single, instead?” you mumble under your breath. 

You dodge your way out of the crowd and make your way down the sand worn steps that bring you closer to the beach partially hidden by tall rock structures. This has always been one of your favorite hide-aways; whether you were brushed aside by other children for being more plump, or being relentlessly questioned by your family about your apparent lack of a soulmate, this spot is always a comfort. You had brought a bag full of snacks and other things to keep you occupied, and were fully prepared to spend the better part of the day on the beach. 

That was the plan,at least, until you saw the claw marks in the sand. 

The same thing happens every time you manage to catch a glimpse of the claw prints. 

Your heart starts racing, your palms get sweaty, and no matter how many times you have been disappointed, (this time would make thirty-two attempts at following the marks, but who’s counting) you are unable to stop yourself from thinking ‘this is it, I will finally get to meet them’. 

You follow the prints, your fast walk slowly building into the crescendo of a sprint, your white dress flowing behind you. You round the corner of a boulder and are at the face of a shallow cave with the waves lapping at the mouth of it. The prints had not stopped yet, and you had your head down, concentrating on them. So concentrated on the luminous prints, in fact, that you almost ran right into the one who made them. Had it not been for their shocked gasp and the shuffling noise they made, you would have collided with them. You looked up, and your deep brown eyes met their shining amber ones. Your feet were rooted to the spot, and your mouth opened and closed a few times, no sound escaping you.

She was gorgeous, ethereal, otherworldly. You could know every word in your language and then some and still not be able to express how beautiful you found her. She was a harpy, you had grown up hearing stories of the winged creatures that lived on the highest peaks of the island, making their homes above the clouds. None had ever expressed how lovely they were with their brown wings and feathers lining parts of their body. You see their claws, the claws that had left the prints leading you to them. They were sharp and deadly, but delicate in their danger. Around her claws, the prismatic light that signified one's soulmate was concentrated. 

The silence was broken by a pained squawk emitted from your soulmate. Her wings flapping as she shuffled back, putting more distance between the two of you. She heaved out a sob, and started to wail. 

“No! No, no this wasn’t supposed to happen, you weren’t supposed to see me! Oh my winds, this wasn’t supposed to happen. Leave, and forget you ever saw me here Nuccia!” She refused to look at you, and you started forward as if to offer her comfort. 

“What do you mean I wasn’t-how do you know my name?” You asked her, suddenly shocked. “You knew! You had seen me before and knew? And you didn’t think to introduce yourself? I have looked for you for so long, and you knew this and continued to be purposefully elusive to me?” You could not, try as you might, keep the anger out of your voice. She was obviously distressed, but now so were you. Tears of hurt and anger filled your eyes. Your whole life you have been too much for so many people, have felt out of place and unwanted. You were too plump, or too dark, or too opinionated. Now here you were, in front of the one being on this planet that you were made to love and be loved by, and she didn’t want you.

Her eyes widened and she whimpered, her flustered form looking for an escape the cave denied to her. You grew determined, and placed yourself even more in front of the entrance. Fine, she didn’t want you. But that didn’t mean you were going to leave without some answers, she owed you that much, soulmate or not. Your hands came to rest on your hips, and you measured at her. 

“Well, go on then. If you’re going to reject me or tell me how you never wanted me, go ahead. An explanation on why you haven’t earlier also seems warranted, hmm?” You ask, trying to convey an attitude of indifference you didn’t particularly have. 

The harpy looked horrified at this, scrambling even more. Sounds left her that had you wanting to cover your ears, horrible squawks that had no business coming from the one you wished to hold. She folded in on herself, her winged arms coming to shield the majority of her face and upper body from you. This pulled at your heartstrings, and a bit of your resolve crumbled away. You were torn between approaching her or letting her calm herself; while you were trying to decide a course of action, she pulled her winds away and managed to draw in a deep, shuddering breath. Her words spilled out quickly, as if she could not bear to keep them contained any longer. 

“I wasn’t going to reject you, I wanted to avoid you rejecting me. I wanted to be human before I introduced myself. This is all wrong! It wasn’t supposed to be this way!” Her voice cracked, volume rising again. 

“You wanted to be human? Why on earth would you do that?” You could not keep the confusion out of your voice.

“You’re human and I’m a giant bird! You’re so lovely and I just wanted you to like me. I was supposed to meet a witch to help me change, but they said it’s a lost cause and I’ll never be human. I was here moping when you found me.” Her gaze was cast down, claws tracing shapes in the sand. 

You walked over to her, holding her face in your hands. 

“You are my soulmate,” you said, vehemently, “You are you for a reason, and you, like this, are the other half of me. Don’t you dare think you have to change to be worthy of me.” Your hands come to rest at your sides, and you take a step back. You try not to let her awed expression distract you from what you have to say. “I have been trying so hard to find you, and every single time I saw your prints abruptly end, I felt less and less worthy. I felt as though the universe was playing a trick on me. But instead, you were hiding. It is a relief knowing that it wasn’t because you didn’t want me, though. I can only be so upset at you for this, now that I am finally in your presence.” You let her process her thoughts, seeing that she is still shocked and anxious by this turn of events. A part of you wanted to comfort her, assure her that she is the most beautiful creature you had ever seen, while another part of you wanted her to comfort you, instead; to take you in her arms and tell you that she was mistaken for hiding from you, that she would never reject you. 

“You aren’t...afraid of me, Nuccia?” She softly inquired, peeking up from her feathered lashes.

“That's all you got from all that? Why on earth would I be afraid of the most beautiful person I’ve ever had the privilege of laying my eyes on? And again, you call me by name but have not yet graced me with yours.” You reply to her, equally amused and exasperated with her. 

“Oh-I’m sorry, dear one. My name Enora. You think I’m beautiful?” She whispers, a taloned hand coming up to caress your cheeks. 

“As dramatic as you are beautiful, it looks like. My, my, it looks like I’ll have my hands full, good thing I have two,” you tease, gazing up at her, suddenly giddy with affection. You might have still been upset with her, and you will have to 

talk it out with her later, but you aren’t going to let that sully your first real meeting. 

You manage to calm her a bit, and knock her out of the stupor she seems to be in. You enjoy how red her face and chest get while you flirt with her, the effect you have going to your head. 

“It seems I picked the perfect day for a beach day then,” you say, showing her the picnic basket you had dropped upon seeing her. You pull out the small finger foods and wine you had brought, setting up a beach blanket by the mouth of the cave. Maybe she would stay, and you could drink wine and watch the sunset together. Your heart beat faster at this thought, already allowing these romantic notions to float about in your head. You settle onto the blanket, hoping she would sit with you and not fly off now that you aren’t blocking the exit.

What is likely only a minute feels like an eternity, but Enora settles next to you, her spine rigid and legs crossed. You offer her some food, many things she admits she has not tried before. You watch her try the new things that you provided, and something about taking care of her in this way feels very right. Her feathers brush against you, tickling your skin. The two of you spend the day getting to know each other better. She stays for the sunset, much to your delight. You felt clingy, and did not want to part ways with her. But, the sun was going down and you figured it was time to get back home, and Enora was getting antsy, informing you her family would start looking for her. 

“Will you...come back?” she asks, her eyes wide, and a clawed finger gliding down your arm. Now that she has winded down and started to understand you want her, she has been flirting, her own version of being coy. You were soaking up the attention, and she continued. “I would very much like to see you again, dear one. I have a lot of making up to do, after all.” Her claw comes to your chin, turning your face to hers. 

“You’re done running from me then?” You tease her, inching your face closer to her’s.

“Yes dear one, I swear it,” her breath is ghosting across your lips, and all you can hear is blood rushing in your ears. Your hand comes up to the back of her neck, and you close the gap, gently brushing your lips against hers. A sweet trilling noise escapes her, and you smile into it. All too soon it ends, and you agree to keep meeting in the same spot. 

You show up the next day and head into the cave. You peek around the corner, and you see Enora, pacing. That is not all you see; there are blankets and pillows arranged like a nest, flowers, and a bottle of wine set out.The nest is near the mouth of the cave, the perfect spot to be sheltered from any winds but a good view of the ocean and coming sunset. She still hasn’t spotted you, and she heads towards the nest, fluffing and rearranging the blankets to her liking. You come up behind her, and trace your fingertips down her spine, greeting her with an airy “Hello” as she jumps. She smiles at you, her spine straightening and her hands clasped behind her back. She greets you and clears her throat, looking nervously from you to the nest. 

“You surprised me dear one, I was not expecting you quite yet. I hope this does not seem too forward, but nest making is a large step in harpy courting and something I wished to do for you.” She announced this so nervously, but if it was a large step for her you could see why. You assure her it looks beautiful, and you can’t wait to try it. You see her blush, and you decide to keep laying on the compliments, running your hands over the blankets and telling her how good of a job she has done. The more you go on, the redder her face seems to become, much to your delight. When you slip your sandals off and crawl into the nest, the same awe struck look takes over her face from the day prior. She follows you in, and brings your hand to her face. 

“You have no idea what seeing you in here does to me, do you?” She asks, and you run your fingertips over her lips, fascinated at the way her breath catches when you do this. 

“I think I could guess. It’s probably similar to my feeling knowing you went to all this trouble for me.” You reply to her, once again feeling trapped in her eyes. The two of you share another kiss, the trills and sweet noises leaving her only encouraging you. Her claws ghost across your neck and send a chill down your spine. She leans you back into the nest, wings opening above you and closing you in. She is trembling above you, and you can see tears in her eyes when you part.

“No sweetheart, none of that now. What’s wrong?” you ask her, heart clenching. 

“I was a fool, I waited so long for nothing, and we could have been here years ago!” she sniffles, angry at herself and her actions. 

“Hush darling, we’re here now aren’t we?” You coo at her, running your hands through her hair.  You have known her for such a short time, yet she already holds your heart in her hands. One of your legs comes up around her waist, pulling her close again. Enora quickly gets lost in your kisses again, and you feel some of her stress melt away under your hands. 

This goes on, the two of you sharing stolen moments together and heated kisses in the cave. You both incorporate some of your own courting customs, so far your favorite of which is when she does an aerial dance for you. She tells you that harpies usually do it together, but she happily tweaked it and you were impressed all the same. The next day you showed her a popular island dance, and you swayed together to the sound of the waves outside. 

One day you are on your way to the cave, dinner in tow, when you spot not one, but two harpies on the beach near the mouth of your cave. Neither of them are your harpy, however, and you grow anxious hoping Enora is alright. She did not speak of how other harpies would feel about her soulmate being human, but you were hoping you weren’t about to run into trouble. You get closer and the harpies spot you, both taking off and quickly landing in front of you. They circle you and you feel like prey, one behind you and one in front. They are both larger than Enora, and male. If you had to guess you would say they are twins, but you are hardly able to concentrate on their looks. No matter what species you are, having two large men circling you is nerve inducing. 

“So you’re our little Ennies’s mate, huh?” The first asks, his voice deep.

“You aren’t very tall, she must have her hands full protecting you.” The second observes, making his way around you. 

“She’s been coming home all starry eyed and happy, haven’t seen that in her in years.” One tuts at you, and you feel pride swell in your chest amidst the confusion. 

“We had to come follow her, find out where our little sister was sneakin’ off to so much.” The other interjects. 

You’re overwhelmed, but relief floods through you. These are Enora’s brothers, and you doubt they would do anything to you. You’re just getting a very intense shovel talk, it seems. You start to interject yourself into the talking, going to introduce yourself, when an outraged squawk fills the air and Enora and another smaller harpy land. 

“What on earth are you doing? You used Glaucus to distract me to come here and try to intimidate her! And I’m not your baby sister, I’m five years older than you two!” She reprimands them, walking up to them both and grabbing them by the ears. “Now, go home to mother before she starts to worry where you went. And do not follow me here again!”

“Aw Ennie, but you’re smaller than us so you’re our little sister.” The twin pouts on their faces at being reprimanded are adorable, and now you can see it. You stifle a giggle, and spot the youngest harpy, Glaucus, looking ashamed. 

“Yeah, just wanted to make sure she’s good enough for our little sister,” the other twin echos, being pulled down to her level by the ear. She walks them away from you, and you hear them yell that it was nice to meet you. You return the sentiment, a smile on your face, and wave to them as they leave. Glaucus takes off before Enora comes back, shouting a goodbye. 

She walks back to you, her eyes aflame. She grabs your hands, and starts to apologize. “I’m so sorry dear one, they can be quite intense. Are you alright? I’m so embarrassed.” You giggle, and assure her that you’re fine. 

“They’re just looking out for you, I’m not mad. I was a bit intimidated at first but they seem nice! Don’t be too harsh on them, love.” You kiss her cheek, and pull her into your nest, and Enora abruptly stops grumbling about her brothers. She looks at you, her eyes wide and lips parted.

“Do you? Love me, I mean.” She asks, whispering. Your face gets red and you realize what you’ve said. It’s true though, you love her.

“Yes, I do.” You whisper back, throat tight with emotion. 

“I love you too Nuccia. I have for so long, you amazing creature.” She pulls you onto her lap, your thighs bracketing her underneath you. You have never felt so at home as you do in the arms of your soulmate.

[countessofbiscuit]

If you're taking potential prompts...Fox and Riyo discuss tattoos in their respective cultures? Maybe while one gets a new design or a touch-up?

Fox didn’t set the Republic military standards, but he sure as heck has to exemplify them. So it’s my headcanon that he doesn’t have any tats until Riyo’s affection works on him and/or the shittiness of the rest of his life strips his uptight grain. But I like to think this still fits the bill! Thanks for the prompt : )

- - - - - 

Inked

2k. Teen. Also on Ao3.

- - - - - 

The Senate concourse never slept, but most of the Dome’s regulars had long since made for their beds when Fox spotted Senator Riyo Chuchi waiting for the Annex hovertram. She stood alone on the platform, arms wrapped snugly around herself and engrossed in the floor's marbling. The hour was far from social, but Fox had both an apology to make and thanks to offer. And there was no time like the present.

“Good evening, Senator Chuchi,” he greeted from a polite distance. Natborns, especially politicians haloed round by ego, took personal space seriously; brothers wouldn’t give both ears unless someone were right on top of them and they still might not pay any heed.

She straightened up, almost startled. But then — a diplomatic smile. “Commander Fox. Is everything alright?”

Species and biographic profiles popped across his display. Fox blinked them away.

“Yes, ma’am. Sorry for the disturbance. I wanted to apologize for not addressing you properly the other day, when you kindly held the lift for me.” For him, the discomfited idiot, who couldn’t bring himself to enter the public turbolift he'd subversively called when faced with a mere Senate guard and a pretty woman. “And to thank you — for that, and for not giving me away to Senator Robb.”

They’d only just been formally introduced yesterday by the Security Committee Chair — and Senator Chuchi had not let on that Fox had recently broken a Dome directive. Ignorance or indulgence, it mattered little. The effect on the fresh-off-the-transport commander was the same: he was very grateful.

“Oh! Of course. You’re most welcome,” Senator Chuchi answered mechanically. Diplomatically. Stalling for understanding with a squint behind her smile.

“My database wasn’t synced to my input feeds yet,” Fox clarified. He’d been plagued by a deep need to reassure her that he took professionalism seriously. That he wasn’t chronically cavalier with protocol. “I didn’t know who you were, at first. But I’ve modded the software, so I —”

The tram approached. But it was Senator Chuchi’s blue hand on Fox's gauntlet that really stopped his thoughts short at the brainstem. She was very petite and looked about as warm as a silk petal in a breeze; but Fox’s skin prickled strangely under the plastoid.

And she wasn’t cutting him off: she was holding him in place. When the tram doors parted, she did not let go. Senator Chuchi meant to keep him with her. Closely. As no one else was around — especially as no one else was around, Fox had no argument against overstepping another rule if the Senator condoned it.

The tram was reserved for senators whatever time of day; when Dome-bound platforms were busy, and certainly when a vote was called, no mere aide, intern, attaché or privileged tourist could expect passage. The tram droid would spot you at fifty paces, bleat and wail with flashing lights, shame you into the permacrete. Clones were just supposed to walk — or, in Fox’s case, bike.

“Truly, you’re very considerate,” Senator Chuchi replied once they were onboard. “But I didn’t notice. I forget that my face doesn’t always give me away.”

It certainly gave her away as being very beautiful. Fox killed his display entirely. He even indulged the idea of removing his helmet, the better to appreciate her. But that would be quite forward: she hadn’t asked and the Guard had a lids-on policy handed down by the executive office.

Fox cocked his helmet in silent encouragement.

“Chuchi tattoos.” She touched two fingers to her cheek. “Obvious to Pantorans.”

Fox cast his mind back to cultural modules. He remembered certain trivia and understood that this was a situation which called for small talk. “I've read about Pantoran ink. Is there really aurodium in yours?” he asked in a carefully modulated voice, though there was no one to overhear.

“Yes. It’s still common practice for — among certain families. Impossible for the layman to tell, however.”

Fox mentally calculated about twenty seconds until arrival. The time begged another question. “Did it hurt?”

“The first time. But everything is unbearable to a child. They were filled out when I came of age and it wasn’t so bad.”

“Who did yours?” Fox found his questions coming as naturally as her answers. This wasn't so bad. Not at all.

“Someone my Grandmama knew. They decide these things. And they keep the rakes.”

“Rakes?”

“The tattooing tool. Usually the bone — well, it’s … it’s customary to keep an ulna and radius of one’s mother to be fashioned into rakes, and then into button hooks or hair pins once they’re worn down.”

Wasn’t the oddest natborn tradition he’d ever heard. And just the other day Stone reported that a detachment of MPs had cut their teeth over Ohma-D’un breaking up a brawl about some cursed finger of Jango’s. A few units claimed to possess one. Everyone deferred to Geonosis vets, and really, what was the harm? Well, until they came to blows over it. “Huh.”

“Do you have any?” she asked.

“Ma’am?”

“Tattoos?”

Thankfully, the hovertram was slowing into the station. It allowed Fox a transitory moment to consider why she’d care and to gather his conflicted thoughts on the subject as they disembarked.

Strictly speaking, tattoos were against regs, at least for clones. The RCMJ prohibited any bodily ornamentation that might bring discredit upon the galaxy’s preeminent military, but culturally significant tattoos and jewellery were permissible for natborns — the unspoken being that clones didn’t have a culture to claim.

“No, I don’t have any. It’s, uhh … not allowed in the Guard.” Not that Fox hadn’t seen some. Even before deployment — back before it was his problem to punish — the occasional itch to differentiate, to distinguish, had defied the longnecks’ surveillance, at least until the next quality control inspection.

Some experiments with filched hypos and med-markers had lasted longer than others. Stars and heavens help the bastards who’d inked themselves and paid for it in sweat and blood and punishment tours, only for the artistry to fade. Or for the shine to quickly wear off their youthful love of Coruscanti opera or the Galactic Senate. Or for the limb get plain blown off.

“Oh. On what grounds?” she asked.

In the main, Fox liked the RMCJ: it accorded a comforting set of guardrails, standards, and norms in a new and overwhelming operating environment. But he sensed a rebuke of the hard facts of life forming in the good Senator’s mind.

No point clouding the issue for her sensibilities; the regs only referenced what the Military Creation Act made plain in Section 3: all of clonedom, from marshal commanders to the lowest and last trooper on the production line, belonged to her federal government. Down to the dermis.

“Defacement of Republic property,” Fox offered as he followed her onto the Annex slideramp, since she hadn’t dismissed him yet.

Senator Chuchi did indeed frown up at him. “Does it really say that?”

“Yes. In the uniform code.” In a number of articles, actually — like the ones about mistreatment of service property and punishments for desertion. “There’s a certain leniency out in the field, I gather,” Fox added lightly, though privately he marvelled how any officer could sufficiently shake that feeling of a cold finger hovering behind their ear and get inked; would he even recognize himself without observational stress? “But it’d be nice to have it codified — or, err, uncodified.”

While he’d made it widely and painfully understood that facial tattoos would be burned off before they could be flagged as culturally insensitive, Fox wasn’t wholly a rule-bound, stuffed suit of armor. He was slightly more practical than purist. The Guard’s plates needed to be uniform and finer than dinnerware, sure; but so long as you were fit to fight, what happened under your blacks was between you, your sergeant, and your capacity to endure barracking.

Fox chose not to see a lot of things and liked to figure what natborns couldn’t see couldn’t hurt them.

Problem was, natborns liked to see fucking everything, especially politicians curious about how fully organic their new army was. Inspect, his shebs — bother, interrupt, and gawp at, more like. Guard Central off the Executive Thoroughfare was hardly incognito and not necessarily off-limits if you could nab some natborn logistics lieutenant with the most basic clearance.

It was only a matter of time before a guardsman got his favorite dancing girl slapped across his back in glorious color and some peeping bureaucrat kicked up a stink about a gross lack of standards in the locker room. Fox could do nothing about General Tiaan or other top brass, but at least they trumpeted a few hours before their arrival to ensure the proper pomp and ceremony — and they didn’t care about the showers.

Senator Chuchi had gone quiet as they reached the main Annex lobby. Fox’s neck dampened to think he’d lowered her spirits or given her cause to regret his company.

He also believed guilt helped no one. She didn’t seem pompous or presumptuous, just unfailingly polite. Maybe he had a chance to make a real ally. “If I may request a favor, ma’am,” he ventured, steepling his hands at his navel like he’d seen the Chancellor do when putting forth a sensitive proposition. “For my own ... err, family.”

This time Senator Chuchi arrested Fox with both hands on his gauntlets. He couldn’t have moved if Corrie’s axis pitched. “Certainly,” she said. “I like to think I’m a public servant. And not only for Pantorans.”

Fox had been primed to make a short speech about clone personhood and the need for senatorial sympathy. He was damn tired, though. And moonstruck. Enough to make him chuckle and ask instead, “If you could maybe … I don’t know, discreetly put it round that it’s gauche for politicians to drop into the barracks unexpected? The men don’t get a lot of privacy and the shower block’s the closest thing to a spiritual retreat they’ve got.”

Senator Chuchi’s bright eyes widened, his display registering a sharp increase in her pulse and temperature. “Of course. You have my word. I’ll see if can carefully address this matter of … discretion. And I’m sorry you had to ask.” Her knuckles paled as she squeezed his armor; he felt nothing but her sincerity.

“Thank you, ma’am.” Fox was so flustered, he nearly invited her to drop by his block anytime, which would’ve been the height, depth, and breadth of stupidity. Instead he said something else that was only marginally short on sense. “It’s very late. May I escort you home?”

“That’s kind of you, Commander. But my driver will be here now.” Her driver — of course: she was as rich as Koros, she possessed a smile literally finer than gold, and she wasn’t touching him anymore. Fox bowed his head low — a head that had almost outgrown his helmet in a moment of unprofessional conceit.

He had to walk back down the Thoroughfare to fetch his bike. As he did, Fox wondered what might bring him to patronize that closet in the barracks he wasn’t supposed to know about. What he’d ask for, if he ever forgot his station enough to ask. What could ever stir his heart so much, that he’d wish to mark the spot.

Hypos and hypotheticals: Fox, senior commander and paragon of the Guard, didn’t have time or liberty for either. He tried to forget all about it.

[jq37]

The Royal Report– A Crown of Candy Ep 4  The Grand Tournament

An Extremely Normal Tourney

It’s time for the royal tourney! A tourney that Brennan, who would never lie to us, has assured us will be all fun and games and only simulated danger! What could possibly go wrong?

For an exhaustive answer to what should be a rhetorical question, let’s join our PCs on the tourney grounds where they’re getting ready for their respective events. 

Just to give you guys a quick rundown of who’s doing what:

Theobald is in the Joust, facing off against Lady Plumbeline.  

Liam, Ruby, Lord Citron of Fructerra (Banana man), and Lady Freccia of Cerecia (Spaghetti Illithid woman) are in the archery competition. 

There are two melee bouts going on: 

One is a Vegetanian knight (Bonathan--french fries dude), Anabelle, Grissini, and Jet 

The other is Keradin (Bulbian paladin from last ep), a Ceresian Gladiator, Scravoya (wife of the meat dude Amethar called out last episode), and Amethar.  

The only person sitting out the festivities is old-man Lapin who is chilling in the high rollers box with the Pontifex, Alfredi, and some of the other important peeps we met last episode.  

Lord and Lady Cruller are watching Jet’s fight and also have taken Primsy under their wing to keep her away from Stilton who Theobald has warned everyone about.

While Brennan rolls initiative for a million NPCs, the PCs mess around with the Message cantrip and Jet worries that something bad might happen to her dad during the tournament. Ruby says that, if anyone tries anything, they’ll stop it.

On to the matches!

In the first round of the archery competition, Liam does well with a 23 (he’s only beaten by Citron who gets a 25) and Ruby (who’s not really equipped for bow shooting at this distance and can’t get a magic boost without putting herself in major danger) lags behind with a 10.

In the main melee battle, Scravoya (who is fully just a t-bone steak with eyes) outright threatens Amethar and he leans into it, saying they should take out their competition so they can 1v1 each other. A very good idea but with only an 8 Persuasion roll to back it up, it doesn’t work. Amethar tries to make the same deal with Keradin but, when he’s rebuffed, goes into a rage and goes for Scravoya, hitting her for 19 points of damage. On her turn, she returns the favor for 16 points.  

Jet decides to take a page from her dad’s book and tries to ally with Annabelle...by bringing up her ejection from the line of succession, her refusal to wed, and also declaring that she also won’t wed--each of those statements probably being enough to cause a scandal on its own. But even with disadvantage on Persuasion, Jet gets a 20 which means that while the crowd is scandalized, Annabelle is touched by the show of solidarity and salutes with her sabre. Then Jet hits Grissini for 21 points of damage, giving us insight into what his type is because his response is to instantly go full heart eyes for her. Doesn’t stop him from dealing a bunch of damage to Jet on his turn though.  

Meanwhile, Lapin--saying it’s a request from the king--has Lord and Lady Swirly (who are in the box with him) hold comically full glasses of wine for when Amethar’s match is done, something they don’t question at all. He foregoes a “real turn” so he can act when something actually happens.

In the joust, Theobald and Lady Plumbeline run at each other and Theo super hits with a 24. The joust is supposed to be three rounds long but on a 15 Athletics to her nat 1, Theo absolutely sends her flying off her meep and ends it--and the chance at getting to name herself as a candidate for the Emperor’s successor--right then and there. He hops down off his meep to help her up but she slaps his hand away, picks herself up, fully crying, and runs off the field.

What Could Possibly Go Wrong?

Back in the main melee, Brennan asks for 3 Con saving throws from Amethar, activating both mine and Lou’s Fight or Flight. Brennan says that Amethar takes 8 piercing damage and then 22 points of damage that are not halved (even though he’s raging) which brings him down to 6 HP. And, on top of that, he’s suddenly having trouble breathing.

Zac decides that this is a good time for Lapin to take his turn but, on an 8, doesn’t notice anything is wrong. Like yeah, Amethar’s hurt but it would be weird if it wasn’t. It’s a melee. Amether also rolls Perception and, with an 8, though he knows that something sharp cut into his side when he bumped into Keradin and the gladiator (which is weird because they’re all fighting with blunted weapons) he thinks he could have just gotten scratched by their armor or something. 

Liam and Jet both fail their Perception checks on their turns to notice Amethar is in dire straits. 

Oh Amethar’s turn, having realized that something Weird and Bad is happening, he fully nopes out of there and Disengages so he can hop the fence to the pen where Jet’s fight is happening (the one Cruller is watching) and lie down to signal to everyone that he’s not fighting anymore and needs help.

Unfortunately for him, Scravoya fails her Wisdom save and jumps the fence to continue wailing on Amethar, knocking him unconscious.     

Lapin, paying off the Looney Tunes gag that he set up on his first turn, hip checks Lord and Lady Swirlie to make them throw the wine in Alfredi’s face. While she’s distracted, he does some sneaky healing on Amethar (13 pts) which no one clocks though Brennan doesn’t tell *them* that.  

Amethar, while unconscious, sees his sister Rococco in a field of wheat in the spot where she died, who tells him to get up. In the real world, he does. 

On Jet’s turn, she prepares to exit the fight to help her dad. Grissini notices that she’s distressed and asks if something’s wrong. When she says that someone is trying to kill her dad, he stops fighting, throws down his weapon, and tries to get the Pontifex’s attention. 

As soon as it’s his turn, Theo accesses the Speed Force, runs all the way to Amethar, and disarms Scravoya. Jet is suddenly more interested in learning a disarming blow.

Ruby runs over to Jet to help out if she needs to (and, mechanically, so their lockets are in play) and also sends Yak up to keep an eye on things.  

Cruller jumps down to help stop the fighting and check on Amethar, finding that Amethar can’t speak. He calls for a healer and Keradin comes over. Ruby makes him drop his mace as he passes her but he gets there and kneels next to him.

Liam casts Detect Poison and Disease since Amethar looks pretty sick (his deception roll to hide it is only a 10, yikes) and Brennan says there’s definitely poison happening. But oh no Brennan. You’re not getting away with just that. The language of that spell says you ID the type and location of poison in range. 

Brennan reads the card to confirm that his shit is thoroughly fucked and then narrates that Liam detects a poison cocktail in Amethar which delivered 22 points of poison damage (he saved so 22 was half), gives the Poisoned condition (which he also saved from), and also silences the person for an hour (which is why he can’t talk). And location? Liam smells the same poison that’s in Amethar’s body on two daggers on Keradin’s belt. Liam calls him out (without explaining what’s going on very well--luckily Theo starts yelling poison to make things more clear for the audience) and casts Hunter's Mark very openly without really disguising it.

Father in danger, Jet tries to attack Keradin but misses twice. Amethar, on his turn, gets up, goes into a rage, and hits Keradin (whose eyes go blank and soft) and then backs up from him.

Scravoya keeps fighting because she’s a woman in a rage and on a mission (rather than anything especially sinister, a previous check showed that she thinks Amethar is cheating or wussing out which is why she’s kept fighting).

Back in the box, Alfredi is still chewing out the Swirlies and not really paying attention to the other insanity going on. The Pontifex meanwhile is watching intensely and is so shocked she can’t really move or speak. Lapin yells for them to call off the fight (21 Persuasion) and, even though he probably shouldn’t be giving orders while sitting next to someone who outranks him so completely, the Pontifex ignores that and yells at Keradin to kneel and he does so immediately.   

The horns blow, the fight stops--even Scravoya stops. But we’re still in initiative. Anabelle jumps over and knocks Keradin further down. Grissini starts mobilizing guards to stop anyone running away. Theo tries to get the daggers from him and fails. Luckily Ruby is next and she casts Hex (giving Keradin disadvantage to Dex) and just barely grabs the poison daggers from Keradin’s belt with help from Yak, holding them up and loudly declaring their existence to the crowd like the performer she wants to be. The daggers are made of pure water which is super deadly to sugar people. And luckily, on a nat 1, no one notices her spell. Cruller goes after the fleeing Ceresian gladiator and we exit combat.

Keradin is grabbed by guards and is double arrested by the Pontifex and Grissini in a church/state tag team. Alfredi glances at Lapin and then comes down and heals the Poison condition from Amethar.

Liam tries to do a better job at disguising his magic as just non-magical ranger knowledge but doesn’t do a great job, even with help from Ruby.

Jet tries to see if Anabelle is on the level and her read on her is shaky because it’s been a crazy like minute and a half for her. She then apologizes for inadvertently embarrassing her. Anabelle says she needs to learn to be less quick to run off at the mouth outside of Candia but she doesn’t seem to have any hard feelings (especially since her scandal is like only the 9th craziest thing that’s happened at this point). 

Lapin’s Big Day

The security minded people start to arrange escorts and guards and all the stuff you do when an assassination attempt happens. Theo wants to be part of the investigation. Lapin sees Alfredi talking to the Pontifex and pointing to Liam. The Pontifex then comes over to Grissini and says that the church would see Keradin hanged for his actions. Grisinni tells her that the Candians want to talk to him first and she’s fine with that. She leaves, followed by the meat people. Before he leaves, Senator Ciabatta checks in with Amethar and, without explanation, says that he doesn’t believe Keradin acted alone. 

Liam is ready to just peace out into the woods before he’s tried as a witch but Theo tells him to stay. Cruller comes back and says that they arrested the dude he had been chasing down. They decide to split up with the kids and Tartgaurd going with Amethar to lay low--and to protect Liam--while the old dude squad--Theo, Lapin, and Cruller--go to supervise whatever’s going on with Keradin so he doesn’t just get disappeared before they can talk to him. Theo gives Jet Sprinkle (whose eyes he can see through) and they split up.   

Anabelle comes over and introduces herself to Amethar, calling it a great honor as her dad was good friends with him. Jet makes a comment about her thighs being weapons because she hasn’t learned anything from her talk with Anabelle (who, for the record, doesn’t disagree with the content of the statement, just the appropriateness).

Prince Cabbage also passes by and they get the sense that he was not paying attention to anything that was going on and just had it explained to him after the fact (which, dude, how do you sleep through that???? Unless he didn’t and he wasn’t paying attention for some wild, Pepe Silvia reason, but too much craziness is going on this ep for me to start Wild Mass Guessing for no reason). 

Lapin lets the others know that the cat might be out of the bag re: Liam’s magic and Cruller points out that it’s way easier for the church to off him than Ruby so he’s potentially in a LOT of danger. Even the king might be powerless to stop any retribution. Theo suggests that maybe if Liam was made a knight, that would give him some protection. Lapin thinks he might be able to talk to the Pontifex about it. And if neither of those work, Cruller can try and spirit him away back to Candia.    

Plans set, they go find Keradin who is chained in a dungeon guarded by Grissini and his men. Lapin does an Insight check with advantage (helped by Theo) and our boy gets a nat 20! On that nat 20, he knows that Keradin is of such unshakable faith that he is immune to being mind controlled. He’s just an extremely loyal follower of the church who’s never had an independent thought in his life.

 Lapin asks for the room to be cleared so he can have a conversation with Keradin and Grissini says he’s under orders from the Pontifex to not let Keradin get-got before the church has the chance to do it. “Oh,” says Lapin. “So you’re calling me, a man of that that same church, a liar and also a murderer? Interesting.” Grissini is so cowed that even without Lapin rolling Intimidation or Persuasion, Grissini deeply apologizes and clears the room.

Lapin makes like he’s going to break him out of his chains and asks Keradin where he’s supposed to meet with his co-conspirators. On a 25 Deception (!) v. Keradin’s 3 Insight, Keradin says that there was no plan and he was supposed to just let Amethar die on the field and walk away. Lapin asks where he can get another dagger so he can complete the attack and Keradin says he got his three from Alfredi!

Information gleaned, Lapin slaps Keradin across the face and calls back in the guard, telling them to arrest Alfredi. On a 22 Persuasion, Lapin is able to get Grissini to agree to this bold order and they head out. 

Keradin loses his shit and starts pulling at his chains, yelling, “Apostate!” at Lapin who leans in and drops the rawest line anyone could have at that moment.

“Where is your Bulb now?”   

Medal of Honor

When Lapin DID THAT my first thought was, “Man, I wish I still had Honor Roll on my recaps so I could give it to him.” Then I remembered I make the rules here and I can do whatever the hell I want. 

What an absolutely BEASTLY set of moves from Lapin. I’ve always said, Zac is quietly super smart but always hampered in-game by the himbos he chooses to play but man did he make up for every insane, “Are you my Dad?” from S1 with his CRAZY flex this episode.

One of the best things you can do as a player is do something so logical and natural and fitting that the DM can’t help but give it to you, roll be damned and he got that from Brennan this episode.

Not to mention setting up his distraction a round in advance, coming up with a *great* way to get info from Keradin (in the moment I had no idea how he was gonna play that), taking Alfredi off the board so early into the game, and that sick, sick, mic drop of a line that forced Brennan to end the episode.

He went from sitting out the entire tournament to undisputed MVP of the episode. What a champ.

*Also, would be remiss if I didn’t mention that his gag of just creepily appearing on the king’s shoulder is my fave of the season so far.   

Things I’m Concerned About

Well the number one thing I’m concerned about is a thing I didn’t even notice until I rewatched for this recap. Ruby grabs two water daggers off of Keradin but then Keradin tells Lapin that Alfredi gave him three water daggers. Which means that either water daggers are one use (3 - the one he used on Amethar = 2) OR, both more likely (assuming max drama at least) and troubling, there’s a third dagger floating around out there. And that’s such an easy thing to miss in the heat of the moment when you’re playing. So the question is, who has that third dagger? It would be weird if Alfredi had it--why give it right back to the person who gave it to you? If this is a Bubian conspiracy, maybe one of the other officials like Onionpatch--he would be an unexpected candidate. Either way, I hope someone clocked that bit of info or will soon because that’s a dangerous thing to just be lurking.

I’m concerned about how far down this rabbit hole goes (pun unintended but consciously retained). When Brennan said Keradin’s eyes went blank and soft during the struggle, I was thinking maybe mind control but he’s apparently immune to mind control (which I think means he’s at least a level 8 Paladin since that’s when they gain immunity to charm spells and abilities--so I guess he was just surprised at the turn of events in that moment and that’s what that was?). So how corrupt is this church? Does it go all the way to the Pontifex? Do they want a specific person on the throne or do they just not want a Candian on the throne since they’re well known for being lax with enforcing the magic restrictions, something the church would surely hate.

I’m concerned Theo might have inadvertently made an enemy of Plumbeline. Or, like, driven her to do something rash. Like, we know he was just being a good guy but she was obv not in a good headspace in that moment. It wasn’t a bad move from him--if she’d reacted well it would have been a good relationship to have, but the dice just weren’t on his side.  

I’m concerned about what it will take before the children start thinking about the ~implications~ of their actions. Like, Jet airing royal laundry and declaring to not marry  in front of everybody and Liam not even trying to hide his Hunter’s Mark at Keradin? This is the Actions Have Consequences season! I keep saying that and I’m sure it’s gonna continue until someone dies! And speaking of.. 

Like...come on. It’s gotta happen, right? And the longer they murder-block Brennan, the worse it’s gonna be when it happens! And like...I realllllly wouldn’t want to be Liam right now. It occurs to me that this would be a good opportunity to throw Liam under the bus for Ruby’s sake. Not saying they SHOULD do it obviously or that they would--in fact they started doing the opposite immediately. But if my main thought was protecting Ruby, I would accuse Liam--son of the traitor who openly did magic at the royal tournament--of having done the magic on the road, and that clears Ruby and he’s a much easier scapegoat. 

Five Six More Things

Very funny that Ally basically only refers to Anabelle as, “the hot one”. Like that’s the only thing about her that stuck. 

Let’s say Plumbeline had won and put her name up for consideration. Do you think her dad would have named her over Amethar? Like, I’m sure Amethar would be fine with it seeing as he doesn’t really want the job but I dunno.

What would win? An intricately plotted assassination attempt or a level 1 spell and a disengage action? LOL, RIP Brennan. Truly, Brennan was thwarted at every turn this episode. Amethar running away alleviated the need for everyone to make some near impossible Perception checks. Theo Usain Bolting over and disarming Scravoya. Liam clocking the poison stopped Keradin from doing any funny business and narrowed their suspects to one instead of literally everyone on the field. Ruby grabbing the daggers made it clear what was going on and showed that they were the victims of an attack not whatever all that nonsense looked like out of context. If they had played this any differently, Amethar would probably be dead. And, at no point watching that do you get the sense that this was a planned story event they were meant to get through shaken but unscathed. Brennan was gunning for him (“Stop trying to kill my dad!/Stop having you dad be the king!/Fuck you!/Fuck you!”).

I think it is very endearing that Grissini, upon hearing that Jet needed help, immediately started to wildly flag down the Pontifex but, upon actually talking to the Pontifex later, was very formal and hesitant, showing that he really just dropped all his inhibitions and social graces to help Jet in that moment.  

What an INSANE thing to witness as an attendee of this tournament. Like, truly a year’s worth of drama within about 2 minutes. WILD. 

Emily and Siobhan have a quick conversation about whether Alfredi is working with the cheese bandits where Emily cites, “Pasta with cream sauce” as evidence and if this season’s plot twists occur in such a way that they can be retroactively tracked by something like “foods that go together,” I am going to scream. I am also fully prepared for this to be the case.

[kissjane]

CAN YOU HEAR ME? / Drabble(ish)

#20 from this prompt list.

20. You’re in a coma and I confess all my feelings only for you to wake up

“Oh, god!”

Lucas came to an abrupt standstill. He’d run all the way, first from his flat to the hospital, and then, after it had taken the nurse at the reception desk way too long to give him directions to Eliott’s room, in an impressive sprint to the room. He panted, trying to get some oxygen into his burning lungs, but the sight in front of him was not very conducive to calming down.

The figure in the bed was covered almost completely in bandages and casts. Even his face was wrapped in white strips, and the parts of him that were visible, were unrecognizable because of the sheer amount of cuts and bruises marring the skin.

“Oh my god, Eliott…”

Lucas could hardly get the words out through the lump in his throat, and he felt the tears he had managed to keep at bay in his adrenalin-fueled run trickling down his cheeks.

It had been a nightmarish chain of events that brought Lucas here.

When Eliott had been brought in after the car had hit him, he’d been unconscious and the nurse had called his parents to inform them. However, with them being in Marseille, they hadn’t been able to come to the hospital immediately, so they had contacted the Bakhellals. Unfortunately though they had also been away for the weekend, and Idriss and Imane had called Lucas. The details had become muddier with every pass, so Lucas had been preparing for the worst, but the sight in front of him exceeded even that.

In two strides, Lucas crossed the room and sank into the uncomfortable chair next to the bed.

He grabbed the hand closest to him, also heavily bandaged, and pressed it against his cheek, uncaring about his tears soaking the linen.

There was a needle in Eliott’s arm and some yellowish fluid was drip-drip-dripping through clear plastic tubes before disappearing into Eliott’s veins. The room was cold and the white walls seemed to close in on Lucas. The only sounds were the steady beeping of various monitors attached to Eliott, and the falling of both the IV fluid and Lucas’ tears.

A nurse entered, and startled when she saw Lucas.

“Oh, excuse me. I didn’t know anyone was here.”

She made quick work of checking the monitor and putting up a new plastic bag of the same light ochre fluid.

“Is he – will he be –”, Lucas sniffed.

The nurse paused.

“You could try talking to him. There is a chance he will hear you,” she said diplomatically.

It was as if the earth beneath his feet had opened up and threatened to swallow him whole. Lucas couldn’t imagine never seeing Eliott’s smile again, never getting lost in his stormy eyes again. He might as well die.

Suddenly, shame flooded through him. He might lose Eliott, and Eliott wouldn’t even know how Lucas felt about him.

So he held on tightly to what the nurse had said. If there was any chance Eliott could hear him, Lucas needed to come clean.

His eyes were so puffy by now he could barely see Eliott’s figure on the white sheets.

He squeezed the covered hand even tighter.

“Eliott…”, he full-on sobbed. “Eliott, I’m so sorry. I should have told you. There were so many times when I wanted to tell you and I never did, because I was so afraid I might lose you…”

The wails wrecked his body, as he tried to breathe. He might lose Eliott anyway, now.

“I just… I love you, Eliott. I don’t know if you can hear me, but I am so in love with you. Please don’t leave me, Eliott…”

It was hard, because he was bawling so openly and loudly, but a small cough penetrated his teary monologue.

He looked up, expecting the nurse again, or a doctor, or maybe the cleaning lady, or basically anybody but the person standing in the door opening.

“Thanks, I guess? I can hear you just fine, and I won’t leave you, but why are you telling some unknown dude you’re in love with me?”

Lucas’ eyes went big and round as saucers. They flitted from the figure in the bed, whose hand he was still holding against his cheek, and Eliott, who had a few bruises, a bit of dried blood on his arm showing through a torn shirtsleeve, and a large wrapping around his ankle, but otherwise seemed perfectly fine.

“Eliott? But – what – who –”

Eliott sat down on the empty bed.

“This is supposed to be my bed, but really I’m allowed to go home, so I don’t need it. I don’t know who that is.”

He gestured to the man. Lucas dropped the hand he was holding unceremoniously, then with a shriek grabbed it again and put it gingerly back on the mattress. He kept staring at Eliott as if he had seen an apparition.

Eliott grinned, and fuck, Lucas couldn’t help but melt.

“So, uh,” Eliott hedged, purposefully, teasingly, “are we talking about your big confession?”

“Oh my God!”

Lucas jumped up and jumped on to Eliott, tackling him to the bed, using all his strength to hug him as tight as he could.

“I thought you were gonna die! I thought I’d never get a chance to talk to you ever again! You idiot, you scared the hell out of me, you –”

Eliott let out a loud ‘oof’.

“Hey! Careful! I was run over by a car!”

Lucas didn’t exactly care at this very moment. Eliott was alive, was walking and talking and he wouldn’t lose him.

Eliott chuckled, and his arms curved around Lucas’ waist.

“That confession?”, he prompted again. “Does that still count or are you taking it back now I’m not dying?”

“Oh, god, you are so annoying. I hate you,” Lucas mumbled into Eliott’s shoulder.

“Too bad,” Eliott replied, his hands slipping down slowly from Lucas’ waist. “Because if it still counted, I could tell you I’m in love with you too.”

Lucas lifted his face to look at Eliott.

A long beat passed, and then with a moan, they pressed their lips together in a kiss that was not very suited to their environment.

They didn’t stop, however, until the nurse came into the room again and scolded them thoroughly. When they surfaced and she recognized Lucas, a perplexed look crossed her face and she stopped mid-sentence as she looked over to the other bed, but the boys paid her no further heed, as they left the hospital hand in hand.

[ginger-bread-official]

It Falls to Us

____

AU Oneshot. Padfoot was tried and found innocent and now has custody of Harry Potter. Moony struggles to forgive Sirius for thinking he would be the spy.

It had only been two weeks. Two weeks since the war ended. Two weeks since Wormtail had betrayed the Order. Two weeks since James and Lily Potter made their stand against Voldemort leaving their son an orphan. They had since been buried and laid to rest in Godrics Hollow in a private ceremony only open to those who knew them. Remus had watched his best friends be lowered into the ground feeling more hollow than ever before. Everyone who had accepted him was gone. James and Lily dead, Peter on the run for his treachery, Harry living with Sirius. And Sirius…well there’s only so much one man can forgive. He of course understood on a logical level why Sirius believed him to be a spy. He was a dark creature and had every reason to turn double agent for Voldemort. He had been shunned all of his life and could easily become bitter. It made sense. But how could he ever believe it? How could he think that Remus would turn on those he thought as family, on those who accepted him, loved him. Remus stood next to Sirius at the funeral only exchanging information about visits with Harry. Neither could bridge the gap between them that the war had left. He doubted that they ever would. But he forgot one thing...

“Remus!” Sirius’ voice rang through the cottage, shocking the depressing silence that had settled around Moony in the wake of all he had lost.

“Sirius.” Moony yelped in surprise seeing his school mate’s head in the floo.

“Remus please I need help!” he said earnestly, “I can’t get him to stop crying. I don’t know what’s wrong.” Lupin stood from the dining table.

“Harry?” he asked simply looking for more context.

“Yes bloody Harry. Please Moony I don’t know what to do.” Sirius pleaded with the werewolf

“I’ll be right there.” Remus stood and ran to his room for his wand and some potion ingredients. He hurried through the floo to Sirius’ flat and found him standing there holding a wailing Harry.

“He won’t stop crying.” He repeated handing the infant over to the werewolf, “I’ve tried changing him, feeding him, burping him. I don’t know what’s wrong.” Remus took the boy in his arms and tried to soothe him by gently rocking him back and forth. His screams persisted. Lupin then brought his hand to the child’s forehead.

“He has a fever.” Sirius paled at Lupin’s words. “Where’s Lily’s stuff?” he asked pushing through the pain at the mention of his dead friend.

“It’s all in the spare bedroom.” He responded taking Harry back when Remus indicated he should do so.

“Wet a cloth with lukewarm water and dab Harry with it. I’ll find her recipes for tonics.” Sirius hurried off to do as he was instructed while Lupin made his way to the spare bedroom with equal haste. He hesitated only for a moment when he reached the door; not knowing if he was ready to be confronted with the Potters possessions. However, the wails of their child pushed him forward. He sifted through boxes of pictures, clothes, and countless memories. His heart felt like it was going to cave in on itself. He fought through the tears now freely streaming down his face looking for the baby book he knew Lily kept. He finally found the small red notebook under one of James’ old quidditch jerseys. The one he wore under his wedding tux for good luck. He went to the kitchen where Sirius was bathing a still crying Harry.

“I’ve got Lily’s book, where’s your potions set?”

“Under the counter.” He replied over his shoulder, his voice still panicked. Lupin set to work, mixing a mild potion for Harry’s fever. He flipped through the notebook, passed excerpts on Harry’s diet, his nutrient potions, balms for his baths. Some were in Lily’s elegant cursive, and some in James’ messy scrawl. He found the anti-inflammatory potion and brewed it as quickly as he could. Harry was no longer screaming, but still whined in discomfort. Luckily the potion wasn’t too difficult and was ready in minutes.

“Here,” he handed Sirius a dish of the silvery paste while he held his own, “we need to rub this on him and it’ll bring down the fever.”

“Are you sure Moony?” he asked

“I’m not,” he looked down worriedly at the balm, “but this is Lily’s recipe, and she’s the expert.” He dipped his fingers into the paste and began rubbing it on Harry’s round belly. The cool substance seemed to calm him bit by bit, until he was practically cooing at the two men above him. Remus felt a smile stretch across his face as he watched his friend’s son clap with excitement. They gave him a proper bath, charming bubbles to dance around him, and the rubber ducks to quack at him. Lupin felt happiness fill in the hollow of his chest for the first time since the funeral. Harry was going to be ok.

He washed the boy’s thick black hair, lightly brushing his thumb over the lightning bolt cut on his forehead. He had survived a killing curse from the most powerful dark wizard of all time, and yet a fever still brought fear into the men’s hearts.

“We should put him down for a nap.” Lupin broke from his musings about the vulnerable child they had in front of them.

“He better be tired from all the wailing he did.” Sirius jested, picking up the boy in a towel. “You’ve got your mothers lungs kid. Merlin she could yell.” He carried the baby off to his crib leaving Lupin to clean up the kitchen. He let the cold flow of depression sweep through his veins again as he thought of going home to his grief. Although it had been frightening, he was distracted from his depression and even felt happy at one point. Harry was the only good thing left in his life, and seeing him smile despite his parent’s death brought some reminisce of peace to Lupin.

“Thanks for your help Moony.” Sirius’ voice jolted Remus from his stupor. “I really don’t know how I would have dealt without you.” Lupin noticed for the first time how tired Sirius looked. His skin was pale and his eyes red rimmed.

“Anything for Harry.” Lupin responded, receiving a nod from Sirius. He allowed a moment of silence to pass between them before asking, “Why did you call me?”

“I told you, I didn’t know what to do.” He moved to the living room and sat on the couch with an exasperated huff.

“Yes,” he followed him, “But why me? Why not Poppy, or McGonagall, or your cousin Andromeda?” Sirius looked confused with the question.

“You were just the first person who came to mind.” Silence fell again between them. Lupin watched as Sirius lost focus and stared off, deep in thought. They sat there for probably a half an hour letting the situation sink in. Upstairs sleeping peacefully was Harry Potter, the Boy who lived, James and Lily’s son and now, their responsibility. Sirius let out a long breath to break the silence.

“How the hell am I going to do this Moons?”

“With help.”  He responded into the stillness of the air around them. “Poppy can help with all the—”

“I can’t go to Pomfrey.” Sirius interrupted

“Why not?” Lupin asked after a moment.

“Because I fought tooth and nail with Dumbledore so he would agree to let me take Harry.” He leant forward with his arms resting on his knees and his gaze down cast. “If she tells him about me needing help he’ll think I can’t handle it and take him away.”

“Then how about your cousin.” Lupin offered remembering the woman who ran off with a muggleborn. “She has a daughter, right? I’m sure she can help.” Sirius sighed

“She’s not ready to come out of hiding. Ever since Bellatrix tried to kidnap Nymphadora she’s been paranoid about coming back out into public.”

“Well I’m sure she’ll—”

“No Moony. I have to do this by myself.” He interrupted again, his tone now stern.

“Why?” Lupin asked annoyed at his stubbornness.

“Because it’s my fault that’s why?!” Sirius raised his voice in frustration. Lupin felt a sudden wave of pity for the man staring back at him through watery eyes. “Because I’m the reason they’re dead, because my stupidity cost James and Lily their lives.” Lupin reached for Sirius’ shoulder.

“Sirius” but he stood abruptly and paced away from Remus.

“Don’t you see?! I have to do this. He’s my fucking godson, the purpose of me is to take care of him now that they’re gone! I have to raise that little boy as if he were my own, love him and protect him, and then one day tell him I’m the reason he doesn’t have parents.” Tears were freely streaming down his face, all semblance of control lost. He took a vase from the mantle and threw it against the opposing wall. The sound of the shatter woke Harry from his slumber and set him into a new fit of wails from the other room.

“Shit!” Sirius rushed off to his room and returned with Harry in his arms no longer crying, but still shaken and fussy. Sirius focused on soothing the baby while Remus stood and walked over to the pair. He brushed back some of Harry’s thick black hair, revealing the wound from his confrontation with the Dark Lord.

“It’s not your fault Padfoot.” Remus spoke softly while Sirius’ gaze was fixed on the small child in his arms. “I trusted and loved Peter just as much. It isn’t our fault that we trusted our brother.”

“He’s no brother of mine.” Sirius said darkly.

“Not anymore, but he was, we all were.” Sirius finally looked up at Remus “It’s no one’s fault but his. He’s the one who chose cowardice. All we did was trust him.” Harry, now calmed, began to snuggle into Sirius and fall asleep again.

“I’m sorry I suspected you Moons.” Sirius said at a whisper.

“It’s understandable.” Lupin conceded.

“No it’s despicable is what it is. I let prejudice cloud my judgement.” He shifted so Harry was in one arm and put his hand on Lupin’s shoulder. “You’re more man than anyone I know.” This morning he was positive that he was going to hate Sirius Black for the rest of his life. But standing there both having lost so much, he found that he couldn’t help but forgive him.

“I’ll stay a few days to help with Harry.” Lupin saw Sirius smile for the first time since Halloween.

A few days turned into a few weeks which in turn became years. They helped each other grieve and accept what had happened. Although Sirius still felt guilty, he decided being a good guardian for Harry was more important than self-pity. He managed to convince Remus to co-parent with him, Lupin’s biggest reservation being, of course his lycanthropy. Sirius, having inherited a large fortune, bought a house in Godrics Hollow. Where they could raise Harry and bring him to visit his parents as much as he wanted. Their house had air tight security since death eaters were still out for the boy who lived, but they tried not to shelter him too much, knowing James and Lily wouldn’t want their son to be raised that way. It was a different situation and not always the easiest, but it worked for them. Some days were harder than others, like the day Harry asked where his mom was, or the time he called Sirius ‘dad’, but they made the best of it. Their family was smaller than it once was, but no less a family.

[sabraeal]

Rarely Pure & Never Simple, Chapter 6

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5

The last entry in the 600 Followers Gift-a-thon! I meant for this to be out the last weekend in December, but dude to both illness, kiss-a-thon, and this fic turning out well over 7.5K...it just didn’t work out. Thank all of you guys for following and voting; hopefully this year I’ll actually get to finish all the 500 follower raffle fics too...

Despite the glut of graduation media Shirayuki’s been binging, trying to brace herself for-- for all this, nothing quite prepares her for what it will be like to wear her cap and gown.

“It’s plastic,” she says dully, rubbing the waffle-weave between the tips of her fingers. “It feels like a tablecloth.”

“You look great,” Nanna assures her, eyes shining, giving her arm a good squeeze.

“Besides,” Grandad adds, fiddling with his camera. They got him that two years ago, for Christmas, and even still he doesn’t know quite how it works. “At least you and all your friends will be wearing tablecloths together.”

That fact that doesn’t seem to assuage Kihal in the least.

“This is a disaster,” she wails as Shirayuki approaches, waving her hand to encompass both their gowns. “They’re practically see-through!”

Shirayuki blinks, and-- yes. At a glance, she knows that Kihal’s dress is blue beneath her robe, and Kiki’s is purple. She stares down at her own, and through the cheap plastic, the hazy pink splotches of the roses dotting her dress give the vague impression of period stains.

“Oh,” she murmurs, dropping the fabric. “Oh.”

“We’ve agreed, as whole, to aggressively ignore it,” Kiki says rationally, though by the round of her shoulders and the tense line of her jaw, it still rankles. “I’m going to warn the Junior Student Council that they need to ask for blue robes for all genders.”

“Or black,” Kihal suggests, “ditch the whole school pride thing altogether.”

Kiki nods. “Classic. I like it.” Her gaze hooks on to Shirayuki. “You’re doing a speech today, aren’t you?”

Butterflies races sickeningly in Shirayuki’s stomach. “Um, yeah.”

“Feeling prepared?”

Not at all. “As much as I can be,” she settles on. It earns her one of Kiki’s rare smiles, which at least gets the micro-fauna in her gut doing a more pleasant set of maneuvers.

“Good.” She reaches out, giving Shirayuki’s shoulder a solid squeeze. “I’m excited to hear it. Obi said it was, and I quote, ‘killer.’“

“Oh.” She knows they’re friends, of course; she met him through Kiki and Zen, and she hangs out with both of them on the regular, it’s just--

They talk about her. He talks about her, in a way that is, well, boyfriend-like. And she’s never...

Shirayuki has never been someone people talk about. At least, not without some rumor to go along with it.

“Um.” Her eyes sting, even as her mouth curves into a smile. “Cool.”

Kiki’s gaze flicks over her shoulder. “I better go check on Zen. It looks as if he might have some sort of apoplexy if he doesn’t get more help than Obi getting everyone into line.”

Shirayuki’s head whips over her shoulder, gaze fixing to where Zen stands in the gym, cheeks so red he might as well have been slapped. Right beside him is Obi, mouth hooking into his customary smirk, and something that’s been knotted in her breast since this morning loosens.

“That boy needs to get laid,” Kihal decides with a snort. “Or pick up yoga, or meditation, or something.”

A guilt heat sweeps over Shirayuki, head to toe. “W-what?”

“Wisteria.” Kihal jerks her head at him. “He’s going to pass out if he keeps walking around like a pot with its lid on, you know?”

“O-oh,” she says, now more mortified. “R-right.”

“Obviously not Obi. You’re already--” her eyes narrow-- “aren’t you already doing something about that?”

“Um!” Shirayuki casts about for anything that will keep her from having this conversation. “Looks like...we better go line up. I’m with the Ls so...I’ll see you after the ceremony!”

“What?” Kihal squawks, hands fisting on her hips as Shirayuki hurries away. “This conversation is not over!”

Tragically, Kihal is correct.

“I can’t believe you haven’t blow him.” Shirayuki glares down at where Kihal rests her elbows on the back of her chair, staring down the opposite row to where the ‘N’ section sits. “Like not even a little?”

The rehearsal was hardly three days ago, but somehow Shirayuki had forgotten the crucial fact that the ‘T’ section sat just behind the ‘L’ one after they file in.

“I don’t think this is really the time to be talking about this,” she hisses, glancing at the girl next to her, buried in her phone. To her other side is the aisle, thankfully, though when Mitsuhide throws her a small wave she can’t help but think if he was here, on this side, his staid presence might discourage this particular conversation.

“Just look at him.” Kihal gestures with the flat of her hand, right to where Obi sits, grinning, in front of Zen. “His dick is probably gorgeous. Like if I had to say who had the best dick out of everyone we know, I’d say--”

“Kihal.”

“--Probably Mitsuhide,” she admits, “but Obi would be a close second.”

Shirayuki sighs, and, well, maybe if she indulges this line of questioning, it will be over sooner. “We just...haven’t gotten there yet.”

Kihal gives her a dubious look. “It’s been what? Three months? And you expect me to believe he hasn’t mentioned it at all?”

She blinks. “No, actually.”

It hadn’t seemed odd to her-- after all, the only person thus far in her life that had mentioned her getting on her knees was Raj, and that had gone...not well, for either of them-- but now that Kihal has mentioned it...

Obi is nineteen, twenty in a month, and from every movie she’s ever avoided watching on the subject, he should be, well, more actively campaigning for an end to her dickphobia. Or at least, mentioning how he’d like her to be touching him, often and well.

“Maybe he doesn’t like it,” she suggests, at a loss. After all, she knows there’s, um, a reciprocal position, and as nice as it sounds when he suggests it, it doesn’t excite her in a, ah, intellectual sense. It’s not anything she cares about doing any time soon.

“Fake news,” Kihal grunts, “all boys like having their penises touched. If you asked him what he’d like to do to celebrate--” Shirayuki grimaces at the suggestive nudge-- “tonight, he’d say, hands down, that he wants you to blow him.”

Her menagerie of intestinal insects takes flight at the thought. “I don’t know...”

“Scientific fact,” Kihal insists, “given the choice, a dude will always want to be blown.”

“Well--” Obi meets her gaze, giving her a wink that is somehow both saucy and supportive-- “good thing there’s going to be no time for any of that tonight.”

Kihal’s gaze darts between the two of them, her mouth curling slyly. “Oh, I’m sure you’ll both find a way.”

If there’s one thing to be said for Kihal’s dogged determination on the subject of Obi’s penis and what Shirayuki should be doing with it, it’s that while she’s worrying about just how glacially slow she’s moving in her single serious relationship of her lifetime (and whether the local access cameras are near enough to pick up this entire conversation), she had absolutely no time to worry about her speech.

Which is why she nearly faceplants into the aisle when Zen announces, “Shirayuki Leon,” from the podium.

With a recovery that is as removed from smooth as she is from cool, Shirayuki shuffles up to the stage, trying not to stumble on the kitten heels Nanna insisted she wear. Distantly, she’s aware that there had to have been more lead up, that by Zen’s cheerful smile and the interested applause of the crowd, he must have said something complimentary enough to get her into heaven. But she can’t find it in herself to worry about that; instead she thanks him woodenly as he steps back, taking his seat on the stage as the Student Council President, and lets the cold breath of fear wash over her.

“Hi,” she begins eloquently, eyes scanning over the crowd. Goodness, this is a lot of people. “I’m Shirayuki, and I’m new.”

To her surprise, the crowd chuckles, fond smiles spreading across a few faces, and--

She can do this. She really can.

“I think I said that a million times my first week here.” It’s not anywhere near an exaggeration; she’d been searching for friends, anyone to make a senior year transfer seem like less of a punishment, and she’d been what she liked to term aggressively friendly. “I’d thought nothing could be worse than having to leave my old school right when I was going to graduate. How could I replace eleven years of friendship in less than nine months? How could I even become part of this school, when even your colors are weird?”

They laugh at that too, and it’s strange-- she’d thought she’d feel naked saying these things in front of a crowd, in front of classmates who had whispered behind her back, or even asked her bald questions in the hall about blowing Raj Shenezard. But it’s all so far away now, another lifetime, one that existed before Honor Society, before Mathletes, before--

Well, before Drama Club, certainly.

“But I didn’t feel that way long.” Zen and Kiki are on the stage behind her, but Mitsuhide and Kihal are were she left them in the crowd, smiling as she meets their eyes. “I made friends, good friends. The kind of friendships that last beyond homework. The kind of relationships--” her knees quiver under the podium as she glances at Obi, as she says the words she wrestled over last night, trying to make perfect-- “that last beyond a play, beyond high school, into whatever comes after. Together.”

He holds her gaze, and oh, she is-- she is not going to make it through this if she keeps looking at him>.

“I’m changed because I came here. We’re all changed because we came here,” she says, lifting her gaze to the crowd. “My Nanna likes to say that we’re not stone, but clay, constantly being shaped by what’s around us. Being here has shaped us, but it’s also shown me that we can shape ourselves if we choose to. When we leave here we’ll change again, and again, and for some of us, we’ll lose this shape entirely and becomes something new. And for others, we’ll carry pieces of what we became here our whole lives.”

With a single, steeling breath, she continues, “A few months ago, I couldn’t imagine fitting in here. And now I can’t imagine ever having been anywhere else. So as much as this speech is a celebration of all we’ve achieved together, it’s also a thank you.” She smiles, letting her gaze scan over the whole of her class, realizing she knows a name for every face. “Thank you for my senior year.”

“I cried,” Kihal informs her, fanning herself with a program as they wait for their families to find them on the field. “So I hope you’re happy about that.”

Shirayuki frowns. “That wasn’t really the point--”

“Hey!” Zen holds out his arms, wrapping her in a hug that’s only slightly stilted. “Great speech!”

“Thanks,” she says, gripping his arms as she steps back. “I was nervous. I don’t really know how much that would, um, resonate for people.”

“It’s a small school,” Kiki drawls, cutting between them to wrap her arms around her. A thrill shoots up her spine, all the way from her toes. “And you’re one of us now.”

“Oh.” Her eyes sting, like she worried they might on the podium, but this-- this-- “Thank you.”

It’s fine.

“You did an amazing job, Shirayuki!” Mitsuhide tells her, bounding up with a grin and a hug strong enough to break a moose’s back. “The best speech today!”

“Thanks,” Zen deadpans.

“Oh, I--” he grimaces, rubbing at the back of his head-- “I forgot you gave one. But It was good too!”

“Don’t hurt yourself,” Zen laughs, shaking his head. “You’re right, Shirayuki’s was much better than mine.”

“I thought that, um...” If only she could remember any bit of the ceremony that wasn’t her speech or Kihal’s opinion on oral sex, this would be a much easier compliment. “It was very good!”

“Doesn’t hold a candle to yours, though.” Obi’s arm slings around her shoulder, drawing her tight against his side. “Though maybe I’m biased.”

Zen grins at that. “You are kissing the competition.”

Obi waggles his eyebrows. “You’re always welcome to come over here and bias me yourself, Chief.”

He flushes, bright pink against the platinum of his hair, and coughs, “I’m-- I’m good.”

“Do have to say, kid,” Obi continues, dropping his chin to tangle the amber of his gaze with hers, “there was a part in the middle there I don’t remember practicing.”

“Mm.” It’s good he didn’t look at her like this when she was talking; she’d never have gotten a word out around the tangle of her tongue. “I found out I had more to say about all the, um, future stuff.”

“Future stuff?” he asks, breathless.

It would be inappropriate to kiss him here, at least the way his eyes are promising. Her grandparents are talking to Kihal’s parents just a few feet away, and all their friends are watching them, and a peck might be in order but--

But his chest rumbles under her hands as he leans in, half a purr, and as much as she knows this is more fit for a dark corner instead of right next to the bleachers, she pushes up on her toes--

“Hey, Obi, are you coming tonight?”

He steps away, hazy-eyed. Her lips still tingle with thwarted anticipation. “Hm?”

Zen darts a glance between the two of them. “My graduation party. I know you have, uh, a competing engagement.”

“Oh right.” He nods, tucking her into his side. “Yeah, I’m gonna come for about an hour, and then ditch out for Shirayuki’s. As long as that’s okay with you, Kid?”

She blinks. “Yeah, of course. I’m sorry I can’t make it, Zen, but--”

“Don’t worry,” he waves her off. “I know how it is. I might try to pop by after Kiki’s dad opens the liquor cabinet though.”

Kiki grimaces. “Me too.”

“Glad that’s settled.” Obi presses a kiss to her forehead. “I’ll stuff myself on canapes for an hour, and then I’ll come just in time to eat Grandad’s cooking.”

Shirayuki feigns a pout of disapproval. “Well, now I know where your real priorities lie.”

Kiki barks out a laugh. “You can’t be surprised that it’s his stomach.”

Obi grins at that, but his eyes grow serious. “Aw, c’mon kid,” he says, softer, pressing another kiss between her eyebrows. “You know you’re what matters to me.”

She wraps an arm around his waist, enjoying the way his breath skips as she squeezes him. “I know.”

In all her anxiety-watching of graduation movies, not one of them had managed to show a graduation party, opting instead for moonlit moments on picnic blankets beneath the floodlights of the school’s football field. Thus, Shirayuki is thoroughly unprepared for how chaotic it is.

“Shirayuki!” Nanna calls out, waving at her from across the room, “do you remember Mrs Kino?”

She doesn’t have many relatives; her mom was an only child, and her whole paternal side is shrouded in a mystery she’s only even half-interested in solving, but the party is filled to the brim with her grandparents’ friends and business associates from the pub, as well as a handful of old teachers Nanna managed to track down as a surprise. Her own friends have been filtering in and out all night: the Mathletes started here and left after the first round of chafing dishes were finished, leaving to go to another party across town; at least a handful of drama club members here since before even she managed to arrive, ever-changing, though always clustered around the refreshment tables; Kihal has been aggressively greeting everyone that walked in the door as if it were her own party, making sure that Shirayuki gives everyone at least a cursory hello and an outline of her post-graduation plans. Even Ryuu puts in an appearance around dinner, looking as if he’d like to melt into the floor as his mother gushes about what an excellent influence Shirayuki has been, how she’ll be sorely missed next year.

Still, she hasn’t seen Obi.

“He’ll be here,” Kihal promises as they take a breather in the den, scarfing down a entire plate of chicken marsala with an intensity that makes Shirayuki concerned about her future gastric health. “You know he will. And if he doesn’t I’ll kill him.”

There’s a half dozen thing she could say to that, but she settles for, “Thanks.”

“Do you mind checking to see if there’s anymore chicken?” Kihal holds out her plate with wide, pleading eyes. “It’s so good. And I know you want to see if the desserts have come out.”

More like Kihal wants to know if the desserts are out. “Can you not make it there yourself?”

“Nope.” Kihal lounges against the couch’s arm. “I’m like a California condor. I’ve eaten so much I won’t be able to fly for another hour.”

She lifts a brow. “And you still want more?”

Kihal scoffs. “Your grandpa made it. Of course.”

Technically, the staff of the pub made it, and it’s just Grandad’s recipe but-- Shirayuki takes her point and her plate. For a minute, she contemplates cutting through the party, which fills up the living room and spills out onto the back deck, but then elects for the longer, quieter route around the stairs.

“Hey, kid, there you are.” Obi’s smile lights up the kitchen, plates in both his hands stacked high with appetizers. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

“Me too,” she admits, breathless, frozen in the doorway. He’s still in his dress shirt and slacks, sleeves rolled up to the elbow, and haah, she has never been more tempted to tell him that if they’re quiet, no one will know they’ve snuck up to her room.

Obi grimaces. “Sorry about that. I meant to only go for an hour, and then Zen wanted to play a quick pick up game, and it turned to two, and then I got here and...” He shrugs, shaking his head.

“It’s packed,” she agrees, “but I should have known to check the kitchen.”

His lips tick up into a grin, and he turns, leaning his hip against the counter in a way that only heightens the length of his limbs, that reminds her how good they feel around her--

“You did great, by the way,” he says, suddenly earnest. “If I didn’t say already.”

“You did.” She flinches at how awkward and hostile the words sound, but there’s no easy way to say, Kihal has reminded me you have a dick, and even though it abjectly terrifies me, I really want to make out. “I mean, thank you. Again. I’m glad you liked it.”

His mouth quirks at the corner. “Not a dry eye in the place.”

Shirayuki almost says, that wasn’t the point, but what falls out of her mouth is, “Not even yours?”

Obi lights up. “Definitely not.” His cheeks flush as he continues, “I got you a graduation gift.”

It’s on the counter just behind him, conspicuously placed away from the food: a small bag with crumpled up tissue paper, done so artlessly that she knows it couldn’t have been gift wrapped in-store, that he had done it himself. He had picked out that tiny bag, had crushed that paper in his huge hands-- his face distressed, like he’s afraid he’s doing it wrong, like he might break it just by trying-- and there’s something about it that is so sweet, so heartbreaking that she-- she--

Gosh, she really wants to kiss him.

“Me too,” she says, setting her plates down. Kihal may be waiting on the chicken marsala, but she’ll understand the delay. Probably all too well. “I left it upstairs. Should we--?“

“Oh, yeah!” Obi recoils with a grimace. “I mean, yes. Mine’s probably better given in private anyway.”

She blinks, wondering what he could give her that he wouldn’t want other people to see--

I was thinking of one of those little egg ones, the kind that just sit here–

“Obi!” she gasps, scandalized. “You didn’t...”

“What?” He catches her wary glance at the present, and his eyes pulse wide. “No! I mean, I didn’t--”

“Obi!” Nanna bustles in behind her. “You’ve finally made it! I was getting worried I’d miss you.”

With an ease that clearly comes from sixty years of practicing shamelessness, her grandmother closes the space she hasn’t managed to, enfolding Obi in a hug so tight he squeaks. It would warm her heart, normally, but all Shirayuki can think of is that bag, not two feet from them, that may or may not contain a gift that will definitely see her grounded until she’s thirty.

Shirayuki could live with that though-- after all, no one is more eager to not repeat history than her-- but-- but--

The very thought of Nanna standing here, in this room, sharing air with something at least vaguely phallic shaped that Obi would have every intention of putting inside her for the purpose of like, sex stuff and orgasms is just-- wrong. Super wrong. She tastes bile at the back of her throat just contemplating it.

“Have you had the meatballs yet?” Nanna asks, pulling away with a smile. “Colin put them on the menu for you especially.”

Pink flares high on Obi’s impossible cheeks. “Oh! I--” he blinks, gaze fixing over her shoulder-- “Lata?”

“Obi!” Shirayuki presses to the jamb to let him pass, and there’s something about the wildness of his eyes and the mussed mass of his hair that reminds her that the professor is a narrow man, but a tall one, looming over even Obi as he stumbles into the kitchen. “There you are. This place is a zoo.”

“It’s a party,” Nanna offers, wry.

He stares at her, uncomprehending. “Did I not just say that?”

“Lata.” Obi’s voice is strained, every line of his face etched with worry. “Is something wrong?”

Professor Forenzo doesn’t answer, not with words, but instead he reaches into his coat, thrusting out his hand, and--

And he’s holding an envelope. A large envelope. A golden lantern glitters under the kitchen light. “This came for you.”

Obi only stares, gaping, hands dead at his side.

“Oh!” Nanna gasps, eyes wide. “Oh, why don’t you-- you should--” her eyes meet Shirayuki’s around the professor’s shoulder-- “I’ll make your excuses, honey.”

She blinks. “But...”

Obi still hasn’t moved, and neither has Forenzo. Even from where she stands, she sees the professor’s hand shakes.

“Right.” She sets down her plates, taking the envelope from his hands as she slips her fingers through Obi’s limp ones. “We should go open this, don’t you think?”

Obi swallows thickly. “Yeah. Yes. Open it.”

She tugs on him, yanking him a single staggering step. “Come on, I know just the place.”

“Okay.” He stares at the envelope in her hand, following her woodenly. “Okay.”

Shirayuki glances at the plates on the counter. “Nanna, could you do a favor for me?”

She eyes Obi worriedly. “Anything you need.”

“Do you think you could bring a plate of chicken marsala to Kihal?” She grimaces sheepishly. “That was sort of why I came it here.”

Nanna's mouth twitches at the corner. “Sure thing. Have fun, you two.”

“Right,” Obi murmurs, every line of him tense. “Fun.”

The bleachers haven’t been broken down.

Somehow that’s the detail she hangs onto as they pull up to the field in Obi’s sedan, dew staining the satin of her flats. They’d been here only hours earlier, the afternoon sun burning bright and endless, but now fog hangs heavy over the grass with only the floodlights to break through it.

It’s strange how it only strikes her as she lays out a blanket with shaking hands, dew wetting her fingertips, that it’s all done now. Her whole life has been focused on graduating, on going to college, on not letting history repeat itself, and now it’s over, the work of a single afternoon. The moment she’s bent her whole life towards has passed.

Now she needs a new one.

“All right,” she says, settling onto her knees, feet crossed under her. “Is it time?”

Obi’s wide-eyed in the glow of the floodlights, mouth slack, his hands clenched around the edge of the envelope like he’s drowning and it’s the only thing holding him afloat. “Is it?”

“Obi.” She folds her hand over his, feeling how he shakes right down to his bones. “Whatever happens, we’ll be okay.” She gives him a confident smile she only half feels. “There’s skype, remember?”

He nods, absent. “Right. Right. I know. It’s just...”

Shirayuki knows what it’s just. She’d had plenty of time to think of every single worst-case scenario on the way over in triplicate, and now she’s just-- she’s just--

She’s tired of being afraid that something good will happen. “What’s the worst thing that could be in there? They won’t accept you? We’ve already been planning for that.” Her thumb rubs over the bone of his, soothing. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“I know, I know. I just...” He sniffs, rubbing his face on his shoulder. “Sometimes hope is worse, you know?”

She doesn’t, not really, but she knows that deep down inside, he’s still that little boy hoping his mom would fight for him, hoping that he’ll get passed to someone that will finally love him. She may not get it, but she understands.

“Okay, this is-- it’s getting dumb.” he laughs wetly, turning the envelope in his hand. “Let’s do this.”

Despite the bravado, his fingers shake as he opens it, muttering curses to himself when the flap won’t come off with one clean pull. Every time he tries to do another tear, the paper feathers out of his grip, until the edge is thousand little finicky rips that flutter off to the blanket. Shirayuki bites back a giggle as he tips the whole thing over, trying to use the weight of the packet to break through the last of it, sitting up on his knees and just shaking--

A thousand flyers flutter out, covering the blanket between them, the grass beside them, everything. Student Dining she sees on one, Greek letters on a dozen more, financial aid-- but still the bulk stays stuck inside, its squared-off corners stuck where the envelope didn’t fully tear.

“You know,” he grunts, tearing the edges off wholesale, “they don’t show you this shit in movies.”

A laugh bursts out of her, scattering the glossy papers she’d already straightened. “I think that’s because most people know how to open mail.”

“I know how to open mail,” he protests, shaking harder, “this is just unnaturally--”

The packet slips out in a slump, hitting the blanket with a weighty thwap, like the calves they show being birthed in biology class, only without all the, uh, extra gunk, or cows, or anything being actually birthed at all. They both stare at it, wide-eyed, neither of them making a move, not for the large, spiral-bound book or the crisp letter on top of it.

When Obi does, it’s for that, picking it up between his fingers as if it’s made of tissue, like all he has to do is breathe and it’ll break. Her eyes fall to the thick manual beneath it, squinting to make out the words Prospective Student Guide. Just like hers. “Obi...”

“I did it,” he chokes out. “I got in. I got in.”

In the glow of the floodlights she sees the shine on his face, and she knows, right then, that whatever her new moment is, she doesn’t want it unless its with him.

She fists his shirt in her hand, dragging him down until she can press her lips to his, until she can taste the salt under his lips and the hitch of his breath.

“I knew you could do it,” she murmurs as she pulls away, sitting back on her heels. “I’m so proud of you.”

His breath rasps out of his throat, eyes wide and gold like dollar coins, and-- and maybe this is too fast, too much. Maybe she’s too much like her mom, thinking that her high school boyfriend is forever when he’s really just right now, just what’s easy, and she--

She stops thinking when his mouth covers hers.

He whimpers into her mouth, hands digging through her hair like he can’t get close enough, like nothing less than consuming her whole will be. Her hands fly to his wrists, holding him where he is, leaning into his touch, and oh, maybe she is like her mom, falling too hard and too fast, but Obi’s right there to catch her.

With a groan, he pulls back, resting his forehead against hers. “Well, I gotta say...this sort of fucks up the gift I got you.”

“What do you--?”

He springs for the bag, set at the edge of the blanket, and thrusts it at her. “Go ahead.”

Her brows furrow as she rifles through the tissue, plucking out wads of crumpled paper. There’s two layers at least, packed tight, and even if she hadn’t heard the broad strokes of his life before he came to Clarines, she’d be worried about just what sort of childhood he had if he can’t pack a gift bag.

She unearths a blister pack, pulling it out with a twist of her fingers. There’s a headset nestled inside, blue and white, clip-on instead of buds, with the packaging boasting microphone included!

“Oh,” she breathes, running her fingers over the bubble. The bulge of the mic is innocuous, a small thing, and it’s so easy to see the way it would have slipped subtly it under a hoodie, or how she could have just slung it around her neck as she moved from class to class, never bothered by the weight. She’d believed him when he said he was serious about her, that nothing about his feelings were casual, but still, still--

He wanted to fit into her life, as unobtrusively as he could. Hours away, he wanted her to know that he was there for her, only a quick phone call away.

“I didn’t want to get the earbuds since you always say they hurt your ears.” His grin goes wide, wicked. “You know, because you’re tiny.”

“I’m not tiny,” she says, wrinkling her nose, “my ears are tiny.”

“Sure, kid.” He coughs, mouth twitching, “it’s your ears.”

“It is!” she insists, swatting at his arm. “Anyway, thank you. These are wonderful.”

Obi shrugs, just a twitch of his shoulders, cheek flushing the pales pink. “You won’t really be needing them now, I guess.”

“I guess not.” She sets them aside, right next to his student guide, and-- and it’s all so much. Too much. “It was thoughtful, though. And I’m sure I’ll use them anyway, even if it’s not for, you know, three hour long skype calls.”

“Yeah, keep ‘em.” His grin pulls even wider. “I’ll just have to make sure to get you that other gift too, to make up for it.”

She surges forward with a yelp, clapping a hand over his mouth. “Stop.”

His lips shiver beneath her palm, and despite the burn on her cheeks, she can’t stop smiling either, can’t stop thinking about this is it, he is it. “Just sayin’...”

“Yes, yes, I think you’ve said plenty, thank you,” she laughs, dropping her hand. She’s so close to him now, half on his lap, her hand pressed to where his chest still shakes with laughter, and-- “We should celebrate.”

“Oh, are you going to take me out?” His arm cinches around her, yanking her close, and she gives out a shriek, hands bracing on his shoulders. “Going to drive me out to Olive Garden and treat me right?”

“I mean...if you want,” she blurts out, wishing that she was better at conveying...stuff. Sexy stuff. “I just meant that we could, um, celebrate here, too. Now.”

“Oh.” His eyes pulse wide. “Oh. You mean...here. Just the two of us. Like...” He swallows hard. “What were you, ah, thinking?”

“I thought I might, ah--” this should be easier than it is, especially when she can feel him twitch against her thigh, excited-- “leave that up to you?”

His eyes go impossibly wider. “You mean...anything?”

“Yeah.” It’s what’s fair; she asked him to touch her, to make her come, and he should-- he should also get the choice. It’s his achievement, not hers.

Scientific fact. The words still ring in her ears, reminding her what a terrible idea this is. Given the choice, a dude will always want to be blown.

He ducks his head, fixing his gaze on hers. “Are you sure, kid?”

Shirayuki braces herself. It’s fine. She can do anything for him, even if it involves penises. “Yes. Anything.”

“Okay,” he breathes, “okay.”

That’s all the warning she has before she spills back, air huffing out of her as she hits a particularly hard clump of earth. Obi’s there in a second, wrapping her legs around him, and oh, she’d thought maybe this would be a-- a blowjob, but-- but Obi has had sex before, after all, even told her he missed it--

So it’s a real surprise when he just kisses her, open-mouthed and wanting, and doesn’t do anything.

Not that she’s complaining. He’s got one hand snug against her scalp and the other keeping her hips firmly against his in a way that is...very exciting, especially when she can feel, um, him grind into her, right where she’s starting to ache. It’s just--

“You just want to make out?” she asks, incredulous, as he slips the strap of her dress down and cups the breast he bares. “That’s it?”

He pulls back, blinking. “Is there a problem with that?”

It’s hard to locate one when he rolls her nipple like that, right between two long fingers before his mouth closes over it wholesale. But still, still-- “I thought you’d want to-- to--” she takes a gasping breath as his hand snakes up her thigh-- “do something, um, new.”

“I do,” he rumbles, mouth grinning against her breast. “I just can’t really, ah, go for it.”

“Why not?” She squirms, lifting her hips as he hooks a finger into her panties and pulls. “I said any-- ohhh--thing.”

His fingers slip against her in just the way she likes, and oh, it’s getting really hard to protest any of this. His mouth is back on her neck, kissing down to her sternum, and her arguments turn mushy and indistinct as she tries to voice them, slurring into groans and sighs as he touches her, tracing her clit and teasing her folds.

“I know,” he murmurs against her skin as she arches into a particularly good thrust. “And I appreciate it, but...it’ll feel weird if you aren’t ready.”

That gets her thinking, as much as she can in this state, but all high function stop the minute he purrs, “Good thing you are now.”

His mouth leaves her skin, the hand in her hair skipping straight down to ruck up her skirt, and still she has no idea what he could possibly mean until he puts his mouth right on her clit.

“Oh!” she yelps, hips bucking so hard she nearly knocks his chin. “Woah!”

He blinks up at her, concerned. “Is this okay?”

Oh, it’s...it’s really hard to think when she can feel every puff of breath out of his mouth like a caress, deliciously warm against her. “Yes. I mean, yes, but I thought you would want, ah, something for you?”

“For me?” His pupils blow wide as he looks down at her, bare and wet beneath him, leaving only a thinnest ring of gold. “Kid, you don’t know how much I’ve thought about this.”

“O-oh?” The worst part about him being down there, touching her, is that she knows he can feel her get wetter, get hotter. “Just...recently? Or...?”

He laughs, tongue tracing along her slit in a way that makes her sure she’s about to come right there, if only he’d keep going. “Always.”

“Always?” she breathes, curious.

She can’t really see his cheeks, but his neck definitely flushes. “You were just always perching on things with, you know, skirts on and being cute. I’m only human.”

(”--and I think we may have to move this flat,” she hums, tucking a leg beneath her, pulling her skirt back down over her knee. “Raj keeps running into it when he exits through the door, and-- Obi, are you listening?”

“Huh?” he slurs, gaze jerking up. “Were you saying something?”

She rolls her eyes. “Yes. The flats.”)

“Oh,” she pants, “oh.”

Her fingers curl through his hair, and with a single shuddering breath, she urges him down. His laugh huffs against her, so warm, and then he’s on her again, only this time better, more.

What he’s doing is just-- beyond her. His fingers thrust between her legs, so good and yet not nearly enough, hitting the rhythm she knows will bring her to the edge, but it’s his mouth that has her full attention. She’d imagined this before, sure, but she’d always though it would be his tongue where his fingers were, poking in and out, and she just assumed that would feel...good? Goofy, but probably nice, if people were always talking about doing it.

It had certainly appealed when Obi mentioned it, I could put my mouth on you, though she’d often wonder why afterward. Something that would make sense in the moment, she assumed, but not when someone was thinking with their actual brain, after.

She could not have been more wrong.

His mouth latches onto her clit, the jolt of pleasure almost too much, too intense when he give it one, strong suck. The noise she makes isn’t anything sexy, half a yelp and half a grunt, but he readjusts, tongue flicking over the tiny bud instead and-- oh, that’s...that’s much better.

Maybe a little bit too much. She wants this to last, to enjoy the feeling of him down there, between her legs, stubble tickling her thighs and mouth so warm against her, but-- she can feel it building already, too quickly, his fingers moving with his tongue in just the right way, sending her right to the edge--

She comes with a strangled cry, head tilted back toward the stars, and for a long moment she’s one with the sky above her, weightless, before she plummets back down to earth.

“Oh,” she gasps, blinking away tears, “wow.”

Obi flops beside her, mouth stretches in a grin, and pants, “Good celebration.”

She stares at him. “Is that it?”

He jolts up onto his elbow, serious. “Di you not--?”

“N-no! I did. I definitely did. It’s just...” She braces herself, determined. “It’s your celebration! You should come.”

His mouth rounds into a surprised O as he stares at her. He shakes himself a moment later, laughing, “No, no, trust me, Kid. I’m fine.”

“Obi.” She rolls up onto her elbow, fixing him with her most stubborn look. “I’m not going to make you drive back with a hard on, and then sit through more of my graduation party.”

She presses her thigh against it, just to underscore her point, and he groans, eyes fluttering shut. It should be so hot, but, ohh, it is.

“See?” she murmurs thickly. “The celebration isn’t over.”

His breath pants out of him, harsh. “Kid...”

“I-I could...”

“Kid,” he laughs, “don’t put yourself out. I can handle it. I mean, if you don’t, uh...”

“Yes!" She winces at the relief in her voice. “I mean...yes. You should-- do it now. I just won’t look.”

“Right,” he laughs as she turns over, putting her back to him. “I wouldn’t want you to feel oppressed by my massive--”

“If I’m going to see it one day, you probably don’t want to give me unrealistic expectations,” she snips waspishly, folding her hands to make a pillow.

“Oh.” The word bursts out of him, like he’s been punched. “Yeah. I mean...right.”

She can hear each tooth of his fly as he unzips, so slow she squirms in anticipation even though she’s not doing a thing, just laying here for, uh, moral support. It’s strange to think it’s right there, that if she turned over she’d see his-- his--

Well, a lot more of Obi than she’s seen before. More than she’s prepared to see, no matter how much she’s thought about it.

He gasps when he takes himself in hand, and even though she knows the mechanics of this, of boys doing that, she’s surprised at how quiet it is, how it sounds less like comical wet slapping and more like... skin on skin. It’s soft, rhythmic, lacking the weird, almost violent jerking in the five seconds of every old teen comedy she’s seen before she covered her eyes. And the sounds Obi makes...

Ah, those are...nice. Really nice.

Her thighs clench at each soft sigh, at the way his breath hitches with every stroke. Obi always said that just watching her come did it for him, and she believed him, she had, but-- now she knows how true it is. She only came minutes ago, but the sounds of him alone is making her wet, slicking the inside of her thighs and reminding her how he’d sounded in the car, months ago--

--ah, yes, like that, god – fuck, Shirayuki, I–

He moans, long and pained, and she-- she’s curious. Enough to get her into trouble, Grandad says, and sometimes out again. So she can’t help it, she-- she peeks.

Not at his-- down there, of course, but just at his face, at the safe parts. Or at least, it would have been safe, if his head wasn’t thrown back like that, if his eyes weren’t wrenched shut, mouth slack--

Yes, god, the way you sound – god, fuck, that’s so good, please –

Shirayuki rolls back, fitting tight against his side, stomach thrilling as she feels the pace of his arm rubbing against her, as she watches the way his whimpers eke out of his mouth, unbidden. He must feel it, feel the difference, because he stops, a whine wringing from his throat as his eyes slit open to look at her, so dark--

“Don’t stop,” she tells him, breathless. “Keep going.”

His eyes widen, seeking hers, and as he starts moving again, breath rasping out of his chest, all Shirayuki can see is gold. It’s too much, too much, and she leans in, covering her lips with his.

Obi gasps into her mouth, whimpering as her tongue licks against his teeth. He arches into her, hand wrapping around her neck and dragging her closer, fingers tangling roughly in her hair until he cups the back of her skull, holding her to him.

“God,” he murmurs against her lips, pulling back with each press to suck down a drowning man’s breath. “Fuck.”

His elbow works against her stomach, and she’s too curious still, letting her hand trail down his arm to feel the corded muscle there, standing out in stark relief as he strains to meet his pleasure. Her fingers trail down further, further, following those lines to his wrist, to where she can already feel the heat from his--

He whines, writhing beside her, hips bucking into her thigh, and she realizes: he’s coming.

Shirayuki jumps back from him with a pop, eyes searching his face, but it’s too late, it’s over, his head dropping back onto the grass with a laugh. In the burn of the floodlights, his face is flushed, dewy.

“You don’t, um, have a tissue or something in that bag of yours, do you?” he asks shyly, looking like he’d appreciate if the field experienced a sudden, localized sinkhole.

“Oh!” She pops up, grasping blindly for where she dropped her purse. “Yes! Here. I, um, also have hand sanitizer.”

Obi lets out a weak laugh as he takes the packet from her. “It’s not that much of a--” he hisses-- “mess, god damn.”

She dares a glance over her shoulder, mouth dry as she watches his back work. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, just-- sensitive.” He casts a shy glance over his shoulder, before letting it skitter away. “It was just...really good.”

“Oh.” That is really not helping with her whole...situation. Especially now that she can see where her panties are, an arm’s length away on the grass, and she’s reminded that there’s nothing beneath her dress, that she could easily lay back and-- “Oh.”

“Yeah.” His zipper is loud in the silence, enough that she feels her own blush bloom on her cheeks. He lets out a sigh, scrubbing a hand down his face. “You know, I think it’s good you have your dickphobia, kid.”

That’s...definitely not what she’d though he’d say after all...this. “Oh?”

“Yeah.” He lays down next to her, hands raising up to grasp her by the shoulders and guide her down beside him, ear pressed firmly to his chest. His heart is beating loud, strong, and triple time. “If that’s what it’s like with you just being here, I don’t know if...” He coughs, squirming. “I’m not sure I’m ready to have sex either. With you.”

She shrinks. Of course, of course. “Oh...”

“No, no! That’s not--” he pulls back to look at her, so serious-- “I want to. I want to so bad. But, I just mean...”

He lets out a sigh, head hitting the ground with a thunk. “I’ve never done any of this with, you know, feelings too. It’s just been...stuff. That I did. To feel good. But now...”

He bites his lip, and it’s terrible how it only makes her want to kiss it, to take it into her mouth and sooth away the sting. “Like, my dick wants to have sex, all the way, all the time. Everything about you does it for me, and I just...” He lets out a frustrated groan. “I think that my...my heart...”

He presses a hand there, brows furrowed, like he’s not used to thinking about it. “Never mind.”

“No, I...” She lays a hand over his, squeezing it. “I get it.”

“It’s just that...” He takes a breath, clears his throat, and looks at her with eyes as warm as honey. “You’re not casual for me, Shirayuki.”

She can feel the smile on her face, almost too big to contain, and she leans down, pressing a kiss to his lips. “Good,” she breathes, curling fingers into his hair. “You’re not casual for me either.”

[maandags]

Eidolon (Angel!Keith x Demon! reader) {part iii}

something resembling peace n  quiet (ish) b4 the real shitstorm yeet

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Summary: Keith is an angel, and he’s completed mission after mission for the Upper Hand, the organisation controlling all of the Above. He’s only failed a mission once: when he was assigned to kill you, a surprisingly charismatic demon. He roamed Earth–Middle Ground–for years before he was caught by the Upper Hand again, and things quickly go south.

Word count: 6.3K

Genre: Angst 

Notes: ft witch!Coran bc he doesnt get enough love -- masterlist -- {previous} -- {next} --

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small-town boy in a big arcade

i got addicted to a losing game

 ~ Arcade, Duncan Laurence

---

His fever isn't going down.

It's been five days and his fever just won't go down.

He's passed out on your couch, waking up occasionally so you can feed him and give him water to drink. Sometimes you have to shake him for minutes at a time just so he wakes up. You tried everything you knew, but the medicine you give him has no effect and the medicine you probably need is nowhere at your disposal.

It's safe to say you have no clue how to proceed and also are frustrated: you're risking everything here. You're risking being found by everything you have been outrunning for years and years. The combined auras of an angel and a demon are the closest thing to a signal flare you know.

And he just might die, and it will all have been for nothing, and you might still be located by Management and you would have to move. Quite bittersweet, you think wryly.

So Keith dying isn't an option. That much is clear. But as you sit in your armchair and glare at him, arms wrapped around the knees you pulled up to your chest, you have no idea as to how you're going to stop it from happening.

You clumsily wrapped him in a blanket when he collapsed on your couch. He's kicked it off since, and it lies in a bundle at his feet. His skin is ashy and pale and sweaty and his hair sticks to his forehead.

And his fucking fever isn't going down.

Usually you'd go straight to a doctor if any of your human friends were to contract a fever this stubborn–but you suspected bringing a dying angel to the average doctor won't do much good except frighten the poor sod to death. He looks like Death, you remark. What with his black wings and overall dark aesthetic, which is quite rare for an angel to have. You think, at least. It's not like you've met lots of them.

You sigh, filling a glass of water and holding it to his lips. He reacts almost subconsciously–he's not quite all there, but he's gulping the water down with gusto and you can only pray to the Dark Below that he'll hold it down, though that did seem to get better the last day or so.

The first two days were a nightmare. Keith tossed and turned and held nothing down, his stomach too upset. You had him spend his second night in your bathtub because he puked all over your couch. When he was asleep (which was most of the time) he had nightmares and whimpered constantly, and when he was awake he had hallucinations, his eyes clouded over. He even tried to attack you at one point ('tried' being the keyword here–he took a most pathetic swing at your face and cried when you dodged it easily).

If you had any common sense, you would have kicked him out long ago–hell, if you had any common sense, you never even would have considered taking him in.

Yet he is here. And you are here. And you don't exactly know how to feel about that.

Half the time you wish he'd just die already so you could be done at least with all of this. The next moment you feel horribly guilty and internally yell at yourself for thinking that way–because you made this choice. You decided to help him, and you should go through with it, even if it meant to be woken up at three in the morning because Keith was wailing again.

You brush your fingers across his forehead, hoping against better knowledge his fever had gone down, but he's still burning up. He's not tossing and turning anymore, he's not throwing up everywhere anymore. The last time he had a nightmare you actually noticed was more than a day ago. His breaths are shallow and irregular, and while you're no doctor, you know that's never a good sign.

You'd almost gotten used to having him in your apartment, and now you barely even notice he's here.

You've been on some extensive phone calls with Allura since Keith flopped into your life (which mostly consist of you yelling and Allura listening, occasionally muttering "go off, sis" into the horn) and you were itching for one now. You pull out your phone. Allura picks up on the third ring.

"Y/N, love, I have time for like, maybe a ten minute rant, because I'm at work and even though it's my break time my co-workers are giving me huge side-eyes and I still have four hours to go–"

"That's okay," you say quickly. "I'm fine, actually. No rants."

Allura pauses. "Sure about that?"

"Positive. I just had a question." You decide to throw in your favourite excuse whenever you have a weird question. As a nurse and your friend, Allura is often your first choice if you need to fact-check anything health-related."I'm writing this story..."

"Ah," Allura says. "Of course. Shoot."

You feel kind of bad for lying to her. But then again, telling the truth isn't really an option here, is it? "What does one do to break a fever that's been going strong for, say, five days, and literally no kind of aspirin is working and you can't take them to a doctor?"

"Huh. Well. All you can really do without, like, medical intervention, is wait, really. Yes, Jane, I'll be done in a minute. Have them sweat it out. Keep hydrated, remove excess layers of clothing, all that jazz. How high of a fever are we talking?"

"Um..." You glance at the thermometer on the coffee table. You'd taken his temperature just before calling Allura, to see if there was any change. Spoiler alert, there wasn't. "41.2 degrees Celcius."

Allura whistles. "For an adult? 'Cause if this is a kid, they have a problem."

"No, no, it's an adult."

"Okay. Well. You know, fevers aren't inherently bad for you. It's actually a way for the body to, like, kill heat-sensitive bacteria and viruses. So it's actually a good thing. Honestly I'm gonna just advise your character to stay in bed and drink water and sit in front of a fan. They should be fine."

You pucker your lips, poking Keith's arm with your toe. He doesn't move. "All right."

"You sound kind of unsure," says Allura, a tinge of concern to her voice. A pause. "Certain this is a fictional character?"

You bite back a curse. "Well. You know. I was–I was just curious."

Allura sighs. You imagine her rubbing the back of her neck as she shakes out her legs. "You know... as a medical professional–" the sarcasm drips from her voice– "I'm not really supposed to, like, recommend these types of methods to people because generally everyone thinks they're bullshit, but..." She hesitates. "My uncle Coran has this shop. He sells lots of weird, like, plants and crystals and crap like that. God, I can't believe I'm saying this. He might be able to help. Here's the address."

You lurch over to your desk and snatch a pencil and a post-it block, scribbling down the address she dictates. "Thanks, Allura."

"You are very welcome, dearest, but I really need to get back to work now. Bye."

"Bye."

You stare at the note for a while after Allura hung up. You don't exactly know the place, but a quick Google search helps you pinpoint it. It's not even that far, maybe a 20 minute walk. But something makes you feel uncomfortable about it.

He sells lots of weird, like, plants and crystals and crap like that.

It definitely sounds like something you should be a bit suspicious of. Plants and crystals. Hm.

But then again, you think as you cast another look at Keith who hasn't moved in over an hour, chest rising and falling with uneven breaths, it's not like you have many other options.

Allura said to wait it out. But maybe fevers aren't as harmless on angels as they are on humans. Maybe waiting it out will kill him, and you will have to live with it knowing that you did nothing to stop it.

Grumbling through gritted teeth, you yank your jacket from its hanger, write out a quick note for Keith in case he wakes up (he probably won't, but just in case) and dash out the door.

It takes you surprisingly long to find the place.

What was a 20 minute walk turned to a 30 minute walk, then to an hour long walk. You zoom in on your phone's map, narrowing your eyes and combing through every little alley you passed, gnashing your teeth. No matter how hard you look, the shop simply doesn't seem to exist anywhere but on the map. Is this Allura's idea of a prank?

But that's not like her, you remind yourself. And somehow, the fact that you can't seem to reach the place only makes you want to find it more. So you grit your teeth and clench the note with the address (that you just can't seem to memorize, no matter how hard you try) in your fist and march on.

You round a corner and slam into a tall and lanky body.

You yelp, arms flying out to regain your balance. The person in front of you gives a surprised hum–they don't seem to be fazed at all. You look up, prepared to give them a scolding about how they've got to watch where they're fucking going and blink, all words dying in your throat.

"You okay, kiddo?" says the most eccentric-looking man you've ever seen.

"Uh..." you give your head a shake, trying not to stare at the man's bright orange hair and moustache, or the fact that he's dressed like one of those fortune tellers out of fantasy stories, complete with the huge ornate earrings and everything. "Yeah. Fine. Thanks."

The man's light eyes narrow ever so slightly, and you make a mental note to not let his appearance deceive you: you have the feeling he's much smarter than he looks. "Were you looking for something?"

You clamp your mouth shut, running a hand through your hair. "Hm. Actually. Yes." You frown, wondering if this is a good idea, but if anyone would know where Coran's shop is–the shop selling weird crystals and plants and crap like that–this dude would be it. You hold up the crumpled note. "Do you know where this place is?"

The man takes one look at the writing and smiles, a wide and slightly unhinged grin that has you almost instantly regretting your choice. "Well, I sure would hope I know where my own shop is!"

You try and resist the urge to flinch. "Oh, really?" you squeak, shrinking back. It's not a very demon-like thing to do, you think at the very back of your mind, but this guy looks like he could give even the scariest entities of the Below a run for their money. "Neat."

The man–who you assume is Coran–grins even wider and whips an arm around your shoulders. "Well, then! Let's not beat around the bush any longer!" He has an accent you can't place. It fits him, strangely. Everything about the guy is strange.

He whirls around, dragging you with him, and walks exactly three steps before slamming open the door to the shop on the corner. You frown, ducking out from under his arm and giving him a suspicious glare. "What is this? I've passed this shop at least five times." You glance up at the sign and do a double take. Where had previously hung a sad wooden board announcing a tailor's shop hangs now a weirdly pretty sign that seems to be made out of plants. Vines twisting to and fro and entwining and overlapping, fluorescent yellow-and-blue flowers you have never seen before dropping from it in clumps. It sways slightly in the air. There is no wind.

All the hairs stand up at the back of your neck and your fists clench at your sides.

"Maybe you weren't looking hard enough," comes Coran's amused voice from behind you. You spin on your heels, narrowing your eyes at him. You're not unfamiliar with these kinds of experiences–the supernatural, the unsettling, the technically-impossible–yet Coran manages to throw you off in a way nothing really has before.

The atmosphere around you has dimmed, the sole source of light the doorway and the glowing flowers dangling from the sign. You're not in the alley you were in not one minute ago anymore. Coran raises an eyebrow and cocks his head, and you notice how different he looks in this new environment. He fits here perfectly. The slight curl of his lips says, Well? What are you waiting for?

You think of Keith. How he would react if he were in this situation. If the roles were reversed and you were the one dying on his sofa. You push the door open and march into the shop.

You almost slam directly into a tree.

"Careful, careful," says Coran quickly as he grabs your elbow. He slips past you and leads you into his shop that looks like no other shop you've ever seen.

Shelves are stacked with pots and vials and little baggies, all propped one on top of the other. It looks extremely unstable. You resist the urge to pluck out one jar from the bottom and see if everything tumbles down.

Every price tag is hand-written, and when you take a closer look a chill runs down your spine. One never-before shared secret. Three childhood memories. none of the prices ask for actual money, which now seems pretty useless and weighs down the wallet in your pocket. One particular tag says Your deepest fear. How dramatic.

Every plant seems to glow, for some reason. You notice more of those fluorescent yellow-and-blue flowers like the ones hanging from the sign outside, and flowers that look similar but in different colours. There are plants that remind you of grapevines, snaking around trees and shelves and tangling themselves around every support they can find. Clusters of small transparent bells float from the branches, even smaller flicks of light trapped inside them. You squint at one of them, grabbing it out of the air and studying it closely. Something is fluttering inside of the little sphere. A firefly, maybe. Maybe. When you release it, it zips back to its original spot among the other glowing bubbles.

Coran plucks a few dead leaves from a tree stump partially hidden from view by a huge black-and-white striped candle. He grinds the leaves to dust in the palm of his hand and drops them in the candle's flame. It glows bright green for a moment, then a comforting scent begins to spread through the air. You inhale deeply out of reflex. It smells like nothing you've ever smelled before, vaguely familiar scents all mushed into one; your favourite hot chocolate (with a hint of caramel), Allura's fruity conditioner, the animal shampoo you use on the dogs at the shelter. The air when it's just stopped raining. Towels, fresh out of the dryer.

You blink yourself back to reality with a sharp jerk of your head. Coran is already moving on to the very back of the shop and you hurry to catch up with him, ducking to avoid the arms of a rather sad-looking ragdoll as they reach for you. "Hey, hey–who are you?"

He raises an eyebrow. "Coran."

"Yes, I know that, but like–" you gesture vaguely to the general space around you– "who are you?"

Coran thinks about that for a moment, one finger pressed to the side of his nose. "A hobbyist," he decides.

"Right." You take a step back, eyeing the dark and slimy substance shlorping across the floor towards your feet suspiciously. It shrinks back beneath your glare. "What are those hobbies, exactly?"

"You know," says Coran, waving his arms around, "plants. Medicine. The occasional cursed artifact. Just regular stuff like that."

"Regular stuff like that," you echo. Caws sound from above you. When you look up, you spot a bird slightly hidden in the shadows of the tree in which it is perked (was that tree this big before?), glowing red eyes fixated on yours. You raise an eyebrow at it, cocking your head. It mirrors you, feathers ruffling and swooping from one side of its head to the other. It screams again, then spreads its wings and climbs up the tree with a speed you didn't expect. Literally climbs: there are claws on the joints of its wings that it uses to hack into the tree's bark. You brush a bit of dust off your shoulder and continue walking.

Stepping over the puddle of dark slime, you follow Coran even further into the shop. "You said you do medicine," you shout after him. "I need medicine to save my–" The words hitch in your throat. What is Keith to you? An acquaintance? An enemy? A guest? "My friend," you settle on.

Coran throws you a look over his shoulder, throwing off his ornate blue coat and suspending it in the air where it floats obediently beside him. He plants a hand on a bony hip. "Your friend," he repeats, a glint in his eyes you don't trust at all.

"Yeah." He's not getting more out of you, you assure yourself. That's it.

Coran watches you for a moment. "Hm." He turns around and starts rummaging through the shelves packed with jars and boxes and bottles, pulling out a number that all look the same to you, but evidently Coran knows exactly what he's doing. Occasionally he asks you questions.

"Reasonably high fever, is that right?"

"Yes."

He fumbles for a mortar and dumps a clump of brown-reddish leaves in it.

"Hallucinations? Nightmares? Inexplicable bouts of extreme hunger?"

"Yes, yes, and... no? Not that I know of?"

Humming, he adds a few drops of a clear liquid and a pinch of powder from a leather pouch. The mixture starts to sizzle and you eye it cautiously. Its colour shifts from a muddy purple to a darker blue. Coran whistles through his teeth, narrowing his eyes at the many pots around him as he searches for the next ingredient. His eyes focus on something behind you and he gestures with his pestle. "Grab that round orange pot for me, will you."

You turn. The pot in question is small and kind of hard to spot, and you have to twist your arm in strange shapes to reach it from where it's blocked by other plants and rocks. It's dusty and surprisingly heavy, and when you turn it over there's a crudely painted picture of a skull on the lid. Your head snaps up and your fingers tighten around the pot.

Coran rolls his eyes. "I didn't have any other pot to put it in. I'm not gonna murder your friend."

You hand the pot over to him reluctantly, keeping a close eye on whatever it is he's doing. Inside is a reddish-brown paste, and Coran scoops two heavy spoonfuls out and mixes it into the blue mixture. It becomes a pleasant shade of violet. He grabs a round marble-like thing from a vase filled with similar spheres and chucks it into a fire pit at your feet. Flames burst to life, searing hot and sending you stumbling back from the wave of pure heat that comes rolling over you. Coran puts a lid on the mortar and drops it into the fire.

"So, that's gotta bake for a minute," he says cheerily, spinning around and clapping his hands. He snaps his fingers, and immediately vines begin writhing and entwining until a stool has formed. He plops down, facing you. "You have questions. Ask them. Go on."

"Will you answer them?"

he flashes that wicked grin of his. "Maybe."

You grit your teeth, staring into the flames roaring in their pit. The longer you look at them, the wilder they grow. Agitated.

"Oh, dear, don't look at them. They don't like being watched."

Your gaze snaps back to him. "How did you know what's wrong with my friend?"

"I didn't. I guessed," he adds with an eyeroll when you narrow your eyes at him. "It's easier to guess than you might think. When customers are especially preoccupied with something I can usually read it right off of them. You were no different."

"Right." You pause, not sure which of the hundred and forty questions swirling through your mind to ask next. "What if the medicine doesn't work? Can I come back?"

"It'll work."

"But if it doesn't–"

"Are you doubting my abilities?"

"What? No, but–"

"It'll work."

His tone makes it clear there's no room for discussion. At the sight of his dangerously glinting eyes (or maybe they're just reflecting the flickering flames) you decide to veer onto a safer topic. "Can everyone get into your shop? Why couldn't I find it until you showed me?"

Coran slouches a bit in his throne of vines (it's got a back and armrests now, too, and it's growing those little glowing grapes) and considers the question. "Everyone can technically get into the shop," he says slowly, as if carefully choosing his words, "but not everyone will. It's not hidden, exactly–not to the people who aren't looking."

That confuses you. "So you're saying one won't be able to find the shop if they're actively looking for it?"

"Sort of."

"Does that mean that the people who do find it aren't looking for it in the first place?"

"I guess so? Man, kid, you're asking difficult questions."

"I'm curious." You fold your arms, tucking your chin down to your chest. "And that makes no sense anyway because I found it and I was looking for it. So."

"Yeah, but you didn't find it until you actually ran into me and I showed you." Coran leaps up and stretches out his lanky limbs. "So, we still have a bit of time left before that's ready. Do you want to arrange payment now?"

Caution crept into your veins as you remember the strange price tags you saw upon entering the store. But you're not getting this medicine for free, you remind yourself. Keith won't get better by himself. The price was the price and you're willing to pay it. So you nod.

Coran grabs a box. He opens it, and inside are the last things you expected: stacks of paper, each one scribbled upon with minute precision, every sheet adorned with different handwriting. He hands you a blank sheet: it's about the size of a business card, yellowish-white and kind of grainy to the touch. It reminds you of parchment.

He also hands you a pen. It looks like a regular ballpoint pen, and when you shoot him a questioning look–you had expected at least, like, a quill with purple ink or something–he shrugs. "They're cheap. And easy to charm."

Right. You roll your eyes. "So what's the price?"

His eyes are just a little bit too shiny. "What do you want most?"

You sigh, long and drawn out. Your grip on the pen tightens ever so slightly. "Really? The way too overused one?"

Coran shrugs again, gesturing to the blank card in front of you. "It's overused for a reason, kid. It just happens to work really well."

You clench your jaw, tapping the pen against the wooden surface of the table, forcing yourself to think about the question in a serious manner.

What do you want most?

You rack your brain for an answer, puckering your lips. There are a lot of things you want. You want Allura to be safe and happy. She's got a demon for a friend, for fuck's sake. You want to not have to worry every day about Management finally tracking you down and locking you up in the Below. To feel safe.

You bring the point of the pen down to the paper and start writing, frowning when the ink doesn't appear. You go over the lines a few times, even scribble a bunch of lines in a corner to get the pen to work, but to no avail. The ink stubbornly refuses to stain your piece of parchment.

"Your pen doesn't work," you say, irritated.

Coran casts you a knowing smile. "It works just fine. Try again."

You try again. No results. You throw down the pen, letting your head drop and taking a deep breath as you lean against the desk, because you know exactly where this is going. You have experience with these kinds of enchanted objects. You chew on the inside of your cheek, glaring at the pen as if it personally murdered your firstborn.

It wants the truth.

And you refuse. You refuse to give it what it wants because it's ridiculous. Absolutely and utterly ridiculous.

But this is the price. This is the price you told yourself you would pay no matter what.

A deep breath. One more.

You snatch up the pen, gripping it so tightly your knuckles go white, and press it down onto the paper. Immediately the ink flows out, letting you write your re-evaluated answer. It almost seems to sneer at you and when you throw the pen down, handing the card to a way too smug-looking Coran, you refuse to look him in the eye.

The medicine is ready.

Coran pulls it out of the fire using tongs (because it might be magical fire, but it's still fire, and it's generally not a good idea to stick your hand in fire) and drops it in a tub of water you're sure wasn't there before. A moment later he pulls it out and removes the lid.

The paste has transformed itself into a rock-hard ball about the size of a large pill, perfectly round and kind of rough and sandy at the surface, and when Coran hands it to you it's almost freezing to the touch. It startles you so much that you almost drop it.

"Smash it to bits and put the shards in this here baggie–" he hands you what looks like a tea filter– "and let it hang in a glass of cold water for a while. When the thingie's drained of its colour and goes clear and the water has turned bright blue you make sure he drinks the whole thing before it goes warm, yeah? That's very important. He's gotta drink it right away, and he's gotta drink the whole thing. It might not work as well if he doesn't drink the whole thing."

The fact that Coran refers to the pill as "the thingie" makes you more than a bit uncomfortable, but you decide to take his word for it, because what other choice do you have?

"Right." You turn to leave, when one more thing pops into your mind. "Actually," you face him again, "I have one more question."

Coran sighs. "You have a lot of questions."

You ignore him. "How do you know Allura? Or, rather, how does Allura know you? She's the one that gave me your address in the first place," you explain. "She's my friend."

To your surprise, Coran smiles–a genuine smile this time, where his eyes crinkle in the corners, not the manic grin he's shown up till now. "I knew her father very well. I've watched her grow up. She knows she can always knock on my door."

It doesn't make much sense–what business would Allura's dad, world-famous scientist, have with this man? You decided to give it the benefit of the doubt. "How much does she know? About all this?"

"I think she knows, deep down. I don't know how much she believes. What she tells herself is real, and what isn't."

You hesitate. "Does she know about me? What I am, I mean?"

Coran heaves an exasperated sigh. "Yeesh, kid. How am I supposed to know that? I didn't even know who you were up till now!" But you get the feeling he's lying. "Now get going. Go on." He starts shooing you towards the door, gently pushing you through the shop.

You blink in surprise, too stunned to do anything but follow suit. "Wait," you stammer. "Wait, I have more questions! Will I be able to come back?"

But Coran waves you off, giving you nothing but a smile and a "Bye-bye!"

You stumble over the threshold, the pill and its baggie in your clenched fist. Cold renders your fingers almost numb, and you open them, exposing the pill to the night air. White smoke curls up from it, and you turn it over to your other hand, wincing as you rub your fingers to get a bit of warmth in them again. It's like you're holding a hailstone.

When you look up, you're disoriented by the bright lights from street lamps around you, and the fact that you're not in the same alley you were in before you entered Coran's shop. It's not even the same block. You make a full turn, dazed, before you recognise the little grocery store on the corner of the street: it's the store where you do most of your shopping. It's right across from your apartment building. Coran deposited you as close as he could to your home.

You push open the door to your apartment with your shoulder, icy pill in one hand and two bottles of chocolate milk and scotch whisky in the other, letting exhaustion creeping into your muscles as soon as you enter the familiar environment. One look to your sofa confirms Keith has barely moved over the hours you were gone. The note and the glass of water you left for him sit untouched on the coffee table.

You make your way to the kitchen and set down the bottles, grabbing a small tray on which you drop the pill. Smash it to bits, said Coran. The back end of a kitchen knife does the job just fine. To your surprise, the pill shatters immediately, shards flying everywhere. You curse, sweeping them all up and dropping them into the tea filter and filling a glass with cold water. As soon as you hang the bag in the glass, blue drips out of it in wisps, slowly tinting the water a cool blue colour. You drop onto a kitchen chair and watch with your chin in your hands, the droplets of blue seeping from the bag mesmerising.

When the water doesn't seem to get any bluer, you peek into the bag. The shards are completely colourless, now resembling bits of clear glass more than anything else. You carefully pick up the glass, hissing through your teeth at the coldness of it.

Keith is still fast asleep, shivering. He's thin, you notice. You can see his ribs through his shirt. Setting the glass down on the coffee table, you try gently nudging him awake. He doesn't respond.

"Come on," you grumble, grabbing his face and tapping his cheek. "Wake up!" Your stomach twists at the thought that he might not wake up in time. The medicine will have warmed up. You should have woken him before preparing it! "Please," you whisper, swallowing back the lump in your throat. "Don't let this have been for nothing. Come on. Wake up, dammit!"

He groans under your touch. You breathe out a shaky sigh of relief as you coerce him into sitting up. "Don't you fucking dare fall asleep again." He looks at you groggily.

You raise the glass to his chapped lips. "Drink up."

He takes a sip and flinches, bursting into coughs. "Cold," he manages. You almost wince at how weak his voice sounds–barely a whisper. He'll get better, you remind yourself. He just has to drink this and he'll get better.

"I know," you mutter, nudging the glass to his lips again. "Drink it. It'll make you feel better."

He eyes you suspiciously but obliges, squeezing his eyes shut as he gulps down the contents of the glass. He shivers, smacking his lips when it's empty and you put it on the floor. "Ah. Gross." But as he shifts, you can already see the colour return to his cheeks.

"Rest," you say, brushing strands of hair away from his forehead. "You'll feel better in the morning." Your voice is shaky and your hands tremble as you bring the glass back to the kitchen and thoroughly wash it, using about a quarter of the bottle of dish soap, running it under the hot water until the stubborn cold is completely gone.

You're tired. You don't even have the energy to shower, so you brush your teeth and crumple into bed, only taking off your boots and trousers. You keep your socks on and pull the comforter tighter around you. You're cold.

As you turn to face the wall, you think back to Coran's stupid enchanted pen. Wondering if you've made a mistake. The words you ended up writing down looping through your mind, over and over again, lighting up in front of you whenever you close your eyes. What do you want most?

I want to be safe from Management, was your first answer. The answer the pen hadn't let you write down. And it was what you wanted most–or at least what you wanted most until Keith had shown up on your doorstep just over a week ago.

What do you want most?

You drift off to sleep, the question nagging at the back of your mind.

You jolt awake at the crash, bolting up from your bed and racing for the kitchen, where the sound had come from. In your hand is the knife you keep in your nightstand. Your knuckles are white around the hilt. You slam a hand on the light switch, and the person bent over and hidden behind your fridge hits their head and yells in pain, and you brandish your knife and scream at them to Stay back!

"It's just me! Y/N!" Keith says, holding up his hands above his head.

You huff out a breath, letting the knife drop to your side. "Keith?"

He nods, blinking and squinting against the bright light. You're only barely over the shock of seeing him up and about, yet you can't help but notice how thin he looks and how weary and sunken his eyes are. His eyes keep flicking back to the knife still in your hand, and you quickly snap it shut, slipping it in the pocket of your sweatpants.

"So I take it you're feeling better?"

He nods again. "I'm hungry," he says. His voice isn't quite back to normal–it's still quite hoarse from not having used it in over five days–but you suspect it won't take very long. "Sorry for startling you. I'll go back to sleep."

You grab his arm before he can walk past you. "Nonsense. You've slept for five days straight. I'm hungry too, anyway. I can order takeout?"

He gives you a tentative smile. "That'd be great."

And that's how you end up sitting in your brightly lit kitchen at four in the morning, eating out of cardboard Chinese takeout boxes, with an angel whose life you saved. His wings are completely concealed now and don't bother him when he sits in a chair or lies down. While neither of you talks much, you both sneak glances when you think the other isn't looking.

What do you want most?

He looks nervous, and even though he insists he's not tired you can tell he's fighting against the weight of his eyelids, his movements droopy and slow, as if he's moving through layers of syrup. When he almost drops his fork (at four A.M. you're allowed to eat Chinese with a fork) out of exhaustion, you nudge his leg with your foot under the table.

"Go back to sleep."

"I'm fine. I'm still hungry."

"You can eat tomorrow. You're barely able to hold yourself upright, idiot."

He sighs but pushes his chair back and stands up. His knees immediately buckle beneath him, and you shoot out of your chair and only just manage to catch him before he drops to the ground. "All right, okay. There we go. I got you."

"Not feeling as good as I thought," Keith mutters into your shoulder as you practically drag him to the sofa.

"Evidently."

You tuck him in (it seems like such a childish gesture–but curled up like that, looking thin and fragile, Keith reminds you of a small kid and it just feels like the right thing to do) and resist the weird urge to plant a kiss on his forehead. You settle for a somewhat awkward pat on the shoulder.

You stick the leftover food in the fridge and make your way back to your own room. You're still kind of cold, so you keep the sweatpants and sweatshirt on, bringing the knife out of your pocket and setting it back on your nightstand before climbing into bed.

The buzzing of the city outside of your window keeps you up for hours as you toss and turn. Feelings you don't know what to make of churn through you. Relief at the fact that the medicine seems to be working. Fear, because you don't really know how to proceed now. A demon saving an angel's life–that one's pretty much unheard of, you think bitterly.

Oh, if Management were to find out... not only would your fate be settled, you would have signed Keith's death warrant along with it. The comforter bunches in your clenched fists and you twist around, shutting your eyes resolutely.

What do you want most?

[chainofbeing]

Having been sent by the explosion created by Ovig Nadal to a strange land, Adam comes across an old friend and learns of a dangerous new enemy

Might-Upon-Serentity: Frances Gillard

The Scales of Nemesis: Mary-Anne Stanek

Adam Delta 5, Writing, Sound design: Cai Gwilym Pritchard

email us at chainofbeingofficial@gmail.com

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The possessed body of Ghost-of-Sunken-Dawn explodes in a flash of polychromatic light, instantly filling the room with dust and chunks of the facility. Eikal and Inspiration are vapourized and I am sent flying backwards towards the back wall of the detainment building and then, when I subconsciously expect to land against, or crash through the wall, I continue to fall. Still surrounded by streaks of multicoloured energy and dust, I begin to sail through the air falling for a few seconds before I land in a large, algae filled pond. The water is shallow and does little to cushion my fall and so I am heavily winded, I drag myself to the edge of the pond, bombarded by falling chunks of concrete and construction plastic and I lay there sprawled out, trying my best to catch my breath. I look above me and see a cloud of dust in the sky, slowly sinking downwards to the surface. The two suns beat down above me, the stagnant pond water soaking my thick coat already starting to evaporate. My visu-link is offline and so I remove it from my eye and toss it away. The floor around me is not covered in grass or mounds of black soil but is instead carpeted in a complex net of small vines which sprawl outwards. It grows so thick that I can't see the soil beneath it. I roll over and sit up, my body from my torso down still submerged in the pond. The gravity here is much stronger than that of Dhāra jamīna which makes it much harder to move and the sudden change accentuates the pain in my joints. There’s a sharp pain on my back on the left side when I breathe as well as a constant dull ache. I reach for my spear and find it no longer there, frantically I begin to search, getting up from my half submerged resting place I see the wide, flat horizon interrupted in the far distance by huge mesas, and equally large sloping hills. Occasionally a bank will rise out of the terrain or what I assume to be a fallen tree, covered in vines and moss protruding outwards. I begin to search for my weapon when very suddenly the spear lands and lodges itself in the ground where I was just sitting. I stare at it, the blade sunken into the marshy stinking mud at the edge of the pool of stagnant water. I return it to my side and pick a direction.

[the sounds of a swamp, insects, some animals makes noises, but overall it is quite peaceful]

The march is slow, so as not to strain my very obviously broken ribs, the two suns reach the apex in the sky and the heat forces the limited oxygen from the air out of my chest and singes my nostrils when I try to drag it back in, my sleeves are rolled up and my winter coat is tied around my waist but the scorching heat continues to relentlessly beat down on me. As I get closer to what I previously thought was a dead tree, overgrown with moss and vines, turned out to be an old starship, a very old starship sunken downward into the mud, the engines pointing up to the sky. The thing had basically been gutted, wiring, panels everything except for the frame and outer shell had been stripped clean, clearly the work of some very dedicated scavengers, which meant there were people here and the fact that whoever did this decided not to just live in it meant that they took their scrap somewhere. Somewhere I intend to find.

This planet is littered with wrecks, some are small fighters like Ehedydd, others are huge, not supercruiser huge but a few haulers here and there. All of them stripped clean. I guess for whoever lives here this is the only source of materials and supplies. I continue to walk, I don't stop for a break once in what I estimate to have been a 36 hour journey in the baking heat. The two suns mercifully begin to set and the moonless night falls on the swamp. In the darkness, it’s hard to see, however I eventually make it to a long, thin, luxury yacht. It lays on its side. The left wing pointing straight up and so I have to scramble up to enter the dead ship. The pain in my side is too great for me to be able to focus on not focusing, and just fall asleep so instead I just lay back on a window and close my eyes. Throughout the night I hear strange wailing and moaning coming from outside, the whole night seems to come to life as what I can only assume is a horde of many different creatures perform their nightly routine. Through it all though I can faintly hear the sound of what must be a voice. I pull myself up and out of the side door on top of my shelter, wincing as I roll up and onto the mossy carpet that spills across the fallen ship and jerkily push myself up into a crouching position. I draw my spear, leaving it unextended. For now. There’s a culture Veatorians name their weapons, every single knife, bow, or firearm gets given a name. The idea being that you’ll take care of it better, there's some deep philosophy behind it that I can't properly convey. The practice later got adopted into the military as a whole later on. I might do the same, maybe it will make me feel less solitary surrounded by the shrieking night. Hunched down, I look out into the darkness and see nothing. And then, a bump into the side of the ship. Startled, I extend my spear to its full length, refraining from flicking the switch to electrify the blade, and peer over the side of the ship. In the deep night I can just just about discern a shape hugging close to the angled roof of the ship, completely still. “Hey!” I call out, but it doesn't respond. It looks like a person swaddled in heaps of dirty cloth, so much that no features can be made out.

[it mumbles, the words inaudible]

I slide down the roof of the ship and cautiously approach the figure, spear held in both hands “excuse me,” I say, still no response, I hold the spear in one hand and get closer to it, my eyes follow the fabric down to the floor and I see that behind it is one long uninterrupted stretch of cloth that sprawls outwards for what must be miles miles. I circle round, now standing close to the wall as well, I try to peer into the clump of material where I assume a face would be but see nothing, just more fabric. I go to touch it, and the instant I make contact it collapses to the ground, its journey now ending here, with me. I lift up a few rags with the tip of my spear but find nothing. I clamber up and into the ship and try my best to ignore the pain for the rest of the night.

I must have managed sleep, because instantly it’s daytime, the light peering through the vines that cover the windowless gaps in the ceiling. I go to check where the creature had been but there’s no sign of it, no depression in the ground, no mile long cloth stretching into the horizon  to suggest it had gotten up and continued its journey, nothing. I march for another 14 hours before, in the distance, I spot something, not a ship, or a withering tree, in the shivering heat and from this distance it's nothing more than a white blur, but as I draw closer, I see that it is the ribcage of some long dead, long-dead beast, 20 metres in all with about 13 sets of ribs, arcing up into the sky. In between each individual rib were strung up small huts, made of scrap metal and animal skins, although from what animal they possibly could have come from is a mystery.

As I approach the town my gait becomes irregular and my head begins to pound with a heavy thud, the vines writhe and wriggle violently beneath me and I crouch down to inspect them, they move chaotically and as I stare the notice a pattern, amongst all the chaos there emerges order and regularity. I hear a woman's voice

"Hello Adam" she says

I stand, and sat at the edge of the town is a malgaric woman, she sits on the edge of a wide flat rock, the sun shines between the ribs, casting half of her shadow, she has a set of metal spheres hovering below each ear and a fan of metal shards splaying outwards from the back of her head. Half delirious from the lack of food and water after walking for what felt like 3 days in the sun I wobble slightly in place

"Might?" I ask, my voice trembling with sunstroke and uncertainty

"The one and only," she says, as I fall unconscious to the floor

[a strange ambience, muffled, stretched out, an embodiment of delirium]

Drifting in and out of consciousness I try to wake up, to move, to do anything. Instead I struggle to open my eyes, and when I do I am met with various images that would normally be strange to me but in my current state I am in no place to currently contemplate: I am picked up and carried through the settlement, the pointed ends of the ribs arcing outwards like a pale hand closing around me. Something large circles above us, winged I think. The blazing sun disappears and I’m carried inside a hut.

I finally awake and face to face with some furred multi-jawed creature, I start and knock over a cup next to me, spilling its contents over the tarpaulin floor. I glance back at the beast. Having regained my senses in panic I quickly realise it's simply the skin of a multi- jawed creature, patched together with other materials to make up the inside wall of the hut I'm in. A blue glow appears under the front flaps of the shelter.

"I'm guessing you're awake?" A voice calls from outside. I sit up and cross my legs.

"Uh-yeah,"

She opens the left flap and steps through. We look at each other and she kneels by the entrance, her legs crossed at the ankles.

"Been awhile" she says "when was the last time we saw each other?" I say nothing "it was definitely after Fréwern right? Or- sorry," she puts her fingers to her mouth in a Malgaric physical tick, typical when trying to remember something "Eden! That's what you call it right? It's been so long since I've actually had a conversation," I still say nothing. And we both sit there in silence for a moment "look at the two of us eh? The first Malgaric and the first human just- sitting here."

"One of the first," I say bitterly "or have you forgotten the rest so quickly?"

She leans back, clearly hurt. Might is one of the first Malgaric, dropped from the first mother factory; as mysterious then as it is today. The early Malgaric didn't have facial expressions, they hadn't developed articulated faces for their organic interiors until the last 100 millenia, and so the language developed around gesture and body language, as well as imperceptible (at least to everyone else) fluctuations in the light on their bodies. Her face is a passive expression: the mouth open to allow her voice to escape in muffled and to intake food and water, something else left behind by the Malgaric a long time ago. She leans forward to speak again "the horns are new, I like them,"

"Let's not do this,"

"What do you mean? I'm just saying I like your-"

"We could have gotten away with it! We had it in our grasp, we gained the knowledge! And you couldn't bear the consequences of your actions so you repented to the gods!"

"You want to talk to me about not being able to accept the consequences? You speak of it like it was a good thing! Even if we hadn't been discovered and by some miracle we weren't accused of it anyway, Eden still would have collapsed and everyone still would have been destroyed, we were never meant to have that knowledge"

"But we would have been free! We would have the understanding of things even the gods do not know and we would be free!"

"But you didn't understand did you? How could you have possibly hoped to understand?" She laughs a short bitter laugh "how naïve we were to think that we could comprehend what even the gods could not. If we hadn't been cursed and banished from Eden what do you think would have happened? You'd have died in some corner somewhere, mourning her death with a head full of knowledge that means nothing to you," it's my turn to lean back now,

"you don't want to admit it but it was all for nothing, you were selfish, you couldn't bear the thought of something being kept from you and so you sacrificed everything for it on our behalf and you have the audacity to be angry at me?" The swamp festers silently around us

"All five of us are to blame, I accept that, we all got cursed and banished, but it was you who led us," I lean forward and place my head in my hands.

"What if- we could understand?" I say looking up at her. She pauses and shifts her weight slightly

"You're talking about that thing that came out of the sun right?"

"How did you know?" She taps her forehead

"Visions, remember?"

"But I always assumed they were so vague? What was that analogy you used to use? About the bird or something?"

"Recently my visions have become… clearer. My last few have made more sense, before and after its perfect clarity, I truly understand it all. and then… it doesn't any more and I can no longer parse the information and instead it just sits there in my mind. Its like these thoughts don't belong to me, I'm just mimicking the thought process of something much more complex than myself"

"When did this all start?" I ask

"I think when this creature came through the portal,"

"Do you know what it is?"

"It's from before the beginning, or something like that, it's angry and lost. It doesn't belong" she takes a rag and mops up the spilt water off of the tarpaulin floor. "How much do you know about it?"

"I- I think I spoke to it." She pauses but doesn't look at me

"What did it say?"

"It, or he, or something, told me this story about a woman in a savannah, and some cycle in which new rules get placed on the new creations and, they simply have to create, and those that do get- kept. I’m not really doing it justice. Then he stood up, and shouted ‘I am Ovig Nadal, I have returned, rejoice For you shall soon be unbound’ after which he exploded and I ended up here, where ever that is” Might finishes cleaning up the spilled water and sits up, it’s only now I notice the short sword at her side "Adam... my visions, the change in their quality, I think I-"

[a gunshot rings out]

gunfire, we both rise to our feet “come with me," I follow her outside into the midday sunlight. The spine of whatever creature we’re standing in  is buried in the earth but there’s a slight defined bump in the ground, I can tell that the creature didn’t just die of old age, some of the upper ribs are snapped as if the chest had been caved in. All around us are various species of people, dressed in religious clothing, standing outside of their homes, not looking as panicked as I would have expected.  “Who are all these people?” I ask as I follow Might-upon-Serenity through the collection of shelters toward the source of the noise. “Mystics, philosophers, sorcerers, pretty much anyone who spends their time thinking instead of doing,” we pass a Veatorian woman covered in red lines tattooed all over her body, she sits cross legged outside her shelter, small rocks and dust sit suspended around her and a strong red glow shines through her blue eyelids and a few other of the town's people try to rouse her from her trance “People practice magic here then?”

“Vitamancy, thanatology, energy manipulation. Some things I can't properly explain” she says distractedly.  We stop at the end of the ribs. Marching towards us from an aggressive looking four-wheeled vehicle is a trio of humans, one marches forward confidently with her rifle held to her chest while the other two stay low to the ground as they move, scanning the area for potential threats. The rifle that the masked leader carries is like none I've ever seen before. Where one would expect the firing mechanism to be there is instead a series of overlapping rings which spin around a luminescent core that emanates a bright golden light which can be seen even in the daylight, it seems as if it had been constructed, not from the debris found scattered around the planet, but from actual parts designed specifically for this purpose. The two next to her carry electrified rifles, dx-70’s if I had to guess, not new models, but certainly now old ones either. My hand goes to my spear as they draw closer and I glance over to see that Might has also placed a palm on the pommel of her short, wide sword. If neither of us were immortal it would be a pitiful match up, instead it was just meagre. They stop about 20 feet away from us. The two next to the ringleader keep their rifles raised but stand, more relaxed than before, they are dressed in light combat mould, each with a utility belt and long cape, their gloved hands resting comfortably around the handle and foregrip. Both have short, waist length capes which wrap around their throats and over their noses, concealing their faces. The leader is dressed correspondingly, but with a high collared much longer, more ornate cloak with bronze trims at the edges, similarly ornate elbow and knee pads carved in the classical acanthus pattern of intricate swirling leaves, her small pauldrons affixed to her shoulders are carved in the same way. What is most striking about her though, as she stands, her rifle illuminating her lightly decorated combat mould is her lifelike bronze mask that she wears. The billowing metal acanthus leaf pattern arcs up symmetrically and around the back of her head, forming a sort of crown. The mask is one of exceptional quality, carved to resemble a human woman, so precise I can only imagine it was based off of a real person.

“People of vestak-cry,” she calls to the town through an amplifier in her mask, her voice booms outwards. “This is a call to action, one of great import! You have until tomorrow to relinquish your supplies and weapons to us or we will be forced to take them by force. Some of the more courageous of you may be considering other possibilities, I urge you to reconsider. Such actions are careless and will only result in your demise” she pauses and despite there being no eye holes by which I could possibly tell, I feel her stare at me. For a moment I feel so small, like an insect under a magnifying glass soon to be pinned down, in another moment her gaze drifts off of me and she calls out again “any humans among you are welcome to join our ranks, everyone else…” she pauses and makes a gesture you know what to do. The sound of the swamp is the only thing that breaks the rigid silence. Might draws her sword, and points it toward the masked figure, “This town is under the protection of Might-Upon-Serenity, I don’t know who you are or what your whole deal is and honestly I don’t care. This is a town of philosophers, whatever treasures you think we hold, are intellectual and hold no value to you. Leave.” The masked woman tilts her head “Philosophers? Mystics as well I imagine. a sorcerer or two I’m sure. Interesting. You think us mere bandits? I assure you, you are quite mistaken. We are the Anthronesians, but it is of no relevance to you, a Malgaric. Just know we are much, much stronger than you, and our wrath is irresistible, in the truest sense of the word” She turns to leave and as she does, Might grabs the hilt of her sword with both of hands and charges toward The masked woman who turns, calmly raises her rifle, and pulls the trigger.

[the rifle charges up and fires, laser-like]

A beam of golden light instantly appears and closes the distance between her and might, who calls out and collapses to the ground, a large part of the side of her body missing. I rush over to Might who writhes on the floor in pain, the two unmasked Anthonesians get back in the vehicle, the leader looks at me one last time before she too enters and drives off. I open a pocket on my bandolier and take from it a small vial of an olive green powdery substance, I scoop up some water from a nearby puddle and mix the two into a viscous paste, the vial goes incredibly cold in my hand and I draw a symbol in the paste onto Mights chest and she goes limp, already I can see the wound starting to glow as the spell does its job, funnelling her lifeforce into healing her wound. She is immortal, but this would have killed anyone else, we’re very resistant, but not immune to damage. I struggle to lift her, and the Veatorian woman who was previously in a deep meditative state groggily ambles over and, with a slight and precise motion of her hands, lifts Might off of the ground, and carries her into the town. I turn from the procession and watch the vehicle disappear into the distance, obscured by the heat haze of the midday sun.  

[boarchasers]

[WritProm: the brothers meeting new baby brother for first time?]

The 19thof Heart Fire.

The hare escaped in ajingle of bells.

‘And that, my lad, iswhy you have to work with your partner.’

Hjolrin stood a fewpaces back, clutching the rope in his hands and watching theflattened grass spring back into shape in the hare’s wake. Beforehim, at the other end of the meadow, the rest of the hunting grouprelaxed their hold on the net with a sigh, muttering things hecouldn’t quite make out at such a distance. He dropped his head andhunched his shoulders.

‘Sorry.’

‘Slip behind, and youleave them a hole. Leave them a hole and they’ll take it.’

'Aye. Sorry.’

'Cheer up, lad.’ Thehunter dropped a hand onto his shoulder, large and rough and heavy,as the rest of the group gathered in around them. 'You’re young.You’ll grasp it in time, with practice.’

After a whole weekspent in Riverwood, watching the hunters at work whenever Minnel tookher eye off him long enough to sneak out after them, Hjolrin doubtedthis, but when he looked up it was hard not take some heart fromSvend’s words. The Nord only lowered his voice from a commandingboom, the boom which carried it across plains in the midst of thehunt, when he felt strongly about a subject. The quieter it was, themore heartfelt his words, and now it was soft and gentle.

'What say I take youon a hunt with the bow? You liked that. See if I can’t teach you totrack at the same time.’ They left the meadow and plunged into theforest, Hjolrin scrambling over stumps and roots, Svend gliding overthem like a ship over the peaks and troughs of waves. 'Try now. Theseventy-two signs of the stag. Go.’

'Slots. Creeps. Browselines. The fraying post. Old velvet.’

'But only in thespring and summer. This time of year, the antlers’ll be clean.’

'When do they dropthem?’

'Bucks’ll cast them ina month or two from now, round about Sun’s Dusk. Does keep them 'tilafter the first calves are born in Second Seed. Now carry on.’

'Fords. Lying uppatches. Stripped bark…’

By the time theyreached Riverwood and packed away the hunting nets, Hjolrin hadlisted fifty-nine signs of the stag, and would have made it a roundsixty if it weren’t for the thunder of footsteps and voices tumblingout of the Sleeping Giant Inn. He started, dropping the rope, and thebells clattering across the floor wasn’t enough to drown out thevoices of his siblings. Minnel and Brandrel led the charge.

'Hjoll! Pa’s here! Itold you not to go wanderingoff.’

'We’re going home tosee the baby! It was born yesterday and it’s a boy. We got a newbrother.’

Svend picked up therope and looped it around his arms a few times.

'Looks like I’m losingmy new apprentice,’ he said. 'Come back and visit, y'hear? You’rewelcome any time if you want to learn how to hunt.’

'Aye. Please.’

'Kyne walk with you.’

And he was gone,loping off, bow slung over one shoulder, into the cover of ferns andpines, as Minnel surrounded Hjolrin and hustled him along the path.Pa Boar-Chaser left his post leaning against the inn porch and strodeahead on the path to Whiterun.

Hjolrin drifted to theback of the procession. At the gate out of Riverwood he paused tostare down the road, and on the bridge he stopped entirely until asmall, sticky hand tugged at his sleeve. He glanced down to findTrond’s round, pink face, clearly weighed down by troubles too muchfor a six year old to bear alone, his other hand gripping his littleleather bag close to his side.

'All right, Trond?’

'No.’

This was not conduciveto much conversation. Aware that they were losing their family to thepath ahead, Hjolrin let his youngest – formerly his youngest –brother tug him onward, in a silence which wasn’t broken until theyrounded the corner which brought the Whiterun Plains into view. WhileHjolrin squinted at the city walls and the distant smoke spreadingacross the sky, Trond slithered down the shortcut in the bank, andwaited for his brother to join him before he announced,

'Brandy said they’regonna sell me.’

Hjolrin stoppedpatting the mud off his legs.

'Who?’

'Ma and Pa. He saidwhen there’s a new baby you gotta make room for it by selling one ofthe others. And he looks after the goats and Minnel looks after thecows and you’re a hunter now, so he said they gotta sell me.’

'Don’t think so.Didn’t sell anyone when you were born.’ He started to walk, thenstopped. There was a book at the bottom of the bank, dislodged by abump against a stone, and no sooner had he stooped to investigatethan Trond snatched it away from under his fingers. 'That yours?’

'Aye. The inn persongave it to me. It’s about a giant.’ Trond stowed it into his littlesack, thumping it until it was well-hidden at the bottom. 'Don’t tellBrandy, he said books are for milk-drinkers. I don’t want to be amilk-drinker.’

'I won’t.’

'Promise?’

'Promise.’

The exchange seemed tohave reassured Trond. He hummed a tune picked up from the SleepingGiant to himself, and Hjolrin found his attention drifting to thelight between the trees, looking for slots in the ground and thebrowse lines in the leaves. When they set foot on the plain andfollowed the shadows of Pa, Minnel and Brandrel, however, the hummingstopped. Trond dragged his feet through the heather.

'Hjoll?’

'Aye?’

'I hate babies. I wantto sit by the river and read my book and never go home. Why do wehave to have a new brother? We were happy before.’

'Dunno.’

'Will I have to lookafter him?’

'Nah. Ma 'n Pa’ll doit.’

'What if they don’twant to? What if he’s really really naughty?’

'We’ll make Minnel andBrandy look after him.’

Satisfied once again,Trond resumed his humming, prodding Hjolrin until he chimed in with a harmony. The song carried them up to the Boar-Chaser Farm. At the gate, a wheaten wolfhound ambled up and butted her head into Hjolrin’s chest, to Trond’sevident amusement, and he tried to wave away the nose snuffling intohis hair.

'Grosta. Down.’

'She missed you.’ Pacalled the wolfhound to his side with a whistle and held open thefront door. 'Come on. Minnel and Brandrel are already in with Ma.’

They followed Grostaupstairs to Ma’s bedroom, where the wolfhound charged past Minnel andinstalled herself in pride of place, muzzle resting on the bed andgazing, with the unfettered adoration only a dog could achieve, atthe mother and child tucked in beneath the blankets.

Ma, more usually foundbutchering a rabbit for dinner, hammering fences into place, orprowling the edge of the farm scaring off wolves, lay with her eyesclosed and her head resting against the pillows. Her arms were still,wrapped around a bundle of cloth which smelled of herbs and soap andthe alchemist’s cheapest healing potions. When Trond thumped againstthe bed and tried to clamber up, only to be tugged back by Brandrel,she opened her eyes and smiled, which was unusual enough in itself.Ma’s fondness normally took the form of chivvying and chiding herbrood with a long-suffering sort of weariness, and if she did smileit was big, toothy, and administered with a slap on the back. Thiswas small and tired, and deeply, untouchably content.

'This is Haaki,’ shesaid. 'Your brother. Come and say hello. No, Trond, stop poking him.’

'I hate him.’

'You haven’t even seenhim yet. Sit here, you can hold him. Hjoll, make sure he looks afterhim. I went through a lot of trouble for that baby and I’m not havingyou drop him in the first five minutes.’

That sounded more likethe Ma they knew. Brandrel ushered Hjolrin forwards to sit on the bedbeside Trond, wriggling in against Ma’s legs and the folds of theblankets until he could offer an arm to rest the baby’s head on. Oncethey were all in position, Minnel moved the bundle reverently fromMa’s arms to Trond’s, and they had their first real sight of theiryoungest brother.

Haaki, one day old,looked to Hjolrin’s eyes much like all the other babies he hadencountered. Small, and puffy, a bit blotchy where the healer hadbeen overzealous with her tools. Cute if a person liked that sort ofthing. Not so much for someone whose head remained full of stagsigns, running the hare, and the perfect trajectory of an arrow inflight, but from the cooing of his siblings he gathered that thisbaby was somehow superior to, for example, the Battle-Born girl onthe farm down the road.

He studied Trondinstead. His other younger brother’s hostility was fading, but heremained skeptical, and settled on disgust when the baby sucked in adeep breath through puckered lips, scowled without opening its eyes,and began to wail. Trond thrust the bundle back so quickly Hjolrinhad to pitch forward to keep his hand beneath the baby’s head.

'Ma, it’s crying!’

'Oh, give him here.Mara forbid you should ever have children, if this is how you handle 'em.’ Ma folded the baby into her arms, where the screams subsidedinto whimpers and then steady breaths. 'Do you still hate him?’

Trond considered thequestion for some time.

'No. He’s all right.’

'Good. You’d betterplay nice with him, understood? That goes for the rest of you, too.’

'Of course, Ma.’

'Aye, Ma.’

'Aye.’

'I guess. If I gotto.’

While his eldersiblings chorused their replies, Haaki yawned and wriggled, contentwith being the centre of attention.

[bitsandbobsandstuff]

A love that never leaves (2)

Summary: Sometimes when you go looking for the past, you find things you never expected. When an accident brings him face to face with something he never knew he lost, Bucky Barnes begins to understand an age old truth – it’s so easy, sometimes, to love the things that destroy us.

Characters: Bucky Barnes x Reader Warnings: Bad language. Sad Bucky.

A/N: The plot thickens. Bucky recovers from a shit situation and learns more about the person who found him. Remembering is really hard and memories do not cooperate.

I’m planning to post a chapter a week, on either Saturday or Sunday. I tried to tag everyone who reached out, but if I missed you, it was unintentional, so please send me a DM or ASK, it’s easier for me to track. Otherwise you can find the new updates each weekend!

MASTERLIST ALTNL MASTERLIST

PREVIOUS CHAPTER

Previously...

The figure halts. A gloved hand reaches to pull back the hood of the white coat and a woman’s face appears. Even through the howling wind, Bucky hears her question clearly and he doesn’t understand why the two syllables feel like a knife ripping through skin and bone and thick sinew, straight to his heart.

“Soldier?”

She speaks hesitantly, her voice tinged with a peculiar hint of hope. Bucky wants to ruminate further, but his fingers are rubbing the slippery edges of his gunshot wounds and the snow around him is greedy, lusting for the hot blood he spills.

He wants to answer. He tries to answer, he really does.

Instead, he falls face first into the soft snow.

*****

MISSION REPORT

CONTACT MADE BUT RESPONDENT ELIMINATED. BASE DID NOT REVEAL INFORMATION REQUIRED TO PROCEED TO NEXT RENDEZVOUS POINT. HOLD AND WAIT.

WITHOUT ADDITIONAL SUPPORT MISSION FAILURE IS IMMINENT. REQUESTING BACK UP FOR – 

For what? The words evaporate. Smoke in the wind. The pencil clatters to the floor and rolls away and his notebook follows. He goes to his knees in front of the brick wall and he slams his fist against it again and again, until his knuckles are shredded. 

He screams.

****

Bucky’s entire body is on fire.

Burning hot, scorching him from the inside out. This can’t be right, he’s done. He’s supposed to be done with this shit, what are they doing now? Bleary eyes open and he tries to speak. To tell them no, to leave him alone, to please just fucking stop. Heat races through his veins, suffocating him and he feels rivers of sweat coursing down his face, down his chest, down his arms. 

Above him, floats a blurry face, both intensely familiar and completely foreign. She wipes a cold cloth over his face and Bucky sighs in relief. 

Darkness comes again.

*****

We’ll meet again…don’t know where…don’t know when…but I know we’ll meet again, some sunny day…

The melody flows like water inside his head and Bucky follows it slowly, swimming languidly into consciousness. When he breaks the surface, his brain comes to life, but his eyes stay closed.

It’s a trait he perfected over the years, waking up without anyone realizing. Back then, he’d quickly discovered if you’re flat on your back and don’t know where you are, your safest bet is certainly not to show them you’re awake. Once they know, you lose your advantage.

That’s usually when the pain starts.

Instead, he starts his internal assessment. Ears straining for any hint of sound, he waits, listening for anything. The intake of breath, a quiet sniffle, the whisper of fabric, a footfall. Anything. The silence stretches and he’s finally forced to conclude – either his captor is just that good, or he’s alone. 

Cracking an eye, he draws a soundless breath, taking stock of his surroundings.

This is – interesting.  

The room he’s in is dim, suffused with swaths of muted daylight streaming in through the massive window in front of the bed. His eyes track the expanse of clear glass, stretching from the floor, extending up the vaulted ceiling and ending in a wide skylight. A small fireplace is tucked into the corner, a basket of logs piled next to the dark slate tiles, and the soothing pop and crackle of wood lulls him toward a sense of false security. 

Snow still falls outside, but it’s no longer the wailing blizzard; instead, fat, wet flakes drift quietly by, piling onto the tall evergreens hugging the window. 

Feeling the silky sheen of satin against his skin, he peeks under the sheets to find himself nearly naked, wearing nothing more than a crisp white bandage and skin-tight boxers. 

“What the sweet fuck is this shit?” he mutters, dropping the sheets and struggling to sit up. The bed is wide and covered in all shades of blue – a dusty blue duvet, sky blue sheets, a midnight blue quilt – and suddenly it all mixes into a watery blur when his vision goes sideways. Pain rips through him and he flops back, whining softly. Pressing gently against the bandage, the pain flares so fast, he digs his heels into the bed, spine arching unconsciously. He can feel it, actually feel it, the tugging sensation of his skin knitting itself back together. Sweat instantly pours down his face.

“Don’t scream,” he hisses through gritted teeth, “don’t scream you fuckin’ baby, don’t.”

Clamping his lips together, he swallows the sounds he’d desperately love to howl, focusing on counting the snowflakes drifting past the window. He loses count of the deep, calming breaths he takes and long minutes later, the worst appears to pass. For now. Bucky’s rigid muscles begin to relax.

He appreciates the whole healing fast thing, he really does, but the process is just fucking unpleasant.

Swinging his legs over the bed, toes curling into a plush rug, he wobbles to his feet. Looking around, he searches for his clothes, but he comes up empty handed. He doesn’t actually mind the lack of clothing, it’s more the lack of pockets for weapons that irritate him.

But a good solider can make a weapon from anything, so he snatches a log from the basket next to the fireplace, rotates his arm until the plates shift smoothly, and creeps from the bedroom.  

Tiptoeing down the steps to the first level, he stops short. 

The small town he’d infiltrated was derelict, gritty, downtrodden.

The home he finds himself inhabiting is the polar opposite.

Wooden steps lead down into a cosy stone and log cabin. The small kitchen has an island with a couple hand-hewn stools and an oak butcher block in the middle, burnished copper pots hanging from a rack above. The floor is a deep russet red, the wide-planked floorboards containing a myriad of knots and whorls. Above him, thick beams stretch the expanse of the room, with dark iron lighting fixtures casting a rosy glow through the room. In the centre wall of the living room, flanked with tall vertical windows, stands a fireplace, the uneven shapes of grey river rock fitting together seamlessly. From the tall windows, he has a clear view of a foggy mountain range. Another fire crackles and pops merrily in the calm silence. 

A cracked white pitcher filled with pine boughs gives off a sharp, clean scent and Bucky finds himself struggling to remain overly vigilant, because it’s beautiful. It’s a home. 

Beauty means nothing though. A lesson he learned the hard way through the years.

Slinking into the kitchen, he rummages through the silverware, turning up three finely sharpened knives. Two, he tucks into the elastic band of his boxers, feeling instant relief at the feel of the blades hugging his hip. The third, a large butcher knife, he flips around and holds outward, ready to swing.

Switching into stealth mode, he goes to work.

Rifling through kitchen cupboards and drawers. Lifting throw pillows and blankets from the sofa. Scanning rows of books arranged in alphabetical order. Searching a small linen closet. Ears perked for the sound of footsteps outside.

And yeah, he finds a few things.

A few weird things.

It starts in the small closet. Buried under a pile of quilts, he finds a heavy metal box. Pulling a bobby pin from the perpetual tangle of colorful hair-ties he keeps around his wrist, it takes a few tries before he has the lock picked. Lifting the lid reveals a perfectly folded pile of worn t-shirts. Shaking each out, he scans the logos – emblazoned across each one is a different city from Bon Jovi’s 1986 Slippery When Wet European tour. 

They’re just old t-shirts, the kinds you find people hawking at concert venues or in the bargain bin at a thrift store. Nothing special or expensive. Yet here they are, folded into neat squares and tucked into a box that could probably withstand an explosion. 

His confusion spirals, but Bucky fights a small smile. It seems odd, but hey, he really likes Bon Jovi too. Maybe he would do the same.

Re-folding the tissue thin cloth, he locks the box and stuffs it back in place.

Trying the bookcase next, he pulls books out, feeling behind them. Knuckles rap at random, tap, tap, tap, until he hears an unexpected thunk. The hollow sound gives it away and with a shove, he shifts the back panel and finds another small locked box. Holding it under his arm, he fiddles with the bobby pin again and the lid cracks. Two items appear.

A crushed red velvet jewelry bag.

A handful of cheap vintage postcards in a clear plastic bag.

Crouching to the floor, he shakes the contents of the jewelry bag free. A handful of silvery-blue pebbles clatter out and in the middle of the pile, a necklace. Bucky holds the worn chain up to the light. Spinning slowly on the end is a round disc, a little dingy and rubbed smooth, but he can see the outline. 

Bucky wasn’t exactly a good little Catholic growing up, and yeah, religion wasn’t the sort of personal expression Hydra encouraged for the Soldier. His knowledge of saints was spotty as a kid and is extensively worse now, but he recognizes the medal – he knows Steve had one, wore it during the war and was wearing it when his plane went down. He donated it to the Smithsonian when he returned. Most of the military seemed to have one back then and Bucky assumes he had one as well, although he has no clue.

On the little medal, is the image of Saint Michael. The patron saint of Soldiers.

Fingering the medal pensively, he tries to summon a memory, any memory. He figures he must have something in there that could build off this particular war-related trinket.

But no. Just like always.

Setting it gently aside, he opens the clear bag instead. Pulling out the postcards, he lines them carefully up in front of him, internally translating the languages.

Covered with palm trees, an exuberant statement in French: Welcome to sunny Nice!

A colorful boulevard linked with green trees in Spanish stating: The Beauty of Barcelona 

A laughing cartoon caricature of a man holding skis in Swiss German: Enjoy your Winter in Zurich

The solemn announcement in Italian, written over an image of the Coliseum: Hello from Rome: The Eternal City

Orange and red leaves, covering a giant beer stein in German: Oktoberfest in Munich!

And the dogged mantra of the stoic English, tall white letters against a soft pink backdrop: Keep Calm and Carry On

But the one that piques his interest the most, is last in the pile. A hand-painted postcard, the paint chipped and faded through time, of the Brooklyn Bridge at night. The title above in carefully printed letters reads: Brooklyn, New York – Thank God It’s Not Jersey. Bucky feels his heart stutter at the words, because he’s pretty god damn sure he and Steve used to throw out that same phrase. 

On the back of the Brooklyn postcard, he finds the inked shapes of two hearts tangled together.

Bucky stares hard at the image, so simple but vibrating with some unknown meaning. Flipping through all the other cards, he finds them blank, nothing more than a pretty collection. Bewildered and careening toward frustrated anger, he gathers them together and slips them into the bag. He bangs the box shut and hides it away again.

He finds three more locked boxes in his search, each containing innocuous items. One with a thin, moth-eaten baby blanket. One with a random assortment of old Life magazines.

After stowing away the final box, housing an envelope with three sepia toned photos of a tall man and a small girl, he spends another ten minutes searching for clues. Finally, he’s convinced the room has shared all its secrets - until he notices the crease in the rug below the coffee table.

Shoving the table aside, Bucky flips up the rug. In the middle of the floor, he finds a plank of wood slightly thinner than the others, with a small chink in the edge. Crouching down, he runs his thumb around it and nudges it up, finding a hidden space below.

There he finds one more box. His beleaguered bobby pin gives a final brave attempt and with a quiet snick, the lock pops open. 

Inside are three dusty books. Peeling gold letters line the spine of each, showing a single word, followed by three different numbers. 

Journal, 1967 Journal, 1968 Journal, 1969 

From the pages of 1969, a ticket stub flutters to the floor.

*****

Under the fall of lacy snowflakes, she walks. Circling the small cabin for hours, her toes are damn near frozen, but she finds herself unwilling to go back inside. He has to be waking soon and the thought of facing him makes her chest ache. Instead, she walks the narrow path along the bank of the rushing stream bordering her home and argues with herself.

Go inside. Ask him. Talk to him. See if he remembers. Tell him the truth! He deserves to know. Maybe he doesn’t want to hear it. Maybe he’ll just kill you and be done. Probably not though, you’re not that lucky.

Hysterical laughter bubbles up and she digs the puffy gloved heels of her palms into her eyes. She really needs to get out more. This constant talking to herself thing will get her institutionalized someday.

But she literally has no one else to talk to. And that right there, has always been the problem. 

Brushing the snow from a giant boulder, she gingerly sits. Bending forward, she drops her head to her knees and wraps her arms around her legs, trying desperately not to give in to the panic attack threatening to drive its anxious fingers into her brain. Memories begin to swirl and even after all this time, the sound of his voice rises so easily to the surface, a sweet, drawling Brooklyn twang that turns her stomach to knots.

“Je vais avoir de la chance ce soir. Il y a de belles femmes en France qui ne m'aiment pas?”

“Can I walk you home?”

“Wait for me darlin’, okay? Will you? I’ll come back for you. I promise I will.”

“You’re what I want. You’re what I’m always gonna want.”

“You and me, this kind of love, it lasts forever, okay? It’s never gonna leave.”

“Dammit. Shit shit shit,” she chants to herself. Thick and heavy, the memories press down until she buckles under the burden of remembering. Tears begin to fall, hot trails down her face and she wipes them away, her hands shaking. 

She stays on the frozen rock, letting time pass while the cold seeps through her clothes. The air is so icy, it makes her lungs seize.

*****

The butcher knife lays beside him, within easy reach. Bucky sits cross-legged on the floor, flicking through the pages at random. He pauses now and then, digging deeper, losing himself in the faded ink of another’s life.

19 May, 1967

America is strange. I arrived in Los Angeles with no goal, just rented a car and drove. First to the coast and saw the ocean. It was different than the first time Papa took me – I’ve never seen anything so blue. I tried not to think about it, but it was in my head. It’s always there. Blue everywhere. The water, the sky, his eyes. I can never leave it behind.

The songs on the radio here, they’re different too. It feels like the heart of this country is screaming and I see why. Vietnam is different. This war, it’s unexplainable maybe, but there’s a frustrated weariness in the words. 

But then again, is it really that different? No matter the fight, Soldiers still give their lives and leave their sweethearts crying in the streets. They promise to come home, that ridiculously naive optimism of youth, and instead they die in a battle they never wanted to join. It’s the universal truth of every fight, since the beginning of time. The tears should be enough to stop this all from happening, but no. War keeps coming, one after another, and soldiers answer the call.

I still remember what he said that night. It’s stayed with me more than anything else. They’ll run out of soldiers eventually, he said, like he was nothing more than a cheap commodity. He was so tired by the end. I should have helped him.

11 April, 1968

Last week I was walking by the book stalls down at the Seine and saw a bargain bin of English language books. I found a book of poetry and I swear to god, that damn thing fell open on this:

He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and my Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one, Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun, Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood; For nothing now can ever come to any good. W.H. Auden

I don’t think I could find a better articulation of my mood. Either Fate has something against me, or I’m just that unlucky. I bought it. I couldn’t help myself.

21 July, 1969

Sometimes, I think miracles do still exist in this world.

Down at an old hotel, the entire town was crowded in the dining room. They had a TV balanced up on a shelf so everyone could see and they caught the BBC1 broadcast. The entire room was dead silent. It was overwhelming, I can still hardly imagine it. A man walking on the moon!

The whole time I kept thinking how much he would have loved this. How he would have laughed. How he probably would have tried to sign up to be a spaceman! The more I remembered, the more I thought about that night by the river, after we first met. All those stars in the sky. Decades later and I still wonder about it – how it’s possible to be so in love with someone – but then again, how could anyone fail to love him? He was so warm, so full of life and excitement and dreams. God. We had so many dreams, so many plans for the future. We were so naïve, thinking the world might owe us a little happiness. What a joke.

And now here I am. Alone with nothing but memories – just like always. That life we wanted, it’s as far away as the moon. Unreachable and impossible.

1 January, 1970 We never He was I thought A Soldier with a metal arm?

The journal ends there. 

Bucky looks at the ticket stub that fell from the delicate pages and the words bring forth a wavering reel of images, brand new and unfamiliar.

Moulin Rouge New Year’s Eve Ball Admittance: 1 Individual 31 December, 1969

The black lacquer of a piano. Silver sparkles reflecting from crystal chandeliers. The scent of fizzy champagne and the tang of blood and a dark apartment overlooking the twinkling lights of Paris.

Disoriented, Bucky sets the book down. What the hell is this? Who is she? She must be Hydra, she has to be. How else would she know the Soldier? Why did she take him, what does she want? Why does she have journals from so long ago, what do they mean?

It’s the eternal tragedy of his god damn life – always questions, never answers. He looks around the warm, peaceful little cabin and scrubs his hands down his face. He needs to plot his next move, but the bullet wounds throb with fresh, fiery pain and he’s suddenly and overwhelmingly exhausted.

So, he remains seated, surrounded by pages upon pages from someone else’s life.

Blinking back frustrated tears as he stares at the books, he knows without a doubt, that these three years of writing hold more memories than he could conjure in the lifetime he’s lived.

Distantly, he hears the slow crunch of boots on snow. Rousing himself from the miserable train of thought, he scrambles to his feet, turning to face the front door when footsteps hit the porch steps and begin to climb.

Bucky wipes the tears from his eyes. And he lifts his knife.

*****

Pacing back and forth across the small porch, she stops in front of the door and reaches for the handle.

And draws away again. Curses and keeps pacing. Tries again, pulls back.

“Open the door, you god damn coward,” she whispers harshly.

Squaring her shoulders, she turns the knob and pushes it open before she can lose her nerve. Stepping inside, the room is silent, just as she left it. Orange flames flicker in the fireplace, the smell of smoky wood and pine needles hangs in the air. She shuts the door quietly, shakes out her coat and hangs it on the rack. Taps the snow from her boots and unwinds her scarf. Rubbing her temples, she takes a deep breath and starts for the stairs, determined to face him.

She takes three steps, before the wind is knocked clean from her lungs.

The heavy body hits her from behind, one arm curling around her chest, the other pressing her butcher knife against her throat. The voice in her ear is so gut wrenchingly familiar, she nearly faints. 

“Leaving a strange man alone in your bed with access to knives – not your best move.”

When he was lying unconscious wrapped in her quilts, she thought he seemed smaller than she remembered. Now, the breadth of his body against her back makes her realize just how wrong that assessment was. 

“Yes. I should have hidden the knives,” she tries to speak. “Something to remember next time.”

“Tell me who the fuck you are.”

She should be terrified right now. The most prolific assassin of the 20th century has a razor-sharp blade sitting at her throat and a metal arm digging into her chest. With the slightest move, he could crush her lungs or slit her throat. He wouldn’t even have to try. 

She should be terrified, but she’s not. Because the years, the decades, have been nothing more than an empty echo without him, and now he’s here. Against all odds, he is here with her. Relaxing in his arms, she leans back and closes her eyes.

Bucky stiffens abruptly at the movement. 

Her hand floats up and reaches for the wrist flexing at her throat. She feels his grip tighten further, but for some reason, he allows her curious touch. Fingers trembling, they find the thin ridge, running down the long white scar curving from his right thumb across the back of his hand. 

It’s nothing more than a gentle caress, but – 

Like a hammer to his skull, his head splits head open. With a frightened snarl, he shoves her away and she stumbles forward, catching herself against the sofa. Slowly, she turns to face him fully. 

Dark hair frames his face in sweaty tangles and his blue eyes are wild. 

“What the fucking hell was that?” he hisses. The knife is held outward and he scratches at the scar, trying to scrub away her touch.

“I’m sorry,” she says, rubbing her throat. “I wasn’t – I’m sorry.”

“How the hell did I get here?” Bucky barks. “Last thing I remember, I was gut shot and bleeding out in a god damn blizzard.”

“I found you. Brought you here.”

“Yeah, obviously. Except I’m fuckin’ heavy and no offense, but you don’t look much like a super soldier. So, I’ll ask again - how the hell did I get here? Who else is working with you?”

“No one, it’s just me. And I’m not working. You – I don’t know, you just followed me. When you collapsed in the snow, I rolled you over and shouted your name, and your eyes just – they opened and you got to your feet.”

Bucky glares at her. “Convenient, that you knew my name. And how to wake me up.”

Jaw clenching, she glares back now. “I didn’t know how to wake you up. You were bleeding everywhere, but you stood there like you were waiting for something.”

Biting the inside of his cheek, he grimaces. He thinks he knows what’s coming.

“Say I believe you. Then what?”

“You asked for instructions, so I told you to get in my truck and I brought you here. I’m sorry, I didn’t know – I wasn’t sure what to do. When we got here, you wouldn’t go upstairs. You just laid down on the dining table and – ”

She pauses, but he sighs resignedly. “Keep going.”

“Both bullets, they were still – inside. I had to dig them out. I got bandages and tried to stitch up the wound. You were awake, I thought you were awake, the entire time. You were telling me what to do. Kept asking if – you kept asking if I was new.”

Bucky feels his face heat in embarrassment. Shifting uncomfortably, he grudgingly explains. “That was a secondary protocol. Something happens to the Asset, it’s programmed – I mean I was programmed - to help fix the problem.” 

The cabin is quiet for a drawn-out moment. 

“Oh,” she finally says. Her voice sounds small. 

“So? You’re former Hydra then?”

She blanches at the comment. “What? No! I was never with them.”

“Really,” Bucky says sarcastically. “You just happened upon me and knew my name and brought me to a cabin in the middle of nowhere for no reason? That was all just luck?”

“Stop being a jerk. I said I don’t work for them,” she snaps, anger seeping into her voice. “I’d slit my own throat first.”

Bucky goes quiet, considering the statement. His loses some of the hostility when he replies, but his tone is still suspicious. “But we know each other. You know him. Or – me. The Soldier.”

“Yes. I know the – Soldier.”

“Well, I don’t remember you,” Bucky says harshly, and he watches her face fall. He feels a pang of remorse at her disappointment and almost points out that she’s not unique, he never remembers. But he holds his tongue.

Eyes dropped to the floor, her shoulders sag. “I didn’t expect you would.”

An awkward silence fills the room. Bucky feels that strange ache in his chest once again, a desire to smooth the unhappiness from her face, and an apology tumbles from his lips. 

“I’m sorry I don’t remember. Trust me, it’s definitely not you.”

“No. Please don’t apologize,” she says quickly, looking up. She shakes her head like she wants to say something more; instead, she swallows the words and offers an olive branch. “Do you want to know? I mean - do you want me to tell you?” 

Bucky considers the offer. Before him stands a lovely woman. One who knew the Soldier, who met the worst incarnation of himself, but without the security of Hydra to help her. He comes to a swift, depressing conclusion.

Chances are, he did something shitty to her.

Does he want to know then? Does he really need another gruesome memory clogging up his brain? 

Sure. Because Bucky never knows when to quit.

“Yes,” he says firmly. “Tell me. I want to hear it.” 

“Okay, I can do that,” she says softly. She motions him to sit on the couch, but Bucky hesitates.

“Can I, uh, have some pants first?” He asks stiffly. “This is sort of awkward.”

The surprise on her face makes Bucky think for one fleeting moment that she might laugh. But then she nods and disappears through a small room off the kitchen. When she returns, she’s holding a neatly folded stack of fresh laundry and he recognizes the contents of his backpack. 

“Here,” she sets it cautiously on the dining table. “I’m sorry I went through your bag, I didn’t have any men’s clothing, so…anyway, I washed it all.” 

Bucky snatches his ragged Captain America t-shirt and black sweats from the top of the pile, shimmying into them. Pulling a rainbow colored band off his wrist, he ties his hair back and drops to the couch. 

She takes the armchair across from him, as far away as she can get in the small living room, and tucks her hands under her legs. Bucky knows he’s unlikely to enjoy whatever she has to say, but he folds his fingers together and waits. She stares down at her feet, appearing to gather her courage before meeting his grim stare head on.

Her voice is steady, as she starts to speak.

“Paris was cold that December and it snowed early. It was New Year’s Eve in 1969.”

*****

Next Chapter

*****

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[self-proclaimed-chaotic-good]

I Can Explain | Team Free Will and Det. Loki (Oneshot)

Trope Prompt: Mythology

Words: 2675

Fandom: Supernatural/Prisoners (2013)

Warning: Usual SPN gore/violence and minor swearing

Summary: A recent case leads you and the Winchester boys to Conyers where a certain detective becomes immediately suspicious of you.

-

The sun was slowly crawling up the sky, casting a faint glow of a small town of Conyers. Near the edge of town, outlined by the thick woods, a jogger passes by with his earbuds playing an upbeat song. He was about to pass a small, almost obscure trail into the woods when he heard a soft wail. He didn’t pay much attention to it until he was a good five feet away when the cries grew louder.

The jogger paused, pulling his earbuds out and turned. That was definitely a baby’s cry. What was it doing out here in the woods? He walked back the way he came until he reached the trail, fishing out his phone and paused his music, switching on his flashlight instead. He crept through, brushing away overhanging  branches, his feet crunching on the leaves below.

“What are you doing here?” he wondered once he reached the source. His eyes widened at the sudden realization of what it was, but it was too late to put it down now.

Blood splatters on the trees and nearby foliage, followed by a heavy thud, his phone and earbuds abandoned on the forest floor.

-

My Chemical Romance played through what used to be a relatively quiet bunker as you made breakfast for you and the boys. There wasn’t much food in the fridge, since Dean forgot to do a grocery run when he said he would, so a simple eggs and bacon breakfast would have to do.

“It’d be nice to have some pie right now, just saying,” Dean called out from the long table as he cleaned his gun.

You turned around, spatula in hand, and glared at him. “I would bake it if someone had bought the ingredients I asked for,” you shot back.

“What, did we run out of apples or something? Just use something else.” Sam scoffed and shook his head at his brother, his eyes not leaving his computer. “What, Sam? Do you know how many types of pies there are?”

“Yeah, a lot, but you can’t make a pie if there’s no butter or flour,” Sam said, giving him a pointed look.

“Next time I’m just going to give you a pie tray full of whip cream and slam your face in it,” you muttered, turning back to the stove.

“Yeah, that’s cute coming from someone wearing a ‘Kiss the Chef’ floral apron,” Dean said.

You were about to snap at him when Sam cleared his throat. “So, anyways, there’s a case up in Pennsylvania about people going missing with their bodies found later in the middle of the woods,” he read off the article.

“So what, creepy killer stalking the woods?” Dean went to take a swig of his beer, but you slapped his hand away, placing a plate in front of him and Sam.

“But, get this, the bodies have been found mauled to death by a creature that is yet to be identified. This is a rare occurrence for the town to have this much deaths in a short amount of time, let alone an animal attack. The town is usually quiet and peaceful, the only big scandal they had was the discovery of a local couple who had been kidnapping children since the death of their son as a declaration of war on god.”

“What the hell?” you muttered under your breath.

“The husband was found dead in a secret basement of one of the local priests after he confessed to the kidnapping and murders. The wife was later confronted and shot after attempting to shoot the detective that was on the case. The investigation had started after two girls were kidnapped on Thanksgiving. After a few days of them being missing, one of the girls’ father acted on his own and kidnapped one of the suspects before being taken by the actual kidnapper. The two girls were found and he was found alive in a pit hidden in the couple’s backyard. He was given a sentence for his crimes and was later released on parole.”

Dean blinked in disbelief. “That was a wild roller coaster there,” he said, stuffing his face with food.

“You think it’s a werewolf?” you asked.

“Maybe. I think we should check it out,” Sam said. You nodded, looking over to Dean to see what he thinks.

“Why not? But if it’s another case of small town crazies, we are out of there,” Dean mumbled.

-

Detective David Loki narrowed his eyes as the two strange federal agents walked into the police station, requesting to see the chief. The shorter of the two nodded at the officers as they passed, grabbing a donut from a desk and shoving it in his mouth.

Loki had been assigned to the case when the first victim appeared. It was treated as a missing persons case at first, until the body turned up like they were attacked by a wild animal. There was no way that there would be a wild animal hunting this close to town.

The two federal agents walked out of the chief’s office after an introduction and discussion, the chief leading them over to Loki’s desk. He sighed, crossing his arms as he sat on his desk. From the corner of his eye, he could see the other officers turning away, awaiting for another Detective Loki outburst.

“Detective Loki, this is federal agent Twist and Del Mar,” the chief introduced, both of the agents nodding their heads at him, “agents, this is detective Loki.”

“Detective Loki, we’ve heard so much about you,” the taller one said, offering him a hand. Loki looked at it, then decided to be civil and took it. “I’m agent Twist.”

“Yeah, we heard about that kidnapping case that happened a couple of years ago. You have an impressive track record,” the other one said, shaking his hand.

Loki frowned. “What are federal agents doing investigating a wild animal attack?” he questioned, his eyes blinking from his frustrations.

“Well, it’s a violent crime, which falls within our jurisdiction. Several deaths with the same causes within a short time frame, that’s not just an animal attack, is it? Especially for a town that’s never had a major animal attack,” ‘Agent Del Mar’ said.

“I know that you’ve started on the case, so it seemed fit that you should be the one to aid them in their investigation,” the chief said, looking at Loki as if waiting for the detective to challenge him. “These are no longer missing persons investigation.”

Loki inhaled sharply and pushed himself off the desk. “Okay, then,” he said, his eyes blinking again as he restrained himself. He needed to pick and choose his battles and they better not get in his way.

“Good,” the chief said slowly, looking between the three men before going back to his office.

“Great, where do we start?” ‘Agent Twist’ asked, trying to be a team player and not start a confrontation as soon as they arrived.

Loki walked over to his locked file cabinet and pulled out the victims’ profiles. He slammed the stack onto the desk and gestured towards it. “Victims’ profiles and testimonies,” he said before grabbing his jacket, “I’ve got another case to look into. Let’s see if it’s more than a wild animal.”

Once Loki was out of sight, Dean’s friendly mask fell off as he looked to his brother and scoffed. “What’s up his ass?”

Sam sighed, tilting his head. “Well, could be worse. Let’s just get started so we can end this sooner.” His phone buzzed as you sent him a text. “(Y/n) got us some take-out from the Chinese diner we passed by earlier. Hopefully she’s got something. Plus, you get to gossip about the uptight detective with her.”

“Hey, I do not gossip, okay?” Dean defended, pointing a finger at him. “I just got a lot to discuss and they’re usually the best one to talk to about this kind of stuff.”

He picked up only one file folder from the desk, leaving Sam to take the rest as he started to walk away. Sam sighed, scooping up the stack and followed his older brother out to the Impala.

-

“You think he suspects you guys already?” you asked after Dean ranted about the detective. You popped an orange chicken into your mouth and looked at the brothers expectantly.

“The dude’s probably suspicious of everyone,” Dean remarked.

The three of you were sitting around the motel room, three folders opened on the bed and table, displaying the victims’ descriptions and pictures of the crime scene and evidence found. You were sat cross-legged on the bed, a take-out box in hand, next to Dean, while Sam sat at the table with his laptop.

While the boys were busy playing FBI at the police station, got looked into the town’s history and animal sightings to be sure. Most of the wildlife around the woods were relatively harmless and a few come out during certain seasons. You’ve checked the nearby towns as well, and none of them have dealt with this kind of case.

Only one victim had been with someone on the night that they were killed. The friend claimed to be on the lookout while the victim had gone off to the woods to relieve themselves when they couldn’t hold it. She confessed that they were slightly drunk that night and her memory wasn’t that clear. All she knew was that the victim screamed, which was when she ran to check on her and found the body. She didn’t see anyone around.

“Well, it can’t be a werewolf,” you said, placing your now empty takeout box to the side and grabbed one of the files, “Coroner’s notes say the heart is still intact and most of the body is intact as well. But the round marks by their neck might be from, I don’t know, a type of vampire? The bodies are drained of blood. There needs to be more than what the witness let on.”

Dean grimaced. “This detective moves fast. Since when do police actually make this much progress? They usually brush it off as animal attacks and move on. They don’t go interviewing victims’ friends and families for testimonies. I swear, if that son of a bitch gets in our way… ”

-

Loki had finished questioning the witness again in order to figure out where the fake federal agents were heading. She confessed that she hadn’t told him everything the first time, fearing that he wouldn’t believe her and she wasn’t sure if she believed what she saw.

She told the agents that when she tried to check on her friend, she heard a baby crying, so she panicked. When she reached her friend’s body, she saw this black bird fly away, letting out a squawk that eerily sounded like a baby. Something was going on and the agents seem to know what.

He found himself knocking on the motel door of the agents, which was easily confirmed from the guestbook and the Impala in the parking lot. He heard shuffling inside and he was ready to interrogate them when you opened the door. His eyes began to blink rapidly as he was taken aback by your sudden appearance.

“You must be detective Loki,” you said, smiling at him. “The boys told me so much about you.”

Dean’s description of him didn’t do him justice. Well, Dean’s description was him being the lovechild of Batman and Joker with a stick up his ass. He’s not completely off. The detective’s blue eyes stood out against his dark hair and dark attire, tattoos peeking from his collar and on his fingers.

“Yes, I… Let me get straight to the point. Who the hell are you guys exactly? You’re not federal agents,” he said, his eyes blinking.

You sighed, looking around the outside of the room before inviting him in. He immediately took in the room and your belongings, looking for any red flags. Loki’s eyes narrowed as he spotted a sheathed machete on the bed.

You let out a sheepish smile as he turned to you. “I can explain,” you said slowly. You opened up your mouth but nothing comes to mind. “Actually I don’t know how to explain. I’ve never had to do this talk before, um… this is not what it looks like.”

“You’re not federal agents,” he repeated, pointing a finger at you, “Then what are you?”

“We’re… hunters of a different nature, me and the Winchesters,” you said, sitting down at the table. You scratched your head, then decided to show him your research. “When you were investigating, did you ever notice how… unnatural something is? That it’s nothing that your general knowledge could explain?”

“You’re saying that the killings and the baby are connected?” Loki asked in disbelief, his hands placed on his hips. He let out a bitter laugh and ran a hand through his hair. “That’s ridiculous.”

“I didn’t say anything about a baby,” you said with a small smirk. “Listen, detective Loki, I’m going to explain to you what’s going on, but you have to be open-minded about it, okay? In fact, I didn’t have to tell you anything if I wanted to, but I am.”

Loki sighed, sitting across from you. “I think I’m going insane,” he muttered, blinking. You turned the laptop towards him so he could read the article. “Tiyanak? What the hell is that?”

“It’s a vampiric creature from Filipino mythology that takes the form of a baby and use its cry to lure travelers in before killing them. There are various versions of the vampires in the Philippines, but the common theme is that a Tiyanak is believed to be the spirit of an unborn child. Right before the killings started, a woman said to be pregnant when she had fallen ill and had passed away in the hospital and was buried shortly after. Something happened to manifest the unborn child, thus creating the Tiyanak. We think it might be an object that the woman carried with her, something she brought back when she was visiting family in the Philippines.”

“So, so, so, wait… wait a minute,” Loki said, scrubbing his face. “Okay, so this Tanyak-”

“Tiyanak.”

“This Tiyanak has been killing people by luring them into the woods. So, you’re saying that you guys are some kind of vampire hunters?” he asked incredulously.

“Well, we also hunt ghosts, werewolves, demons, and everything else that goes bump in the night,” you said with a shrug.

“Like those dumb vloggers, Ghostfacers?”

“No! Nothing like them. No, we’re actual… professionals, so to speak.”

Loki sighed, leaning back in his chair. “And where are these… Winchesters?”

“Hm? Oh, they’re out taking care of the Tiyanak while I distract you. They noticed that you were following them around town and it was starting to annoy them. Well, mostly Dean, but, you know… ”

“So you could be lying about this,”  he accused, his blinking coming back again. He shook his head, wondering how he got in this situation.

“But, I’m not, so we’re just going to sit here in awkward silence until they come back,” you said, crossing your arms.

“I could just leave.”

“I could do a lot of things to you right now, but I won’t.”

“Yeah, like what?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know, detective?”

-

Sam and Dean drove into their parking spot at the motel, exhausted and dirty from dealing with a vampiric baby in the woods. They climbed out of the Impala and noticed the detective’s car was still there.

“You think they killed him?” Sam joked.

“Well, they better not being doing anything else on that bed,” Dean grunted, making his way to the motel room.

He frowned, pressing his ear against the door and heard two people laughing. He opened it to find you and the detective binge watching the Ghostfacers web series. You were sitting right next to each other at the table with Loki’s arm slung around your shoulder.

“What the hell is this?”